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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STANZAS WRITTEN FOR “THE SHRINE OF BERTHA.” |
 | The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson |  |
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STANZAS WRITTEN FOR “THE SHRINE OF BERTHA.”
Pleas'd with the calm bewitching hour,
When ev'ning shadows o'er the plain,
I seek my solitary bow'r,
And listen to the night-owl's strain!
When ev'ning shadows o'er the plain,
I seek my solitary bow'r,
And listen to the night-owl's strain!
Here, where the woven ivy hangs,
Once the rich shrine of marble rose!
And chaste-ey'd vestals sigh'd their pangs,
And bath'd, with icy tears, their woes.
Once the rich shrine of marble rose!
And chaste-ey'd vestals sigh'd their pangs,
And bath'd, with icy tears, their woes.
And here, where on the rugged ground
The sculptur'd fragments scatter'd lie,
Erst did the choral anthem sound,
And holy incense meet the sky.
The sculptur'd fragments scatter'd lie,
Erst did the choral anthem sound,
And holy incense meet the sky.
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What are ye now? ye arches drear,
What can ye shew to sooth the breast?
Save pensive twilight's frequent tear,
That falls in crystal lustre drest!
What can ye shew to sooth the breast?
Save pensive twilight's frequent tear,
That falls in crystal lustre drest!
Yet o'er the scene of rude decay
Blithe nature darts the morning beam!
And here the blushing evening ray
Inspires the soul with fancy's dream!
Blithe nature darts the morning beam!
And here the blushing evening ray
Inspires the soul with fancy's dream!
And here wan Cynthia sheds her light,
The shatter'd roofs and walls among;
And here the solemn hour of night
Is cheer'd by philomela's song!
The shatter'd roofs and walls among;
And here the solemn hour of night
Is cheer'd by philomela's song!
And here the pilgrim, poor and sad,
No kindred smile his breast to warm,
May find what cruel foes forbad,
A shelter from the howling storm!
No kindred smile his breast to warm,
May find what cruel foes forbad,
A shelter from the howling storm!
Blow, blow, ye keen, ye ruthless winds!
Ye livid light'nings, dart around!
While terror freezes guilty minds,
And conscience owns the cureless wound.
Ye livid light'nings, dart around!
While terror freezes guilty minds,
And conscience owns the cureless wound.
Here can I view, unchill'd with dread,
The lofty aisle and shadowy dome;
The turrets tottering o'er the dead;
The long-drawn monumental gloom!
The lofty aisle and shadowy dome;
The turrets tottering o'er the dead;
The long-drawn monumental gloom!
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Here, still, without one holy rite,
The hapless bertha's form shall sleep!
While blushing rigour shrinks from light,
And melancholy hides—to weep.
The hapless bertha's form shall sleep!
While blushing rigour shrinks from light,
And melancholy hides—to weep.
With superstition gliding round,
A thousand ghastly shades shall gleam;
While o'er the dew-besprinkled ground
Steals the faint moon's retiring beam!
A thousand ghastly shades shall gleam;
While o'er the dew-besprinkled ground
Steals the faint moon's retiring beam!
Yet, hither shall the red-breast bring
The lily, and the palest rose;
And all the fairest flow'rs of spring,
To dress her bed—of long repose.
The lily, and the palest rose;
And all the fairest flow'rs of spring,
To dress her bed—of long repose.
Oh, gentle bird! no wand'rer rude
Shall bid thee from these ruins flee;
Blest minstrel of this solitude!
Still shalt thou sing—to solace me
Shall bid thee from these ruins flee;
Blest minstrel of this solitude!
Still shalt thou sing—to solace me
| The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson | |