Quoted from Burn’s address to the mountain daisy. The flowers close at night.
Page 115. Line 5.
Silene noctiflora.- “Flowers opening in the night, sweet-scented in the summer, not so in the autumn.” Withering’s Botany.
NOTES ON SAINT MONICA.
Page 119. Line 7. “Just trickling thro’ a deep and hollow gill.”
Gill is a word understood in many parts of England, and more particularly in the North, to mean an hollow watercourse, or an hollow overshadowed with coppice and brush wood, such as frequently occur in hilly countries. It has the same meaning as Gully, a deep trench in the earth, so frequent in the West Indies,
where the tropic rains tear away the earth and make hollows, which in process of time become overgrown with trees, and the resort of monkeys and other animals.
Page 120. “ —— The Ivy green
Whose matted tods,” &c.
A judicious friend objected to this expression as obscure; but it has the authority of Spencer. “At length within an Ivy tod
There shrouded was the little God.”
Shepherd’s Calendar. Ecl. 3.
And I think I could quote other poets as having used it.
Page 121. Line 1.
Conium maculatum.
Line 3.
Atropa belladonna.
Line 10. “Gibbers and shrieks,” &c.
The word Gibber has been also objected to; but besides that it appears to me very expressive, I have for its use the example of Shakspeare: “ —— —— —— the sheeted dead
Did squeal and gibber in the streets of Rome.”
Hamlet.
Page 123. Line 2. “The Wall-creeper that hunts the burnished fly.”
Certhia muraria. — This bird frequents old towers, castles, and walls; feeding on insects.
Page 123. Line 3. “Sees the newt basking,” &c.
Lacerta vulgaris. — This reptile in its complete state lives among rubbish and old walls. It is the Wall Newt of Shakspeare, as part of the food of poor Tom: “The wall newt and the water newt,
With rats and mice and such small deer,
Have been Tom’s food for many a year.”
And is commonly known by the name of Evett or Eft; and from its ugliness is held in abhorrence, and is supposed to be venomous, though perfectly harmless.
NOTES TO A WALK IN THE SHRUBBERY.
The extravagant fondness for the cultivation of those flowers which the art of the gardener can improve, such as Tulips, Auriculas, and Carnations, has excited laughter and contempt; and was, I think, sometimes confounded with the Science of Botany, with which it has little to do. A Florist, however, has very different pursuits and purposes from a Botanist.
Cistus ladaniferus. — Gum cistus. This plant took its trivial name from its having been supposed to produce the ladanum of the shops, and ought to have been changed when the mistake was detected.
Page 127. Line 4.
Cytisus laburnum. This beautiful tree, of which there are many sorts, attains great perfection in this country. The wood is black, of a fine grain, and takes a polish like Ebony. The French call it from thence, L’Ebene; the Ebony tree.
Line 7. “And snow-globes form’d of elfin roses.
Viburnum, commonly called Guelder Rose. — A shrub of great beauty, of which the globular groups are composed of single monopetalous flowers: it is a cultivated variety of the Viburnum opulus, Water-elder of the hedges, sometimes called The Wayfaring Tree.
NOTES ON LOVE AND FOLLY.
This is called the most elegant of the Fables of La Fontaine, though it is perhaps told with less simplicity than is generally his perfection. But the close is admirable. “Quand on eut bien considéré
L’interêt du public, celui de la patrie,
Le résultat enfin de la suprême cour
Fut, de condamnar la Folie
A servir de guide à l’Amour.”
Page 136. Line 9. “And stake against Love’s bow his bauble.”
When kings and great men, to divert the tedious
hours of those who have nothing to do, kept about them a fool, one who either really was deficient in understanding, or abject enough to pretend to a degree of idiotism for the amusement of his patron; the insignia of the office were, a cap with feathers, or sometimes a cock’s head fastened to the top, and with bells round it, while in their hands was carried a short wooden truncheon, on which was rudely carved a human head with asses ears. There are several passages describing this in Johnson’s or Stevens’ Notes on Shakspeare.
ERRATA.
, line 12, for bows read boughs.
—— 46, —— 6, insert Amanda.
Miscellaneously Published Verses
CONTENTS
HYMN TO LOVE AND LIFE
SONNET TO THE FOREST YTENE
PROLOGUE TO THE PLAY ‘WHAT IS SHE?’
EPILOGUE TO ‘WHAT IS SHE?’ I.
EPILOGUE TO ‘WHAT IS SHE?’ II.
EPILOGUE TO ‘WHAT IS SHE?’ III.
PROLOGUE TO WILLIAM GODWIN, ANTONIO; OR, THE SOLDIER’S RETURN
HYMN TO LOVE AND LIFE
Twin stars of light! whose blended rays
Illuminate the darkest road
Where fortune’s roving exile strays,
When doubt and care the wanderer load,
And drive him far from joy’s abode. 5
Propitious Love and smiling Hope!
