Mary Darby Robinson

Who has not waked to list the busy sounds Of summer's morning, in the sultry smoke Of noisy London
On the pavement hot The sooty chimney-boy, with dingy face And tatter'd covering, shrilly bawls his trade,
Rousing the sleepy housemaid

'Twas in a little western town    An ancient Maiden dwelt:
Her name was
SS, or
SS,

I wake
delusive phantoms hence, away
Tempt not the weakness of a lover's breast;
The softest breeze can shake the halcyon's nest,

Old
SS
ON had a Cat,    A Tabby, loveliest of the race,
Sleek as a doe, and tame, and fat    With velvet paws, and whisker'd face;

Favour'd by Heav'n are those, ordain'd to
The bliss supreme that kindles fancy's fire;
Whose magic fingers sweep the muses' lyre,
In varying cadence, eloquently chaste

Come,
Reason, come
each nerve rebellious bind,
Lull the fierce tempest of my fev'rish soul;

ET
RD OF
OW
­why complain      In such soft melody of Song,    That

I
Dark was the dawn, and o'er the deep    The boist'rous whirlwinds blew;
The Sea-bird wheel'd its circling sweep,    And all was drear to view—When on the beach that binds the western
The love-lorn

My
ON, with ev'ry sprite"That gilds the vapours of the night,"Shall dance and weave the verdant ring"With joy that mortals thus can sing; "And when thou sigh'st
IA'S name, "And mourn'st to feel a hopeless flame, ...

OU art no more my bosom's
ND;
Here must the sweet delusion end,
That charm'd my senses many a year,

A form, as any taper, fine ; A head like half-pint bason ; Where golden cords, and bands entwine, As rich as fleece of
ON
A pair of shoulders strong and wide, Like country clown enlisting ; Bare arms long dangling by the side, And shoes ...

ON
DA'S mount the gods were met,
A sportive, jolly, noisy set,
Resolving nectar bowls to quaff,

HE knell of death, that on the twilight gale,  Swells its deep murmur to the pensive ear;
In awful sounds repeats a mournful tale,  And claims the tribute of a tender tear
The dreadful hour is past
the mandate giv'n

O
LY thee from the shades of night, Where the loud tempests yelling rise;
Where horrror wings her sullen flight Beneath the bleak and lurid skies
As the pale light'ning swiftly gleams O'er the scorch'd wood, thy well-known form More...

LE
SS 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

AR
DE OF
IM, 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