Complete Poetical Works of Charlotte Smith Read online

  people of the island call Bow and Arrow Castle, or Rufus’ Castle. Beneath, but still high above the sea, are the half-fallen arches and pillars of an old church, and around are scattered the remains of tomb-stones, and almost obliterated memorials of the dead. These verses were written for, and first inserted in, a Novel, called Marchmont; and the close alludes to the circumstance of the story related in the Novel.

  VERSES

  Supposed to have been written in the New Forest

  in early Spring.

  These are from the Novel of Marchmont.

  Line 1.

  As in the woods where leathery lichen weaves

  Its wintry web among the sallow leaves.

  Mosses and lichens are the first efforts of Nature to clothe the earth: as they decay, they form an earth that affords nourishment to the larger and more succulent vegetables: several species of lichen are found in the woods, springing up among the dead leaves, under the drip of forest trees; these, and the withered foliage of preceding years, afford shelter to the earliest wild flowers about the skirts of woods, and in hedge-rows and copses.

  The Pile-wort (Ranuncula Ficaria ) and the Wood Anemone (Anemone Nemerosa ) or Windflower, blow in the woods and copses. Of this latter beautiful species there is in Oxfordshire a blue one, growing wild, (Anemone pratensis pedunculo

  involucrato, petalis apice reflexis foliis bipinnatis — Lin. Sp. Pl. 760.) It is found in Whichwood Forest, near Cornbury quarry. (Vide Flora Oxoniensis ). I do not mention this by way of exhibiting botanical knowledge (so easy to possess in appearance) but because I never saw the Blue Anemone wild in any other place, and it is a flower of singular beauty and elegance.

  Line 11.

  Uncultured bells of azure Jacynths blow.

  Hyacinthus non scriptus — a Hare-bell.

  Line 12.

  And the breeze-scenting Violet lurks below.

  To the Violet there needs no note, it being like the nightingale and the rose, in constant requisition by the poets.

  SONG.

  FROM THE FRENCH.

  A free translation of a favourite French song.

  “Un jour me demandoit Hortense

  Ou se trouve le tendre amour?”

  APOSTROPHE

  TO AN OLD TREE.

  The philosophy of these few lines may not be very correct, since mosses are known to injure the stems and branches of trees to which they adhere;

  but the images of Poetry cannot always be exactly adjusted to objects of Natural History.

  Line 4.

  —— — fronds of studded moss.

  The foliage, if it may be so called, of this race of plants, is termed fronds; and their flowers, or fructification, assume the shapes of cups and shields; of those of this description, more particularly adhering to trees, is Lichen Pulmonarius ; Lungwort Lichen, with shields ; the Lichen Caperatus , with red cups; and many others which it would look like pedantry to enumerate.

  Line 9.

  The Woodbine and the Clematis are well known plants, ornamenting our hedge-rows in summer with fragrant flowers.

  Line 12.

  Nightshade, (Solanum Lignosum ) woody Nightshade, is one of the most beautiful of its tribe.

  Line 13.

  The silver weed, whose corded fillets wove.

  The silver weed, Convolvulus Major (Raii Syn. 275) or greater Bind-weed, which, however the beauty of the flowers may enliven the garden or the wilds, is so prejudicial to the gardener and farmer that it is seen by them with dislike equal to the difficulty of extirpating it from the soil. Its cord-like stalks, plaited together, can hardly be forced from the branches round which they have twined themselves.

  THE FOREST BOY.

  Late circumstances have given rise to many mournful histories like this, which may well be said to be founded in truth! — I , who have been so sad a sufferer in this miserable contest, may well endeavour to associate myself with those who apply what powers they have to deprecate the horrors of war. Gracious God! will mankind never be reasonable enough to understand that all the miseries which our condition subjects us to, are light in comparison of what we bring upon ourselves, by indulging the folly and wickedness of those who make nations destroy each other for their diversion, or to administer to their senseless ambition.

  —— — If the stroke of war

  Fell certain on the guilty head, none else —

  If they that make the cause might taste th’ effect,

  And drink themselves the bitter cup they mix;

  Then might the bard (the child of peace) delight

  To twine fresh wreaths around the conqueror’s brow;

  Or haply strike his high-toned harp, to swell

  The trumpet’s martial sound, and bid them on

  When Justice arms for vengeance; but, alas!

  That undistinguishing and deathful storm

  Beats heaviest on the exposed and innocent;

  And they that stir its fury, while it raves,

  Safe and at distance, send their mandates forth

  Unto the mortal ministers that wait

  To do their bidding! —— —

  Crowe.

  I have in these stanzas, entitled the Forest Boy, attempted the measure so successfully adopted in

  one of the poems of a popular novel, and so happily imitated by Mr Southey in “Poor Mary.”

  ODE TO THE POPPY.

  This and the following poem were written (the first of them at my request, for a Novel) by a lady whose death in her thirty-sixth year was a subject of the deepest concern to all who knew her.

