 The partial muse has from my earliest hours smiled on the rugged path I'm doomed to tread, and still with sportive hand has snatched wild flowers to weave fantastic garlands for my head. But far, far happier is the lot of those who never learned 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 pitties melting I, stream or the ill she knows not to remove, paints 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. The garlands fade that spring so lately wove, each simple flower which she had nursed and due, and enemies that spangled every grove, the primrose one and hair-bell mildly blue. No more shall violets linger in the dell, or purple orcas variogate 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? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet No. 3 To a Nightingale by Charlotte Turner-Smith Read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes Poor melancholy bird, that all night long tells to the moon thy tale of tender woe. From what sad cause can such sweet sorrow flow, and wence this morning melody of song? Thy poets musing fancy would translate what mean the sounds that swell thy little breast, when still at dewy eve thou leaves thy nest, thus to the listening night to sing thy fate. Pale sorrow's victims work thou once among, though now released in Woodlands wild to rove. Say, has thou felt from friend some cruel wrong, or diedst thou, martyr of disastrous love? Ah, songstress sad, that such my lot might be, to sigh and sing at liberty like thee. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. 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 benign and sphere, and the sad children of despair and woe, forget in thee their cup of sorrow here. Oh, that I soon may reach thy wild serene, poor, wearied pilgrim, in this toiling scene. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. your flowers among. I wove your bluebells into garland's 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, in the veil below, as to the sea or limpid waves you bear, can you, one kind lethian copbisto, to drink a long oblivion to my care? Ah, no, when all in hope's last ray is gone, there's no oblivion but in death alone. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet Six Two Hope by Charlotte Turner-Smith, redfilibrivox.org by Corey Samuel. Oh, Hope, thou sooth a sweet of human woes. How shall I lure thee to my haunt's 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 dressed, 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet Number Seven On the Departure of the Nightingale by Charlotte Turner-Smith, redfilibrivox.org by David Barnes Sweet poet of the woods, a long adieu. Farewell, soft minstrel of the early year. Ah, it will 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-lawn youth shall glide, through the lone break 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet Eight To Spring by Charlotte Turner-Smith, redfilibrivox.org by Corrie Samuel Again the wood, and long withdrawing veil, in many a tint of tender green addressed, where the young leaves unfolding scarce conceal beneath the early shade the half-formed nest of finch or woodlark, and the primrose pale and lavish cow-slip wildly scattered round give their sweet spirits to the sighing gale. Ah, season of delight could ought to be found to soothe a while the tortured bosom's pain of sorrow's rankling shaft to cure the wound, and bring life's first illusions once again, to a surely met in thee. Thy prospect fair, thy sounds of harmony, thy barmy air, have power to cure all sadness, but despair. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet Number Nine by Charlotte Turner-Smith, redfilibrivox.org by David Barnes Blessed is Yon Shepard 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 the indignant spirit when with selfish pride friends, on whose faith the trusting heart relied, unkindly shunned the imploring eye of woe. The ills they ought to soothe with taunts deride, and laugh at tears themselves of force to flow. Nor his rude bosom those fine feelings melt, children of sentiment and knowledge borne, through whom each shaft with cruel forces felt, empoisoned by deceit or barbed with scorn. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet Ten to Mrs. G by Charlotte Turner-Smith, redfilibrivox.org by Corey Samuel Ah, why will memory with a vicious 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 different does the truth appear from the warm picture youth's rash hand portrays? 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet Number Eleven to Sleep by Charlotte Turner-Smith, redfilibrivox.org by David Barnes Come, barmy 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. 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, enjoys thee more than he who wears a crown. Clasped in her faithful shepherd's guardian arms, well may the village girl's 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet Twelve Written on the Seashore, October 1784, by Charlotte Turner-Smith, redfilibrivox.org by Corrie Samuel 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. Over the dark waves the wind's 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. Already shipwrecked by the storms of fate, like the poor mariner me thinks I stand, cast on a rock, who sees the distant land from whence no sucker comes, or comes too late. Faint, and more faint, are heard his feeble cries, till in the rising tide the exhausted sufferer dies. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet Number Thirteen From Petrarch by Charlotte Turner-Smith, redfilibrivox.org by David Barnes O, place me where the burning moon forbids the withered 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 in flame, or sixty winters chill my blood. Though my fond soul to heaven were flown, or though on earthed is doomed to pine, prisoner or free, obscure or known, my heart, O Laura, still is thine. What ere my destiny may be, that faithful heart still burns for thee. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet Fourteen From Petrarch by Charlotte Turner-Smith, redfilibrivox.org by Corey Samuel Loose to the wind, her golden tresses streamed, forming bright waves with Amorous Zephyr's sighs, and though averted now, her charming eyes then with warm love and melting pity beamed. Was I deceived? Ah, surely nymph divine, that fine suffusion on thy cheek was love. What wonder then those beautyous tints should move, should fire this heart, this tender heart of mine? Thy soft melodious voice, thy air, thy shape, whatever goddess, not a mortal maid. Yet though thy charms, thy heavenly charms, should fade. My heart, my tender heart could not escape, nor cure for me in time, nor change be found. The shaft extracted does not cure the wound. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet Number Fifteen From Petrarch by Charlotte Turner-Smith, redfilibrivox.org by David Barnes Where the green leaves exclude the summer beam, and softly bend as barmy breezes blow, and where with liquid laps 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. For ye beheld my infant passion rise, and saw through 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 naught to me remains, but the pale ashes which her urn contains. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet No. 17 From the Thirteenth Cantata of Metastasio by Charlotte Turner Smith Read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes On thy grey bark in witness of my flame I carve Miranda's cipher, beauteous tree, graced with the lovely letters of her name, henceforth be sacred to my love and me. Though the tall elm, the oak, and darker pine, with broader arms may noon's fierce ardour's 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Tis not thy blood, though pure it runs, through a long line of glorious ancestry, Percy's and Seymour's, Britain's boasted sons, who trust the honours 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 honours great thou art, but nobler in thy independent mind, and in that liberal hand and feeling hut, given thee by heaven, a blessing to mankind. Unworthy oft may titled fortune be, a soul like thine is true nobility. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet No. 19 to Mr. Haley, on receiving some elegant lines from him by Charlotte Turner Smith, read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes. For me the muse a simple band designed, of idle flowers that bloom the woods among, which with the cypress and the willow joined, a garland formed as artless as my song, and little did I hope its transient hours so long would last, composed of buds so brief, till Haley's hand among the vagrant flowers threw from his verdant crown a deathless leaf. For high in fame's bright fain has judgment placed the laurel wreath Serena's poet one, which, woven with myrtles by the hands of taste, the muse decreed for this her favourite son, and those immortal leaves his temple shade, whose fair eternal verdure shall not fade. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. On this blessed day, may no dark cloud or shower, with envious shade the sun's bright influence hide, but all his rays elume the favoured hour, that so thee marry, Henry's lovely bride. With years revolving may it still arise, blessed with each good approving heaven can send, and still, with ray's 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 beautyous race shall be what you are now, and future nevels through long ages shine, with hearts as good and forms as fair as thine. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I should love inhabit with despair. Like the poor maniac 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. Towards the deep gulf that opens on my sights I hurry forward, passions helpless slave, and scawning reasons 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. O Solitude, to thy sequestered veil 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 cops thy murmuring doves relate. And Hark! me thinks in that long, plaintive strain thine own sweet songstress weeps my wayward fate. Arnymph! that fate assist me to endure, and bear a while what death alone can cure. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet number twenty-three, by the same, To the North Star by Charlotte Turner Smith read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes. To thy bright beams I turn my swimming eyes, fair, favourite planet, which in happier days saw my young hopes, our faithless hopes arise, and on my passions shed propitious rays. Now nightly wandering mid the tempest drear, that howl the woods and rocky steeps among, I love to see thy sudden light appear through the swift clouds driven by the wind along, or in the turbid water rude and dark, or whose wild stream the gust of winter raves, thy trembling lights with pleasure still I mark, gleam in faint radiance on the foaming waves. So, or my soul short rays of reason fly, then fade, and leave me to despair and die. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet twenty-four, supposed to be written by Werter, by Charlotte Turner Smith, read for LibriVox.org by Corrie Samuel. Make there, my tomb, beneath the lime-trees shade, 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 faltering 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Why should I wish to hold in this low sphere 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 uncalled 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 where even thy image shall be found no more. Yet may thy pity mingle not with pain, for then thy hapless lover dies in vain. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Still to her thy rustic waves be dear. For with the infant Otway lingering here, of early woes she bade her votary dream, while thy low murmurs soothed 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 hazels 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. While free and sportive they enjoy today, content and careless of to-morrow's fare. 