Charlotte Smith- Collected Poetical Works

by Charlotte Smith

  Some fortunate reverse that never comes;

  Methinks in each expressive face, I see

  Discriminated anguish; there droops one,

  Who in a moping cloister long consum’d

  This life inactive, to obtain a better,

  And thought that meagre abstinence, to wake

  From his hard pallet with the midnight bell,

  To live on eleemosynary bread,

  And to renounce God’s works, would please that God.

  And now the poor pale wretch receives, amaz’d,

  The pity, strangers give to his distress,

  Because these Strangers are, by his dark creed,

  Condemn’d as Heretics — and with sick heart

  Regrets his pious prison, and his beads. —

  Another, of more haughty port, declines

  The aid he needs not; while in mute despair

  His high indignant thoughts go back to France,

  Dwelling on all he lost — the Gothic dome,

  That vied with splendid palaces ; the beds

  Of silk and down, the silver chalices,

  Vestments with gold enwrought for blazing altars;

  Where, amid clouds of incense, he held forth

  To kneeling crowds the imaginary bones

  Of Saints suppos’d, in pearl and gold enchas’d,

  And still with more than living Monarchs’ pomp

  Surrounded; was believ’d by mumbling bigots

  To hold the keys of Heaven, and to admit

  Whom he thought good to share it — Now alas!

  He, to whose daring soul and high ambition

  The World seem’d circumscrib’d; who, wont to dream,

  Of Fleuri, Richelieu, Alberoni, men

  Who trod on Empire, and whose politics

  Were not beyond the grasp of his vast mind,

  Is, in a Land once hostile, still prophan’d

  By disbelief, and rites un-orthodox,

  The object of compassion — At his side,

  Lighter of heart than these, but heavier far

  Than he was wont, another victim comes,

  An Abbé — who with less contracted brow

  Still smiles and flatters, and still talks of Hope;

  Which, sanguine as he is, he does not feel,

  And so he cheats the sad and weighty pressure

  Of evils present; —— Still, as Men misled

  By early prejudice (so hard to break),

  I mourn your sorrows; for I too have known

  Involuntary exile; and while yet

  England had charms for me, have felt how sad

  It is to look across the dim cold sea,

  That melancholy rolls its refluent tides

  Between us and the dear regretted land

  We call our own — as now ye pensive wait

  On this bleak morning, gazing on the waves

  That seem to leave your shore; from whence the wind

  Is loaded to your ears, with the deep groans

  Of martyr’d Saints and suffering Royalty,

  While to your eyes the avenging power of Heaven

  Appears in aweful anger to prepare

  The storm of vengeance, fraught with plagues and death.

  Even he of milder heart, who was indeed

  The simple shepherd in a rustic scene,

  And, ‘mid the vine-clad hills of Languedoc,

  Taught to the bare-foot peasant, whose hard hands

  Produc’d the nectar he could seldom taste,

  Submission to the Lord for whom he toil’d;

  He, or his brethren, who to Neustria’s sons

  Enforc’d religious patience, when, at times,

  On their indignant hearts Power’s iron hand

  Too strongly struck; eliciting some sparks

  Of the bold spirit of their native North;

  Even these Parochial Priests, these humbled men;

  Whose lowly undistinguish’d cottages

  Witness’d a life of purest piety,

  While the meek tenants were, perhaps, unknown

  Each to the haughty Lord of his domain,

  Who mark’d them not; the Noble scorning still

  The poor and pious Priest, as with slow pace

  He glided thro’ the dim arch’d avenue

  Which to the Castle led; hoping to cheer

  The last sad hour of some laborious life

  That hasten’d to its close — even such a Man

  Becomes an exile; staying not to try

  By temperate zeal to check his madd’ning flock,

  Who, at the novel sound of Liberty

  (Ah! most intoxicating sound to slaves!),

  Start into licence — Lo! dejected now,

  The wandering Pastor mourns, with bleeding heart,

  His erring people, weeps and prays for them,

  And trembles for the account that he must give

  To Heaven for souls entrusted to his care. —

  Where the cliff, hollow’d by the wintry storm,

  Affords a seat with matted sea-weed strewn,

  A softer form reclines; around her run,

  On the rough shingles, or the chalky bourn,

  Her gay unconscious children, soon amus’d;

  Who pick the fretted stone, or glossy shell,

  Or crimson plant marine: or they contrive

  The fairy vessel, with its ribband sail

  And gilded paper pennant: in the pool,

  Left by the salt wave on the yielding sands,

  They launch the mimic navy — Happy age!

  Unmindful of the miseries of Man! —

  Alas! too long a victim to distress,

  Their Mother, lost in melancholy thought,

  Lull’d for a moment by the murmurs low

  Of sullen billows, wearied by the task

  Of having here, with swol’n and aching eyes

  Fix’d on the grey horizon, since the dawn

  Solicitously watch’d the weekly sail

  From her dear native land, now yields awhile

  To kind forgetfulness, while Fancy brings,

  In waking dreams, that native land again!

