Charlotte Smith- Collected Poetical Works

by Charlotte Smith

With tassels that perfumed the Summer air, 10

  The mantling Clematis, whose feathery bowers

  Waved in festoons with Nightshade’s purple flowers,

  The silver weed, whose corded fillets wove

  Round thy pale rind, even as deceitful love

  Of mercenary beauty would engage 15

  The dotard fondness of decrepit age;

  All these, that during Summer’s halcyon days

  With their green canopies conceal’d thy sprays,

  Are gone for ever; or disfigured, trail

  Their sallow relics in the Autumnal gale; 20

  Or o’er thy roots, in faded fragments tost,

  But tell of happier hours, and sweetness lost!

  — Thus in Fate’s trying hour, when furious storms

  Strip social life of Pleasure’s fragile forms,

  And aweful Justice, as his rightful prey 25

  Tears Luxury’s silk, and jewel’d robe, away,

  While reads Adversity her lesson stern,

  And Fortune’s minions tremble as they learn;

  The crouds around her gilded car that hung,

  Bent the lithe knee, and troul’d the honey’d tongue, 30

  Desponding fall, or fly in pale despair;

  And Scorn alone remembers that they were.

  Not so Integrity; unchanged he lives

  In the rude armour conscious Honor gives,

  And dares with hardy front the troubled sky, 35

  In Honesty’s uninjured panoply.

  Ne’er on Prosperity’s enfeebling bed

  Or rosy pillows, he reposed his head,

  But given to useful arts, his ardent mind

  Has sought the general welfare of mankind; 40

  To mitigate their ills his greatest bliss,

  While studying them, has taught him what he is;

  He, when the human tempest rages worst,

  And the earth shudders as the thunders burst,

  Firm, as thy northern branch, is rooted fast, 45

  And if he can’t avert, endures the blast.

  THE FOREST BOY

  The trees have now hid at the edge of the hurst

  The spot where the ruins decay

  Of the cottage, where Will of the Woodlands was nursed

  And lived so beloved, till the moment accurst

  When he went from the woodland away. 5

  Among all the lads of the plough or the fold,

  Best esteem’d by the sober and good,

  Was Will of the Woodlands; and often the old

  Would tell of his frolics, for active and bold

  Was William the Boy of the wood. 10

  Yet gentle was he, as the breath of the May,

  And when sick and declining was laid

  The Woodman his father, young William away

  Would go to the forest to labour all day,

  And perform his hard task in his stead. 15

  And when his poor father the forester died,

  And his mother was sad, and alone,

  He toil’d from the dawn, and at evening he hied

  In storm or in snow, or whate’er might betide,

  To supply all her wants from the town. 20

  One neighbour they had on the heath to the west,

  And no other the cottage was near,

  But she would send Phoebe, the child she loved best,

  To stay with the widow, thus sad and distrest,

  Her hours of dejection to cheer. 25

  As the buds of wild roses, the cheeks of the maid

  Were just tinted with youth’s lovely hue,

  Her form like the aspen, soft graces display’d,

  And the eyes, over which her luxuriant locks stray’d,

  As the skies of the Summer were blue! 30

  Still labouring to live, yet reflecting the while,

  Young William consider’d his lot;

  ’Twas hard, yet ’twas honest; and one tender smile

  From Phoebe at night overpaid ev’ry toil,

  And then all his fatigues were forgot. 35

  By the brook where it glides thro’ the copse of Arbeal,

  When to eat his cold fare he reclined,

  Then soft from her home his sweet Phoebe would steal

  And bring him wood-strawberries to finish his meal,

  And would sit by his side while he dined. 40

  And tho’ when employ’d in the deep forest glade,

  His days have seem’d slowly to move,

  Yet Phoebe going home, thro’ the wood-walk has stray’d

  To bid him good night! — and whatever she said

  Was more sweet than the voice of the dove. 45

  Fair Hope, that the lover so fondly believes,

  Then repeated each soul-soothing speech,

  And touch’d with illusion, that often deceives

  The future with light; as the sun thro’ the leaves

  Illumines the boughs of the beech. 50

  But once more the tempests of chill Winter blow,

  To depress and disfigure the earth;

  And now ere the dawn, the young Woodman must go

  To his work in the forest, half buried in snow,

  And at night bring home wood for the hearth. 55

  The bridge on the heath by the flood was wash’d down,

  And fast, fast fell the sleet and the rain,

  The stream to a wild rapid river was grown,

  And long might the widow sit sighing alone

  Ere sweet Phoebe could see her again. 60

  At the town was a market — and now for supplies

  Such as needed their humble abode,

  Young William went forth; and his mother with sighs

  Watch’d long at the window, with tears in her eyes,

  Till he turn’d thro’ the fields, to the road. 65

  Then darkness came on; and she heard with affright

  The wind rise every moment more high;

  She look’d from the door; not a star lent its light,

  But the tempest redoubled the gloom of the night,

  And the rain fell in floods from the sky. 70

  The clock in her cottage now mournfully told

  The hours that went heavily on;

  ’Twas midnight; her spirits sunk hopeless and cold,

  For the wind seem’d to say as in loud gusts it roll’d,

  That long, long would her William be gone. 75

  Then heart-sick and faint to her sad bed she crept,

  Yet first made up the fire in the room

  To guide his dark steps; but she listen’d and wept,

  Or if for a moment forgetful she slept,

  She soon started! — and thought he was come. 80

  ’Twas morn; and the wind with an hoarse sullen moan

  Now seem’d dying away in the wood,

  When the poor wretched mother still drooping, alone,

  Beheld on the threshold a figure unknown,

  In gorgeous apparel who stood. 85

  “Your son is a soldier,” abruptly cried he,

  “And a place in our corps has obtain’d,

  Nay, be not cast down; you perhaps may soon see

  Your William a captain! he now sends by me

  The purse he already has gain’d.” 90

  So William entrapp’d ‘twixt persuasion and force,

  Is embark’d for the isles of the West,

  But he seem’d to begin with ill omens his course,

  And felt recollection, regret, and remorse

  Continually weigh on his breast. 95

  With useless repentance he eagerly eyed

  The high coast as it faded from view,

  And saw the green hills, on whose northernmost side

  Was his own sylvan home: and he falter’d and cried

  “Adieu! ah! for ever adieu! 100

  Who now, my poor mother, thy life shall sustain,

  Since thy son has thus left thee forlorn?

  Ah! canst thou fo
rgive me? And not in the pain

  Of this cruel desertion, of William complain,

  And lament that he ever was born? 105

  Sweet Phoebe! — if ever thy lover was dear,

  Now forsake not the cottage of woe,

  But comfort my mother; and quiet her fear,

  And help her to dry up the vain fruitless tear

  That too long for my absence will flow. 110

  Yet what if my Phoebe another should wed,

  And lament her lost William no more?”

  The thought was too cruel; and anguish soon sped

  The dart of disease — With the brave numerous dead

  He has fall’n on the plague-tainted shore. 115

  In the lone village church-yard, the chancel-wall near,

  The high grass now waves over the spot

  Where the mother of William, unable to bear

  His loss, who to her widow’d heart was so dear,

  Has both him and her sorrows forgot. 120

  By the brook where it winds thro’ the wood of Arbeal,

  Or amid the deep forest, to moan,

  The poor wandering Phoebe will silently steal;

  The pain of her bosom no reason can heal,

  And she loves to indulge it alone. 125

  Her senses are injured; her eyes dim with tears;

  By the river she ponders; and weaves

  Reed garlands, against her dear William appears,

  Then breathlessly listens, and fancies she hears

  His light step in the half-wither’d leaves. 130

  Ah! such are the miseries to which ye give birth,

  Ye cold statesmen! unknowing a scar;

  Who from pictured saloon, or the bright sculptured hearth,

  Disperse desolation and death thro’ the earth,

  When ye let loose the demons of war. 135

  VERSES, ON THE DEATH OF HENRIETTA O’NEILL, WRITTEN IN SEPTEMBER, 1794

  Like a poor ghost the night I seek;

  Its hollow winds repeat my sighs;

  The cold dews mingle on my cheek

  With tears that wander from mine eyes.

  The thorns that still my couch molest, 5

  Have robb’d these heavy eyes of sleep;

  But tho’ deprived of tranquil rest,

  I here at least am free to weep.

  Twelve times the moon, that rises red

  O’er you tall wood of shadowy pine, 10

  Has fill’d her orb, since low was laid

  My Harriet! that sweet form of thine!

  While each sad month, as slow it past,

  Brought some new sorrow to deplore;

  Some grief more poignant than the last, 15

  But thou canst calm those griefs no more.

  No more thy friendship soothes to rest

  This wearied spirit tempest-tost;

  The cares that weigh upon my breast

  Are doubly felt since thou art lost. 20

  Bright visions of ideal grace

  That the young poet’s dreams inflame,

  Were not more lovely than thy face;

  Were not more perfect than thy frame.

  Wit, that no sufferings could impair, 25

  Was thine, and thine those mental powers

  Of force to chase the fiends that tear

  From Fancy’s hands her budding flowers.

  O’er what, my angel friend, thou wert,

  Dejected Memory loves to mourn; 30

  Regretting still that tender heart,

  Now withering in a distant urn!

  But ere that wood of shadowy pine

  Twelve times shall you full orb behold,

  This sickening heart, that bleeds for thine, 35

  My Harriet! — may like thine be cold!

  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, 5

  The Willow now its slender leaf unveils;

  And thro’ the sky with swiftly fleeting motion,

  Driven by the wind, the rack of April sails.

  Then, as the gust declines, the stealing showers

  Fall fresh and noiseless; while at closing day 10

  The low Sun gleams on moist and half-blown flowers

  That promise garlands for approaching May.

  Blest are you peasant children, simply singing,

  Who thro’ the new-sprung grass rejoicing rove;

  More blest! to whom the Time, fond thought is bringing, 15

  Of friends expected, or returning love.

  The pensive wanderer blest, to whom reflection

  Points out some future views that sooth his mind;

  Me how unlike! — whom cruel recollection

  But tells of comfort I shall never find! 20

  Hope, that on Natures youth is still attending,

  No more to me her syren song shall sing;

  Never to me her influence extending,

  Shall I again enjoy the days of Spring!

  Yet, how I loved them once these scenes remind me, 25

  When light of heart, in childhood’s thoughtless mirth,

  I reck’d not that the cruel lot assign’d me

  Should make me curse the hour that gave me birth!

  Then, from thy wild-wood banks, Aruna! roving,

  Thy thymy downs with sportive steps I sought, 30

  And Nature’s charms, with artless transport loving,

  Sung like the birds, unheeded and untaught.

  But now the Springtide’s pleasant hours returning,

  Serve to awaken me to sharper pain;

  Recalling scenes of agony and mourning, 35

  Of baffled hope and prayers preferr’d in vain.

  Thus shone the Sun, his vernal rays displaying,

  Thus did the woods in early verdure wave,

  While dire Disease on all I loved was preying,

  And flowers seem’d rising but to strew her grave! 40

  Now, ‘mid reviving blooms, I coldly languish,

  Spring seems devoid of joy to me alone;

  Each sound of pleasure aggravates my anguish,

  And speaks of beauty, youth, and sweetness gone!

  Yet, as stern Duty bids, with faint endeavour 45

  I drag on life, contending with my woe,

  Tho’ conscious Misery still repeats, that never

  My soul one pleasureable hour shall know.

  Lost in the tomb, when Hope no more appeases

  The fester’d wounds that prompt the eternal sigh, 50

  Grief, the most fatal of the heart’s diseases,

  Soon teaches, whom it fastens on, to die.

  The wretch undone, for pain alone existing,

  The abject dread of Death shall sure subdue,

  And far from his decisive hand resisting, 55

  Rejoice to bid a world like this adieu!

  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? 5

  Would Cowardice postpone thy calm embrace,

  To linger out long years in torturing pain?

  Or not prefer thee to the ills that chase

  Him, who too much impoverish’d to obtain

  From British Themis right, implores her aid in vain! 10

  Sharp goading Indigence who would not fly,

  That urges toil the exhausted strength above?

  Or shun the once fond friends averted eye?

  Or who to thy asylum not remove,

  To lose the wasting pain of unrequited love? 15

  Can then the
wounded wretch who must deplore

  What most she loved, to thy cold arms consign’d,

  Who hears the voice that sooth’d her soul no more,

  Fear thee, O Death! — Or hug the chains that bind

  To joyless, cheerless life, her sick, reluctant mind? 20

  Oh! Misery’s Cure; who e’er in pale dismay

  Has watch’d the angel form they could not save,

  And seen their dearest blessing torn away,

  May well the terrors of thy triumph brave,

  Nor pause in fearful dread before the opening grave! 25

  STANZAS: AH! THINK’ST THOU, LAURA, THEN, THAT WEALTH

  Ah! think’st thou, Laura, then, that wealth

  Should make me thus my youth, and health,

  And freedom and repose resign? —

  Ah, no! — I toil to gain by stealth

  One look, one tender glance of thine. 5

  Born where huge hills on hills are piled,

  In Caledonia’s distant wild,

  Unbounded Liberty was mine:

  But thou upon my hopes hast smiled,

  And bade me be a slave of thine! 10

  Amid these gloomy haunts of gain,

  Of weary hours I not complain,

  While Hope forbids me to repine,

  And whispering tells me I obtain

  Pity from that soft heart of thine. 15

  Tho’ far capricious Fortune flies,

  Yet Love will bless the sacrifice,

  And all his purer joys combine;

  While I my little world comprise

  In that fair form, and fairer soul of thine. 20

  TO THE WINDS

  Ye vagrant Winds! you clouds that bear

  Thro’ the blue desart of the air,

  Soft sailing in the Summer sky,

  Do e’er your wandering breezes meet

  A wretch in misery so complete, 5

  So lost as I?