January, 1795 / Perdita

January, 1795

Pavement slipp’ry, people sneezing,
Lords in ermine, beggars freezing;
Titled gluttons dainties carving,
Genius in a garret starving.

Lofty mansions, warm and spacious;
Courtiers cringing and voracious;
Misers scarce the wretched heeding;
Gallant soldiers fighting, bleeding.

Wives who laugh at passive spouses;
Theatres, and meeting-houses;
Balls, where simp’ring misses languish;
Hospitals, and groans of anguish.

Arts and sciences bewailing;
Commerce drooping, credit failing;
Placemen mocking subjects loyal;
Separations, weddings royal.

Authors who can’t earn a dinner;
Many a subtle rogue a winner;
Fugitives for shelter seeking;
Misers hoarding, tradesmen breaking.

Taste and talents quite deserted;
All the laws of truth perverted;
Arrogance o’er merit soaring;
Merit silently deploring.

Ladies gambling night and morning;
Fools the works of genius scorning;
Ancient dames for girls mistaken,
Youthful damsels quite forsaken.

Some in luxury delighting;
More in talking than in fighting;
Lovers old, and beaux decrepid;
Lordlings empty and insipid.

Poets, painters, and musicians;
Lawyers, doctors, politicians:
Pamphlets, newspapers, and odes,
Seeking fame by diff’rent roads.

Gallant souls with empty purses;
Gen’rals only fit for nurses;
School-boys, smit with martial spirit,
Taking place of vet’ran merit.

Honest men who can’t get places,
Knaves who shew unblushing faces;
Ruin hasten’d, peace retarded;
Candor spurn’d, and art rewarded.

~~
Perdita  (Mary Darby Robinson) (1758-1800)
from Poetical Works, 1824

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Perdita biography

"January 1795" read by Ghizela Rowe. Courtesy Ghizela Rowe - Topic.

The Wintry Day / Perdita

The Wintry Day

Is it in mansions rich and gay,
On downy beds, or couches warm,
That Nature owns the wintry day,
And shrinks to hear the howling storm?
     Ah! No!

'Tis on the bleak and barren heath,
Where Misery feels the ice of death,
As to the dark and freezing grave
Her children, not a friend to save,
     Unheeded go!

Is it in chambers silken drest,
At tables which profusions heap,
Is it on pillows soft to rest,
In dreams of long and balmy sleep?
     Ah! No!

'Tis in the rushy hut obscure,
Where Poverty's low sons endure,
And, scarcely daring to repine,
On a straw pallet, mute, recline,
     O'erwhelm'd with wo!

Is it to flaunt in warm attire,
To laugh, to feast, and dance, and sing;
To crowd around the blazing fire,
And make the roof with revels ring?
     Ah! No!

'Tis on the prison's flinty floor,
'Tis where the deafening whirlwinds roar;
'Tis when the sea-boy, on the mast,
Hears the wave bounding to the blast,
     And looks below!

'Tis in a cheerless naked room,
Where Misery's victims wait their doom,
Where a fond mother famish'd dies,
While forth a frantic father flies,
     Man's desperate foe!

Is it where gamesters thronging round,
Their shining heaps of wealth display?
Where fashion's giddy tribes are found,
Sporting their senseless hours away?
     Ah! No!

'Tis in the silent spot obscure,
Where, forced all sorrows to endure,
Pale Genius learns — oh! lesson sad!
To court the vain, and on the bad
     False praise bestow!

Where the neglected hero sighs,
Where Hope, exhausted, silent dies,
Where Virtue starves, by Pride oppress'd,
'Till every stream that warms the breast
     Forbears to flow!

~~
Perdita (Mary Darby Robinson) (1758-1800)
from Poetical Works, 1824

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Perdita biography