Mary Robinson ( )


Elegy to the Memory of Richard Boyle, Esq.


NEAR yon bleak mountains dizzy height, 
That hangs oer AVONs silent wave; 
By the pale Crescents glimmring light, 
I sought LORENZOs lonely grave. 

Oer the long grass the silvry dew, 
Soft Twilights tears spontaneous shone; 
And the dank bough of baneful yew 
Supplyd the place of sculptured stone. 

Oft, as my trembling steps drew near, 
The aery voice of FANCY gave 
The plaint of GENIUS to mine ear, 
That, lingering, murmurd on his grave. 

Cold is that heart, where honour glowd, 
And Friendships flame sublimely shone, 
And closd that eye where Pity flowd, 
For evry suffring but HIS OWN. 

That form where youth and grace conspird, 
To captivate admiring eyes, 
No more belovd, no more admird, 
A torpid mass neglected lies. 

Mute is the music of that tongue, 
Once tuneful as the voice of love, 
When ORPHEUS, by his magic song, 
Taught trees, and flinty rocks to move. 

Oft shall the pensive MUSE be found, 
Sprinkling with flowrs his mouldring clay; 
While soft-eyed SORROW wandring round, 
Shall pluck intruding weeds away. 

Sad victim of the sordid mind, 
That doomd THEE to an early grave; 
Neer shall HER breast that pity find, 
Which thy forgiveness nobly gave! 

Thou, who, when SORROWS icy hand 
Forbad the healthsome pulse to flow, 
Obedient to HER stern command, 
With meek submission bowd thee low! 

And when thy faded cheek proclaimd 
The thorn that rankled in thy breast, 
Thy steady soul that pride maintaind, 
Which marks the godlike mind distressd! 

Nor was thy mental strength subdud, 
When HOPEs last lingring shadows fled, 
Unchangd, thy dauntless spirit viewd 
The dreary confines of the dead! 

And when thy penetrating mind, 
Lifes thorny maze presumd to scan, 
In evry path condemnd to find 
The low ingratitude of man. 

Indignant wouldst thou turn away, 
And smiling raise thy languid eye, 
And oft thy feeble voice would say, 
TO ME TIS HAPPINESS TO DIE.

And tho thy FRIEND, I with skilful art, 
To heal thy woes, each balm applyd; 
Tho the fine feelings of his heart, 
Nor cost nor studious care denyd! 

He saw the fatal hour draw near, 
He saw THEE fading to the grave; 
He gave his last kind gift, A TEAR, 
And mournd the worth he could not save. 

Nor could the ruthless breath of FATE 
Snatch from thy grave the tender sigh; 
Nor a relentless monsters hate 
Impede thy passage to the sky. 

And tho no kindred tears were shed, 
No tribute to thy memory givn; 
Sublime in death, thy spirit fled, 
To seek its best reward IN HEAVEN!



Mary Robinson's other poems:
  1. Ode to Melancholy
  2. Ode to Valour
  3. Sonnet 9. Ye, Who in Alleys Green
  4. Sonnet 24. O Thou! Meek Orb
  5. Stanzas Written under an Oak in Windsor Forest


 . Poem to print (Print)

: 913



To English version


@Mail.ru

. eng-poetry.ru@yandex.ru