Poems by Mary Darby Robinson

All Poems Original Poems Translations

1 2 3 4 5 › »

Sonnet VII: Come, Reason

Come, Reason, come! each nerve rebellious bind,

Lull the fierce tempest of my fev'rish soul;

Come, with the magic of thy meek controul,

And check the wayward wand'rings of my mind:

Estrang'd from thee, no solace can I find,

O'er my rapt brain, where pensive visions stole,

Now passion reigns and stormy tumults roll—

So the smooth Sea obeys the furious wind!

Mary Darby Robinson

The Mistletoe (A Christmas Tale)

A farmer's wife, both young and gay,

And fresh as op'ning buds of May;

Had taken to herself, a Spouse,

And plighted many solemn vows,

That she a faithful mate would prove,

In meekness, duty, and in love!

That she, despising joy and wealth,

Would be, in sickness and in health,

Mary Darby Robinson

Sonnet XII: Now, O'er the Tesselated Pavement

Now, o'er the tessellated pavement strew

Fresh saffron, steep'd in essence of the rose,

While down yon agate column gently flows

A glitt'ring streamlet of ambrosial dew!

My Phaon smiles! the rich carnation's hue,

On his flush'd cheek in conscious lustre glows,

While o'er his breast enamour'd Venus throws

Her starry mantle of celestial blue!

Mary Darby Robinson

Sonnet X: Dang'rous to Hear

Dang'rous to hear, is that melodious tongue,

And fatal to the sense those murd'rous eyes,

Where in a sapphire sheath, Love's arrow lies,

Himself conceal'd the crystal haunts among!

Oft o'er that form, enamour'd have I hung,

On that smooth cheek to mark the deep'ning dyes,

While from that lip the fragrant breath would rise,

That lip, like Cupid's bow with rubies strung!

Mary Darby Robinson

Elegy to the Memory of Werter

"With female Fairies will thy tomb be haunted

"And worms will not come to thee." SHAKSPERE.

WHEN from Day's closing eye the lucid tears

Fall lightly on the bending lily's head;

When o'er the blushing sky night's curtains spread,

And the tall mountain's summit scarce appears;

When languid Evening, sinking to repose,

Her filmy mantle o'er the landscape throws;

Mary Darby Robinson

Elegy to the Memory of David Garrick, Esq

DEAR SHADE OF HIM, who grac'd the mimick scene,

And charm'd attention with resistless pow'r;

Whose wond'rous art, whose fascinating mien,

Gave glowing rapture to the short-liv'd hour!

Accept the mournful verse, the ling'ring sigh,

The tear that faithful Mem'ry stays to shed;

The SACRED TEAR, that from Reflection's eye,

Drops on the ashes of the sainted dead.

Mary Darby Robinson

Sonnet V: O! How Can Love

O! How can LOVE exulting Reason queil!

How fades each nobler passion from his gaze!

E'en Fame, that cherishes the Poet's lays,

That fame, ill-fated Sappho lov'd so well.

Lost is the wretch, who in his fatal spell

Wastes the short Summer of delicious days,

And from the tranquil path of wisdom strays,

In passion's thorny wild, forlorn to dwell.

Mary Darby Robinson

Ode to the Moon

PALE GODDESS of the witching hour;

Blest Contemplation's placid friend;

Oft in my solitary bow'r,

I mark thy lucid beam

From thy crystal car descend,

Whitening the spangled heath, and limpid sapphire stream.

And oft, amidst the shades of night

I court thy undulating light;

Mary Darby Robinson

The Fortune-Teller, a Gypsy Tale

LUBIN and KATE, as gossips tell,

Were Lovers many a day;

LUBIN the damsel lov'd so well,

That folks pretend to say

The silly, simple, doting Lad,

Was little less than loving mad:

A malady not known of late—

Among the little-loving Great!

Mary Darby Robinson

Sonnet XXXIII: I Wake

I wake! delusive phantoms hence, away!

Tempt not the weakness of a lover's breast;

The softest breeze can shake the halcyon's nest,

And lightest clouds o'ercast the dawning ray!

'Twas but a vision! Now, the star of day

Peers, like a gem on Aetna's burning crest!

Wellcome, ye Hills, with golden vintage drest;

Sicilian forests brown, and vallies gay!

Mary Darby Robinson

Sonnet I: Favour'd by Heav'n

Favour'd by Heav'n are those, ordain'd to taste

The bliss supreme that kindles fancy's fire;

Whose magic fingers sweep the muses' lyre,

In varying cadence, eloquently chaste!

Well may the mind, with tuneful numbers grac'd,

To Fame's immortal attributes aspire,

Above the treach'rous spells of low desire,

That wound the sense, by vulgar joys debas'd.

Mary Darby Robinson

Sonnet VI: Is It to Love

Is it to love, to fix the tender gaze,

To hide the timid blush, and steal away;

To shun the busy world, and waste the day

In some rude mountain's solitary maze?

Is it to chant one name in ceaseless lays,

To hear no words that other tongues can say,

To watch the pale moon's melancholy ray,

To chide in fondness, and in folly praise?

Mary Darby Robinson