The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson including many pieces never before published. In Three Volumes |
 | I. |
 | II. |
STANZAS INSCRIBED TO A ONCE DEAR FRIEND, WHEN CONFINED BY
SEVERE INDISPOSITION, IN MARCH 1793. |
| III. |
 | The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson |  |
285
STANZAS INSCRIBED TO A ONCE DEAR FRIEND, WHEN CONFINED BY SEVERE INDISPOSITION, IN MARCH 1793.
Ye glades that just open to greet the blue sky,
All encircled with woodlands bespangled with dew,
From your borders, once cherish'd, disgusted I fly;
For your beauties are faded, and sadden'd your hue.
All encircled with woodlands bespangled with dew,
From your borders, once cherish'd, disgusted I fly;
For your beauties are faded, and sadden'd your hue.
O! soft gliding river, whose banks I behold
Undelighted and mournful, no longer you please;
Nor the deep azure bells, nor the cowslips of gold,
Nor your smooth glassy bosom o'ershadow'd with trees.
Undelighted and mournful, no longer you please;
Nor the deep azure bells, nor the cowslips of gold,
Nor your smooth glassy bosom o'ershadow'd with trees.
Yon mountain, whose breezes enliven the soul,
Never more will I climb at the dawning of day;
Never more to the turf-cover'd meadows I'll stroll,
Or on beds of young primroses carol my lay.
Never more will I climb at the dawning of day;
Never more to the turf-cover'd meadows I'll stroll,
Or on beds of young primroses carol my lay.
286
For, glades, to your sod with my love I've retir'd
When the red beams were rushing the foliage among,
When the last glowing shadow of Evening expir'd,
And the rocks rung responsive to Philomel's song.
When the red beams were rushing the foliage among,
When the last glowing shadow of Evening expir'd,
And the rocks rung responsive to Philomel's song.
And thou, lucid river, I've sat by thy side,
To behold his dear form in thy clear glassy breast,
When the Moon spread her light o'er thy soft rolling tide,
And the wise were content with the dulness of rest.
To behold his dear form in thy clear glassy breast,
When the Moon spread her light o'er thy soft rolling tide,
And the wise were content with the dulness of rest.
And thou, craggy mountain, where oft I have stray'd,
To behold from your summit the thatch of his cot;
Like the slow-winding river, the dew-spangled glade,
And the thick-woven woodlands—be ever forgot.
To behold from your summit the thatch of his cot;
Like the slow-winding river, the dew-spangled glade,
And the thick-woven woodlands—be ever forgot.
See! Nature is sadden'd by Sympathy's tears,
Since my Lover no longer enlivens the day;
And forlorn shall she be till her darling appears,
As the Rose droops its head when the Sun fades away.
Since my Lover no longer enlivens the day;
And forlorn shall she be till her darling appears,
As the Rose droops its head when the Sun fades away.
| The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson | |