i a1r ii a1v
A portrait of the author.

P. Condé sculp. Oh! Time has Changed me since you saw me last, And heavy Hours with Time’s deforming Hand, Have written strange Defeatures in my Face.

iii a2r

Elegiac Sonnets,
and
Other Poems,

By Charlotte Smith.

Vol. I.

The Eighth Edition.

London:
Printed for T. Cadell, Junior, and W. Davies,
(Successors to Mr. Cadell) Strand. 17971797.

iv a2v v b1r

To William Hayley, Esq.

Sir,

While I aſk your protection for theſe eſſays, I cannot deny having myſelf ſome eſteem for them. Yet permit me to ſay, that did I not truſt to your candour and ſenſibility, and hope they will plead for the errors your judgment muſt diſcover, I ſhould never have availed myſelf of the liberty I have obtained—that of dedicating theſe ſimple effuſions to the greateſt modern Maſter of that charming talent, in which I can never be more than a diſtant copyiſt.

I am, Sir, Your moſt obedient and obliged Servant,

Charlotte Smith

.
Vol.I b vi b1v vii b2r

Preface to the First and Second Editions.

The little Poems which are here called Sonnets, have, I believe, no very juſt claim to that title: but they conſiſt of fourteen lines, and appear to me no improper vehicle for a ſingle Sentiment. I am told, and I read it as the opinion of very good judges, that the legitimate Sonnet is ill calculated for our language. The ſpecimen Mr. Hayley has given, though they form a ſtrong exception, prove no more, than that the difficulties of the attempt vaniſh before uncommon powers.

b2 viii b2v iv

Some very melancholy moments have been beguiled by expreſſing in verſe the ſenſations those moments brought. Some of my friends, with partial indiſcretion, have multiplied the copies they procured of ſeveral of theſe attempts, till they found their way into the prints of the day in a mutilated ſtate; which, concurring with other circumſtances, determined me to put them into their preſent form. I can hope for readers only among the few, who, to ſenſibility of heart, join ſimplicity of taſte.

ix b3r

Preface to the Third and Fourth Editions.

The reception given by the public, as well as my particular friends, to the two firſt editions of theſe poems, has induced me to add to the preſent ſuch other Sonnets as I have written ſince, or have recovered from my acquaintance, to whom I had given them without thinking well enough of them at the time to preſerve any copies myſelf. A few of thoſe laſt written, I have attempted on the Italian model; with what ſucceſs I know not; but I am perſuaded x b3v vi that, to the generality of readers, thoſe which are leſs regular will be more pleaſing.

As a few notes were neceſſary, I have added them at the end. I have there quoted ſuch lines as I have borrowed; and even where I am conſcious the ideas were not my own, I have reſtored them to the original poſſeſſors.

xi b4r

Preface to the Fifth Edition.

In printing a liſt of ſo many noble, literary, and reſpectable names, it would become me, perhaps, to make my acknowledgments to thoſe friends, to whoſe exertions in my favor, rather than to any merit of my own, I owe the brilliant aſſemblage. With difficulty I repreſs what I feel on this ſubject; but in the conviction that ſuch acknowledgments would be painful to them, I forbear publicly to ſpeak of thoſe particular obligations, the ſenſe of which will ever be deeply impreſſed on my heart.

xii b4v xiii b5r

Preface to the Sixth Edition.

When a ſixth Edition of theſe little Poems was lately called for, it was propoſed to me to add ſuch Sonnets, or other pieces, as I might have written ſince the publication of the fifth— Of theſe, however, I had only a few; and on ſhewing them to a friend, of whoſe judgment I had an high opinion, he remarked that ſome of them, particularly The Sleeping Woodman, and The Return of the Nightingale, reſembled in their ſubjects, and ſtill more in the plaintive tone in which they are written, the greater part of thoſe in the former Editions— and that, perhaps, ſome of a more lively caſt xiv b5v x might be better liked by the Public—Toujours perdrix, said my friend—Toujours perdrix, you know, ne vaut rien.—I am far from ſuppoſing that your compoſitions can be neglected or diſapproved, on whatever ſubject: but perhaps toujours Roſſignols, toujours des chanson triste, may not be ſo well received as if you attempted, what you would certainly execute as ſucceſsfully, a more cheerful ſtyle of compoſition. Alas! replied I, Are grapes gathered from thorns, or figs from thiſtles? Or can the effect ceaſe, while the cauſe remains? You know that when in the Beech Woods of Hampſhire, I firſt ſtruck the chords of the melancholy lyre, its notes were never intended for the public ear! It was unaffected ſorrows drew them forth: I wrote mournfully becauſe I was unhappy—And I have unfortunately no reaſon yet, though nine years have ſince elapſed, to xv b6r xi change my tone. The time is indeed arrived, when I have been promiſed by the Honourable Men who, nine years ago, undertook to ſee that my family obtained the proviſion their grandfather deſigned for them,—that all ſhould be well, all ſhould be ſettled. But ſtill I am condemned to feel the hope delayed that maketh the heart ſick. Still to receive—not a repetition of promiſes indeed— but of ſcorn and inſult, when I apply to thoſe gentlemen, who, though they acknowledge that all impediments to a diviſion of the eſtate they have undertaken to manage, are done away—will neither tell me when they will proceed to divide it, or whether they will ever do ſo at all. You know the circumſtances under which I have now ſo long been labouring; and you have done me the honor to ſay, that few Women could ſo long have contended with them. With theſe, however, as they are ſome of them xvi b6v xii of a domeſtic and painful nature, I will not trouble the Public now; but while they exiſt in all their force, that indulgent Public muſt accept all I am able to achieve—Toujours des Chanſons triſtes!

Thus ended the ſhort dialogue between my friend and me, and I repeat it as an apology for that apparent deſpondence, which, when it is obſerved for a long ſeries of years, may look like affectation. I shall be sorry, if on some future occaſion, I ſhould feel myſelf compelled to detail its cauſes more at length; for, notwithſtanding I am thus frequently appearing as an Authoreſs, and have derived from thence many of the greateſt advantages of my life, (ſince it has procured me friends whoſe attachment is moſt invaluable,) I am well aware that for a woman— The Poſt of Honor is a Private Station.

London, 1792-05-14May 14, 1792.
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001 B1r

Elegiac Sonnets.

Sonnet I.

The partial Muſe, has from my earlieſt hours

Smiled 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 hills 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 I. Line 13. Ah! then, how dear the Muſe’s favours coſt, If those paint ſorrow best—who feel it moſt! The well-ſung woes ſhall ſooth my penſive ghoſt; He beſt can paint them who ſhall feel them moſt. Pope’s Eloiſa to Abelard, 366th line.
Vol. I. B 002 B1v 2

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, Sonnet II. Line 3. Anemonies, that ſpangled every grove. Anemony Nemeroſo. The wood Anemony.

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?

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Sonnet III.

To a Nightingale.

Poor melancholy bird—that all night long Sonnet III. Line 1. The idea from the 43rd Sonnet of Petrarch. Secondo parte. Quel roſigniuol, che ſi ſoave piagnepiange.

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 leaveſt thy neſt,

Thus to the liſtening night to ſing thy fate?

Pale Sorrow’s victims wert thou once among,

Tho’ 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!

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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!

Plate 1.

Sonnet 4.

A woman in a dress standing beneath a tree by a stream, gazing at the moon. An owl perches on the frame of the image.

Corbould del.delineavit

Milton sculpt.sculpsit

Publish’d 1798-01-01Jany 1. 1789. by T. Cadell, Strand.

Queen of the Silver Bow, &c.

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Sonnet V.

To the South Downs.

Ah! hills beloved!—where once, an happy child,

Your beechen ſhades, your turf, your flowers among, Sonnet V. Line 2. Your turf, your flowers among. Whoſe turf, whoſe ſhades, whoſe flowers among. Gray.

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 ſooth the ſenſe of pain,

And teach a breaking heart to throb no more?

And you, Aruna!— Line 9. Aruna! The river Arun. 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!

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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. Sonnet VI. Line 12. For me the vernal garland blooms no more. Pope’s Imit. 1st Ode 4th Book of Horace.

Come then, pale Miſery’s love! Line 13. Miſery’s Love. Shakspeare’s King John. be thou my cure,

And I will bleſs thee, who tho’ ſlow art ſure.

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Sonnet VII.

On the Departure of the Nightingale.

Sweet poet of the woods—a long adieu!

Farewel, 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. Sonnet VII. Line 4. On the Night’s dull ear. Shakspeare.

Whether on Spring Line 5. Whether on Spring Alludes to the ſupposed migration of the Nightingale. thy wandering flights await,

Or whether ſilent in our groves you dwell,

The penſive muſe ſhall own thee for her mate, Line 7. The penſive Muſe ſhall own thee for his mate. Whether the Muſe or Love call thee his mate. Both them I ſerve, and of their train am I. Milton’s Firſt Sonnet.

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!

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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 ſooth 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 VIII. Line 14. Have power to cure all ſadneſs—but deſpair! To the heart inſpires Vernal delight and joy, able to drive All ſadneſs but deſpair. Paradise Lost, Fourth Book.

Plate 2.

Sonnet 812.

A woman sitting pensively on a rocky shore.

Stothard del.delineavit

Neagle ſculpt.ſculptit

Published 1789-01-01January 1st, 1789 by T. Cadell Strand.

On ſome rude fragment of the rocky shore.

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Sonnet IX.

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 rely’d,

Unkindly shun th’ imploring eye of woe!

The ills they ought to ſooth, with taunts deride,

And laugh at tears themſelves have forced to flow. Sonnet IX. Line 10. And laugh at tears themſelves have forced to flow. And hard unkindneſs’ alter’d eye, That mocks the tear it forced to flow. Gray.

Nor his rude boſom thoſe fine feelings melt,

Children of Sentiment and Knowledge born,

Thro’ whom each ſhaft with cruel force is felt,

Empoiſon’d by deceit—or barb’d with ſcorn.

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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 pourtrays!

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!

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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! Sonnet XI. Line 4. Float in light viſion round my aching head. Float in light viſion round the poet’s head. Mason.

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, Line 7. And the poor ſea boy, in the rudeſt hour, Enjoys thee more than he who wears a crown. Wilt thou upon the high and giddy maſt Seal up the ſhip boy’s eyes, and rock his brains In cradle of the rude impetuous ſurge? &c. Shakſpeare’s Henry IV.

Enjoys thee more than he who wears a crown.

Claſp’d in her faithful ſhepherd’s guardian arms,

Well may the village girl ſweet ſlumbers prove;

And they, O gentle Sleep! ſtill taſte thy charms,

Who wake to labour, liberty, and love.

But ſtill thy opiate aid doſt thou deny

To calm the anxious breaſt, to cloſe the ſtreaming eye.

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Sonnet XII.

Written on the Sea Shore.—1784-10October, 1784.

On ſome rude fragment of the rocky ſhore,

Where on the fractured cliff the billows break,

Muſing, my ſolitary ſeat I take,

And listen to the deep and ſolemn roar.

O’er the dark waves the winds tempeſtuous howl;

The ſcreaming ſea-bird quits the troubled ſea:

But the wild gloomy ſcene has charms for me,

And ſuits the mournful temper of my ſoul. Sonnet XII. Line 8. And ſuits the mournful temper of my ſoul. Young.

Already ſhipwreck’d by the ſtorms of Fate,

Like the poor mariner methinks I ſtand,

Caſt on a rock; who ſees the diſtant land

From whence no ſuccour comes—or comes too late.

Faint and more faint are heard his feeble cries,

’Till in the riſing tide the exhauſted ſufferer dies.

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Sonnet XIII.

From Petrarch.

Oh! place me where the burning noon Sonnet XIII. Line 1. Pommi ove’l Sol, occide i fiori e l’erba. Petrarch, Sonnetto 112. Parte primo.

Forbids the wither’d flower to blow;

Or place me in the frigid zone,

On mountains of eternal ſnow:

Let me purſue the ſteps of Fame,

Or Poverty’s more tranquil road;

Let youth’s warm tide my veins inflame,

Or ſixty winters chill my blood:

Tho’ my fond ſoul to Heaven were flown,

Or tho’ on earth ’tis doom’d to pine,

Priſoner or free—obſcure or known,

My heart, oh, Laura! ſtill is thine.

Whate’er my deſtiny may be,

That faithful heart ſtill burns for thee!

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Sonnet XIV.

From Petrarch.

Loose to the wind her golden treſſes ſtream’d, Sonnet XIV. Line 1. Erano i capei d’oro all aura ſparſi. Sonnetto 69. Parte primo.

Forming bright waves with amorous Zephyr’s ſighs;

And tho’ averted now, her charming eyes

Then with warm love, and melting pity beam’d.

Was I deceived?—Ah! ſurely, nymph divine!

That fine ſuffusion on thy cheek was love;

What wonder then thoſe beauteous tints ſhould move,

Should fire this heart, this tender heart of mine!

Thy ſoft melodious voice, thy air, thy ſhape,

Were of a goddeſs—not a mortal maid;

Yet tho’ thy charms, thy heavenly charms ſhould fade,

My heart, my tender heart could not eſcape;

Nor cure for me in time or change be found:

The ſhaft extracted does not cure the wound!

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Sonnet XV.

From Petrarch.

Where the green leaves exclude the ſummer beam, Sonnet XV. Line 1. Se lamentar augelli o verdi fronde. Sonnetto 21. Parte ſecondo.

And ſoftly bend as balmy breezes blow,

And where, with liquid lapſe, the lucid ſtream

Acroſs the fretted rock is heard to flow,

Penſive I lay: when ſhe whom Earth conceals,

As if ſtill living, to my eyes appears,

And pitying Heaven her angel form reveals,

To ſay—Unhappy Petrarch, dry your tears;

Ah! why, ſad lover! thus before your time,

In grief and ſadneſs ſhould your life decay,

And like a blighted flower, your manly prime

In vain and hopeleſs ſorrow fade away?

Ah! yield not thus to culpable deſpair,

But raiſe thine eyes to Heaven—and think I wait thee there.

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Sonnet XVI.

From Petrarch.

Ye vales and woods! fair ſcenes of happier hours! Sonnet XVI. Line 1. Valle che de lamenti miei ſe piena. Sonnetto 33. Parte ſecondo.

Ye feather’d people, tenants of the grove!

And you, bright ſtream! befringed with ſhrubs and flowers,

Behold my grief, ye witneſſes of love!

For ye beheld my infant paſſion riſe,

And ſaw thro’ years unchanged my faithful flame;

Now cold, in duſt, the beauteous object lies,

And you, ye conſcious ſcenes, are ſtill the ſame!

While buſy Memory ſtill delights to dwell

On all the charms theſe bitter tears deplore,

And with a trembling hand deſcribes too well

The angel form I ſhall behold no more!

To Heaven ſhe’s fled! and nought to me remains

But the pale aſhes which her urn contains.

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Sonnet XVII.

From the Thirteenth Cantata of Metastasio.

On thy grey bark, in witneſs of my flame, Sonnet XVII. Line 1. Scrivo in te l’amato nome Di colei, per cui, mi moro. 095 G8r 95 This is not meant as a tranſlation; the original is much longer, and full of images, which could not be introduced in a Sonnet.—And ſome of them, though very beautiful in the Italian, would not appear to advantage in an English dreſs.

I carve Miranda’s cypher—Beauteous tree!

Graced with the lovely letters of her name,

Henceforth be ſacred to my love and me!

Tho’ the tall elm, the oak, and darker pine,

With broader arms, may noon’s fierce ardors break,

To ſhelter me, and her I love, be thine;

And thine to ſee her ſmile and hear her ſpeak.

No bird, ill-omen’d, round thy graceful head

Shall clamour harſh, or wave his heavy wing,

But fern and flowers ariſe beneath thy ſhade,

Where the wild bees their lullabies ſhall ſing.

And in thy boughs the murmuring Ring-dove reſt;

And there the Nightingale shall build her neſt.

Vol. 1 C 018 C1v 18

Sonnet XVIII.

To the Earl of Egremont.

Wyndham! ’tis not thy blood, tho’ pure it runs

Thro’ a long line of glorious anceſtry,

Percys and Seymours, Britain’s boaſted ſons,

Who trust the honors of their race to thee:

’Tis not thy ſplendid domes, where ſcience loves

To touch the canvas, and the buſt to raiſe;

Thy rich domains, fair fields, and ſpreading groves;

’Tis not all theſe the Muſe delights to praiſe:

In birth, and wealth, and honors, great thou art!

But nobler in thy independent mind;

And in that liberal hand and feeling heart

Given thee by Heaven—a bleſſing to mankind!

Unworthy oft may titled fortune be;

A ſoul like thine—is true Nobility!

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Sonnet XIX.

To Mr. Hayley, on Receiving Some Elegant Lines From Him.

For me the Muſe a ſimple band deſign’d

Of idle flowers that bloom the woods among,

Which, with the cypreſs and the willow join’d,

A garland form’d as artleſs as my ſong.

And little dared I hope its tranſient hours

So long would laſt; compoſed of buds ſo brief;

’Till Hayley’s hand among the vagrant flowers,

Threw from his verdant crown a deathleſs leaf.

For high in Fame’s bright fane has Judgment placed

The laurel wreath Serena’s poet won,

Which, woven with myrtles by the hands of Taſte,

The Muſe decreed for this her favourite ſon.

And thoſe immortal leaves his temples ſhade,

Whoſe fair, eternal verdure—ſhall not fade!

C2 020 C2v 20

Sonnet XX.

To the Countess of A――. Written on the Anniversary of Her Marriage.

On this bleſt day may no dark cloud, or ſhower,

With envious ſhade the Sun’s bright influence hide!

But all his rays illume the favour’d hour,

That ſaw thee, Mary!—Henry’s lovely bride!

With years revolving may it ſtill ariſe,

Bleſt with each good approving Heaven can ſend!

And ſtill, with ray ſerene, ſhall thoſe blue eyes

Enchant the huſband, and attach the friend!

For you fair Friendſhip’s amaranth ſhall blow,

And Love’s own thornleſs roſes bind your brow;

And when—long hence—to happier worlds you go,

Your beauteous race ſhall be what you are now!

And future Nevills thro’ long ages ſhine,

With hearts as good, and forms as fair as thine!

021 C3r 21

Sonnet XXI.

Supposed to Be Written By Werter.

Go! cruel tyrant of the human breaſt!

To other hearts thy burning arrows bear;

Go, where fond hope, and fair illuſion reſt;

Ah! why ſhould love inhabit with deſpair!

Like the poor maniac Sonnet XXI. Line 5. Poor Maniac. See the Story of the Lunatic. Is this the deſtiny of man? Is he only happy before he poſſeſſes his reaſon, or after he has loſt it?— Full of hope you go to gather flowers in Winter, and are grieved not to find any—and do not know why they cannot be found. Sorrows of Werter. Volume Second. I linger here,

Still haunt the ſcene where all my treaſure lies;

Still ſeek for flowers where only thorns appear,

And drink delicious poiſon from her eyes! Line 8. And drink delicious poiſon from thine eye. Pope.

Tow’rds the deep gulf that opens on my ſight

I hurry forward, Paſſion’s helpless ſlave!

And ſcorning Reaſon’s mild and ſober light,

Purſue the path that leads me to the grave!

So round the flame the giddy inſect flies,

And courts the fatal fire by which it dies!

022 C3v 22

Sonnet XXII.

By the Same. To Solitude.

Oh, Solitude! to thy ſequeſter’d vale Sonnet XXII. Line 1. I climb ſteep rocks, I break my way through copſes, among thorns and briars which tear me to pieces, and I feel a little relief. Sorrows of Werter. Volume Firſt.

I come to hide my ſorrow and my tears,

And to thy echoes tell the mournful tale

Which ſcarce I truſt to pitying Friendſhip’s ears!

Amidſt thy wild-woods, and untrodden glades,

No ſounds but thoſe of melancholy move;

And the low winds that die among thy ſhades,

Seem like ſoft Pity’s ſighs for hopeleſs love!

And ſure ſome ſtory of deſpair and pain,

In yon deep copſe, thy murm’ring doves relate;

And, hark! methinks in that long plaintive ſtrain,

Thine own ſweet ſongstreſs weeps my wayward fate!

Ah, Nymph! that fate aſſiſt me to endure,

And bear awhile—what death alone can cure!

023 C4r 23

Sonnet XXIII.

By the Same. To the North Star.

To thy bright beams I turn my ſwimming eyes, Sonnet XXIII. Line 1. The greater Bear, favourite of all the conſtellations; for when I left you of an evening it uſed to ſhine oppoſite your window. Sorrows of Werter. Volume Second.

Fair, fav’rite planet! which in happier days

Saw my young hopes, ah! faithleſs hopes!—ariſe,

And on my paſſion ſhed propitious rays!

Now nightly wandering ’mid the tempeſts drear

That howl the woods and rocky ſteeps among,

I love to ſee thy ſudden light appear

Thro’ the ſwift clouds—driven by the wind along:

Or in the turbid water, rude and dark,

O’er whose wild ſtream the guſt of Winter raves,

Thy trembling light with pleaſure ſtill I mark,

Gleam in faint radiance on the foaming waves!

So o’er my ſoul ſhort rays of reaſon fly,

Then fade:—and leave me to deſpair, and die!

024 C4v 24

Sonnet XXIV.

By the Same.

Make there my tomb, beneath the lime-tree’s ſhade, Sonnet XXIV. Line 1. At the corner of the church-yard which looks towards the fields, there are two lime trees—it is there I wiſh to reſt. Sorrows of Werter. Volume Second.

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!

025 C5r 25

Sonnet XXV.

By the Same. Just Before His Death.

Why ſhould I wiſh to hold in this low ſphere Sonnet XXV. Line 1. May my death remove every obſtacle to your happineſs.—Be at peace, I intreat you be at peace. Sorrows of Werter. Volume Second.

A frail and feveriſh being? wherefore try

Poorly from day to day to linger here,

Againſt the powerful hand of Deſtiny?

By thoſe who know the force of hopeleſs care

On the worn heart—I ſure ſhall be forgiven,

If to elude dark guilt, and dire deſpair,

I go uncall’d—to mercy and to Heaven!

O thou! to ſave whoſe peace I now depart,

Will thy ſoft mind thy poor loſt friend deplore,

When worms ſhall feed on this devoted heart, Line 11. When worms ſhall feed on this devoted heart, Where even thy image ſhall be found no more. From a line in Rousseau’s Eloiſa..

Where even thy image ſhall be found no more? Line 11. When worms ſhall feed on this devoted heart, Where even thy image ſhall be found no more. From a line in Rousseau’s Eloiſa..

Yet may thy pity mingle not with pain,

For then thy hapleſs lover—dies in vain!

026 C5v 26

Sonnet XXVI.

To the River Arun.

On thy wild banks, by frequent torrents worn,

No glittering fanes, or marble domes appear,

Yet ſhall the mournful Muſe thy courſe adorn,

And ſtill to her thy ruſtic waves be dear.

For with the infant Otway, lingering here, Sonnet XXVI. Line 5. For with the infant Otway, lingering here. Otway was born at Trotten, a village in Suſſex. Of Woolbeding, another village on the banks of the Arun (which runs through them both), his father was rector. Here it was therefore that he probably paſſed many of his early years. The Arun is here an inconſiderableI H 098 H1v 98 ſiderable ſtream, winding in a channel deeply worn, among meadow, heath, and wood.

Of early woes ſhe bade her votary dream,

While thy low murmurs ſooth’d his penſive ear,

And ſtill the poet—conſecrates the ſtream.

Beneath the oak and birch that fringe thy ſide

The firſt-born violets of the year ſhall ſpring;

And in thy hazles, bending o’er the tide,

The earlieſt Nightingale delight to ſing:

While kindred ſpirits, pitying, ſhall relate

Thy Otway’s ſorrows, and lament his fate!

facing 026

Plate 3.

Sonnet 16.

A child reclining on a river bank.

Stothard del.delineavit Thornthwaite sculpt.sculptit Published 1789-01-01Jany. 1. 1789. by T. Cadell Strand.

For with the infant Otway lingering here.

facing 027 027 C6r 27

Sonnet XXVII.

Sighing I ſee yon little troop at play,

By ſorrow yet untouch’d; unhurt by care;

While free and ſportive they enjoy to-day,

Content and careleſs of to-morrow’s fare! Sonnet XXVII. Line 4. Content, and careleſs of to-morrow’s fare. Thomſon.

O happy age! when Hope’s unclouded ray

Lights their green path, and prompts their ſimple mirth,

Ere yet they feel the thorns that lurking lay

To wound the wretched pilgrims of the earth,

Making them rue the hour that gave them birth,

And threw them on a world ſo full of pain,

Where proſperous folly treads on patient worth,

And, to deaf pride, misfortune pleads in vain!

Ah!—for their future fate how many fears

Oppreſs my heart—and fill mine eyes with tears!

028 C6v 28

Sonnet XXVIII.

To Friendship.

O thou! whoſe name too often is profaned;

Whoſe charms, celeſtial, few have hearts to feel!

Unknown to Folly—and by Pride diſdained!

—To thy ſoft ſolace may my ſorrows ſteal!

Like the fair Moon, thy mild and genuine ray

Thro’ life’s long evening ſhall unclouded laſt;

While pleaſure’s frail attachments fleet away,

As fades the rainbow from the northern blaſt!

’Tis thine, O Nymph! with balmy hands to bind Sonnet XXVII. Line 9. Balmy hand to bind. Collins.

The wounds inflicted in misfortune’s ſtorm,

And blunt ſevere affliction’s ſharpeſt dart!

—’Tis thy pure ſpirit warms my Anna’s mind,

Beams thro’ the penſive ſoftneſs of her form,

And holds its altar—on her ſpotleſs heart!

029 C7r 29

Sonnet XXIX.

To Miss C— On Being Desired to Attempt Writing a Comedy.

Would’st thou then have me tempt the comic ſcene

Of gay Thalia? uſed ſo long to tread

The gloomy paths of ſorrow’s cypreſs ſhade;

And the lorn lay with ſighs and tears to ſtain?

Alas! how much unfit her ſprightly vein,

Arduous to try!—and ſeek the ſunny mead,

And bowers of roſes, where ſhe loves to lead

The ſportive ſubjects of her golden reign!

Enough for me, if ſtill, to ſooth my days,

Her fair and penſive ſiſter condeſcend,

With tearful ſmile to bleſs my ſimple lays;

Enough, if her ſoft notes ſhe ſometimes lend,

To gain for me of feeling hearts the praiſe,

And chiefly thine, my ever partial friend!

030 C7v 30

Sonnet XXX.

To the River Arun.

Be the proud Thames of trade the buſy mart!

Arun! to thee will other praiſe belong;

Dear to the lover’s, and the mourner’s heart,

And ever ſacred to the ſons of ſong!

Thy banks romantic hopeleſs Love ſhall ſeek,

Where o’er the rocks the mantling bindwith Sonnet XXX. Line 6. Bindwith. The plant Clematis, Bindwith, Virgin’s Bower, or Traveller’s Joy, which towards the end of June begins to cover the hedges and ſides of rocky hollows with its beautiful foliage, and flowers of a yellowiſh 099 H2r 99 white of an agreeable fragrance; theſe are ſucceeded by ſeed pods that bear some reſemblance to feathers or hair, whence it is ſometimes called Old Man’s Beard. flaunts;

And Sorrow’s drooping form and faded cheek

Chooſe on thy willow’d ſhore her lonely haunts!

Banks! which inſpired thy Otway’s plaintive ſtrain! Line 9. Banks! which inſpired thy Otway’s plaintive ſtrain! Wilds! whoſe lorn echoes learn’d the deeper tone Of Collins’ powerful shell! Collins, as well as Otway, was a native of this country, and probably at ſome period of his life an inhabitant of this neighbourhood, ſince in his beautiful Ode on the Death of Colonel Roſs, he says, The Muſe ſhall ſtill, with ſocial aid, Her gentleſt promiſe keep; E’en humble Harting’s cottaged vale Shall learn the ſad repeated tale, And bid her ſhepherds weep. H2 100 H2v 100 And in the Ode to Pity: Wild Arun too has heard thy ſtrains, And Echo, ’midſt thy native plains, Been ſooth’d with Pity’s lute.

Wilds!—whoſe lorn echoes learn’d the deeper tone Line 9. Banks! which inſpired thy Otway’s plaintive ſtrain! Wilds! whoſe lorn echoes learn’d the deeper tone Of Collins’ powerful shell! Collins, as well as Otway, was a native of this country, and probably at ſome period of his life an inhabitant of this neighbourhood, ſince in his beautiful Ode on the Death of Colonel Roſs, he says, The Muſe ſhall ſtill, with ſocial aid, Her gentleſt promiſe keep; E’en humble Harting’s cottaged vale Shall learn the ſad repeated tale, And bid her ſhepherds weep. H2 100 H2v 100 And in the Ode to Pity: Wild Arun too has heard thy ſtrains, And Echo, ’midſt thy native plains, Been ſooth’d with Pity’s lute.

Of Collins’ powerful ſhell! Line 9. Banks! which inſpired thy Otway’s plaintive ſtrain! Wilds! whoſe lorn echoes learn’d the deeper tone Of Collins’ powerful shell! Collins, as well as Otway, was a native of this country, and probably at ſome period of his life an inhabitant of this neighbourhood, ſince in his beautiful Ode on the Death of Colonel Roſs, he says, The Muſe ſhall ſtill, with ſocial aid, Her gentleſt promiſe keep; E’en humble Harting’s cottaged vale Shall learn the ſad repeated tale, And bid her ſhepherds weep. H2 100 H2v 100 And in the Ode to Pity: Wild Arun too has heard thy ſtrains, And Echo, ’midſt thy native plains, Been ſooth’d with Pity’s lute. yet once again

Another poet—Hayley is thine own!

Thy claſſic ſtream anew ſhall hear a lay,

Bright as its waves, and various as its way!

031 C8r 31

Sonnet XXXI.

Written on Farm Wood, South Downs, in 1784-05May 1784.

Spring’s dewy hand on this fair ſummit weaves

The downy graſs, with tufts of Alpine flowers, Sonnet XXXI. Line 2. Alpine flowers. An infinite variety of plants are found on theſe hills, particularly about this ſpot: many ſorts of Orchis and Ciſtus of ſingular beauty, with ſeveral others.

And ſhades the beechen ſlopes with tender leaves,

And leads the ſhepherd to his upland bowers,

Strewn with wild thyme; while ſlow-deſcending ſhowers

Feed the green ear, and nurſe the future ſheaves!

—Ah! bleſt the hind—whom no ſad thought bereaves

Of the gay Seaſon’s pleaſures!—All his hours

To wholeſome labour given, or thoughtleſs mirth;

No pangs of ſorrow paſt, or coming dread,

Bend his unconſcious ſpirit down to earth,

Or chaſe calm ſlumbers from his careleſs head!

Ah! what to me can thoſe dear days reſtore,

When ſcenes could charm that now I taſte no more!

032 C8v 32

Sonnet XXXII.

To Melancholy. Written on the Banks of the Arun, 1785-10October 1785,.

When lateſt Autumn ſpreads her evening veil,

And the grey miſts from theſe dim waves ariſe,

I love to listen to the hollow ſighs,

Thro’ the half-leafleſs wood that breathes the gale:

For at ſuch hours the ſhadowy phantom, pale,

Oft ſeems to fleet before the poet’s eyes;

Strange ſounds are heard, and mournful melodies,

As of night-wanderers, who their woes bewail!

Here, by his native ſtream, at ſuch an hour,

Pity’s own Otway I methinks could meet,

And hear his deep ſighs ſwell the ſadden’d wind!

O Melancholy!—ſuch thy magic power,

That to the ſoul these dreams are often ſweet,

And ſooth the penſive viſionary mind!

033 D1r 33

Sonnet XXXIII.

To the Naiad of the Arun.

Go, rural Naiad! wind thy ſtream along

Thro’ woods and wilds: then ſeek the ocean caves

Where ſea-nymphs meet their coral rocks among,

To boaſt the various honors of their waves!

’Tis but a little, o’er thy ſhallow tide,

That toiling trade her burden’d veſſel leads;

But laurels grow luxuriant on thy ſide,

And letters live along thy claſſic meads.

Lo! where ’mid Britiſh bards thy natives Sonnet XXXIII. Line 9. Thy natives. Otway, Collins, Hayley. ſhine!

And now another poet helps to raiſe

Thy glory high—the poet of the Mine!

Whoſe brilliant talents are his ſmalleſt praiſe:

And who, to all that genius can impart,

Adds the cool head, and the unblemiſh’d heart!

Vol. 1 D 034 Dv 34

Sonnet XXXIV.

To a Friend.

Charm’d by thy ſuffrage, ſhall I yet aſpire

(All inauſpicious as my fate appears,

By troubles darken’d, that increaſe with years,)

To guide the crayon, or to touch the lyre?

Ah me!—the ſiſter Muſes ſtill require

A ſpirit free from all intruſive fears,

Nor will they deign to wipe away the tears

Of vain regret, that dim their ſacred fire.

But when thy envied ſanction crowns my lays,

A ray of pleaſure lights my languid mind,

For well I know the value of thy praiſe;

And to how few the flattering meed confin’d,

That thou,—their highly favour’d brows to bind,

Wilt weave green myrtle and unfading bays!

035 D2r 35

Sonnet XXXV.

To Fortitude.

Nymph of the rock! whoſe dauntleſs ſpirit braves

The beating ſtorm, and bitter winds that howl

Round thy cold breaſt; and hear’ſt the burſting waves

And the deep thunder with unſhaken ſoul;

Oh come!—and ſhew how vain the cares that preſs

On my weak boſom—and how little worth

Is the falſe fleeting meteor, Happineſs,

That ſtill miſleads the wanderers of the earth!

Strengthen’d by thee, this heart ſhall ceaſe to melt

O’er ills that poor humanity muſt bear;

Nor friends eſtranged, or ties diſſolved be felt

To leave regret, and fruitleſs anguiſh there:

And when at length it heaves its lateſt ſigh,

Thou and mild Hope ſhall teach me how to die!

D2 036 D2v 36

Sonnet XXXVI.

Should the lone Wanderer, fainting on his way,

Reſt for a moment of the ſultry hours,

And tho’ his path thro’ thorns and roughneſs lay,

Pluck the wild roſe, or woodbine’s gadding flowers,

Weaving gay wreaths beneath ſome ſheltering tree,

The ſense of ſorrow he awhile may loſe;

So have I ſought thy flowers, fair Poeſy!

So charm’d my way with Friendſhip and the Muſe.

But darker now grows life’s unhappy day,

Dark with new clouds of evil yet to come,

Her pencil ſickening Fancy throws away,

And weary Hope reclines upon the tomb;

And points my wishes to that tranquil ſhore,

Where the pale ſpectre Care purſues no more.

facing 036

Plate 4.

Sonnet 36.

A woman personifying Hope, with an anchor, leans on a tomb; a woman personifying Fancy, with a winged headdress, has cast her pencil to the ground

Corbould deldelineavit Neagle sculptsculptit

Publish’d as the Act directs by T. Cadell Strand 1789-01-01Jany 1. 1789.

Her pencil sickening fancy throws away And weary hope reclines upon the tomb.

facing 037 037 D3r 37

Sonnet XXXVII.

Sent to the Honorable Mrs. O’Neill, With Painted Flowers.

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 gives 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 an 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!

038 D3v 38

Sonnet XXXVIII.

From the Novel of Emmeline.

When welcome ſlumber ſets my ſpirit free,

Forth to fictitious happineſs it flies,

And where Elysian bowers of bliſs ariſe,

I ſeem, my Emmeline—to meet with thee!

Ah! Fancy then, diſſolving human ties,

Gives me the wiſhes of my ſoul to ſee;

Tears of fond pity fill thy ſoften’d eyes:

In heavenly harmony—our hearts agree.

Alas! theſe joys are mine in dreams alone,

When cruel Reaſon abdicates her throne!

Her harſh return condemns me to complain

Thro’ life unpitied, unrelieved, unknown.

And as the dear deluſions leave my brain,

She bids the truth recur—with aggravated pain.

039 D4r 39

Sonnet XXXIX.

To Night. From the Same.

I love thee, mournful, ſober-ſuited Night!

When the faint Moon, yet lingering in her wane,

And veil’d in clouds, with pale uncertain light

Hangs o’er the waters of the reſtleſs main.

In deep depreſſion ſunk, the enfeebled mind

Will to the deaf cold elements complain,

And tell the emboſom’d grief, however vain,

To ſullen ſurges and the viewleſs wind.

Tho’ no repoſe on thy dark breaſt I find,

I ſtill enjoy thee—cheerleſs as thou art;

For in thy quiet gloom the exhauſted heart

Is calm, tho’ wretched; hopeleſs, yet reſign’d.

While to the winds and waves its ſorrows given,

May reach—tho’ loſt on earth—the ear of Heaven!

040 D4v 40

Sonnet XL.

From the Same.

Far on the ſands, the low, retiring tide,

In diſtant murmurs hardly ſeems to flow;

And o’er the world of waters, blue and wide,

The ſighing ſummer wind forgets to blow.

As ſinks the day-ſtar in the roſy Weſt,

The ſilent wave, with rich reflection glows:

Alas! can tranquil nature give me reſt,

Or scenes of beauty ſooth me to repoſe?

Can the ſoft luſtre of the ſleeping main,

Yon radiant heaven, or all creation’s charms,

Erase the written troubles of the brain,

Which Memory tortures, and which guilt alarms?

Or bid a boſom tranſient quiet prove,

That bleeds with vain remorſe and unextinguiſh’d love!

041 D5r 41

Sonnet XLI.

To Tranquillity.

In this tumultuous sphere, for thee unfit,

How ſeldom art thou found—Tranquillity!

Unleſs ’tis when with mild and downcaſt eye

By the low cradles thou delight’ſt to ſit

Of ſleeping infants—watching the soft breath,

And bidding the ſweet ſlumberers eaſy lie;

Or ſometimes hanging o’er the bed of death,

Where the poor languid ſufferer—hopes to die.

Oh! beauteous ſiſter of the halcyon peace!

I ſure ſhall find thee in that heavenly ſcene

Where care and anguiſh ſhall their power reſign;

Where hope alike, and vain regret ſhall ceaſe,

And Memory—loſt in happineſs ſerene,

Repeat no more—that miſery has been mine!

042 D5v 42

Sonnet XLII.

Composed During a Walk on the Downs, in 1787-11November 1787.

The dark and pillowy cloud, the ſallow trees,

Seem o’er the ruins of the year to mourn;

And, cold and hollow, the inconſtant breeze

Sobs thro’ the falling leaves and wither’d fern.

O’er the tall brow of yonder chalky bourn,

The evening ſhades their gather’d darkneſs fling,

While, by the lingering light, I ſcarce diſcern

The ſhrieking night-jar ſail on heavy wing. Sonnet XLII. Line 8. The ſhrieking night-jar ſail on heavy wing. The night-jar or night hawk, a dark bird not ſo big as a rook, which is frequently ſeen of an evening on the downs. It has a ſhort heavy flight, then reſts on the ground, and again, uttering a mournful cry, flits before the traveller, to whom its appearance is ſuppoſed by the peaſants to portend misfortune. As I have never ſeen it dead, I know not to what ſpecies it belongs.

Ah! yet a little—and propitious Spring

Crown’d with freſh flowers ſhall wake the woodland ſtrain;

But no gay change revolving ſeaſons bring

To call forth pleaſure from the ſoul of pain;

Bid Syren Hope reſume her long-loſt part,

And chaſe the vulture Care—that feeds upon the heart.

043 D6r 43

Sonnet XLIII.

The unhappy exile, whom his fates confine

To the bleak coaſt of ſome unfriendly iſle,

Cold, barren, deſart, where no harveſts ſmile,

But thirſt and hunger on the rocks repine;

When, from ſome promontory’s fearful brow,

Sun after ſun he hopeleſs ſees decline

In the broad ſhipleſs ſea—perhaps may know

Such heartleſs pain, ſuch blank deſpair as mine;

And, if a flattering cloud appears to ſhow

The fancied ſemblance of a diſtant ſail,

Then melts away—anew his ſpirits fail,

While the loſt hope but aggravates his woe!

Ah! ſo for me deluſive Fancy toils,

Then, from contraſted truth—my feeble ſoul recoils.

044 D6v 44

Sonnet XLIV.

Written in the Church-Yard at Middleton in Sussex.

Press’d by the Moon, mute arbitreſs of tides,

While the loud equinox its power combines,

The ſea no more its ſwelling ſurge confines,

But o’er the ſhrinking land ſublimely rides.

The wild blaſt, riſing from the Weſtern cave,

Drives the huge billows from their heaving bed;

Tears from their graſſy tombs the village dead, Sonnet XLIV. Line 7. Middleton is a village on the margin of the ſea, in Suſſex, containing only two or three houſes. There were formerly ſeveral acres of ground between its ſmall church and the ſea, which now, by its continual encroachments,102 H3v 102 croachments, approaches within a few feet of this half ruined and humble edifice. The wall, which once ſurrounded the church-yard, is entirely ſwept away, many of the graves broken up, and the remains of bodies interred waſhed into the ſea: whence human bones are found among the ſand and ſhingles on the ſhore.

And breaks the ſilent ſabbath of the grave!

With ſhells and ſea-weed mingled, on the ſhore

Lo! their bones whiten in the frequent wave;

But vain to them the winds and waters rave;

They hear the warring elements no more:

While I am doom’d—by life’s long ſtorm oppreſt,

To gaze with envy on their gloomy reſt.

045 D7r 45

Sonnet XLV.

On Leaving a Part of Sussex.

Farewel, Aruna!—on whose varied shore

My early vows were paid to Nature’s ſhrine,

When thoughtleſs joy, and infant hope were mine,

And whoſe lorn ſtream has heard me ſince deplore

Too many ſorrows! Sighing I reſign

Thy ſolitary beauties—and no more

Or on thy rocks, or in thy woods recline,

Or on the heath, by moonlight lingering, pore

On air-drawn phantoms—While in Fancy’s ear

As in the evening wind thy murmurs ſwell,

The Enthuſiaſt of the Lyre who wander’d here, Sonnet XLV. Line 11. The enthuſiaſt of the lyre who wander’d here. Collins.See note to Sonnet 30.

Seems yet to ſtrike his viſionary ſhell,

Of power to call forth Pity’s tendereſt tear,

Or wake wild frenzy—from her hideous cell!

046 D7v 46

Sonnet XLVI.

Written at Penshurst, in Autumn 17881788.

Ye towers ſublime! deſerted now and drear!

Ye woods! deep ſighing to the hollow blaſt,

The muſing wanderer loves to linger near,

While Hiſtory points to all your glories paſt:

And ſtartling from their haunts the timid deer,

To trace the walks obſcured by matted fern,

Which Waller’s ſoothing lyre were wont to hear,

But where now clamours the diſcordant hern! Sonnet XLVI. Line 8. But where now clamours the diſcordant hern. In the park at Penſhurſt is an heronry. The houſe is at preſent uninhabited, and the windows of the galleries and other rooms, in which there are many invaluable pictures, are never opened but when ſtrangers viſit it.

The ſpoiling hand of Time may overturn

Theſe lofty battlements, and quite deface

The fading canvas whence we love to learn

Sydney’s Line 12. Algernon Sidney. keen look, and Sacharissa’s grace;

But fame and beauty ſtill defy decay,

Saved by the hiſtoric page—the poet’s tender lay!

047 D8r 47

Sonnet XLVII.

To Fancy.

Thee, Queen of Shadows!—ſhall I ſtill invoke,

Still love the ſcenes thy ſportive pencil drew,

When on mine eyes the early radiance broke

Which ſhew’d the beauteous rather than the true!

Alas! long ſince thoſe glowing tints are dead,

And now ’tis thine in darkeſt hues to dreſs

The ſpot where pale Experience hangs her head

O’er the ſad grave of murder’d Happineſs!

Thro’ thy falſe medium, then, no longer view’d,

May fancied pain and fancied pleaſure fly,

And I, as from me all thy dreams depart,

Be to my wayward deſtiny ſubdued:

Nor ſeek perfection with a poet’s eye,

Nor ſuffer anguiſh with a poet’s heart!

048 D8v 48

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.

049 E1r 49

Sonnet XLIX.

From the Novel of Celestina. Supposed to Have Been Written in a Church-Yard, Over the Grave of a Young Woman of Nineteen.

O thou! who ſleep’ſt where hazle-bands entwine

The vernal graſs, with paler violets dreſt;

I would, ſweet maid! thy humble bed were mine,

And mine thy calm and enviable reſt.

For never more by human ills oppreſt

Shall thy ſoft ſpirit fruitleſsly repine:

Thou canſt not now thy fondeſt hopes reſign

Even in the hour that ſhould have made thee bleſt.

Light lies the turf upon thy virgin breaſt;

And lingering here, to love and ſorrow true,

The youth who once thy ſimple heart poſſeſt

Shall mingle tears with April’s early dew;

While ſtill for him ſhall faithful Memory ſave

Thy form and virtues from the ſilent grave.

Vol. I E 050 E1v 50

Sonnet L.

From the Novel of Celestina.

Farewel, ye lawns!—by fond remembrance bleſt,

As witneſſes of gay unclouded hours;

Where, to maternal friendſhip’s boſom preſt,

My happy childhood paſt amid 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 lours

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:

Tho’ loſt to me—ſtill may thy ſmile ſerene

Bleſs the dear lord of this regretted ſcene.

051 E2r 51

Sonnet LI.

From the Novel of Celestina. Supposed to Have Been Written in the Hebrides.

On this lone iſland, whose unfruitful breaſt

Feeds but the Summer-ſhepherd’s little flock

With ſcanty herbage from the half-clothed rock,

Where oſprays, Sonnet LI. Line 4. Oſpray. The ſea-eagle. cormorants, and ſea-mews reſt;

Even in a ſcene ſo deſolate and rude

I could with thee for months and years be bleſt;

And of thy tenderneſs and love poſſeſt,

Find all my world in this wild ſolitude!

When Summer ſuns theſe Northern ſeas illume,

With thee admire the light’s reflected charms,

And when drear Winter ſpreads his cheerleſs gloom,

Still find Elyſium in thy ſhelt’ring arms:

For thou to me canſt ſovereign bliſs impart,

Thy mind my empire—and my throne thy heart.

E2 052 E2v 52

Sonnet LII.

From the Novel of Celestina. The Pilgrim.

Faultering and ſad the unhappy Pilgrim roves,

Who, on the eve of bleak December’s night,

Divided far from all he fondly loves,

Journeys alone, along the giddy height

Of theſe ſteep cliffs, and as the Sun’s laſt ray

Fades in the Weſt, ſees, from the rocky verge,

Dark tempest scowling o’er the shortened day,

And hears, with ear appall’d, the impetuous ſurge

Beneath him thunder!—So, with heart oppreſs’d,

Alone, reluctant, deſolate, and ſlow,

By Friendſhip’s cheering radiance now unbleſt,

Along Life’s rudeſt path I ſeem to go;

Nor ſee where yet the anxious heart may reſt,

That, trembling at the past—recoils from future woe.

053 E3r 53

Sonnet LIII.

From the Novel of Celestina. The Laplander.

The ſhivering native, who by Tenglio’s side

Beholds with fond regret the parting light

Sink far away, beneath the darkening tide,

And leave him to long months of dreary night,

Yet knows, that ſpringing from the eaſtern wave

The Sun’s glad beams ſhall re-illume his way,

And from the ſnows ſecured—within his cave

He waits in patient hope—returning day.

Not ſo the ſufferer feels, who, o’er the waſte

Of joyleſs life, is deſtin’d to deplore

Fond love forgotten, tender friendſhip paſt,

Which, once extinguiſh’d, can revive no more!

O’er the blank void he looks with hopeleſs pain;

For him thoſe beams of heaven ſhall never ſhine again.

054 E3v 54

Sonnet LIV.

The Sleeping Woodman. Written in 1790-04April 1790.

