Complete Poetical Works of Charlotte Smith Read online

  He waits in patient hope — returning day.

  Not so the sufferer feels, who, o’er the waste

  Of joyless life, is destin’d to deplore

  Fond love forgotten, tender friendship past,

  Which, once extinguish’d, can revive no more!

  O’er the blank void he looks with hopeless pain;

  For him those beams of heaven shall never shine again.

  SONNET LIV. THE SLEEPING WOODMAN.

  Written in April, 1790.

  YE copses wild, where April bids arise

  The vernal grasses, and the early flowers;

  My soul depress’d — from human converse flies

  To the lone shelter of your pathless bowers.

  Lo! — where the Woodman, with his toil oppress’d,

  His careless head on bark and moss reclined,

  Lull’d by the song of birds, the murmuring wind,

  Has sunk to calm though momentary rest.

  Ah! would ‘twere mine in Spring’s green lap to find

  Such transient respite from the ills I bear!

  Would I could taste, like this unthinking hind,

  A sweet forgetfulness of human care,

  Till the last sleep these weary eyes shall close,

  And Death receive me to his long repose.

  SONNET LV. RETURN OF THE NIGHTINGALE.

  Written in May, 1791.

  BORNE on the warm wing of the western gale,

  How tremulously low is heard to float

  Thro’ the green budding thorns that fringe the vale

  The early Nightingale’s prelusive note.

  ’Tis Hope’s instinctive power that through the grove

  Tells how benignant Heaven revives the earth;

  ’Tis the soft voice of young and timid love

  That calls these melting sounds of sweetness forth.

  With transport, once, sweet bird! I hail’d thy lay,

  And bade thee welcome to our shades again,

  To charm the wandering poet’s pensive way

  And soothe the solitary lover’s pain;

  But now! — such evils in my lot combine,

  As shut my languid sense — to Hope’s dear voice and thine!

  SONNET LVI. THE CAPTIVE ESCAPED

  In the wilds of America. ADDRESSED TO THE HON. MRS O’NEILL.

  IF, by his torturing, savage foes untraced,

  The breathless captive gain some trackless glade,

  Yet hears the war-whoop howl along the waste,

  And dreads the reptile-monsters of the shade;

  The giant reeds that murmur round the flood,

  Seem to conceal some hideous form beneath;

  And every hollow blast that shakes the wood,

  Speaks to his trembling heart of woe and death.

  With horror fraught, and desolate dismay,

  On such a wanderer falls the starless night;

  But if, far streaming, a propitious ray

  Leads to some amicable fort his sight,

  He hails the beam benign that guides his way,

  As I, my Harriet, bless thy friendship’s cheering light.

  SONNET LVII. TO DEPENDENCE.

  DEPENDENCE! heavy, heavy are thy chains,

  And happier they who from the dangerous sea,

  Or the dark mine, procure with ceaseless pains

  A hard-earn’d pittance — than who trust to thee!

  More blest the hind, who from his bed of flock

  Starts — when the birds of morn their summons give,

  And waken’d by the lark—” the shepherd’s clock,”

  Lives but to labour — labouring but to live.

  More noble than the sycophant, whose art

  Must heap with tawdry flowers thy hated shrine;

  I envy not the meed thou canst impart

  To crown his service — while, tho’ pride combine

  With Fraud to crush me — my unfetter’d heart

  Still to the Mountain Nymph may offer mine.

  SONNET LVIII. THE GLOW-WORM.

  WHEN on some balmy-breathing night of Spring

  The happy child, to whom the world is new,

  Pursues the evening moth, of mealy wing,

  Or from the heath-bell beats the sparkling dew;

  He sees before his inexperienced eyes

  The brilliant Glow-worm, like a meteor, shine

  On the turf-bank; — amazed, and pleased, he cries,

  “Star of the dewy grass! — I make thee mine!” —

  Then, ere he sleep, collects “the moisten’d” flower,

  And bids soft leaves his glittering prize enfold,

  And dreams that Fairy-lamps illume his bower:

  Yet with the morning shudders to behold

  His lucid treasure, rayless as the dust!

