Complete Poetical Works of Charlotte Smith
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rest deprived of every advantage to which they are entitled; and the means of proper education for my youngest son denied me! while the money that their inhuman trustees have suffered yearly to be wasted, and what they keep possession of on false and frivolous pretences, would, if paid to those it belongs to, have saved me and them from all these now irremediable misfortunes.
I am well aware that the present is not a time when the complaints of individuals against private wrong are likely to be listened to; nor is this an opportunity fit to make those complaints; but I know so much has been said, so much more than so trifling a matter could be worth, of the delay of this publication, that it becomes in some measure a matter of self-defence, to account for that delay. Those who have expressed such impatience for it, were apprehensive, indeed they owned they were of the loss of the half guinea they had paid. I have more than once thought of returning their money, rather than have remained under any obligation to persons who could suspect me of a design to accumulate, by gathering subscriptions for a work I never meant to publish, a sum, which no contrivance, no success, was likely to make equal to one year of the income I ought to possess. Surely, any who have entertained and expressed such an opinion of me, must either never have understood, or must
have forgotten, what I was, what I am, or what I ought to be.
To be suspected even by arrogant ignorance of such an intention to impose on public generosity, has not been the least among the mortifications I have within these last years been subjected to; I place them to the same long account of injuries, where this, however, is almost lost in the magnitude of others! Let not the censors of literary productions, or the fastidious in private life, again reprove me for bringing forward “with querulous egotism,” the mention of myself, and the sorrows, of which the men, who have withheld my family property, have been the occasion. Had they never so unjustly possessed, and so shamelessly exercised the power of reducing me to pecuniary distress, I should never, perhaps, have had occasion to ask the consideration of the reader, or to deprecate the severity of the critic . Certainly I should never have been compelled to make excuses as a defaulter in point of punctuality to the subscriber . Nor should I to any of these have found it necessary to state the causes that have rendered me miserable as an individual, though now I am compelled to complain of those who have crushed the poor abilities of the author, and by the most unheard of acts of injustice, for twice seven years, have added the painful sensations of indignation to the inconveniences and deprivations of indigence; and aggravating by future dread, the present suffering, have frequently doubled the toil necessary for tomorrow, by palsying the hand and distracting the head, that were struggling against the evils of today!
It is passed! — The injuries I have so long suffered under are not mitigated; the aggressors are not removed: but however soon they may be disarmed of their power, any retribution in this world is impossible — they can neither give back to the maimed the possession of health, nor restore the dead. The time they have occasioned me to pass in anxiety, in sorrow, in anguish, they cannot recall to me — to my children they can make no amends, but they would not if they could; nor have I the poor consolation of knowing that I leave in the callous hearts of these persons, thorns to
“goad and sting them,”
for they have conquered or outlived all sensibility of shame; they are alive neither to honesty, honour, or humanity; and at this moment, far from feeling compunction for the ruin they have occasioned, the dreadful misfortunes they have been the authors of, one shrinks from the very attempt to make such redress as he might yet give, and wraps himself up
in the callous insolence of his imagined consequence; while the other uses such professional subterfuges as are the disgrace of his profession, to baffle me yet a little longer in my attempts to procure that restitution, that justice, which they dare not deny I am entitled to; and to insult me by a continuation of tormenting chicaneries, perpetuating to the utmost of their power the distresses they have occasioned, and which their perseverance in iniquity has already put it out of the power of Heaven itself to remedy!
Would to God I could dismiss these oppressors from my mind forever, as I now do from the notice of any future readers, whom I may engage to any work of mine; though very probably I may now take my last leave of the public. And let me, while I account for the delay of this work, and for many defects that may perhaps be found in it, assign the causes for both, and lament that such have been the circumstances under which I have composed it, as may rather render it a wonder I have produced it at all, than that it has been so long in appearing, and yet appears defective. Surely I shall be forgiven once more for “querulous egotism,” when the disadvantages I have laboured under are considered; complaint may be pardoned when the consequences of what I deplore mingle themselves in all my feelings, embitter every hour of my life, and leave me no hope but in the oblivion of the grave.
