Mary Robinson

To Cesario

CESARIO, thy Lyre’s dulcet measure,
So sweetly, so tenderly flows;
That could my sad soul taste of pleasure,
Thy music would soften its woes. 

But ah, gentle soother, where anguish
Takes root in the grief-stricken heart;
’Tis the triumph of sorrow to languish,
’Tis rapture to cherish the smart. 

The mind where pale Mis’ry sits brooding,
Repels the soft touch of repose;
Shrinks back when blest Reason intruding,
The balm of mild comfort bestows. 

There is luxury oft in declining,
What pity’s kind motives impart; 
And to bear hapless fate, unrepining,
Is the proudest delight of the heart. 

Still, still shall thy Lyre’s gentle measure,
In strains of pure melody flow;
While each heart beats with exquisite pleasure,
SAVE MINE­the doom’d VICTIM OF WOE.