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…

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

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!

Old
SS
ON had a Cat,
A Tabby, loveliest of the race

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;
Come, with the magic of thy meek controul

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

I.
Dark was the dawn, and o'er the deep
The boist'rous whirlwinds blew;
The Sea-bird wheel'd its circling sweep

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
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! The gentle
ON…

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…

LE
SS of the witching hour;
Blest Contemplation's placid friend; Oft in my solitary bow'r,
I mark thy lucid beam

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!

O!
How can
VE exulting Reason queil!
How fades each nobler passion from his gaze!

The snowdrop,
Winter's timid child,
Awakes to life, bedew'd with tears;
And flings around its fragrance mild,

Crops like hedgehogs, high-crown'd hats,
Whispers like Jew
ES ;
Padded collars, thick cravats

RE on the bosom of the foamy
NE,
In curling waves the rapid waters shine;
Where tow'ring cliffs in awful grandeur rise,

OW soft
ER, gently stray,  Still a silent waving tide  O'er thy glitt'ring carpet glide,
While I chaunt my
AY,

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,

Why art thou chang'd?
O Phaon! tell me why?
Love flies reproach, when passion feels decay;
Or

I. "Another day,
Ah! me, a day
"Of dreary Sorrow is begun!"And still I loath the temper'd ray,
"And still I hate the sickly Sun!"Far from my Native Indian shore,"I hear our wretched race deplore;"I…