  Poetry
This week: Mary Darby Robinson Edited by: Stormy Lady  
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Canzonet
by Mary Darby Robinson
Slow the limpid currents twinning,:
Brawl along the lonely dell,
'Till in one wild stream the combining,
Nought its rapid course can quell;
So at first love's poisons stealing,
Round the heart unheeded play,
Vainly hope to check his sway.
If amidst the glassy river
Aught impedes its placid course,
Ah! It glides more swift than ever,
While opposing gives it force;
So when hope and passion blending,
Warm the feeble trembling frame;
Reason sickens by contending,
Fanning only feeds the flame.
John Darby and his wife Hester of Bristol, England welcomed daughter Mary Darby into their family in November 1758. Robinson was born into a privileged perks of high society. She was given one of the best educations a young lady of the times could be given. She spent her young years learning from minister of a monastery at St. Augustine. This is said to be where she picked up her love for the arts not only writing and music but she enjoyed acting too. Robinson excelled quickly in her English classes and her talent in music earned he a chance to study under Edmund Broadrip.
Robinson's childhood wasn't all roses, her father John ran away with a mistress, selling all his property and leaving her and the rest of the family behind. Her father's attempts to escape his wife and children last for seven years before he was forced to come back home and formally separate from his wife. It was during this time that Robinson had failed out of Mrs. Lorrington's school. Robinson was now fourteen years old and she went to teach in her mother's school. She taught English and grammar, while working on her own school.
Robinson finished her schooling at Oxford House, where she indulged her love for theatre and developed her talents. Robinson was a on trip to Greenwich where she met her husband to be Thomas Robinson Esquire. Thomas was tending to Robinson's brother George will he was fighting small pox. It was shortly after George got better that Robinson herself feel ill and Thomas took care of her also. The couple wed in secret and it wasn't until the she was showing signs of being pregnant did the couple tell his father.
The years that followed were full of twisted love affairs, mostly of her husband and other women. This left Robinson in pain and quite distraught. Rumors had it that Robinson started an affair with Lord Banastre Tarleton which lasted fifteen years. Once the affair had ended Robinson wrote Tarleton in The False Friend and The Natural Daughter. These were followed by A Letter to the Women of England, on the Injustice of Mental Subordination, which Robinson wrote under a penname Anne Frances Randall in 1799. Robinson then began writing her autobiography. Her health whoever did not hold up and she died on December 26, 1800 with her book unfinished.
Mary Darby Robinson's autobiography was finished by her daughter Maria Elizabeth who edited and published Memoirs of the late Mrs. Robinson, Written by Herself, With Soma Posthumous Pieces, in 1801. Maria also published a collected edition of her Mother's poetry in Poetical Works in 1806.
The Haunted Beach
by Mary Darby Robinson
Upon a lonely desart Beach
Where the white foam was scatter'd,
A little shed uprear'd its head
Though lofty Barks were shatter'd.
The Sea-weeds gath'ring near the door,
A sombre path display'd;
And, all around, the deaf'ning roar,
Re-echo'd on the chalky shore,
By the green billows made.
Above, a jutting cliff was seen
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
Its shad'wy 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;
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
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 croud,
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.
For, in the Fisherman's lone shed
A murder'd manwas 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 thro' wind and sea
Firm and undaunted ever!
And when the wave resistless roll'd,
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 brav'd the storm's commotion.
The winter moon, upon the sand
A silv'ry carpet made,
And mark'd the Sailor reach the land,
And mark'd his murd'rer 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 Murd'rer's liquid way
Bounds o'er the deeply yawning tomb,
And flashing fires the sands illume,
Where the green billows play!
Full thirty years his task has been,
Day after day more weary;
For Heav'n design'd, his guilty mind
Should dwell on prospects dreary.
Bound by a strong and mystic chain,
He has not pow'r to stray;
But, destin'd mis'ry to sustain,
He wastes, in Solitude and Pain--
A loathsome life away.
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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The winner of "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contest" [ASR] is:
A portrait of a bride
Laid in sleep’s repose
Held within ashen hands
A posy, sage and rose
Victoria on the throne
On this wedding day
The maiden in her bliss
Let moonbeams drift away
Too pale and faint
To walk that aisle
Her groom, in hope
He’d wait a while
In vain, he tarried
For she was lost
No exchange of rings
His heartbreak, the cost
One early morn
Came a cloak of mist
The darkness cloyed
He gave a final kiss
The picture taken
In her bridal gown
Dressed perfectly
Before they laid her down
Honorable mention:
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Poetry: September 14, 2016 Issue [#7862]
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