Charlotte Smith- Collected Poetical Works

by Charlotte Smith

  Flush’d with hot blood, the Fiend of Discord sits

  In savage triumph; mocking every plea

  Of policy and justice, as she shews

  The headless corse of one, whose only crime

  Was being born a Monarch — Mercy turns,

  From spectacle so dire, her swol’n eyes;

  And Liberty, with calm, unruffled brow

  Magnanimous, as conscious of her strength

  In Reason’s panoply, scorns to distain

  Her righteous cause with carnage, and resigns

  To Fraud and Anarchy the infuriate crowd. ——

  What is the promise of the infant year

  To those, who (while the poor but peaceful hind

  Pens, unmolested, the encreasing flock

  Of his rich master in this sea-fenc’d isle)

  Survey, in neighbouring countries, scenes that make

  The sick heart shudder; and the Man, who thinks,

  Blush for his species? There the trumpet’s voice

  Drowns the soft warbling of the woodland choir;

  And violets, lurking in their turfy beds

  Beneath the flow’ring thorn, are stain’d with blood.

  There fall, at once, the spoiler and the spoil’d;

  While War, wide-ravaging, annihilates

  The hope of cultivation; gives to Fiends,

  The meagre, ghastly Fiends of Want and Woe,

  The blasted land — There, taunting in the van

  Of vengeance-breathing armies, Insult stalks;

  And, in the ranks, “ Famine, and Sword, and Fire,

  “Crouch for employment.” — Lo! the suffering world,

  Torn by the fearful conflict, shrinks, amaz’d,

  From Freedom’s name, usurp’d and misapplied,

  And, cow’ring to the purple Tyrant’s rod,

  Deems that the lesser ill — Deluded Men!

  Ere ye prophane her ever-glorious name,

  Or catalogue the thousands that have bled

  Resisting her; or those, who greatly died

  Martyrs to Liberty — revert awhile

  To the black scroll, that tells of regal crimes

  Committed to destroy her; rather count

  The hecatombs of victims, who have fallen

  Beneath a single despot; or who gave

  Their wasted lives for some disputed claim

  Between anointed robbers: Monsters both!

  “Oh! Polish’d perturbation — golden care!”

  So strangely coveted by feeble Man

  To lift him o’er his fellows; — Toy, for which

  Such showers of blood have drench’d th’ affrighted earth —

  Unfortunate his lot, whose luckless head

  Thy jewel’d circlet, lin’d with thorns, has bound;

  And who, by custom’s laws, obtains from thee

  Hereditary right to rule, uncheck’d,

  Submissive myriads: for untemper’d power,

  Like steel ill form’d, injures the hand

  It promis’d to protect — Unhappy France!

  If e’er thy lilies, trampled now in dust,

  And blood-bespotted, shall again revive

  In silver splendour, may the wreath be wov’n

  By voluntary hands; and Freemen, such

  As England’s self might boast, unite to place

  The guarded diadem on his fair brow,

  Where Loyalty may join with Liberty

  To fix it firmly. — In the rugged school

  Of stern Adversity so early train’d,

  His future life, perchance, may emulate

  That of the brave Bernois , so justly call’d

  The darling of his people; who rever’d

  The Warrior less, than they ador’d the Man!

  But ne’er may Party Rage, perverse and blind,

  And base Venality, prevail to raise

  To public trust, a wretch, whose private vice

  Makes even the wildest profligate recoil;

  And who, with hireling ruffians leagu’d, has burst

  The laws of Nature and Humanity!

  Wading, beneath the Patriot’s specious mask,

  And in Equality’s illusive name,

  To empire thro’ a stream of kindred blood —

  Innocent prisoner! — most unhappy heir

  Of fatal greatness, who art suffering now

  For all the crimes and follies of thy race;

  Better for thee, if o’er thy baby brow

  The regal mischief never had been held:

  Then, in an humble sphere, perhaps content,

  Thou hadst been free and joyous on the heights

  Of Pyrennean mountains, shagg’d with woods

  Of chesnut, pine, and oak: as on these hills

  Is yonder little thoughtless shepherd lad,

  Who, on the slope abrupt of downy turf

  Reclin’d in playful indolence, sends off

  The chalky ball, quick bounding far below;

  While, half forgetful of his simple task,

  Hardly his length’ning shadow, or the bells’

  Slow tinkling of his flock, that supping tend

  To the brown fallows in the vale beneath,

  Where nightly it is folded, from his sport

  Recal the happy idler. — While I gaze

  On his gay vacant countenance, my thoughts

  Compare with his obscure, laborious lot,

  Thine, most unfortunate, imperial Boy!

  Who round thy sullen prison daily hear’st

  The savage howl of Murder, as it seeks

  Thy unoffending life: while sad within

  Thy wretched Mother, petrified with grief,

  Views thee with stony eyes, and cannot weep! —

  Ah! much I mourn thy sorrows, hapless Queen!

  And deem thy expiation made to Heaven

  For every fault, to which Prosperity

  Betray’d thee, when it plac’d thee on a throne

  Where boundless power was thine, and thou wert rais’d

  High (as it seem’d) above the envious reach

  Of destiny! Whate’er thy errors were,

  Be they no more remember’d; tho’ the rage

  Of Party swell’d them to such crimes, as bade

  Compassion stifle every sigh that rose

  For thy disastrous lot — More than enough

  Thou hast endur’d; and every English heart,

  Ev’n those, that highest beat in Freedom’s cause,

  Disclaim as base, and of that cause unworthy,

  The Vengeance, or the Fear, that makes thee still

  A miserable prisoner! — Ah! who knows,

  From sad experience, more than I, to feel

  For thy desponding spirit, as it sinks

  Beneath procrastinated fears for those

  More dear to thee than life! But eminence

  Of misery is thine, as once of joy;

  And, as we view the strange vicissitude,

  We ask anew, where happiness is found? —— —

  Alas! in rural life, where youthful dreams

  See the Arcadia that Romance describes,

  Not even Content resides! — In yon low hut

  Of clay and thatch, where rises the grey smoke

  Of smold’ring turf, cut from the adjoining moor,

  The labourer, its inhabitant, who toils

  From the first dawn of twilight, till the Sun

  Sinks in the rosy waters of the West,

  Finds that with poverty it cannot dwell;

  For bread, and scanty bread, is all he earns

  For him and for his household — Should Disease,

  Born of chill wintry rains, arrest his arm,

  Then, thro’ his patch’d and straw-stuff’d casement, peeps

  The squalid figure of extremest Want;

  And from the Parish the reluctant dole,

  Dealt by th’ unfeeling farmer, hardly saves

  The ling’ring spark o
f life from cold extinction:

  Then the bright Sun of Spring, that smiling bids

  All other animals rejoice, beholds,

  Crept from his pallet, the emaciate wretch

  Attempt, with feeble effort, to resume

  Some heavy task, above his wasted strength,

  Turning his wistful looks (how much in vain!)

  To the deserted mansion, where no more

  The owner (gone to gayer scenes) resides,

  Who made even luxury, Virtue; while he gave

  The scatter’d crumbs to honest Poverty. —

  But, tho’ the landscape be too oft deform’d

  By figures such as these, yet Peace is here,

  And o’er our vallies, cloath’d with springing corn,

  No hostile hoof shall trample, nor fierce flames

  Wither the wood’s young verdure, ere it form

  Gradual the laughing May’s luxuriant shade;

  For, by the rude sea guarded, we are safe,

  And feel not evils such as with deep sighs

  The Emigrants deplore, as, they recal

  The Summer past, when Nature seem’d to lose

  Her course in wild distemperature, and aid,

  With seasons all revers’d, destructive War.

  Shuddering, I view the pictures they have drawn

  Of desolated countries, where the ground,

  Stripp’d of its unripe produce, was thick strewn

  With various Death — the war-horse falling there

  By famine, and his rider by the sword.

  The moping clouds sail’d heavy charg’d with rain,

  And bursting o’er the mountains misty brow,

  Deluged, as with an inland sea, the vales ;

  Where, thro’ the sullen evening’s lurid gloom,

  Rising, like columns of volcanic fire,

  The flames of burning villages illum’d

  The waste of water; and the wind, that howl’d

  Along its troubled surface, brought the groans

  Of plunder’d peasants, and the frantic shrieks

  Of mothers for their children; while the brave,

  To pity still alive, listen’d aghast

  To these dire echoes, hopeless to prevent

  The evils they beheld, or check the rage,

  Which ever, as the people of one land

  Meet in contention, fires the human heart

  With savage thirst of kindred blood, and makes

  Man lose his nature; rendering him more fierce

  Than the gaunt monsters of the howling waste.

  Oft have I heard the melancholy tale,

  Which, all their native gaiety forgot,

  These Exiles tell — How Hope impell’d them on,

  Reckless of tempest, hunger, or the sword,

  Till order’d to retreat, they knew not why,

  From all their flattering prospects, they became

  The prey of dark suspicion and regret :

  Then, in despondence, sunk the unnerv’d arm

  Of gallant Loyalty — At every turn

  Shame and disgrace appear’d, and seem’d to mock

  Their scatter’d squadrons; which the warlike youth,

  Unable to endure, often implor’d,

  As the last act of friendship, from the hand

  Of some brave comrade, to receive the blow

  That freed the indignant spirit from its pain.

  To a wild mountain, whose bare summit hides

  Its broken eminence in clouds; whose steeps

  Are dark with woods; where the receding rocks

  Are worn by torrents of dissolving snow,

  A wretched Woman, pale and breathless, flies!

