Frantic she turn’d — and beat her breast and wept,
Invoking vengeance on the dust below. 20
“Lo! rising there above each humbler heap,
Yon cipher’d stones his name and wealth relate,
Who gave his son — remorseless — to the deep,
While I, his living victim, curse my fate.
Oh! my lost love! no tomb is placed for thee, 25
That may to strangers’ eyes thy worth impart;
Thou hast no grave but in the stormy sea!
And no memorial but this breaking heart!
Forth to the world, a widow’d wanderer driven,
I pour to winds and waves the unheeded tear, 30
Try with vain effort to submit to Heaven,
And fruitless call on him— ‘who cannot hear.’
Oh! might I fondly clasp him once again,
While o’er my head the infuriate billows pour,
Forget in death this agonizing pain, 35
And feel his father’s cruelty no more!
Part, raging waters! part, and shew beneath,
In your dread caves, his pale and mangled form;
Now, while the Demons of Despair and Death
Ride on the blast, and urge the howling storm! 40
Lo! by the lightning’s momentary blaze,
I see him rise the whitening waves above,
No longer such as when in happier days
He gave the enchanted hours — to me and love.
Such, as when daring the enchafed sea, 45
And courting dangerous toil, he often said
That every peril, one soft smile from me,
One sigh of speechless tenderness o’erpaid.
But dead, disfigured, while between the roar
Of the loud waves his accents pierce mine ear, 50
And seem to say — Ah, wretch! delay no more,
But come, unhappy mourner — meet me here.
Yet, powerful Fancy! bid the phantom stay,
Still let me hear him!— ’Tis already past!
Along the waves his shadow glides away, 55
I lose his voice amid the deafening blast!
Ah! wild Illusion, born of frantic Pain!
He hears not, comes not from his watery bed!
My tears, my anguish, my despair are vain,
The insatiate ocean gives not up its dead. 60
’Tis not his voice! Hark! the deep thunders roll!
Upheaves the ground; the rocky barriers fail!
Approach, ye horrors that delight my soul!
Despair, and Death, and Desolation, hail!”
The Ocean hears — The embodied waters come — 65
Rise o’er the land, and with resistless sweep
Tear from its base the proud aggressor’s tomb,
And bear the injured to eternal sleep!
SONG FROM THE FRENCH OF CARDINAL BERNIS
Fruit of Aurora’s tears, fair Rose,
On whose soft leaves fond Zephyrs play,
O queen of flowers! thy buds disclose,
And give thy fragrance to the day;
Unveil thy transient charms: — ah, no! 5
A little be thy bloom delay’d,
Since the same hour that bids thee blow,
Shall see thee droop thy languid head.
But go! and on Themira’s breast
Find, happy flower! thy throne and tomb! 10
While, jealous of a fate so blest,
How shall I envy thee thy doom!
Should some rude hand approach thee there,
Guard the sweet shrine thou wilt adorn;
Ah! punish those who rashly dare, 15
And for my rivals keep thy thorn.
Love shall himself thy boughs compose,
And bid thy wanton leaves divide;
He’ll shew thee how, my lovely Rose,
To deck her bosom, not to hide: 20
And thou shalt tell the cruel maid
How frail are Youth and Beauty’s charms,
And teach her, ere her own shall fade,
To give them to her lover’s arms.
THE ORIGIN OF FLATTERY
When Jove, in anger to the sons of Earth,
Bid artful Vulcan give Pandora birth,
And sent the fatal gift which spread below
O’er all the wretched race contagious woe,
Unhappy man, by Vice and Folly tost, 5
Found in the storms of life his quiet lost,
While Envy, Avarice, and Ambition, hurl’d
Discord and death around the warring world;
Then the blest peasant left his fields and fold,
And barter’d love and peace for power and gold; 10
Left his calm cottage and his native plain,
In search of wealth to tempt the faithless main;
Or, braving danger, in the battle stood,
And bathed his savage hands in human blood!
No longer then, his woodland walks among, 15
The shepherd-lad his genuine passion sung,
Or sought at early morn his soul’s delight,
Or graved her name upon the bark at night;
To deck her flowing hair no more he wove
The simple wreath, or with ambitious love
Bound his own brow with myrtle or with bay,
But broke his pipe, or threw his crook away.
The nymphs forsaken other pleasures sought;
Then first for gold their venal hearts were bought,
And Nature’s blush to sickly Art gave place, 25
And Affectation seized the seat of Grace:
No more Simplicity by Sense refined,
Or generous Sentiment, possess’d the mind;
No more they felt each other’s joy and woe,
And Cupid fled and hid his useless bow. 30
But with deep grief propitious Venus pined,
To see the ills which threaten’d womankind;
Ills that she knew her empire would disarm,
And rob her subjects of their sweetest charm:
Good humour’s potent influence destroy, 35
And change for lowering frowns the smile of joy.
Then deeply sighing at the mournful view,
She try’d at length what heavenly art could do
To bring back Pleasure to her pensive train,
And vindicate the glories of her reign. 40
A thousand little loves attend the task,
And bear from Mars’s head his radiant casque,
The fair enchantress on its silver bound
Weaved with soft spells her magic cestus round.
Then shaking from her hair ambrosial dew, 45
Infused fair hope, and expectation new,
And stifled wishes, and persuasive sighs,
And fond belief, and “eloquence of eyes,”
And falt’ring accents, which explain so well
What studied speeches vainly try to tell; 50
And more pathetic silence, which imparts
Infectious tenderness to feeling hearts;
Soft tones of pity; fascinating smiles;
And Maia’s son assisted her with wiles,
And brought gay dreams, fantastic visions brought, 55
And waved his wand o’er the seducing draught.
Then Zephyr came; to him the goddess cry’d,
“Go fetch from Flora all her flowery pride
To fill my charm, each scented bud that blows,
And bind my myrtles with her thornless rose; 60
Then speed thy flight to Gallia’s smiling plain,
Where rolls the Loire, the Garonne, and the Seine;
Dip in their waters thy celestial wing,
And the soft dew to fill my chalice bring;
But chiefly tell thy Flora, that to me 65
She send a bouquet of her fleurs de lys;
That poignant spirit will complete my spell.”
— ’Tis done: the lovely sorceress says ’tis well.
And now Apollo lends a ray of fire,
The cauldron bubbles, and the flames aspire; 70
The watchful Graces round the circle dance,
With arms entwined to mark the work’s advance;
And with full quiver sportive Cupid came,
Temp’ring his favorite arrows in the flame.
Then Venus speaks; the wavering flames retire, 75
And Zephyr’s breath extinguishes the fire.
At length the goddess in the helmet’s round
A sweet and subtil spirit duly found,
More soft than oil, than æther more refined,
Of power to cure the woes of womankind, 80
And call’d it Flattery! — balm of female life,
It charms alike the widow, maid, and wife;
Clears the sad brow of virgins in despair,
And smooths the cruel traces left by care;
Bids palsied age with youthful spirit glow, 85
And hangs Mays garlands on December’s snow.
Delicious essence! howsoe’er apply’d,
By what rude nature is thy charm deny’d?
Some form seducing still thy whisper wears,
Stern Wisdom turns to thee her willing ears, 90
And Prudery listens and forgets her fears.
The rustic nymph whom rigid aunts restrain,
Condemn’d to dress, and practise airs in vain,
At thy first summons finds her bosom swell,
And bids her crabbed gouvernantes farewel; 95
While, fired by thee with spirit not her own,
She grows a toast, and rises into ton.
The faded beauty who with secret pain
Sees younger charms usurp her envied reign,
By thee assisted, can with smiles behold 100
The record where her conquests are enroll’d;
And dwelling yet on scenes by memory nursed,
When George the Second reign’d, or George the First;
She sees the shades of ancient beaux arise,
Who swear her eyes exceeded modern eyes, 105
When poets sung for her, and lovers bled,
And giddy fashion follow’d as she led.
Departed modes appear in long array,
The flowers and flounces of her happier day;
Again her locks the decent fillets bind, 110
The waving lappet flutters in the wind,
And then comparing with a proud disdain
The more fantastic tastes that now obtain,
She deems ungraceful, trifling and absurd,
The gayer world that moves round George the Third. 115
Nor thy soft influence will the train refuse,
Who court in distant shades the modest Muse,
Tho’ in a form more pure and more refined,
Thy soothing spirit meets the letter’d mind.
Not Death itself thine empire can destroy; 120
Tow’rds thee, even then, we turn the languid eye;
Still trust in thee to bid our memory bloom,
And scatter roses round the silent tomb.
THE PEASANT OF THE ALPS
Where cliffs arise by winter crown’d,
And thro’ dark groves of pine around,
Down the deep chasms the snow-fed torrents foam,
Within some hollow, shelter’d from the storms,
The peasant of the alps his cottage forms, 5
And builds his humble, happy home.
Unenvied is the rich domain,
That far beneath him on the plain
Waves its wide harvests and its olive groves;
More dear to him his hut with plantain thatch’d, 10
Where long his unambitious heart attach’d,
Finds all he wishes, all he loves.
There dwells the mistress of his heart,
And Love, who teaches every art,
Has bid him dress the spot with fondest care; 15
When borrowing from the vale its fertile soil,
He climbs the precipice with patient toil,
To plant her favorite flowrets there.
