Charlotte Smith: Всі вірші поета

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Sonnet LII

FROM THE NOVEL OF CELESTINA.

THE PILGRIM.

FAULTERING and sad the unhappy pilgrim roves,

Who, on the eve of bleak December's night,

Divided far from all he fondly loves,

Journeys alone, along the giddy height

Of these steep cliffs, and as the sun's last ray

Fades in the West, sees, from the rocky verge,

by Charlotte Smith

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

The mournful period--Thirty-eight.

Then the starch maid, or matron sage,

by Charlotte Smith

Sonnet L

FROM THE NOVEL OF CELESTINA.

FAREWELL, ye lawns!--by fond remembrance blest,

As witnesses of gay unclouded hours;

Where, to maternal friendships' bosom prest,

My happy childhood past among your bowers.

Ye wood-walks wild!--where leaves and fairy flowers

By Spring's luxuriant hand are strewn anew;

Rocks!--whence with shadowy grace rude nature low'rs

by Charlotte Smith

On The Aphorism

"L'Amitié est l'Amour sans ailes."

FRIENDSHIP, as some sage poet sings,

Is chasten'd Love, depriv'd of wings,

Without all wish or power to wander;

Less volatile, but not less tender:

Yet says the proverbs"Sly and slow

"Love creeps, even where he cannot go;"

To clip his pinions then is vain,

by Charlotte Smith

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, through many a stormy hour,

by Charlotte Smith

Occasional Address

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

Of sea-fowl gather round the Hebrid isles.

by Charlotte Smith

Song II

DOES Pity give, though 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

What anxious, watchful Love can see;

Nor know what those soft looks express,

Nor dream that sign is meant for me.

by Charlotte Smith

Ode To Despair

FROM THE NOVEL OF EMMELINE.

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,

"Grim visaged, comfortless Despair:"

Approach; in me a willing victim find,

by Charlotte Smith

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

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!

by Charlotte Smith

Song I

FROM THE FRENCH OF CARDINAL BERNIS.

FRUIT of Aurora's tears, fair rose,

On whose soft leaves fond zephyrs play,

Oh! queen of flowers, thy buds disclose,

And give thy fragrance to the day;

Unveil thy transient charms:--ah, no!

A little be thy bloom delay'd,

by Charlotte Smith

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

Of seamen in the anchored bark that tell

The watch relieved; or one deep voice alone

Singing the hour, and bidding "Strike the bell!"

by Charlotte Smith

Sonnet IX

BLEST is yon shepherd, on the turf reclined,

Who on the varied clouds which float above

Lies idly gazing--while his vacant mind

Pours out some tale antique of rural love!

Ah! he has never felt the pangs that move

Th' indignant spirit, when with selfish pride

Friends, on whose faith the trusting heart relied,

Unkindly shun th' imploring eye of woe!

by Charlotte Smith