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