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WRITTEN AT A FARM.

Around my porch and lowly casement spread,
The myrtle never-sere, and gadding vine,
With fragrant sweet-briar love to intertwine :
And in my garden's box-encircled bed
The pansy pied, and musk-rose white and red,
The pink and tulip, and honied woodbine,
Fling odours round; the flaunting eglantine
Decks my trim fen 'neath which, by silence led,
The wren hath wisely placed her mossy cell ;
And, far from noise, in courtly land so rife,
Nestles her young to rest, and warbles well.
Here in this safe retreat and peaceful glen
I pass my sober moments, far from men;
Nor wishing death too soon, nor asking life.

ON CHRISTMAS.

With footstep slow, in furry pally clad,
His brows enwreathed with holly never-sere,
Old Christmas comes, to close the wanèd year ;
And aye the shepherd's heart to make right glad,
Who, when his teeming flocks are homeward had,
To blazing hearth repairs and nut-brown beer,
And views, well pleased, the ruddy prattlers dear
Hug the grey mongrel; meanwhile maid and lad
Squabble for roasted crabs. Thee, sire, we hail,
Whether thine agèd limbs thou dost enshroud
In vest of snowy white and hoary veil,
Or wrapp’st thy visage in a sable cloud;
Thee we proclaim with mirth and cheer, nor fail
To greet thee well with many a carol loud.

CHARLOTTE SMITH,

When very

was the daughter of Nicholas Turner, Esq. of Sussex. young, she married Mr. Smith, the son of a West India merchant. The match was not one of attachment on either side, and was of course productive of many of the unhappy scenes she experienced. After going through a variety of difficulties, she retired to a convent in Normandy. Here her indigence became extreme, but by exerting her talents, she gained a maintenance. Mrs. Smith was the authoress of several novels. Her sonnets are considered to possess much poetical merit, and her style elegant; her misfortunes gave birth to that melancholy which pervades them She died at Thetford, near Farnham, Surrey, in the year 1806.

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 !

TO NIGHT.

I love thee, mournful, sober-suited Night!

When the faint moon, yet lingering in her wane, And veiled 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 embosomed 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 resigned. While to the winds and waves its sorrows given, May reach, tho' lost on earth, the ear of Heaven !

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-formed nest Of finch or woodlark; and the primrose pale,

And lavish cowslip, wildly scattered round, Give their sweet spirits to the sighing gale. Ah! season of delight !—could aught be found

To soothe 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 !

ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE NIGHTINGALE.

Sweet poet of the woods—a long adieu !
Farewell, 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.”
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 !

AT THE CLOSE OF THE SPRING.

The garlands fade that Spring so lately wove,
Each simple flower, which she has nursed in dew;
Anemonès, that spangled every grove ;
The primrose wan, and harebell mildly blue.
No more shall violets linger in the dell,
Or purple orchis variegate the plain,
Till Spring anew shall call forth every bell,
And dress with humid hands her wreaths again-
Ah! poor humanity! so il, 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 ?

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.
O 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!

ON 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 shakes the sparkling dew ; He sees before his inexperienced eyes,

The brilliant glow-worm like a meteor, shine On the turf bank, surprised and pleased, he cries,

“Star of the dewy grass ! I make thee mine.”'Then, ere he sleeps, collects the moistened flower

And bids soft leaves his glittering prize enfold, And dreams that fairy lamps illume his bower;

But in the morning, shudders to behold His shining treasure viewless as the dust; So fade the world's bright joys to cold and blank disgust.

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