  And, gazing round her, listens to the sound

  Of hostile footsteps —— No! it dies away:

  Nor noise remains, but of the cataract,

  Or surly breeze of night, that mutters low

  Among the thickets, where she trembling seeks

  A temporary shelter — clasping close

  To her hard-heaving heart, her sleeping child,

  All she could rescue of the innocent groupe

  That yesterday surrounded her — Escap’d

  Almost by miracle! Fear, frantic Fear,

  Wing’d her weak feet: yet, half repentant now

  Her headlong haste, she wishes she had staid

  To die with those affrighted Fancy paints

  The lawless soldier’s victims — Hark! again

  The driving tempest bears the cry of Death,

  And, with deep sudden thunder, the dread sound

  Of cannon vibrates on the tremulous earth;

  While, bursting in the air, the murderous bomb

  Glares o’er her mansion. Where the splinters fall,

  Like scatter’d comets, its destructive path

  Is mark’d by wreaths of flame! — Then, overwhelm’d

  Beneath accumulated horror, sinks

  The desolate mourner; yet, in Death itself,

  True to maternal tenderness, she tries

  To save the unconscious infant from the storm

  In which she perishes; and to protect

  This last dear object of her ruin’d hopes

  From prowling monsters, that from other hills,

  More inaccessible, and wilder wastes,

  Lur’d by the scent of slaughter, follow fierce

  Contending hosts, and to polluted fields

  Add dire increase of horrors — But alas!

  The Mother and the Infant perish both! —

  The feudal Chief, whose Gothic battlements

  Frown on the plain beneath, returning home

  From distant lands, alone and in disguise,

  Gains at the fall of night his Castle walls,

  But, at the vacant gate, no Porter sits

  To wait his Lord’s admittance! — In the courts

  All is drear silence! — Guessing but too well

  The fatal truth, he shudders as he goes

  Thro’ the mute hall; where, by the blunted light

  That the dim moon thro’ painted casements lends,

  He sees that devastation has been there:

  Then, while each hideous image to his mind

  Rises terrific, o’er a bleeding corse

  Stumbling he falls; another interrupts

  His staggering feet — all, all who us’d to rush

  With joy to meet him — all his family

  Lie murder’d in his way! — And the day dawns

  On a wild raving Maniac, whom a fate

  So sudden and calamitous has robb’d

  Of reason; and who round his vacant walls

  Screams unregarded, and reproaches Heaven! —

  Such are thy dreadful trophies, savage War!

  And evils such as these, or yet more dire,

  Which the pain’d mind recoils from, all are thine —

  The purple Pestilence, that to the grave

  Sends whom the sword has spar’d, is thine; and thine

  The Widow’s anguish and the Orphan’s tears! —

  Woes such as these does Man inflict on Man;

  And by the closet murderers, whom we style

  Wise Politicians; are the schemes prepar’d,

  Which, to keep Europe’s wavering balance even,

  Depopulate her kingdoms, and consign

  To tears and anguish half a bleeding world! —

  Oh! could the time return, when thoughts like these

  Spoil’d not that gay delight, which vernal Suns,

  Illuminating hills, and woods, and fields,

  Gave to my infant spirits — Memory come!

  And from distracting cares, that now deprive

  Such scenes of all their beauty, kindly bear

  My fancy to those hours of simple joy,

  When, on the banks of Arun, which I see

  Make its irriguous course thro’ yonder meads,

  I play’d; unconscious then of future i
ll!

  There (where, from hollows fring’d with yellow broom,

  The birch with silver rind, and fairy leaf,

  Aslant the low stream trembles) I have stood,

  And meditated how to venture best

  Into the shallow current, to procure

  The willow herb of glowing purple spikes,

  Or flags, whose sword-like leaves conceal’d the tide,

  Startling the timid reed-bird from her nest,

  As with aquatic flowers I wove the wreath,

  Such as, collected by the shepherd girls,

  Deck in the villages the turfy shrine,

  And mark the arrival of propitious May. —

  How little dream’d I then the time would come,

  When the bright Sun of that delicious month

  Should, from disturb’d and artificial sleep,

  Awaken me to never-ending toil,

  To terror and to tears! — Attempting still,

  With feeble hands and cold desponding heart,

  To save my children from the o’erwhelming wrongs,

  That have for ten long years been heap’d on me! —

  The fearful spectres of chicane and fraud

  Have, Proteus like, still chang’d their hideous forms

  (As the Law lent its plausible disguise),

  Pursuing my faint steps; and I have seen

  Friendship’s sweet bonds (which were so early form’d,)

  And once I fondly thought of amaranth

  Inwove with silver seven times tried) give way,

  And fail; as these green fan-like leaves of fern

  Will wither at the touch of Autumn’s frost.

  Yet there are those, whose patient pity still

  Hears my long murmurs; who, unwearied, try

  With lenient hands to bind up every wound

  My wearied spirit feels, and bid me go

  “Right onward “ — a calm votary of the Nymph,

  Who, from her adamantine rock, points out

  To conscious rectitude the rugged path,

  That leads at length to Peace! — Ah! yes, my friends

  Peace will at last be mine; for in the Grave

  Is Peace — and pass a few short years, perchance

  A few short months, and all the various pain

  I now endure shall be forgotten there,

  And no memorial shall remain of me,

  Save in your bosoms; while even your regret

  Shall lose its poignancy, as ye reflect

  What complicated woes that grave conceals!

  But, if the little praise, that may await

  The Mother’s efforts, should provoke the spleen

  Of Priest or Levite; and they then arraign

  The dust that cannot hear them; be it yours