Charlotte Smith: Всі вірші поета

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Ode To Death

FRIEND of the wretched! wherefore should the eye

Of blank Despair, whence tears have ceased to flow,

Be turn'd from thee?--Ah! wherefore fears to die

He, who compell'd each poignant grief to know,

Drains to its lowest dregs the cup of woe?

Would Cowardice postpone thy calm embrace,

To linger out long years in torturing pain?

Or not prefer thee to the ills that chase

by Charlotte Smith

Sonnet IV To The Moon

QUEEN of the silver bow!--by thy pale beam,

Alone and pensive, I delight to stray,

And watch thy shadow trembling in the stream,

Or mark the floating clouds that cross thy way.

And while I gaze, thy mild and placid light

Sheds a soft calm upon my troubled breast;

And oft I think--fair planet of the night,

That in thy orb, the wretched may have rest:

by Charlotte Smith

Sonnet XXXIV: Charm'd by Thy Suffrage

Charm'd by thy suffrage, shall I yet aspire

(All inauspicious as my fate appears,

By troubles darken'd, that encrease with years,)

To guide the crayon, or to touch the lyre?

Ah me!—-the sister Muses still require

A spirit free from all intrusive fears,

Nor will they deign to wipe away the tears

Of vain regret, that dim their sacred fire.

by Charlotte Smith

Sonnet XLVII: To Fancy

Thee, Queen of Shadows! — shall I still invoke,

Still love the scenes thy sportive pencil drew,

When on mine eyes the early radiance broke

Which shew'd the beauteous rather than the true!

Alas! long since those glowing tints are dead,

And now 'tis thine in darkest hues to dress

The spot where pale Experience hangs her head

O'er the sad grave of murder'd Happiness!

by Charlotte Smith

Sonnet VII: Sweet Poet of the Woods

Sweet poet of the woods—-a long adieu!

Farewel, soft minstrel of the early year!

Ah! 'twill be long ere thou shalt sing anew,

And pour thy music on the 'night's dull ear,'

Whether on spring thy wandering flights await,

Or whether silent in our groves ye dwell,

The pensive muse shall own thee for her mate,

And still protect the song, she loves so well.

by Charlotte Smith

The Emigrants: Book I

Scene, on the Cliffs to the Eastward of the Town of

Brighthelmstone in Sussex. Time, a Morning in November, 1792.

Slow in the Wintry Morn, the struggling light

Throws a faint gleam upon the troubled waves;

Their foaming tops, as they approach the shore

And the broad surf that never ceasing breaks

On the innumerous pebbles, catch the beams

Of the pale Sun, that with reluctance gives

by Charlotte Smith

The First Swallow

The gorse is yellow on the heath,

The banks with speedwell flowers are gay,

The oaks are budding, and, beneath,

The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath,

The silver wreath, of May.

The welcome guest of settled Spring,

The swallow, too, has come at last;

Just at sunset, when thrushes sing,

by Charlotte Smith

Huge Vapours Brood above the Clifted Shore

Huge vapours brood above the clifted shore,

Night o'er 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 XLII: Composed During a Walk

The dark and pillowy cloud, the sallow trees,

Seem o'er the ruins of the year to mourn;

And, cold and hollow, the inconstant breeze

Sobs thro' the falling leaves and wither'd fern.

O'er the tall brow of yonder chalky bourn,

The evening shades their gather'd darkness fling,

While, by the lingering light, I scarce discern

The shrieking night-jar sail on heavy wing.

by Charlotte Smith

Sonnet III: To a Nightingale

Poor melancholy bird—-that all night long

Tell'st to the Moon, thy tale of tender woe;

From what sad cause can such sweet sorrow flow,

And whence this mournful melody of song?

Thy poet's musing fancy would translate

What mean the sounds that swell thy little breast,

When still at dewy eve thou leav'st thy nest,

Thus to the listening night to sing thy fate!

by Charlotte Smith

Ode To The Poppy

Written by a deceased friend.

NOT for the promise of the labour'd field,

Not for the good the yellow harvests yield,

I bend at Ceres' shrine;

For dull, to human eyes, appear

The golden glories of the year,

Alas!--a melancholy worship's mine,

I hail the goddess for her scarlet flower;

by Charlotte Smith

Sonnet XLIV: Press'd by the Moon

Press'd by the Moon, mute arbitress of tides,

While the loud equinox its power combines,

The sea no more its swelling surge confines,

But o'er the shrinking land sublimely rides.

The wild blast, rising from the Western cave,

Drives the huge billows from their heaving bed;

Tears from their grassy tombs the village dead,

And breaks the silent sabbath of the grave!

by Charlotte Smith