Ye copſes wild, where April bids ariſe

The vernal graſſes, and the early flowers;

My ſoul depreſſ’d—from human converſe flies

To the lone ſhelter of your pathleſs bowers.

Lo!—where the Woodman, with his toil oppreſs’d,

His careleſs head on bark and moſs reclined,

Lull’d by the ſong of birds, the murmuring wind,

Has ſunk to calm tho’ momentary reſt.

Ah! would ’twere mine in Spring’s green lap to find

Such tranſient reſpite from the ills I bear!

Would I could taſte, like this unthinking hind,

A ſweet forgetfulneſs of human care, Sonnet LIV. Line 12. A ſweet forgetfulneſs of human care. Pope.

Till the laſt ſleep theſe weary eyes ſhall cloſe,

And Death receive me to his long repoſe.

055 E4r 55

Sonnet LV.

The Return of the Nightingale. Written in 1791-05May 1791.

Borne on the warm wing of the weſtern gale,

How tremulouſly low is heard to float

Thro’ the green budding thorns that fringe the vale,

The early Nightingale’s preluſive note.

’Tis Hope’s inſtinctive power that thro’ the grove

Tells how benignant Heaven revives the earth;

’Tis the ſoft voice of young and timid love

That calls theſe melting ſounds of ſweetneſs forth.

With tranſport, once, ſweet bird! I hail’d thy lay,

And bade thee welcome to our ſhades again,

To charm the wandering poet’s penſive way

And ſooth the ſolitary lover’s pain;

But now!—ſuch evils in my lot combine,

As ſhut my languid ſenſe—to hope’s dear voice and thine!

056 E4v 56

Sonnet LVI.

The Captive Escaped in the Wilds of America. Addressed to the Hon. Mrs. O’Neill.

If, by his torturing, ſavage foes untraced,

The breathleſs Captive gain some trackleſs glade,

Yet hears the war-whoop howl along the waſte,

And dreads the reptile-monſters of the ſhade;

The giant reeds that murmur round the flood,

Seem to conceal ſome hideous form beneath;

And every hollow blaſt that ſhakes the wood,

Speaks to his trembling heart of woe and death.

With horror fraught, and deſolate diſmay,

On ſuch a wanderer falls the ſtarleſs night;

But if, far ſtreaming, a propitious ray

Leads to ſome amicable fort his ſight,

He hails the beam benign that guides his way,

As I, my Harriet, bleſs thy friendſhip’s cheering light.

057 E5r 57

Sonnet LVII.

To Dependence.

Dependence! heavy, heavy are thy chains,

And happier they who from the dangerous ſea,

Or the dark mine, procure with ceaſeleſs pains

An hard-earn’d pittance—than who truſt to thee!

More bleſt the hind, who from his bed of flock

Starts—when the birds of morn their ſummons give,

And waken’d by the lark—the ſhepherd’s clock, Sonnet LVII. Line 7. The lark—the ſhepherd’s clock. Shakſpeare.

Lives but to labour—labouring but to live.

More noble than the ſycophant, whoſe art

Muſt heap with taudry flowers thy hated ſhrine;

I envy not the meed thou canſt impart

To crown his ſervice—while, tho’ Pride combine

With Fraud to cruſh me—my unfetter’d heart

Still to the Mountain Nymph Line 14. The mountain goddeſs, Liberty. Milton. may offer mine.

058 E5v 58

Sonnet LVIII.

The Glow-Worm.

When on ſome balmy-breathing night of Spring

The happy child, to whom the world is new,

Purſues the evening moth, of mealy wing,

Or from the heath-bell beats the ſparkling dew;

He ſees before his inexperienced eyes

The brilliant Glow-worm, like a meteor, ſhine

On the turf-bank;—amazed, and pleaſed, he cries,

Star of the dewy graſs!— Sonnet LVIII. Line 8. Star of the earth. Dr. Darwin. I make thee mine!

Then, ere he ſleep, collects the moisten’d Line 9. The moiſten’d blade— Walcot’s beautiful Ode to the Glow-worm. flower,

And bids ſoft leaves his glittering prize enfold,

And dreams that Fairy-lamps illume his bower:

Yet with the morning ſhudders to behold

His lucid treasure, rayleſs as the duſt!

—So turn the World’s bright joys to cold and blank diſguſt.

059 E6r 59

Sonnet LIX.

Written 1791-09Sept. 1791, During a Remarkable Thunder Storm, in Which the Moon Was Perfectly Clear, While the Tempest Gathered in Various Directions Near the Earth.

What awful pageants crowd the evening ſky!

The low horizon gathering vapours ſhroud,

Sudden, from many a deep-embattled cloud

Terrific thunders burſt and lightnings fly—

While in ſereneſt azure, beaming high,

Night’s regent, of her calm pavilion proud,

Gilds the dark ſhadows that beneath her lie,

Unvex’d by all their conflicts fierce and loud.

—So, in unſullied dignity elate,

A ſpirit conſcious of ſuperior worth,

In placid elevation firmly great,

Scorns the vain cares that give Contention birth;

And bleſt with peace above the ſhocks of Fate,

Smiles at the tumult of the troubled earth.

060 E6v 60

Ode to Despair.

From the Novel of Emmeline.

Thou ſpectre of terrific mein!

Lord of the hopeleſs heart and hollow eye,

In whoſe fierce train each form is ſeen

That drives ſick Reaſon to inſanity!

I woo thee with unuſual prayer,

Grim visaged, comfortless Despair:

Approach; in me a willing victim find,

Who ſeeks thine iron ſway—and calls thee kind!

Ah! hide for ever from my ſight

The faithleſs flatterer Hope—whoſe pencil, gay,

Pourtrays ſome viſion of delight,

Then bids the fairy tablet fade away;

While in dire contraſt, to mine eyes,

Thy phantoms, yet more hideous, riſe,

061 E7r 61

And Memory draws from Pleaſure’s wither’d flower,

Corroſives for the heart—of fatal power!

I bid the traitor Love, adieu!

Who to this fond believing boſom came,

A gueſt inſidious and untrue,

With Pity’s ſoothing voice—in Friendſhip’s name;

The wounds he gave, nor Time ſhall cure,

Nor Reaſon teach me to endure.

And to that breaſt mild Patience pleads in vain,

Which feels the curſe—of meriting its pain.

Yet not to me, tremendous Power!

Thy worſt of ſpirit-wounding pangs impart,

With which, in dark conviction’s hour,

Thou ſtrikeſt the guilty unrepentant heart

But of illuſion long the ſport,

That dreary, tranquil gloom I court,

Where my paſt errors I may ſtill deplore,

And dream of long-loſt happineſs no more!

062 E7v 62

To thee I give this tortured breaſt,

Where Hope ariſes but to foſter pain;

Ah! lull its agonies to rest!

Ah! let me never be deceived again!

But callous, in thy deep repoſe,

Behold, in long array, the woes

Of the dread future, calm and undiſmay’d,

Till I may claim the hope—that ſhall not fade!

facing 062 facing 063

Plate 5

Elegy

A woman on her knees in a graveyard near the sea.

Corbould del.delineavit Heath sculpt.sculptit

Publish’d 1789-01-01Jany. 1. 1789. by T. Cadell Strand.

063 E8r 63

Elegy. Elegy. This elegy is written on the ſuppoſition that an indigent young woman had been addreſſed by the ſon of a wealthy yeoman, who reſenting his attachment, had driven him from home, and compelled him to have recourſe for ſubſiſtence to the occupation of a pilot, in which, in attempting to ſave a veſſel in diſtreſs, he periſhed. The father dying, a tomb is ſuppoſed to be erected to his memory in the church-yard mentioned in Sonnet the 44th. And while a tempeſt is gathering, the 105 I1r 105 unfortunate young woman comes thither; and courting the ſame death as had robbed her of her lover, ſhe awaits its violence, and is at length overwhelmed by the waves.

Dark gathering clouds involve the threatening ſkies,

The ſea heaves conſcious of the impending gloom,

Deep, hollow murmurs from the cliffs ariſe;

They come—the Spirits of the Tempeſt come!

Oh! may ſuch terrors mark the approaching night

As reign’d on that theſe ſtreaming eyes deplore!

Flaſh, ye red fires of heaven, with fatal light,

And with conflicting winds ye waters roar!

Loud and more loud, ye foaming billows, burſt!

Ye warring elements, more fiercely rave!

Till the wide waves o’erwhelm the ſpot accurſt

Where ruthleſs Avarice finds a quiet grave!

064 E8v 64

Thus with claſp’d hands, wild looks, and ſtreaming hair,

While ſhrieks of horror broke her trembling ſpeech,

A wretched maid—the victim of deſpair,

Survey’d the threatening ſtorm and deſart beech:

Then to the tomb where now the father ſlept

Whoſe rugged nature bade her ſorrows flow,

Frantic ſhe turn’d—and beat her breaſt and wept,

Invoking vengeance on the duſt below.

Lo! riſing there above each humbler heap,

Yon cypher’d ſtones his name and wealth relate,

Who gave his ſon—remorſeleſs—to the deep,

While I, his living victim, curſe my fate.

Oh! my loſt love! no tomb is placed for thee,

That may to ſtrangers eyes thy worth impart;

Thou haſt no grave but in the ſtormy ſea,

And no memorial but this breaking heart.

065 F1r 65

Forth to the world, a widow’d wanderer driven,

I pour to winds and waves the unheeded tear,

Try with vain effort to ſubmit to Heaven,

And fruitleſs call on him—who cannot hear. Verſe 8. Line 4. And fruitleſs call on him—who cannot hear. I fruitleſs mourn to him who cannot hear, And weep the more becauſe I weep in vain. Gray’s exquiſite Sonnet; in reading which it is impoſſible not to regret that he wrote only one.

Oh! might I fondly claſp him once again,

While o’er my head the infuriate billows pour,

Forget in death this agonizing pain,

And feel his father’s cruelty no more!

Part, raging waters! part, and ſhew beneath,

In your dread caves, his pale and mangled form;

Now, while the demons of deſpair and death

Ride on the blaſt, and urge the howling ſtorm!

Lo! by the lightning’s momentary blaze,

I ſee him riſe the whitening waves above,

No longer ſuch as when in happier days

He gave the enchanted hours—to me and love.

Vol. I F 066 F1v 66

Such, as when daring the enchafed ſea,

And courting dangerous toil, he often ſaid

That every peril, one ſoft ſmile from me,

One ſigh of ſpeechleſs tenderneſs o’erpaid.

But dead, disfigured, while between the roar

Of the loud waves his accents pierce mine ear,

And ſeem to ſay—Ah, wretch! delay no more,

But come, unhappy mourner—meet me here.

Yet, powerful Fancy, bid the phantom ſtay,

Still let me hear him!—’Tis already paſt;

Along the waves his ſhadow glides away,

I loſe his voice amid the deafening blaſt.

Ah! wild illuſion, born of frantic pain!

He hears not, comes not from his watery bed;

My tears, my anguiſh, my deſpair are vain,

The inſatiate Ocean gives not up its dead.

067 F2r 67

’Tis not his voice! Hark! the deep thunders roll;

Upheaves the ground; the rocky barriers fail;

Approach, ye horrors that delight my ſoul,

Deſpair, and Death, and Deſolation, hail!

The Ocean hears—The embodied waters come—

Riſe o’er the land, and with reſiſtleſs sweep

Tear from its baſe the proud aggreſſor’s tomb,

And bear the injured to eternal ſleep!

068 F2v 68

Song.

From the French of Cardinal Bernis.

I.

Fruit of Aurora’s tears, fair roſe,

On whoſe ſoft leaves fond Zephyrs play,

Oh! queen of flowers, thy buds diſcloſe,

And give thy fragrance to the day;

Unveil thy tranſient charms:—ah, no!

A little be thy bloom delay’d,

Since the ſame hour that bids thee blow,

Shall ſee thee droop thy languid head.

II.

But go! and on Themira’s breaſt

Find, happy flower! thy throne and tomb;

While, jealous of a fate ſo bleſt,

How ſhall I envy thee thy doom!

069 F3r 69

Should ſome rude hand approach thee there,

Guard the ſweet ſhrine thou wilt adorn;

Ah! puniſh thoſe who raſhly dare,

And for my rivals keep thy thorn.

III.

Love ſhall himſelf thy boughs compoſe,

And bid thy wanton leaves divide;

He’ll ſhew thee how, my lovely roſe,

To deck her boſom, not to hide:

And thou ſhalt tell the cruel maid

How frail are youth and beauty’s charms,

And teach her, ere her own ſhall fade,

To give them to her lover’s arms.

070 F3v 70

The Origin of Flattery. The Origin of Flattery. This little poem was written almoſt extempore on occaſion of a converſation where many pleaſant things were ſaid on the ſubject of flattery; and ſome French gentlemen who were of the party enquired for a ſynonime in Engliſh to the French word fleurette. The I 106 I1v 106 poem was inſerted in the two first editions, and having been aſked for by very reſpectable ſubſcribers to the preſent, it is reprinted. The ſonnets have been thought too gloomy; and the author has been adviſed to inſert ſome of a more cheerful caſt. This poem may by others be thought too gay, and is indeed ſo little in uniſon with the preſent ſentiments and feelings of its author, that it had been wholly omitted but for the reſpectable approbation of thoſe to whoſe judgment ſhe owed implicit deference.

When Jove, in anger to the ſons of earth,

Bid artful Vulcan give Pandora birth,

And ſent the fatal gift which ſpread below

O’er all the wretched race contagious woe,

Unhappy man, by vice and folly toſt,

Found in the ſtorms of life his quiet loſt,

While Envy, Avarice, and Ambition, hurl’d

Diſcord and death around the warring world;

Then the bleſt peaſant left his fields and fold,

And barter’d love and peace for power and gold;

Left his calm cottage and his native plain,

In ſearch of wealth to tempt the faithleſs main;

Or, braving danger, in the battle ſtood,

And bathed his ſavage hands in human blood;

071 F4r 71

No longer then, his woodland walks among,

The ſhepherd lad his genuine paſſion ſung,

Or ſought at early morn his ſoul’s delight,

Or graved her name upon the bark at night;

To deck her flowing hair no more he wove

The ſimple wreath, or with ambitious love

Bound his own brow with myrtle or with bay,

But broke his pipe, or threw his crook away.

The nymphs forſaken, other pleaſures ſought;

Then firſt for gold their venal hearts were bought,

And nature’s bluſh to ſickly art gave place,

And affectation ſeized the ſeat of grace:

No more ſimplicity by ſenſe refined,

Or generous ſentiment, poſſeſs’d the mind;

No more they felt each other’s joy and woe,

And Cupid fled, and hid his uſeleſs bow.

But with deep grief propitious Venus pined,

To ſee the ills which threaten’d womankind;

Ills that ſhe knew her empire would diſarm,

And rob her ſubjects of their ſweeteſt charm;

072 F4v 72

Good humour’s potent influence deſtroy,

And change for lowering frowns the ſmile of joy.

Then deeply ſighing at the mournful view,

She try’d at length what heavenly art could do

To bring back Pleaſure to her penſive train,

And vindicate the glories of her reign.

A thouſand little loves attend the taſk,

And bear from Mars’s head his radiant caſque,

The fair enchantreſs on its ſilver bound

Weaved with ſoft ſpells her magic ceſtus round.

Then ſhaking from her hair ambroſial dew,

Infuſed fair hope, and expectation new,

And ſtifled wiſhes, and perſuaſive ſighs,

And fond belief, and eloquence of eyes,

And falt’ring accents, which explain ſo well

What ſtudied ſpeeches vainly try to tell;

And more pathetic ſilence, which imparts

Infectious tenderneſs to feeling hearts;

Soft tones of pity; faſcinating ſmiles;

And Maia’s ſon aſſiſted her with wiles,

073 F5r 73

And brought gay dreams, fantaſtic viſions brought,

And waved his wand o’er the ſeducing draught.

Then Zephyr came: to him the goddeſs cry’d,

Go fetch from Flora all her flowery pride

To fill my charm, each ſcented bud that blows,

And bind my myrtles with her thornleſs roſe;

Then speed thy flight to Gallia’s ſmiling plain,

Where rolls the Loire, the Garonne, and the Seine;

Dip in their waters thy celeſtial wing,

And the ſoft dew to fill my chalice bring;

But chiefly tell thy Flora, that to me

She ſend a bouquet of her fleurs de lys;

That poignant ſpirit will complete my ſpell.

—’Tis done: the lovely ſorcereſs ſays ’tis well.

And now Apollo lends a ray of fire,

The cauldron bubbles, and the flames aſpire;

The watchful Graces round the circle dance,

With arms entwined to mark the work’s advance;

And with full quiver ſportive Cupid came,

Temp’ring his favourite arrows in the flame.

074 F5v 74

Then Venus ſpeaks, the wavering flames retire,

And Zephyr’s breath extinguiſhes the fire.

At length the goddeſs in the helmet’s round

A ſweet and ſubtil ſpirit duly found,

More ſoft than oil, than æther more refined,

Of power to cure the woes of womankind,

And call’d it Flattery:—balm of female life,

It charms alike the widow, maid, and wife;

Clears the ſad brow of virgins in deſpair,

And ſmooths the cruel traces left by care;

Bids palſied age with youthful ſpirit glow,

And hangs May’s garlands on December’s ſnow.

Delicious essence! howſoe’er apply’d,

By what rude nature is thy charm deny’d?

Some form ſeducing ſtill thy whiſper wears,

Stern Wiſdom turns to thee her willing ears,

And Prudery liſtens and forgets her fears.

The ruſtic nymph whom rigid aunts reſtrain,

Condemn’d to dreſs, and practise airs in vain,

075 F6r 75

At thy firſt ſummons finds her boſom ſwell,

And bids her crabbed gouvernantes farewel;

While, fired by thee with ſpirit not her own,

She grows a toaſt, and riſes into ton.

The faded beauty who with ſecret pain

Sees younger charms uſurp her envied reign,

By thee aſſiſted, can with ſmiles behold

The record where her conqueſts are enroll’d;

And dwelling yet on ſcenes by memory nurſed,

When George the Second reign’d, or George the Firſt;

She ſees the ſhades of ancient beaux ariſe,

Who ſwear her eyes exceeded modern eyes,

When poets ſung for her, and lovers bled,

And giddy faſhion follow’d as ſhe led.

Departed modes appear in long array,

The flowers and flounces of her happier day;

Again her locks the decent fillets bind,

The waving lappet flutters in the wind,

And then comparing with a proud diſdain

The more fantaſtic taſtes that now obtain,

076 F6v 76

She deems ungraceful, trifling and abſurd,

The gayer world that moves round George the Third.

Nor thy ſoft influence will the train refuſe,

Who court in diſtant ſhades the modeſt Muſe,

Tho’ in a form more pure and more refined,

Thy ſoothing ſpirit meets the letter’d mind.

Not Death itſelf thine empire can deſtroy;

Tow’rds thee, even then, we turn the languid eye;

Still truſt in thee to bid our memory bloom,

And ſcatter roſes round the ſilent tomb.

077 F7r 77

The Peasant of the Alps.

From the Novel of Celestina.

Where cliffs ariſe by winter crown’d,

And thro’ dark groves of pine around,

Down the deep chaſms the ſnow-fed torrents foam,

Within ſome hollow, ſhelter’d from the ſtorms,

The Peasant of the Alps his cottage forms,

And builds his humble, happy home.

Unenvied is the rich domain,

That far beneath him on the plain

Waves its wide harveſts and its olive groves;

More dear to him his hut with plantain thatch’d,

Where long his unambitious heart attach’d,

Finds all he wiſhes, all he loves.

078 F7v 78

There dwells the miſtreſs of his heart,

And Love, who teaches every art,

Has bid him dreſs the ſpot with fondeſt care;

When borrowing from the vale its fertile ſoil,

He climbs the precipice with patient toil,

To plant her favorite flowrets there.

With native ſhrubs, an hardy race,

There the green myrtle finds a place,

And roſes there the dewy leaves decline;

While from the craggs abrupt, and tangled ſteeps,

With bloom and fruit the Alpine berry peeps,

And, bluſhing, mingles with the vine.

His garden’s ſimple produce ſtored,

Prepared for him by hands adored,

Is all the little luxury he knows.

And by the ſame dear hands are ſoftly ſpread,

The Chamois’ velvet ſpoil that forms the bed,

Where in her arms he finds repoſe.

079 F8r 79

But abſent from the calm abode,

Dark thunder gathers round his road,

Wild raves the wind, the arrowy lightnings flaſh,

Returning quick the murmuring rocks among,

His faint heart trembling as he winds along;

Alarm’d—he liſtens to the craſh

Of rifted ice!—Oh, man of woe!

O’er his dear cot—a maſs of ſnow,

By the ſtorm ſever’d from the cliff above,

Has fallen—and buried in its marble breast,

All that for him—loſt wretch—the world poſſeſt,

His home, his happineſs, his love!

Aghaſt the heart-ſtruck mourner ſtands,

Glazed are his eyes—convulſed his hands,

O’erwhelming anguiſh checks his labouring breath;

Cruſh’d by deſpair’s intolerable weight,

Frantic he ſeeks the mountain’s giddieſt height,

And headlong ſeeks relief in death.

080 F8v 80

A fate too ſimilar is mine,

But I—in lingering pain repine,

And ſtill my loſt felicity deplore;

Cold, cold to me is that dear breaſt become

Where this poor heart had fondly fix’d its home,

And love and happineſs are mine no more.

081 G1r 81

Song.

Does Pity give, tho’ Fate denies,

And to my wounds her balm impart?

O ſpeak—with thoſe expreſſive eyes!

Let one low ſigh eſcape thine heart.

The gazing croud ſhall never gueſs

What anxious, watchful Love can ſee;

Nor know what thoſe ſoft looks expreſs,

Nor dream that ſigh is meant for me.

Ah! words are uſeleſs, words are vain,

Thy generous ſympathy to prove;

And well that ſigh, thoſe looks explain,

That Clara mourns my hapleſs love.

Vol. I. G 082 G1v 82

Thirty-Eight.

Addressed to Mrs. H――y.

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 of that 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.

083 G2r 83

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.

G2 084 G2v 84

No more ſhall Scandal’s breath deſtroy

The ſocial converſe we enjoy

With bard or critic tête à tête;—

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.

Tho’ 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.

085 G3r 85

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.

086 G3v 86

Verses

Intended to Have Been Prefixed to the Novel of Emmeline, But Then Suppressed.

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,

087 G4r 87

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;

Recal my hapleſs days in ſad review,

The long calamities I bore for you,

And—with an happier fate—reſolve to prove

How well you merited—your mother’s love.

088 G4v 089 G5r

Quotations, Notes, and Explanations.

Sonnet I. Line 13. Ah! then, how dear the Muſe’s favours coſt, If those paint ſorrow best—who feel it moſt! The well-ſung woes ſhall ſooth my penſive ghoſt; He beſt can paint them who ſhall feel them moſt. Pope’s Eloiſa to Abelard, 366th line. Sonnet II. Line 3. Anemonies, that ſpangled every grove. Anemony Nemeroſo. The wood Anemony. 090 G5v 90 Sonnet III. Line 1. The idea from the 43rd Sonnet of Petrarch. Secondo parte. Quel roſigniuol, che ſi ſoave piagnepiange. Sonnet V. Line 2. Your turf, your flowers among. Whoſe turf, whoſe ſhades, whoſe flowers among. Gray. Line 9. Aruna! The river Arun. Sonnet VI. Line 12. For me the vernal garland blooms no more. Pope’s Imit. 1st Ode 4th Book of Horace. 091 G6r 91 Line 13. Miſery’s Love. Shakspeare’s King John. Sonnet VII. Line 4. On the Night’s dull ear. Shakspeare. Line 5. Whether on Spring Alludes to the ſupposed migration of the Nightingale. Line 7. The penſive Muſe ſhall own thee for his mate. Whether the Muſe or Love call thee his mate. Both them I ſerve, and of their train am I. Milton’s Firſt Sonnet. 092 G6v 92 Sonnet VIII. Line 14. Have power to cure all ſadneſs—but deſpair! To the heart inſpires Vernal delight and joy, able to drive All ſadneſs but deſpair. Paradise Lost, Fourth Book. Sonnet IX. Line 10. And laugh at tears themſelves have forced to flow. And hard unkindneſs’ alter’d eye, That mocks the tear it forced to flow. Gray. Sonnet XI. Line 4. Float in light viſion round my aching head. Float in light viſion round the poet’s head. Mason. 093 G7r 93 Line 7. And the poor ſea boy, in the rudeſt hour, Enjoys thee more than he who wears a crown. Wilt thou upon the high and giddy maſt Seal up the ſhip boy’s eyes, and rock his brains In cradle of the rude impetuous ſurge? &c. Shakſpeare’s Henry IV. Sonnet XII. Line 8. And ſuits the mournful temper of my ſoul. Young. Sonnet XIII. Line 1. Pommi ove’l Sol, occide i fiori e l’erba. Petrarch, Sonnetto 112. Parte primo. 094 G7v 94 Sonnet XIV. Line 1. Erano i capei d’oro all aura ſparſi. Sonnetto 69. Parte primo. Sonnet XV. Line 1. Se lamentar augelli o verdi fronde. Sonnetto 21. Parte ſecondo. Sonnet XVI. Line 1. Valle che de lamenti miei ſe piena. Sonnetto 33. Parte ſecondo. Sonnet XVII. Line 1. Scrivo in te l’amato nome Di colei, per cui, mi moro. 095 G8r 95 This is not meant as a tranſlation; the original is much longer, and full of images, which could not be introduced in a Sonnet.—And ſome of them, though very beautiful in the Italian, would not appear to advantage in an English dreſs. Sonnet XXI. Line 5. Poor Maniac. See the Story of the Lunatic. Is this the deſtiny of man? Is he only happy before he poſſeſſes his reaſon, or after he has loſt it?— Full of hope you go to gather flowers in Winter, and are grieved not to find any—and do not know why they cannot be found. Sorrows of Werter. Volume Second. Line 8. And drink delicious poiſon from thine eye. Pope. 096 G8v 96 Sonnet XXII. Line 1. I climb ſteep rocks, I break my way through copſes, among thorns and briars which tear me to pieces, and I feel a little relief. Sorrows of Werter. Volume Firſt. Sonnet XXIII. Line 1. The greater Bear, favourite of all the conſtellations; for when I left you of an evening it uſed to ſhine oppoſite your window. Sorrows of Werter. Volume Second. Sonnet XXIV. Line 1. At the corner of the church-yard which looks towards the fields, there are two lime trees—it is there I wiſh to reſt. Sorrows of Werter. Volume Second. 097 H1r 97 Sonnet XXV. Line 1. May my death remove every obſtacle to your happineſs.—Be at peace, I intreat you be at peace. Sorrows of Werter. Volume Second. Line 11. When worms ſhall feed on this devoted heart, Where even thy image ſhall be found no more. From a line in Rousseau’s Eloiſa.. Sonnet XXVI. Line 5. For with the infant Otway, lingering here. Otway was born at Trotten, a village in Suſſex. Of Woolbeding, another village on the banks of the Arun (which runs through them both), his father was rector. Here it was therefore that he probably paſſed many of his early years. The Arun is here an inconſiderableI H 098 H1v 98 ſiderable ſtream, winding in a channel deeply worn, among meadow, heath, and wood. Sonnet XXVII. Line 4. Content, and careleſs of to-morrow’s fare. Thomſon. Sonnet XXVII. Line 9. Balmy hand to bind. Collins. Sonnet XXX. Line 6. Bindwith. The plant Clematis, Bindwith, Virgin’s Bower, or Traveller’s Joy, which towards the end of June begins to cover the hedges and ſides of rocky hollows with its beautiful foliage, and flowers of a yellowiſh 099 H2r 99 white of an agreeable fragrance; theſe are ſucceeded by ſeed pods that bear some reſemblance to feathers or hair, whence it is ſometimes called Old Man’s Beard. Line 9. Banks! which inſpired thy Otway’s plaintive ſtrain! Wilds! whoſe lorn echoes learn’d the deeper tone Of Collins’ powerful shell! Collins, as well as Otway, was a native of this country, and probably at ſome period of his life an inhabitant of this neighbourhood, ſince in his beautiful Ode on the Death of Colonel Roſs, he says, The Muſe ſhall ſtill, with ſocial aid, Her gentleſt promiſe keep; E’en humble Harting’s cottaged vale Shall learn the ſad repeated tale, And bid her ſhepherds weep. H2 100 H2v 100 And in the Ode to Pity: Wild Arun too has heard thy ſtrains, And Echo, ’midſt thy native plains, Been ſooth’d with Pity’s lute. Sonnet XXXI. Line 2. Alpine flowers. An infinite variety of plants are found on theſe hills, particularly about this ſpot: many ſorts of Orchis and Ciſtus of ſingular beauty, with ſeveral others. Sonnet XXXIII. Line 9. Thy natives. Otway, Collins, Hayley. 101 H3r 101 Sonnet XLII. Line 8. The ſhrieking night-jar ſail on heavy wing. The night-jar or night hawk, a dark bird not ſo big as a rook, which is frequently ſeen of an evening on the downs. It has a ſhort heavy flight, then reſts on the ground, and again, uttering a mournful cry, flits before the traveller, to whom its appearance is ſuppoſed by the peaſants to portend misfortune. As I have never ſeen it dead, I know not to what ſpecies it belongs. Sonnet XLIV. Line 7. Middleton is a village on the margin of the ſea, in Suſſex, containing only two or three houſes. There were formerly ſeveral acres of ground between its ſmall church and the ſea, which now, by its continual encroachments,102 H3v 102 croachments, approaches within a few feet of this half ruined and humble edifice. The wall, which once ſurrounded the church-yard, is entirely ſwept away, many of the graves broken up, and the remains of bodies interred waſhed into the ſea: whence human bones are found among the ſand and ſhingles on the ſhore. Sonnet XLV. Line 11. The enthuſiaſt of the lyre who wander’d here. Collins.See note to Sonnet 30. Sonnet XLVI. Line 8. But where now clamours the diſcordant hern. In the park at Penſhurſt is an heronry. The houſe is at preſent uninhabited, and the windows of the galleries and other rooms, in which there are many invaluable pictures, are never opened but when ſtrangers viſit it. 103 H4r 103 Line 12. Algernon Sidney. Sonnet LI. Line 4. Oſpray. The ſea-eagle. Sonnet LIV. Line 12. A ſweet forgetfulneſs of human care. Pope. Sonnet LVII. Line 7. The lark—the ſhepherd’s clock. Shakſpeare. Line 14. The mountain goddeſs, Liberty. Milton. 104 H4v 104 Sonnet LVIII. Line 8. Star of the earth. Dr. Darwin. Line 9. The moiſten’d blade— Walcot’s beautiful Ode to the Glow-worm. Elegy. This elegy is written on the ſuppoſition that an indigent young woman had been addreſſed by the ſon of a wealthy yeoman, who reſenting his attachment, had driven him from home, and compelled him to have recourſe for ſubſiſtence to the occupation of a pilot, in which, in attempting to ſave a veſſel in diſtreſs, he periſhed. The father dying, a tomb is ſuppoſed to be erected to his memory in the church-yard mentioned in Sonnet the 44th. And while a tempeſt is gathering, the 105 I1r 105 unfortunate young woman comes thither; and courting the ſame death as had robbed her of her lover, ſhe awaits its violence, and is at length overwhelmed by the waves. Verſe 8. Line 4. And fruitleſs call on him—who cannot hear. I fruitleſs mourn to him who cannot hear, And weep the more becauſe I weep in vain. Gray’s exquiſite Sonnet; in reading which it is impoſſible not to regret that he wrote only one. The Origin of Flattery. This little poem was written almoſt extempore on occaſion of a converſation where many pleaſant things were ſaid on the ſubject of flattery; and ſome French gentlemen who were of the party enquired for a ſynonime in Engliſh to the French word fleurette. The I 106 I1v 106 poem was inſerted in the two first editions, and having been aſked for by very reſpectable ſubſcribers to the preſent, it is reprinted. The ſonnets have been thought too gloomy; and the author has been adviſed to inſert ſome of a more cheerful caſt. This poem may by others be thought too gay, and is indeed ſo little in uniſon with the preſent ſentiments and feelings of its author, that it had been wholly omitted but for the reſpectable approbation of thoſe to whoſe judgment ſhe owed implicit deference.

Finis.

106 A1r

Elegiac Sonnets,
and
Other Poems,

By Charlotte Smith.

Vol. II.

Second Edition.
Non t’ appreſſar ove ſia riſo e canto Canzone mio, nò, ma pianto: Non fa per te di ſtar con gente allegra Vedova ſconſolata, in veſta nigra. Petrarcha.

London:
Printed for T. Cadell, Junior, and W. Davies
in The Strand; by R. Noble, Shire-Lane.
18001800.

107 A1v 108 A2r
113 A4v 114 B1r

Elegiac Sonnets.

Sonnet LX.

To an Amiable Girl.

Miranda! mark where ſhrinking from the gale,

Its ſilken leaves yet moiſt with early dew,

That fair faint flower, the Lily of the Vale,

Droops its meek head, and looks, methinks, like you!

Wrapp’d in a ſhadowy veil of tender green,

Its ſnowy bells a ſoft perfume diſpenſe,

And bending as reluctant to be ſeen,

In ſimple loveliness it ſooths the ſenſe.

With boſom bared to meet the gariſh day,

The glaring Tulip, gaudy, undiſmay’d,

Offends the eye of taſte; that turns away

To ſeek the Lily in her fragrant ſhade.

With ſuch unconſcious beauty, penſive, mild,

Miranda charms—Nature’s ſoft modeſt child.

Vol. II B 115 B1v 2

Sonnet LXI.

Supposed to Have Been Written in America.

Ill-omen’d bird! whoſe cries portentous float Sonnet LXI. Line 1. Ill-omen’d bird! whoſe cries portentous float. This Sonnet, firſt inſerted in the Novel called the Old Manor House, is founded on a ſuperſtition attributed (vide Bertram’s Travels in America) to the Indians, who believe that the cry of this night-hawk Caprimulgus Americanus portends ſome evil, and when they are at war, aſſert that it is never heard near their tents or habitations but to announce the death of ſome brave warrior of their tribe, or ſome other calamity.

O’er yon ſavannah with the mournful wind;

While, as the Indian hears your piercing note,

Dark dread of future evil fills his mind;

Wherefore with early lamentation break

The dear deluſive viſions of repoſe?

Why from ſo ſhort felicity awake

My wounded ſenſes to ſubſtantial woes?

O’er my ſick ſoul thus rouſ’d from tranſient rest,

Pale Superſtition ſheds her influence drear,

And to my ſhuddering fancy would ſuggeſt

Thou com’ſt to ſpeak of every woe I fear.

Ah! Reason little o’er the ſoul prevails,

When, from ideal ill, the enfeebled ſpirit fails!

116 B2r 3

Sonnet LXII. Sonnet LXII. Firſt published in the ſame work.

Written on Passing by Moon-Light Through a Village, While the Ground was Covered with Snow.

While thus I wander, cheerleſs and unbleſt,

And find in change of place but change of pain;

In tranquil ſleep the village labourers reſt,

And taſte that quiet I purſue in vain!

Huſh’d is the hamlet now, and faintly gleam

The dying embers, from the caſement low

Of the thatch’d cottage; while the Moon’s wan beam

Lends a new luſtre to the dazzling ſnow.

O’er the cold waſte, amid the freezing night,

Scarce heeding whither, deſolate I ſtray;

For me, pale Eye of Evening, thy ſoft light

Leads to no happy home; my weary way

Ends but in ſad viciſſitudes of care:

I only fly from doubt—to meet deſpair!

B2 117 B2v 4

Sonnet LXIII.

The Gossamer.

O’er faded heath-flowers ſpun, or thorny furze, Sonnet LXIII. Line 1. O’er faded heath-flowers ſpun, or horny furze. The web, charged with innumerable globules of bright dew, that is frequently on heaths and commons in autumnal mornings, can hardly have eſcaped the obſervation of any lover of nature—The ſlender web of the field ſpider is again alluded to in Sonnet lxxvii.

The filmy Goſſamer is lightly ſpread;

Waving in every ſighing air that ſtirs,

As Fairy fingers had entwined the thread:

A thouſand trembling orbs of lucid dew

Spangle the texture of the fairy loom,

As if ſoft Sylphs, lamenting as they flew,

Had wept departed Summer’s tranſient bloom:

But the wind riſes, and the turf receives

The glittering web:—So, evaneſcent, fade

Bright views that Youth with ſanguine heart believes:

So vaniſh ſchemes of bliſs, by Fancy made;

Which, fragile as the fleeting dews of morn,

Leave but the wither’d heath, and barren thorn!

118 B3r 5

Sonnet LXIV. Sonnet LXIV. Firſt printed in the Novel of The Baniſhed Man.

Written at Bristol in the Summer of 17941794.

Here from the reſtleſs bed of lingering pain

The languid ſufferer ſeeks the tepid wave,

And feels returning health and hope again

Diſperſe the gathering shadows of the grave!

And here romantic rocks that boldly ſwell,

Fringed with green woods, or ſtain’d with veins of ore,

Call’d native Genius forth, whoſe Heav’n-taught ſkill

Charm’d the deep echos of the rifted ſhore.

But tepid waves, wild ſcenes, or ſummer air,

Reſtore they palſied Fancy, woe-depreſt?

Check they the torpid influence of Despair,

Or bid warm Health re-animate the breaſt;

Where Hope’s ſoft viſions have no longer part,

And whoſe ſad inmate is—a broken heart?

119 B3v 6

Sonnet LXV. Sonnet LXV. To the excellent friend and Phyſician to whom theſe lines are addreſſed, I was obliged for the kindeſt 226 I1r 113 attention, and for the recovery from one dangerous illneſs of that beloved child whom a few months afterwards his ſkill and moſt unremitted and diſintereſted exertions could not ſave!

To Dr. Parry of Bath, With Some Botanic Drawings Which Had Been Made Some Years.

In happier hours, ere yet ſo keenly blew

Adverſity’s cold blight, and bitter ſtorms,

Luxuriant Summer’s evaneſcent forms,

And ſpring’s ſoft blooms with pencil light I drew:

But as the lovely family of flowers

Shrink from the bleakneſs of the Northern blaſt,

So fail from preſent care and ſorrow paſt

The ſlight botanic pencil’s mimic powers—

Nor will kind Fancy even by Memory’s aid,

Her viſionary garlands now entwine;

Yet while the wreaths of Hope and Pleaſure fade,

Still is one flower of deathleſs bloſſom mine,

That dares the lapſe of Time, and Tempeſt rude,

The unfading Amaranth of Gratitude.

120 B4r 7

Sonnet LXVI. Sonnet LXVI. Written on the coaſt of Suſſex during very tempeſtuous weather in 1791-12December 1791, but firſt publiſhed in the Novel of Montalbert.

Written in a Tempestuous Night, on the Coast of Sussex.

The night-flood rakes upon the ſtony ſhore;

Along the rugged cliffs and chalky caves

Mourns the hoarſe Ocean, ſeeming to deplore

All that are buried in his reſtleſs waves—

Mined by corroſive tides, the hollow rock

Falls prone, and ruſhing from its turfy height,

Shakes the broad beach with long-reſounding ſhock,

Loud thundering on the ear of ſullen Night;

Above the deſolate and ſtormy deep,

Gleams the wan Moon, by floating miſt oppreſt;

Yet here while youth, and health, and labour ſleep,

Alone I wander—Calm untroubled reſt,

Nature’s soft nurse, deſerts the ſigh-ſwoln breaſt,

And ſhuns the eyes, that only wake to weep!

121 B4v 8

Sonnet LXVII. Sonnet LXVII. Printed in the ſame work.

On Passing Over a Dreary Tract of Country, and Near the Ruins of a Deserted Chapel, During a Tempest.

Swift fleet the billowy clouds along the ſky,

Earth ſeems to ſhudder at the ſtorm aghaſt;

While only beings as forlorn as I,

Court the chill horrors of the howling blaſt.

Even round yon crumbling walls, in ſearch of food,

The ravenous Owl foregoes his evening flight,

And in his cave, within the deepeſt wood,

The Fox eludes the tempeſt of the night.

But to my heart congenial is the gloom

Which hides me from a World I wiſh to ſhun;

That ſcene where Ruin ſaps the mouldering tomb,

Suits with the ſadneſs of a wretch undone.

Nor is the deepeſt ſhade, the keeneſt air,

Black as my fate, or cold as my deſpair.

122 B5r 9

Sonnet LXVIII.

Written at Exmouth, 1795-06-24Midsummer, 1795.

Fall, dews of Heaven, upon my burning breaſt,

Bathe with cool drops theſe ever-ſtreaming eyes;

Ye gentle Winds, that fan the balmy Weſt,

With the ſoft rippling tide of morning riſe,

And calm my burſting heart, as here I keep

The vigil of the wretched!—Now away

Fade the pale ſtars, as wavering o’er the deep

Soft roſy tints announce another day,

The day of --06-24Middle Summer!—Ah! in vain

To thoſe who mourn like me, does radiant June

Lead on her fragrant hours; for hopeleſs pain

Darkens with ſullen clouds the Sun of Noon,

And veil’d in ſhadows Nature’s face appears

To hearts o’erwhelm’d with grief, to eyes ſuffuſed with tears.

123 B5v 10

Sonnet LXIX.

Written at the Same Place, On Seeing a Seaman Return Who Had Been Imprisoned at Rochfort.

Clouds, gold and purple, o’er the weſtering ray

Threw a bright veil, and catching lights between,

Fell on the glancing ſail, that we had ſeen

With ſoft, but adverſe winds, throughout the day

Contending vainly: as the veſſel nears,

Encreaſing numbers hail it from the ſhore;

Lo! on the deck a pallid form appears,

Half wondering to behold himſelf once more

Approach his home—And now he can diſcern

His cottage thatch amid ſurrounding trees;

Yet, trembling, dreads leſt ſorrow or diſeaſe

Await him there, embittering his return:

But all he loves are ſafe; with heart elate,

Tho’ poor and plunder’d, he abſolves his fate!

facing 010 facing 011
A lunatic and the poet standing on the edge of a cliff.

R. Corbould del.delineavit J. Heath R. A. sculp.sculptit

In moody Sadneſs on the giddy Brink I view him more with Envy than with Fear.

Published 1797-05-15May 15th. 1797 by Cadell and Davies Strand.

124 B6r 11

Sonnet LXX.

On Being Cautioned Against Walking on an Headland Overlooking the Sea, Because it Was Frequented by a Lunatic.

Is there a ſolitary wretch who hies

To the tall cliff, with ſtarting pace or ſlow,

And, meaſuring, views with wild and hollow eyes

Its diſtance from the waves that chide below;

Who, as the ſea-born gale with frequent ſighs

Chills his cold bed upon the mountain turf,

With hoarſe, half-utter’d lamentation, lies

Murmuring reſponſes to the daſhing ſurf?

In moody ſadneſs, on the giddy brink,

I ſee him more with envy than with fear;

He has no nice felicities that ſhrink Sonnet LXX. Line 11. He has no nice felicities that ſhrink. ’Tis delicate felicity that ſhrinks When rocking winds are loud. Walpole.

From giant horrors; wildly wandering here,

He ſeems (uncurſed with reaſon) not to know

The depth or the duration of his woe.

125 B6v 12

Sonnet LXXI.

Written at Weymouth in Winter.

The chill waves whiten in the ſharp North-eaſt;

Cold, cold the night-blaſt comes, with ſullen ſound;

And black and gloomy, like my cheerleſs breaſt,

Frowns the dark pier and lonely ſea-view round.

Yet a few months—and on the peopled ſtrand

Pleaſure ſhall all her varied forms diſplay;

Nymphs lightly tread the bright reflecting ſand,

And proud ſails whiten all the ſummer bay:

Then, for theſe winds that whiſtle keen and bleak,

Muſic’s delightful melodies ſhall float

O’er the blue waters; but ’tis mine to ſeek

Rather, ſome unfrequented ſhade, remote

From ſights and ſounds of gaiety――I mourn

All that gave me delight――Ah! never to return!

126 B7r 13

Sonnet LXXII.

To the Morning Star. Written Near the Sea.

Thee! lucid arbiter ’twixt day and night, Sonnet LXXII. Line 1. Thee! lucid arbiter ’twixt day and night. Milton.

The Seaman greets, as on the Ocean ſtream

Reflected, thy precurſive friendly beam

Points out the long-ſought haven to his ſight.

Watching for thee, the lover’s ardent eyes

Turn to the eaſtern hills; and as above

Thy brilliance trembles, hails the lights that riſe

To guide his footſteps to expecting love!

I mark thee too, as night’s dark clouds retire,

And thy bright radiance glances on the ſea;

But never more ſhall thy heraldic fire

Speak of approaching morn with joy to me!

Quench’d in the gloom of death that heavenly ray

Once lent to light me on my thorny way!

127 B7v 14

Sonnet LXXIII.

To a Querulous Acquaintance.

Thou! whom Proſperity has always led

O’er level paths, with moſs and flow’rets ſtrewn;

For whom ſhe ſtill prepares a downy bed

With roſes ſcatter’d, and to thorns unknown,

Wilt thou yet murmur at a miſ-placed leaf? Sonnet LXXIII. Line 5. Wilt thou yet murmur at a miſplaced leaf? From a ſtory (I know not where told) of a faſtidious being, who on a bed of roſe leaves complained that his or her reſt was deſtroyed becauſe one of thoſe leaves was doubled.

Think, ere thy irritable nerves repine,

How many, born with feelings keen as thine,

Taſte all the ſad viciſſitudes of grief;

How many ſteep in tears their ſcanty bread;

Or, loſt to reaſon, Sorrow’s victims! rave:

How many know not where to lay their head;

While ſome are driven by anguiſh to the grave!

Think; nor impatient at a feather’s weight,

Mar the uncommon bleſſings of thy fate!

128 B8r 15

Sonnet LXXIV.

The Winter Night.

Sleep,that knits up the ravell’d ſleeve of care, Sonnet LXXIV. Line 1. Sleep, that knits up the ravell’d ſleeve of care. Shakespeare

Forſakes me, while the chill and ſullen blaſt,

As my ſad ſoul recalls its ſorrows paſt,

Seems like a ſummons, bidding me prepare

For the laſt ſleep of death—Murmuring I hear Line 5. Murmuring I hear The hollow wind around the ancient towers. Theſe lines were written in a reſidence among ancient public buildings.

The hollow wind around the ancient towers, Line 5. Murmuring I hear The hollow wind around the ancient towers. Theſe lines were written in a reſidence among ancient public buildings.

While night and ſilence reign; and cold and drear

The darkeſt gloom of Middle Winter lours;

But wherefore fear exiſtence ſuch as mine,

To change for long and undiſturb’d repoſe?

Ah! when this ſuffering being I reſign,

And o’er my miſeries the tomb ſhall cloſe,

By her, whoſe loſs in anguiſh I deplore,

I ſhall be laid, and feel that loſs no more!

129 B8v 16

Sonnet LXXV. Sonnet LXXV. Firſt publiſhed in the Novel of Marchmont.

Where the wild woods and pathleſs foreſts frown,

The darkling Pilgrim ſeeks his unknown way,

Till on the graſs he throws him weary down,

To wait in broken ſleep the dawn of day:

Thro’ boughs juſt waving in the ſilent air,

With pale capricious light the Summer Moon

Chequers his humid couch; while Fancy there,

That loves to wanton in the Night’s deep noon,

Calls from the moſſy roots and fountain edge

Fair viſionary Nymphs that haunt the ſhade,

Or Naiads riſing from the whiſpering ſedge;

And, ’mid the beauteous group, his dear loved maid

Seems beckoning him with ſmiles to join the train:

Then, ſtarting from his dream, he feels his woes again!

130 C1r 17

Sonnet LXXVI.

To a Young Man Entering the World.

Go now, ingenuous Youth!—The trying hour

Is come: The World demands that thou ſhouldſt go

To active life: There titles, wealth and power

May all be purchas’d—Yet I joy to know

Thou wilt not pay their price. The baſe controul Sonnet LXXVI. Line 5. The baſe controul Of petty deſpots in their pedant reign Already haſt thou felt;— This was not addreſſed to my ſon, who ſuffered with many others in an event which will long be remembered by thoſe parents who had ſons at a certain public ſchool, in 17931793, but to another young man, not compelled as he was, in conſequence of that diſmiſſion, to abandon the faireſt proſpects of his future life.

Of petty despots in their pedant reign Sonnet LXXVI. Line 5. The baſe controul Of petty deſpots in their pedant reign Already haſt thou felt;— This was not addreſſed to my ſon, who ſuffered with many others in an event which will long be remembered by thoſe parents who had ſons at a certain public ſchool, in 17931793, but to another young man, not compelled as he was, in conſequence of that diſmiſſion, to abandon the faireſt proſpects of his future life.

Already haſt thou felt; Sonnet LXXVI. Line 5. The baſe controul Of petty deſpots in their pedant reign Already haſt thou felt;— This was not addreſſed to my ſon, who ſuffered with many others in an event which will long be remembered by thoſe parents who had ſons at a certain public ſchool, in 17931793, but to another young man, not compelled as he was, in conſequence of that diſmiſſion, to abandon the faireſt proſpects of his future life. —and high diſdain

Of Tyrants is imprinted on thy ſoul—

Not, where miſtaken Glory, in the field

Rears her red banner, be thou ever found;

But, againſt proud Oppreſſion raiſe the ſhield

Of Patriot daring――So ſhalt thou renown’d

For the beſt virtues live; or that denied

May’ſt die, as Hampden or as Sydney died!

Vol. II C 131 C1v 18

Sonnet LXXVII.

To the Insect of the Gossamer.

Small, viewleſs Æronaut, that by the line Sonnet LXXVII. Line 1. Small viewleſs æronaut,&c. &c. The almoſt imperceptible threads floating in the air, towards the end of Summer or Autumn, in a ſtill evening, ſometimes are ſo numerous as to be felt on the face and hands. It is on theſe that a minute ſpecies of ſpider convey themſelves from place to place; ſometimes riſing with the wind to a great height in the air. Dr. Liſter, among other naturaliſts, remarked theſe inſects. To fly they cannot ſtrictly be ſaid, they being carried into the air by external force; but they can, in caſe the wind ſuffer them, ſteer their courſe, perhaps mount and deſcend at pleaſure: and to the purpoſe of rowing themſelves along in the air, it is obſervable that they ever take their flight backwards, that is, their head looking a contrary way like a ſculler upon the Thames. It is ſcarcely credible to what height they will mount; which is yet preciſely true, 230 I3r 117 and a thing eaſily to be obſerved by one that ſhall fix his eye ſome time on any part of the heavens, the white web, at a vaſt diſtance, very diſtinctly appearing from the azure ſky—But this is in Autumn only, and that in very fair and calm weather. From the Encyclop. Brit. Dr. Darwin, whoſe imagination ſo happily applies every object of Natural Hiſtory to the purpoſes of Poetry, makes the Goddeſs of Botany thus direct her Sylphs— Thin clouds of Goſſamer in air diſplay, And hide the vale’s chaſte lily from the ray. Theſe filmy threads form a part of the equipage of Mab: Her waggon ſpokes are made of ſpiders legs, The cover of the wings of graſshoppers, The traces of the ſmalleſt ſpider’s web. 231 I3v 118 Juliet, too, in anxiouſly waiting for the ſilent arrival of her lover, exclaims, ――Oh! ſo light of foot Will ne’er wear out the everlaſting flint; A lover may beſtride the Goſſamer That idles in the wanton Summer air, And yet not fall—

Of Goſſamer ſuſpended, in mid air

Float’ſt on a ſun beam—Living Atom, where

Ends thy breeze-guided voyage;—with what deſign

In Æther doſt thou launch thy form minute,

Mocking the eye?—Alas! before the veil

Of denſer clouds ſhall hide thee, the purſuit

Of the keen Swift may end thy fairy ſail!—

Thus on the golden thread that Fancy weaves

Buoyant, as Hope’s illuſive flattery breathes,

The young and viſionary Poet leaves

Life’s dull realities, while ſevenfold wreaths

Of rainbow-light around his head revolve.

Ah! ſoon at Sorrow’s touch the radiant dreams diſſolve!

132 C2r 19

Sonnet LXXVIII.

Snowdrops.

Wan Heralds of the Sun and Summer gale!

That ſeem juſt fallen from infant Zephyrs’ wing;

Not now, as once, with heart revived I hail

Your modeſt buds, that for the brow of Spring

Form the firſt ſimple garland—Now no more

Eſcaping for a moment all my cares,

Shall I, with penſive, ſilent ſtep, explore

The woods yet leafleſs; where to chilling airs

Your green and pencil’d bloſſoms, trembling, wave.

Ah! ye ſoft, tranſient children of the ground,

More fair was ſhe on whoſe untimely grave

Flow my unceaſing tears! Their varied round

The Seaſons go; while I through all repine:

For fixt regret, and hopeleſs grief are mine.

C2 133 C2v 20

Sonnet LXXIX.

To the Goddess of Botany. Sonnet LXXIX. To The Goddess of Botany. Rightly to spell, as Milton wiſhes, in Il Penſeroſo, Of every herb that ſips the dew, ſeems to be a reſource for the ſick at heart—for thoſe who from ſorrow or diſgust may without affectation say Society is nothing to one not ſociable! and whoſe wearied eyes and languid ſpirits find relief and repoſe amid the ſhades of vegetable nature.— 232 I4r 119 I cannot now turn to any other purſuit that for a moment ſooths my wounded mind. Je pris gout a cette récreation des yeux, qui dans l’infortune, repoſe, amuſe, diſtrait l’eſprit, et ſuſpend le ſentiment des peines. Thus ſpeaks the ſingular, the unhappy Rouſſeau, when in his Promenades he enumerates the cauſes that drove him from the ſociety of men, and occaſioned his purſuing with renewed avidity the ſtudy of Botany. I was, ſays he, Forcé de m’abſtenir de penſer, de peur de penſer a mes malheurs malgré moi; forcé de contenir les reſtes d’une imagination riante, mais languiſſante, que tant d’angoiſſes pourroient effaroucher a la fin— Without any pretenſions to thoſe talents which were in him ſo heavily taxed with that exceſſive irritability, too often if not always the attendant on 233 I4v 120 genius, it has been my misfortune to have endured real calamities that have diſqualified me for finding any enjoyment in the pleaſures and purſuits which occupy the generality of the world. I have been engaged in contending with perſons whoſe cruelty has left ſo painful an impreſſion on my mind, that I may well ſay Brillantes fleurs, émail des prés ombrages frais, boſquets, verdure, venez purifier mon imagination de tous ces hideux objets! Perhaps, if any ſituation is more pitiable than that which compels us to wiſh to eſcape from the common busineſs and forms of life, it is that where the ſentiment is forcibly felt, while it cannot be indulged; and where the ſufferer, chained down to the diſcharge of duties from which the wearied ſpirit recoils, feels like the wretched Lear, when Shakſpeare makes him exclaim 234 I5r 121 Oh! I am bound upon a wheel of fire, Which my own tears do ſcald like melted lead.

O f Folly weary, ſhrinking from the view

Of Violence and Fraud, allow’d to take

All peace from humble life; I would forſake

Their haunts for ever, and, ſweet Nymph! with you

Find ſhelter; where my tired, and tear-ſwoln eyes,

Among your ſilent ſhades of ſoothing hue,

Your bells and florets of unnumber’d dyes

Might reſt—And learn the bright varieties

That from your lovely hands are fed with dew;

And every veined leaf, that trembling ſighs

In mead or woodland; or in wilds remote,

Or lurk with moſſes in the humid caves,

Mantle the cliffs, on dimpling rivers float,

Or ſtream from coral rocks beneath the Ocean waves.

134 C3r 21

Sonnet LXXX.

To the Invisible Moon. Sonnet LXXX. To the Invisible Moon. I know not whether this is correctly expreſſed— I ſuſpect that it is not—What I mean, however, will ſurely be understood—I addreſs the Moon when not viſible at night in our hemiſphere. The Sun to me is dark, And ſilent as the Moon When ſhe deſerts the night, Hid in her ſecret interlunar cave. Milton. Sampſ. Agon.Samſon Agonistes.

Dark and conceal’d art thou, ſoft Evening’s Queen,

And Melancholy’s votaries that delight

To watch thee, gliding thro’ the blue ſerene,

Now vainly ſeek thee on the brow of night—

Mild Sorrow, ſuch as Hope has not forſook,

May love to muſe beneath thy ſilent reign;

But I prefer from ſome ſteep rock to look

On the obſcure and fluctuating main,

What time the martial ſtar with lurid glare,

Portentous, gleams above the troubled deep;

Or the red comet ſhakes his blazing hair;

Or on the fire-ting’d waves the lightnings leap;

While thy fair beams illume another ſky,

And ſhine for beings leſs accurſt than I.

135 C3v 22

Sonnet LXXXI. Sonnet LXXXI. Firſt printed in a Publication for the uſe of Young Perſons, called Rambles Farther.

He may be envied, who with tranquil breaſt

Can wander in the wild and woodland ſcene,

When Summer’s glowing hands have newly dreſt

The ſhadowy foreſts, and the copſes green;

Who, unpurſued by care, can paſs his hours

Where briony and woodbine fringe the trees, Line 6. Where briony and woodbine fringe the trees. Briony, Bryonia dioica, foliis palmatis, &c. White Briony, growing plentifully in woods and hedges, and twiſting around taller plants.

On thymy banks repoſing, while the bees

Murmur their fairy tunes in praiſe of flowers; Line 8. Murmur their fairy tunes in praiſe of flowers, A line taken, I believe, from a Poem called Vacuna, printed in Dodſley’s collection.

Or on the rock with ivy clad, and fern

That overhangs the oſier-whiſpering bed

Of some clear current, bid his wiſhes turn

From this bad world; and by calm reaſon led,

Knows, in refined retirement, to poſſeſs

By friendſhip hallow’d—rural happineſs!

136 C4r 23

Sonnet LXXXII. Sonnet LXXXII. To the Shade of Burns. Whoever has taſted the charm of original genius ſo evident in the compoſition of this genuine Poet, A Poet of nature’s own creation, cannot ſurely fail to lament his unhappy life, (latterly paſſed, as I have underſtood, in an employment to which ſuch a mind as his muſt have been averſe,) nor 236 I6r 123 his premature death. For one, herſelf made the object of ſubſcription, is it proper to add, that whoever has thus been delighted with the wild notes of the Scottiſh bard, muſt have a melancholy pleaſure in relieving by their benevolence the unfortunate family he has left?

To the Shade of Burns.

Mute is thy wild harp, now, O Bard ſublime!

Who, amid Scotia’s mountain ſolitude,

Great Nature taught to build the lofty rhyme,

And even beneath the daily preſſure, rude,

Of labouring Poverty, thy generous blood,

Fired with the love of freedom—Not ſubdued

Wert thou by thy low fortune: But a time

Like this we live in, when the abject chime

Of echoing Paraſite is beſt approved,

Was not for thee—Indignantly is fled

Thy noble Spirit; and no longer moved

By all the ills o’er which thine heart has bled,

Aſſociate worthy of the illuſtrious dead,

Enjoys with them the Liberty it loved. Line 14. Enjoys the liberty it loved— Pope.

137 C4v 24

Sonnet LXXXIII.

The Sea View.

The upland Shepherd, as reclined he lies Sonnet LXXXIII. Line 1. The upland ſhepherd, as reclined he lies. Suggeſted by the recollection of having ſeen, ſome years ſince, on a beautiful evening of Summer, an engagement between two armed ſhips, from the high down called the Beacon Hill, near Brighthelmſtone.

On the ſoft turf that clothes the mountain brow,

Marks the bright Sea-line mingling with the ſkies;

Or from his courſe celeſtial, ſinking ſlow,

The Summer-Sun in purple radiance low,

Blaze on the weſtern waters; the wide ſcene

Magnificent, and tranquil, ſeems to ſpread

Even o’er the Ruſtic’s breaſt a joy ſerene,

When, like dark plague-ſpots by the Demons ſhed,

Charged deep with death, upon the waves, far ſeen,

Move the war-freighted ſhips; and fierce and red,

Flaſh their deſtructive fires—The mangled dead

And dying victims then pollute the flood.

Ah! thus man ſpoils Heaven’s glorious works with blood!

138 C5r 25

Sonnet LXXXIV.

To the Muse.

Wilt thou forſake me who in life’s bright May

Lent warmer luſtre to the radiant morn;

And even o’er Summer ſcenes by tempeſts torn,

Shed with illuſive light the dewy ray

Of penſive pleaſure?—Wilt thou, while the day

Of ſaddening Autumn cloſes, as I mourn

In languid, hopeleſs ſorrow, far away

Bend thy ſoft ſtep, and never more return?—

Cruſh’d to the earth, by bittereſt anguiſh preſt,

From my faint eyes thy graceful form recedes;

Thou canſt not heal an heart like mine that bleeds;

But, when in quiet earth that heart ſhall reſt,

Haply may’ſt thou one ſorrowing vigil keep, Sonnet LXXXIV. Line 13. Haply may’ſt thou one ſorrowing vigil keep, Where Pity and Remembrance bend and weep. Where melancholy friendſhip bends and weeps. Gray.

Where Pity and Remembrance bend and weep! Sonnet LXXXIV. Line 13. Haply may’ſt thou one ſorrowing vigil keep, Where Pity and Remembrance bend and weep. Where melancholy friendſhip bends and weeps. Gray.

139 C5v 26

Sonnet LXXXV. Sonnets LXXXV, LXXXVI, LXXXVII. Firſt printed in a novel called The Young Philoſopher.

The faireſt flowers are gone! for tempeſts fell,

And with wild wing ſwept ſome unblown away,

While on the upland lawn or rocky dell

More faded in the day-ſtar’s ardent ray;

And ſcarce the copſe, or hedge-row ſhade beneath,

Or by the runnel’s graſſy courſe, appear

Some lingering bloſſoms of the earlier year,

Mingling bright florets, in the yellow wreath

That Autumn with his poppies and his corn

Binds on his tawny temples――So the ſchemes

Rais’d by fond Hope in youth’s unclouded morn,

While ſanguine youth enjoys deluſive dreams,

Experience withers; till ſcarce one remains

Flattering the languid heart, where only Reaſon reigns!

140 C6r 27

Sonnet LXXXVI.

Written Near a Port on a Dark Evening.

Huge vapours brood above the clifted ſhore,

Night on the Ocean ſettles, dark and mute,

Save where is heard the repercuſſive roar

Of drowſy billows, on the rugged foot

Of rocks remote; or ſtill more diſtant tone

Of ſeamen in the anchor’d bark that tell

The watch reliev’d; or one deep voice alone

Singing the hour, and bidding Strike the bell,

All is black ſhadow, but the lucid line

Mark’d by the light ſurf on the level ſand,

Or where afar the ſhip-lights faintly ſhine

Like wandering fairy fires, that oft on land

Miſlead the Pilgrim――Such the dubious ray

That wavering Reaſon lends, in life’s long darkling way.

141 C6v 28

Sonnet LXXXVII.

Written in October.

The blaſts of Autumn as they ſcatter round

The faded foliage of another year,

And muttering many a ſad and ſolemn ſound,

Drive the pale fragments o’er the ſtubble ſere,

Are well attuned to my dejected mood;

(Ah! better far than airs that breathe of Spring!)

While the high rooks, that hoarſely clamouring

Seek in black phalanx the half-leafleſs wood,

I rather hear, than that enraptured lay

Harmonious, and of Love and Pleaſure born,

Which from the golden furze, or flowering thorn

Awakes the Shepherd in the ides of May;

Nature delights me moſt when moſt ſhe mourns,

For never more to me the Spring of Hope returns!

142 C7r 29

Sonnet LXXXVIII.

Nepenthe. Sonnet LXXXVIII Nepenthe. Of what nature this Nepenthe was, has ever been a matter of doubt and diſpute. See Wakefield’s note to Pope’s Odyſſey, Book iv, verſe 302. But the paſſage here alluded to runs thus: Meanwhile with genial joy to warm the ſoul Bright Helen mix’d a mirth-inſpiring bowl, 238 I7r 125 Temper’d with drugs, of ſovereign uſe t’aſſuage The boiling boſom of tumultuous rage; To clear the cloudy front of wrinkled care, And dry the tearful ſluices of deſpair; Charm’d with that virtuous draught, th’ exalted mind All ſenſe of woe delivers to the wind. Tho’ on the blazing pile his father lay, Or a loved brother groan’d his life away, Or darling ſon, oppreſs’d by ruffian force, Fell breathleſs at his feet a mangled corſe, From morn to eve, impaſſive and ſerene, The man entranced would view the deathful scene: Theſe drugs ſo friendly to the joys of life, Bright Helen learn’d from Thone’s imperial wife. Milton thus ſpeaks of it in Comus: Behold this cordial julep here, That flames and dances in his cryſtal bounds! Not that Nepenthe, which the wife of Thone In Egypt gave to Jove-born Helena, Is of ſuch power as this to ſtir up joy, To life ſo friendly, or ſo cool to thirſt.

Oh! for imperial Polydamna’s art,

Which to bright Helen was in Egypt taught,

To mix with magic power the oblivious draught

Of force to ſtaunch the bleeding of the heart,

And to Care’s wan and hollow cheek impart

The ſmile of happy youth, uncurſed with thought.

Potent indeed the charm that could appeaſe

Affection’s ceaſeleſs anguiſh, doom’d to weep

O’er the cold grave; or yield even transient eaſe

By ſoothing buſy Memory to ſleep!

—Around me thoſe who ſurely muſt have tried

Some charm of equal power, I daily ſee,

But ſtill to me Oblivion is denied,

There’s no Nepenthe, now, on earth for me.

143 C7v 30

Sonnet LXXXIX. Sonnet LXXXIX. I woke, ſhe fled, and day brought back my night. Milton.

To the Sun.

Whether awaken’d from unquiet reſt

I watch the opening eyelids of the Morn,

When thou, O Sun! from Ocean’s ſilver’d breaſt

Emerging, bidſt another day be born—

Or whether in thy path of cloudleſs blue,

Thy noontide fires I mark with dazzled eyes;

Or to the Weſt thy radiant courſe purſue,

Veil’d in the gorgeous broidery of the ſkies,

Celeſtial lamp! thy influence bright and warm

That renovates the world with life and light

Shines not for me—for never more the form

I loved—ſo fondly loved, ſhall bless my ſight;

And nought thy rays illumine, now can charm

My miſery, or to day convert my night!

144 C8r 31

Sonnet XC. Sonnet XC. See miſery living, hope and pleaſure dead. Sir Brook Boothby. Death ſeems prepared, yet ſtill delays to ſtrike. Thomas Warton.

To Oblivion.

Forgetfulness! I would thy hand could cloſe

Theſe eyes that turn reluctant from the day;

So might this painful conſciouſneſs decay,

And, with my memory, end my cureleſs woes.

Siſter of Chaos and eternal Night!

Oblivion! take me to thy quiet reign,

Since robb’d of all that gave my ſoul delight,

I only aſk exemption from the pain

Of knowing ſuch things were—and are no more;

Of dwelling on the hours for ever fled,

And heartleſs, helpleſs, hopeleſs to deplore

Pale misery living, joy and pleasure dead:

While dragging thus unwiſh’d a length of days,

Death seems prepared to ſtrike, yet ſtill delays.

145 C8v 32

Sonnet XCI.

Reflections on Some Drawings of Plants.

I can in groups theſe mimic flowers compoſe,

Theſe bells and golden eyes, embathed in dew;

Catch the ſoft bluſh that warms the early Roſe,

Or the pale Iris cloud with veins of blue;

Copy the ſcallop’d leaves, and downy ſtems,

And bid the pencil’s varied ſhades arreſt

Spring’s humid buds, and Summer’s musſy gems:

But, ſave the portrait on my bleeding breaſt,

I have no ſemblance of that form adored,

That form, expreſſive of a ſoul divine,

So early blighted; and while life is mine,

With fond regret, and ceaſeleſs grief deplored—

That grief, my angel! with too faithful art

Enſhrines thy image in thy Mother’s heart.

146 D1r 33

Sonnet XCII.

Written at Bignor Park in Sussex, in 1799-08August, 1799.

Low murmurs creep along the woody vale,

The tremulous Aſpens ſhudder in the breeze,

Slow o’er the downs the leaden vapours ſail,

While I, beneath theſe old paternal trees,

Mark the dark ſhadows of the threaten’d ſtorm,

As gathering clouds o’erveil the morning ſun;

They paſs!—But oh! ye viſions bright and warm

With which even here my ſanguine youth begun,

Ye are obſcured for ever!—And too late

The poor Slave ſhakes the unworthy bonds away

Which cruſh’d her!—Lo! the radiant ſtar of day

Lights up this lovely ſcene anew—My fate

Nor hope nor joy illumines—Nor for me

Return thoſe roſy hours which here I uſed to ſee!

Vol. II. D 147 D1v 34

The Dead Beggar. The Dead Beggar I have been told that I have incurred blame for having uſed in this ſhort compoſition, terms that have become obnoxious to certain persons. Such remarks are hardly worth notice; and it is very little my ambition to obtain the ſuffrage of thoſe who ſuffer party prejudice to influence their taſte; or of thoſe who deſire that because they have themſelves done it, every one elſe ſhould be willing to ſell their beſt birth-rights, the liberty of thought, and of expreſſing thought, for the promiſe of a meſs of pottage. 240 I8r 127 It is ſurely not too much to ſay, that in a country like ours, where ſuch immenſe ſums are annually raiſed for the poor, there ought to be ſome regulation which ſhould prevent any miſerable deſerted being from periſhing through want, as too often happens to ſuch objects as that on whose interment these ſtanzas were written. It is ſomewhat remarkable that a circumſtance exactly ſimilar is the ſubject of a ſhort poem called the Pauper’s Funeral, in a volume lately publiſhed by Mr. Southey.

An Elegy,

Addressed to a Lady, who was affected at ſeeing the Funeral of a nameleſs Pauper, buried at the Expence of the Pariſh, in the Church-Yard at Brighthelmſtone, in 1792-11November 1792.

Swells then thy feeling heart, and ſtreams thine eye

O’er the deſerted being, poor and old,

Whom cold, reluctant, Pariſh Charity

Conſigns to mingle with his kindred mold?

Mourn’ſt thou, that here the time-worn ſufferer ends

Thoſe evil days ſtill threatening woes to come;

Here, where the friendleſs feel no want of friends,

Where even the houſeleſs wanderer finds an home?

148 D2r 35

What tho’ no kindred croud in ſable forth,

And ſigh, or ſeem to ſigh, around his bier;

Tho’ o’er his coffin with the humid earth

No children drop the unavailing tear?

Rather rejoice that here his ſorrows ceaſe,

Whom ſickness, age, and poverty oppreſs’d;

Where Death, the Leveller, restores to peace

The wretch who living knew not where to reſt.

Rejoice, that tho’ an outcaſt ſpurn’d by Fate,

Thro’ penury’s rugged path his race he ran;

In earth’s cold boſom, equall’d with the great,

Death vindicates the inſulted rights of Man.

D2 149 D2v 36

Rejoice, that tho’ ſevere his earthly doom,

And rude, and ſown with thorns the way he trod,

Now, (where unfeeling Fortune cannot come)

He reſts upon the mercies of his God.

150 D3r 37

The Female Exile. The Female Exile. This little Poem, of which a ſketch firſt appeared in blank verſe in a Poem called The Emigrants, was ſuggeſted by the ſight of the group it attempts to deſcribe—a French lady and her children. The drawing from which the print is taken I owe to the taſte 241 I8v 128 and talents of a lady, whoſe pencil has beſtowed the higheſt honor this little book can boaſt.

Written at Brighthelmstone in 1792-11Nov. 1792.

November’s chill blaſt on the rough beach is howling,

The ſurge breaks afar, and then foams to the ſhore,

Dark clouds o’er the ſea gather heavy and ſcowling,

And the white cliffs re-echo the wild wintry roar.

