<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=355509" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Emigrants: Book I</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Scene, on the Cliffs to the Eastward of the Town of<br>Brighthelmstone in Sussex. Time, a Morning in November, 1792.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Slow in the Wintry Morn, the struggling light<br>Throws a faint gleam upon the troubled waves;<br>Their foaming tops, as they approach the shore<br>And the broad surf that never ceasing breaks<br>On the innumerous pebbles, catch the beams<br>Of the pale Sun, that with reluctance gives<br>To this cold northern Isle, its shorten'd day.<br>Alas! how few the morning wakes to joy!<br>How many murmur at oblivious night<br>For leaving them so soon; for bearing thus<br>Their fancied bliss (the only bliss they taste!),<br>On her black wings away!--Changing the dreams<br>That sooth'd their sorrows, for calamities<br>(And every day brings its own sad proportion)<br>For doubts, diseases, abject dread of Death,<br>And faithless friends, and fame and fortune lost;<br>Fancied or real wants; and wounded pride,<br>That views the day star, but to curse his beams.<br>Yet He, whose Spirit into being call'd<br>This wond'rous World of Waters; He who bids<br>The wild wind lift them till they dash the clouds,<br>And speaks to them in thunder; or whose breath,<br>Low murmuring, o'er the gently heaving tides,<br>When the fair Moon, in summer night serene,<br>Irradiates with long trembling lines of light<br>Their undulating surface; that great Power,<br>Who, governing the Planets, also knows<br>If but a Sea-Mew falls, whose nest is hid<br>In these incumbent cliffs; He surely means<br>To us, his reasoning Creatures, whom He bids<br>Acknowledge and revere his awful hand,<br>Nothing but good: Yet Man, misguided Man,<br>Mars the fair work that he was bid enjoy,<br>And makes himself the evil he deplores.<br>How often, when my weary soul recoils<br>From proud oppression, and from legal crimes<br>(For such are in this Land, where the vain boast<br>Of equal Law is mockery, while the cost<br>Of seeking for redress is sure to plunge<br>Th' already injur'd to more certain ruin<br>And the wretch starves, before his Counsel pleads)<br>How often do I half abjure Society,<br>And sigh for some lone Cottage, deep embower'd<br>In the green woods, that these steep chalky Hills<br>Guard from the strong South West; where round their base<br>The Beach wide flourishes, and the light Ash<br>With slender leaf half hides the thymy turf!--<br>There do I wish to hide me; well content<br>If on the short grass, strewn with fairy flowers,<br>I might repose thus shelter'd; or when Eve<br>In Orient crimson lingers in the west,<br>Gain the high mound, and mark these waves remote<br>(Lucid tho' distant), blushing with the rays<br>Of the far-flaming Orb, that sinks beneath them;<br>For I have thought, that I should then behold<br>The beauteous works of God, unspoil'd by Man<br>And less affected then, by human woes<br>I witness'd not; might better learn to bear<br>Those that injustice, and duplicity<br>And faithlessness and folly, fix on me:<br>For never yet could I derive relief,<br>When my swol'n heart was bursting with its sorrows,<br>From the sad thought, that others like myself<br>Live but to swell affliction's countless tribes!<br>--Tranquil seclusion I have vainly sought;<br>Peace, who delights solitary shade,<br>No more will spread for me her downy wings,<br>But, like the fabled Danaïds--or the wretch,<br>Who ceaseless, up the steep acclivity,<br>Was doom'd to heave the still rebounding rock,<br>Onward I labour; as the baffled wave,<br>Which yon rough beach repulses, that returns<br>With the next breath of wind, to fail again.--<br>Ah! Mourner--cease these wailings: cease and learn,<br>That not the Cot sequester'd, where the briar<br>And wood-bine wild, embrace the mossy thatch,<br>(Scarce seen amid the forest gloom obscure!)<br>Or more substantial farm, well fenced and warm,<br>Where the full barn, and cattle fodder'd round<br>Speak rustic plenty; nor the statelier dome<br>By dark firs shaded, or the aspiring pine,<br>Close by the village Church (with care conceal'd<br>By verdant foliage, lest the poor man's grave<br>Should mar the smiling prospect of his Lord),<br>Where offices well rang'd, or dove-cote stock'd,<br>Declare manorial residence; not these<br>Or any of the buildings, new and trim<br>With windows circling towards the restless Sea,<br>Which ranged in rows, now terminate my walk,<br>Can shut out for an hour the spectre Care,<br>That from the dawn of reason, follows still<br>Unhappy Mortals, 'till the friendly grave<br>(Our sole secure asylum) &quot;ends the chace 1 .