The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson including many pieces never before published. In Three Volumes |
 | I. |
 | II. |
STANZAS Supposed to be written near a Tree, over the Grave of AN OFFICER,
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| III. |
 | The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson |  |
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STANZAS Supposed to be written near a Tree, over the Grave of AN OFFICER,
Who was killed at Lincelles, in Flanders, in August 1793.
Ah! pensive trav'ller, if thy tear
E'er fell on valour's early grave,
Arrest thy wand'ring steps, and here
Lament the lot that waits the brave!
E'er fell on valour's early grave,
Arrest thy wand'ring steps, and here
Lament the lot that waits the brave!
Here let the moralist descry
The proudest tomb that man can claim,
The glorious bed where heroes lie
Who perish'd for their country's fame.
The proudest tomb that man can claim,
The glorious bed where heroes lie
Who perish'd for their country's fame.
Here bind the laurel, steep'd in tears,
Tears that in glowing youth he died,
Blest with each charm that most endears,
His kindred's hope, his nation's pride!
Tears that in glowing youth he died,
Blest with each charm that most endears,
His kindred's hope, his nation's pride!
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Oh! hallow'd turf! some silent spot,
Adorn'd with sorrow's gem sublime,
E'en when the Muse shall be forgot,
Thy fame shall brave the blasts of time!
Adorn'd with sorrow's gem sublime,
E'en when the Muse shall be forgot,
Thy fame shall brave the blasts of time!
And thou, rude bark, preserve his name,
Carv'd by some just recording hand;
And, proudly conscious of that fame,
Thy guardian branches wide expand.
Carv'd by some just recording hand;
And, proudly conscious of that fame,
Thy guardian branches wide expand.
Keep from this sod the pattering rain,
The wintry wind, the drifted snow;
And when blithe Summer paints the plain,
Here let the sweetest flow'rets blow.
The wintry wind, the drifted snow;
And when blithe Summer paints the plain,
Here let the sweetest flow'rets blow.
No trophied column trimm'd with bays,
No gilded tablet bears his name;
A soldier boasts superior praise,
A grateful country guards his fame.
No gilded tablet bears his name;
A soldier boasts superior praise,
A grateful country guards his fame.
| The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson | |