A Celebration of Women Writers

"Stanzas Written Between Dover and Calais. " by Mary Darby Robinson (1758-1800)
This Edition: The Memoirs of Mary Robinson by Mary Darby Robinson & Mary Elizabeth Robinson, with an introduction and notes by J. Fitzgerald Molloy. London: Gibbings and Company, Ld., 1895. pp. 220-223.

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JULY 20, 1792.

BOUNDING billow, cease thy motion,
Bear me not so swiftly o'er;
Cease thy roaring, foamy ocean,
I will tempt thy rage no more

[Page 221] 

Ah ! within my bosom beating,
Varying passions wildly reign;
Love, with proud Resentment meeting,
Throbs by turns, of joy and pain.

Joy, that far from foes I wander,
Where their taunts can reach no more;
Pain, that woman's heart grows fonder
When her dream of bliss is o'er !

Love, by fickle fancy banish'd,
Spurn'd by hope, indignant flies;
Yet when love and hope are vanish'd,
Restless mem'ry never dies.

Far I go, where fate shall lead me,
Far across the troubled deep;
Where no stranger's ear shall heed me,
Where no eye for me shall weep.

Proud has been my fatal passion !
Proud my injured heart shall be !
While each thought, each inclination,
Still shall prove me worthy thee !

Not one sigh shall tell my story;
Not one tear my cheek shall stain;
Silent grief shall be my glory,
Grief, that stoops not to complain !

Let the bosom prone to ranging,
Still by ranging seek a cure;
Mine disdains the thought of changing,
Proudly destin'd to endure.

[Page 222] 

Yet, ere far from all I treasur'd,
ere I bid adieu;
Ere my days of pain are measur'd,
Take the song that's still thy due !

Yet, believe, no servile passions
Seek to charm thy vagrant mind;
Well I know thy inclinations,
Wav'ring as the passing wind.

I have lov'd thee,dearly lov'd thee,
Through an age of worldly woe;
How ungrateful I have prov'd thee
Let my mournful exile show !

Ten long years of anxious sorrow,
Hour by hour I counted o'er;
Looking forward, till to-morrow,
Every day I lov'd thee more !

Pow'r and splendour could not charm me;
I no joy in wealth could see !
Nor could threats or fears alarm me,
Save the fear of losing thee !

When the storms of fortune press'd thee,
I have wept to see thee weep !
When relentless cares distress'd thee,
I have lull'd those cares to sleep !

When with thee, what ills could harm me ?
Thou couldst every pang assuage;
But when absent, nought could charm me;
Every moment seem'd an age.

[Page 223] 

Fare thee well, ungrateful rover !
Welcome Gallia's hostile shore:
Now the breezes waft me over;
Now we partTO MEET NO MORE.

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