With native shrubs, a hardy race,
There the green myrtle finds a place, 20
And roses there the dewy leaves decline;
While from the craggs abrupt, and tangled steeps,
With bloom and fruit the Alpine-berry peeps,
And, blushing, mingles with the vine.
His garden’s simple produce stored, 25
Prepared for him by hands adored,
Is all the little luxury he knows:
And by the same dear hands are softly spread,
The chamois’ velvet spoil that forms the bed,
Where in her arms he finds repose. 30
But absent from the calm abode,
Dark thunder gathers round his road;
Wild raves the wind, the arrowy lightnings flash,
Returning quick the murmuring rocks among,
His faint heart trembling as he winds along; 35
Alarm’d — he listens to the crash
Of rifted ice! — O man of woe!
O’er his dear cot — a mass of snow,
By the storm sever’d from the cliff above,
Has fallen — and buried in its marble breast, 40
All that for him — lost wretch! — the world possest,
His home, his happiness, his love!
Aghast the heart-struck mourner stands,
Glazed are his eyes — convulsed his hands,
O’erwhelming anguish checks his labouring breath; 45
Crush’d by despair’s intolerable weight,
Frantic he seeks the mountain’s giddiest height,
And headlong seeks relief in death!
A fate too similar is mine,
But I — in lingering pain repine, 50
And still my lost felicity deplore!
Cold, cold to me is that dear breast become
Where this poor heart had fondly fix’d its home,
And love and happiness are mine no more!
SONG FROM THE FRENCH
“Ah! say,” the fair Louisa cried,
“Say where the abode of Love is found?”
Pervading Nature, I replied,
His influence spreads the world around.
When Mornings arrowy beams arise, 5
He sparkles in the enlivening ray,
And blushes in the glowing skies
When rosy Evening fades away.
The Summer winds that gently blow,
The flocks that bleat along the glades, 10
The nightingale, that soft and low,
With music fills the listening shades:
The murmurs of the silver surf
All echo Love’s enchanting notes,
From Violets lurking in the turf, 15
His balmy breath thro’ æther floats.
From perfumed flowers and dewy leaves
Delicious scents he bids exhale,
He smiles amid Autumnal sheaves,
And clothes with green the grassy vale; 20
But when that throne the God assumes
Where his most powerful influence lies,
’Tis on Louisas cheek he blooms,
And lightens from her radiant eyes!
SONG: DOES PITY GIVE, THO’ FATE DENIES
Does Pity give, tho’ Fate denies,
And to my wounds her balm impart?
O speak — with those expressive eyes!
Let one low sigh escape thine heart.
The gazing crowd shall never guess 5
What anxious, watchful Love can see;
Nor know what those soft looks express,
Nor dream that sigh is meant for me.
Ah! words are useless, words are vain,
Thy generous sympathy to prove; 10
And well that sigh, those looks explain,
That Clara mourns my hapless love.
THIRTY-EIGHT ADDRESSED TO MRS. H ——
Y
In early youth’s unclouded scene,
The brilliant morning of eighteen,
With health and sprightly joy elate
We gazed on life’s enchanting spring,
Nor thought how quickly time would bring 5
The mournful period Thirty-eight.
Then the starch maid, or matron sage,
Already of that sober age,
We view’d with mingled scorn and hate;
In whose sharp words, or sharper face, 10
With thoughtless mirth we loved to trace
The sad effects of Thirty-eight.
Till saddening, sickening at the view,
We learn’d to dread what Time might do;
And then preferr’d a prayer to Fate 15
To end our days ere that arrived;
When (power and pleasure long survived)
We met neglect and Thirty-eight.
But Time, in spite of wishes, flies,
And Fate our simple prayer denies, 20
And bids us Death’s own hour await:
The auburn locks are mix’d with grey,
The transient roses fade away,
But Reason comes at Thirty-eight.
Her voice the anguish contradicts 25
That dying vanity inflicts;
Her hand new pleasures can create,
For us she opens to the view
Prospects less bright — but far more true,
And bids us smile at Thirty-eight. 30
No more shall Scandals breath destroy
The social converse we enjoy
With bard or critic tête à tête; —
O’er Youth’s bright blooms her blights shall pour,
But spare the improving friendly hour 35
That Science gives to Thirty-eight.
Stripp’d of their gaudy hues by Truth,
We view the glitt’ring toys of youth,
And blush to think how poor the bait
For which to public scenes we ran, 40
And scorn’d of sober Sense the plan,
Which gives content at Thirty-eight.
Tho’ Time’s inexorable sway
Has torn the myrtle bands away,
For other wreaths ’tis not too late, 45
The amaranth’s purple glow survives,
Complete Poetical Works of Charlotte Smith Page 9