Charlotte Smith

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 laboring 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.”

In early youth’s unclouded scene, The brilliant morning of eighteen, With health and sprightly joy elate, We gazed on youth’s enchanting spring, Nor thought how quickly time would bring The mournful period — thirty-eight ! Then the starch maid, or matron sage, Already of the sober age, We viewed with mingled scorn and hate; In whose sharp words, or sharper face, With thoughtless mirth, we loved to trace The sad effects of — thirty-eight ! Till, saddening, sickening at the view, We learned to dread what time might do; And then preferred a prayer to Fate To end our days ere that arrived, When (power and pleasure long survived) We meet 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 mixed 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 Prospect less bright — but far more true, And bids us smile at — thirty-eight ! No more shall Scandal’s breath destroy The social converse we enjoy With bard or critic, tete a tete — O’er youth’s bright blooms her blight shall pour, But spare the improving, friendly hour Which Science gives at — thirty-eight ! Stripped of their gaudy hues by Truth, We view the glittering toys of youth, And blush to think how poor the bait For which to public scenes we ran, And scorned of sober sense the plan Which gives content at — thirty-eight ! O may her blessings now arise, Like stars that mildly light the skies, When the sun’s ardent rays abate! And in the luxuries of mind — In friendship, science — may we find Increasing joys at — thirty-eight ! Though Time’s inexorable sway Has torn the myrtle bands away, For other wreaths — ’tis not too late: The amaranth’s purple glow survives, And still Minerva’s olive thrives On the calm brow of — thirty-eight ! With eye more steady, we engage To contemplate approaching age, And life more justly estimate; With firmer souls and stronger powers, With reason, faith, and friendship ours, We’ll not regret the stealing hours That lead from thirty- e’en to forty-eight !

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-uttered 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 From giant horrors; wildly wandering here, He seems (uncursed with reason) not to know The depth or the duration of his woe.

Sweet poet of the woods, a long adieu! Farewell soft mistrel of the early year! Ah! ’twill be long ere thou shalt sing anew, And pour thy music on the night’s dull ear. Whether on spring thy wandering flights await, Or whether silent in our groves you dwell, The pensive muse shall own thee for her mate, And still protect the song she loves so well. With cautious step the love-lorn youth shall glide Through 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!

Oh, Hope! thou soother sweet of human woes! How shall I lure thee to my haunts forlorn! For me wilt thou renew the withered rose, And clear my painful path of pointed thorn? Ah come, sweet nymph! in smiles and softness drest, Like the young hours that lead the tender year Enchantress come! and charm my cares to rest: Alas! the flatterer flies, and will not hear! A prey to fear, anxiety, and pain, Must I a sad existence still deplore? Lo! the flowers fade, but all the thorns remain, ‘For me the vernal garland blooms no more.’ Come then, ‘pale Misery’s love!’ be thou my cure, And I will bless thee, who though slow art sure.

Huge vapours brood above the clifted shore, Night o'er 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 anchored bark, that tell The watch relieved; or one deep voice alone, Singing the hour, and bidding "strike the bell." All is black shadow, but the lucid line Marked 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.

On thy stupendous summit, rock sublime! That o’er the channel reared, half way at sea The mariner at early morning hails, I would recline; while Fancy should go forth, And represent the strange and awful hour Of vast concussion; when the Omnipotent Stretched forth his arm, and rent the solid hills, Bidding the impetuous main flood rush between The rifted shores, and from the continent Eternally divided this green isle. Imperial lord of the high southern coast! From thy projecting head-land I would mark Far in the east the shades of night disperse, Melting and thinned, as from the dark blue wave Emerging, brilliant rays of arrowy light Dart from the horizon; when the glorious sun Just lifts above it his resplendent orb. Advances now, with feathery silver touched, The rippling tide of flood; glisten the sands, While, inmates of the chalky clefts that scar Thy sides precipitous, with shrill harsh cry, Their white wings glancing in the level beam, The terns, and gulls, and tarrocks, seek their food, And thy rough hollows echo to the voice Of the gray choughs, and ever restless daws, With clamor, not unlike the chiding hounds, While the lone shepherd, and his baying dog, Drive to thy turfy crest his bleating flock. The high meridian of the day is past, And Ocean now, reflecting the calm Heaven, Is of cerulean hue; and murmurs low The tide of ebb, upon the level sands. The sloop, her angular canvas shifting still, Catches the light and variable airs That but a little crisp the summer sea, Dimpling its tranquil surface.