Complete Poetical Works of Charlotte Smith

by Charlotte Smith

  And thy rough hollows echo to the voice

  Of the gray choughs, and ever restless daws,

  With clamour, not unlike the chiding hounds,

  While the lone shepherd, and his baying dog,

  Drive to thy turfy crest his bleating flock.

  The high meridian of the day is past,

  And Ocean now, reflecting the calm Heaven,

  Is of cerulean hue; and murmurs low

  The tide of ebb, upon the level sands.

  The sloop, her angular canvas shifting still,

  Catches the light and variable airs

  That but a little crisp the summer sea.

  Dimpling its tranquil surface.

  Afar off,

  And just emerging from the arch immense

  Where seem to part the elements, a fleet

  Of fishing vessels stretch their lesser sails;

  While more remote, and like a dubious spot

  Just hanging in the horizon, laden deep,

  The ship of commerce richly freighted, makes

  Her slower progress, on her distant voyage,

  Bound to the orient climates, where the sun

  Matures the spice within its odorous shell,

  And, rivalling the gray worm’s filmy toil,

  Bursts from its pod the vegetable down;

  Which in long turban’d wreaths, from torrid heat

  Defends the brows of Asia’s countless casts.

  There the Earth hides within her glowing breast

  The beamy adamant, and the round pearl

  Enchased in rugged covering; which the slave,

  With perilous and breathless toil, tears off

  From the rough sea-rock, deep beneath the waves.

  These are the toys of Nature; and her sport

  Of little estimate in Reason’s eye:

  And they who reason, with abhorrence see

  Man, for such gaudes and baubles, violate

  The sacred freedom of his fellow man —

  Erroneous estimate! As Heaven’s pure air,

  Fresh as it blows on this aërial height,

  Or sound of seas upon the stony strand,

  Or inland, the gay harmony of birds,

  And winds that wander in the leafy woods;

  Are to the unadulterate taste more worth

  Than the elaborate harmony, brought out

  From fretted stop, or modulated airs

  Of vocal science. — So the brightest gems,

  Glancing resplendent on the regal crown,

  Or trembling in the high born beauty’s ear,

  Are poor and paltry, to the lovely light

  Of the fair star, that as the day declines,

  Attendant on her queen, the crescent moon,

  Bathes her bright tresses in the eastern wave.

  For now the sun is verging to the sea,

  And as he westward sinks, the floating clouds

  Suspended, move upon the evening gale,

  And gathering round his orb, as if to shade

  The insufferable brightness, they resign

  Their gauzy whiteness; and more warm’d, assume

  All hues of purple. There, transparent gold

  Mingles with ruby tints, and sapphire gleams,

  And colours, such as Nature through her works

  Shews only in the ethereal canopy.

  Thither aspiring Fancy fondly soars,

  Wandering sublime thro’ visionary vales,

  Where bright pavilions rise, and trophies, fann’d

  By airs celestial; and adorn’d with wreaths

  Of flowers that bloom amid elysian bowers.

  Now bright, and brighter still the colours glow,

  Till half the lustrous orb within the flood

  Seems to retire: the flood reflecting still

  Its splendor, and in mimic glory drest;

  Till the last ray shot upward, fires the clouds

  With blazing crimson; then in paler light,

  Long lines of tenderer radiance, lingering yield

  To partial darkness; and on the opposing side

  The early moon distinctly rising, throws

  Her pearly brilliance on the trembling tide.

  The fishermen, who at set seasons pass

  Many a league off at sea their toiling night,

  Now hail their comrades, from their daily task

  Returning; and make ready for their own,

  With the night tide commencing: — The night tide

  Bears a dark vessel on, whose hull and sails

  Mark her a coaster from the north. Her keel

  Now ploughs the sand; and sidelong now she leans,

  While with loud clamours her athletic crew

  Unload her; and resounds the busy hum

  Along the wave-worn rocks. Yet more remote,

  Where the rough cliff hangs beetling o’er its base,

  All breathes repose; the water’s rippling sound

  Scarce heard; but now and then the sea-snipe’s cry

  Just tells that something living is abroad;

  And sometimes crossing on the moonbright line,

  Glimmers the skiff, faintly discern’d awhile,

  Then lost in shadow.

  Contemplation here,

  High on her throne of rock, aloof may sit,

  And bid recording Memory unfold

  Her scroll voluminous — bid her retrace

  The period, when from Neustria’s hostile shore

  The Norman launch’d his galleys, and the bay

  O’er which that mass of ruin frowns even now

  In vain and sullen menace, then received

  The new invaders; a proud martial race,

  Of Scandinavia the undaunted sons,

  Whom Dogon, Fier-a-bras, and Humfroi led

  To conquest: while Trinacria to their power

  Yielded her wheaten garland; and when thou,

  Parthenope! within thy fertile bay

  Receiv’d the victors —

  In the mailed ranks

  Of Normans landing on the British coast

  Rode Taillefer; and with astounding voice

  Thunder’d the war song daring Roland sang

  First in the fierce contention: vainly brave,

  One not inglorious struggle England made —

  But failing, saw the Saxon heptarchy

  Finish for ever. — Then the holy pile,

  Yet seen upon the field of conquest, rose,

  Where to appease heaven’s wrath for so much blood,

  The conqueror bade unceasing prayers ascend,

  And requiems for the slayers and the slain.

