Complete Poetical Works of Charlotte Smith

by Charlotte Smith

  Clasp’d in her faithful shepherd’s guardian arms,

  Well may the village girl sweet slumbers prove;

  And they, O gentle Sleep! still taste thy charms,

  Who wake to labour, liberty, and love.

  But still thy opiate aid dost thou deny

  To calm the anxious breast; to close the streaming eye.

  SONNET XII. WRITTEN ON THE SEA SHORE, OCT. 1784.

  ON some rude fragment of the rocky shore,

  Where on the fractured cliff the billows break,

  Musing, my solitary seat I take,

  And listen to the deep and solemn roar.

  O’er the dark waves the winds tempestuous howl;

  The screaming sea-bird quits the troubled sea:

  But the wild gloomy scene has charms for me,

  And suits the mournful temper of my soul.

  Already shipwreck’d by the storms of Fate,

  Like the poor mariner methinks I stand,

  Cast on a rock; who sees the distant land

  From whence no succour comes — or comes too late.

  Faint and more faint are heard his feeble cries,

  Till in the rising tide the exhausted sufferer dies.

  SONNET XIII. FROM PETRARCH.

  OH! place me where the burning moon

  Forbids the wither’d flower to blow;

  Or place me in the frigid zone,

  On mountains of eternal snow:

  Let me pursue the steps of Fame,

  Or Poverty’s more tranquil road;

  Let youth’s warm tide my veins inflame,

  Or sixty winters chill my blood:

  Though my fond soul to Heaven were flown,

  Or though on earth ’tis doom’d to pine,

  Prisoner or free — obscure or known,

  My heart, oh Laura! still is thine.

  Whate’er my destiny may be,

  That faithful heart still burns for thee!

  SONNET XIV. FROM PETRARCH.

  LOOSE to the wind her golden tresses stream’d,

  Forming bright waves with amorous Zephyr’s sighs;

  And though averted now, her charming eyes

  Then with warm love, and melting pity beam’d,

  Was I deceived? — Ah! surely, nymph divine!

  That fine suffusion on thy cheek was love;

  What wonder then those beauteous tints should move,

  Should fire this heart, this tender heart of mine!

  Thy soft melodious voice, thy air, thy shape,

  Were of a goddess — not a mortal maid;

  Yet though thy charms, thy heavenly charms should fade,

  My heart, my tender heart could not escape;

  Nor cure for me in time or change be found:

  The shaft extracted does not cure the wound!

  SONNET XV. FROM PETRARCH.

  WHERE the green leaves exclude the summer beam,

  And softly bend as balmy breezes blow,

  And where, with liquid lapse, the lucid stream

  Across the fretted rock is heard to flow,

  Pensive I lay: when she whom Earth conceals,

  As if still living, to my eyes appears,

  And pitying Heaven her angel form reveals,

  To say— ‘Unhappy Petrarch, dry your tears:

  ‘Ah! why, sad lover! thus before your time,

  In grief and sadness should your life decay,

  And like a blighted flower, your manly prime

  In vain and hopeless sorrow fade away?

  Ah! yield not thus to culpable despair,

  But raise thine eyes to Heaven — and think I wait thee there.’

  SONNET XVI. FROM PETRARCH.

  YE vales and woods! fair scenes of happier hours!

  Ye feather’d people, tenants of the grove!

  And you, bright stream! befringed with shrubs and flowers,

  Behold my grief, ye witnesses of love!

  For ye beheld my infant passion rise,

  And saw through years unchanged my faithful flame;

  Now cold, in dust, the beauteous object lies,

  And you, ye conscious scenes, are still the same!

  While busy Memory still delights to dwell

  On all the charms these bitter tears deplore,

  And with a trembling hand describes too well

  The angel form I shall behold no more!

  To Heaven she’s fled! and nought to me remains

  But the pale ashes which her urn contains.

  SONNET XVII. FROM THE THIRTEENTH CANTATA OF METASTASIO.

  ON thy grey bark, in witness of my flame,

  I carve Miranda’s cypher — Beauteous tree!

  Graced with the lovely letters of her name,

  Henceforth be sacred to my love and me!

  Though the tall elm, the oak, and darker pine,

  With broader arms, may noon’s fierce ardours break,

  To shelter me, and her I love, be thine;

  And thine to see her smile and hear her speak.

  No bird, ill-omen’d, round thy graceful head

  Shall clamour harsh, or wave his heavy wing,

  But fern and flowers arise beneath thy shade.

  Where the wild bees their lullabies shall sing.

  And in thy boughs the murmuring Ring-dove rest;

  And there the Nightingale shall build her nest.

  SONNET XVIII. TO THE EARL OF EGREMONT.

  WYNDHAM! ’tis not thy blood, though pure it runs

  Through a long line of glorious ancestry,

  Percys and Seymours, Britain’s boasted sons,

  Who trust the honours of their race to thee:

  ’Tis not thy splendid domes, where science loves

  To touch the canvass, and the bust to raise;

  Thy rich domains, fair fields, and spreading groves;

  ’Tis not all these the Muse delights to praise:

  In birth, and wealth, and honours, great thou art!

  But nobler in thy independent mind;

  And in that liberal hand and feeling heart

  Given thee by Heaven — a blessing to mankind!

  Unworthy oft may titled fortune be;

  A soul like thine — is true Nobility!

  SONNET XIX. TO MR. HAYLEY

  On receiving some elegant lines from him.

  FOR me the Muse a simple band design’d

  Of ‘idle’ flowers that bloom the woods among,

  Which, with the cypress and the willow join’d,

  A garland form’d as artless as my song.

  And little dared I hope its transient hours

  So long would last; composed of buds so brief;

  Till Hayley’s hand among the vagrant flowers,

  Threw from his verdant crown a deathless leaf.

  For high in Fame’s bright fane has Judgment placed

  The laurel wreath Serena’s poet won,

  Which, woven with myrtles by the hands of Taste,

  The Muse decreed for this her favourite son.

  And those immortal leaves his temples shade,

  Whose fair, eternal verdure — shall not fade!

  SONNET XX. TO THE COUNTESS OF A ——

  Written on the anniversary of her marriage.

  ON this blest day may no dark cloud, or shower,

  With envious shade the Sun’s bright influence hide!

  But all his rays illume the favour’d hour,

  That saw thee, Mary! — Henry’s lovely bride!

  With years revolving may it still arise,

  Blest with each good approving Heaven can send!

  And still, with ray serene, shall those blue eyes

  Enchant the husband, and attach the friend!

  For you fair Friendship’s amaranth shall blow,

  And love’s own thornless roses bind your brow;

  And when — long hence — to happier worlds you go,

  Your beauteous race shall be what you are now!

  And future Nevills through lo
ng ages shine,

  With hearts as good, and forms as fair as thine!

  SONNET XXI. SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY WERTER.

  GO! cruel tyrant of the human breast!

  To other hearts thy burning arrows bear;

  Go, where fond hope, and fair illusion rest;

  Ah! why should love inhabit with despair!

  Like the poor maniac I linger here,

  Still haunt the scene where all my treasure lies;

  Still seek for flowers where only thorns appear,

  ‘And drink delicious poison from her eyes!’

  Tow’rds the deep gulf that opens on my sight

  I hurry forward, Passion’s helpless slave!

  And scorning Reason’s mild and sober light,

  Pursue the path that leads me to the grave!

  So round the flame the giddy insect flies,

  And courts the fatal fire by which it dies!

  SONNET XXII. BY THE SAME. TO SOLITUDE.

  OH, Solitude! to thy sequester’d vale

  I come to hide my sorrow and my tears,

  And to thy echoes tell the mournful tale

  Which scarce I trust to pitying Friendship’s ears.

  Amidst thy wild-woods, and untrodden glades,

  No sounds but those of melancholy move;

  And the low winds that die among thy shades,

  Seem like soft Pity’s sighs for hopeless love.

  And sure some story of despair and pain,

  In yon deep copse, thy murm’ring doves relate;

  And, Hark! methinks in that long plaintive strain,

  Thine own sweet songstress weeps my wayward fate;

  Ah, Nymph! that fate assist me to endure,

  And bear awhile — what death alone can cure!

  SONNET XXIII. BY THE SAME. TO THE NORTH STAR.

  TO thy bright beams I turn my swimming eyes,

  Fair, favourite planet, which in happier days

  Saw my young hopes, ah, faithless hopes! — arise,

  And on my passion shed propitious rays.

  Now nightly wandering ‘mid the tempests drear

  That howl the woods and rocky steeps among,

  I love to see thy sudden light appear

  Through the swift clouds — driven by the wind along:

  Or in the turbid water, rude and dark,

  O’er whose wild stream the gust of Winter raves,

  Thy trembling light with pleasure still I mark,

  Gleam in faint radiance on the foaming waves!

  So o’er my soul short rays of reason fly,

  Then fade: — and leave me to despair and die.

  SONNET XXIV. BY THE SAME.

  MAKE there my tomb, beneath the lime-tree’s shade,

  Where grass and flowers in wild luxuriance wave;

  Let no memorial mark where I am laid,

  Or point to common eyes the lover’s grave!

  But oft at twilight morn, or closing day,

  The faithful friend with fault’ring step shall glide,

  Tributes of fond regret by stealth to pay,

  And sigh o’er the unhappy suicide.

  And sometimes, when the sun with parting rays

  Gilds the long grass that hides my silent bed,

  The tear shall tremble in my Charlotte’s eyes;

  Dear, precious drops! — they shall embalm the dead!

  Yes — Charlotte o’er the mournful spot shall weep,

  Where her poor Werter — and his sorrows sleep.

  SONNET XXV. BY THE SAME. Just before his Death.

  WHY should I wish to hold in this low sphere

  ‘A frail and feverish being?’ wherefore try

  Poorly from day to day to linger here,

  Against the powerful hand of Destiny?

  By those who know the force of hopeless care

  On the worn heart — I sure shall be forgiven,

  If to elude dark guilt, and dire despair,

  I go uncall’d — to mercy and to heaven!

