Charlotte Smith: Всі вірші поета

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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,

Charlotte Smith

April

GREEN o'er the copses spring's soft hues are spreading,

High wave the reeds in the transparent floods,

The oak its sear and sallow foliage shedding,

From their moss'd cradles start its infant buds.

Pale as the tranquil tide of summer's ocean,

The willow now its slender leaf unveils;

And through the sky with swiftly fleeting motion,

Driv'n by the wind, the rack of April sails.

Charlotte Smith

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,

That clothes the bark in many a fringed fold

Begemm'd with scarlet shields, and cups of gold,

Which, to the wildest winds their webs oppose,

Charlotte Smith

Song III

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 Morning's arrowy beams arise,

He sparkles in the enlivening ray,

Charlotte Smith

Beachy Head

ON thy stupendous summit, rock sublime !

That o'er the channel rear'd, half way at sea

The mariner at early morning hails,

I would recline; while Fancy should go forth,

And represent the strange and awful hour

Of vast concussion; when the Omnipotent

Stretch'd forth his arm, and rent the solid hills,

Bidding the impetuous main flood rush between

Charlotte Smith

Sonnet LXVI: The Night-Flood Rakes

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;

Charlotte Smith

The Emigrants: Book II

Scene, on an Eminence on one of those Downs, which afford to the South a view of the Sea; to the North of the Weald of Sussex. Time, an Afternoon in April, 1793.

Long wintry months are past; the Moon that now

Lights her pale crescent even at noon, has made

Four times her revolution; since with step,

Mournful and slow, along the wave-worn cliff,

Pensive I took my solitary way,

Lost in despondence, while contemplating

Not my own wayward destiny alone,

Charlotte Smith

The Dead Beggar

AN ELEGY.

Addressed to a Lady, who was affected at seeing the

Funeral of a nameless Pauper, buried at the ex-

pense of the Parish, in the Church-Yard at Bright-

helmstone, in November 1792.

SWELLS then thy feeling heart, and streams thine eye

O'er the deserted being, poor and old,

Whom cold, reluctant, parish charity

Charlotte Smith

Sonnet LXVII: On Passing over a Dreary Tract

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.

Charlotte Smith

Sonnet XLIII: The Unhappy Exile

The unhappy exile, whom his fates confine

To the bleak coast of some unfriendly isle,

Cold, barren, desart, where no harvests smile,

But thirst and hunger on the rocks repine;

When, from some promontory's fearful brow,

Sun after sun he hopeless sees decline

In the broad shipless sea—perhaps may know

Such heartless pain, such blank despair as mine;

Charlotte Smith

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:

Charlotte Smith

Sonnet I

THE partial Muse, has from my earliest hours,

Smil'd on the rugged path I'm doom'd to tread,

And still with sportive hand has snatch'd wild flowers,

To weave fantastic garlands for my head:

But far, far happier is the lot of those

Who never learn'd her dear delusive art;

Which, while it decks the head with many a rose,

Charlotte Smith