Beneath that chalk rock, a fair ſtranger reclining,

Has found on damp ſea-weed a cold lonely ſeat;

Her eyes fill’d with tears, and her heart with repining,

She ſtarts at the billows that burſt at her feet.

151 D3v 38

There, day after day, with an anxious heart heaving,

She watches the waves where they mingle with air;

For the ſail which, alas! all her fond hopes deceiving,

May bring only tidings to add to her care.

Looſe ſtream to wild winds those fair flowing treſſes,

Once woven with garlands of gay Summer flowers;

Her dreſs unregarded, beſpeaks her diſtreſſes,

And beauty is blighted by grief’s heavy hours.

Her innocent children, unconſcious of ſorrow,

To ſeek the gloſs’d ſhell, or the crimſon weed ſtray;

Amuſed with the preſent, they heed not to-morrow,

Nor think of the ſtorm that is gathering to day.

facing 038 facing 039
A woman sitting in a cave by the sea, looking at three children playing with a toy boat.

Engraved by J. Neagle from a Drawing by the Right Hon. the Countess of Besborough.

The gilt fairy Ship with its ribbon sail spreading, They launch on the salt Pool the tide left behind, Ah, Victims for whom their sad Mother is dreading The multiplied Miseries that wait on Mankind.

Published 1797-05-15May 15th. 1797 by Cadell and Davies Strand

152 D4r 39

The gilt, fairy ſhip, with its ribbon-ſail ſpreading,

They launch on the ſalt pool the tide left behind;

Ah! victims—for whom their ſad mother is dreading

The multiplied miſeries that wait on mankind!

To fair fortune born, ſhe beholds them with anguiſh,

Now wanderers with her on a once hoſtile ſoil,

Perhaps doom’d for life in chill penury to languiſh,

Or abject dependance, or ſoul-cruſhing toil.

But the ſea-boat, her hopes and her terrors renewing,

O’er the dim grey horizon now faintly appears;

She flies to the quay, dreading tidings of ruin,

All breathleſs with haſte, half expiring with fears.

153 D4v 40

Poor mourner!—I would that my fortune had left me

The means to alleviate the woes I deplore;

But like thine my hard fate has of affluence bereft me,

I can warm the cold heart of the wretched no more!

154 D5r 41

Written for the Benefit of a Distressed Player, Detained at Brighthelmstone for Debt, 1792-11November 1792.

When in a thouſand ſwarms, the Summer o’er,

The birds of paſſage quit our Engliſh ſhore,

By various routs the feather’d myriad moves;

The Becca-fica ſeeks Italian groves, Occasional Address. Written for a Player. Line 4. The Becca-fica ſeeks Italian groves, No more a Wheat-ear— From an idea that the Wheat-ear is the Becca-fica of Italy, which I doubt.

No more a Wheat-ear; Occasional Address. Written for a Player. Line 4. The Becca-fica ſeeks Italian groves, No more a Wheat-ear— From an idea that the Wheat-ear is the Becca-fica of Italy, which I doubt. while the ſoaring files

Of ſea-fowl gather round the Hebrid-iſles.

But if by bird-lime touch’d, unplum’d, confined,

Some poor ill-fated ſtraggler ſtays behind,

Driven from his tranſient perch, beneath your eaves

On his unſhelter’d head the tempeſt raves,

While drooping round, redoubling every pain,

His Mate and Neſtlings aſk his help in vain.

155 D5v 42

So we, the buſkin and the ſock who wear,

And ſtrut and fret, our little ſeason here,

Diſmiſs’d at length, as Fortune bids divide—

Some (lucky rogues!) ſit down on Thames’s ſide;

Others to Liffy’s weſtern banks proceed,

And ſome—driven far a-field, acroſs the Tweed:

But pinion’d here, alas! I cannot fly:

The hapleſs, unplumed, lingering ſtraggler I!

Unleſs the healing pity you beſtow,

Shall imp my ſhatter’d wings—and let me go.

Hard is his fate, whom evil ſtars have led

To ſeek in ſcenic art precarious bread,

While ſtill, thro’ wild viciſſitudes afloat,

An Hero now, and now a Sans Culotte! Page 3442. Line 14. An hero now, and now a ſans culotte. At that time little elſe was talked of.

That eleemoſinary bread he gains

Mingling—with real diſtreſſes—mimic pains.

156 D6r 43

See in our group, a pale, lank Falſtaff ſtare!

Much needs he ſtuffing:—while young Ammon there

Rehearſes—in a garret—ten feet ſquare!

And as his ſoft Statira ſighs conſent,

Roxana comes not—but a dun for rent!

Here ſhivering Edgar, in his blanket roll’d,

Exclaims—with too much reaſon, Tom’s a-cold!

And vainly tries his sorrows to divert,

While Goneril or Regan—waſh his ſhirt!

Lo! freſh from Calais, Edward! mighty king!

Revolves—a mutton chop upon a ſtring!

And Hotſpur, plucking honour from the moon,

Feeds a ſick infant with a pewter ſpoon!

More bleſt the Fiſher, who undaunted braves

In his ſmall bark, the impetuous winds and waves;

157 D6v 44

For though he plough the ſea when others ſleep, Page 3644. Line 1. For tho’ he plough the ſea when others ſleep, He draws like Glendower ſpirits from the deep. 242 K1r 129 Glen. I can call ſpirits from the vaſty deep. Hotſp. But will they come when you do call for them? Shakſpeare. The ſpirits that animate the night voyages of the Suſſex fiſhermen are often ſunk in their kegs on any alarm from the Cuſtom-House officers; and being attached to a buoy, the adventurers go out when the danger of detection is over, and draw them up. A coarſe ſort of white brandy which they call moonſhine, is a principal article of this illegal commerce.

He draws, like Glendower, ſpirits from the deep! Page 3644. Line 1. For tho’ he plough the ſea when others ſleep, He draws like Glendower ſpirits from the deep. 242 K1r 129 Glen. I can call ſpirits from the vaſty deep. Hotſp. But will they come when you do call for them? Shakſpeare. The ſpirits that animate the night voyages of the Suſſex fiſhermen are often ſunk in their kegs on any alarm from the Cuſtom-House officers; and being attached to a buoy, the adventurers go out when the danger of detection is over, and draw them up. A coarſe ſort of white brandy which they call moonſhine, is a principal article of this illegal commerce.

And while the ſtorm howls round, amidſt his trouble,

Bright moonſhine ſtill illuminates the cobble!

Pale with her fears for him, ſome fair Poiſſarde,

Watches his nearing boat; with fond regard

Smiles when ſhe ſees his little canvas handing,

And claſps her dripping lover on his landing.

More bleſt the Peaſant, who, with nervous toil

Hews the rough oak, or breaks the ſtubborn ſoil:

Weary, indeed, he ſees the evening come,

But then, the rude, yet tranquil hut, his home,

Receives its ruſtic inmate; then are his,

Secure repoſe, and dear domeſtic bliſs!

The orchard’s bluſhing fruit, the garden’s ſtore,

The pendant hop, that mantles round the door,

158 D7r 45

Are his:—and while the cheerful faggots burn,

His liſping children hail their ſire’s return! Page 45. Line 2. His liſping children hail their ſire’s return. No children run to liſp their ſire’s return. Gray.

But wandering Players, unhouſel’d, unanneal’d,

And unappointed, ſcour life’s common field,

A flying ſquadron!—diſappointments croſs ’em,

And the campaign concludes, perhaps, at Horſham! Page 45. Line 6. And the campaign concludes, perhaps, at Horſham! At Horſham is the county jail.

Oh! ye, whoſe timely bounty deigns to ſhed

Compaſſion’s balm upon my luckleſs head,

Benevolence, with warm and glowing breaſt,

And ſoft, celeſtial mercy, doubly bleſt! Page 45. Line 10. And ſoft, celeſtial mercy, doubly bleſt. It is twice bleſſed, It bleſſeth him that gives and him that takes. Shakſpeare

Smile on the generous act!—where means are given,

To aid the wretched is—to merit Heaven.

159 D7v 46

Inscription

On a Stone, in the Church-Yard at Boreham, in Essex; raiſed by the Honourable Elizabeth Olmius, to the Memory of Ann Gardner, who died at New Hall, after a faithful Service of Forty Years.

Whate’er of praiſe, and of regret attend

The grateful Servant, and the humble friend,

Where ſtrict integrity and worth unite

To raiſe the lowly in their Maker’s ſight,

Are her’s; whoſe faithful ſervice, long approved,

Wept by the Miſtreſs whom thro’ life ſhe loved.

Here ends her earthly taſk; in joyful truſt

To ſhare the eternal triumph of the Juſt.

160 D8r 47

A Descriptive Ode, Descriptive Ode. The ſingular ſcenery here attempted to be deſcribed, is almoſt the only part of this rock of ſtones worth ſeeing. On an high broken cliff hang the ruins of ſome very ancient building, which the people of the iſland call Bow and Arrow Caſtle, or Rufus’ Caſtle. Beneath, but ſtill high above the ſea, are the half-fallen arches and pillars of an old church, and around are ſcattered the remains of tomb-ſtones, and almost obliterated memorials of the dead. Theſe verſes were written for, and firſt inſerted in, a Novel, called Marchmont; and the cloſe alludes to the circumſtance of the ſtory related in the Novel.

Suppoſed to have been written under the Ruins of Rufus’s Caſtle, among the remains of the ancient Church on the Iſle of Portland.

Chaotic pile of barren ſtone,

That Nature’s hurrying hand has thrown,

Half-finiſh’d, from the troubled waves;

On whoſe rude brow the rifted tower

Has frown’d, thro’ many a ſtormy hour,

On this drear ſite of tempeſt-beaten graves.

161 D8v 48

Sure Deſolation loves to ſhroud

His giant form within the cloud

That hovers round thy rugged head;

And as thro’ broken vaults beneath,

The future ſtorms low-muttering breathe,

Hears the complaining voices of the dead.

Here marks the Fiend with eager eyes,

Far out at ſea the fogs ariſe

That dimly ſhade the beacon’d ſtrand,

And liſtens the portentous roar

Of ſullen waves, as on the ſhore,

Monotonous, they burſt, and tell the ſtorm at hand.

162 E1r 49

Northward the Demon’s eyes are caſt

O’er yonder bare and ſterile waſte,

Where, born to hew and heave the block,

Man, loſt in ignorance and toil,

Becomes aſſociate to the ſoil,

And his heart hardens like his native rock.

On the bleak hills, with flint o’erſpread,

No bloſſoms rear the purple head;

No ſhrub perfumes the Zephyrs’ breath,

But o’er the cold and cheerleſs down

Grim Desolation ſeems to frown,

Blaſting the ungrateful ſoil with partial death.

Vol. II. E 163 Ev 50

Here the ſcathed trees with leaves half-dreſt,

Shade no ſoft ſongster’s ſecret neſt,

Whoſe ſpring-notes ſoothe the penſive ear;

But high the croaking cormorant flies,

And mews and awks with clamorous cries

Tire the lone echos of theſe caverns drear.

Perchance among the ruins grey

Some widow’d mourner loves to ſtray,

Marking the melancholy main

Where once, afar ſhe could diſcern

O’er the white waves his ſail return

Who never, never now, returns again!

164 E2r 51

On theſe lone tombs, by ſtorms up-torn,

The hopeleſs wretch may lingering mourn,

Till from the ocean, riſing red,

The miſty Moon with lurid ray

Lights her, reluctant, on her way,

To ſteep in tears her ſolitary bed.

Hence the dire Spirit oft ſurveys

The ſhip, that to the weſtern bays

With favouring gales purſues its courſe;

Then calls the vapour dark that blinds

The pilot—calls the felon winds

That heave the billows with reſiſtleſs force.

E2 165 E2v 52

Commixing with the blotted ſkies,

High and more high the wild waves riſe,

Till, as impetuous torrents urge,

Driven on yon fatal bank accurſt,

The veſſel’s maſſy timbers burſt,

And the crew ſinks beneath the infuriate ſurge.

There find the weak an early grave,

While youthful ſtrength the whelming wave

Repels; and labouring for the land,

With ſhorten’d breath and upturn’d eyes,

Sees the rough ſhore above him riſe,

Nor dreams that rapine meets him on the ſtrand.

166 E3r 53

And are there then in human form

Monſters more ſavage than the ſtorm,

Who from the gaſping ſufferer tear

The dripping weed?—who dare to reap

The inhuman harveſt of the deep,

From half-drown’d victims whom the tempeſts ſpare?

Ah! yes! by avarice once poſſeſt,

No pity moves the ruſtic breaſt;

Callous he proves—as thoſe who haply wait

Till I (a pilgrim weary worn)

To my own native land return,

With legal toils to drag me to my fate!

167 E3v 54

Verses Verses Suppoſed to have been written in the New Foreſt, in early Spring. Theſe are from the Novel of Marchmont.

Supposed to Have Been Written in the New Forest, in Early Spring.

As in the woods, where leathery lichen weaves Line 1. As in the woods, where leathery lichen weaves Its wint’ry web among the ſallow leaves, Moſſes and lichens are the firſt efforts of Nature to clothe the earth: as they decay, they form an earth that affords nouriſhment to the larger and more ſucculent vegetables: ſeveral ſpecies of lichen are found in the woods, ſpringing up among the dead leaves, under the drip of foreſt trees: theſe, and the withered foliage of preceding years, afford ſhelter to the earlieſt wild flowers about the ſkirts of woods, and in hedge-rows and copſes. The Pile-wort Ranuncula Ficaria and the Wood Anemone Anemone Nemeroſa or Wind-flower, blow K2 245 K2v 132 in the woods and copſes. Of this latter beautiful ſpecies there is in Oxfordſhire a blue one, growing wild, (Anemone pratenſis pedunculo involucrato, petalis apice reflexis foliis bipinnatisLin. Sp. Pl. 760.) It is found in Whichwood Foreſt, near Cornbury quarry. (Vide Flora Oxonienſis). I do not mention this by way of exhibiting botanical knowledge (ſo easy to poſſeſs in appearance) but becauſe I never ſaw the Blue Anemone wild in any other place, and it is a flower of ſingular beauty and elegance.

Its wint’ry web among the ſallow leaves, Line 1. As in the woods, where leathery lichen weaves Its wint’ry web among the ſallow leaves, Moſſes and lichens are the firſt efforts of Nature to clothe the earth: as they decay, they form an earth that affords nouriſhment to the larger and more ſucculent vegetables: ſeveral ſpecies of lichen are found in the woods, ſpringing up among the dead leaves, under the drip of foreſt trees: theſe, and the withered foliage of preceding years, afford ſhelter to the earlieſt wild flowers about the ſkirts of woods, and in hedge-rows and copſes. The Pile-wort Ranuncula Ficaria and the Wood Anemone Anemone Nemeroſa or Wind-flower, blow K2 245 K2v 132 in the woods and copſes. Of this latter beautiful ſpecies there is in Oxfordſhire a blue one, growing wild, (Anemone pratenſis pedunculo involucrato, petalis apice reflexis foliis bipinnatisLin. Sp. Pl. 760.) It is found in Whichwood Foreſt, near Cornbury quarry. (Vide Flora Oxonienſis). I do not mention this by way of exhibiting botanical knowledge (ſo easy to poſſeſs in appearance) but becauſe I never ſaw the Blue Anemone wild in any other place, and it is a flower of ſingular beauty and elegance.

Which (thro’ cold months in whirling eddies blown)

Decay beneath the branches once their own,

From the brown ſhelter of their foliage ſear,

Spring the young blooms that lead the floral year:

When, waked by vernal ſuns, the Pilewort dares

Expand her ſpotted leaves, and ſhining ſtars;

And (veins empurpling all her taſſels pale)

Bends the ſoft Wind-flower in the tepid gale;

Uncultured bells of azure Jacinths blow, Line 11. Uncultured bells of azure Jacynths blow. Hyacinthus non ſcriptus—a Hare-bell.

And the breeze-ſcenting Violet lurks below; Line 12. And the breeze-ſcenting Violet lurks below. To the Violet there needs no note, it being like the Nightingale and the Roſe, in conſtant requiſition by the poets.

168 E4r 55

So views the wanderer, with delighted eyes,

Reviving hopes from black deſpondence riſe,

When, blighted by Adverſity’s chill breath,

Thoſe hopes had felt a temporary death;

Then with gay heart he looks to future hours,

When Love ſhall dreſs for him the Summer bowers!

And, as delicious dreams enchant his mind,

Forgets his ſorrows paſt, or gives them to the wind.

169 E4v 56

Song. Song. From the French. A free tranſlation of a favourite French ſong. Un jour me demandoit Hortenſe Ou ſe trouve le tendre amour?

From the French.

I.

Ah! ſay, the fair Louiſa cried,

Say where the abode of Love is found?

Pervading Nature, I replied,

His influence ſpreads the world around.

When Morning’s arrowy beams ariſe,

He ſparkles in the enlivening ray,

And bluſhes in the glowing ſkies

When roſy Evening fades away.

II.

The Summer winds that gently blow,

The flocks that bleat along the glades,

The nightingale, that ſoft and low,

With muſic fills the liſtening ſhades:

170 E5r 57

The murmurs of the ſilver ſurf

All echo Love’s enchanting notes,

From Violets lurking in the turf,

His balmy breath thro’ æther floats.

III.

From perfumed flowers and dewy leaves

Delicious ſcents he bids exhale,

He ſmiles amid Autumnal ſheaves,

And clothes with green the graſſy vale;

But when that throne the God aſſumes

Where his moſt powerful influence lies,

’Tis on Louiſa’s cheek he blooms,

And lightens from her radiant eyes!

171 E5v 58

Apostrophe to An Old Tree. Apostrophe To an Old Tree. The philoſophy of theſe few lines may not be very correct, since moſſes are known to injure the ſtems and branches of trees to which they adhere; but the images of Poetry cannot always be exactly adjuſted to objects of Natural Hiſtory.

Where thy broad branches brave the bitter North,

Like rugged, indigent, unheeded, worth,

Lo! Vegetation’s guardian hands emboſs

Each giant limb with fronds of ſtudded moſs, Line 4. ――fronds of ſtudded moſs. The foliage, if it may be ſo called, of this race of plants, is termed fronds; and their flowers, or fructification,247 K3v 134 fication, aſſume the ſhapes of cups and ſhields; of thoſe of this deſcription, more particularly adhering to trees, is Lichen Pulmonarius, Lungwort Lichen, with ſhields; the Lichen Caperatus, with red cups; and many others which it would look like pedantry to enumerate.

Clothing the bark with many a fringed fold

Begemm’d with ſcarlet ſhields and cups of gold,

Which, to the wildeſt winds their webs oppoſe,

And mock the arrowy ſleet, or weltering ſnows.

—But to the warmer Weſt the Woodbine fair Line 9. The Woodbine and the Clematis are well known plants, ornamenting our hedge-rows in Summer with fragrant flowers.

With taſſels that perfumed the Summer air,

172 E6r 59

The mantling Clematis, whoſe feathery bowers

Waved in feſtoons with Nightſhade’s purple flowers, Line 12. Nightſhade, Solanum Lignosum Woody Nightſhade, is one of the moſt beautiful of its tribe.

The ſilver weed, whoſe corded fillets wove Page 59. Line 1. The ſilver weed, whoſe corded fillets wove. The ſilver weed, Convolvulus Major Raii Syn. 275 or greater Bind-weed, which, however the beauty of the flowers may enliven the garden or the wilds, is ſo prejudicial to the gardener and farmer, that it is 248 K4r 135 ſeen by them with diſlike equal to the difficulty of extirpating it from the ſoil. Its cord-like ſtalks, plaited together, can hardly be forced from the branches round which they have twined themſelves.

Round thy pale rind, even as deceitful love

Of mercenary beauty would engage

The dotard fondneſs of decrepit age;

All theſe, that during Summer’s halcyon days

With their green canopies conceal’d thy ſprays,

Are gone for ever; or disfigured, trail

Their ſallow relics in the Autumnal gale;

Or o’er thy roots, in faded fragments toſt,

But tell of happier hours, and ſweetneſs loſt!

—Thus in Fate’s trying hour, when furious ſtorms

Strip ſocial life of Pleaſure’s fragile forms,

173 E6v 60

And aweful Justice, as his rightful prey

Tears Luxury’s ſilk, and jewel’d robe, away,

While reads Adverſity her leſſon ſtern,

And Fortune’s minions tremble as they learn;

The crouds around her gilded car that hung,

Bent the lithe knee, and troul’d the honey’d tongue,

Deſponding fall, or fly in pale deſpair;

And Scorn alone remembers that they were.

Not ſo Integrity; unchanged he lives

In the rude armour conſcious Honor gives,

And dares with hardy front the troubled ſky,

In Honeſty’s uninjured panoply.

Ne’er on Proſperity’s enfeebling bed

Or roſy pillows, he repoſed his head,

174 E7r 61

But given to uſeful arts, his ardent mind

Has ſought the general welfare of mankind;

To mitigate their ills his greateſt bliſs,

While ſtudying them, has taught him what he is;

He, when the human tempeſt rages worſt,

And the earth ſhudders as the thunders burſt,

Firm, as thy northern branch, is rooted faſt,

And if he can’t avert, endures the blaſt.

175 E7v 62

The Forest Boy. The Forest Boy. Late circumſtances have given riſe to many mournful hiſtories like this, which may well be ſaid to be founded in truth!—I, who have been ſo ſad a ſufferer in this miſerable conteſt, may well endeavour to aſſociate myſelf with thoſe who apply what powers they have to deprecate the horrors of war. Gracious God! will mankind never be reaſonable enough to understand that all the miſeries which our condition ſubjects us to, are light in compariſon of what we bring upon ourselves by indulging the folly and wickedneſs of thoſe who make nations deſtroy each other for their diverſion, or to adminiſter to their ſenſeleſs ambition. 249 K4v 136 ――If the ſtroke of war Fell certain on the guilty head, none elſe—If they that make the cauſe might taſte th’effect, And drink themſelves the bitter cup they mix; Then might the Bard (the child of peace) delight To twine freſh wreaths around the conqueror’s brow; Or haply ſtrike his high-toned harp, to ſwell The trumpet’s martial ſound, and bid them on When Justice arms for vengeance; but, alas! That undiſtinguiſhing and deathful ſtorm Beats heavieſt on the expoſed and innocent; And they that ſtir its fury, while it raves, Safe and at diſtance ſend their mandates forth Unto the mortal miniſters that wait To do their bidding!—— Crowe. I have in theſe ſtanzas, entitled the Foreſt Boy, attempted the meaſure ſo ſucceſsfully adopted in one of the poems of a popular novel, and ſo happily imitated by Mr. Southey in Poor Mary.

The trees have now hid at the edge of the hurſt

The ſpot where the ruins decay

Of the cottage, where Will of the Woodlands was nurſed

And lived ſo beloved, till the moment accurſt

When he went from the woodland away.

Among all the lads of the plough or the fold,

Beſt eſteem’d by the ſober and good,

Was Will of the Woodlands; and often the old

Would tell of his frolics, for active and bold

Was William the Boy of the wood.

176 E8r 63

Yet gentle was he, as the breath of the May,

And when ſick and declining was laid

The Woodman his father, young William away

Would go to the foreſt to labour all day,

And perform his hard taſk in his ſtead.

And when his poor father the foreſter died,

And his mother was ſad, and alone,

He toil’d from the dawn, and at evening he hied

In ſtorm or in ſnow, or whate’er might betide,

To ſupply all her wants from the town.

177 E8v 64

One neighbour they had on the heath to the weſt,

And no other the cottage was near,

But ſhe would ſend Phœbe, the child ſhe loved beſt,

To ſtay with the widow, thus ſad and diſtreſt,

Her hours of dejection to cheer.

As the buds of wild roſes, the cheeks of the maid

Were juſt tinted with youth’s lovely hue,

Her form like the aſpen, ſoft graces diſplay’d,

And the eyes, over which her luxuriant locks ſtray’d,

As the ſkies of the Summer were blue!