  O thou! to save whose peace I now depart,

  Will thy soft mind thy poor lost friend deplore,

  When worms shall feed on this devoted heart,

  Where even thy image shall be found no more?

  Yet may thy pity mingle not with pain,

  For then thy hapless lover — dies in vain!

  SONNET XXVI. TO THE RIVER ARUN.

  ON thy wild banks, by frequent torrents worn,

  No glittering fanes, or marble domes appear,

  Yet shall the mournful muse thy course adorn,

  And still to her thy rustic waves be dear.

  For with the infant Otway, lingering here,

  Of early woes she bade her votary dream,

  While thy low murmurs sooth’d his pensive ear

  And still the poet — consecrates the stream.

  Beneath the oak and birch that fringe thy side,

  The first-born violets of the year shall spring;

  And in thy hazles, bending o’er the tide,

  The earliest nightingale delight to sing:

  While kindred spirits, pitying, shall relate

  Thy Otway’s sorrows, and lament his fate.

  SONNET XXVII. SIGHING I SEE YON LITTLE TROOP AT PLAY

  SIGHING I see yon little troop at play,

  By sorrow yet untouch’d; unhurt by care;

  While free and sportive they enjoy to-day,

  ‘Content and careless of to-morrow’s fare!’

  O happy age! when hope’s unclouded ray

  Lights their green path, and prompts their simple mirth,

  Ere yet they feel the thorns that lurking lay

  To wound the wretched pilgrims of the earth,

  Making them rue the hour that gave them birth,

  And threw them on a world so full of pain,

  Where prosperous folly treads on patient worth,

  And, to deaf pride, misfortune pleads in vain!

  Ah! — for their future fate how many fears

  Oppress my heart — and fill mine eyes with tears!

  SONNET XXVIII. TO FRIENDSHIP.

  O THOU! whose name too often is profaned;

  Whose charms celestial, few have hearts to feel;

  Unknown to Folly — and by Pride disdain’d!

  — To thy soft solace may my sorrows steal!

  Like the fair moon, thy mild and genuine ray

  Through life’s long evening shall unclouded last;

  While pleasure’s frail attachments fleet away,

  As fades the rainbow from the northern blast!

  ’Tis thine, O Nymph! with ‘balmy hands to bind’

  The wounds inflicted in misfortune’s storm,

  And blunt severe affliction’s sharpest dart!

  — ’Tis thy pure spirit warms my Anna’s mind,

  Beams through the pensive softness of her form,

  And holds its altar — on her spotless heart!

  SONNET XXIX. TO MISS C —— .

  On being desired to attempt writing a Comedy.

  WOULD’ST thou then have me tempt the comic scene

  Of gay Thalia? used so long to tread

  The gloomy paths of sorrow’s cypress shade;

  And the lorn lay with sighs and tears to stain?

  Alas! how much unfit her sprightly vein,

  Arduous to try! — and seek the sunny mead,

  And bowers of roses, where she loves to lead

  The sportive subjects of her golden reign!

  Enough for me, if still, to sooth my days,

  Her fair and pensive sister condescend,

  With tearful smile to bless my simple lays;

  Enough, if her soft notes she sometimes lend,

  To gain for me of feeling hearts the praise,

  And chiefly thine, my ever partial friend!

  SONNET XXX. TO THE RIVER ARUN.

  BE the proud Thames of trade the busy mart!

  Arun! to thee will other praise belong;

  Dear to th
e lover’s and the mourner’s heart,

  And ever sacred to the sons of song!

  Thy banks romantic hopeless Love shall seek,

  Where o’er the rocks the mantling bind with flaunts;

  And Sorrow’s drooping form and faded cheek

  Choose on thy willow’d shore her lonely haunts.

  Banks, which inspired thy Otway’s plaintive strain!

  Wilds, — whose lorn echoes learned the deeper tone

  Of Collins’ powerful shell! yet once again

  Another poet — Hayley is thine own!

  Thy classic stream anew shall hear a lay,

  Bright as its waves, and various as its way.

  SONNET XXXI. WRITTEN ON FARM WOOD, SOUTH DOWNS, MAY 1784.

  SPRING’S dewy hand on this fair summit weaves

  The downy grass, with tufts of Alpine flowers,

  And shades the beechen slopes with tender leaves,

  And leads the shepherd to his upland bowers,

  Strewn with wild thyme; while slow-descending showers

  Feed the green ear, and nurse the future sheaves.

  — Ah, blest the hind — whom no sad thought bereaves

  Of the gay Season’s pleasures! — All his hours

  To wholesome labour given, or thoughtless mirth;

  No pangs of sorrow past, or coming dread,

  Bend his unconscious spirit down to earth,

  Or chase calm slumbers from his careless head!

  Ah, what to me can those dear days restore,

  When scenes could charm that now I taste no more!

  SONNET XXXII. TO MELANCHOLY.

  Written on the banks of the Arun, Oct. 1785.

  WHEN latest Autumn spreads her evening veil,

  And the grey mists from these dim waves arise,

  I love to listen to the hollow sighs,

  Through the half-leafless wood that breathes the gale:

  For at such hours the shadowy phantom, pale,

  Oft seems to fleet before the poet’s eyes;