Some degree of pride which
“Still travels on, nor leaves us till we die,”
makes me somewhat solicitious to account for the visible difference in point of numbers between the subscribers to this and the former volume. If I were willing to admit that these Poems are inferior to those that preceded them, I know that such a supposition would not have withheld a single subscription — but I also know, that as party can raise prejudices against the colour of a ribband, or the cut of a cape, it generates still stranger antipathies, even in regard so things almost equally trifling. And there are, who can never forgive an author that has, in the story of a Novel, or the composition of a Sonnet, ventured to hint at any opinions different from those which these liberal-minded personages are determined to find the best.
I know, therefore, perfectly well, how I have sinned against some ci-devant, I was going to say friends, but I check myself, and change the word for acquaintance,
“Since friendship should be made of stronger stuff,”
acquaintance, who when my writing first obtained popularity, erected themselves into patrons and patronesses. To the favour they then conferred I am not insensible; and I hope they will accept it as a proof of my perfectly understanding the extent of the obligation, that I have so silently acquiesced in not expecting it to be repeated, and have never suffered them to be put under the painful necessity of avowing their dereliction in 1797, of the writer whom they affected so warmly to patronize in 1787. Ten years do indeed operate most wonderful changes in this state of existence.
Perhaps in addition to the friends, or soi-disant tel, whose notice and whose names have for some such causes as these, been withheld, I might add as another cause, that for many months past I have been so apprehensive of not having health enough to superintend the publication of even this small volume, that I had desired those few friends who had voluntarily engaged to collect subscriptions, not to persevere in their kind endeavours; and I had written to my elder sons, entreating them, should death overtake me before I could complete my engagements, to place, as soon afterwards as they could, in the hands of Messrs Cadell and Davies, a sum sufficient to reimburse them any expenses they might have incurred, and to repay the subscriptions.
I am at length enabled to send it into the world — and have certainly omitted nothing that was in my power to make it not entirely unworthy the
general favour, and of the particular kindness of those without whose support I believe it would have been impossible for me to have prepared the few verses I had by me, or to have composed others. That these are gloomy, none will surely have a right to complain; for I never engaged they should be gay. But I am unhappily exempt from the suspicion of feigning sorrow for an opportunity of showing the pathos with which it can be described — a suspicion that has given rise to much ridicule, and many invidious remarks, among certain critics and others, who carry into their closets the same aversion to any thing tragic, as influences, at the present period, their theatrical taste.
It is, indeed, a melancholy truth, that at this time there is so
much tragedy in real life, that those who have escaped private calamity, can withdraw their minds a moment from that which is general, very naturally prefer to melancholy books, or tragic representations, those lighter and gayer amusements, which exhilarate the senses, and throw a transient veil over the extensive and still threatening desolation, that overspreads this country, and in some degree, every quarter of the world. CHARLOTTE SMITH.
May 15th, 1797.
SONNET I. THE PARTIAL MUSE, HAS FROM MY EARLIEST HOURS
THE partial Muse, has from my earliest hours,
Smil’d on the rugged path I’m doom’d to tread,
And still with sportive hand has snatch’d wild flowers,
To weave fantastic garlands for my head:
But far, far happier is the lot of those
Who never learn’d her dear delusive art;
Which, while it decks the head with many a rose,
Reserves the thorn, to fester in the heart.
For still she bids soft Pity’s melting eye
Stream o’er the ills she knows not to remove,
Points every pang, and deepens every sigh
Of mourning friendship or unhappy love.
Ah! then, how dear the Muse’s favours cost,
If those paint sorrow best — who feel it most!
SONNET II. WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF SPRING.
THE garlands fade that Spring so lately wove,
Each simple flower, which she had nursed in dew,
Anemonies, that spangled every grove,
The primrose wan, and hare-bell mildly blue.
No more shall violets linger in the dell,
Or purple orchis variegate the plain,
Till Spring again shall call forth every bell,
And dress with humid hands her wreaths again. —
Ah! poor humanity! so frail, so fair,
Are the fond visions of thy early day,
Till tyrant passion and corrosive care
Bid all thy fairy colours fade away!
Another May new buds and flowers shall bring;
Ah! why has happiness — no second spring?
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?
Pale Sorrow’s victims wert thou once among,
Though now released in woodlands wild to rove?
Say — hast thou felt from friends some cruel wrong,
Or died’st thou — martyr of disastrous love?
Ah! songstress sad! that such my lot might be,
To sigh and sing at Liberty — like thee!
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:
The sufferers of the earth perhaps may go,
Released by death — to thy benignant sphere,
And the sad children of despair and woe
Forget in thee, their cup of sorrow here.
Oh! that I soon may reach thy world serene,
Poor wearied pilgrim — in this toiling scene!
SONNET V. TO THE SOUTH DOWNS.
AH! hills beloved! — where once, a happy child,
Your beechen shades, ‘your turf, your flowers among,’
I wove your blue-bells into garlands wild,
And woke your echoes with my artless song.
Ah! hills beloved! — your turf, your flowers remain;
But can they peace to this sad breast restore,
For one poor moment soothe the sense of pain,
And teach a breaking heart to throb no more?
And you, Aruna! — in the vale below,
As to the sea your limpid waves you bear
Can you one kind Lethean cup bestow,
To drink a long oblivion to my care?
Ah! no! — when all, e’en Hope’s last ray is gone,
There’s no oblivion — but in death alone!
SONNET VI. TO HOPE.
OH, Hope! thou soother sweet of human woes.
How shall I lure thee to my haunts forlorn?
For me wilt thou renew the wither’d rose,
And clear my painful path of pointed thorn?
Ah, come sweet nymph! in smiles and softness drest,
Like the young hours that lead the tender year,
Enchantress, come! and charm my cares to rest: —
Alas! the flatterer flies, and will not hear!
A prey to fear, anxiety, and pain,
Must I a sad existence still deplore
Lo! — the flowers fade, but all the thorns remain,
‘For me the vernal garland blooms no more.’
Come then, ‘pale Misery’s love!’ be thou my cure,
And I will bless thee, who though slow art sure.
SONNET VII. ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE NIGHTINGALE.
SWEET poet of the woods — a long adieu!
Farewell, 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 you dwell,
The pensive muse shall own thee for her mate,
And still protect the song she loves so well.
With cautious step, the love-lorn youth shall glide
Thro’ the lone brake that shades thy mossy nest;
And shepherd girls, from eyes profane shall hide
The gentle bird, who sings of pity best:
For still thy voice shall soft affections move,
And still be dear to sorrow, and to love!
SONNET VIII. TO SPRING.
AGAIN the wood and long-withdrawing vale
In many a tint of tender green are drest,
Where the young leaves, unfolding, scarce conceal
Beneath their early shade, the half-form’d nest
Of finch or woodlark; and the primrose pale,
And lavish cowslip, wildly scatter’d round,
Give their sweet spirits to the sighing gale.
Ah! season of delight! — could aught be found
To soothe awhile the tortured bosom’s pain,
Of sorrow’s rankling shaft to cure the wound,
And bring life’s first delusions once again,
‘Twere surely met in thee! — thy prospect fair,
Thy sounds of harmony, thy balmy air,
Have power to cure all sadness — but despair.
SONNET IX. BLEST IS YON SHEPHERD, ON THE TURF RECLINED
BLEST is yon shepherd, on the turf reclined,
Who on the varied clouds which float above
Lies idly gazing — while his vacant mind
Pours out some tale antique of rural love!
Ah! he has never felt the pangs that move
Th’ indignant spirit, when with selfish pride
Friends, on whose faith the trusting heart relied,
Unkindly shun th’ imploring eye of woe!
The ills they ought to soothe with taunts deride,
And laugh at tears themselves have forced to flow.
Nor his rude bosom those fine feelings melt,
Children of Sentiment and Knowledge born,
Empoison’d by deceit — or barb’d with scorn.
SONNET X. TO MRS. G.
AH! why will Mem’ry with officious care
The long lost visions of my days renew?
Why paint the vernal landscape green and fair,
When life’s gay dawn was opening to my view?
Ah! wherefore bring those moments of delight,
When with my Anna, on the southern shore,
I thought the future, as the present bright?
Ye dear delusions! — ye return no more!
Alas! how diff’rent does the truth appear,
From the warm picture youth’s rash hand portrays!
How fades the scene, as we approach it near,
And pain and sorrow strike — how many ways!
Yet of that tender heart, ah! still retain
A share for me — and I will not complain!
SONNET XI. TO SLEEP.
COME, balmy Sleep! tired nature’s soft resort!
On these sad temples all thy poppies shed;
And bid gay dreams, from Morpheus’ airy court,
Float in light vision round my aching head!
Secure of all thy blessings, partial Power!
On his hard bed the peasant throws him down;
And the poor sea-boy, in the rudest hour,
Enjoys thee more than he who wears a crown.