The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson including many pieces never before published. In Three Volumes |
 | I. |
 | II. |
TO JULIUS. |
| III. |
 | The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson |  |
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TO JULIUS.
“Julia, by every Muse belov'd and blest,
By every glowing grace that lifts that breast!
By passion's soul, that fires the piercing eye,
By Rapture's energy, by Pity's sigh,
I charge thee, stoop not, e'en in anger just,
To paint the pois'nous aspic of the dust.”
JULIUS. ORACLE, October 7, 1791.
By every glowing grace that lifts that breast!
By passion's soul, that fires the piercing eye,
By Rapture's energy, by Pity's sigh,
I charge thee, stoop not, e'en in anger just,
To paint the pois'nous aspic of the dust.”
JULIUS. ORACLE, October 7, 1791.
The dusky veil of night was thrown
O'er the flush'd forehead of the west,
When thy soft harp's melodious tone
Rous'd the faint tenant of my breast;
A glow of joy my cheek o'erspread,
The classic page I scarce could see,
For Pride my raptur'd Fancy led
To learn the lesson taught by thee.
O'er the flush'd forehead of the west,
When thy soft harp's melodious tone
Rous'd the faint tenant of my breast;
A glow of joy my cheek o'erspread,
The classic page I scarce could see,
For Pride my raptur'd Fancy led
To learn the lesson taught by thee.
319
Yes, Julius, when the pensive breast,
Sick of Life's gaudy fev'rish dream,
Courts the cool hour of mental rest,
And owns Youth's season but a dream!
Sweet is the gale that wafts the sound
That bids corroding anguish flee;
And kind the voice of truth profound,
And blest the Muse that sings like thee.
Sick of Life's gaudy fev'rish dream,
Courts the cool hour of mental rest,
And owns Youth's season but a dream!
Sweet is the gale that wafts the sound
That bids corroding anguish flee;
And kind the voice of truth profound,
And blest the Muse that sings like thee.
But what avails the dulcet tone,
The lesson Wisdom's voice can preach?
Can Reason calm Affliction's groan,
Or Maxims patient suff'rance teach?
Know, lib'ral Bard, the vulgar throng
Who point the ranc'rous shaft at me,
Feel not the thrills of sacred song,
Nor heed the precepts taught by thee!
The lesson Wisdom's voice can preach?
Can Reason calm Affliction's groan,
Or Maxims patient suff'rance teach?
Know, lib'ral Bard, the vulgar throng
Who point the ranc'rous shaft at me,
Feel not the thrills of sacred song,
Nor heed the precepts taught by thee!
Yet in my bosom's ruby cell
The philosophic lore shall live!
For who can sooth the mind so well,
With all the graceful Muse can give?
And when the dart pale Envy wings,
With recreant mischief aims at me,
I'll turn where polish'd Julius sings,
And mock the power of Destiny!
The philosophic lore shall live!
For who can sooth the mind so well,
With all the graceful Muse can give?
And when the dart pale Envy wings,
With recreant mischief aims at me,
I'll turn where polish'd Julius sings,
And mock the power of Destiny!
320
And when weak Slander's subtle art
Spits poison o'er the venal page,
With the proud lyre I'll shield my heart,
And, smiling, mock the feeble rage!
So when the venom'd Spider stings,
Whose wound no mortal can endure,
Let the rapt minstrel sweep the strings,
And heav'nly music yields a cure!
Spits poison o'er the venal page,
With the proud lyre I'll shield my heart,
And, smiling, mock the feeble rage!
So when the venom'd Spider stings,
Whose wound no mortal can endure,
Let the rapt minstrel sweep the strings,
And heav'nly music yields a cure!
| The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson | |