And still Minerva’s olive lives
On the calm brow of Thirty-eight.
With eye more steady we engage
To contemplate approaching age, 50
And life more justly estimate;
With firmer souls, and stronger powers,
With reason, faith, and friendship ours,
We’ll not regret the stealing hours
That lead from Thirty even to Forty-eight. 55
VERSES INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN PREFIXED TO THE NOVEL OF EMMELINE, BUT THEN SUPPRESSED
O’erwhelm’d with sorrow, and sustaining long
“The proud man’s contumely, th’ oppressor’s wrong,”
Languid despondency, and vain regret,
Must my exhausted spirit struggle yet?
Yes! — Robb’d myself of all that fortune gave, 5
Even of all hope — but shelter in the grave,
Still shall the plaintive lyre essay its powers
To dress the cave of Care with Fancy’s flowers,
Maternal Love the fiend Despair withstand,
Still animate the heart and guide the hand. 10
— May you, dear objects of my anxious care,
Escape the evils I was born to bear!
Round my devoted head while tempests roll,
Yet there, where I have treasured up my soul,
May the soft rays of dawning hope impart 15
Reviving Patience to my fainting heart; —
And when its sharp solicitudes shall cease,
May I be conscious in the realms of peace
That every tear which swells my childrens eyes,
From sorrows past, not present ills arise. 20
Then, with some friend who loves to share your pain,
For ’tis my boast that some such friends remain,
By filial grief, and fond remembrance prest,
You’ll seek the spot where all my sorrows rest;
Recall my hapless days in sad review, 25
The long calamities I bore for you,
And — with an happier fate — resolve to prove
How well you merited — your mother’s love.
THE DEAD BEGGAR
AN ELEGY, ADDRESSED TO A LADY, WHO WAS AFFECTED AT SEEING THE FUNERAL OF A NAMELESS PAUPER, BURIED AT THE EXPENCE OF THE PARISH, IN THE CHURCH-YARD AT BRIGHTHELMSTONE, IN NOVEMBER 1792.
I have been told that I have incurred blame for having used in this short composition, terms that have become obnoxious to certain persons. Such remarks are hardly worth notice; and it is very little my ambition to obtain the suffrage of those who suffer party prejudice to influence their taste; or of those who desire that because they have themselves done it, every one else should be willing to sell their best birth-rights, the liberty of thought, and of expressing thought, for the promise of a mess of pottage. It is surely not too much to say, that in a country like ours, where such immense sums are annually raised for the poor, there ought to be some regulation which should prevent any miserable deserted being from perishing through want, as too often happens to such objects as that on whose interment these stanzas were written. It is somewhat remarkable that a circumstance exactly similar is the subject of a short poem called the Pauper’s Funeral, in a volume lately published by Mr. Southey.
Swells then thy feeling heart, and streams thine eye
O’er the deserted being, poor and old,
Whom cold, reluctant, Parish Charity
Consigns to mingle with his kindred mold?
Mourn’st thou, that here the time-worn sufferer ends 5
Those evil days still threatening woes to come;
Here, where the friendless feel no want of friends,
Where even the houseless wanderer finds an home?
What tho’ no kindred croud in sable forth,
And sigh, or seem to sigh, around his bier; 10
Tho’ o’er his coffin with the humid earth
No children drop the unavailing tear?
Rather rejoice that here his sorrows cease,
Whom sickness, age, and poverty oppress’d;
Where Death, the Leveller, restores to peace 15
The wretch who living knew not where to rest.
Rejoice, that tho’ an outcast spurn’d by Fate,
Thro’ penury’s rugged path his race he ran;
In earth’s cold bosom, equall’d with the great,
Death vindicates the insulted rights of Man. 20
Rejoice, that tho’ severe his earthly doom,
And rude, and sown with thorns the way he trod,
Now, (where unfeeling Fortune cannot come)
He rests upon the mercies of his god.
THE FEMALE EXILE.
WRITTEN AT BRIGHTHELMSTONE IN NOVEMBER 1792
November’s chill blast on the rough beach is howling,
The surge breaks afar, and then foams to the shore,
Dark clouds o’er the sea gather heavy and scowling.
And the white cliffs re-echo the wild wintry roar.
Beneath that chalk rock, a fair stranger reclining, 5
Has found on damp sea-weed a cold lonely seat;
Her eyes fill’d with tears, and her heart with repining,
She starts at the billows that burst at her feet.
There, day after day, with an anxious heart heaving,
She watches the waves where they mingle with air; 10
For the sail which, alas! all her fond hopes deceiving,
May bring only tidings to add to her care.
Loose stream to wild winds those fair flowing tresses,
Once woven with garlands of gay Summer flowers;
Her dress unregarded, bespeaks her distresses, 15
And beauty is blighted by grief’s heavy hours.
Her innocent children, unconscious of sorrow,
To seek the gloss’d shell, or the crimson weed stray;
Amused with the present, they heed not to-morrow,
Nor think of the storm that is gathering to day. 20
The gilt, fairy ship, with its ribbon-sail spreading,
They launch on the salt pool the tide left behind;
Ah! victims — for whom their sad mother is dreading
The multiplied miseries that wait on mankind!
To fair fortune born, she beholds them with anguish, 25
Now wanderers with her on a once hostile soil,
Perhaps doom’d for life in chill penury to languish,
Or abject dependance, or soul-crushing toil.
But the sea-boat, her hopes and her terrors renewing.
O’er the dim grey horizon now faintly appears; 30
She flies to the quay, dreading tidings of ruin,
All breathless with haste, half expiring with fears.
Poor mourner! — I would that my fortune had left me
The means to alleviate the woes I deplore;
But like thine my hard fate has of affluence bereft me, 35
I can warm the cold heart of the wretched no more!
WRITTEN FOR THE BENEFIT OF A DISTRESSED PLAYER, DETAINED AT BRIGHTHELMSTONE FOR DEBT, NOVEMBER 1792
When in a thousand swarms, the Summer o’er,
The birds of passage quit our English shore,
By various routs the feather’d myriad moves;
The Becca-fica seeks Italian groves,
No more a Wheat-ear; while the soaring files 5
Of sea-fowl gather round the Hebrid-isles.
But if by bird-lime touch’d, unplum’d, confined,
Some poor ill-fated straggler stays behind,
Driven from his transient perch, beneath your eaves
On his unshelter’d head the tempest raves, 10
While drooping round, redoubling every pain,
His Mate and Nestlings ask his help in vain.
So we, the buskin and the sock who wear,
And “strut and fret,” our little season here,
Dismiss’d at length, as Fortune bids divide
— 15
Some (lucky rogues!) sit down on Thames’s side;
Others to Liffy’s western banks proceed,
And some — driven far a-field, across the Tweed:
But pinion’d here, alas! I cannot fly:
The hapless, unplumed, lingering straggler I! 20
Unless the healing pity you bestow,
Shall imp my shatter’d wings — and let me go.
Hard is his fate, whom evil stars have led
To seek in scenic art precarious bread,
While still, thro’ wild vicissitudes afloat, 25
An Hero now, and now a Sans Culotte!
That eleemosinary bread he gains
Mingling — with real distresses — mimic pains.
See in our group, a pale, lank Falstaff stare!
Much needs he stuffing: — while young Ammon there 30
Rehearses — in a garret — ten feet square!
And as his soft Statira sighs consent,
Roxana comes not — but a dun for rent!
Here shivering Edgar, in his blanket roll’d,
Exclaims — with too much reason, “Tom’s a-cold!” 35
And vainly tries his sorrows to divert,
While Goneril or Regan — wash his shirt!
Lo! fresh from Calais, Edward! mighty king!
Revolves — a mutton chop upon a string!
And Hotspur, plucking “honour from the moon,” 40
Feeds a sick infant with a pewter spoon!
More blest the Fisher, who undaunted braves
In his small bark, the impetuous winds and waves;
For though he plough the sea when others sleep,
He draws, like Glendower, spirits from the deep! 45
And while the storm howls round, amidst his trouble,
Bright moonshine still illuminates the cobble!
Pale with her fears for him, some fair Poissarde,
Watches his nearing boat; with fond regard
Smiles when she sees his little canvas handing, 50
And clasps her dripping lover on his landing.
More blest the Peasant, who, with nervous toil
Hews the rough oak, or breaks the stubborn soil:
Weary, indeed, he sees the evening come,
But then, the rude, yet tranquil hut, his home, 55
Receives its rustic inmate; then are his,
Secure repose, and dear domestic bliss!
The orchard’s blushing fruit, the garden’s store,
The pendant hop, that mandes round the door,
Are his: — and while the cheerful faggots burn, 60
“His lisping children hail their sire’s return!”
But wandering Players, “unhousel’d, unanneal’d,”
And unappointed, scour life’s common field,
A flying squadron! — disappointments cross ‘em,
And the campaign concludes, perhaps, at Horsham! 65
Oh! ye, whose timely bounty deigns to shed
Compassion’s balm upon my luckless head,
Benevolence, with warm and glowing breast,
And soft, celestial mercy, doubly blest!
Smile on the generous act! — where means are given, 70
To aid the wretched is — to merit Heaven.
INSCRIPTION ON A STONE, IN THE CHURCH-YARD AT BOREHAM, IN ESSEX
RAISED BY THE HONOURABLE ELIZABETH OLMIUS, TO THE MEMORY OF ANN GARDNER, WHO DIED AT NEW HALL, AFTER A FAITHFUL SERVICE OF FORTY YEARS
Whate’er of praise, and of regret attend
The grateful Servant, and the humble friend,
Where strict integrity and worth unite
To raise the lowly in their Maker’s sight,
Are her’s; whose faithful service, long approved, 5
Wept by the Mistress whom thro’ life she loved.
