Sonnet XLVIII. To Mrs.
NO more my wearied soul attempts to stray
From sad reality and vain regret,
Nor courts enchanting fiction to allay
Sorrows that sense refuses to forget:
For of calamity so long the prey,
Imagination now has lost her powers,
Nor will her fairy loom again essay
To dress affliction in a robe of flowers.
But if no more the bowers of Fancy bloom,
Let one superior scene attract my view,
Where heaven's pure rays the sacred spot illume,
Let thy loved hand with palm and amaranth strew
The mournful path approaching to the tomb,
While Faith's consoling voice endears the friendly gloom.
poem by Charlotte Smith
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Verses I
O'ERWHELM'D with sorrow, and sustaining long
'The proud man's contumely, th' oppressor's wrong,'
Languid despondency, and vain regret,
Must my exhausted spirit struggle yet?
Yes!--Robb'd myself of all that fortune gave,
Even of all hope--but shelter in the grave,
Still shall the plaintive lyre essay its powers
To dress the cave of Care with Fancy's flowers,
Maternal Love the fiend Despair withstand,
Still animate the heart and guide the hand.
--May you, dear objects of my anxious care,
Escape the evils I was born to bear!
Round my devoted head while tempests roll,
Yet there, where I have treasured up my soul,
May the soft rays of dawning hope impart
Reviving patience to my fainting heart;--
And when its sharp solicitudes shall cease,
May I be conscious in the realms of peace
That every tear which swells my children's eyes,
From sorrows past, not present ills arise,
Then, with some friend who loves to share your pain,
For 'tis my boast that some such friends remain,
By filial grief, and fond remembrance prest,
You'll seek the spot where all my sorrows rest;
Recall my hapless days in sad review
The long calamities I bore for you,
And, with a happier fate, resolve to prove
How well you merited your mother's love.
poem by Charlotte Smith
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Sonnet XXXVII.
The poet's fancy takes from Flora's realm
Her buds and leaves to dress fictitious powers,
With the green olive shades Minerva's helm,
And give to Beauty's queen, the queen of flowers.
But what gay blossoms of luxuriant spring,
With rose, mimosa, amaranth entwined,
Shall fabled Sylphs and fairy people bring,
As a just emblem of the lovely mind?
In vain the mimic pencil tries to blend
The glowing dyes that dress the flowery race,
Scented and colour'd by a hand divine!
Ah! not less vainly would the Muse pretend,
On her weak lyre, to sing the native grace
And native goodness of a soul like thine!
poem by Charlotte Smith
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Thirty-Eight
IN early youth's unclouded scene,
The brilliant morning of eighteen,
With health and sprightly joy elate
We gazed on life's enchanting spring ,
Nor thought how quickly time would bring
The mournful period--Thirty-eight.
Then the starch maid, or matron sage,
Already at the sober age,
We view'd with mingled scorn and hate;
In whose sharp words, or sharper face,
With thoughtless mirth we loved to trace
The sad effects of--Thirty-eight.
Till saddening, sickening at the view
We learn'd to dread what Time might do;
And then preferr'd a prayer to Fate
To end our days ere that arrived;
When (power and pleasure long survived)
We met neglect and--Thirty-eight.
But time, in spite of wishes, flies
And Fate our simple prayer denies,
And bids us death's own hour await:
The auburn locks are mix'd with grey,
The transient roses fade away,
But reason comes at--Thirty-eight.
Her voice the anguish contradicts
That dying vanity inflicts;
Her hand new pleasures can create,
For us she opens to the view
Prospects less bright--but far more true,
And bids us smile at--Thirty-eight.
No more shall scandal's breath destroy
The social converse we enjoy
With bard or critic tete a tete;--
O'er youth's bright blooms her blights shall pour,
But spare the improving friendly hour
That science gives to --Thirty-eight.
Stripp'd of their gaudy hues by Truth,
We view the glitt'ring toys of youth,
And blush to think how poor the bait
For which to public scenes we ran
And scorn'd of sober sense the plan
Which gives content at--Thirty-eight.
