Selected Poems of Mary Darby Robinson (1758-1800) ALL ALONE Ah! wherefore by the church-yard side, Poor little lorn one, dost thou stray? Thy wavy locks but thinly hide The tears that dim thy blue-eye's ray; And wherefore dost thou sigh, and moan, And weep, that thou art left alone? Thou art not left alone, poor boy, The traveller stops to hear thy tale; No heart, so hard, would thee annoy! For though thy mother's cheek is pale, 10 And withers under yon grave stone, Thou art not, urchin, left alone. I know thee well! thy yellow hair In silky waves I oft have seen: Thy dimpled face so fresh and fair, Thy roguish smile, thy playful mien, Were all to me, poor orphan, known, Ere Fate had left thee--all alone! Thy russet coat is scant, and torn, Thy cheek is now grown deathly pale! 20 Thy eyes are dim, thy looks forlorn, And bare thy bosom meets the gale; And oft I hear thee deeply groan, That thou, poor boy, art left alone. Thy naked feet are wounded sore With thorns, that cross thy daily road; The winter winds around thee roar, The church-yard is thy bleak abode; Thy pillow now a cold grave stone-- And there thou lov'st to grieve--alone! 30 The rain has drench'd thee, all night long; The nipping frost thy bosom froze; And still, the yew-tree shades among, I heard thee sigh thy artless woes; I heard thee, till the day-star shone In darkness weep--and weep alone! Oft have I seen thee, little boy, Upon thy lovely mother's knee; For when she lived, thou wert her joy, Though now a mourner thou must be! 40 For she lies low, where yon grave stone Proclaims that thou art left alone. Weep, weep no more; on yonder hill The village bells are ringing, gay; The merry reed, and brawling rill Call thee to rustic sports away. Then wherefore weep, and sigh, and moan, A truant from the throng--alone? "I cannot the green hill ascend, I cannot pace the upland mead; 50 I cannot in the vale attend To hear the merry-sounding reed: For all is still beneath yon stone, Where my poor mother's left alone! "I cannot gather gaudy flowers To dress the scene of revels loud-- I cannot pass the evening hours Among the noisy village crowd; For all in darkness, and alone My mother sleeps, beneath yon stone. 60 "See how the stars begin to gleam, The sheep-dog barks--'tis time to go; The night-fly hums, the moonlight beam Peeps through the yew-trees' shadowy row: It falls upon the white grave-stone, Where my dear mother sleeps alone. "O stay me not, for I must go, The upland path in haste to tread; For there the pale primroses grow, They grow to dress my mother's bed. 70 They must ere peep of day, be strown, Where she lies mouldering all alone. "My father o'er the stormy sea To distant lands was borne away, And still my mother stay'd with me, And wept by night and toil'd by day. And shall I ever quit the stone Where she is left to sleep alone. "My father died, and still I found My mother fond and kind to me; 80 I felt her breast with rapture bound When first I prattled on her knee-- And then she blest my infant tone, And little thought of yon grave-stone. "No more her gentle voice I hear, No more her smile of fondness see; Then wonder not I shed the tear, She would have died to follow me! And yet she sleeps beneath yon stone, And I still live--to weep alone. 90 "Thy playful kid, she loved so well, From yon high clift was seen to fall; I heard afar his tinkling bell, Which seem'd in vain for aid to call-- I heard the harmless sufferer moan, And grieved that he was left alone. "Our faithful dog grew mad, and died, The lightning smote our cottage low-- We had no resting-place beside, And knew not whither we should go: 100 For we were poor--and hearts of stone Will never throb at misery's groan. "My mother still survived for me, She led me to the mountain's brow, She watch'd me, while at yonder tree I sat, and wove the ozier bough; And oft she cried, "fear not, mine own! Thou shalt not, boy, be left alone." "The blast blew strong, the torrent rose And bore our shatter'd cot away: 110 And where the clear brook swiftly flows, Upon the turf, at dawn of day, When bright the sun's full lustre shone, I wander'd, friendless--and alone!" Thou art not, boy, for I have seen Thy tiny footsteps print the dew, And while the morning sky serene Spread o'er the hill a yellow hue, I heard thy sad and plaintive moan, Beside the cold sepulchral stone. 