« НазадПродовжити »
WRITTEN AT A FARM.
Around my porch and lowly casement spread,
With footstep slow, in furry pally clad,
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,
Or mark the floating clouds that cross thy way.
Sheds a soft calm upon my troubled breast :
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 !
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,
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 !
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,
ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE NIGHTINGALE.
Sweet poet of the woods—a long adieu !
AT THE CLOSE OF THE SPRING.
The garlands fade that Spring so lately wove,
In this tumultuous sphere, for thee unfit,
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.