&quot;<br>Behold, in witness of this mournful truth,<br>A group approach me, whose dejected looks,<br>Sad Heralds of distress! proclaim them Men<br>Banish'd for ever and for conscience sake<br>From their distracted Country, whence the name<br>Of Freedom misapplied, and much abus'd<br>By lawless Anarchy, has driven them far<br>To wander; with the prejudice they learn'd<br>From Bigotry (the Tut'ress of the blind),<br>Thro' the wide World unshelter'd; their sole hope,<br>That German spoilers, thro' that pleasant land<br>May carry wide the desolating scourge<br>Of War and Vengeance; yet unhappy Men,<br>Whate'er your errors, I lament your fate:<br>And, as disconsolate and sad ye hang<br>Upon the barrier of the rock, and seem<br>To murmur your despondence, waiting long<br>Some fortunate reverse that never comes;<br>Methinks in each expressive face, I see<br>Discriminated anguish; there droops one,<br>Who in a moping cloister long consum'd<br>This life inactive, to obtain a better,<br>And thought that meagre abstinence, to wake<br>From his hard pallet with the midnight bell,<br>To live on eleemosynary bread,<br>And to renounce God's works, would please that God.<br>And now the poor pale wretch receives, amaz'd,<br>The pity, strangers give to his distress,<br>Because these Strangers are, by his dark creed,<br>Condemn'd as Heretics--and with sick heart<br>Regrets 2 his pious prison, and his beads.--<br>Another, of more haughty port, declines<br>The aid he needs not; while in mute despair<br>His high indignant thoughts go back to France,<br>Dwelling on all he lost--the Gothic dome,<br>That vied with splendid palaces 3 ; the beds<br>Of silk and down, the silver chalices,<br>Vestments with gold enwrought for blazing altars;<br>Where, amid clouds of incense, he held forth<br>To kneeling crowds the imaginary bones<br>Of Saints suppos'd, in pearl and gold enchas'd,<br>And still with more than living Monarchs' pomp<br>Surrounded; was believ'd by mumbling bigots<br>To hold the keys of Heaven, and to admit<br>Whom he thought good to share it--Now alas!<br>He, to whose daring soul and high ambition<br>The World seem'd circumscrib'd; who, wont to dream,<br>Of Fleuri, Richelieu, Alberoni, men<br>Who trod on Empire, and whose politics<br>Were not beyond the grasp of his vast mind,<br>Is, in a Land once hostile, still prophan'd<br>By disbelief, and rites un-orthodox,<br>The object of compassion--At his side,<br>Lighter of heart than these, but heavier far<br>Than he was wont, another victim comes,<br>An Abbé--who with less contracted brow<br>Still smiles and flatters, and still talks of Hope;<br>Which, sanguine as he is, he does not feel,<br>And so he cheats the sad and weighty pressure<br>Of evils present;---- Still, as Men misled<br>By early prejudice (so hard to break),<br>I mourn your sorrows; for I too have known<br>Involuntary exile; and while yet<br>England had charms for me, have felt how sad<br>It is to look across the dim cold sea,<br>That melancholy rolls its refluent tides<br>Between us and the dear regretted land<br>We call our own--as now ye pensive wait<br>On this bleak morning, gazing on the waves<br>That seem to leave your shore; from whence the wind<br>Is loaded to your ears, with the deep groans<br>Of martyr'd Saints and suffering Royalty,<br>While to your eyes the avenging power of Heaven<br>Appears in aweful anger to prepare<br>The storm of vengeance, fraught with plagues and death.<br>Even he of milder heart, who was indeed<br>The simple shepherd in a rustic scene,<br>And, 'mid the vine-clad hills of Languedoc,<br>Taught to the bare-foot peasant, whose hard hands<br>Produc'd 4 the nectar he could seldom taste,<br>Submission to the Lord for whom he toil'd;<br>He, or his brethren, who to Neustria's sons<br>Enforc'd religious patience, when, at times,<br>On their indignant hearts Power's iron hand<br>Too strongly struck; eliciting some sparks<br>Of the bold spirit of their native North;<br>Even these Parochial Priests, these humbled men;<br>Whose lowly undistinguish'd cottages<br>Witness'd a life of purest piety,<br>While the meek tenants were, perhaps, unknown<br>Each to the haughty Lord of his domain,<br>Who mark'd them not; the Noble scorning still<br>The poor and pious Priest, as with slow pace<br>He glided thro' the dim arch'd avenue<br>Which to the Castle led; hoping to cheer<br>The last sad hour of some laborious life<br>That hasten'd to its close--even such a Man<br>Becomes an exile; staying not to try<br>By temperate zeal to check his madd'ning flock,<br>Who, at the novel sound of Liberty<br>(Ah! most intoxicating sound to slaves!),<br>Start into licence--Lo! dejected now,<br>The wandering Pastor mourns, with bleeding heart,<br>His erring people, weeps and prays for them,<br>And trembles for the account that he must give<br>To Heaven for souls entrusted to his care.