120 And when the summer noontide hours With scorching rays the landscape spread, I mark'd thee, weaving fragrant flowers To deck thy mother's silent bed! Nor at the church-yard's simple stone Wert thou, poor Urchin, left alone. I follow'd thee along the dale, And up the woodland's shad'wy way: I heard thee tell thy mournful tale As slowly sunk the star of day: 130 Nor when its twinkling light had flown Wert thou a wanderer all alone. "O! yes, I was! and still shall be A wanderer, mourning and forlorn; For what is all the world to me-- What are the dews and buds of morn? Since she who left me sad, alone In darkness sleeps, beneath yon stone! "No brother's tear shall fall for me, For I no brother ever knew; 140 No friend shall weep my destiny, For friends are scarce, and tears are few; None do I see, save on this stone, Where I will stay and weep alone. "My father never will return, He rests beneath the sea-green wave I have no kindred left to mourn When I am hid in yonder grave: Not one to dress with flowers the stone! Then--surely, I am left alone!" 150 THE POOR SINGING DAME Beneath an old wall, that went round an old castle, For many a year, with brown ivy o'erspread; A neat little hovel, its lowly roof raising, Defied the wild winds that howl'd over its shed: The turrets, that frown'd on the poor simple dwelling, Were rock'd to and fro, when the tempest would roar, And the river, that down the rich valley was swelling, Flow'd swiftly beside the green step of its door. The summer sun gilded the rushy roof slanting, The bright dews bespangled its ivy-bound hedge, 10 And above, on the ramparts, the sweet birds were chanting, And wild buds thick dappled the clear river's edge, When the castle's rich chambers were haunted and dreary, The poor little hovel was still and secure; And no robber e'er enter'd, nor goblin nor fairy, For the splendours of pride had no charms to allure. The lord of the castle, a proud surly ruler, Oft heard the low dwelling with sweet music ring, For the old dame that lived in the little hut cheerly, Would sit at her wheel, and would merrily sing: 20 When with revels the castle's great hall was resounding, The old dame was sleeping, not dreaming of fear; And when over the mountains the huntsmen were bounding She would open her lattice, their clamours to hear. To the merry-toned horn she would dance on the threshold, And louder, and louder repeat her old song: And when winter its mantle of frost was displaying, She caroll'd, undaunted, the bare woods among: She would gather dry fern, ever happy and singing, With her cake of brown bread, and her jug of brown beer, 30 And would smile when she heard the great castle-bell ringing, Inviting the proud to their prodigal cheer. Thus she lived, ever patient and ever contented, Till envy the lord of the castle possess'd, For he hated that poverty should be so cheerful, While care could the fav'rites of fortune molest; He sent his bold yeomen with threats to prevent her, And still would she carol her sweet roundelay; At last, an old steward relentless he sent her-- Who bore her, all trembling, to prison away! 40 Three weeks did she languish, then died broken-hearted, Poor dame! how the death-bell did mournfully sound! And along the green path six young bachelors bore her, And laid her for ever beneath the cold ground! And the primroses pale 'mid the long grass were growing, The bright dews of twilight bespangled her grave, And morn heard the breezes of summer soft blowing, To bid the fresh flowerets in sympathy wave. The lord of the castle, from that fatal moment When poor singing Mary was laid in her grave, 50 Each night was surrounded by screech-owls appalling, Which o'er the black turrets their pinions would wave! On the ramparts that frown'd on the river, swift flowing, They hover'd, still hooting a terrible song, When his windows would rattle, the winter blast blowing, They would shriek like a ghost, the dark alleys among! Wherever he wander'd they followed him crying; At dawnlight, at eve, still they haunted his way! When the moon shone across the wide common they hooted, Nor quitted his path till the blazing of day. 60 His bones began wasting, his flesh was decaying, And he hung his proud head, and he perish'd with shame; And