The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson including many pieces never before published. In Three Volumes |
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ODE FOR THE 18th OF JANUARY, 1794. |
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 | The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson |  |
202
ODE FOR THE 18th OF JANUARY, 1794.
The Muse who pours the votive strain,
Weeps o'er each tributary line,
And grieves to know that conscious pain,
Perverts her glorious great design.
Alas! in vain of joys she sings,
While Pity shackles Rapture's wings,
And meek Dejection's trickling tear
Responsive flows to sighs sincere;
While Meditation, fraught with rending woes,
To ev'ry feeling mind a scene of misery shews.
Weeps o'er each tributary line,
And grieves to know that conscious pain,
Perverts her glorious great design.
Alas! in vain of joys she sings,
While Pity shackles Rapture's wings,
And meek Dejection's trickling tear
Responsive flows to sighs sincere;
While Meditation, fraught with rending woes,
To ev'ry feeling mind a scene of misery shews.
Bleak blows the petrifying gale
Upon the Peasant's rushy roof!
His breast a thousand pangs assail,
As though his heart were tempest-proof!
His shiv'ring infants round him mourn,
And cry “Ah! when will spring return?”
“Do all, like us, distress endure!
“So cold, so hungry, and so poor?”
Yet when their day is past stern fate bestows
The balmy hour of rest, which greatness seldom knows.
Upon the Peasant's rushy roof!
His breast a thousand pangs assail,
As though his heart were tempest-proof!
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And cry “Ah! when will spring return?”
“Do all, like us, distress endure!
“So cold, so hungry, and so poor?”
Yet when their day is past stern fate bestows
The balmy hour of rest, which greatness seldom knows.
No more, Reflection, sorrowing maid,
O'er reason cast thy awful veil;
Where mirth, in careless garb array'd,
And smiles, and thoughtless jests prevail.
For shouldst thou trace, with pensive mien,
The fatal agonizing scene
Where legions wade through human gore!
And death shoots swift from shore to shore!
The splendid glare of revelry would fade,
And all its phantoms sink in sorrow's whelming shade.
O'er reason cast thy awful veil;
Where mirth, in careless garb array'd,
And smiles, and thoughtless jests prevail.
For shouldst thou trace, with pensive mien,
The fatal agonizing scene
Where legions wade through human gore!
And death shoots swift from shore to shore!
The splendid glare of revelry would fade,
And all its phantoms sink in sorrow's whelming shade.
For fancy might, perchance, descry
The woe which pleasure's tribe ne'er saw,
The bleeding breast! the phrenzied eye!
That chill the soul with fearful awe!
Fancy might paint th' embattled plain,
The shrieking wife, the breathless swain,
The blazing cot, the houseless child,
Driv'n on Misfortune's rugged wild!
And truth might whisper to the pond'ring mind,
“Such is the chequer'd lot of half the human kind!”
The woe which pleasure's tribe ne'er saw,
The bleeding breast! the phrenzied eye!
That chill the soul with fearful awe!
Fancy might paint th' embattled plain,
The shrieking wife, the breathless swain,
The blazing cot, the houseless child,
Driv'n on Misfortune's rugged wild!
And truth might whisper to the pond'ring mind,
“Such is the chequer'd lot of half the human kind!”
204
Ye threat'ning storms malignant, fly!
Cloud not this fair, this festive day;
Burst forth to splendour, low'ring sky,
And flash around a vivid ray.
Swiftly come, whispering zephyrs, chase
The tears that bathe Reflection's face!
Bid mournful Memory cease to gaze
On livelier scenes of peaceful days,
When ev'ry morning breeze, that found our isle,
Awoke her hardy sons to labour and to smile.
Cloud not this fair, this festive day;
Burst forth to splendour, low'ring sky,
And flash around a vivid ray.
Swiftly come, whispering zephyrs, chase
The tears that bathe Reflection's face!
Bid mournful Memory cease to gaze
On livelier scenes of peaceful days,
When ev'ry morning breeze, that found our isle,
Awoke her hardy sons to labour and to smile.
Now let the gaudy tribe advance,
Let only present joys be known,
And let blithe beauty's lightning-glance
Dart lustre round Britannia's throne.
Yet, if amidst the dazzling sight
A sparkling tear of liquid light,
Drawn by a sigh from pity's breast,
Should fall, to gem the regal crest!
O! may it shine with Heav'n's approving blaze,
An attribute divine, to mock inferior rays!
Let only present joys be known,
And let blithe beauty's lightning-glance
Dart lustre round Britannia's throne.
Yet, if amidst the dazzling sight
A sparkling tear of liquid light,
Drawn by a sigh from pity's breast,
Should fall, to gem the regal crest!
O! may it shine with Heav'n's approving blaze,
An attribute divine, to mock inferior rays!
Come, soft-ey'd Hope! in spotless vest,
Come, and our brows with olive deck!
Bathe with thy balm the human breast,
And rear new charms on nature's wreck;
Bid drooping Commerce thrive again;
Spread rapture o'er the rustic plain;
Wash with the spring from mercy's eye
The blood that bids the laurel die!
And spread once more around this favour'd isle
The fost'ring rays of Peace! and bid fair freedom smile.
Come, and our brows with olive deck!
Bathe with thy balm the human breast,
And rear new charms on nature's wreck;
Bid drooping Commerce thrive again;
Spread rapture o'er the rustic plain;
205
The blood that bids the laurel die!
And spread once more around this favour'd isle
The fost'ring rays of Peace! and bid fair freedom smile.
| The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson | |