The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson ::

If aught could soothe to peace the wounded breast,
Or round its throbbing pulses twine;
If aught could charm despair to rest,
Sweet Harp, the wondrous pow'r was thine!
For, oh! in many a varying strain,
Thy magic lull'd the direst pain,
While from each thought to human ills allied,
'Twas thine to steal the soul, and bid its fears subside!

O source of joy, for ever flown!
While yet the tear bedews my cheek,
Let the fond Muse thy graces speak,
Thy thrilling chords, thy silver tone,

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That, as the western breezes sweep,
Soft murm'ring o'er the troubled deep,
Could calm Affliction's tempest rude,
Till ev'ry thought was bliss, and ev'ry pang subdu'd.

Now let the Muse a wreath prepare,
A mournful wreath, alas! to bind
Thy strings forlorn;
The primrose pale, the lily fair.
But where shall I a blossom find
Like her I mourn?
Where seek a Rose with native colours drest?
Ah! beauteous flow'r!
No more thy charms confess'd
Shall with their sweetness decorate my bow'r;
For vain, soft emblem, is thy glowing pride,
Since on Louisa's cheek the blush of Beauty died.

Sweet sainted shade! for ever flown
To worlds unknown,
Oh! let me decorate thy bier
With many a spotless flow'r!
The Cypress bath'd with Pity's tear,
Shall consecrated incense show'r!
There shall the budding Laurel bloom,
The Myrtle too shall grace thy tomb;

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For Genius own'd thy attributes divine,
And Beauty, short-liv'd boast, sweet Maid, was thine!

But who shall of thy gentle manners speak,
The grac'd complacency that deck'd thy mind!
The fine affections, tender, warm, yet meek,
Luxuriant taste, with modesty combin'd!
Oh! she was passing good, and passing fair!
Blest with a soul so exquisitely even;
A gem so polish'd, so supremely rare,
So free from folly, and so form'd for Heav'n!
Too pure, too excellent for mortal eyes,
She like a vision shone, then vanish'd to the skies!

Dear blushing Rose!
Lost object of our tender woes!
Three ling'ring days, thy leaves to shed,
The fateful blast howl'd o'er thy drooping head;
For Time, reluctant to destroy
So rich a source of treasur'd joy,
Fann'd with his wing the tyrant's breath;
But, ah! how chilling is the frost of Death!

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Too weak the conflict to endure,
Time saw thee, lovely, sweet, and pure,
In all thy wondrous charms array'd,
Shrink from the with'ring storm, and meekly fade!

In Nature's variegated bow'r,
How many pois'nous weeds appear,
Shedding their desolating pow'r
On ev'ry gentle blossom near;
But, oh! how rarely do we find,
Amidst the gay diversity of sweets,
Where ev'ry charm the fancy greets,
Such faultless attributes combin'd!
Sure, Nature form'd thee, matchless Maid, to show
How far her pow'r—her wondrous pow'r would go!

When o'er the world black Midnight steals,
And ev'ry eye in temporary death
Exhausted Nature kindly seals;
When on the confines of the grave no breath
Assails cold Meditation's ear,
Friendship shall clasp thy urn, and drop a silent tear!

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There Resignation, pensive, sad,
Shall plant around the buds of spring;
And Innocence, in snowy vestment clad,
The dews of Heav'n shall scatter from her wing!
And there shall weeping virgins throng,
And there Religion's holy song
In soft vibration's round the shrine shall die,
To emulate on earth the minstrels of the sky!

Oft when the rosy beams of day
Shall on the eastern summit glow,
I'll listen to the Lark's shrill lay;
And as the mellow warblings flow,
O Harp forlorn! I'll think of thee, and own
How poor the matin song, how weak the mimic tone!

Oft, in slow and mournful measure,
Melting woe thy chords express'd;
Oft to blithe ecstatic pleasure
Thrilling strains awoke the breast;
If thy gentle mistress smil'd,
How thy glitt'ring strings would glow!
While, in transports brightly wild,
Mingling melodies would flow!
Then, swifter than the wings of thought,
The song, with heav'nly pity fraught,

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Would die away in magic tone,
Sweet as the Ring-dove's plaintive moan;
Soft as the breeze at closing day,
That sighs to quit the parting ray;
Or, on ethereal pinions borne,
Upon the perfum'd breath of morn,
Sails o'er the mountain's golden crest,
To fan Aurora's burning breast!
Yet, envy'd Harp! no praise was thine;
'Twas by Louisa's pow'r alone
Thy meek, melodious, melting tone
Could round the captive senses twine!
'Twas hers rebellious passions to control,
While ev'ry chord bespoke the peerless Minstrel's soul!

Yet was the Fame that crown'd thy worth
The wonder of a transient day;
Nor could it snatch from cold decay
The beauteous hand that gave it birth;
For excellence like hers was lent, not giv'n,
To shew Mortality a glimpse of Heav'n!

Sweet blooming flow'r!
Scarce seen ere lost,
Nipp'd by a cruel frost!
Oh! what an Age of promis'd joy,
Relentless Death, didst thou destroy
In one short Hour!

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But who shall dare repine?
Who blame Omnipotence divine?
The pure ethereal soul
Sprang from its prison-clay, impatient of control;
For this polluted orb too fine,
It plung'd the gulph of Fate in happier realms to shine!

For in this sad and stormy world,
Perchance, by many a tempest hurl'd,
The gentle Spirit had endur'd
Ills that only Death had cur'd!
Or liv'd no ray of bliss to see,
A Mine of treasure, in a troubled Sea!
Yet Mem'ry, watchful of her Fame,
Shall guard it with a sacred zeal;
And oft in mournful numbers claim
The Pang she knew so well to feel!
For sorrow ne'er assail'd her ear
Unanswer'd by a pitying tear;
Her bosom glow'd with Virtue's conscious flame;
And where she could not praise, she scorn'd to blame!

Oft by the cunning of her skilful hand
Attention hung enamour'd o'er thy strain;
For well she could the soul command,
And cheat long-cherish'd Mis'ry of its pain,
Till, by her soothing harmony beguil'd,
Pale Melancholy rais'd her languid eye, and smil'd!

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Lull'd by the slow and dulcet sound,
E'en Madness could forget to weep,
And, bound in galling chains, serenely sleep
On the bare ground!
From thy celestial tone would Anger fly;
While Envy, sick'ning with despair,
Though born the keenest pangs to bear,
Would with her shaggy locks o'ershade her scowling eye!

To tame the savage bosom well she knew!
What cannot magic Melody subdue?
Yet was the Maid unconscious of her sway;
While, far from public scenes remov'd,
The calm and studious hour she lov'd,
And through the path of life pursu'd her thornless way;
Or when adorn'd with all the pride of praise,
She bloom'd a blushing Rose, amidst a wreath of Bays!

Oh Harp rever'd! if round each silent string
The deathless wreath of Fame should fondly twine,
'Tis not for thee th' admiring Muse shall sing,
But for the tuneful Maid who woke thy sounds divine!

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Then rest, in torpid silence rest;
Mute be thy chords, and mute the Muse's song;
Louisa joins an heavenly throng,
And chants the Pæans of the blest!
There, far remov'd from human Woe,
Amidst the sainted Choir her Strains immortal flow!

University of Virginia Library

ODE TO THE HARP OF LOUISA.