  But let not modern Gallia form from hence

  Presumptuous hopes, that ever thou again,

  Queen of the isles! shalt crouch to foreign arms.

  The enervate sons of Italy may yield;

  And the Iberian, all his trophies torn

  And wrapp’d in Superstition’s monkish weed,

  May shelter his abasement, and put on

  Degrading fetters. Never, never thou!

  Imperial mistress of the obedient sea;

  But thou, in thy integrity secure,

  Shalt now undaunted meet a world in arms.

  England! ’twas where this promontory rears

  Its rugged brow above the channel wave,

  Parting the hostile nations, that thy fame,

  Thy naval fame was tarnish’d, at what time

  Thou, leagued with the Batavian, gavest to France

  One day of triumph — triumph the more loud,

  Because even then so rare. Oh! well redeem’d,

  Since, by a series of illustrious men,

  Such as no other country ever rear’d,

  To vindicate her cause. It is a list

  Which, as Fame echoes it, blanches the cheek

  Of bold Ambition; while the despot feels

  The extorted sceptre tremble in his grasp.

  From even the proudest roll
by glory fill’d,

  How gladly the reflecting mind returns

  To simple scenes of peace and industry,

  Where, bosom’d in some valley of the hills

  Stands the lone farm; its gate with tawny ricks

  Surrounded, and with granaries and sheds,

  Roof’d with green mosses, and by elms and ash

  Partially shaded; and not far remov’d

  The hut of sea-flints built; the humble home

  Of one, who sometimes watches on the heights,

  When hid in the cold mist of passing clouds,

  The flock, with dripping fleeces, are dispers’d

  O’er the wide down; then from some ridged point

  That overlooks the sea, his eager eye

  Watches the bark that for his signal waits

  To land its merchandize: — Quitting for this

  Clandestine traffic his more honest toil,

  The crook abandoning, he braves himself

  The heaviest snow-storm of December’s night,

  When with conflicting winds the ocean raves,

  And on the tossing boat, unfearing mounts

  To meet the partners of the perilous trade,

  And share their hazard. Well it were for him,

  If no such commerce of destruction known,

  He were content with what the earth affords

  To human labour; even where she seems

  Reluctant most. More happy is the hind,

  Who, with his own hands rears on some black moor,

  Or turbary, his independent hut

  Cover’d with heather, whence the slow white smoke

  Of smouldering peat arises —— A few sheep,

  His best possession, with his children share

  The rugged shed when wintry tempests blow;

  But, when with Spring’s return the green blades rise

  Amid the russet heath, the household live

  Joint tenants of the waste throughout the day,

  And often, from her nest, among the swamps,

  Where the gemm’d sun-dew grows, or fring’d buck-bean,

  They scare the plover, that with plaintive cries

  Flutters, as sorely wounded, down the wind.

  Rude, and but just remov’d from savage life

  Is the rough dweller among scenes like these,

  “Scenes all unlike the poet’s fabling dreams

  Describing Arcady” — But he is free;

  The dread that follows on illegal acts

  He never feels; and his industrious mate

  Shares in his labour. Where the brook is traced

  By crouding osiers, and the black coot hides

  Among the plashy reeds, her diving brood,

  The matron wades; gathering the long green rush

  That well prepar’d hereafter lends its light

  To her poor cottage, dark and cheerless else

  Thro’ the drear hours of Winter. Otherwhile

  She leads her infant group where charlock grows

  “Unprofitably gay,” or to the fields,

  Where congregate the linnet and the finch,

  That on the thistles, so profusely spread,

  Feast in the desert; the poor family

  Early resort, extirpating with care

  These, and the gaudier mischief of the ground;

  Then flames the high rais’d heap; seen afar off

  Like hostile war-fires flashing to the sky.

  Another task is theirs: On fields that shew

  As angry Heaven had rain’d sterility,

  Stony and cold, and hostile to the plough,

  Where clamouring loud, the evening curlew runs

  And drops her spotted eggs among the flints;

  The mother and the children pile the stones

  In rugged pyramids; — and all this toil

  They patiently encounter; well content

  On their flock bed to slumber undisturb’d

  Beneath the smoky roof they call their own.

  Oh! little knows the sturdy hind, who stands

  Gazing, with looks where envy and contempt

  Are often strangely mingled, on the car

  Where prosperous Fortune sits; what secret care

  Or sick satiety is often hid,

  Beneath the splendid outside: He knows not

  How frequently the child of Luxury

  Enjoying nothing, flies from place to place

  In chase of pleasure that eludes his grasp;

  And that content is e’en less found by him,

  Than by the labourer, whose pick-axe smooths

  The road before his chariot; and who doffs

  What was an hat; and as the train pass on,

  Thinks how one day’s expenditure, like this,

  Would cheer him for long months, when to his toil

  The frozen earth closes her marble breast.

  Ah! who is happy? Happiness! a word

  That like false fire, from marsh effluvia born,

  Misleads the wanderer, destin’d to contend

  In the world’s wilderness, with want or woe —

  Yet they are happy, who have never ask’d

  What good or evil means. The boy

  That on the river’s margin gaily plays,

  Has heard that Death is there — He knows not Death,

  And therefore fears it not; and venturing in

  He gains a bullrush, or a minnow — then,

  At certain peril, for a worthless prize,

  A crow’s, or raven’s nest, he climbs the boll,

  Of some tall pine; and of his prowess proud,

  Is for a moment happy. Are your cares,

  Ye who despise him, never worse applied?

  The village girl is happy, who sets forth

  To distant fair, gay in her Sunday suit,

  With cherry colour’d knots, and flourish’d shawl,

  And bonnet newly purchas’d. So is he

  Her little brother, who his mimic drum

  Beats, till he drowns her rural lovers’ oaths

  Of constant faith, and still increasing love;

  Ah! yet a while, and half those oaths believ’d,

  Her happiness is vanish’d; and the boy

  While yet a stripling, finds the sound he lov’d

  Has led him on, till he has given up

  His freedom, and his happiness together.

  I once was happy, when while yet a child,

  I learn’d to love these upland solitudes,

  And, when elastic as the mountain air,

  To my light spirit, care was yet unknown

  And evil unforeseen: — Early it came,

  And childhood scarcely passed, I was condemned,

  A guiltless exile, silently to sigh,

  While Memory, with faithful pencil, drew

  The contrast; and regretting, I compar’d

  With the polluted smoky atmosphere

  And dark and stifling streets, the southern hills

  That to the setting Sun, their graceful heads

  Rearing, o’erlook the frith, where Vecta breaks

  With her white rocks, the strong impetuous tide,

  When western winds the vast Atlantic urge

  To thunder on the coast — Haunts of my youth!

  Scenes of fond day dreams, I behold ye yet!

  Where ’twas so pleasant by thy northern slopes

  To climb the winding sheep-path, aided oft

  By scatter’d thorns: whose spiny branches bore

  Small woolly tufts, spoils of the vagrant lamb

  There seeking shelter from the noon-day sun;

  And pleasant, seated on the short soft turf,

  To look beneath upon the hollow way

  While heavily upward mov’d the labouring wain,

  And stalking slowly by, the sturdy hind

  To ease his panting team, stopp’d with a stone

  The grating wheel.

  Advancing higher still
/>   The prospect widens, and the village church

  But little, o’er the lowly roofs around

  Rears its gray belfry, and its simple vane;

  Those lowly roofs of thatch are half conceal’d

  By the rude arms of trees, lovely in spring,

  When on each bough, the rosy-tinctur’d bloom

  Sits thick, and promises autumnal plenty.

  For even those orchards round the Norman farms,

  Which, as their owners mark the promis’d fruit,

  Console them for the vineyards of the south,

  Surpass not these.

  Where woods of ash, and beech,

  And partial copses, fringe the green hill foot,

  The upland shepherd rears his modest home,

  There wanders by, a little nameless stream

  That from the hill wells forth, bright now and clear,

  Or after rain with chalky mixture gray,

  But still refreshing in its shallow course,

  The cottage garden; most for use design’d,

  Yet not of beauty destitute. The vine

  Mantles the little casement; yet the briar

  Drops fragrant dew among the July flowers;

  And pansies rayed, and freak’d and mottled pinks

  Grow among balm, and rosemary and rue:

  There honeysuckles flaunt, and roses blow

  Almost uncultured: Some with dark green leaves

  Contrast their flowers of pure unsullied white;

  Others, like velvet robes of regal state

  Of richest crimson, while in thorny moss

  Enshrined and cradled, the most lovely, wear

  The hues of youthful beauty’s glowing cheek. —

  With fond regret I recollect e’en now

  In Spring and Summer, what delight I felt

  Among these cottage gardens, and how much

  Such artless nosegays, knotted with a rush

  By village housewife or her ruddy maid,

  Were welcome to me; soon and simply pleas’d.

  An early worshipper at Nature’s shrine;

  I loved her rudest scenes — warrens, and heaths,

  And yellow commons, and birch-shaded hollows,

  And hedge rows, bordering unfrequented lanes

  Bowered with wild roses, and the clasping woodbine

  Where purple tassels of the tangling vetch

  With bittersweet, and bryony inweave,

  And the dew fills the silver bindweed’s cups —

  I loved to trace the brooks whose humid banks

  Nourish the harebell, and the freckled pagil;

  And stroll among o’ershadowing woods of beech,

  Lending in Summer, from the heats of noon

  A whispering shade; while haply there reclines