the tomb of rich marble, no soft tear displaying, O'ershadows the grave of the poor singing dame! THE HAUNTED BEACH. Upon a lonely desert beach, Where the white foam was scatter'd, A little shed uprear'd its head, Though lofty barks were shatter'd. The sea-weeds gathering near the door, A sombre path display'd; And, all around, the deafening roar Re-echoed on the chalky shore, By the green billows made. Above a jutting cliff was seen 10 Where sea-birds hover'd craving; And all around the craggs were bound With weeds--for ever waving. And here and there, a cavern wide lts shadowy jaws display'd; And near the sands, at ebb of tide, A shiver'd mast was seen to ride Where the green billows stray'd. And often, while the moaning wind Stole o'er the summer ocean, 20 The moonlight scene was all serene, The waters scarce in motion; Then, while the smoothly slanting sand The tall cliff wrapp'd in shade, The fisherman beheld a band Of spectres gliding hand in hand-- Where the green billows play'd. And pale their faces were as snow, And sullenly they wander'd; And to the skies with hollow eyes 30 They look'd as though they ponder'd. And sometimes, from their hammock shroud, They dismal howlings made, And while the blast blew strong and loud, The clear moon mark'd the ghastly crowd, Where the green billows play'd. And then above the haunted hut The curlews screaming hover'd; And the low door, with furious roar, The frothy breakers cover'd. 40 For in the fisherman's lone shed A murder'd man was laid, With ten wide gashes in his head, And deep was made his sandy bed Where the green billows play'd. A shipwreck'd mariner was he, Doom'd from his home to sever Who swore to be through wind and sea Firm and undaunted ever! And when the wave resistless roll'd, 50 About his arm he made A packet rich of Spanish gold, And, like a British sailor bold, Plung'd where the billows play'd. The spectre band, his messmates brave, Sunk in the yawning ocean, While to the mast he lash'd him fast, And braved the storm's commotion. The winter moon upon the sand A silvery carpet made, 60 And mark'd the sailor reach the land, And mark'd his murderer wash his hand Where the green billows play'd. And since that hour the fisherman Has toil'd and toil'd in vain; For all the night the moony light Gleams on the specter'd main! And when the skies are veil'd in gloom, The murderer's liquid way Bounds o'er the deeply yawning tomb, 70 And flashing fires the sands illume, Where the green billows play. Full thirty years his task has been, Day after day more weary; For Heaven design'd his guilty mind Should dwell on prospects dreary. Bound by a strong and mystic chain, He has not power to stray; But destined misery to sustain, He wastes, in solitude and pain, 80 A loathsome life away. THE SAVAGE OF AVEYRON 'Twas in the mazes of a wood, The lonely wood of Aveyron. I heard a melancholy tone:-- lt seem'd to freeze my blood! A torrent near was flowing fast, And hollow was the midnight blast As o'er the leafless woods it past, While terror-fraught I stood! O! mazy woods of Aveyron! O! wilds of dreary solitude! 10 Amid thy thorny alleys rude I thought myself alone! I thought no living thing could be So weary of the world as me,-- While on my winding path the pale moon shone. Sometimes the tone was loud and sad, And sometimes dulcet, faint, and slow: And then a tone of frantic wo: It almost made me mad. The burthen was "Alone! alone!" 20 And then the heart did feebly groan:-- Then suddenly a cheerful tone Proclaimed a spirit glad! O! mazy woods of Aveyron! O! wilds of dreary solitude! Amid your thorny alleys rude I wish'd myself--a traveller alone. "Alone!" I heard the wild boy say,-- And swift he climb'd a blasted oak; And there, while morning's herald woke, 30 He watch'd the opening day. Yet dark and sunken was his eye, Like a lorn maniac's, wild and shy, And scowling like a winter sky, Without one beaming ray! Then, mazy woods of Aveyron! Then, wilds of dreary solitude! Amid thy thorny alleys rude I sigh'd to be--a traveller alone. "Alone, alone'" I heard him shriek, 40 'Twas like the shriek of dying man! And then to mutter he began,-- But, O! he could not speak! I saw him point to heaven, and sigh, The big drop trembled in his eye; And slowly from the yellow sky, I saw the pale morn break. I saw