--<br>Where the cliff, hollow'd by the wintry storm,<br>Affords a seat with matted sea-weed strewn,<br>A softer form reclines; around her run,<br>On the rough shingles, or the chalky bourn,<br>Her gay unconscious children, soon amus'd;<br>Who pick the fretted stone, or glossy shell,<br>Or crimson plant marine: or they contrive<br>The fairy vessel, with its ribband sail<br>And gilded paper pennant: in the pool,<br>Left by the salt wave on the yielding sands,<br>They launch the mimic navy--Happy age!<br>Unmindful of the miseries of Man!--<br>Alas! too long a victim to distress,<br>Their Mother, lost in melancholy thought,<br>Lull'd for a moment by the murmurs low<br>Of sullen billows, wearied by the task<br>Of having here, with swol'n and aching eyes<br>Fix'd on the grey horizon, since the dawn<br>Solicitously watch'd the weekly sail<br>From her dear native land, now yields awhile<br>To kind forgetfulness, while Fancy brings,<br>In waking dreams, that native land again!<br>Versailles appears--its painted galleries,<br>And rooms of regal splendour, rich with gold,<br>Where, by long mirrors multiply'd, the crowd<br>Paid willing homage--and, united there,<br>Beauty gave charms to empire--Ah! too soon<br>From the gay visionary pageant rous'd,<br>See the sad mourner start!--and, drooping, look<br>With tearful eyes and heaving bosom round<br>On drear reality--where dark'ning waves,<br>Urg'd by the rising wind, unheeded foam<br>Near her cold rugged seat:--To call her thence<br>A fellow-sufferer comes: dejection deep<br>Checks, but conceals not quite, the martial air,<br>And that high consciousness of noble blood,<br>Which he has learn'd from infancy to think<br>Exalts him o'er the race of common men:<br>Nurs'd in the velvet lap of luxury,<br>And fed by adulation--could he learn,<br>That worth alone is true Nobility?<br>And that the peasant who, &quot;amid 5 the sons<br>&quot;Of Reason, Valour, Liberty, and Virtue,<br>&quot;Displays distinguish'd merit, is a Noble<br>&quot;Of Nature's own creation!&quot;--If even here,<br>If in this land of highly vaunted Freedom,<br>Even Britons controvert the unwelcome truth,<br>Can it be relish'd by the sons of France?<br>Men, who derive their boasted ancestry<br>From the fierce leaders of religious wars,<br>The first in Chivalry's emblazon'd page;<br>Who reckon Gueslin, Bayard, or De Foix,<br>Among their brave Progenitors? Their eyes,<br>Accustom'd to regard the splendid trophies<br>Of Heraldry (that with fantastic hand<br>Mingles, like images in feverish dreams,<br>&quot;Gorgons and Hydras, and Chimeras dire,&quot;<br>With painted puns, and visionary shapes;),<br>See not the simple dignity of Virtue,<br>But hold all base, whom honours such as these<br>Exalt not from the crowd 6 --As one, who long<br>Has dwelt amid the artificial scenes<br>Of populous City, deems that splendid shows,<br>The Theatre, and pageant pomp of Courts,<br>Are only worth regard; forgets all taste<br>For Nature's genuine beauty; in the lapse<br>Of gushing waters hears no soothing sound,<br>Nor listens with delight to sighing winds,<br>That, on their fragrant pinions, waft the notes<br>Of birds rejoicing in the trangled copse;<br>Nor gazes pleas'd on Ocean's silver breast,<br>While lightly o'er it sails the summer clouds<br>Reflected in the wave, that, hardly heard,<br>Flows on the yellow sands: so to his mind,<br>That long has liv'd where Despotism hides<br>His features harsh, beneath the diadem<br>Of worldly grandeur, abject Slavery seems,<br>If by that power impos'd, slavery no more:<br>For luxury wreathes with silk the iron bonds,<br>And hides the ugly rivets with her flowers,<br>Till the degenerate triflers, while they love<br>The glitter of the chains, forget their weight.<br>But more the Men, whose ill acquir'd wealth<br>Was wrung from plunder'd myriads, by the means<br>Too often legaliz'd by power abus'd,<br>Feel all the horrors of the fatal change,<br>When their ephemeral greatness, marr'd at once<br>(As a vain toy that Fortune's childish hand<br>Equally joy'd to fashion or to crush),<br>Leaves them expos'd to universal scorn<br>For having nothing else; not even the claim<br>To honour, which respect for Heroes past<br>Allows to ancient titles; Men, like these,<br>Sink even beneath the level, whence base arts<br>Alone had rais'd them;--unlamented sink,<br>And know that they deserve the woes they feel.<br>Poor wand'ring wretches! whosoe'er ye are,<br>That hopeless, houseless, friendless, travel wide<br>O'er these bleak russet downs; where, dimly seen,<br>The solitary Shepherd shiv'ring tends<br>His dun discolour'd flock (Shepherd, unlike<br>Him, whom in song the Poet's fancy crowns<br>With garlands, and his crook with vi'lets binds);<br>Poor vagrant wretches! outcasts of the world!<br>Whom no abode receives, no parish owns;<br>Roving, like Nature's commoners, the land<br>That boasts such general plenty: if the sight<br>Of wide-extended misery softens yours<br>Awhile, suspend your murmurs!--here behold<br>The strange vicissitudes of fate--while thus<br>The exil'd Nobles, from their country driven,<br>Whose richest luxuries were their's, must feel<br>More poignant anguish, than the lowest poor,<br>Who, born to indigence, have learn'd to brave<br>Rigid Adversity's depressing breath!--<br>Ah! rather Fortune's worthless favourites!<br>Who feed on England's vitals--Pensioners<br>Of base corruption, who, in quick ascent<br>To opulence unmerited, become<br>Giddy with pride, and as ye rise, forgetting<br>The dust ye lately left, with scorn look down<br>On those beneath ye (tho' your equals once<br>In fortune , and in worth superior still ,<br>They view the eminence, on which ye stand,<br>With wonder, not with envy; for they know<br>The means, by which ye reach'd it, have been such<br>As, in all honest eyes, degrade ye far<br>Beneath the poor dependent, whose sad heart<br>Reluctant pleads for what your pride denies);<br>Ye venal, worthless hirelings of a Court!<br>Ye pamper'd Parasites! whom Britons pay<br>For forging fetters for them; rather here<br>Study a lesson that concerns ye much;<br>And, trembling, learn, that if oppress'd too long,<br>The raging multitude, to madness stung,<br>Will turn on their oppressors; and, no more<br>By sounding titles and parading forms<br>Bound like tame victims, will redress themselves!<br>Then swept away by the resistless torrent,<br>Not only all your pomp may disappear,<br>But, in the tempest lost, fair Order sink<br>Her decent head, and lawless Anarchy<br>O'erturn celestial Freedom's radiant throne;--<br>As now in Gallia; where Confusion, born<br>Of party rage and selfish love of rule,<br>Sully the noblest cause that ever warm'd<br>The heart of Patriot Virtue 8 --There arise<br>The infernal passions; Vengeance, seeking blood,<br>And Avarice; and Envy's harpy fangs<br>Pollute the immortal shrine of Liberty,<br>Dismay her votaries, and disgrace her name.<br>Respect is due to principle; and they,<br>Who suffer for their conscience, have a claim,<br>Whate'er that principle may be, to praise.<br>These ill-starr'd Exiles then, who, bound by ties,<br>To them the bonds of honour; who resign'd<br>Their country to preserve them, and now seek<br>In England an asylum--well deserve<br>To find that (every prejudice forgot,<br>Which pride and ignorance teaches), we for them<br>Feel as our brethren; and that English hearts,<br>Of just compassion ever own the sway,<br>As truly as our element, the deep,<br>Obeys the mild dominion of the Moon--<br>This they have found; and may they find it still!<br>Thus may'st thou, Britain, triumph!--May thy foes,<br>By Reason's gen'rous potency subdued,<br>Learn, that the God thou worshippest, delights<br>In acts of pure humanity!--May thine<br>Be still such bloodless laurels! nobler far<br>Than those acquir'd at Cressy or Poictiers,<br>Or of more recent growth, those well bestow'd<br>On him who stood on Calpe's blazing height<br>Amid the thunder of a warring world,<br>Illustrious rather from the crowds he sav'd<br>From flood and fire, than from the ranks who fell<br>Beneath his valour!--Actions such as these,<br>Like incense rising to the Throne of Heaven,<br>Far better justify the pride, that swells<br>In British bosoms, than the deafening roar<br>Of Victory from a thousand brazen throats,<br>That tell with what success wide-wasting War<br>Has by our brave Compatriots thinned the world.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Charlotte+Smith">Charlotte Smith</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=355509" data-title="The Emigrants: Book I de Charlotte Smith" data-description="Scene, on the Cliffs to the Eastward of the Town of Brighthelmstone in Sussex. Time, a Morning in November, 1792. Slow in the Wintry Morn, the struggling light Throws a faint gleam upon the troubled waves; Their foaming tops, as they approach th..."></div> </div> </div>

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