The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson including many pieces never before published. In Three Volumes |
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 | III. |
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THE OLD BEGGAR. |
 | The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson |  |
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THE OLD BEGGAR.
I
Do you see the old beggar who sits at yon gate,With his beard silver'd over like snow?
Tho' he smiles as he meets the keen arrows of fate,
Still his bosom is wearied with woe.
II
Many years has he sat at the foot of the hill,Many days seen the summer sun rise;
And at evening the traveller passes him still,
While the shadows steal over the skies.
III
In the bleak blast of winter he hobbles alongO'er the heath, at the dawning of day;
And the dew-drops that freeze the rude thistles among,
Are the stars that illumine his way.
IV
How mild is his aspect, how modest his eye,How meekly his soul bears each wrong!
How much does he speak by his eloquent sigh,
Tho' no accent is heard from his tongue.
307
V
Time was, when this beggar, in martial trim dight,Was as bold as the chief of his throng;
When he march'd thro' the storms of the day or the night,
And still smil'd as he journey'd along.
VI
Then his form was athletic, his eyes' vivid glanceSpoke the lustre of youth's glowing day!
And the village all mark'd, in the combat and dance,
The brave younker still valiant as gay.
VII
When the prize was propos'd, how his footsteps wou'd bound,While the maid of his heart led the throng,
While the ribands that circled the May-pole around,
Wav'd the trophies of garlands among!
VIII
But love o'er his bosom triumphantly reign'd,Love taught him in secret to pine;
Love wasted his youth, yet he never complain'd,
For the silence of love—is divine!
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IX
The dulcet ton'd word, and the plaint of despair,Are no signs of the soul-wasting smart;
'Tis the pride of affection to cherish its care,
And to count the quick throbs of the heart.
X
Amidst the loud din of the battle he stood,Like a lion, undaunted and strong;
But the tear of compassion was mingled with blood,
When his sword was the first in the throng.
XI
When the bullet whizz'd by, and his arm bore away,Still he shrunk not, with anguish oppress'd;
And when victory shouted the fate of the day,
Not a groan check'd the joy of his breast.
XII
To his dear native shore the poor wand'rer hied;But he came to complete his despair:
For the maid of his soul was that morning a bride!
And a gay lordly rival was there!
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XIII
From that hour, o'er the world he has wander'd forlorn;But still love his companion would go;
And tho' deeply fond memory planted its thorn,
Still he silently cherish'd his woe.
XIV
See him now, while with age and with sorrow oppress'd,He the gate opens slowly, and sighs!
See him drop the big tears on his woe-wither'd breast,
The big tears that fall fast from his eyes!
XV
See his habit all tatter'd, his shrivell'd cheek pale;See his locks, waving thin in the air;
See his lip is half froze with the sharp cutting gale,
And his head, o'er the temples, all bare!
XVI
His eye-beam no longer in lustre displaysThe warm sunshine that visits his breast;
For deep sunk is its orbit, and darken'd its rays,
And he sighs for the grave's silent rest.
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XVII
And his voice is grown feeble, his accent is slow,And he sees not the distant hill's side;
And he hears not the breezes of morn as they blow,
Nor the streams that soft murmuring glide.
XVIII
To him all is silent, and mournful, and dim,E'en the seasons pass dreary and slow;
For affliction has plac'd its cold fetters on him,
And his soul is enamour'd of woe.
XIX
See the tear, which, imploring, is fearful to roll,Tho' in silence he bows as you stray;
'Tis the eloquent silence which speaks to the soul,
'Tis the star of his slow-setting day!
XX
Perchance, ere the May-blossoms cheerfully wave,Ere the zephyrs of summer soft sigh;
The sun-beams shall dance on the grass o'er his grave,
And his journey be mark'd—to the sky.
THE END.
| The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson | |