The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson including many pieces never before published. In Three Volumes |
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TO MRS. ROBINSON,
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 | The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson |  |
xxiv
TO MRS. ROBINSON,
BY JAMES BOADEN, Esq. AUTHOR OF Fontainville Forest, The Secret Tribunal, The Fruits of Faction, a Poem, &c.
“But Laura still shall dress the lay,
“In all the lustre of day,
“With such sweet pensiveness complain,
“That mortals are in love with pain;
“And while the tender notes they scan,
“Scarce see the writer is a man.”
“In all the lustre of day,
“With such sweet pensiveness complain,
“That mortals are in love with pain;
“And while the tender notes they scan,
“Scarce see the writer is a man.”
Laura! the lightnings of thy scorn
That pierc'd the timid breast of morn,
Borne thro' the vap'ry fields of air,
Struck, and rous'd me to a tear.
It fell, for who unmov'd could be
When the muse sings, and sings by thee?
What wretch, by every muse disclaim'd,
Can speak of verse when thou art nam'd,
And, not as liberal as the day,
Pour forth the pæan of thy lay?
Does it not fall like fleecy snow
Upon the bright'ning plain below?
Is it not mild as the blest morn,
That empties Amalthæa's horn?
Sure, in some niggard barren soil
Of vexing stubbornness and toil,
With scanty sustenance scarce fed,
This rude barbarian must be bred,
Whose soul its tribute can refuse,
To heav'nly beauty and the muse!
But thou pursue thy radiant way,
Cheer'd by thy owm meridian ray;
Around thee let the beams be hurl'd,
That shed a lustre on our world.
Blest, that the flashes of thy fire,
That soul's congenial best admire:
The beamy splendours that they give,
No fool can bear to see, and live.
That pierc'd the timid breast of morn,
Borne thro' the vap'ry fields of air,
Struck, and rous'd me to a tear.
xxv
When the muse sings, and sings by thee?
What wretch, by every muse disclaim'd,
Can speak of verse when thou art nam'd,
And, not as liberal as the day,
Pour forth the pæan of thy lay?
Does it not fall like fleecy snow
Upon the bright'ning plain below?
Is it not mild as the blest morn,
That empties Amalthæa's horn?
Sure, in some niggard barren soil
Of vexing stubbornness and toil,
With scanty sustenance scarce fed,
This rude barbarian must be bred,
Whose soul its tribute can refuse,
To heav'nly beauty and the muse!
But thou pursue thy radiant way,
Cheer'd by thy owm meridian ray;
Around thee let the beams be hurl'd,
That shed a lustre on our world.
Blest, that the flashes of thy fire,
That soul's congenial best admire:
The beamy splendours that they give,
No fool can bear to see, and live.
| The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson | |