The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson ::

When, the dread scene of death and horror o'er,
Reason's calm eye time's tablet shall explore;
When the dark demons of destructive ire
No more shall see devoted hosts expire;
When, o'er the desolated clime, the wise
Shall bid, too late, the sacred olive rise!—
Then justice shall the dreary spot illume
Where pity lingers on the martyr's tomb;
And, scatt'ring Sorrow's incense, sighing, say—
“Thy fame, illustrious soul! shall ne'er decay!”

Oh! then, when wand'ring on some distant shore,
Musing o'er scenes of bliss he tastes no more!
The holy exile shall, with up-rais'd eyes,
Implore, for thee, the raptures of the skies!
Though sad, forlorn, a stranger to repose,
Celestial Faith shall mitigate his woes!
And patience, smiling from her sphery throne,
Shall bid his throbbing heart some solace own!
Yet, as the pious sufferer bends his way,
Cheer'd by the prospects of eternal day,
Oft shall he pour his orisons divine,
Forget his pangs, and only weep for thine!

The pilgrim who, with tearful eye, shall view
The moon's wan lustre on the midnight dew,
As through the lonesome labyrinth he strays,
Sooth'd by her lamp, and guided by its rays,
Shall offer up to heaven an humble pray'r,
(For contrite sighs are ever welcome there!)
That, in seraphic realms, thy soul may know
That bliss, inhuman rage denied below!

Ah! who can trace, nor feel a pang severe,
The dawn of joy that usher'd thy career!
When, round thy youthful form, divinely gay,
Ecstatic rapture wing'd the hours away?
When, from the perfum'd couch of soft repose,
More lustrous than the Morn, thy beauty rose!

When all was pleasure, adoration, ease;
For pow'r was temper'd by the wish to please;
Where all around thee charm'd the dazzled view,
For ever splendid, yet for ever new;
Adorn'd with gems to Gallia's sons unknown,
Domestic Virtues, glitt'ring round the throne!

Who can reflect, nor drop the tenderest tear
On the dread progress of thy fate severe!
Hurl'd from the loftiest height of human bliss,
To the worst horrors of Despair's abyss!
To bear th' insulting cruelty of those
Who, from thy subjects, to thy tyrants rose!
Tore thy pale darlings from thy panting breast,
And made maternal woes the rabble's jest;
The bonds of wedded virtue rent in twain,
And Truth's white bosom stampt with falsehood's stain!
Denied the decent aid of female hands!
No kind domestics wait thy meek commands!
On a straw pallet, in a dungeon laid—
By all suspected, and by all betray'd!
Yet, midst the tortures of the direful plan,
Which thrills with horror through the breast of man,
Not all the rage of Hell's abhorr'd decree
Could force one supplicating tear from thee!

As the rich flow'ret on the mountain's side
Unfolds its charms, and blooms with harmless pride!

Rais'd 'midst the clouds, to combat ev'ry blast;
Too high for shelter, and too fair to last!
Awhile, contending wïth the varying spheres;
Now blushing beauties! now adorn'd with tears!
Still braves the mid-day sun, the chilling night,
Sweet to the sense! and lovely to the sight;
Nor heeds the torrent, rising o'er its bound;
Or the dark skies, in tempests gath'ring round;
Till from the flinty steep the waters flow,
Pouring destruction o'er the vale below;
And sweeping, with their desolating pow'rs,
The tow'ring cedars and o'erhanging bow'rs!
From rock to rock the frothy columns bound,
Deaf'ning calm Nature with the fateful sound;
Till, by no barrier in its course confin'd,
It whelms the plain, and leaves no trace behind!
No waving forest to adorn the scene;
No hut to tell what once the spot had been;
No sweet diversity enchants the eye;
One liquid space reflects the low'ring sky!
While on its troubled surface, spreading wide,
Float the torn fragments of the mountain's pride!
Till all, celestial bounty gave, defac'd,
One dreadful Chaos triumphs o'er the waste!—

Such is thy lot, O Gallia! such the rage
That blurs, with crimson spots, fair Nature's page!

That leaps the bounds of Reason, and destroys
The law's strong barrier, and the subject's joys!
That roots up all the sacred rights of Truth!
The claims of Age, the energies of Youth!
Bids Commerce tremble, Justice hide her scale,
Contention revel, and Revenge prevail!
Religion perish in the guilty mind,
And Devastation riot unconfin'd!
While all are rulers—all, alas! are slaves!
Each dreads his fellow, each his fellow braves!
While in one horrid mass all miseries blend;
Each shuns his brother, and each fears his friend!
The Son, with blood-stain'd faulchion, strikes the Sire!
The Parent smiles, to see the son expire!
Against his Lord, the Vassal wields his spear!
The vaunting Atheist mocks the Vestal's tear!
The lawless Idiot lifts his ruthless arm,
To tear from Science every graceful charm!
While Genius from the madd'ning tumult flies,
Weeps o'er her with'ring bays, and seeks the skies!

Far o'er the Globe, from all his kindred driv'n,
Behold the sacred Minister of Heav'n!
The pious pastor, wand'ring o'er the earth,
Of mind enlighten'd, and of noblest birth!
With whose proud race the proudest virtues came,
To prove their rank their secondary claim;

Who, 'midst the duties of religious life,
Shrunk from the clamours of domestic strife.
What is his lot?—To weep in some lone bow'r,
And count new sorrows with each passing hour;
To view the radiant morn, with aching eyes,
O'er the far distant promontory rise;
Diffusing bliss o'er Nature's children gay,
Who laugh and labour through the peaceful day!
Who fear no ruthless hand to check their joy,
No mandate dire, existence to destroy!
Who, blest with conscious innocence, can smile,
Unstain'd with blood, and unreproach'd with guile;
All the long day the task of toil endure,
Contented, simple, peaceful, and secure!
To see the infants, like fair branches, rise,
The cherish'd offspring of serenest skies;
While the rough Parent, like the Oak, shall last,
To nurse their tender beauties 'midst the blast;
Till, nourish'd to perfection, they aspire
To match the sturdy virtues of their Sire!
Turn to the beauteous Martyr! Austria's pride!
Epitome of all—to worth allied!
Mark, in her alter'd and distracted mien,
The fatal ensigns of the pangs within!
See those fair tresses on her shoulders flow
In silv'ry waves, that mock the Alpine snow!
Where are their waving braids of glossy gold,
That crowned her brow, in many a silky fold?

That brow, so withered by Affliction's blast!
So stampt with age, before her prime was past!
Where are the graces of that 'witching form?
Torn from their home, and scatter'd to the storm!
Those eyes! like sapphire gems were wont to shine;
Bright beaming samples of their native mine!
What are they now? clos'd in the sleep of death!
Their blaze extinguish'd by Rebellion's breath!
Yet, as the tempest threaten'd their abode,
A stream celestial from their radiance flow'd!
Like setting stars, they left their humid spheres,
And their last fainting lustre gleam'd through tears!

Oh! I have seen her, like a sun, sublime!
Diffusing glory on the wings of Time!
And, as revolving seasons own his flight,
Marking each brilliant minute with delight!
Yet not to pleasure only was she prone;
She made the mis'ries of the poor her own!
No ostentation lessen'd pity's meed—
Unseen she gave! and silence seal'd the deed!
She sought no plaudits from obsequious pride!
She paid herself—for nature was her guide!
For conscious rapture, to the tott'ring shed
Oft would she fly, to bless the mourner's bed;
There, bending o'er the aged widow's form,
With smiles celestial, chase the wintry storm;

Heal the stung bosom with compassion's tear!
Pour balmy counsel in the startled ear!
Fan, with her sighs, the fever of the brain;
And, by partaking, lessen ev'ry pain!

Shunn'd be the Fiend, who, in these dreadful times
Would brand her mem'ry with infernal crimes;
Shunn'd be the monster, who, with recreant art,
Beyond the grave, would hurl Detraction's dart!
With sacrilegious hands, relentless tear
The blood-steep'd laurel, newly planted there!
For, though insulted, massacred, defam'd,
The Laurel, still, her peerless virtues claim'd!
While, round the rugged sod, dread silence reigns,
The cherub, Truth, obliterates its stains.
Then let the Muse her weary sorrows trace,
And Candour blot the records of Disgrace!
Nurs'd in the cradle of Imperial State,
Her infant dreams proclaim'd a milder fate!
Enchanting visions sooth'd her op'ning mind;
Though young, enlighten'd; and though gay, refin'd!
Succeeding years roll'd on; and, as she grew,
Each fleeting hour presented raptures new!
Fresh as the breeze that fans the breast of May,
She scatter'd perfumes on the face of day!
Pride of her royal line, in youth's soft grace,
She bloom'd, the loveliest blossom of her race!

Transplanted from the bow'r of sweet repose,
With Gallia's Lilies blending Austria's Rose;
Form'd to adorn a cottage or a throne;
For all that sooth'd the senses was her own!
A stranger, from her native land, she came;
Her dowry Beauty, and her passport Fame!
Too young to play the subtle courtier's part,
She charm'd all eyes, and gladden'd ev'ry heart!
Too innocent, deceptive wiles to plan!
(Her pow'r acknowledg'd, ere her reign began,)
So exquisitely fair, so mildly gay,
She made the wisest converts to her sway!
To rule, she sought not; for obedience hung
On the soft accents of her tuneful tongue.
Her smile could guide the stubborn heart, or move
The soul of Apathy to thrills of Love!
Each playful action spoke the fire of youth;
Her blush was innocence! her voice was truth!
She trod the flow'ry paths of bliss supreme;
Delight her guide, and gratitude her theme!
Till, 'midst its sweets, the serpent, Envy, grew,
Hating her charms, and sick'ning at their view!
Pre-eminent she shone!—Each lesser light
Shrunk from her radiance, in the glooms of night:
Yet, like malignant stars, with potent pow'r,
Flam'd the fierce demons of the vengeful hour;
And scatter'd 'midst the storm their borrow'd rays,
To prove the Sun was set that bid them blaze!

First, low complaining murmurs echo'd round,
While pleas'd Contention caught the sullen sound;
Then while the mischief conjur'd up despair,
Each thought his wrongs too infinite to bear:
Too rash to follow Reason's sober plan,
They marr'd the triumph they had scarce began!
Now, mark the howling tempest far and wide!
Mark, on the winds infuriate spirits ride!
O'er the proud fabric and the painted dome,
Long-threat'ning shadows spread impervious gloom;
Death stalks, unmask'd, beside the scepter'd hand,
While round the regal chair dark demons stand;
With cries of murder, now the Palace shakes,
And all is ruin, ere reflection wakes;
Where the rich banquet met the dazzled eye,
A thousand sheathless poniards glitt'ring lie;
While the loud cannons roar destruction round,
Triumphant Mischief smiles at ev'ry sound;
And Malice pilfers all the sweets of rest,
And plants the thorn of woe in beauty's breast.

For crimes long past, when erst Oppression's hand
Drove weeping Freedom from the Gallic land;
When Truth fled, trembling, and subdu'd with fears;
And godlike Virtue only shone in tears;
For woes long past, insatiate Ire decreed,
The just should fall; the guiltless heart should bleed!

That heart which shudder'd at recorded crimes
Stampt on the tablet of disastrous times!
Which shrunk, aghast, at ev'ry dreadful view
That shew'd past centuries, black'ning as they flew!
When recreant satellites exulting shone,
Their light a meteor, and their sphere the throne!
Was it for those the last illustrious race
Wash'd, with their blood, the page of dire disgrace!
Was it for those an alien's heart was torn
With taunting Insult's agonizing thorn!
While low she bow'd, in with'ring graces drest,
Truth in her eye, and Valour in her breast!
Was it for those ill-fated Louis fell,
'Midst the vile clamours of the rabble's yell?
Forc'd from his shrieking infants! and deni'd
A parent's comfort, and a parent's pride!
Dragg'd to the fatal agonizing goal;
His only crime—the meekness of his soul!
For, ah! while mem'ry ponders o'er the page
That marks the regal line from age to age,
Distracted Gallia! thou shalt never see
So rare a Scion from so frail a tree!

Mark the last scene of his disastrous state,
When patient Virtue brav'd the lance of Fate!
When, on the scaffold, crimson'd o'er with blood,
The Monarch! Husband! Parent! Martyr! stood

Amidst his subjects, now his foes severe;
No pitying friend his parting sigh to hear!
E'en then, high tow'ring o'er all human woes,
Above himself the smiling victim rose!
And, braving human sorrow's vengeful rod,
Breath'd his last pray'r, and gave his soul to God!

Thus the proud eagle, whose strong pinions soar,
With dauntless eye day's sov'reign to explore,
Sees all around transcendent glory blaze;
The world beneath, an atom to his gaze!
Yet through the airy regions grandly flies,
And drinks the viewless nectar of the skies:
In the bland space he wields his lordly flight,
And riots in the plenitude of light!
Till thick'ning vapours choke the fost'ring stream,
Veil the faint stars, and shroud the orient beam!
Swift to the world beneath his pinions sail,
Where the tall cliff hangs low'ring o'er the vale;
Where, rock'd upon the forest's waving crest,
He left his offspring in their mother's breast.
There, too, he finds the ruthless tempest's pow'r,
The blue-wing'd lightning, and the whelming show'r!
There, the shrill blast the rifted Pine lays low,
While down the rocks the mingling cataracts flow;
His darling mate, his little unfledg'd brood,
Dash'd on the foamy bosom of the flood!

Loud thunders mock th' aërial Sov'reign's cries,
Till, 'midst the dreadful din, he soars, and dies!

Now, ere the Muse her mournful task resigns,
And the last Cypress garland fondly twines;
Ere the faint emblems of her grief sincere
Shall fade beneath Reflection's frequent tear;—
She turns, with curious eye, the woes to trace,
Heap'd on the breathing Suff'rers of thy race;
Who, daily pining in a dungeon's gloom,
Anticipate the silence of the tomb!
Who, all the live-long day, unseen, alone,
Pour the deep cadence of the tort'ring groan;
Start, if the winds along their prison creep;
Slumber, to dream of death, and wake to weep!
Who, each new dawn, behold a glimm'ring ray
Shed through their drear abode a doubtful day;
And when the evening sun, with purpling light,
Proclaims the coming shade of fearful night,
Behold, with Fancy's all-creating eyes,
The bleeding spectres of their kindred rise!
Mark, from each bosom gash'd, a crimson tide,
Life's tepid fountain from its channels glide!
The widow'd Mother casts a wistful gaze
On the sweet darlings of her splendid days;
On her pale cheek the frozen tear still dwells,
Like April dew upon the snow-drop's bells!

Her quiv'ring lips, in murmurs, seem to say,
“I come, my cherubs, from the realms of day!
“Thy father triumphs in the spheres of rest,
“And shares the endless transports of the blest!
“There, far remov'd from Fate's disastrous frown,
“He lives, possess'd of an immortal crown!”
Then, as the feeble infants wond'ring stand,
The fleeting spectre waves its snowy hand!
The moaning wind through ev'ry crevice blows;
Down the damp wall the midnight vapour flows:
On their cold flinty couch, with tearful eye,
Clasp'd in each other's arms, the mourners lie;
They tremble, whisper, sigh, yet fear to weep,
Till nature, faint with anguish, sinks in sleep!

See, in a neighb'ring cell, a with'ring form
Lists the fierce howlings of the midnight storm;
Till, through her prison lattice, she descries
The op'ning radiance of the morning skies!
Upon the iron window's triple grate
The chirping red-breast hails his freezing mate;
Spreads his weak wing to meet the sun's faint ray,
And sweetly twitters forth his matin lay:

While the fair victim of supreme despair
Beholds the free-born commoners of air;
Envies their happy lot, and feebly cries,
Ye little harmless trav'llers of the skies,
Why quit your leafy bow'rs, your verdant plains,
And wing your flight to Mis'ry's dread domains?
Why, from the breezy hill's enamell'd side,
To these sad tow'rs your whirring pinions guide?
Hence, ye poor minstrels! hence, nor listen here!
Where pining sorrow drinks her frequent tear;
Where vengeance bares her never-weary fang,
And smiles, insulting, on the suff'rer's pang;
Where each corroding torment mocks relief,
And Death, Death only, ends the reign of Grief!

Is there, in all the legends of past times,
An æra blacken'd with such wanton crimes?
Such barb'rous mischiefs! sweeping from the earth
Religion, talents, innocence, and worth!
The wise, the good, the brave—all feel its force!
Uncheck'd by reason, torpid to remorse.
All smear'd with gore, pale Liberty appears,
Her smiles contending with repentant tears;
No more her hand fair flow'rets scatters round;
Her faulchion steams from many a recent wound:
O'er shatter'd pyramids she madd'ning flies,
Pow'r in her arm, and murder in her eyes;

Scar'd by the clamours of the furious rage,
She spares not worth nor genius, sex nor age!
All records perish by her rash decree!
The wreaths of Valour, pride of Chivalry;
The Sculptor's art, the boast of many a clime,
(Snatch'd from the desolating grasp of Time);
The Painter's glowing canvass, which displays
The finish'd study of laborious days—
Heap'd in one sacrilegious ruin lie,
Feeding the flame that menaces the sky!
While Ignorance points the victims of its ire,
And loads with off'rings the insatiate fire!
Deep dying murmurs float upon the gale,
And ev'ry zephyr bears some woe-fraught tale!
Here, Widows pine, not daring to complain!
There, Orphans languish for a Parent slain!
The mountain Peasant quits his lone retreat,
His clay-built cottage and his vineyard neat!
No more, at eve's approach, his Infants run,
While the vale reddens with the sinking sun,
To greet their weary Sire, whose labours hard
Meet, in their dear embrace, their sweet reward!
No more, when Winter desolates the grove,
He listens to the voice of wedded love;
Trims the clay hearth, and, as the faggots blaze,
Chants the old ditty of his grandsire's days;
While his fond mate the homely meal prepares,
Smiles on his board and dissipates his cares!

No more, amidst the simple village throng,
He joins the sportive dance, the merry song!
Now, torn from those, he quits his native wood,
Braves the dread front of war, and pants for blood!
Now, to his reap-hook and his pastoral reed,
The crimson'd pike and glitt'ring sword succeed!
His russet garb, now chang'd for trappings vain;
His rushy pillow, for the tented plain!
No more his matin song's melodious note
Along the mountain's breezy side shall float!
No more his board, with luscious fruits supply'd,
Shall mock the banquet of luxurious pride!
No more sweet slumbers bless his midnight hours!
No more Hope strews his daily path with flow'rs!
From his lorn breast all earthly comforts fly;
He hates to live—yet more, he fears to die!
Now, when the tardy day begins to rise,
And short-liv'd slumbers quit his fev'rish eyes,
Fancy, with agonizing pow'r, displays
The peaceful comforts of his happier days!
Shows, on the pallet of his former rest,
His infants moaning on their mother's breast!
Pinch'd by pale Famine, sinking to the grave;
No food to nourish, and no friend to save!
Ah! then he cries, half madd'ning with despair,
“Is this the freedom I was call'd to share?
“Where is my clay-built hut? where, wont to reign
“The little monarch of Love's free domain,

“My smiling partner clasp'd me to her breast,
“My infants bless'd me, ere I sunk to rest!”

Turn to the Nobles! there let Pity view
The many suff'ring for the guilty few!
Perish the wretch who, sanction'd by his birth,
Presumes to persecute the child of worth!
Perish the wretch who tarnishes descent
By the vile vaunting of a life ill spent!
Who sullies proud propinquity of blood,
Yet frowns indignant on the low-born Good!
Who shields his recreant bosom with a name;
And, first in Infamy, is last in Fame!
Yet let Reflection's eye discriminate
The difference 'twixt the mighty and the great!
Virtue is still illustrious, still sublime,
In ev'ry station, and in ev'ry clime!
Truth can derive no eminence from birth,
Rich in the proud supremacy of worth;
Its blest dominion vast and unconfin'd,
Its crown eternal, and its throne the mind!
Then Heav'n forbid that prejudice should scan
With jaundic'd eye the dignities of man!
That Persecution's agonizing rod
Should boldly smite the “noblest work of God!”
That Rank should be a crime, and Genius hurl'd
A mournful wand'rer on the pitying world!

Yet Heav'n forbid that Ignorance should rise
On the dread basis where Religion dies!
That Liberty, immortal as the spheres,
Should steep her Laurel in a nation's tears!
Oh, falsely nam'd! Does Liberty require
The Child should perish for the guilty Sire?
Does Liberty inspire the Atheist's breast
To mock his God, and make his laws a jest?
Does Liberty with barbarous fetters bind
Her first-born hope, the freedom of the mind?
Hence, bold Usurper of that heav'n-taught pow'r,
Which wings with ecstacy man's transient hour!
Which bids the eye of Reason cloudless shine,
And gives Mortality a charm divine!
'Midst the wild winds, the lordly cedar tow'rs;
Progressive days invigorate its pow'rs;
The earlier branches, with'ring as they spread,
Round the firm root their coarsest foliage shed;
While the proud Tree its verdant head rears high,
Waves to the blast, and seems to pierce the sky;
Till the rich trunk, matur'd by length'ning years,
Through all their wondrous changes, braves the spheres;
Flings its rich fragrance on the gales that sweep
The humid forehead of the mountain's steep;

Mocks the fierce rage of elemental war,
The bolt's red sulphur, and the thunder's jar;
And, when around the shatter'd fragments lie,
The stricken victims of th' infuriate sky—
Amidst the wrecks of Nature seems to climb
Supremely grand, and awfully sublime!

So Heav'n-taught Reason, whisp'ring to the sense,
In Nature's pure persuasive eloquence,
Points out, amidst Creation's mazy plan,
The vast, the varying miseries of Man:
Then, as Experience comes with piercing eye,
From his stern gaze delusive visions fly;
Then radiant Knowledge rushes to his view,
Spurns the deceptive, and adopts the true;
Tears Folly's tinsel trappings from his breast,
Which shines in Truth's invulnerable vest;
Thus arm'd against the shafts of life he goes,
Smiles at their menace, and resists their woes;
While on his mind, in conscious Virtue great,
The shield of Reason blunts the lance of Fate!

Immortal Genius! let the votive line,
The Muse's laurel, and her fame, be thine!
For thou shalt live when Pride's indignant eye
Clos'd in eternal solitude shall lie!

When those who flutter'd through their little day,
Shall, like their follies and their names, decay;
When the faint mem'ry of inferior souls
Down the dark channel of Oblivion rolls—
Thou shalt survive! Then let not Envy's frown
Blast the proud trophies that compose thy crown!
Let not the poison of a reptile's sting
Contaminate the lustre of thy wing!
But from each flaming plume indulgent give
A pitying ray, to bid the insects live.
Trace, if thou canst, one straggling spark of worth,
One gleaming atom to adorn their birth;
For little virtues dazzle in the proud,
As stars shine lustrous 'midst a vast of cloud!
Then, Genius, let the toilsome task be thine,
To labour in the dark precarious mine;
And if, amidst the chaos, thou shouldst find
One great, one beauteous attribute of mind,
To twine round Merit's brow the wreath of Fame,
And give Nobility a loftier name!

Ill-fated Queen! then let the tribute just,
The Poet's numbers consecrate thy bust:
And when new ages shall the tale unfold,
On the red page of Massacre enroll'd,
Philanthropy, with shudd'ring heart, shall trace
The storms that bow'd the lilies of thy race!

Yet, 'midst the desolating gloom descry
Transcendent chaplets that shall never die!
The wonders of thy mind shall Hist'ry own;
The brightest gems that glisten'd round thy throne;
Which gave thee charms beyond the glare of pow'r,
To brave thy foes, and gild thy latest hour!
And when thy weary soul, on wings sublime,
Sought its dear partner in a purer clime,
Thy sufferings left on Truth's recording page
An awful lesson for each future age!

University of Virginia Library

MONODY

TO THE MEMORY OF MARIE ANTOINETTE, QUEEN OF FRANCE, Written immediately after her execution.