University of Virginia Library

TO MRS. ROBINSON,

BY ROBERT MERRY, Esq. Member of the Academè Della Crusca at Florence.

Sweet is the calmly cheerful hour,
When from mute midnight's ebon tow'r
The moon escapes, and sportive hies
O'er the gay garden of the skies;
Where Nature's noblest flow'rs unfold
Their starry buds of burning gold;
The weary winds pant on the deep,
Or 'mongst the cradling billows sleep;
The streams their lucid lakes display;
The forests shake their sighs away;
Soft lustre ev'ry shade pursues,
That darkly drinks the falling dews;
While odour from her silken wings
An aromatic ether flings.
All is delight! but, ah! in vain
These varying glories bless the plain;
For see, the frenzied lover speeds
From the bright groves and glitt'ring meads,
From gaudy hills, enchanted bow'rs,
And flowing waves and summer show'rs;
And seeks the lovely pensive cave,
Where he may groan, and weep, and rave;
And wrap his thoughts in sablest gloom,
And lure a transport from the tomb;
Where he may hope to rest at last,
When Passion's rending pangs are past.
But e'en if then he chance to hear
The warbling of the bird sincere,
Who loves her secret pangs to throw
In all the melodies of woe,
His heart relents, his trembling lid,
In pity's lucid veil is hid;
Subjected agonies depart,
And soft'ning sorrow soothes his heart.
So I, dear Laura! long supprest
The thorn of anguish in my breast;
Lost to each social solace gay,
And heedless of the blooms of May;
And heedless of the haughty Sun,
When, to his mad meridian run,
He lifts his red refulgent shield,
And fires the Heaven's eternal field.
Yes, I from each allurement fled
To where incumbent darkness spread;
Trod the black torrent's gloomy side,
And held fierce converse with the tide.
Ah! then thy numbers seiz'd my soul,
I found the thrilling sadness roll
In sweet similitude of joy,
That might my direst griefs destroy:
They stole upon my tranced sense,
As the fresh gales of morn dispense
New life to ev'ry shrub that fades
In Solitude's neglected shades.
Transcendent Laura! now receive
The tribute gratitude shall give;
Due to thy verse, whose sainted glow
Bade my lost soul renounce its woe:
Then frown not on my daring lay
That strives to paint the golden day;
To tell the lustre of the rose,
And thy resistless charms disclose;
But think, when in the grave's cold sleep
My wretched eyes shall cease to weep,
And, troubled by the wint'ry breeze,
This sad, this burning heart shall freeze,
Then shall my ling'ring verse declare
How much I priz'd the good and fair!
What tenderness my soul conceiv'd,
How deeply for thy suff'rings griev'd,
While future Poets, future ages join,
To pour in Laura's praise their melodies divine.