The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson ::

“Say, what is Love?” I heard the sound
Steal softly on the western gale;
While flutt'ring Zephyrs, whisp'ring round,
Bore to mine ear thy gentle tale.

Dost thou not know?—Ah! minstrel sweet,
I'll tell thee—Love is but a dream,
A glitt'ring phantom, form'd to cheat,
The rainbow of youth's sunny beam.

On air-built throne the mischief dwells,
Bright to the fascinated view;
Serene amidst tempestuous spells,
Disguis'd in tints of heav'nly hue!

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We gaze, we wonder at his charms,
So passing fair the boy appears;
His sighs the fiercest rage disarms,
While cold indiff'rence melts in tears.

So humble seems the weeping child,
That Pity joys to see him blest;
While Passion hastes with transport wild,
And clasps him to her burning breast.

And if the cunning Urchin smiles,
The light-wing'd Pleasures flutt'ring nigh,
'Midst glowing blisses, sportive wiles,
Snatch rapture from his laughing eye.

For he can laugh, and sigh, and weep,
Now frown severe, then smile again;
And he can bid dull Sorrow sleep,
Or dash the cup of Joy with pain.

And he can cheer the throbbing breast,
While Hope's bright flame illumes his eye;
Can point the distant heav'n of rest,
Then bid the flatt'ring vision fly.

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He can bid Poverty's sad child
Repose upon his downy wing;
Can lull to peace Distraction wild,
And heal pale Misery's sharpest sting.

But when, capricious, false, and vain,
The tyrant shews his boasted pow'r,
The sensate bosom throbs with pain,
And cares the vital throne devour.

Ah! then he triumphs—then he turns
From Hope's fond gaze, indignant, cold;
From his proud heart the wretch he spurns,
And smiles his victim to behold.

Ah, then he drinks the bitter tear,
And mocks the soul-departing sigh;
While his dread minion, jealous Fear,
Proclaims that dark Despair is nigh!

Unmov'd, he sees the languid look,
The cheek slow-fading to decay,
The breast by every hope forsook,
The mind to with'ring grief a prey!

328

He sees the wreath of Genius fade,
Blasted by pale Oblivion's breath,
As slow she seeks the fatal shade,
Where Madness points the cave of Death.

If o'er some tow'ring rock he bends,
And, shrunk with anguish, weeps and raves;
If black Despair his bosom rends,
While from the steep the storm he braves;

Or on the margin wild, forlorn,
He meditates perpetual sleep;
Or, on the ruthless whirlwinds borne,
Hangs trembling o'er the howling deep:

If to the Moon he tells his woes,
When midnight guides her sable rein;
Or shrieks with fierce convulsive throes,
Till frenzy grasps his burning brain:

Or if, in rosy graces drest,
He lures thee to his fatal bow'r,
And tells thee he will make thee blest
With proud delight's extatic pow'r:

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Ah, heed him not, thou Minstrel sweet!
The tempter courts but to abuse;
From the fell traitor turn thy feet,
And live—a fav'rite of the Muse!

University of Virginia Library

STANZAS TO HIM WHO SAID, “WHAT IS LOVE?”