  Would to God the last line which my regret on that loss, drew from me, had been prophetic — and that my heart had indeed been cold, instead of having suffered within the next twelve months after that line was written, a deprivation which has rendered my life a living death.

  APRIL.

  Line 4.

  From their moss’d cradles, &c.

  The oak, and, in sheltered situations, the beech, retain the leaves of the preceding year till the new foliage appears.

  The return of the spring, which awakens many to new sentiments of pleasure, now serves only to remind me of past misery.

  This sensation is common to the wretched — and too many poets have felt it in all its force.

  “Zefiro torno, e’l bel tempo rimena,

  E i fiori, e l’erbe, sua dolce famiglia; &c. &c.

  — — “Ma per me lasso!” —

  Petrarch on the Death of Laura.

  And these lines of Guarini have always been celebrated.

  “O primavera gioventù dell’ anno,

  Bella madre di fiori

  D’erbe noveile e di novelli amori;

  Tu torni ben, ma teco

  Non tornano i sereni

  E fortunati di, delle mie gioje;

  Tu torni ben, tu torni,

  Ma teco altro non torna

  Che del perduto mio caro tesoro,

  La rimembranza misera e dolente.”

  ODE TO DEATH.

  From the following sentence in Lord Bacon’s Essays.

  “Death is no such formidable enemy, since a man has so many champions about him that can win the combat of him — Revenge triumphs over Death; Love slights it; Honour courts it; dread of Disgrace chooses it; Grief flies to it; Fear anticipates it.”

  SONNETS ADDED TO LATER EDITIONS

  SONNET: THE FAIREST FLOWERS ARE GONE! FOR TEMPESTS FELL

  The fairest flowers are gone! for tempests fell,

  And with wild wing swept some unblown away,

  While on the upland lawn or rocky dell

  More faded in the day-star’s ardent ray;

  And scarce the copse, or hedge-row shade beneath, 5

  Or by the runnel’s grassy course, appear

  Some lingering blossoms of the earlier year,

  Mingling bright florets, in the yellow wreath

  That Autumn with his poppies and his corn

  Binds on his tawny temples. — So the
schemes 10

  Rais’d by fond Hope in youth’s unclouded morn,

  While sanguine youth enjoys delusive dreams,

  Experience withers; till scarce one remains

  Flattering the languid heart, where only Reason reigns!

  SONNET WRITTEN NEAR A PORT ON A DARK EVENING

  Huge vapours brood above the clifted shore,

  Night on the Ocean settles, dark and mute,

  Save where is heard the repercussive roar

  Of drowsy billows, on the rugged foot

  Of rocks remote; or still more distant tone 5

  Of seamen in the anchor’d bark that tell

  The watch reliev’d; or one deep voice alone

  Singing the hour, and bidding “Strike the bell.”

  All is black shadow, but the lucid line

  Mark’d by the light surf on the level sand, 10

  Or where afar the ship-lights faintly shine

  Like wandering fairy fires, that oft on land

  Mislead the Pilgrim. — Such the dubious ray

  That wavering Reason lends, in life’s long darkling way.

  SONNET WRITTEN IN OCTOBER

  The blasts of Autumn as they scatter round

  The faded foliage of another year,

  And muttering many a sad and solemn sound,

  Drive the pale fragments o’er the stubble sere,

  Are well attuned to my dejected mood; 5

  (Ah! better far than airs that breathe of Spring!)

  While the high rooks, that hoarsely clamouring

  Seek in black phalanx the half-leafless wood,

  I rather hear, than that enraptured lay

  Harmonious, and of Love and Pleasure born, 10

  Which from the golden furze, or flowering thorn

  Awakes the Shepherd in the ides of May;

  Nature delights me most when most she mourns,

  For never more to me the Spring of Hope returns!

  NEPENTHE

  Oh! for imperial Polydamna’s art,

  Which to bright Helen was in Egypt taught,

  To mix with magic power the oblivious draught

  Of force to staunch the bleeding of the heart,

  And to Care’s wan and hollow cheek impart 5

  The smile of happy youth, uncursed with thought.

  Potent indeed the charm that could appease

  Affections ceaseless anguish, doom’d to weep

  O’er the cold grave; or yield even transient ease

  By soothing busy Memory to sleep! 10

  Around me those who surely must have tried

  Some charm of equal power, I daily see,

  But still to me Oblivion is denied,

  There’s no Nepenthe, now, on earth for me.

  TO THE SUN

  Whether awaken’d from unquiet rest

  I watch “the opening eyelids of the Morn,”

  When thou, O Sun! from Ocean’s silver’d breast

  Emerging, bidst another day be born —

  Or whether in thy path of cloudless blue, 5

  Thy noontide fires I mark with dazzled eyes;

  Or to the West thy radiant course pursue,

  Veil’d in the gorgeous broidery of the skies,

  Celestial lamp! thy influence bright and warm

  That renovates the world with life and light 10

  Shines not for me — for never more the form

  I loved — so fondly loved, shall bless my sight;

  And nought thy rays illumine, now can charm

  My misery, or to day convert my night!

  TO OBLIVION

  Forgetfulness! I would thy hand could close

  These eyes that turn reluctant from the day;

  So might this painful consciousness decay,

  And, with my memory, end my cureless woes.

  Sister of Chaos and eternal Night! 5

  Oblivion! take me to thy quiet reign,

  Since robb’d of all that gave my soul delight,

  I only ask exemption from the pain

  Of knowing “such things were” — and are no more;

  Of dwelling on the hours for ever fled, 10

  And heartless, helpless, hopeless to deplore

  “Pale misery living, joy and pleasure dead:”

  While dragging thus unwish’d a length of days,

  “Death seems prepared to strike, yet still delays.

  REFLECTIONS ON SOME DRAWINGS OF PLANTS

  I can in groups these mimic flowers compose,

  These bells and golden eyes, embathed in dew;

  Catch the soft blush that warms the early Rose,

  Or the pale Iris cloud with veins of blue;

  Copy the scallop’d leaves, and downy stems, 5

  And bid the pencil’s varied shades arrest

  Spring’s humid buds, and Summer’s musky gems:

  But, save the portrait on my bleeding breast,

  I have no semblance of that form adored,

  That form, expressive of a soul divine, 10

  So early blighted; and while life is mine,

  With fond regret, and ceaseless grief deplored —

  That grief, my angel! with too faithful art

  Enshrines thy image in thy Mother’s heart.

  SONNET WRITTEN AT BIGNOR PARK IN SUSSEX, IN AUGUST, 1799

  Low murmurs creep along the woody vale,

  The tremulous Aspens shudder in the breeze,

  Slow o’er the downs the leaden vapours sail,

  While I, beneath these old paternal trees,

  Mark the dark shadows of the threaten’d storm, 5

  As gathering clouds o’erveil the morning sun;

  They pass! — But oh! ye visions bright and warm

  With which even here my sanguine youth begun,

  Ye are obscured for ever! — And too late

  The poor Slave shakes the unworthy bonds away 10

  Which crush’d her! — Lo! the radiant star of day

  Lights up this lovely scene anew. — My fate

  Nor hope nor joy illumines — Nor for me

  Return those rosy hours which here I used to see!

  ODE TO DESPAIR

  Thou spectre of terrific mien!

  Lord of the hopeless heart and hollow eye,

  In whose fierce train each form is seen

  That drives sick Reason to insanity!

  I woo thee with unusual prayer, 5

  “Grim-visaged, comfortless Despair!”

  Approach — in me a willing victim find,

  Who seeks thine iron sway — and calls thee kind!

  Ah! hide for ever from my sight

  The faithless flatterer Hope — whose pencil gay, 10

  Pourtrays some vision of delight,

  Then bids the fairy tablet fade away;

  While in dire contrast to mine eyes

  Thy phantoms, yet more hideous, rise,

  And Memory draws from Pleasure’s wither’d flower, 15

  Corrosives for the heart — of fatal power!

  I bid the traitor Love adieu!

  Who to this fond believing bosom came,

  A guest insidious and untrue,

  With Pity’s soothing voice — in Friendship’s name; 20

  The wounds he gave, nor Time shall cure,

  Nor Reason teach me to endure.

  And to that breast mild Patience pleads in vain,

  Which feels the curse — of meriting its pain.

  Yet not to me, tremendous Power! 25

  Thy worst of spirit-wounding pangs impart,

  With which, in dark conviction’s hour,

  Thou strikest the guilty unrepentant heart;

  But of Illusion long the sport,

  That dreary, tranquil gloom I court, 30

  Where my past errors I may still deplore,

  And dream of long-lost happiness no more!

  To thee I give this tortured breast,

  Where Hope arises but to foster Pain;

  Ah! lull its agonies to rest!
35

  Ah! let me never be deceived again!

  But callous, in thy deep repose,

  Behold, in long array, the woes

  Of the dread future, calm and undismay’d,

  Till I may claim the hope — that shall not fade! 40

  ELEGY

  “Dark gathering clouds involve the threatening skies,

  The sea heaves conscious of the impending gloom,

  Deep, hollow murmurs from the cliffs arise;

  They come — the Spirits of the Tempest come!

  Oh, may such terrors mark the approaching night 5

  As reign’d on that these streaming eyes deplore!

  Flash, ye red fires of heaven! with fatal light,

  And with conflicting winds, ye waters! roar.

  Loud and more loud, ye foaming billows! burst;

  Ye warring elements! more fiercely rave, 10

  Till the wide waves o’erwhelm the spot accurst

  Where ruthless Avarice finds a quiet grave!”

  Thus with clasp’d hands, wild looks, and streaming hair,

  While shrieks of horror broke her trembling speech,

  A wretched maid — the victim of Despair, 15

  Survey’d the threatening storm and desart beech;

  Then to the tomb where now the father slept

  Whose rugged nature bade her sorrows flow,