The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson including many pieces never before published. In Three Volumes |
 | I. |
 | II. |
THE EXILE. |
| III. |
 | The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson |  |
371
THE EXILE.
Lost on a rock of dreadful height,
And shrouded by the gloom of night,
A weary exile stood!
No wint'ry star its feeble ray
Shot forth to point the craggy way,
Or guide his devious steps to shun the foamy flood.
And shrouded by the gloom of night,
A weary exile stood!
No wint'ry star its feeble ray
Shot forth to point the craggy way,
Or guide his devious steps to shun the foamy flood.
Above, the warring tempest howl'd,
And near the rav'nous She-wolf prowl'd,
A cataract plung'd below!
He shrunk!—the bleak blast yell'd around
He totter'd o'er the gulph profound,
While ev'ry startled sense was agoniz'd by woe.
And near the rav'nous She-wolf prowl'd,
A cataract plung'd below!
He shrunk!—the bleak blast yell'd around
He totter'd o'er the gulph profound,
While ev'ry startled sense was agoniz'd by woe.
For robb'd of joy, of peace bereft,
Adversity no balsam left
To heal the stings of scorn;
No sigh of love his pain beguil'd,
On him no friend, no kindred, smil'd,
To draw from Memory's wound affliction's rank ling thorn!
Adversity no balsam left
To heal the stings of scorn;
No sigh of love his pain beguil'd,
On him no friend, no kindred, smil'd,
To draw from Memory's wound affliction's rank ling thorn!
372
Disdain'd by Fortune, stung by Art,
And tortur'd with a feeling heart,
Which Hope had left to break!
His sigh was lost amid the blast,
And Fancy, madd'ning on the past,
Bade tears, corroding tears, steal down his wither'd cheek.
And tortur'd with a feeling heart,
Which Hope had left to break!
His sigh was lost amid the blast,
And Fancy, madd'ning on the past,
Bade tears, corroding tears, steal down his wither'd cheek.
Then why should he, with haggard eye,
Start from the She-wolf prowling nigh,
Or dread the gulph below?
Why totter o'er the dreadful steep,
And bear the pelting storm, and weep,
When one short step would end the tyranny of woe?
Start from the She-wolf prowling nigh,
Or dread the gulph below?
Why totter o'er the dreadful steep,
And bear the pelting storm, and weep,
When one short step would end the tyranny of woe?
Poor exile! why such fears endure,
When Nature's hand presents a cure,
Which only death can give?
Methinks the wretched wand'rer cries—
“Guilt seeks the grave—the coward dies,
While virtue nobly dares to suffer and to live!”
When Nature's hand presents a cure,
Which only death can give?
Methinks the wretched wand'rer cries—
“Guilt seeks the grave—the coward dies,
While virtue nobly dares to suffer and to live!”
| The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson | |