The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson ::

Hail, Solitude serene! thou nurse of thought!
To whom the weary mind retires, to taste
The blissful hour of exquisite repose!
Thou, who delight'st to dwell in shaggy woods,
Whose variegated foliage hangs its shade
O'er the rude margin of the mountain's brow;
Or, interwoven, down its sloping side,
Spreads the dim horrors of a mid-day night!

Hail, pensive Solitude! whose footsteps stray
Along the pebbly borders of the main,
When from the eastern clouds the Sun darts forth,
Lifting his glorious canopy of fire
Above the pale horizon, spreading round
A living world of undulating Light!
Or seek the cool and unfrequented bow'r,
The bushy dell, or the dew-spangled grot,
When the fierce Lord of Noon, with flaming eye,
Rolls furious o'er the sapphire floor of heav'n;
Or downward shoots his shaft of glitt'ring fire,
Upon the sultry heath and thirsty mead,

To drink the ling'ring tears of Morn, that shine
On the young violet's aromatic breast:
Or, when, with humid hand, her purple robe
Meek Twilight draws across the mountain's brow,
Veiling its golden crest, in dusky shade
Of cold, oblivious gloom, thou lov'st to sit,
And watch the lamp of night, ethereal borne,
Glide o'er the cavern'd cliff, whose torrents roar
Down its stupendous sides, and foam to reach
The desolated valley, lost below!

Then, Solitude, 'tis thine in ev'ry gale
To hear celestial breathings; from each hill
To quaff the balmy essence of the breeze;
To mark, in every magic change of scene,
The grand diversity of Nature's laws,
Yet find in all the ever present God!
Whose pow'r, sublime, with equal wonder moves
In the small flowret bursting from the earth,
As in the sphere-crown'd eagle's tow'ring wing!

Then wilt thou trace, with Fancy's tearful eye,
The once delicious scene; the rural cot;
The village house of pray'r; the sun-burnt hind;
The lowly children of the rushy roof;
The flocks; the herds; and all the golden pride
Of glowing Autumn whelm'd beneath the flood.

O sacred Solitude! amidst thy scenes
Of rapture infinite, thy ills are these:
The ruthless cataract; the midnight blast;
The death-wing'd tempest; and the with'ring bolt
Of Heav'n-avenging wrath! Nor art thou only
Destin'd to endure, in solitary shades,
The sad diversity of direful woe!
The sweeping hurricane, the stormy hour,
The fatal lightnings, and the whelming flood,
Are but the emblems of disastrous life!

Then let me court thee in thy gentlest form;
In lonely grottos, and in verdant glens,
Where the slow brook runs babbling from its source,
And perfum'd zephyrs fan the fervid ray!
Where Meditation, like an Hermit pure,
With bosom taught by mild philanthropy,
In silence mourns the miseries of Man!
Creation's Lord! who, plac'd amidst the gems,
The luxuries of Nature's vast domain,
Still pants for more; and, still impatient, grasps
The glittering vision of delusive joys;
The gaudy phantoms of a transient day;
The breath of popularity, that turns
Inconstant as the wind; the flatt'rer's smile;
The wreath of Fame, imbued with human gore;
And, worst of all—O agonizing thought!
The paltry boast of treasure, wrung, alas,

From the torn bosom of the hapless slave,
The wretched offspring of a fiercer Sun!
For these, he wields the desolating sword;
Quits the dear mansion of domestic peace;
The lov'd companions of his native home;
The social comforts, and the calm delights,
That thronging round the blazing hearth, beguile
The tardy winter's night: for these he dares
The pois'nous vapours of infected climes,
The torrid ray, or the pernicious blasts
Of petrifying Lapland's cheerless skies!
For these he wanders far, o'er unknown seas,
To tame the tribes barbarian, or explore
The sad variety of human woes.
Oh! blind, misguided, and mistaken Man!
To leave the garden of luxurious sweets,
And wander 'midst a desert, fraught with thorns.

Ah! let me, in some shelter'd valley, own
A cottage, lowly, but secure from harm;
From the rude rioter, or caitiff wretch,
Who, prowling by the twinkling starry light,
Assails the houseless traveller, and bares
Against his beating breast the murd'rous knife.
From such as these secure, let sweet repose
Strew on my pillow rude the buds of Spring,
The opening treasures of the infant year!

There, let oblivious slumbers lull my mind,
And harmonize the quickly throbbing pulse,
That, through the creeping hour of day, endur'd
The various thrills of ecstasy and woe.
And you, ye airy phantoms of the brain,
Ye forms fantastical, or fraught with fear,
Oh! fly the blest abode of gentle peace;
Nor with your agonizing spells assail
The weary senses, wrapp'd in balmy sleep!
And when the Lark, the harbinger of day,
Sweeps the blue ether with exulting wing,
And welcomes her approach with shrilly song,
With thee I'll quaff the ever-winding rill,
And feast upon the luxuries that rise
From the warm bosom of the teeming earth!
While Health, the blooming handmaid of Repose,
Shall smile upon my board, and give a zest
To the rich banquet of content and joy.
There the faint wanderer shall be my guest,
With modest mien, and converse undefil'd;
Unvarnish'd emblems of the spotless soul!
And there, the legendary tale shall claim
The midnight hour serene; while the pale lamp
Shall feebly gleam upon the frugal board:
Yet, not to these confin'd; the loftier theme,
The wing'd idea, and the soothing strain
Of Heav'n-descended song, shall charm the soul,
And give to ev'ry nerve a keener sense!

There, shall the hoary sage, Philosophy,
Unfold his sacred lore; while Wisdom's son
Shall, smiling, smooth the rigid brow austere,
And mingle in the scene of humbler bliss!

Then, welcome Solitude! The sphere is thine,
That gives the purest passions ample scope!
That bids the soul beam with exterior grace
Of light, reflected from the source within!
And when its essence shall evaporate,
Fann'd by the desolating wing of time;
When this dull scene of transitory life,
And all its sorrows, all its joys are o'er;
One sparkling atom, from its prison clay,
Shall soar, to mingle with its native Heav'n.

University of Virginia Library

SOLITUDE.