Here ends her earthly task; in joyful trust
To share the eternal triumph of the Just.
A DESCRIPTIVE ODE, SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN UNDER THE RUINS OF RUFUS’S CASTLE
AMONG THE REMAINS OF THE ANCIENT CHURCH ON THE ISLE OF PORTLAND
Chaotic pile of barren stone,
That Nature’s hurrying hand has thrown,
Half-finish’d, from the troubled waves;
On whose rude brow the rifted tower
Has frown’d, thro’ many a stormy hour, 5
On this drear site of tempest-beaten graves.
Sure Desolation loves to shroud
His giant form within the cloud
That hovers round thy rugged head;
And as thro’ broken vaults beneath, 10
The future storms low-muttering breathe,
Hears the complaining voices of the dead.
Here marks the Fiend with eager eyes,
Far out at sea the fogs arise
That dimly shade the beacon’d strand, 15
And listens the portentous roar
Of sullen waves, as on the shore,
Monotonous, they burst, and tell the storm at hand.
Northward the Demon’s eyes are cast
O’er yonder bare and sterile waste, 20
Where, born to hew and heave the block,
Man, lost in ignorance and toil,
Becomes associate to the soil,
And his heart hardens like his native rock.
On the bleak hills, with flint o’erspread, 25
No blossoms rear the purple head;
No shrub perfumes the Zephyrs’ breath,
But o’er the cold and cheerless down
Grim Desolation seems to frown,
Blasting the ungrateful soil with partial death. 30
Here the scathed trees with leaves half-drest,
Shade no soft songster’s secret nest,
Whose spring-notes soothe the pensive ear;
But high the croaking cormorant flies,
And mews and awks with clamorous cries 35
Tire the lone echoes of these caverns drear.
Perchance among the ruins grey
Some widow’d mourner loves to stray,
Marking the melancholy main
Where once, afar she could discern 40
O’er the white waves his sail return
Who never, never now, returns again!
On these lone tombs, by storms up-torn,
The hopeless wretch may lingering mourn,
Till from the ocean, rising red, 45
The misty Moon with lurid ray
Lights her, reluctant, on her way,
To steep in tears her solitary bed.
Hence the dire Spirit oft surveys
The ship, that to the western bays 50
With favouring gales pursues its course;
Then calls the vapour dark that blinds
The pilot — calls the felon winds
That heave the billows with resistless force.
Commixing with the blotted skies, 55
High and more high the wild waves rise,
Till, as impetuous torrents urge,
Driven on you fatal bank accurst,
The vessel’s massy timbers burst,
And the crew sinks beneath the infuriate surge. 60
There find the weak an early grave,
While youthful strength the whelming wave
Repels; and labouring for the land,
With shorten’d breath and upturn’d eyes,
Sees the rough shore above him rise, 65
Nor dreams that rapine meets him on the strand.
And are there then in human form
Monsters more savage than the storm,
Who from the gasping sufferer tear
The dripping weed? — who dare to reap 70
The inhuman harvest of the deep,
From half-drown’d victims whom the tempests spare?
Ah! yes! by avarice once possest,
No pity moves the rustic breast;
Callous he proves — as those who haply wait 75
Till I (a pilgrim wea
ry worn)
To my own native land return,
With legal toils to drag me to my fate!
VERSES SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN IN THE NEW FOREST, IN EARLY SPRING
As in the woods, where leathery lichen weaves
Its wintry web among the sallow leaves,
Which (thro’ cold months in whirling eddies blown)
Decay beneath the branches once their own,
From the brown shelter of their foliage sear, 5
Spring the young blooms that lead the floral year:
When, waked by vernal suns, the Pilewort dares
Expand her spotted leaves, and shining stars;
And (veins empurpling all her tassels pale)
Bends the soft Wind-flower in the tepid gale; 10
Uncultured bells of azure Jacinths blow,
And the breeze-scenting Violet lurks below;
So views the wanderer, with delighted eyes,
Reviving hopes from black despondence rise,
When, blighted by Adversity’s chill breath, 15
Those hopes had felt a temporary death;
Then with gay heart he looks to future hours,
When Love shall dress for him the Summer bowers!
And, as delicious dreams enchant his mind,
Forgets his sorrows past, or gives them to the wind. 20
APOSTROPHE TO AN OLD TREE
Where thy broad branches brave the bitter North,
Like rugged, indigent, unheeded, worth,
Lo! Vegetation’s guardian hands emboss
Each giant limb with fronds of studded moss,
Clothing the bark with many a fringed fold 5
Begemm’d with scarlet shields and cups of gold,
Which, to the wildest winds their webs oppose,
And mock the arrowy sleet, or weltering snows.
— But to the warmer West the Woodbine fair
Complete Poetical Works of Charlotte Smith Page 10