178 Fr 65

Still labouring to live, yet reflecting the while,

Young William conſider’d his lot;

’Twas hard, yet ’twas honeſt; and one tender ſmile

From Phœbe at night overpaid ev’ry toil,

And then all his fatigues were forgot.

By the brook where it glides thro’ the copſe of Arbeal,

When to eat his cold fare he reclined,

Then soft from her home his ſweet Phœbe would ſteal

And bring him wood-ſtrawberries to finiſh his meal,

And would ſit by his ſide while he dined.

Vol. II F 179 Fv 66

And tho’ when employ’d in the deep foreſt glade,

His days have ſeem’d ſlowly to move,

Yet Phœbe going home, thro’ the wood-walk has ſtray’d

To bid him good night!—and whatever ſhe ſaid

Was more ſweet than the voice of the dove.

Fair Hope, that the lover ſo fondly believes,

Then repeated each ſoul-ſoothing ſpeech,

And touch’d with illuſion, that often deceives

The future with light; as the ſun thro’ the leaves

Illumines the boughs of the beech.

180 F2r 67

But once more the tempeſts of chill Winter blow,

To depreſs and disfigure the earth;

And now ere the dawn, the young Woodman muſt go

To his work in the foreſt, half buried in ſnow,

And at night bring home wood for the hearth.

The bridge on the heath by the flood was waſh’d down,

And faſt, faſt fell the ſleet and the rain,

The ſtream to a wild rapid river was grown,

And long might the widow ſit ſighing alone

Ere ſweet Phœbe could ſee her again.

F2 181 F2v 68

At the town was a market—and now for ſupplies

Such as needed their humble abode,

Young William went forth; and his mother with ſighs

Watch’d long at the window, with tears in her eyes,

Till he turn’d thro’ the fields, to the road.

Then darkneſs came on; and ſhe heard with affright

The wind riſe every moment more high;

She look’d from the door; not a ſtar lent its light,

But the tempeſt redoubled the gloom of the night,

And the rain fell in floods from the ſky.

182 F3r 69

The clock in her cottage now mournfully told

The hours that went heavily on;

’Twas midnight; her ſpirits ſunk hopeleſs and cold,

For the wind ſeem’d to ſay as in loud guſts it roll’d,

That long, long would her William be gone.

Then heart-ſick and faint to her ſad bed ſhe crept,

Yet firſt made up the fire in the room

To guide his dark ſteps; but ſhe liſten’d and wept,

Or if for a moment forgetful ſhe ſlept,

She ſoon ſtarted!—and thought he was come.

183 F3v 70

’Twas morn; and the wind with an hoarſe ſullen moan

Now ſeem’d dying away in the wood,

When the poor wretched mother ſtill drooping, alone,

Beheld on the threſhold a figure unknown,

In gorgeous apparel who ſtood.

Your son is a soldier, abruptly cried he,

And a place in our corps has obtain’d,

Nay, be not caſt down; you perhaps may ſoon ſee

Your William a captain! he now ſends by me

The purſe he already has gain’d.

184 F4r 71

So William entrapp’d ’twixt perſuaſion and force,

Is embark’d for the iſles of the Weſt,

But he ſeem’d to begin with ill omens his courſe,

And felt recollection, regret, and remorſe

Continually weigh on his breaſt.

With uſeleſs repentance he eagerly eyed

The high coaſt as it faded from view,

And ſaw the green hills, on whoſe northernmoſt ſide

Was his own ſylvan home: and he falter’d and cried

Adieu! ah! for ever adieu!

185 F4v 72

Who now, my poor mother, thy life ſhall ſuſtain,

Since thy ſon has thus left thee forlorn?

Ah! canſt thou forgive me? And not in the pain

Of this cruel deſertion, of William complain,

And lament that he ever was born?

Sweet Phœbe!—if ever thy lover was dear,

Now forſake not the cottage of woe,

But comfort my mother; and quiet her fear,

And help her to dry up the vain fruitleſs tear

That too long for my abſence will flow.

186 F5r 73

Yet what if my Phœbe another ſhould wed,

And lament her loſt William no more?

The thought was too cruel; and anguiſh ſoon ſped

The dart of diſeaſe——With the brave numerous dead

He has fall’n on the plague-tainted ſhore.

In the lone village church-yard, the chancel-wall near,

The high graſs now waves over the ſpot

Where the mother of William, unable to bear

His loſs, who to her widow’d heart was ſo dear,

Has both him and her ſorrows forgot.

187 F5v 74

By the brook where it winds thro’ the wood of Arbeal,

Or amid the deep foreſt, to moan,

The poor wandering Phœbe will ſilently ſteal;

The pain of her boſom no reaſon can heal,

And ſhe loves to indulge it alone.

Her ſenſes are injured; her eyes dim with tears;

By the river ſhe ponders; and weaves

Reed garlands, againſt her dear William appears,

Then breathleſsly liſtens, and fancies ſhe hears

His light ſtep in the half-wither’d leaves.

facing 074
A girl against a rock, looking at the brook

R. Corbould del.delineavit J. Heath RA sculp.sculptit

By the Brook where it winds thro’ the wood of Arbeal, Or amid the deep Forest to moan, The poor wandering Phœbe will silently steal;

Published 1797-05-15May 15th. 1797. by Cadell and Davies Strand.

facing 075 188 F6r 75

Ah! such are the miſeries to which ye give birth,

Ye cold ſtateſmen! unknowing a ſcar;

Who from pictured ſaloon, or the bright ſculptured hearth,

Diſperſe deſolation and death thro’ the earth,

When ye let looſe the demons of war.

189 F6v 76

Ode to the Poppy. Ode to the Poppy. This and the following Poem were written (the firſt of them at my requeſt, for a Novel) by a lady whoſe death in her thirty-ſixth year was a ſubject of the deepeſt concern to all who knew her. Would to God the laſt line which my regret on that loſs drew from me, had been prophetic—and that my heart had indeed been cold, inſtead of having ſuffered within the next twelve months after that line was written, a deprivation which has rendered my life a living death.

Written by a Deceased Friend.

Not for the promiſe of the labour’d field,

Not for the good the yellow harveſts yield,

I bend at Ceres’ ſhrine;

For dull, to humid eyes, appear

The golden glories of the year,

A far more melancholy worſhip’s mine.

190 F7r 77

I hail the goddeſs for her ſcarlet flower!

Thou brilliant weed,

That doſt ſo far exceed

The richest gifts gay Flora can bestow:

Heedleſs I paſs’d thee in life’s morning hour,

(Thou comforter of woe)

Till ſorrow taught me to confeſs thy power.

In early days, when Fancy cheats,

A varied wreath I wove

Of laughing Spring’s luxuriant ſweets,

To deck ungrateful Love:

The roſe, or thorn, my labours crown’d,

As Venus ſmiled, or Venus frown’d;

191 F7v 78

But Love, and Joy, and all their train, are flown;

E’en languid Hope no more is mine,

And I will ſing of thee alone,

Unleſs, perchance, the attributes of Grief,

The cypreſs bud, and willow leaf,

Their pale funereal foliage blend with thine.

Hail, lovely bloſſom!—thou canſt eaſe

The wretched victims of Diſeaſe;

Canſt cloſe thoſe weary eyes in gentle ſleep,

Which never open but to weep;

For, oh! thy potent charm

Can agonizing Pain diſarm;

Expel imperious Memory from her ſeat,

And bid the throbbing heart forget to beat.

facing 078
A woman sitting on some steps holding a pen and with paper on her lap looking at a poppy.

R. Corbould del.delineavit J. Neagle sculp.sculptit

Hail, lovely Bloſsom! — thou can’st ease, The wretched Victim of Disease; Can’st close those weary Eyes in gentle sleep, Which never open but to weep;

Published 1797-05-15May 15th. 1797. by Cadell and Davies Strand.

facing 079 192 F8r 79

Soul-ſoothing plant! that can ſuch bleſſings give,

By thee the mourner bears to live!

By thee the hopeleſs die!

Oh! ever friendly to despair,

Might Sorrow’s pallid votary dare,

Without a crime, that remedy implore,

Which bids the ſpirit from its bondage fly,

I’d court thy palliative aid no more;

No more I’d ſue that thou ſhould’ſt ſhed

A tranſient calm upon my aching head,

But rather would conjure thee to impart

Thy ſovereign balſam for a broken heart;

And by thy dear Lethean power,

(Ineſtimable flower)

Burſt theſe terreſtrial bonds, and other regions try.

193 F8v 80

Written by the Same Lady On Seeing Her Two Sons at Play.

Sweet age of bleſt delusion! blooming boys,

Ah! revel long in childhood’s thoughtleſs joys,

With light and pliant ſpirits that can ſtoop

To follow, ſportively, the rolling hoop;

To watch the ſleeping top with gay delight,

Or mark, with raptured gaze, the ſailing kite;

Or eagerly purſuing Pleaſure’s call,

Can find it center’d in the bounding ball!

Alas! the day will come, when ſports like theſe

Muſt loſe their magic, and their power to pleaſe;

Too ſwiftly fled, the roſy hours of youth

Shall yield their fairy-charms to mournful Truth;

194 G1r 81

Even now, a mother’s fond prophetic fear

Sees the dark train of human ills appear;

Views various fortune for each lovely child,

Storms for the bold, and anguiſh for the mild;

Beholds already thoſe expreſſive eyes

Beam a ſad certainty of future ſighs;

And dreads each ſuffering thoſe dear breaſts may know

In their long paſſage through a world of woe;

Perchance predeſtined every pang to prove,

That treacherous friends inflict, or faithleſs love;

For, ah! how few have found exiſtence ſweet,

Where grief is ſure, but happineſs deceit!

Vol. II G 195 G1v 82

Verses,

On the Death of the Same Lady, Written in 1794-09September, 1794.

Like a poor ghoſt the night I ſeek;

Its hollow winds repeat my ſighs;

The cold dews mingle on my cheek

With tears that wander from mine eyes.

The thorns that ſtill my couch moleſt,

Have robb’d theſe heavy eyes of ſleep;

But tho’ deprived of tranquil reſt,

I here at leaſt am free to weep.

196 G2r 83

Twelve times the moon, that riſes red

O’er yon tall wood of ſhadowy pine,

Has fill’d her orb, ſince low was laid

My Harriet! that ſweet form of thine!

While each ſad month, as ſlow it paſt,

Brought ſome new ſorrow to deplore;

Some grief more poignant than the laſt,

But thou canſt calm thoſe griefs no more.

No more thy friendſhip ſooths to reſt

This wearied ſpirit tempeſt-toſt;

The cares that weigh upon my breaſt

Are doubly felt ſince thou art lost.

G2 197 G2v 84

Bright viſions of ideal grace

That the young poet’s dreams inflame,

Were not more lovely than thy face;

Were not more perfect than thy frame.

Wit, that no ſufferings could impair,

Was thine, and thine thoſe mental powers

Of force to chaſe the fiends that tear

From Fancy’s hands her budding flowers.

O’er what, my angel friend, thou wert,

Dejected Memory loves to mourn;

Regretting ſtill that tender heart,

Now withering in a diſtant urn!

198 G3r 85

But ere that wood of ſhadowy pine

Twelve times ſhall yon full orb behold,

This ſickening heart, that bleeds for thine,

My Harriet!—may like thine be cold!

199 G3v 86

Fragment,

Descriptive of the Miseries of War; From a Poem Called The Emigrants, Printed in 17931793.

To a wild mountain, whoſe bare ſummit hides

Its broken eminence in clouds; whoſe ſteeps

Are dark with woods; where the receding rocks

Are worn with torrents of diſſolving ſnow;

A wretched woman, pale and breathleſs, flies,

And, gazing round her, liſtens to the ſound

Of hoſtile footſteps:—No! they die away—

Nor noiſe remains, but of the cataract,

Or ſurly breeze of night, that mutters low

Among the thickets, where ſhe trembling ſeeks

A temporary ſhelter—Claſping cloſe

To her quick throbbing heart her ſleeping child,

200 G4r 87

All ſhe could reſcue of the innocent group

That yeſterday ſurrounded her—Eſcaped

Almost by miracle!—Fear, frantic Fear,

Wing’d her weak feet; yet, half repenting now

Her headlong haſte, ſhe wiſhes ſhe had ſtaid

To die with thoſe affrighted Fancy paints

The lawleſs ſoldiers’ victims—Hark! again

The driving tempeſt bears the cry of Death;

And with deep, ſudden thunder, the dread ſound

Of cannon vibrates on the tremulous earth;

While, burſting in the air, the murderous bomb

Glares o’er her manſion—Where the ſplinters fall

Like ſcatter’d comets, its deſtructive path

Is mark’d by wreaths of flame!—Then, overwhelm’d

201 G4v 88

Beneath accumulated horror, ſinks

The deſolate mourner!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The feudal Chief, whoſe Gothic battlements

Frown on the plain beneath, returning home

From diſtant lands, alone, and in diſguiſe,

Gains at the fall of night his caſtle walls;

But, at the ſilent gate no porter ſits

To wait his lord’s admittance!—In the courts

All is drear ſtillneſs!—Gueſſing but too well

The fatal truth, he ſhudders as he goes

Thro’ the mute hall; where, by the blunted light

202 G5r 89

That the dim Moon thro’ painted caſement lends,

He ſees that devaſtation has been there;

Then, while each hideous image to his mind

Riſes terrific, o’er a bleeding corſe

Stumbling he falls; another intercepts

His ſtaggering feet—All! all who uſed to ruſh

With joy to meet him, all his family

Lie murder’d in his way!—And the day dawns

On a wild raving Maniac, whom a fate

So ſudden and calamitous has robb’d

Of reaſon; and who round his vacant walls

Screams unregarded, and reproaches Heaven!

203 G5v 90

April.

Green o’er the copſes Spring’s ſoft hues are ſpreading,

High wave the Reeds in the tranſparent floods,

The Oak its ſear and ſallow foliage ſhedding,

From their moſs’d cradles ſtart its infant buds. April. Line 4. From their moſs’d cradles, &c. The Oak, and, in ſheltered ſituations, the Beech, retain the leaves of the preceding year till the new foliage appears. 251 K5v 138 The return of the Spring, which awakens many to new ſentiments of pleaſure, now ſerves only to remind me of paſt miſery. This ſenſation is common to the wretched—and too many Poets have felt it in all its force. Zefiro torno, e’l bel tempo rimena, E i fiori, e l’erbe, ſua dolce famiglia; &c. &c. Ma per me laſſo! Petrarch on the Death of Laura. And theſe lines of Guarini have always been celebrated. O primavera gioventù dell’anno, Bella madre di fiori D’erbe novelle e di novelli amori; Tu torni ben, ma teco Non tornano i ſereni E fortunati di, delle mie gioje; 252 K6r 139 Tu torni ben, tu torni, Ma teco altro non torna Che del perduto mio caro teſoro, La rimembranza miſera e dolente.

Pale as the tranquil tide of Summer’s ocean,

The Willow now its ſlender leaf unveils;

And thro’ the ſky with ſwiftly fleeting motion,

Driven by the wind, the rack of April ſails.

204 G6r 91

Then, as the guſt declines, the ſtealing ſhowers

Fall freſh and noiſeleſs; while at cloſing day

The low Sun gleams on moiſt and half-blown flowers

That promiſe garlands for approaching May.

Bleſt are yon peaſant children, ſimply ſinging,

Who thro’ the new-ſprung graſs rejoicing rove;

More bleſt! to whom the Time, fond thought is bringing,

Of friends expected, or returning love.

The penſive wanderer bleſt, to whom reflection

Points out ſome future views that ſooth his mind;

Me how unlike!—whom cruel recollection

But tells of comfort I ſhall never find!

205 G6v 92

Hope, that on Nature’s youth is ſtill attending,

No more to me her ſyren ſong ſhall ſing;

Never to me her influence extending,

Shall I again enjoy the days of Spring!

Yet, how I loved them once theſe ſcenes remind me,

When light of heart, in childhood’s thoughtleſs mirth,

I reck’d not that the cruel lot assign’d me

Should make me curſe the hour that gave me birth!

Then, from thy wild-wood banks, Aruna! roving,

Thy thymy downs with ſportive ſteps I ſought,

And Nature’s charms, with artleſs tranſport loving,

Sung like the birds, unheeded and untaught.

206 G7r 93

But now the Springtide’s pleaſant hours returning,

Serve to awaken me to ſharper pain;

Recalling ſcenes of agony and mourning,

Of baffled hope and prayers preferr’d in vain.

Thus ſhone the Sun, his vernal rays diſplaying,

Thus did the woods in early verdure wave,

While dire Diſeaſe on all I loved was preying,

And flowers ſeem’d rising but to ſtrew her grave!

Now, ’mid reviving blooms, I coldly languiſh,

Spring ſeems devoid of joy to me alone;

Each ſound of pleaſure aggravates my anguiſh,

And ſpeaks of beauty, youth, and ſweetness gone!

207 G7v 94

Yet, as ſtern Duty bids, with faint endeavour

I drag on life, contending with my woe,

Tho’ conſcious Miſery ſtill repeats, that never

My ſoul one pleaſureable hour ſhall know.

Loſt in the tomb, when Hope no more appeaſes

The feſter’d wounds that prompt the eternal ſigh,

Grief, the moſt fatal of the heart’s diſeaſes,

Soon teaches, whom it faſtens on, to die.

The wretch undone, for pain alone exiſting,

The abject dread of Death ſhall ſure ſubdue,

And far from his deciſive hand reſiſting,

Rejoice to bid a world like this adieu!

208 G8r 95

Ode to Death. Ode to Death. From the following ſentence in Lord Bacon’s Essays. Death is no ſuch formidable enemy, ſince a man has ſo many champions about him that can win the combat of him—Revenge triumphs over Death; Love ſlights it; Honour courts it; Dread of Diſgrace chooſes it; Grief flies to it; Fear anticipates it.

Friend of the wretched! wherefore ſhould the eye

Of blank Despair, whence tears have ceaſed to flow,

Be turn’d from thee?—Ah! wherefore fears to die

He, who compell’d each poignant grief to know,

Drains to its loweſt dregs the cup of woe?

Would Cowardice poſtpone thy calm embrace,

To linger out long years in torturing pain?

Or not prefer thee to the ills that chaſe

Him, who too much impoveriſh’d to obtain

From British Themis right, implores her aid in vain!

209 G8v 96

Sharp goading Indigence who would not fly,

That urges toil the exhauſted ſtrength above?

Or ſhun the once fond friend’s averted eye?

Or who to thy aſylum not remove,

To loſe the waſting pain of unrequited love?

Can then the wounded wretch who muſt deplore

What moſt ſhe loved, to thy cold arms conſign’d,

Who hears the voice that ſooth’d her ſoul no more,

Fear thee, O Death!—Or hug the chains that bind

To joyleſs, cheerleſs life, her ſick, reluctant mind?

210 H1r 97

Oh! Miſery’s Cure; who e’er in pale diſmay

Has watch’d the angel form they could not ſave,

And ſeen their deareſt bleſſing torn away,

May well the terrors of thy triumph brave,

Nor pauſe in fearful dread before the opening grave!

Vol. II H 211 H1v 98

Stanzas

From the Novel Called The Young Philosopher.

Ah! think’ſt thou, Laura, then, that wealth

Should make me thus my youth, and health,

And freedom and repoſe reſign?—

Ah, no!—I toil to gain by ſtealth

One look, one tender glance of thine.

Born where huge hills on hills are piled,

In Caledonia’s diſtant wild,

Unbounded Liberty was mine:

But thou upon my hopes haſt ſmiled,

And bade me be a ſlave of thine!

Amid theſe gloomy haunts of gain,

Of weary hours I not complain,

While Hope forbids me to repine,

And whiſpering tells me I obtain

Pity from that ſoft heart of thine.

212 H2r 99

Tho’ far capricious Fortune flies,

Yet Love will bleſs the ſacrifice,

And all his purer joys combine;

While I my little world compriſe

In that fair form, and fairer ſoul of thine.

H2 213 H2v 100

To the Winds.

First Printed In The Young Philosopher.

Ye vagrant Winds! yon clouds that bear

Thro’ the blue deſart of the air,

Soft ſailing in the Summer ſky,

Do e’er your wandering breezes meet

A wretch in miſery ſo complete,

So loſt as I?

And yet, where’er your pinions wave

O’er ſome loſt friend’s—ſome lover’s grave,

Surviving ſufferers ſtill complain;

Some parent of his hopes deprived,

Some wretch who has himſelf ſurvived,

Lament in vain.

214 H3r 101

Blow where ye liſt on this ſad earth,

Some ſoul-corroding care has birth,

And Grief in all her accents ſpeaks;

Here dark Dejection groans, and there

Wild Phrenzy, daughter of Despair,

Unconſcious ſhrieks.

Ah! were it Death had torn apart

The tie that bound him to my heart,

Tho’ fatal ſtill the pang would prove;

Yet had it ſoothed this bleeding breaſt

To know, I had till then poſſest

Hillario’s love.

And where his dear, dear aſhes ſlept,

Long nights and days I then had wept,

Till by ſlow-mining Grief oppreſt

As Memory fail’d, its vital heat

This wayward heart had loſt, and beat

Itſelf to reſt.

215 H3v 102

But ſtill Hillario lives, to prove

To ſome more happy maid his love!

Hillario at her feet I ſee!

His voice ſtill murmurs fond deſire,

Still beam his eyes with lambent fire,

But not for me!

Ah! words, my boſom’s peace that ſtole,

Ah! looks, that won my melting ſoul;

Who dares your dear deluſion try,

In dreams may all Elyſium ſee,

Then undeceiv’d, awake, like me,

Awake and die.

Like me, who now abandon’d, loſt,

Roam wildly on the rocky coaſt,

With eager eyes the ſea explore;

But hopeleſs watch and vainly rave,

Hillario o’er the weſtern wave

Returns no more!

216 H4r 103

Yet, go forgiven, Hillario go,

Such anguiſh may you never know

As that which checks my labouring breath;

Pain ſo ſevere not long endures,

And I have ſtill my choice of cures,

Madneſs or death.

217 H4v 104

To Vesper.

From the Same.

Thou! who behold’ſt with dewy eye

The sleeping leaves and folded flowers,

And hear’ſt the night-wind lingering ſigh

Thro’ ſhadowy woods and twilight bowers;

Thou wast the ſignal once that ſeem’d to ſay,

Hillario’s beating heart reproved my long delay.

I ſee thy emerald luſtre ſtream

O’er theſe rude cliffs and cavern’d ſhore;

But here, oriſons to thy beam

The woodland chantreſs pours no more;

Nor I, as once, thy lamp propitious hail,

Seen indiſtinct thro’ tears; confus’d, and dim, and pale.

218 H5r 105

Soon ſhall thy arrowy radiance ſhine

On the broad ocean’s reſtleſs wave,

Where this poor cold ſwoln form of mine

Shall ſhelter in its billowy grave,

Safe from the ſcorn the World’s ſad outcaſts prove,

Unconſcious of the pain of ill-requited Love.

219 H5v 106

Lydia. Lydia. The Juniper and the Yew are almoſt the only trees that grow ſpontaneouſly on the higheſt chalky hills, and they are often ragged and ſtunted by the violence of the wind. 253 K6v 140 Some of the moſt elevated mounds of earth on theſe hills are ſea-marks, and have formerly ſurrounded beacons; others are conſidered as memorials of the dead, and are called Saxon, Daniſh, or Roman, according to the ſyſtems of different obſervers.

O’er the high down the night-wind blew,

And as it chill and howling paſt,

The Juniper and ſcathed Yew

Shrunk from the bitter blaſt.

Yet on the ſea-mark’s chalky height,

The rude memorial of the Dane,

Thro’ many a drear and ſtormy night

Had hapleſs Lydia lain.

When I a lonely wanderer too,

Who loved to climb and gaze around,

Even as the Autumnal Sun withdrew,

The poor forlorn one found.

220 H6r 107

Ah! wherefore, maiden, ſit you ſo,

The cold wind raving round your breaſt,

While in the villages below

All are retired to reſt?

The fires are out, no lights appear

But the red flames of burning lime, Page 107. Line 6. But the red flames of burning lime. From eminences in thoſe countries where lime is burnt as a manure, a chain of lime kilns for many miles may be ſometimes seen, which blazing amid the doubtful darkneſs of an extenſive landscape, have a fine effect.

None but the Horſeman’s ghoſt is here Page 107. Line 7. The Horſeman’s ghoſt. Some years ago a ſtrange notion prevailed among the people occaſionally paſſing over one of the higheſt of the South Downs, that a man on horſeback was often ſeen coming towards thoſe who were returning from market on Saturday evening. This appearance, 254 K7r 141 the noiſe of whoſe horſe’s feet they diſtinctly heard, vaniſhed as ſoon as it came within an hundred yards of the paſſengers who often tried to meet it. At other times it was ſeen following them. They have ſtopped to let it approach, but it always melted into air. I have been preſent when a farmer not otherwiſe particularly weak or ignorant, ſaid, that he had ſeen it, and diſtinctly heard the horſe galloping towards him.

At this pale evening time.

With wild yet vacant eye, the maid

Gazed on me, and a mournful ſmile

On her wan ſunken features play’d

As thus ſhe ſpoke the while:

Yes, to their beds my friends are gone,

They have no grief; they ſlumber ſoon;

But ’tis for me to wait alone

To meet the midnight Moon.

221 H6v 108

The Moon will riſe anon, and trace

Her ſilver pathway on the ſea; Page 108. Line 2. Her ſilver pathway on the ſea. The bright luſtre of the moon reflected from the ſea, is almoſt as diſtinctly viſible from the Downs as the moon itſelf; forming a long line of radiance from the horizon to the ſhore.

I ſaw it from this very place,

When Edward went from me.

Tho’ like a miſt the Horſeman’s ghoſt

From yon deep dell I often ſee,

Glide o’er the mountain to the coaſt,

It gives no fear to me.

I rather dread the clouds that riſe

Like towers and turrets from afar,

And ſwelling high, obſcure the ſkies,

And every ſhining ſtar.

For then I can no longer trace

That long bright pathway in the ſea,

Where Edward bade me mark the place

When laſt he went from me!

222 H7r 109

’Twas here, when loth to go, he gave

To his poor Girl his laſt adieu;

He mark’d the moonlight on the wave,

And bade me mark it too.

And, Lydia!—then he ſighing cried,

When the tenth time that light ſo clear

Shine on the Sea—whate’er betide,

Thy Edward will be here.

Since then I watch with eager eyes,

(Nor feel I cold, or wind or rain,)

Till the tenth bleſſed moon ariſe,

And Edward comes again.

Ah, wretched Girl! I would have cried,

But why awaken her to pain?

Long ſince thy wandering Lover died,

The moon returns in vain!

223 H7v 110

Tho’ with her wane, thy viſions fade,

Yet hopeſt thou, till again ſhe ſhine?

――The hopes of half the World, poor Maid!

Are not more rational than thine!

224 H8r 111

Quotations, Notes, and Explanations.

Sonnet LXI. Line 1. Ill-omen’d bird! whoſe cries portentous float. This Sonnet, firſt inſerted in the Novel called the Old Manor House, is founded on a ſuperſtition attributed (vide Bertram’s Travels in America) to the Indians, who believe that the cry of this night-hawk Caprimulgus Americanus portends ſome evil, and when they are at war, aſſert that it is never heard near their tents or habitations but to announce the death of ſome brave warrior of their tribe, or ſome other calamity. 225 H8v 112 Sonnet LXII. Firſt published in the ſame work. Sonnet LXIII. Line 1. O’er faded heath-flowers ſpun, or horny furze. The web, charged with innumerable globules of bright dew, that is frequently on heaths and commons in autumnal mornings, can hardly have eſcaped the obſervation of any lover of nature—The ſlender web of the field ſpider is again alluded to in Sonnet lxxvii. Sonnet LXIV. Firſt printed in the Novel of The Baniſhed Man. Sonnet LXV. To the excellent friend and Phyſician to whom theſe lines are addreſſed, I was obliged for the kindeſt 226 I1r 113 attention, and for the recovery from one dangerous illneſs of that beloved child whom a few months afterwards his ſkill and moſt unremitted and diſintereſted exertions could not ſave! Sonnet LXVI. Written on the coaſt of Suſſex during very tempeſtuous weather in 1791-12December 1791, but firſt publiſhed in the Novel of Montalbert. Sonnet LXVII. Printed in the ſame work. Sonnet LXX. Line 11. He has no nice felicities that ſhrink. ’Tis delicate felicity that ſhrinks When rocking winds are loud. Walpole. Vol. II I 227 I1v 114 Sonnet LXXII. Line 1. Thee! lucid arbiter ’twixt day and night. Milton. Sonnet LXXIII. Line 5. Wilt thou yet murmur at a miſplaced leaf? From a ſtory (I know not where told) of a faſtidious being, who on a bed of roſe leaves complained that his or her reſt was deſtroyed becauſe one of thoſe leaves was doubled. Sonnet LXXIV. Line 1. Sleep, that knits up the ravell’d ſleeve of care. Shakespeare 228 I2r 115 Line 5. Murmuring I hear The hollow wind around the ancient towers. Theſe lines were written in a reſidence among ancient public buildings. Sonnet LXXV. Firſt publiſhed in the Novel of Marchmont. Sonnet LXXVI. Line 5. The baſe controul Of petty deſpots in their pedant reign Already haſt thou felt;— This was not addreſſed to my ſon, who ſuffered with many others in an event which will long be remembered by thoſe parents who had ſons at a certain public ſchool, in 17931793, but to another young man, not compelled as he was, in conſequence of that diſmiſſion, to abandon the faireſt proſpects of his future life. I2 229 I2v 116 Sonnet LXXVII. Line 1. Small viewleſs æronaut,&c. &c. The almoſt imperceptible threads floating in the air, towards the end of Summer or Autumn, in a ſtill evening, ſometimes are ſo numerous as to be felt on the face and hands. It is on theſe that a minute ſpecies of ſpider convey themſelves from place to place; ſometimes riſing with the wind to a great height in the air. Dr. Liſter, among other naturaliſts, remarked theſe inſects. To fly they cannot ſtrictly be ſaid, they being carried into the air by external force; but they can, in caſe the wind ſuffer them, ſteer their courſe, perhaps mount and deſcend at pleaſure: and to the purpoſe of rowing themſelves along in the air, it is obſervable that they ever take their flight backwards, that is, their head looking a contrary way like a ſculler upon the Thames. It is ſcarcely credible to what height they will mount; which is yet preciſely true, 230 I3r 117 and a thing eaſily to be obſerved by one that ſhall fix his eye ſome time on any part of the heavens, the white web, at a vaſt diſtance, very diſtinctly appearing from the azure ſky—But this is in Autumn only, and that in very fair and calm weather. From the Encyclop. Brit. Dr. Darwin, whoſe imagination ſo happily applies every object of Natural Hiſtory to the purpoſes of Poetry, makes the Goddeſs of Botany thus direct her Sylphs— Thin clouds of Goſſamer in air diſplay, And hide the vale’s chaſte lily from the ray. Theſe filmy threads form a part of the equipage of Mab: Her waggon ſpokes are made of ſpiders legs, The cover of the wings of graſshoppers, The traces of the ſmalleſt ſpider’s web. 231 I3v 118 Juliet, too, in anxiouſly waiting for the ſilent arrival of her lover, exclaims, ――Oh! ſo light of foot Will ne’er wear out the everlaſting flint; A lover may beſtride the Goſſamer That idles in the wanton Summer air, And yet not fall— Sonnet LXXIX. To The Goddess of Botany. Rightly to spell, as Milton wiſhes, in Il Penſeroſo, Of every herb that ſips the dew, ſeems to be a reſource for the ſick at heart—for thoſe who from ſorrow or diſgust may without affectation say Society is nothing to one not ſociable! and whoſe wearied eyes and languid ſpirits find relief and repoſe amid the ſhades of vegetable nature.— 232 I4r 119 I cannot now turn to any other purſuit that for a moment ſooths my wounded mind. Je pris gout a cette récreation des yeux, qui dans l’infortune, repoſe, amuſe, diſtrait l’eſprit, et ſuſpend le ſentiment des peines. Thus ſpeaks the ſingular, the unhappy Rouſſeau, when in his Promenades he enumerates the cauſes that drove him from the ſociety of men, and occaſioned his purſuing with renewed avidity the ſtudy of Botany. I was, ſays he, Forcé de m’abſtenir de penſer, de peur de penſer a mes malheurs malgré moi; forcé de contenir les reſtes d’une imagination riante, mais languiſſante, que tant d’angoiſſes pourroient effaroucher a la fin— Without any pretenſions to thoſe talents which were in him ſo heavily taxed with that exceſſive irritability, too often if not always the attendant on 233 I4v 120 genius, it has been my misfortune to have endured real calamities that have diſqualified me for finding any enjoyment in the pleaſures and purſuits which occupy the generality of the world. I have been engaged in contending with perſons whoſe cruelty has left ſo painful an impreſſion on my mind, that I may well ſay Brillantes fleurs, émail des prés ombrages frais, boſquets, verdure, venez purifier mon imagination de tous ces hideux objets! Perhaps, if any ſituation is more pitiable than that which compels us to wiſh to eſcape from the common busineſs and forms of life, it is that where the ſentiment is forcibly felt, while it cannot be indulged; and where the ſufferer, chained down to the diſcharge of duties from which the wearied ſpirit recoils, feels like the wretched Lear, when Shakſpeare makes him exclaim 234 I5r 121 Oh! I am bound upon a wheel of fire, Which my own tears do ſcald like melted lead. Sonnet LXXX. To the Invisible Moon. I know not whether this is correctly expreſſed— I ſuſpect that it is not—What I mean, however, will ſurely be understood—I addreſs the Moon when not viſible at night in our hemiſphere. The Sun to me is dark, And ſilent as the Moon When ſhe deſerts the night, Hid in her ſecret interlunar cave. Milton. Sampſ. Agon.Samſon Agonistes. Sonnet LXXXI. Firſt printed in a Publication for the uſe of Young Perſons, called Rambles Farther. 235 I5v 122 Line 6. Where briony and woodbine fringe the trees. Briony, Bryonia dioica, foliis palmatis, &c. White Briony, growing plentifully in woods and hedges, and twiſting around taller plants. Line 8. Murmur their fairy tunes in praiſe of flowers, A line taken, I believe, from a Poem called Vacuna, printed in Dodſley’s collection. Sonnet LXXXII. To the Shade of Burns. Whoever has taſted the charm of original genius ſo evident in the compoſition of this genuine Poet, A Poet of nature’s own creation, cannot ſurely fail to lament his unhappy life, (latterly paſſed, as I have underſtood, in an employment to which ſuch a mind as his muſt have been averſe,) nor 236 I6r 123 his premature death. For one, herſelf made the object of ſubſcription, is it proper to add, that whoever has thus been delighted with the wild notes of the Scottiſh bard, muſt have a melancholy pleaſure in relieving by their benevolence the unfortunate family he has left? Line 14. Enjoys the liberty it loved— Pope. Sonnet LXXXIII. Line 1. The upland ſhepherd, as reclined he lies. Suggeſted by the recollection of having ſeen, ſome years ſince, on a beautiful evening of Summer, an engagement between two armed ſhips, from the high down called the Beacon Hill, near Brighthelmſtone. 237 I6v 124 Sonnet LXXXIV. Line 13. Haply may’ſt thou one ſorrowing vigil keep, Where Pity and Remembrance bend and weep. Where melancholy friendſhip bends and weeps. Gray. Sonnets LXXXV, LXXXVI, LXXXVII. Firſt printed in a novel called The Young Philoſopher. Sonnet LXXXVIII Nepenthe. Of what nature this Nepenthe was, has ever been a matter of doubt and diſpute. See Wakefield’s note to Pope’s Odyſſey, Book iv, verſe 302. But the paſſage here alluded to runs thus: Meanwhile with genial joy to warm the ſoul Bright Helen mix’d a mirth-inſpiring bowl, 238 I7r 125 Temper’d with drugs, of ſovereign uſe t’aſſuage The boiling boſom of tumultuous rage; To clear the cloudy front of wrinkled care, And dry the tearful ſluices of deſpair; Charm’d with that virtuous draught, th’ exalted mind All ſenſe of woe delivers to the wind. Tho’ on the blazing pile his father lay, Or a loved brother groan’d his life away, Or darling ſon, oppreſs’d by ruffian force, Fell breathleſs at his feet a mangled corſe, From morn to eve, impaſſive and ſerene, The man entranced would view the deathful scene: Theſe drugs ſo friendly to the joys of life, Bright Helen learn’d from Thone’s imperial wife. Milton thus ſpeaks of it in Comus: Behold this cordial julep here, That flames and dances in his cryſtal bounds! Not that Nepenthe, which the wife of Thone In Egypt gave to Jove-born Helena, Is of ſuch power as this to ſtir up joy, To life ſo friendly, or ſo cool to thirſt. 239 I7v 126 Sonnet LXXXIX. I woke, ſhe fled, and day brought back my night. Milton. Sonnet XC. See miſery living, hope and pleaſure dead. Sir Brook Boothby. Death ſeems prepared, yet ſtill delays to ſtrike. Thomas Warton. The Dead Beggar I have been told that I have incurred blame for having uſed in this ſhort compoſition, terms that have become obnoxious to certain persons. Such remarks are hardly worth notice; and it is very little my ambition to obtain the ſuffrage of thoſe who ſuffer party prejudice to influence their taſte; or of thoſe who deſire that because they have themſelves done it, every one elſe ſhould be willing to ſell their beſt birth-rights, the liberty of thought, and of expreſſing thought, for the promiſe of a meſs of pottage. 240 I8r 127 It is ſurely not too much to ſay, that in a country like ours, where ſuch immenſe ſums are annually raiſed for the poor, there ought to be ſome regulation which ſhould prevent any miſerable deſerted being from periſhing through want, as too often happens to ſuch objects as that on whose interment these ſtanzas were written. It is ſomewhat remarkable that a circumſtance exactly ſimilar is the ſubject of a ſhort poem called the Pauper’s Funeral, in a volume lately publiſhed by Mr. Southey. The Female Exile. This little Poem, of which a ſketch firſt appeared in blank verſe in a Poem called The Emigrants, was ſuggeſted by the ſight of the group it attempts to deſcribe—a French lady and her children. The drawing from which the print is taken I owe to the taſte 241 I8v 128 and talents of a lady, whoſe pencil has beſtowed the higheſt honor this little book can boaſt. Occasional Address. Written for a Player. Line 4. The Becca-fica ſeeks Italian groves, No more a Wheat-ear— From an idea that the Wheat-ear is the Becca-fica of Italy, which I doubt. Page 3442. Line 14. An hero now, and now a ſans culotte. At that time little elſe was talked of. Page 3644. Line 1. For tho’ he plough the ſea when others ſleep, He draws like Glendower ſpirits from the deep. 242 K1r 129 Glen. I can call ſpirits from the vaſty deep. Hotſp. But will they come when you do call for them? Shakſpeare. The ſpirits that animate the night voyages of the Suſſex fiſhermen are often ſunk in their kegs on any alarm from the Cuſtom-House officers; and being attached to a buoy, the adventurers go out when the danger of detection is over, and draw them up. A coarſe ſort of white brandy which they call moonſhine, is a principal article of this illegal commerce. Page 45. Line 2. His liſping children hail their ſire’s return. No children run to liſp their ſire’s return. Gray. Page 45. Line 6. And the campaign concludes, perhaps, at Horſham! At Horſham is the county jail. Vol. II K 243 K1v 130" Page 45. Line 10. And ſoft, celeſtial mercy, doubly bleſt. It is twice bleſſed, It bleſſeth him that gives and him that takes. Shakſpeare Descriptive Ode. The ſingular ſcenery here attempted to be deſcribed, is almoſt the only part of this rock of ſtones worth ſeeing. On an high broken cliff hang the ruins of ſome very ancient building, which the people of the iſland call Bow and Arrow Caſtle, or Rufus’ Caſtle. Beneath, but ſtill high above the ſea, are the half-fallen arches and pillars of an old church, and around are ſcattered the remains of tomb-ſtones, and almost obliterated memorials of the dead. Theſe verſes were written for, and firſt inſerted in, a Novel, called Marchmont; and the cloſe alludes to the circumſtance of the ſtory related in the Novel. 244 K2r 131 Verses Suppoſed to have been written in the New Foreſt, in early Spring. Theſe are from the Novel of Marchmont. Line 1. As in the woods, where leathery lichen weaves Its wint’ry web among the ſallow leaves, Moſſes and lichens are the firſt efforts of Nature to clothe the earth: as they decay, they form an earth that affords nouriſhment to the larger and more ſucculent vegetables: ſeveral ſpecies of lichen are found in the woods, ſpringing up among the dead leaves, under the drip of foreſt trees: theſe, and the withered foliage of preceding years, afford ſhelter to the earlieſt wild flowers about the ſkirts of woods, and in hedge-rows and copſes. The Pile-wort Ranuncula Ficaria and the Wood Anemone Anemone Nemeroſa or Wind-flower, blow K2 245 K2v 132 in the woods and copſes. Of this latter beautiful ſpecies there is in Oxfordſhire a blue one, growing wild, (Anemone pratenſis pedunculo involucrato, petalis apice reflexis foliis bipinnatisLin. Sp. Pl. 760.) It is found in Whichwood Foreſt, near Cornbury quarry. (Vide Flora Oxonienſis). I do not mention this by way of exhibiting botanical knowledge (ſo easy to poſſeſs in appearance) but becauſe I never ſaw the Blue Anemone wild in any other place, and it is a flower of ſingular beauty and elegance. Line 11. Uncultured bells of azure Jacynths blow. Hyacinthus non ſcriptus—a Hare-bell. Line 12. And the breeze-ſcenting Violet lurks below. To the Violet there needs no note, it being like the Nightingale and the Roſe, in conſtant requiſition by the poets. 246 K3r 133 Song. From the French. A free tranſlation of a favourite French ſong. Un jour me demandoit Hortenſe Ou ſe trouve le tendre amour? Apostrophe To an Old Tree. The philoſophy of theſe few lines may not be very correct, since moſſes are known to injure the ſtems and branches of trees to which they adhere; but the images of Poetry cannot always be exactly adjuſted to objects of Natural Hiſtory. Line 4. ――fronds of ſtudded moſs. The foliage, if it may be ſo called, of this race of plants, is termed fronds; and their flowers, or fructification,247 K3v 134 fication, aſſume the ſhapes of cups and ſhields; of thoſe of this deſcription, more particularly adhering to trees, is Lichen Pulmonarius, Lungwort Lichen, with ſhields; the Lichen Caperatus, with red cups; and many others which it would look like pedantry to enumerate. Line 9. The Woodbine and the Clematis are well known plants, ornamenting our hedge-rows in Summer with fragrant flowers. Line 12. Nightſhade, Solanum Lignosum Woody Nightſhade, is one of the moſt beautiful of its tribe. Page 59. Line 1. The ſilver weed, whoſe corded fillets wove. The ſilver weed, Convolvulus Major Raii Syn. 275 or greater Bind-weed, which, however the beauty of the flowers may enliven the garden or the wilds, is ſo prejudicial to the gardener and farmer, that it is 248 K4r 135 ſeen by them with diſlike equal to the difficulty of extirpating it from the ſoil. Its cord-like ſtalks, plaited together, can hardly be forced from the branches round which they have twined themſelves. The Forest Boy. Late circumſtances have given riſe to many mournful hiſtories like this, which may well be ſaid to be founded in truth!—I, who have been ſo ſad a ſufferer in this miſerable conteſt, may well endeavour to aſſociate myſelf with thoſe who apply what powers they have to deprecate the horrors of war. Gracious God! will mankind never be reaſonable enough to understand that all the miſeries which our condition ſubjects us to, are light in compariſon of what we bring upon ourselves by indulging the folly and wickedneſs of thoſe who make nations deſtroy each other for their diverſion, or to adminiſter to their ſenſeleſs ambition. 249 K4v 136 ――If the ſtroke of war Fell certain on the guilty head, none elſe—If they that make the cauſe might taſte th’effect, And drink themſelves the bitter cup they mix; Then might the Bard (the child of peace) delight To twine freſh wreaths around the conqueror’s brow; Or haply ſtrike his high-toned harp, to ſwell The trumpet’s martial ſound, and bid them on When Justice arms for vengeance; but, alas! That undiſtinguiſhing and deathful ſtorm Beats heavieſt on the expoſed and innocent; And they that ſtir its fury, while it raves, Safe and at diſtance ſend their mandates forth Unto the mortal miniſters that wait To do their bidding!—— Crowe. I have in theſe ſtanzas, entitled the Foreſt Boy, attempted the meaſure ſo ſucceſsfully adopted in one of the poems of a popular novel, and ſo happily imitated by Mr. Southey in Poor Mary. 250 K5r 137 Ode to the Poppy. This and the following Poem were written (the firſt of them at my requeſt, for a Novel) by a lady whoſe death in her thirty-ſixth year was a ſubject of the deepeſt concern to all who knew her. Would to God the laſt line which my regret on that loſs drew from me, had been prophetic—and that my heart had indeed been cold, inſtead of having ſuffered within the next twelve months after that line was written, a deprivation which has rendered my life a living death. April. Line 4. From their moſs’d cradles, &c. The Oak, and, in ſheltered ſituations, the Beech, retain the leaves of the preceding year till the new foliage appears. 251 K5v 138 The return of the Spring, which awakens many to new ſentiments of pleaſure, now ſerves only to remind me of paſt miſery. This ſenſation is common to the wretched—and too many Poets have felt it in all its force. Zefiro torno, e’l bel tempo rimena, E i fiori, e l’erbe, ſua dolce famiglia; &c. &c. Ma per me laſſo! Petrarch on the Death of Laura. And theſe lines of Guarini have always been celebrated. O primavera gioventù dell’anno, Bella madre di fiori D’erbe novelle e di novelli amori; Tu torni ben, ma teco Non tornano i ſereni E fortunati di, delle mie gioje; 252 K6r 139 Tu torni ben, tu torni, Ma teco altro non torna Che del perduto mio caro teſoro, La rimembranza miſera e dolente. Ode to Death. From the following ſentence in Lord Bacon’s Essays. Death is no ſuch formidable enemy, ſince a man has ſo many champions about him that can win the combat of him—Revenge triumphs over Death; Love ſlights it; Honour courts it; Dread of Diſgrace chooſes it; Grief flies to it; Fear anticipates it. Lydia. The Juniper and the Yew are almoſt the only trees that grow ſpontaneouſly on the higheſt chalky hills, and they are often ragged and ſtunted by the violence of the wind. 253 K6v 140 Some of the moſt elevated mounds of earth on theſe hills are ſea-marks, and have formerly ſurrounded beacons; others are conſidered as memorials of the dead, and are called Saxon, Daniſh, or Roman, according to the ſyſtems of different obſervers. Page 107. Line 6. But the red flames of burning lime. From eminences in thoſe countries where lime is burnt as a manure, a chain of lime kilns for many miles may be ſometimes seen, which blazing amid the doubtful darkneſs of an extenſive landscape, have a fine effect. Page 107. Line 7. The Horſeman’s ghoſt. Some years ago a ſtrange notion prevailed among the people occaſionally paſſing over one of the higheſt of the South Downs, that a man on horſeback was often ſeen coming towards thoſe who were returning from market on Saturday evening. This appearance, 254 K7r 141 the noiſe of whoſe horſe’s feet they diſtinctly heard, vaniſhed as ſoon as it came within an hundred yards of the paſſengers who often tried to meet it. At other times it was ſeen following them. They have ſtopped to let it approach, but it always melted into air. I have been preſent when a farmer not otherwiſe particularly weak or ignorant, ſaid, that he had ſeen it, and diſtinctly heard the horſe galloping towards him. Page 108. Line 2. Her ſilver pathway on the ſea. The bright luſtre of the moon reflected from the ſea, is almoſt as diſtinctly viſible from the Downs as the moon itſelf; forming a long line of radiance from the horizon to the ſhore.

The End.

Printed by R. Noble,
Shire-Lane.