The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson including many pieces never before published. In Three Volumes |
 | I. |
| II. |
 | III. |
|
|
IMPROMPTU
|
 | The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson |  |
277
IMPROMPTU
Sent to a Friend who had left his Gloves, by mistake, at the Author's house on the preceding evening.
Your gloves I send,
My worthy friend,
With no gallant intent:
With gauntlet I
No knight defy;
So take it as 'tis meant.
My worthy friend,
With no gallant intent:
With gauntlet I
No knight defy;
So take it as 'tis meant.
In merry mood,
'Tis understood,
That frolic fancy loves,
When eye-lids close
In sweet repose,
To steal a pair of gloves.
'Tis understood,
That frolic fancy loves,
When eye-lids close
In sweet repose,
To steal a pair of gloves.
278
But neither here
(I vow and swear)
My sportive measures rule;
Too weak to wield
The daring shield,
Too old to play the fool.
(I vow and swear)
My sportive measures rule;
Too weak to wield
The daring shield,
Too old to play the fool.
Tho' dark their hue,
Their semblance true,
Like fortune's frowns appear;
By absence torn,
Like me, they mourn
For him—who thought them dear.
Their semblance true,
Like fortune's frowns appear;
By absence torn,
Like me, they mourn
For him—who thought them dear.
Then take the pair,
And let them share
The warmth that from your breast
On all bestows,
The balm of woes,
Which gives to sorrow—rest!
And let them share
The warmth that from your breast
On all bestows,
The balm of woes,
Which gives to sorrow—rest!
These truant twins,
To mend their sins,
Shall wait your kind command;
And ev'ry day,
Or sad, or gay,
Shall—take you by the hand.
To mend their sins,
Shall wait your kind command;
And ev'ry day,
Or sad, or gay,
Shall—take you by the hand.
279
In solitude,
'Mid sorrows rude,
Or passion's wildest storm,
Where'er you go,
Thro' weal or woe,
You'll find them ever warm.
'Mid sorrows rude,
Or passion's wildest storm,
Where'er you go,
Thro' weal or woe,
You'll find them ever warm.
So fare you well;
This pair shall tell,
And tell with lungs of leather,
That friends who part,
Must know the smart
They never feel together.
This pair shall tell,
And tell with lungs of leather,
That friends who part,
Must know the smart
They never feel together.
| The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson | |