The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson including many pieces never before published. In Three Volumes |
 | I. |
 | II. |
FAREWEL TO GLENOWEN. |
| III. |
 | The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson |  |
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FAREWEL TO GLENOWEN.
Farewel, dear Glenowen! adieu to thy mountains,
Where oft I have wander'd to welcome the day;
Farewel to thy forests, thy crystalline fountains,
Which stray through the valley, and moan as they stray.
Where oft I have wander'd to welcome the day;
Farewel to thy forests, thy crystalline fountains,
Which stray through the valley, and moan as they stray.
O'er wide foamy waters I'm destin'd to travel,
A poor simple exile, forlorn and unknown;
Yet while the dark Fates shall my fortune unravel,
My thoughts, my affections, shall still be thy own.
A poor simple exile, forlorn and unknown;
Yet while the dark Fates shall my fortune unravel,
My thoughts, my affections, shall still be thy own.
Thy cities, proud Gallia, thy wide-spreading treasures,
Thy vallies, where Nature luxuriantly roves,
May bid the heart, dancing to Fancy's wild measures,
Forget, for a moment, its own native groves.
Thy vallies, where Nature luxuriantly roves,
May bid the heart, dancing to Fancy's wild measures,
Forget, for a moment, its own native groves.
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But where is the bosom that sighs not in sorrow,
Estrang'd from dear objects to wander alone:
Still counting the moments from morrow to morrow,
A poor weary traveller, lost and unknown.
Estrang'd from dear objects to wander alone:
Still counting the moments from morrow to morrow,
A poor weary traveller, lost and unknown.
Sweet vistas of myrtle, and paths of gay roses,
And hills deck'd with vineyards, and woodlands with shade,
Fresh banks of young vi'lets, where Fancy reposes,
And courts gentle slumbers her visions to aid;
And hills deck'd with vineyards, and woodlands with shade,
Fresh banks of young vi'lets, where Fancy reposes,
And courts gentle slumbers her visions to aid;
The dark silent grotto, the soft-flowing fountains,
Where Nature's own music slow murmurs along;
The sun-beams that dance on the pine-cover'd mountains,
May waken to rapture their own native throng.
Where Nature's own music slow murmurs along;
The sun-beams that dance on the pine-cover'd mountains,
May waken to rapture their own native throng.
But thou, dear Glenowen! can'st bring sweeter pleasure,
All barren and bleak as thy summits appear;
And tho' thou can'st boast of no rich gaudy treasure,
Still Memory traces thy charms with a tear!
All barren and bleak as thy summits appear;
And tho' thou can'st boast of no rich gaudy treasure,
Still Memory traces thy charms with a tear!
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The keen blast may howl o'er thy vallies and mountains,
And strip the rich verdure that mantles each tree;
And winter may bind in cold fetters thy fountains,
And still thou art dear, O Glenowen! to me.
And strip the rich verdure that mantles each tree;
And winter may bind in cold fetters thy fountains,
And still thou art dear, O Glenowen! to me.
| The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson | |