The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson ::

Spirit of Light! whose eye unfolds
The vast expanse of Nature's plan!
And from thy eastern throne beholds
The mazy paths of the lorn traveller—Man!
To thee I sing! Spirit of Light, to thee
Attune the varying strain of wood-wild minstrelsy!

O Pow'r Creative!—but for Thee
Eternal Chaos all things would enfold;
And black as Erebus this system be,
In its ethereal space—benighted—roll'd.
But for thy influence, e'en this day
Would slowly, sadly, pass away;

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Nor proudly mark the Mother's tear of joy,
The smile seraphic of the baby boy,
The Father's eyes, in fondest transport taught
To beam with tender hope—to speak the enraptur'd thought.

To thee I sing, Spirit of Light! to thee
Attune the strain of wood-wild minstrelsy.
Thou sail'st o'er Skiddaw's heights sublime,
Swift borne upon the wings of joyous time!
The sunny train, with widening sweep,
Rolls blazing down the misty-mantled steep;
And far and wide its rosy ray
Flushes the dewy-silver'd breast of day!
Hope-fost'ring day! which nature bade impart
Heav'n's proudest rapture to the parent's heart.
Day! first ordain'd to see the baby prest
Close to its beauteous mother's throbbing breast;
While instinct, in its laughing eyes, foretold
The mind susceptible—the spirit bold—
The lofty soul—the virtues prompt to trace
The wrongs that haunt mankind o'er life's tem pestuous space.

Romantic mountains! from whose brows sublime
Imagination might to frenzy turn!
Or to the starry worlds in fancy climb,
Scorning this low earth's solitary bourn—

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Bold Cataracts! on whose headlong tide
The midnight whirlwinds howling ride—
Calm-bosom'd Lakes! that trembling hail
The cold breath of the morning gale;
And on your lucid mirrors wide display,
In colours rich, in dewy lustre gay,
Mountains and woodlands, as the dappled dawn
Flings its soft pearl-drops on the summer lawn;
Or paly moonlight, rising slow,
While o'er the hills the ev'ning zephyrs blow:—
Ye all shall lend your wonders—all combine
To bless the baby boy with harmonies divine.

O baby! when thy unchain'd tongue
Shall, lisping, speak thy fond surprise;
When the rich strain thy father sung,
Shall from thy imitative accents rise;
When thro' thy soul rapt Fancy shall diffuse
The mightier magic of his loftier Muse;
Thy waken'd spirit, wond'ring, shall behold
Thy native mountains, capp'd with streamy gold!
Thy native Lakes, their cloud-topp'd hills among,
O! hills! made sacred by thy parent's song!
Then shall thy soul, legitimate, expand,
And the proud lyre quick throb at thy command!
And Wisdom, ever watchful, o'er thee smile,
His white locks waving to the blast the while;

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And pensive Reason, pointing to the sky,
Bright as the morning star her clear broad eye,
Unfold the page of Nature's book sublime,
The lore of ev'ry age—the boast of ev'ry clime!

Sweet baby boy! accept a Stranger's song;
An untaught Minstrel joys to sing of thee!
And, all alone, her forest haunts among,
Courts the wild tone of mazy harmony!
A Stranger's song! babe of the mountain wild,
Greets thee as Inspiration's darling child!
O! may the fine-wrought spirit of thy sire
Awake thy soul and breathe upon thy lyre!
And blest, amid thy mountain haunts sublime,
Be all thy days, thy rosy infant days,
And may the never-tiring steps of time
Press lightly on with thee o'er life's disastrous maze.

Ye hills, coeval with the birth of time!
Bleak summits, link'd in chains of rosy light!
O may your wonders many a year invite
Your native son the breezy path to climb;
Where, in majestic pride of solitude,
Silent and grand, the hermit thought shall trace,
Far o'er the wild infinity of space,
The sombre horrors of the waving wood;

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The misty glen; the river's winding way;
The last deep blush of summer's ling'ring day;
The winter storm, that, roaming unconfin'd,
Sails on the broad wings of the impetuous wind.

O! whether on the breezy height
Where Skiddaw greets the dawn of light,
Ere the rude sons of labour homage pay
To Summer's flaming eye or Winter's banner grey;
Whether Lodore its silver torrent flings—
The mingling wonders of a thousand springs!
Whether smooth Basenthwaite, at Eve's still hour,
Reflects the young moon's crescent pale;
Or meditation seeks her silent bow'r,
Amid the rocks of lonely Borrowdale.
Still may thy name survive, sweet Boy! till Time
Shall bend to Keswic's vale—thy Skiddaw's brow sublime!

University of Virginia Library

ODE INSCRIBED TO THE INFANT SON OF S. T. COLERIDGE, Esq.

Born Sept. 14, 1800, at Keswick, in Cumberland.