University of Virginia Library

TRIBUTARY POEMS.

TO MRS. ROBINSON,

BY THE LATE GENERAL BURGOYNE, Author of the Heiress, a Comedy, &c. &c. &c.

TO MRS. ROBINSON,

BY JAMES BOADEN, Esq. AUTHOR OF Fontainville Forest, The Secret Tribunal, The Fruits of Faction, a Poem, &c.

TO MRS. ROBINSON,

BY THE LATE ROBERT MERRY, Esq. Member of the Academè della Crusca at Florence.

TO MRS. ROBINSON,

BY THE REV. WILLIAM TASKER, Translator of the Classics and Author of “Aviragus,” a tragedy.

TO MRS. ROBINSON,

BY THE HONOURABLE JOHN ST. JOHN, Author of “Mary queen of Scots,” an historical Tragedy, “The Island of St. Marguerite,” an Opera, &c. &c. &c.

Congenial spirits own congenial fires,
Where vivid fancy every thought inspires;
The taste of Reynolds we behold again
In ev'ry beauty of thy mournful strain.
No envy dims the lustre of thy lays,
No mean disguise obscures thy generous praise;
But as the tuneful line mellifluous flows,
Thy genius kindles, and thy fancy glows!
Still, still pursue the lesson truth inspires,
Still tune thy harp, amidst exulting fires.
And when thy gentle form in death is laid,
And all thy wondrous attributes shall fade,
The grateful tributary son of woe,
Transcendent Sappho! sound thy tomb shall flow.
There Middleton's meek shade shall hover near,
There Garrick's sainted spirit shall appear,
There beauteous Linley raise her angel tongue,
And Chatterton shall strike his lyre new strung!
And 'midst the mingling sounds thy name shall rise
The brightest planet in its “native skies.”

IMPROMPTU TO MRS. ROBINSON,

BY HIS GRACE THE LATE DUKE OF LEEDS.

SONNET TO MRS. ROBINSON,

BY THE REV. DR. PAUL COLOMBINE, OF NORWICH. On reading her Legitimate Sonnets.

What voice attun'd to the soft Lesbian lute
Breathes in this rugged clime such accents clear?
What British Sappho warbles thro' the year,
When ev'ry grove in Greece is lorn and mute?
The Muse and the Graces held dispute,
Which at her birth the blooming babe should rear
Their blended gifts in her so bright appear.
Who would not strive to press the tender suit,
To win the beauteous prize? where'er she moves,
Whene'er she speaks, she fascinates each eye
And winds around each heart: the tender loves,
With genius, taste, and varied harmony,
So breathe in her soft lay, hoar age approves,
While youth, fond youth, dissolves in ecstasy.

SONNET TO MRS. ROBINSON,

BY JOHN TAYLOR, Esq.

Think not thy numbers Sappho's woes declare,
And all her fervid passion's fond excess,
Though thy rapt Muse's glowing strains express
Of Love's sad victims each romantic care,
Warning weak hearts to shun the roseate snare;
Though Phœbus deigns thy tow'ring flights to bless,
And all his Sons thy nobler pow'rs confess
That o'er their highest aims sublimely dare.
No, Laura, thus pre-eminently taught,
Mellifluous warblings of the heav'nly train,
With poesy's delightful magic fraught,
Yet other notes reveal'd the Lesbian's pain;
For, ah! had Sappho's Muse such accents caught,
The faithless youth she had not lov'd in vain.

SONNET TO MRS. ROBINSON,

BY JOHN TAYLOR, Esq.

IMPROMPTU. TO MRS. ROBINSON,

BY THE SAME, On receiving her Poems.

BOUQUET FOR MRS. ROBINSON, AN IMPROMPTU,

BY THE LATE RICHARD TICKEL, Esq. Written a few Months only previous to his death.

The Rose is like thy glowing cheek,
When deck'd with tears of pity meek.
The Lily, like thy spotless breast,
By love's delicious pinions prest.
The Blue Bell like thy azure eyes,
Where Cupid's wand'ring arrow lies!
The Violet like the veins that twine,
Along thy oval front, divine!
Then, Laura, quick these emblems take,
And wear them for the giver's sake.

TO MRS. ROBINSON,

BY THE SAME.

TO MRS. ROBINSON,

BY ROBERT MERRY, Esq. Member of the Academè Della Crusca at Florence.

Sweet is the calmly cheerful hour,
When from mute midnight's ebon tow'r
The moon escapes, and sportive hies
O'er the gay garden of the skies;
Where Nature's noblest flow'rs unfold
Their starry buds of burning gold;
The weary winds pant on the deep,
Or 'mongst the cradling billows sleep;
The streams their lucid lakes display;
The forests shake their sighs away;
Soft lustre ev'ry shade pursues,
That darkly drinks the falling dews;
While odour from her silken wings
An aromatic ether flings.
All is delight! but, ah! in vain
These varying glories bless the plain;
For see, the frenzied lover speeds
From the bright groves and glitt'ring meads,
From gaudy hills, enchanted bow'rs,
And flowing waves and summer show'rs;
And seeks the lovely pensive cave,
Where he may groan, and weep, and rave;
And wrap his thoughts in sablest gloom,
And lure a transport from the tomb;
Where he may hope to rest at last,
When Passion's rending pangs are past.
But e'en if then he chance to hear
The warbling of the bird sincere,
Who loves her secret pangs to throw
In all the melodies of woe,
His heart relents, his trembling lid,
In pity's lucid veil is hid;
Subjected agonies depart,
And soft'ning sorrow soothes his heart.
So I, dear Laura! long supprest
The thorn of anguish in my breast;
Lost to each social solace gay,
And heedless of the blooms of May;
And heedless of the haughty Sun,
When, to his mad meridian run,
He lifts his red refulgent shield,
And fires the Heaven's eternal field.
Yes, I from each allurement fled
To where incumbent darkness spread;
Trod the black torrent's gloomy side,
And held fierce converse with the tide.
Ah! then thy numbers seiz'd my soul,
I found the thrilling sadness roll
In sweet similitude of joy,
That might my direst griefs destroy:
They stole upon my tranced sense,
As the fresh gales of morn dispense
New life to ev'ry shrub that fades
In Solitude's neglected shades.
Transcendent Laura! now receive
The tribute gratitude shall give;
Due to thy verse, whose sainted glow
Bade my lost soul renounce its woe:
Then frown not on my daring lay
That strives to paint the golden day;
To tell the lustre of the rose,
And thy resistless charms disclose;
But think, when in the grave's cold sleep
My wretched eyes shall cease to weep,
And, troubled by the wint'ry breeze,
This sad, this burning heart shall freeze,
Then shall my ling'ring verse declare
How much I priz'd the good and fair!
What tenderness my soul conceiv'd,
How deeply for thy suff'rings griev'd,
While future Poets, future ages join,
To pour in Laura's praise their melodies divine.

TO MRS. ROBINSON.

TO MRS. ROBINSON, ON HER VISITING BATH IN ILL HEALTH.

BY JAMES BOADEN, Esq.

Maria from the busy circle flies,
To breathe the purer bliss of brighter skies,
Forsakes the scenes of her expanding fame,
To renovate the anguish of her frame;
Mentally perfect, her enlighten'd mind,
Superior to disease, springs unconfin'd;
Ranges the regions of the Muse's reign,
Exempt from our inheritance of pain;
And, while keen pangs oppress her lovely face,
Wings the pure Ether of poetic space;
Floats in the fragrance of the rubied rose,
And shuts its bosom up in rich repose!
So may these lines possess the placid pow'r,
To soothe thy suff'rings in some torturing hour.

TO MRS. ROBINSON,

BY THE LATE ROBERT OLIPHANT, Esq. Of Clare Hall, Cambridge.

LINES ADDRESSED TO MRS. ROBINSON.

BY THE LATE JOHN HENDERSON, Esq. On reading a little Welsh Ballad written by Mrs. Robinson entitled “Lewin and Gynniethe.”

A STRANGER MINSTREL.

BY S. T. COLERIDGE, Esq. Written a few weeks before her death.

IMPROMPTU ON MRS. ROBINSON

Being present at the performance of the Merchant of Venice at Covent Garden. BY THE LATE JOHN HENDERSON, Esq.

Whilst Macklin Shakespeare's Shylock holds to view,
See beauteous Robinson out-act the jew;
One pound of flesh his malice could assuage,
Her Christian charms severer bonds engage;
When love-inspiring eyes their darts dispense,
Who meets the glance must expiate th' offence;
In vain applause would pay the debt in part,
She claims the sacrifice of every heart.

TO MRS. ROBINSON.

BY THE REVEREND B. BERESFORD.

Full many a conflict hath my bosom prov'd,
To chase thy image from its dwelling there;
Full many a sorrow, many a tender care,
For thy dear sake I've suffer'd, best belov'd;
For, since thy beauties did my heart invade,
Oft have I strove my liberty to gain;
Oft, in soft solace to my am'rous pain,
For balm, to heal the wounds which love has made,
I court the muses; to assuage my grief
Court sage philosophy; for vain relief,
In quest of joy, I rove from fair to fair;
Vain other charms, and vain philosophy!
My vagrant heart must still return to thee,
And one dear smile is worth an age of care!

LINES ADDRESSED TO MRS. ROBINSON.

Written by the Author of “Hartford Bridge,” &c. &c. in 1780.

The Seaman, from winds and the fury of seas,
Each harbour will bless where he anchors at ease;
Yet with fonder regard will he eye the wish'd strand
Where his vessel is destin'd and cargo must land.
—So I, dear Maria, on life's ocean tost,
When I cannot keep sea, veer about for the coast,
And praise ev'ry harbour where shelter is found;
But thou art the port where my wishes are bound.
Those wishes accept, and abhorr'd may I be,
If I e'er fram'd a wish that meant evil to thee!
While, restless, from region to region I roam,
My heart, still untravell'd, seeks thee for its home.
Oh! yield it abode! and, believe me, my fair,
Of this breast thou art tenant, none else harbours there;
There, sweet star of beauty, thy dear image dwells,
Wings the fond pulse of passion, the sigh ever swells,
Gives a tide to the current that bathes the warm heart,
Till, grown to the soul, it becomes e'en a part!
Then yield it abode. Bow, ye monks, and be blest,
The Heav'n I crave is a place in her breast;
And say, breathes a monk who'd in secret reprove
A devotion so true to the altar of love?
Beshrew the cold being whom, rigid and fell,
Nature forms a recluse and devotes to a cell!
Let him melt o'er his relics, at beauty congeal,
And saints praise his apathy, idiots his zeal:
With love in my heart, and with thee in my eye,
What zeal can divinity equal supply?

TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. ROBINSON.

BY DR. WOLCOT.