The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson including many pieces never before published. In Three Volumes |
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| II. |
 | III. |
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THE SNAKE AND THE LINNET. A FABLE.
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 | The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson |  |
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THE SNAKE AND THE LINNET. A FABLE.
Inscribed to her who will remember it.
Self-pamper'd ignorance, in fancied state,
Frowns on the humbler dignity of worth!
Thro' life's short summer, miserably great;
And, born illustrious—shames the pride of birth!
Frowns on the humbler dignity of worth!
Thro' life's short summer, miserably great;
And, born illustrious—shames the pride of birth!
Beside a wood, whose lofty shade
O'ercanopy'd the neigh'bring glade,
Where no rude wand'rer's step was seen
To print the dew that gemm'd the green;
Where many a wild-flow'r, scatter'd round,
Shed fragrance o'er the enamell'd ground;
Beneath a branch of verdant hue,
To chaunt its lays, a linnet flew;
Tir'd of its life, it sought repose,
And pour'd its plaint, to sooth its woes:
For long the tuneful feather'd choir
Had vex'd its heart with envious ire;
And, conscious of its sweeter lays,
With insult mock'd its harmless days.
Its soft song echo'd through the grove,
Mild as the murmurs of the dove;
Not e'en the lark's melodious throat
Could emulate its thrilling note.
O'ercanopy'd the neigh'bring glade,
Where no rude wand'rer's step was seen
To print the dew that gemm'd the green;
Where many a wild-flow'r, scatter'd round,
Shed fragrance o'er the enamell'd ground;
Beneath a branch of verdant hue,
To chaunt its lays, a linnet flew;
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And pour'd its plaint, to sooth its woes:
For long the tuneful feather'd choir
Had vex'd its heart with envious ire;
And, conscious of its sweeter lays,
With insult mock'd its harmless days.
Its soft song echo'd through the grove,
Mild as the murmurs of the dove;
Not e'en the lark's melodious throat
Could emulate its thrilling note.
Oft, at still evening's hour, it flew
To sip the drops of scented dew,
That, trickling from the cowslip's head,
Adorn'd with pearls its mossy bed;
While owls and ravens, hov'ring near,
With screams discordant dinn'd its ear:
For hateful to th' envious throng,
Are the sweet sounds of witching song;
And vainly shall its magic steal
O'er the dull mind that cannot feel.
To sip the drops of scented dew,
That, trickling from the cowslip's head,
Adorn'd with pearls its mossy bed;
While owls and ravens, hov'ring near,
With screams discordant dinn'd its ear:
For hateful to th' envious throng,
Are the sweet sounds of witching song;
And vainly shall its magic steal
O'er the dull mind that cannot feel.
Near, on a bank, with flow'rets drest,
A speckled reptile form'd its nest;
Oft would it writhe in wanton play,
And bask beneath the solar ray.
The snake the gentle warbler spy'd,
In all its charms—in all its pride;
And, dazzled with its lustrous dies,
Its shining form, its brilliant eyes,
Flew round its head with curious gaze,
And wanton'd 'midst its leafy maze;
But, ah! the linnet's 'witching strain
Assail'd its tasteless ears in vain;
For the fell snake, with murd'rous art,
Glanc'd at its breast, and stung its heart!
A speckled reptile form'd its nest;
Oft would it writhe in wanton play,
And bask beneath the solar ray.
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In all its charms—in all its pride;
And, dazzled with its lustrous dies,
Its shining form, its brilliant eyes,
Flew round its head with curious gaze,
And wanton'd 'midst its leafy maze;
But, ah! the linnet's 'witching strain
Assail'd its tasteless ears in vain;
For the fell snake, with murd'rous art,
Glanc'd at its breast, and stung its heart!
'Tis thus the fairest forms invite,
With glitt'ring charms, the wond'ring sight:
We gaze upon the beauteous mien,
Nor dread its mischiefs while unseen;
Nor feel, that modest worth confess'd
Inflames with rage the envious breast;
While mean and fulsome flatt'ry finds
A welcome pass—to vulgar minds!
With glitt'ring charms, the wond'ring sight:
We gaze upon the beauteous mien,
Nor dread its mischiefs while unseen;
Nor feel, that modest worth confess'd
Inflames with rage the envious breast;
While mean and fulsome flatt'ry finds
A welcome pass—to vulgar minds!
| The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson | |