The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson ::

In this dread era! when the Muse's train
Shrink from the horrors of th' embattled plain;
When all that Grecian elegance could boast,
'Midst the loud thunders of the scene, is lost!
As one vast flame, with force electric hurl'd,
Grasps the rous'd legions of th' enlighten'd world;
The Bard, neglected, droops upon his lyre,
And all the thrills of poesy expire!—
Save where the melting melody of verse
Steals in slow murmurs round the soldier's hearse,
While o'er the rugged sod that shields his clay
Soft pity chants the consecrated lay!
For, ah! no more can Fancy's livelier art
Light the dim eye or animate the heart;

231

Can all the tones that harmony e'er knew
The sigh suppress, the gushing tear subdue!
No charm she owns the bleeding breast to bind,
The breast that palpitates for human kind.
Thus did reflection o'er each wounded sense
Pour the strong tide of reason's eloquence!
As, 'midst the scene of desolating woe,
She mark'd, aghast! the purple torrent's flow!
Man against man opposed, with furious rage,
To blur with kindred gore life's little stage;
While high above the thick'ning legions stood
Dark-brow'd Revenge! bath'd in a nation's blood.

'Twas then persuasive Friendship's soothing pow'r
Bade Fancy greet thee in thy classic bow'r!
There, from the thorny maze of ills retir'd,
I found the Muse! and all the Muse admir'd!
Fair wreaths of amaranth, a boundless store;
Truth's golden page, and wisdom's treasur'd lore;
Description's pencil, dipp'd in rainbow dyes;
And Genius, first-born offspring of the skies,
The harp inspir'd! the ever varying song;
Correct, though wild, and elegant, though strong!

232

There Albion's Muse, in Grecian beauty drest,
At once could awe and vivify the breast;
In mingling cadence tune the sacred yielding wire,
To soothe, instruct, to soften or inspire!

First, the Enthusiast's energy she prov'd,
As o'er the chords her glowing fingers mov'd!
The witching wildness through each fibre stole,
And seiz'd on all the faculties of soul!
Then fierce Ambition smote the wond'ring string,
In strains that bid the azure concave ring;
The deaf'ning crash awoke the nations round,
And millions trembled at the mighty sound!

Next, o'er the wond'ring throng impetuous War,
The lord of slaughter, roll'd his brazen car!
A flaming brand the red-eyed monster held,
And waved it high in air, and madly yell'd!
While Horror, bath'd in agonizing dew,
Before his rattling wheels distracted flew;
Down his gaunt breast fast stream'd the scalding tear,
And now he groan'd aloud, now shrunk with fear;
His humid front was crown'd with bristling hair,
His glance was frenzy, and his voice, despair!

233

Then follow'd Beauty, in whose beaming eye
Sat sainted Truth, coeval with the sky!
Her song dispens'd ecstatic pleasure round,
The soft lyre throbbing to the dulcet sound!
Then elfin tribes in mazy groups advanc'd,
Flaunted their gaudy trim, and nimbly danc'd!
Tun'd their shrill voices to the tinkling string,
Or lit with glow-worm's eyes the grassy ring;
With wanton glee their moonlight gambols kept,
And dealt the witching spell where mortals slept.

Such is the pow'r of Fancy! such the skill
That forms her varying shadows to the will!
To crown her altar, which old time has chose
Where silver Cam in silent grandeur flows;
And many a turret, many a lofty spire,
Marks where pindaric Gray attun'd his lyre!
Still shall enamour'd Genius haunt the shrine,
The Muses' triumph, and their smiles—be thine.

Yet think not, Bard inspir'd! that o'er the wreath
Thy hand has form'd no poison'd blast shall breathe;
Tho' blossoms fair in mingling colours vie,
Bright, but not transient, as the rainbow's die!

234

Envy will penetrate thy halcyon bow'r,
And crush with hurried step each rising flow'r;
Or tasteless rage, with voice infuriate, wild,
Bid malice triumph where the graces smil'd.

For oft, where high the tree of Genius springs,
The pale fiend hovers with her mildew wings;
Shades the rich foliage from the fost'ring ray,
And marks each leaf for premature decay;
Dims the warm glow that decorates the fruit,
And strikes her lightning-glances to the root;
Strips the rent fragments of each latent bloom,
Nor leaves one branch to deck the POET'S tomb!

Such is the fate of Genius! yet when art
So sweet as thine can elevate the heart;
Though Envy's eye, or hate's remorseless rage,
May strive to dim the philosophic page;
Tho' war's hot breath may blast the wreath of fame;
Immortal time shall consecrate thy name.

University of Virginia Library

LINES TO THE REV. J. WHITEHOUSE.

On receiving a copy of his Odes lately published, from the author.