  Versailles appears — its painted galleries,

  And rooms of regal splendour, rich with gold,

  Where, by long mirrors multiply’d, the crowd

  Paid willing homage — and, united there,

  Beauty gave charms to empire — Ah! too soon

  From the gay visionary pageant rous’d,

  See the sad mourner start! — and, drooping, look

  With tearful eyes and heaving bosom round

  On drear reality — where dark’ning waves,

  Urg’d by the rising wind, unheeded foam

  Near her cold rugged seat: — To call her thence

  A fellow-sufferer comes: dejection deep

  Checks, but conceals not quite, the martial air,

  And that high consciousness of noble blood,

  Which he has learn’d from infancy to think

  Exalts him o’er the race of common men:

  Nurs’d in the velvet lap of luxury,

  And fed by adulation — could he learn,

  That worth alone is true Nobility?

  And that the peasant who, “amid the sons

  “Of Reason, Valour, Liberty, and Virtue,

  “Displays distinguish’d merit, is a Noble

  “Of Nature’s own creation!” — If even here,

  If in this land of highly vaunted Freedom,

  Even Britons controvert the unwelcome truth,

  Can it be relish’d by the sons of France?

  Men, who derive their boasted ancestry

  From the fierce leaders of religious wars,

  The first in Chivalry’s emblazon’d page;

  Who reckon Gueslin, Bayard, or De Foix,

  Among their brave Progenitors? Their eyes,

  Accustom’d to regard the splendid trophies

  Of Heraldry (that with fanta
stic hand

  Mingles, like images in feverish dreams,

  “Gorgons and Hydras, and Chimeras dire,”

  With painted puns, and visionary shapes;),

  See not the simple dignity of Virtue,

  But hold all base, whom honours such as these

  Exalt not from the crowd — As one, who long

  Has dwelt amid the artificial scenes

  Of populous City, deems that splendid shows,

  The Theatre, and pageant pomp of Courts,

  Are only worth regard; forgets all taste

  For Nature’s genuine beauty; in the lapse

  Of gushing waters hears no soothing sound,

  Nor listens with delight to sighing winds,

  That, on their fragrant pinions, waft the notes

  Of birds rejoicing in the trangled copse;

  Nor gazes pleas’d on Ocean’s silver breast,

  While lightly o’er it sails the summer clouds

  Reflected in the wave, that, hardly heard,

  Flows on the yellow sands: so to his mind,

  That long has liv’d where Despotism hides

  His features harsh, beneath the diadem

  Of worldly grandeur, abject Slavery seems,

  If by that power impos’d, slavery no more:

  For luxury wreathes with silk the iron bonds,

  And hides the ugly rivets with her flowers,

  Till the degenerate triflers, while they love

  The glitter of the chains, forget their weight.

  But more the Men , whose ill acquir’d wealth

  Was wrung from plunder’d myriads, by the means

  Too often legaliz’d by power abus’d,

  Feel all the horrors of the fatal change,

  When their ephemeral greatness, marr’d at once

  (As a vain toy that Fortune’s childish hand

  Equally joy’d to fashion or to crush),

  Leaves them expos’d to universal scorn

  For having nothing else; not even the claim

  To honour, which respect for Heroes past

  Allows to ancient titles; Men, like these,

  Sink even beneath the level, whence base arts

  Alone had rais’d them; — unlamented sink,

  And know that they deserve the woes they feel.

  Poor wand’ring wretches! whosoe’er ye are,

  That hopeless, houseless, friendless, travel wide

  O’er these bleak russet downs; where, dimly seen,

  The solitary Shepherd shiv’ring tends

  His dun discolour’d flock (Shepherd, unlike

  Him, whom in song the Poet’s fancy crowns

  With garlands, and his crook with vi’lets binds);

  Poor vagrant wretches! outcasts of the world!

  Whom no abode receives, no parish owns;

  Roving, like Nature’s commoners, the land

  That boasts such general plenty: if the sight

  Of wide-extended misery softens yours

  Awhile, suspend your murmurs! — here behold

  The strange vicissitudes of fate — while thus

  The exil’d Nobles, from their country driven,

  Whose richest luxuries were their’s, must feel

  More poignant anguish, than the lowest poor,

  Who, born to indigence, have learn’d to brave

  Rigid Adversity’s depressing breath! —

  Ah! rather Fortune’s worthless favourites!

  Who feed on England’s vitals — Pensioners

  Of base corruption, who, in quick ascent

  To opulence unmerited, become

  Giddy with pride, and as ye rise, forgetting

  The dust ye lately left, with scorn look down

  On those beneath ye (tho’ your equals once

  In fortune, and in worth superior still,

  They view the eminence, on which ye stand,

  With wonder, not with envy; for they know

  The means, by which ye reach’d it, have been such

  As, in all honest eyes, degrade ye far

  Beneath the poor dependent, whose sad heart

  Reluctant pleads for what your pride denies);

  Ye venal, worthless hirelings of a Court!

  Ye pamper’d Parasites! whom Britons pay

  For forging fetters for them; rather here

  Study a lesson that concerns ye much;

  And, trembling, learn, that if oppress’d too long,

  The raging multitude, to madness stung,

  Will turn on their oppressors; and, no more

  By sounding titles and parading forms

  Bound like tame victims, will redress themselves!

  Then swept away by the resistless torrent,

  Not only all your pomp may disappear,

  But, in the tempest lost, fair Order sink

  Her decent head, and lawless Anarchy

  O’erturn celestial Freedom’s radiant throne; —

  As now in Gallia; where Confusion, born

  Of party rage and selfish love of rule,

  Sully the noblest cause that ever warm’d

  The heart of Patriot Virtue — There arise

  The infernal passions; Vengeance, seeking blood,

  And Avarice; and Envy’s harpy fangs

  Pollute the immortal shrine of Liberty,

  Dismay her votaries, and disgrace her name.

  Respect is due to principle; and they,

  Who suffer for their conscience, have a claim,

  Whate’er that principle may be, to praise.

  These ill-starr’d Exiles then, who, bound by ties,

  To them the bonds of honour; who resign’d

  Their country to preserve them, and now seek

  In England an asylum — well deserve

  To find that (every prejudice forgot,

  Which pride and ignorance teaches), we for them

  Feel as our brethren; and that English hearts,

  Of just compassion ever own the sway,

  As truly as our element, the deep,

  Obeys the mild dominion of the Moon —

  This they have found; and may they find it still!

  Thus may’st thou, Britain, triumph! — May thy foes,

  By Reason’s gen’rous potency subdued,

  Learn, that the God thou worshippest, delights

  In acts of pure humanity! — May thine

  Be still such bloodless laurels! nobler far

  Than those acquir’d at Cressy or Poictiers,

  Or of more recent growth, those well bestow’d

  On him who stood on Calpe’s blazing height

  Amid the thunder of a warring world,

  Illustrious rather from the crowds he sav’d

  From flood and fire, than from the ranks who fell

  Beneath his valour! — Actions such as these,

  Like incense rising to the Throne of Heaven,

  Far better justify the pride, that swells

  In British bosoms, than the deafening roar

  Of Victory from a thousand brazen throats,

  That tell with what success wide-wasting War

  Has by our brave Compatriots thinned the world.

  END OF BOOK I.

  THE EMIGRANTS. BOOK II.

  Quippe ubi fas versum atque nefas: tot bella per orbem

  Tam multæ scelerum facies; non ullus aratro

  Dignus honos: squalent abductis arva colonis,

  Et curva rigidum falces conflantur in ensem

  Hinc movet Euphrates, illinc Germania bellum

  Vicinæ ruptis inter se legibus urbes

  Arma ferunt: sævit toto Mars impius orbe.

  GEOR. LIB. I.

  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 t
imes 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,

  (Hard as it is, and difficult to bear!)

  But in beholding the unhappy lot

  Of the lorn Exiles; who, amid the storms

  Of wild disastrous Anarchy, are thrown,

  Like shipwreck’d sufferers, on England’s coast,

  To see, perhaps, no more their native land,

  Where Desolation riots: They, like me,

  From fairer hopes and happier prospects driven,

  Shrink from the future, and regret the past.

  But on this Upland scene, while April comes,

  With fragrant airs, to fan my throbbing breast,

  Fain would I snatch an interval from Care,

  That weighs my wearied spirit down to earth;

  Courting, once more, the influence of Hope

  (For “Hope” still waits upon the flowery prime)

  As here I mark Spring’s humid hand unfold

  The early leaves that fear capricious winds,

  While, even on shelter’d banks, the timid flowers

  Give, half reluctantly, their warmer hues

  To mingle with the primroses’ pale stars.

  No shade the leafless copses yet afford,

  Nor hide the mossy labours of the Thrush,

  That, startled, darts across the narrow path;

  But quickly re-assur’d, resumes his talk,

  Or adds his louder notes to those that rise

  From yonder tufted brake; where the white buds

  Of the first thorn are mingled with the leaves

  Of that which blossoms on the brow of May.

  Ah! ‘twill not be: —— So many years have pass’d,

  Since, on my native hills, I learn’d to gaze

  On these delightful landscapes; and those years

  Have taught me so much sorrow, that my soul

  Feels not the joy reviving Nature brings;

  But, in dark retrospect, dejected dwells

  On human follies, and on human woes. ——

  What is the promise of the infant year,

  The lively verdure, or the bursting blooms,

  To those, who shrink from horrors such as War

  Spreads o’er the affrighted world? With swimming eye,

  Back on the past they throw their mournful looks,

  And see the Temple, which they fondly hop’d

  Reason would raise to Liberty, destroy’d

  By ruffian hands; while, on the ruin’d mass,