 the morning star, written near the sea, by Charlotte's Turner Smith, read for LibriVox.org, by Corey Samuel. The lucid arbiter twicks to day and night, the seaman greets, as on the ocean's stream reflected by precursive friendly beam, points out the long-sought haven to his sight. Looking 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 mourn with joy to me. Quenched in a gloom of death that heavenly ray, once lent to light me on my thorny way. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 73. To a Kerala's acquaintance. By Charlotte Turner Smith, read for LibriVox.org, by David Barnes. Thou, whom prosperity has always led, or level paths, with moss and flower at strewn, for whom she still prepares a downy bed with roses scattered, and to thorns unknown, wilt thou yet murmur at a misplaced leaf? 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, sorrows, 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, to mar the uncommon blessings of thy fate. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 74. The winter night. By Charlotte Turner Smith. Read for LibriVox.org, by Corey Samuel. Sleep, that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care, 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. Memoring, I hear the hollow wind around the ancient towers, while night and silence reign, and cold and drear the darkest gloom of middle winter lowers. But wherefore fear existence, such as mine, to change for long an undisturbed 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 75. By Charlotte Turner Smith. Read for LibriVox.org, by David Barnes. 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. Drew Bows just waving in the silent air, with pale capricious light the summer moon, checkers 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, 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 76. To a Young Man Entering the World. By Charlotte Turner Smith. Read for LibriVox.org, by Corey Samuel. Go now, ingenious youth! The trying hour is come. The world demands that thou shouldst go, to active life. There, titles, wealth, and power, may all be purchased. But I joy to know thou wilt not pay their price. The base control of petty despots in their pedant reign already hast thou felt, 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 mayst die, as Hamden, or as Sydney died. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 77. To the Insect of the Gossamer. By Charlotte Turner Smith. Read for LibriVox.org, by David Barnes. Small, viewless aeronaut, that by the line of Gossamer suspended in mid-air floats on a sunbeam. Living atom, where ends thy breeze-guided voyage. With what design in aether 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 elusive 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 78. Snowdrops. By Charlotte Turner Smith. Read for LibriVox.org, by Corey Samuel. One heralds of the sun and summer gale, that seem just fallen from infant Zephyr's 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 is 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 penciled blossoms trembling wave? Ah, ye soft, transient children of the ground, more fair was she, on whose untimely grave flow my unceasing tears. There varied round the seasons go, while I through all repine, for fixed regret and hopeless grief are mine. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 79. To the Goddess of Botany. By Charlotte Turner Smith. Read for LibriVox.org, by David Barnes. Of folly weary, shrinking from the view of violence and fraud, allowed 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-swollen eyes, among your silent shades of soothing hue, your bells and florets of unnumbered 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's waves. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 80. To the Invisible Moon. By Charlotte Turner Smith. Read for LibriVox.org, by Corey Samuel. Dark and concealed art thou, soft evening's queen, and melancholy's votaries that delight to watch thee, gliding through 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 rain. But I prefer from some steep rock to look, on the obscure and fluctuating main, what's time the marshal's star with lurid glare, portentious gleams above the troubled deep, or the red comet shakes his blazing hair, or on the fire-tinged waves the lightning's leap, while thy fair beams elume another sky, and shine for beings lesser cursed than I. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 81. By Charlotte Turner Smith. Read for LibriVox.org, by David Barnes. He may be Envid, who with tranquil breast can wander in the wild and woodland scene, when summer's glowing hands have newly dressed the shadowy forests, and the copses green, who, un-pursued by care, can pass his hours where bryony and woodbine fringe the trees, on timey banks reposing, while the bees murmur their fairy tunes in praise of flowers, 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, nose in refined retirement, to possess, by friendship hallowed, rural happiness. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 82. To the Shade of Burns. By Charlotte Turner Smith. Read for LibriVox.org, by Corrie Samuel. Mute is thy wild harp now, O barred 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, worked 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 83. The Sea View. By Charlotte Turner Smith. Read for LibriVox.org, by David Barnes. The upland shepherd, as reclined he lies on the soft turf that clothes the mountain brow, marks the bright sea-line mingling with the skies, or from his coarse 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-frated 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 84. To the Muse. By Charlotte Turner Smith. Read for LibriVox.org, by Corey Samuel. Wilt thou forsake me, who in life's bright may lent warmer luster to the radiant mourn, and even o'er summer scenes by tempest's torn, shed with elusive 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? Crushed to the earth, by bitterest anguish pressed, from my faint eyes thy graceful form recedes, thou canst not heal a heart like mine that bleeds. But when in quiet earth that heart shall rest. Happily mayest thou one sorrowing vigil keep, where pity and remembrance bend and weep. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Dead Beggar. By Charlotte Turner Smith. Read for LibriVox.org, by David Barnes. The Dead Beggar. An Elegy. Addressed to a Lady, who was affected at seeing the funeral of a nameless pauper, buried at the expense of the parish, in the churchyard at Brighton Stone, in November 1792. Swelst, 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 mould. Mornst 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 a home. What though no kindred crowd in sable forth and sigh, or seem to sigh, around his beer, though 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 oppressed, where death, the leveller, restores to peace the wretch living, knew not where to rest. Rejoice that though an outcast spurned by fate, through Penury's rugged path his race he ran, in earth's cold bosom, equalled with the great, death vindicates the insulted rites of man. Rejoice that though 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. So far and then foams to the shore. Dark clouds o'er the sea gather heavy and scowling, and the white cliffs re-echo the wild wintery roar. Beneath that chalk rock a fair stranger reclining has found on damp seaweed a cold, lonely seat. Her eyes filled with tears and her heart with repining, she starts at the billows that burst at her feet. 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 glossed shell or the crimson weed stray. Amused with the present, they heed not to-morrow, nor think of the storm that is gathering today. The guilt, fairy-ship, with its ribbon sails 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 doomed for life in chill penury to languish, or abject dependence, 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 key, dreading tidings of ruin, or breathless with haste, half expiring with fears. Poor Mauna! 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." Occasional Address by Charlotte Turner-Smith Read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes Occasional Address, written for the benefit of a distressed player, detained at Bright Elmstone for debt, November 1792, when, in a thousand swarms, the summer oar, the birds of passage quit our English shore. By various routes the feathered myriad moves. The beckafika seeks Italian groves no more a wheat ear, while the soaring files of seafowl gather round the hebrid aisles. But if by bird-lime touched, unplumed, confined, some poor ill-fated straggler stays behind, driven from his transient perch, beneath your eaves on his unsheltered head the tempest raves, while drooping round, redoubling every pain, his mate and nestlings ask his help in vain. So we, the boskin and the sock-who-wear, and strut and fret our little season here, dismissed at length as fortune bids divide. Some, lucky rogues, sit down on Thames's side, others to Liffey's western banks proceed, and some, driven far afield, across the tweed. But, pine and here, alas, I cannot fly, the hapless, unplumed, lingering straggler eye, unless the healing pity you bestow shall imp my shattered wings and let me go. Hard is his fate, whom evil stars have led to seek in scenic art precarious bread, while still, through wild vicissitudes afloat, a hero now, and now a song-culott, that elimicinery bread he gains, mingling, with real distresses, mimic pains. See, in our group, a pale, lank false staff there, much needs he's stuffing, while young Ammon there rehearses in a garret ten feet square, and as his soft statera size consent, Roxana comes not, but a done for rent. Here, shivering Edgar in his blanket rolled, exclaims, with too much reason, toms are cold, and vainly tries his sorrows to divert, while Goneril or Regan wash his shirt. Low, 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 blessed the Fisher, who undaunted braves in his small bark the impetuous winds and waves, for though he plough the sea, when others sleep, he draws, like Glendauer, sighs from the deep, and while the storm howls round amidst his trouble, bright moonshine still illuminates the cobble, pale with her fears for him, some fair Poissard watches his nearing boat, with fond regard smiles when she sees his little canvas-handing, and clasps her dripping lover on his landing. More blessed the peasant, who with nervous toil hues the rough oak, or breaks the stubborn soil, where he 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 orchards blushing fruit, the garden's store, the pendant hop, that mantles round the door, are his, and while cheerful faggots burn, his lisping children hail their sire's return. But wandering players, unhousled, unannealed, and unappointed, scour life's common field, a flying squadron, disappointments cross them, and the campaign concludes, perhaps at Horsham. Oh, ye who's timely bounty-danes to shed, compassion's balm upon my luckless head, benevolence with warm and glowing breast, and soft celestial mercy doubly blessed, smile on the generous act, where means are given to aid the wretched, is to merit heaven. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Inscription, on a stone in the churchyard at Borum, in Essex, raised by the honourable Elizabeth Olmias, to the memory of Anne Gardner, who died at Newhall after a faithful service of forty years, by Charlotte Turner Smith, read for Librarox.org by Corey Samuel. What air 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 hers, whose faithful service, long approved, wept by the mistress whom through life she loved. Here ends her earthly task, in joyful trust, to share the eternal triumph of the just. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Descriptive Ode, by Charlotte Turner Smith, read for Librarox.org by David Barnes. A Descriptive Ode, supposed to have been written under the ruins of Rufus' 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 finished, from the troubled waves, on whose rude brow the rifted tower has frowned through many a stormy hour, on this drear site of tempest-beaten graves. Sure desolation loves to shroud his giant form within the cloud, that hovers round thy rugged head, and as through broken vaults beneath the future storm's 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 beak and strand, and listens the portentous roar of sullen waves, as on the shore, monotonous, they burst, until the storm at hand. Northward the demons' eyes are cast, or yonder bear and sterile waste, where, born to hue 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 or spread, no blossoms rear the purple head, no shrub perfumes the zephyr's breath, but o'er the cold and cheerless down grim desolation seems to frown, blasting the ungrateful soil with partial death. Hear the scathed trees with leaves half-dressed, shade no soft songster's secret nest, whose spring-note sooth the pensive ear, but high the croaking cormorant flies, and muse and hawks with clamorous cries tire the lone echoes of these caverns drear. Perchance among the ruins gray, some widowed mourner loves to stray, marking the melancholy main, where once afar she could discern, or the white waves his sail return, who never, never now returns again. 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 flavouring gales pursues its course, then calls the vapor dark that blinds the pilot, calls the felon winds that heave the billows with resistless force, co-mixing with the blotted skies, high and more high the wild waves rise, till, as impetuous torrents urge, driven on yon fatal banker cursed, the vessel's massy timbers burst, and the crew sinks beneath the infuriate surge. There finds the weak and early grave, while youthful strength the whelming wave repels, and labouring for the land, with shortened breath and upturned eyes sees the rough shore above him rise, nor dreams that rapine meets him on the strand. And are there then in human form monsters more savage than the storm, who from the grasping sufferer tear the dripping weed, who dare to reap the inhuman harvest of the deep from half-drowned victims whom the tempest spare? Ah, yes, by avarice once possessed no pity moves the rustic breast. Callus he proves, as those who happily wait till I, a pilgrim weary warn, to my own native land return, with legal toils to drag me to my fate. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Versus, supposed to have been written in the New Forest in early spring, by Charlotte Turner Smith, read for Libra Rocks.org by Corey Samuel, as in the woods where leathery litchin weaves its wintry webth among the sallow leaves, which, through cold months and 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 pile-wart dares expand her spotted leaves, and shining stars, and veins in purpling all her tassels pale, bends the soft wind-flower in the tepid gale. Uncultured bells of Asia jasinths blow, and the breeze-senting violet lurks below. 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Song From the French by Charlotte Turner-Smith Read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes 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. The summer winds that gently blow, the flocks that bleed along the glades, the nightingale that soft and low with music fills the listening shades. The murmurs of the silver surf all echo love's enchanting notes, from violets lurking in the turf, his barmy breath through ether floats. From perfumed flowers and dewy leaves, delicious scents he bids exhal, he smiles amid autumnal sheaves, and clothes with green the grassy veil. 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. Apostrophe to an Old Tree by Charlotte Turner-Smith Read for LibriVox.org by Corey Samuel Where thy broad branches brave the bitter north, like rugged, indigent, unheeded worth, low, vegetation's guardian hands emboss each giant limb with fronds of studded moss, that clothes the bark in many a fringed fold, bejemmed 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 wood-bine fair, with tassels that perfumed the summer air, the mantling clematis, whose feathery bowers waved in festoons with nightshades purple flowers, the silver weed, whose corded fillets wove 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 concealed thy sprays, are gone for ever, or disfigured trail their sallow relics in the autumnal gale, or o'er thy roots in faded fragments tossed, 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, and awful justice, as his rightful prey tears luxury's silk and jewelled robe away, while Reed's adversity her lessons stern, and fortune's minions tremble as they learn. The crowds around her gilded car that hung bent the lithe knee and trawled the honeyed tongue, desponding for, or fly in paled spare, and scorn alone remembers that they were. Not so integrity unchanged he lives in the rude armour conscious honour gives, and dares with hardy front the troubled sky in honesty's uninjured panoply. Nair on prosperity's enfeebling bed, or rosy pillows he reposed his head, 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, while 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. And lived so beloved till the moment accursed when he went from the woodland away. Among all the lads of the plough or the fold, best esteemed 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. 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 toiled from the dawn, and at evening he hide in storm or in snow, or what air might be tied, to supply all her wants from the town. One neighbour they had on the heath to the west, and no other the cottage was near, but she would send Phoebe, the child she loved best, to stay with the widow, thus sad and distressed, 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 wild graces displayed, and the eyes over which her loxuriant locks strayed, as the skies of the summer were blue. Still labouring to live, yet reflecting the while, young William considered his lot, to his hard, yet to his honest, and one tender smile from Phoebe at night overpaid every toil, and then all his fatigues were forgot. By the brook where it glides through the copse of Arbil, when to eat his cold fare he reclined, then soft from her home his sweet Phoebe would steal, and bring him wood straw-briss to finish his meal, and would sit by his side while he dined. And though when employed in the deep forest-glade his days have seemed slowly to move, yet Phoebe going home through the woodwalk has strayed 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 touched with illusion that often deceives the future with light, as the sun through the leaves illumines the boughs of the beach. 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 washed down, and 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 Phoebe could see her again. At the town was a market, and now for supplies, such as needed her humble abode, young William went forth, and his mother with sighs watched long at the window, with tears in her eyes till he turned through the fields to the road. Then darkness came on, and she heard with a fright the wind every moment more high. She looked from the door, not a star lent its light, but the tempest redoubled the gloom of the night, and the rain poured in sheets from the sky. The clock in her cottage now mournfully told the hours that went heavily on. To his midnight her spirits sank hopeless and cold, and it seemed as each blast of wind fearfully told that long, long would her William be gone. Then heart-sick and cold to her sad bed she crept, yet first made up the fire in the room to guide his dark steps, but she listened and wept, or if for a moment forgetful she slept, soon she started, and thought he was come. It was mourn, and the wind with a hoarse sullen moan now seemed dying away in the wood, when the poor wretched mother still drooping alone beheld at the threshold a figure unknown in gorgeous apparel who stood. Your son is a soldier, abruptly cried he, and a place in our core has obtained. Nay, be not cast down. You perhaps may soon see your William a captain. He now sends by me the purse he already has gained. So William, entrapped to its persuasion and force, is embarked for the aisles of the west, but he seemed 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 silver home, and he faltered and cried, A dew, ah, for ever a dew! 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 Phoebe, 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. Yet what if my Phoebe another should wed, and lament her lost William no more? The thought was too cruel, and anguish now spared the dart of disease, with the brave, numerous dead he has fallen on the plague-tainted shore. In the lone village-church-yard, the chancell wall near, high grass now waves over the spot, where the mother of William, unable to bear his loss, who to her widowed heart was so dear, as both him and her sorrows forgot. By the brook where it winds through the wood of Arbil, or amid the deep forest to moan, the poor wandering Phoebe 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, she sits by the river and weaves, read garlands against her dear William appears, then breathlessly listens, and fancies she hears his step in the half-withered leaves. Ah, such are the miseries to which ye give birth, ye statesmen, near dreading a scar, who from pictured saloon, or the bright sculptured hearth, disperse desolation and death through the earth, when ye let loose the demons of war. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Ode to the Poppy. Written by a deceased friend. By Charlotte's Tanner Smith. Red for LibriVox.org by Corrie Samuel. Not for the promise of the laboured field, not for the good the yellow harvests yield, I bend at Serezi's shrine, for dull to human eyes appear the golden glories of the year. Alas! a melancholy worships mine. I hail the goddess for her scarlet flower, thou brilliant weed, that's dust so far exceed the richest gifts gay flora can bestow. Heedless I past 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 springs luxuriant sweets, to deck ungrateful love, the rose or thorn my labours crowned, as Venus smiled, or Venus frowned. But love and joy and all their train are flown, in languid hope no more is mine, and I will sing of thee alone, unless, per chance, 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 agonising pain disarm, expel imperious memory from her seat, and bid the throbbing heart forget to beat. Soul-soothing plant, the 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 caught thy palliative aid no more. No more I'd sue that thou shouldst spread thy spell around my aching head, but would conjure thee to impart thy balsam for a broken heart, and by thy soft lethian power, in esteemable flower, burst these terrestrial bonds, and other regions try. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Verses written by the same lady on seeing her two sons at play by Charlotte Turner Smith, read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes. Sweet age of blessed delusion. Blooming boys are 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 centred 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. 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 size, 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 are how few have found existence sweet, where grief is sure, but happiness deceit. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Verses On the Death of the Same Lady Written in September 1794 By Charlotte Turner Smith Read for LibraVox.org by Corey Samuel Like a poor ghost the night I seek Its hollow winds repeat my sighs The cold dew's mingle on my cheek With tears that wander from mine eyes The thorns that still my couch molest Have robbed these heavy eyes of sleep But though deprived of tranquil rest I here at last am free to weep. Twelve times the moon that rises red o'er yon tall wood of shadowy pine Has filled her orb since low was laid My Harriet, that sweet form of thine While each sad month, as slow it passed, 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 soothes to rest This weird spirit tempest tossed, The cares that weigh upon my breast A doubly felt since thou art lost. Bright visions of ideal grace, That the young poet's streams in flame 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. Oh, what, my angel friend, thou word, Dejected memory loves to mourn, Regretting still that tender heart, Now withering in a distant urn. 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Fragment descriptive of the miseries of war From a poem called The Emigrants, printed in 1793 By Charlotte Turner Smith, read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes 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. Class being close to her quick throbbing heart, her sleeping child, All she could rescue of the innocent group That yesterday surrounded her, Escaped almost by miracle. Fear, frantic fear, winged her weak feet. Yet half repenting now her headlong haste, She wishes she had stayed to die, With those affrighted fancy paints the lawless soldier's 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 scattered comets, Its destructive path is marked by wreaths of flame. Then, overwhelmed 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 through the mute hall, Where by the blunted light That the dim moon through painted casement lends, He sees that devastation has been there. Then, while each hideous image To his mind rises terrific, Or a bleeding corpse stumbling he falls, Another intercepts his staggering feet, All, all who used with joy to meet him, All his family lie murdered in his way. And the day dawns on a wild, raving maniac, Whom a fate so sudden and calamitous has robbed of reason, And who round his vacant walls screams unregarded, And reproaches heaven. In the transparent floods the oak its seer and sallow foliage shedding, From their most cradles start its infant buds, Pale as the tranquil tide of summer's ocean, The willow now its slender leaf unveils, And through the sky with swiftly fleeting motion, Driven by the wind the rack of April sails. 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. Blessed are yon peasant children, simply singing, Who through the new sprung grass rejoicing rove, More blessed to whom the time fond thought is bringing, Of friends expected or returning love. The pensive wonderer blessed, to whom reflection Points out some future views that soothe his mind, Me how unlike, whom cruel recollection, But tells of comfort I shall never find. Hope, that on nature's youth is still attending, No more to me her siren 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 wrecked not that the cruel lot assigned me, Should make me curse the hour that gave me birth. Then, from the wild wood-banks, Aruna roving, Thy timey downs with sportive steps I sought, And nature's charms with artless transport loving, Sung like the birds unheeded and untaught. 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 preferred in vain. Thus shone the sun, his vernal rays displaying, Thus did the woods in early Virgil wave, While dire disease on all I loved was preying, And flowers seemed 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. Yet, as stern duty bids, with faint endeavour, I drag on life, contending with my woe, Though conscious misery still repeats, That never my soul, one pleasurable hour, shall know. Lost in the tomb, when hope no more appeases, The festered 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. From thee are wherefore fears to die, He who compelled each poignant grief to know, Drain's 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 impoverished to obtain From British themis right implores her aid in vain. Sharp goading indigence, who would not fly, That urges toil the exhausted strength above, Or shone the once fond friend's averted eye, Or who to thy asylum not remove, To lose the wasting anguish of ungrateful love. Can then the wounded wretch Who must deplore what most she loved To thy cold arms consigned, Who hears the voice that soothed her soul no more, Fear thee, O death, Or hug the chains that bind To joyless, cheerless life, Her sick, reluctant mind. O misery's cure, Who ere in pale dismay has watched 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