  — So turn the world’s bright joys to cold and blank disgust.

  SONNET LIX. WRITTEN SEPT. 1791, DURING A REMARKABLE THUNDERSTORM.

  In which the moon was perfectly clear, while the tempest gathered in various directions near the earth.

  WHAT awful pageants crowd the evening sky!

  The low horizon gathering vapours shroud,

  Sudden, from many a deep-embattled cloud

  Terrific thunders burst and lightnings fly —

  While in serenest azure, beaming high,

  Night’s regent, of her calm pavilion proud,

  Gilds the dark shadows that beneath her lie,

  Unvex’d by all their conflicts fierce and loud.

  — So, in unsullied dignity elate,

  A spirit conscious of superior worth,

  In placid elevation firmly great,

  Scorns the vain cares that give Contention birth;

  And blest with peace above the shocks of Fate,

  Smiles at the tumult of the troubled earth.

  SONNET LX. TO AN AMIABLE GIRL.

  MIRANDA! mark where shrinking from the gale,

  Its silken leaves yet moist with early dew,

  That fair faint flower, the Lily of the vale

  Droops its meek head, and looks, methinks, like you!

  Wrapp’d in a shadowy veil of tender green,

  Its snowy bells a soft perfume dispense,

  And bending as reluctant to be seen,

  In simple loveliness it sooths the sense.

  With bosom bared to meet the garish day,

  The glaring Tulip, gaudy, undismay’d,

  Offends the eye of taste; that turns away

  To seek the Lily in her fragrant shade.

  With such unconscious beauty, pensive, mild,

  Miranda charms — Nature’s soft modest child.

  SONNET LXI.

  Supposed to have been written in America.

  ILL-omen’d bird! whose cries portentous float

  O’er yon savannah with the mournful wind;

  While, as the Indian hears your piercing note,

  Dark dread of future evil fills his mind;

  Wherefore with early lamentation break

  The dear delusive visions of repose?

  Why from so short felicity awake

  My wounded senses to substantial woes?

  O’er my sick soul thus rous’d from transient rest,

  Pale Superstition sheds her influence drear,

  And to my shuddering fancy would suggest

  Thou com’st to speak of ev’ry woe I fear,

  Ah! Reason little o’er the soul prevails,

  When, from ideal ill, the enfeebled spirit fails!

  SONNET LXII.

  Written on passing by Moon-light through a Village,

  while the ground was covered with Snow.

  WHILE thus I wander, cheerless and unblest,

  And find in change of place but change of pain;

  In tranquil sleep the village labourers rest,

  And taste that quiet I pursue in vain!

  Hush’d is the hamlet now, and faintly gleam

  The dying embers, from the c
asement low

  Of the thatch’d cottage; while the Moon’s wan beam

  Lends a new lustre to the dazzling snow —

  O’er the cold waste, amid the freezing night,

  Scarce heeding whither, desolate I stray;

  For me, pale Eye of Evening, thy soft light

  Leads to no happy home; my weary way

  Ends but in sad vicissitudes of care:

  I only fly from doubt — to meet despair!

  SONNET LXIII. THE GOSSAMER.

  O’ER faded heath-flowers spun, or thorny furze,

  The filmy Gossamer is lightly spread;

  Waving in every sighing air that stirs,

  As Fairy fingers had entwined the thread:

  A thousand trembling orbs of lucid dew

  Spangle the texture of the fairy loom,

  As if soft Sylphs, lamenting as they flew,

  Had wept departed Summer’s transient bloom:

  But the wind rises, and the turf receives

  The glittering web: — So, evanescent, fade

  Bright views that Youth with sanguine heart, believes:

  So vanish schemes of bliss, by Fancy made;

  Which, fragile as the fleeting dreams of morn,

  Leave but the wither’d heath, and barren thorn!