Though Time's inexorable sway
Has torn the myrtle bands away,
For other wreaths 'tis not too late,
The amaranth's purple glow survives,
And still Minerva's olive lives
On the calm brow of--Thirty-eight.
With eye more steady we engage
To contemplate approaching age,
And life more justly estimate;
With firmer souls, and stronger powers,
With reason, faith, and friendship ours,
We'll not regret the stealing hours
That lead from Thirty--even to Forty-eight.
poem by Charlotte Smith
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Sent To Mr. Haley, On Reading His Epistles On Epic Poetry
What blooming garlands shall the Muses twine,
What verdant laurels weave, what flowers combine,
To crown their favorite Son whose generous heart
Has check'd the arrogance of Critic Art,
And shewn that still in their exhaustless mine
The purest gems of radiant Genius shine,
To grace the venturous Poets who explore
The unsun'd treasures of their sacred store?
Nor this the Syren note of flattering praise,
Or the fond tribute partial friendship pays;
A voice unknown to fame, to thee unknown,
But wak'd by thy superior worth alone,
Attempts, perhaps with too officious zeal,
Thy thoughts awhile from higher cares to steal,
And in presumptuous numbers dares essay
To hail the glories of thy matchless lay.
O fairest hope of Britain's tuneful Choir!
Why yield to other hands the Epic Wire?
Say who of all her Bards like thee shall swell
To strains of extasy th' Heroic shell?
When the long series of connecting rhime
Denies the raptur'd flight or march sublime
Who shall the interval so well beguile
With each rich ornament of polish'd style?
Who o'er the thrilling heart such forms shall throw
Of frantic horror, or pathetic woe?
Or when the notes from Freedom's clarion blown
Chill the pale Despot on his trembling throne,
What manly son of Britain's warbling throng
Shall join the Pæan with so bold a song?
And if inventive Fancy love to stray
'Mid the wild tracts of Fiction's faery way,
Say who shall mate those magic powers that stole
The nightly vision o'er Serena's soul?
Then let, illustrious Bard!—though rude her voice,
A Muse of humble mien divert thy choice.—
With timid hand snatch no reflected grace
From the sweet Maniac of Hesperian race.
Since Genius' keenest rays thy bosom fire
O strike with native force the British Lyre,
That, while such virtuous chiefs adorn thy strain
As Greece and Rome shall emulate in vain,
Albion may consecrate thy deathless name,
And found her Epic pride on Hayley's fame.
poem by Henry James Pye
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Song XVIII. - Imitated from the French
Yes, these are the scenes where with Iris I stray'd,
But short was her sway for so lovely a maid!
In the bloom of her youth to a cloister she run,
In the bloom of her graces too fair for a nun!
Ill-grounded, no doubt, a devotion must prove,
So fatal to beauty, so killing to love!
Yes, these are the meadows, the shrubs, and the plains,
Once the scene of my pleasures, the scene of my pains;
How many soft moments I spent in this grove!
How fair was my nymph! and how fervent my love!
Be still though, my Heart! thine emotion give o'er;
Remember, the season of love is no more.
With her how I stray'd amid fountains and bowers
Or loiter'd behind, and collected the flowers!
Then breathless with ardour my fair one pursued,
And to think with what kindness my garland she view'd!
But be still, my fond Heart! this emotion give o'er;
Fain wouldst thou forget thou must love her no more.
poem by William Shenstone
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Little Red Riding Hood
"Heaven lies about us in our infancy."
Sweet child of fairy land! since first
I dwelt, with tearful eye,
Upon the page that tells thy tale,
Long years have glided by.
Then, in thy fabled history,
No marvel could I see;
For then the worlds of thought and sense
Were fairy lands to me.
The fields and meadows were as bright
As those where thou didst stray; --
And gaily through their tangled flowers,
Like thee I took my way.
And while I walked that sunny path,
Nor doubt nor fear was mine;
For childhood's trustfulness and faith
Are ever strong, like thine.
Alas! that coming years should throw
Dark shadows o'er our way;
And leave us with this aching sense
Of glory passed away.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
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On the Death of a Young Lady
Cousin to the Author, and very dear to him.
Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening gloom,
Not e'en a zephyr wanders through the grove,
Whilst I return, to view my Margaret's tomb,
And scatter flowers on the dust I love.
Within this narrow cell reclines her clay,
That clay, where once such animation beam'd;
The King of Terrors seized her as his prey,
Not worth nor beauty have her life redeem'd.
Oh! could that King of Terrors pity feel,
Or Heaven reverse the dread decree of fate,
Not here, the mourner would his grief reveal,
Not her the muse her virtues would relate.
But wherefore weep? Her matchless spirit soars
Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day;
And weeping angels lead her to those bowers
Where endless pleasures virtuous deeds repay.
And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven arraign,
And, madly, godlike Providence accuse?
Ah! no, far fly from me attempts so vain;--
I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse.
Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear,
Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face;
Still they call forth my warm affection's tear,
Still in my heart retain their wonted place.
poem by Byron (1802)
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Hymn 20
Spiritual apparel.
Isa. 61:10.
Awake, my heart; arise, my tongue,
Prepare a tuneful voice;
In God, the life of all my joys,
Aloud will I rejoice.
'Tis he adorned my naked soul,
And made salvation mine;
Upon a poor polluted worm
He makes his graces shine.
And lest the shadow of a spot
Should on my soul be found,
He took the robe the Savior wrought,
And cast it all around.
How far the heav'nly robe exceeds
What earthly princes wear
These ornaments, how bright they shine!
How white the garments are!
The Spirit wrought my faith, and love,
And hope, and every grace;
But Jesus spent his life to work
The robe of righteousness.
Strangely, my soul, art thou arrayed
By the great Sacred Three!
In sweetest harmony of praise
Let all thy powers agree.
poem by Isaac Watts
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Sonnet XXIV. By The Same.
MAKE there my tomb, beneath the lime-tree's shade,
Where grass and flowers in wild luxuriance wave;
Let no memorial mark where I am laid,
Or point to common eyes the lover's grave!
But oft at twilight morn, or closing day,
The faithful friend with fault'ring step shall glide,
Tributes of fond regret by stealth to pay,
And sigh o'er the unhappy suicide.
And sometimes, when the sun with parting rays
Gilds the long grass that hides my silent bed,
The tear shall tremble in my Charlotte's eyes;
Dear, precious drops!--they shall embalm the dead!
Yes--Charlotte o'er the mournful spot shall weep,
Where her poor Werter--and his sorrows sleep.
poem by Charlotte Smith
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Weak Is The Will Of Man, His Judgement Blind
'WEAK is the will of Man, his judgment blind;
'Remembrance persecutes, and Hope betrays;
'Heavy is woe;--and joy, for human-kind,
'A mournful thing, so transient is the blaze!'
Thus might 'he' paint our lot of mortal days
Who wants the glorious faculty assigned
To elevate the more-than-reasoning Mind,
And colour life's dark cloud with orient rays.
Imagination is that sacred power,
Imagination lofty and refined;
'Tis hers to pluck the amaranthine flower
Of Faith, and round the Sufferer's temples bind
Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower,
And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.
poem by William Wordsworth
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The Way To God's Heart
God's heart is the seed of gloom
There he's springs and his love loom
Sorrow is the path one weary boy trods
To heaven's heart, the heart of God's
The weary boy wallows in sorrows past
Till God's heart he reaches at very last
In sorrow the weary boy does vent
To God's heart where his sins repent.
With sorrow God sews him to his breast
In his heart's palm his sorrows lay rest
To know sorrow is to understand
And live in truth of God's heartland
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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Sonnet L.
FROM THE NOVEL OF CELESTINA.
FAREWELL, ye lawns!--by fond remembrance blest,
As witnesses of gay unclouded hours;
Where, to maternal friendships' bosom prest,
My happy childhood past among your bowers.
Ye wood-walks wild!--where leaves and fairy flowers
By Spring's luxuriant hand are strewn anew;
Rocks!--whence with shadowy grace rude nature low'rs
O'er glens and haunted streams!--a long adieu!
And you!--O promised Happiness!--whose voice
Deluded Fancy heard in every grove,
Bidding this tender, trusting heart, rejoice
In the bright prospect of unfailing love:
Though lost to me--still may thy smile serene
Bless the dear lord of this regretted scene.
poem by Charlotte Smith
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Long Years Have Past Since Last I Stood
LONG years have past since last I stood
Alone amid this mountain scene,
Unlike the future which I dreamed,
How like my future it has been!
A cold grey sky o'erhung with clouds,
With showers in every passing shade,
How like the moral atmosphere
Whose gloom my horoscope has made!
I thought if yet my weary feet
Could rove my native hills again,
A world of feeling would revive,
Sweet feelings wasted, worn in vain.
My early hopes, my early joys,
I dreamed those valleys would restore;
I asked for childhood to return,
For childhood, which returns no more.
Surely the scene itself is changed!
There did not always rest as now
That shadow in the valley's depth,
That gloom upon the mountain-brow.
Wild flowers within the chasms dwelt
Like treasures in stone fairy hold,
And morning o'er the mountains shed
Her kindling world of vapoury gold.
Another season of the year
Is now upon the earth and me;
Another spring will light these hills—
No other spring mine own may be:
I must retune my unstrung harp,
I must awake the sleeping tomb,
I must recall the loved and lost,
Ere spring again for me could bloom.
I've wandered, but it was in vain,
In many a far and foreign clime,
Absence is not forgetfulness,
And distance cannot vanquish time.
One face was ever in my sight,
One voice was ever on my ear,
From all earth's loveliness I turned
To wish, Ah that the dead were here!
Oh! weary wandering to no home,
Oh! weary wandering alone,
I turned to childhood's once glad scenes
And found life's last illusion flown.
Ah! those who left their childhood's scenes
For after-years of toil and pain,
Who but bring back the breaking heart
Should never seek those scenes again.
poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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IV. To the River Wenbeck
AS slowly wanders thy forsaken stream,
Wenbeck! the mossy-scatter'd rocks among,
In fancy's ear still making plaintive song
To the dark woods above: ah! sure I seem
To meet some friendly Genius in the gloom,
And in each breeze a pitying voice I hear
Like sorrow's sighs upon misfortune's tomb.
Ah! soothing are your quiet scenes - the tear
Of him who passes weary on his way
Shall thank you, as he turns to bid adieu:
Onward a cheerless pilgrim he may stray,
Yet oft as musing memory shall review
The scenes that cheer'd his path with fairer ray,
Delightful haunts, he will remember you.
poem by William Lisle Bowles
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IV. To the River Wenbeck
AS slowly wanders thy forsaken stream,
Wenbeck! the mossy-scatter'd rocks among,
In fancy's ear still making plaintive song
To the dark woods above: ah! sure I seem
To meet some friendly Genius in the gloom,
And in each breeze a pitying voice I hear
Like sorrow's sighs upon misfortune's tomb.
Ah! soothing are your quiet scenes -- the tear
Of him who passes weary on his way
Shall thank you, as he turns to bid adieu:
Onward a cheerless pilgrim he may stray,
Yet oft as musing memory shall review
The scenes that cheer'd his path with fairer ray,
Delightful haunts, he will remember you.
poem by William Lisle Bowles
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Gentle Annie
Thou wilt come no more, gentle Annie,
Like a flower thy spirit did depart;
Thou art gone, alas! like the many
That have bloomed in the summer of my heart.
Chorus
Shall we nevermore behold thee;
Never hear thy winning voice again --
When the Springtime comes, gentle Annie,
When the wild flowers are scattered o'er the plain?
We have roamed and loved mid the bowers
When thy downy cheeks were in their bloom;
Now I stand alone mid the flowers
While they mingle their perfumes o'er thy tomb.
Chorus
Ah! the hours grow sad while I ponder
Near the silent spot where thou art laid,
And my heart bows down when I wander
By the streams and the meadows where we strayed.
Chorus
poem by Stephen C. Foster
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To Lady Beaumont
LADY! the songs of Spring were in the grove
While I was shaping beds for winter flowers;
While I was planting green unfading bowers,
And shrubs--to hang upon the warm alcove,
And sheltering wall; and still, as Fancy wove
The dream, to time and nature's blended powers
I gave this paradise for winter hours,
A labyrinth, Lady! which your feet shall rove.
Yes! when the sun of life more feebly shines,
Becoming thoughts, I trust, of solemn gloom
Or of high gladness you shall hither bring;
And these perennial bowers and murmuring pines
Be gracious as the music and the bloom
And all the mighty ravishment of spring.
poem by William Wordsworth
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Sonnet I
Life's summer flown, the wint'ry tempest rude,
Began to lower on the declining year;
When smiles celestial gilt the prospect drear,
Dispell'd the gloom, and joyful spring renew'd:
Fresh flowers beneath her fairy feet were strew'd;
Again soft accents woo'd the enchanted ear;
In her bright form, as in a mirrour clear,
Reflected, each gay scene of life view'd.
Young in her youth, and graceful in her grace,
In her's, I lived o'er every joy again;
Lived o'er the charms that beam'd upon her face,
Where Hope and Love revived their smiling train.
Night o'er the scene her blackest veil has spread;
And Death's pale hand a tenfold horrour shed.
poem by Brooke Boothby
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The Clouds That Promise A Glorious Morrow
The clouds that promise a glorious morrow
Are fading slowly, one by one;
The earth no more bright rays may borrow
From her loved Lord, the golden sun;
Gray evening shadows are softly creeping,
With noiseless steps, o’er vale and hill;
The birds and flowers are calmly sleeping;
And all around is fair and still.
Once loved I dearly, at this sweet hour,
With loitering steps to careless stray,
To idly gather an opening flower,
And often pause upon my way,—
Gazing around me with joyous feeling,
From sunny earth to azure sky,
Or bending over the streamlet, stealing
’Mid banks of flowers and verdure by.
You wond’ring ask me why sit I lonely
Within my quiet, curtain’d room,
So idly seeking and clinging only
Unto its chastened, thoughtful gloom.
You tell me that never fragrance rarer
Did breathe from clustering leaf and bough;
That never the bright spring was fairer
Or more enchanting than she is now.
Ah, useless chiding! The loved ones tender,
Who shared my rambles long ago,
Whose cherished accents could only render
Words of affection soft and low,
Are parted from me, perchance for ever,
By miles of distance, of land or main,—
Death some has taken, and them, oh never
Upon this earth shall I meet again.
’Tis thus this hour of gentle even
Brings back in thought the friends long gone,—
Loved ones with whom this earth was Heaven
But who have vanished, one by one.—
’Tis thus I cherish with wilful sadness
The quiet of my lonely room,—
Careless, unmindful of all earth’s gladness,
Or of her lovely evening bloom.
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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The Sunflower
Eagle of flowers! I see thee stand,
And on the sun's noon-glory gaze:
With eye like his thy lids expand,
And fringe their disk with golden rays;
Though fix'd on earth, in darkness rooted there,
Light is thine element, thy dwelling air,
Thy prospect heaven.
So would mine eagle-soul descry,
Beyond the path where planets run,
The light of immortality,
The splendour of creation's sun;
Though sprung from earth, and hast'ning to the tomb
In hope a flower of paradise to bloom,
I took to heaven.
poem by James Montgomery
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