Be you my guides, and guardian powers,
If, doom’d with adverse fate to cope,
I quit in Honour’s rigid hours
These dear, these bliss-devoted towers. 10
Yet here, O still, most radiant! here
(Attend this prayer of fond concern)
To beauty’s bosom life endear,
Presaging as ye brightly burn
The rapture of my blest return. 15
SONNET TO THE FOREST YTENE
Along thy wood-lanes wild, or shrubby lawns,
Or hollow dells, or glens befring’d with thorn;
Where from its ferny lair, at early morn,
The forester alarms the timid fawn,
I would Were mine to wander; — or when fade 5
The gleams of evening into shadowy night:
What time on many a stem or grassy blade
The glow-worm hangs her fairy emerald light,
I would behold the moon-beams fall among
The far retiring trees, and lengthening glades, 10
And listen the low wind, that thro’ the shades
Conveys the night-bird’s soft love-labour’d song:
For here the soul unruffled feels its powers,
And seeks the Hermit Peace within his forest bowers.
PROLOGUE TO THE PLAY ‘WHAT IS SHE?’
’Twas said, long since, by various moral sages
That man’s short life comprises diff’rent ages;
From childhood first, to manhood we attain,
And then, alas! to childhood sink again.
The same progressions mark Dramatic taste, 5
When manhood ‘twixt two infancy’s is plac’d.
When first the scene, the moral world display’d,
The Muses limp’d without Mechanic Aid:
Then Bards and Monsters labour’d side by side,
And equal fame, and equal gains divide. 10
Together Actors, Carpenters rehearse,
And the wing’d Griffin helps the hobbling verse.
The saddest tale demands (the heart to seize)
Confed’rate lightning, and the show’r of peas;
Nor wit, nor pathos Audiences require, 15
But quaint conceits, and dragons, storms & fire.
At length Taste’s manhood came, the Stage improv’d,
Without a Storm Monimia’s sorrows mov’d;
Then Love and Valentine could charm the Fair,
Tho’ not one Cupid dangled in the Air: 20
“To Scenic Monsters Bevil was preferr’d
<
br /> Nor found a rival — in some fierce Blue-Beard.”
Th’empassion’d verse, Wit’s pointed moral aim,
The Audience charm’d, and fix’d the Author’s fame.
But all must change — behold the Muses mourn, 25
And, drooping, see Taste’s infancy return;
Again the Bard calls forth red-stocking’d legions,
And show’rs of fire from the infernal regions;
Again, storms darken the Theatric sky,
And strung on ropes the fearful Cupids fly: 30
Again pale ghosts stalk tunefully along,
And end their visit, just as ends the song.
The siege, th’explosion, nightly concourse draws,
And Castles burn and fall — with vast applause!
To-night a female Scribe, less bold, appears, 35
She dreads to pull the house about your ears;
Her inexperienc’d Muse no plan durst form,
To raise the Spectre, or direct the Storm;
And if her pen no genuine plaudits steal,
From ears — to eyes she offers no appeal; 40
Her Muse, tho’ humble, scorns extrinsic art,
And asks her meed — from judgment and the heart.
EPILOGUE TO ‘WHAT IS SHE?’ I.
“What is she?” — Aye, there’s the important question,
Which ask’d too late, oft proves of hard digestion:
And he who stays till past the Honey Moon
May find he asks too late — and knows too soon.
But precept often fails without example, 5
So, with your leave, I’ll give a little sample.
Squire Fiscky, a Rake of old renown,
By years admonish’d, and quite prudent grown,
Resolves, for virtue’s sake, to take a wife:
But ah! far from the Scenes of modern life, 10
He seeks some Miss, whom man with terror seizes,
Who hangs her head, and “does as Papa pleases.”
Charm’d with simplicity beyond his hopes,
He weds, and what she is, he finds — when she elopes.
Sir Tinsel Dash loves elegance and spirit, 15
And shew and beauty thinks the only merit;
So weds a toast, whom half mankind adore.
But gain’d a husband — the gay Farce is o’er,
And she, of taste & beauty late the pattern,
Becomes a misshap’d dowdy, and a slattern. 20
Not so Lord Dove — he’s for a quiet life,
And long he fears to risk domestic strife,
Till lur’d by gentle Julia’s placid tone,
Who, ne’er to wield the female weapon’s known,
In whom the silent graces seem to centre — 25
His dear-lov’d ease the Peer resolves to venture.
The vow pronounc’d — Ma’am’s ministry begins.
Behold the Ins all Outs, the Outs all Ins!
All’s put to rout — Dogs, Servants, horses new —
My Lord, I can’t endure your formal crew! 30
In fine, ere yet the wedding feast is cold
The gentle Julia proves a very scold.
But while I thus teach caution from our Play,
What, prays our Authoress, the Ladys say.
Ah! here like Hotspur’s Kate I prudent grow, 35
And will not tell you what I do not know.
Thus much she bids me say — that, Beauty’s friend,
She only paints its follies — to amend:
That, while to Warn — her fancy Zephyrine drew
She copy’d her Eugenia from you: 40
And if the justice of the sketch you own,
By your support the likeness will be shewn:
Exert your influence in her heroine’s cause,
And what she is, is fix’d by your applause.
EPILOGUE TO ‘WHAT IS SHE?’ II.
No more the quizzish Bewley’s destin’d wife,
And yet the Votary of modish life;
In Fashion’s rounds again my fame to seek,
In Air an Amazon, in dress a Greek,
I come, a Heroine, with destructive aim, 5
To beat you Covert for the Critic Game;
The Season’s late; but Birds of prey none fear
To shoot without a licence — all the Year:
Behold me then — piece levell’d with my eye,
Prepar’d at flocks of Critics to let fly — 10
Yet stay — for in a random shot, who knows
But the same blow may wound both friends and foes.
Suppose, then, ere I take a hostile station,
I try the system — of conciliation;
And still, tho’ folly may the truth disguise, 15
Woman’s best weapons are her tongue and eyes.
First, that gaunt Critic clad in Iron Grey,
Who seems to frown perdition on our Play,
Would he but smile! — do, Ma’am, make him look up,
Oh, ho! he’s harmless — but in haste to sup. 20
The Spark above, just come with eager stride,
Bespurr’d — bebooted — express from Cheapside;
His alter’d eye bodes us no hostile fit,
A Maiden Aunt has spy’d him from the Pit;
In vain you shirk your damsel, and look shy, 25
Friend Tom, you’ll have a lecture by and by.
What says that Beau? a Crop — but don’t deride it,
His three-cock’t hat is big enough to hide it;
Tho’ nightly here— ’tis not the Play’s his hobby,
He only criticizes in the Lobby. 30
Ye martial youths, who decorate our rows,
Who menace nothing but your Country’s foes;
No Female vainly can your suffrage crave,
You must be merciful, because you’re brave —
And last, and loudest, you, my friends above, 35
Some by our Play led here, and some by love;
Your honest fronts — seek not behind to hide,
I see you all — your Sweethearts by your side,
No low’ring Critic-brows ‘mongst you I find,
But John at Betty smirks, and looks so kind: 40
Don’t, Betty, cheer him with one smile to-night,
‘Till he applaud our Play with all his might.
That jolly Tar, by Kate from Rotherhithe brought —
With Bard or Critic ne’er disturbs his thought,
He only comes to make the Gallery ring 45
With “Rule, Brittania,” and “God save the King”;
Oh! may those patriot strains long echo here,
The sweetest music to a British ear.
Yet, while on well known kindness I presume,
Our Authoress, trembling, waits from you her doom. 50
EPILOGUE TO ‘WHAT IS SHE?’ III.
And so to set two brothers by the ears,
And spin a law-suit out for 15 years,
No other reason by the Bard is found,
Than one poor simple plot of Garden ground.
Had a parterre so glowing, and so gay, 5
As that I saw before me, caus’d our play,
The contest had been noble — here we find
As in a Garden,
Nature’s hand entwin’d
With art and elegance, the blushing Rose 10
With lillies mixt, see Beauty’s cheeks disclose;
Carnations, Pinks, gay Tulips meet our eyes,
And Belles surrounded oft by butterflys.
Some fruit we boast — by Plums we mean rich Cits;
Critics are Crabs, and pine-Apples are Wits.
Here too the laurel blooms, and many a Bard 15
Receives from your kind hand its sweet reward.
There is a plant, which, when the lark upsprings
To meet the russet mantled morn, & wings
Its flight towards the East, from lovely bed
Of Parent E
arth just rears its dewy head, 20
And if approach’d by rude, ungentle hand,
Shrinks in itself, and ceases to expand:
But shou’d the Sun its influence warm diffuse
It opens lovely in a thousand hues,
And thus the Muse in chill suspense retires 25
Till your applause awaken all her fires.
PROLOGUE TO WILLIAM GODWIN, ANTONIO; OR, THE SOLDIER’S RETURN
The haughty Spaniard, who, with hopeless eye,
O’er Calpe’s Straits sees British banners fly,
Was, (ere in slothful bigotry was lost
His ardent courage) glory’s proudest boast;
The sacred cross to Asia’s realms he bore, 5
And, in his own deep woods, the invading Moor
Met in fierce contest: Each undaunted Son
Of both Castiles, or nobler Arragon,
And they, who on the rude Biscayan shore
Heard the vast billows of the Atlantic roar, 10
All, by the fire of martial glory led,
Beneath her crimson banner fought and bled:
High beat each heart in her imperious cause,
And, owning hers, disdain’d all other laws.
The Torch of love, no more a lambent flame, 15
Serv’d but to light them to their idol — Fame.
While all that sooths our age, or charms our youth,
In female tenderness and female truth,
Bliss, that, to all but man, high heaven denies,
Homeborn delights, domestic charities, 20
They tasted not: nor knew they to rejoice
That reason, sweetest in a woman’s voice,
Still bids the lover, husband, friend adore,
When transcient beauty fascinates no more:
From Prototypes like these, who lived, we know, 25
And fought and died, three hundred years ago,
Our Poet to-night his hero draws,
The fierce, vindictive slave of honour’s laws: —
Charlotte Smith- Collected Poetical Works Page 27