  SONNET LXIV. WRITTEN AT BRISTOL IN THE SUMMER OF 1794.

  HERE from the restless bed of lingering pain

  The languid sufferer seeks the tepid wave,

  And feels returning health and hope again

  Disperse ‘the gathering shadows of the grave!’

  And here romantic rocks that boldly swell,

  Fringed with green woods, or stain’d with veins of ore,

  Call’d native genius forth, whose Heaven-taught skill

  Charm’d the deep echoes of the rifted shore.

  But tepid waves, wild scenes, or summer air,

  Restore they palsied Fancy, woe-deprest?

  Check they the torpid influence of Despair,

  Or bid warm Health re-animate the breast;

  Where Hope’s soft visions have no longer part,

  And whose sad inmate — is a broken heart?

  SONNET LXV. TO DR PARRY OF BATH.

  With some botanic drawings which had been made some years.

  IN happier hours, ere yet so keenly blew

  Adversity’s cold blight, and bitter storms,

  Luxuriant Summer’s evanescent forms,

  And Spring’s soft blooms with pencil light I drew:

  But as the lovely family of flowers

  Shrink from the bleakness of the Northern blast,

  So fail from present care and sorrow past

  The slight botanic pencil’s mimic powers —

  Nor will kind Fancy even by Memory’s aid,

  Her visionary garlands now entwine;

  Yet while the wreaths of Hope and Pleasure fade,

  Still is one flower of deathless blossom mine,

  That dares the Lapse of Time, and Tempest rude,

  The unfading Amaranth of Gratitude.

  SONNET LXVI. WRITTEN IN A TEMPESTUOUS NIGHT ON THE COAST OF SUSSEX.

  THE night-flood rakes upon the stony shore;

  Along the rugged cliffs and chalky caves

  Mourns the hoarse Ocean, seeming to deplore

  All that are buried in his restless waves —

  Mined by corrosive tides, the hollow rock

  Falls prone, and rushing from its turfy height,

  Shakes the broad beach with long-resounding shock,

  Loud thundering on the ear of sullen Night;

  Above the desolate and stormy deep,

  Gleams the wan Moon by floating mist opprest;

  Yet here while youth, and health, and labour sleep,

  Alone I wander — Calm untroubled rest,

  “Nature’s soft nurse,” deserts the high-swoln breast,

  And shuns the eyes, that only make to weep!

  SONNET LXVII. ON PASSING OVER A DREARY TRACT OF COUNTRY

  AND NEAR THE RUINS OF A DESERTED CHAPEL, DURING A TEMPEST.

  SWIFT fleet the billowy clouds along the sky,

  Earth seems to shudder at the storm aghast;

  While only beings as forlorn as I,

  Court the chill horrors of the howling blast.

  Even round yon crumbling walls, in search of food,

  The ravenous Owl foregoes his evening flight,

  And in his cave, within the deepest wood,

  The Fox eludes the tempest of the night.

  But to my heart congenial is the gloom

  Which hides me from a World I wish to shun;

  That scene where Ruin saps the mouldering tomb

  Suits with the sadness of a wretch undone.

  Nor is the deepest shade, the keenest air,

  Black as my fate, or cold as my despair.

  SONNET LXVIII. WRITTEN AT EXMOUTH, MIDSUMMER, 1795.

  FALL, dews of Heaven, upon my burning breast,

  Bathe with cool drops these ever-streaming eyes,

  Ye gentle Winds, that fan the balmy West,

  With the soft rippling tide of morning rise,

  And calm my bursting heart, as here I keep

  The vigil of the wretched! — Now away

  Fade the pale stars, as wavering o’er the deep

  Soft rosy tints announce another day,

  The day of Middle Summer! — Ah! in vain

  To those who mourn like me, does radiant June

  Lead on her fragrant hours; for hopeless pain

  Darkens with sullen clouds the Sun of Noon,

  And veil’d in shadows Nature’s face appears

  To hearts o’erwhelm’d with grief, to eyes suffused with tears.

  SONNET LXIX. WRITTEN AT THE SAME PLACE, ON SEEING A SEAMAN RETURN WHO HAD BEEN IMPRISONED AT ROCHFORT.

  CLOUDS, gold and purple, o’er the western ray

  Threw a bright veil, and catching lights between,

  Fell on the glancing sail, that we had seen

  With soft, but adverse winds, throughout the day

  Contending vainly: as the vessel nears,

  Increasing numbers hail it from the shore;

  Lo! on the deck a pallid form appears,

  Half wondering to behold himself once more

  Approach his home — And now he can discern

  His cottage thatch amid surrounding trees;

  Yet, trembling, dreads lest sorrow or disease

  Await him there, embittering his return:

  But all he loves are safe; with heart elate,

  Though poor and plunder’d, he absolves his fate!

  SONNET LXX. ON BEING CAUTIONED AGAINST WALKING OVER A HEADLAND OVERLOOKING THE SEA, BECAUSE IT WAS FREQUENTED BY A LUNATIC.

  IS there a solitary wretch who hies

  To the tall cliff, with starting pace or slow,

  And, measuring, views with wild and hollow eyes

  Its distance from the waves that chide below;

  Who, as the sea-born gale with frequent sighs

  Chills his cold bed upon the mountain turf,

  With hoarse, half utter’d lamentation, lies

  Murmuring responses to the dashing surf?

  In moody sadness, on the giddy brink,

  I see him more with envy than with fear;

  He has no nice felicities that shrink

  From giant horrors; wildly wandering here,

  He seems (uncursed with reason) not to know

  The depth or the duration of his woe.

  SONNET LXXI. WRITTEN AT WEYMOUTH IN WINTER.

  THE chill waves whiten in the sharp North-east;

  Cold, cold the night-blast comes, with sullen sound,

  And black and gloomy, like my cheerless breast:

  Frowns the dark pier and lonely sea-view round.

  Yet a few months — and on the peopled strand

  Pleasure shall all her varied forms display;

  Nymphs lightly tread the bright reflecting sand,


  And proud sails whiten all the summer bay:

  Then, from these winds that whistle keen and bleak,

  Music’s delightful melodies shall float

  O’er the blue waters; but ’tis mine to seek

  Rather, some unfrequented shade, remote

  From sights and sounds of gaiety — I mourn

  All that gave me delight — Ah! never to return

  SONNET LXXII. TO THE MORNING STAR.

  Written near the sea.

  THEE! lucid arbiter ‘twixt day and night,

  The seaman greets, as on the ocean stream

  Reflected, thy precursive friendly beam

  Points out the long-sought haven to his sight.

  Watching for thee, the lover’s ardent eyes

  Turn to the eastern hills; and as above

  Thy brilliance trembles, hails the lights that rise

  To guide his footsteps to expecting love!

  I mark thee too, as night’s dark clouds retire,

  And thy bright radiance glances on the sea;

  But never more shall thy heraldic fire

  Speak of approaching morn with joy to me!

  Quench’d in the gloom of death that heavenly ray

  Once lent to light me on my thorny way!

  SONNET LXXIII. TO A QUERULOUS ACQUAINTANCE.

  THOU! whom Prosperity has always led

  O’er level paths, with moss and flow’rets strewn;

  For whom she still prepares a downy bed

  With roses scatter’d, and to thorns unknown,

  Wilt thou yet murmur at a misplaced leaf?

  Think, ere thy irritable nerves repine,

  How many, born with feelings keen as thine,

  Taste all the sad vicissitudes of grief;

  How many steep in tears their scanty bread;

  Or, lost to reason, Sorrow’s victims! rave:

  How many know not where to lay their head;

  While some are driven by anguish to the grave!