the woods of Aveyron, Their wilds of dreary solitude: I mark'd their thorny alleys rude, 50 And wish'd to be--a traveller alone! His hair was long and black, and he From infancy alone had been: For since his fifth year he had seen, None mark'd his destiny! No mortal ear had heard his groan, For him no beam of hope had shone: While sad he sigh'd--"alone, alone!" Beneath the blasted tree. And then. O! woods of Aveyron, 60 O! wilds of dreary solitude, Amid your thorny alleys rude I thought myself a traveller--alone. And now upon the blasted tree He carved three notches, broad and long, And all the while he sang a song-- Of nature's melody! And though of words he nothing knew, And though his dulcet tones were few, Across the yielding bark he drew, 70 Deep sighing, notches three. O! mazy woods of Aveyron, O! wilds of dreary solitude, Amid your thorny alleys rude Upon this blasted oak no sun beam shone! And now he pointed one, two, three; Again he shriek'd with wild dismay; And now he paced the thorny way, Quitting the blasted tree. It was a dark December morn, 80 The dew was frozen on the thorn: But to a wretch so sad, so lorn, All days alike wou'd be! Yet, mazy woods of Aveyron, Yet, wilds of dreary solitude, Amid your frosty alleys rude I wish'd to be--a traveller alone. He follow'd me along the wood To a small grot his hands had made, Deep in a black rock's sullen shade, 90 Beside a tumbling flood. Upon the earth I saw him spread Of wither'd leaves a narrow bed, Yellow as gold, and streak'd with red, They look'd like streaks of blood! Pull'd from the woods of Aveyron, And scatter'd o'er the solitude By midnight whirlwinds strong and rude, To pillow the scorch'd brain that throbb'd alone. Wild berries were his winter food, 100 With them his sallow lip was dyed; On chesnuts wild he fed beside, Steep'd in the foamy flood. Chequer'd with scars his breast was seen, Wounds streaming fresh with anguish keen, And marks where other wounds had been Torn by the brambles rude. Such was the boy of Aveyron, The tenant of that solitude, Where still, by misery unsubdued, 110 He wander'd nine long winters, all alone. Before the step of his rude throne, The squirrel sported, tame and gay; The dormouse slept its life away, Nor heard his midnight groan. About his form a garb he wore, Ragged it was, and mark'd with gore, And yet, where'er 'twas folded o'er, Full many a spangle shone! Like little stars, O! Aveyron, 120 They gleam'd amid thy solitude; Or like, along thy alleys rude, The summer dew-drops sparkling in the sun. It once had been a lady's vest, White as the whitest mountain's snow, Till ruffian hands had taught to flow The fountain of her breast! Remembrance bade the wild boy trace Her beauteous form, her angel face, Her eye that beam'd with heavenly grace, 130 Her fainting voice that blest,-- When in the woods of Aveyron, Deep in their deepest solitude, Three barbarous ruffians shed her blood, And mock'd, with cruel taunts, her dying groan. Remembrance traced the summer bright, When all the trees were fresh and green, When lost, the alleys long between, The lady pass'd the night: She pass'd the night, bewilder'd wild, 140 She pass'd it with her fearless child, Who raised his little arms and smiled To see the morning light. While in the woods of Aveyron, Beneath the broad oak's canopy. She mark'd aghast the ruffians three, Waiting to seize the traveller alone! Beneath the broad oak's canopy The lovely lady's bones were laid; But since that hour no breeze has play'd 150 About the blasted tree! The leaves all wither'd ere the sun His next day's rapid course had run, And ere the summer day was done It winter seem'd to be: And still, Oh! woods of Aveyron, Amid thy dreary solitude The oak a sapless trunk has stood, To mark the spot where murder foul was done. From her the wild boy learn'd "alone," 160 She tried to say, my babe will die! But angels caught her parting sigh, The babe her dying tone. And from that hour the boy has been Lord of the solitary scene, Wandering the dreary shades between, Making his dismal moan! Till, mazy woods of Aveyron, Dark wilds of dreary solitude, Amid your thorny alleys rude 170 I thought myself alone. And could a wretch more wretched be, More wild, or fancy-fraught than he, Whose melancholy tale would pierce a heart of stone.