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. By Charlotte Turner Smith redfilibrivox.org by Corrie Samuel. O thou, whose name too often is profaned, whose charm 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 through life's long evening shall unclouded last. While pleasures frail attachments fleet away, as fades the rainbow from the northern blast. To thy no nymph, with barmy hands to bind, the wounds inflicted in misfortune's storm, and blunt, severe afflictions sharpest dart. To thy pure spirit warms my Anna's mind, beams through the pensive softness of her form, and holds its altar on her spotless heart. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet Number 29 To Miss C On Being Desired to Attempt Writing a Comedy By Charlotte Turner Smith redfilibrivox.org by David Barnes. Would thou then have me tempt the comic scene of gay failure used so long to tread the gloomy paths of sorrow's cypress shade and the lawn lay with sighs and tears to stain? Alas! how much unfit her sprightly vein arduous to try, and seek the sunny mead, and boughs of roses where she loves to lead the sportive subjects of her golden reign! Enough for me, if still, to soothe 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet Number 30 To The River Arran By Charlotte Turner Smith redfilibrivox.org by Corey Samuel. Be the proud Thames of Trade, the busy Marte. Arran, to thee will other praise belong, dear to the lovers and the mourners' heart, and ever sacred to the sons of song. Thy bank's romantic, hopeless love shall seek, whereover the rocks the mantling bind with flaunts, and sorrow's drooping form and faded cheek choose on thy willowed shore her lonely haunts. Banks, which inspired thy Ottway's plaintive strain, wilds, whose lawn echoes learned the deeper tone of Collins' powerful shell, yet once again another poet, Haley, is thine own. Thy classic stream anew shall hear a lay, bright as its waves, and various as its way. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 31 Written on Farm Wood, South Downs, May 1784 by Charlotte Turner Smith Read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes Spring's dewy hand on this fair summit weaves the downy grass with tufts of alpine flowers and shades the beach and 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, blessed 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? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 32 To Melancholy Written on the banks of the Arran, October 1785 by Charlotte Turner Smith, read for LibriVox.org by Corrie Samuel when latest autumn spreads her evening veil and the grey mists from these dim waves arise. I love to listen to the hollow sighs through 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 Ottway I me thinks could meet, and here his deep sighs swell the saddened wind. Oh melancholy, such thy magic power, that to the soul these dreams are often sweet and soothe the pensive visionary mind. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 33 To the Nighad of the Arran by Charlotte Turner Smith read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes Go, rural Nighad, wind thy stream along through woods and wilds, then seek the ocean caves where sea-nymphs meet, their coral rocks among, to boast the various honours of their waves. It is but a little, or thy shallow tide, that toiling trade her burdened vessel leads. But laurels grow luxuriant on thy side, and letters live along thy classic meads. Low where mid-British bards thy natives 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 ombremmished heart. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 34 To a Friend by Charlotte Turner Smith read for LibriVox.org by Corrie Samuel Charmed by thy suffrage, yet shall I aspire, all in auspicious as my fate appears, by troubles darkened that increase with years, to guide the crayon or to touch the lyre. Ah, me! the system uses 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 mead can find, that thou, their highly favoured brows to bind, wilt weave green myrtle and unfading bays. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 35 To Fortitude by Charlotte Turner Smith read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes Nymph of the Rock whose dauntless spirit braves the beating storm, and bitter winds that howl round thy cold breast, and hearst the bursting waves, and the deep thunder with unshaken soul. O come, and show 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. Strengthened by thee, this heart shall cease to melt, or 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 36 by Charlotte Turner Smith read for LibriVox.org by Corey Samuel Should the lone wanderer, fainting on his way, rest for a moment of the sultry hours, and though his path through thorns and roughness lay, pluck the wild rose or woodbind's gadding flowers, weaving gay wreaths beneath some sheltering tree, the sense of sorrow he a while may lose. So have I sought thy flowers, fair Poesy, so charmed 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 37 sent to the honourable Mrs. O'Neill with Painted Flowers by Charlotte Turner Smith read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes The poet's fancy takes from floor as realm her buds and leaves to dress fictitious powers with the green olive shades Minerva's helm, and give to beauty's queen the queen of flowers. But what gay blossoms of luxuriant spring with rose, mimosa, amaranth entwined shall fabled selves 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 coloured by a 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 38 from the novel of Emeline by Charlotte Turner Smith read for LibriVox.org by Corrie Samuel When welcome slumber sets my spirit free forth to fictitious happiness it flies and where Elysian bowers of bliss arise I seem my Emeline to meet with thee. Ah, fancy then dissolving human ties gives me the wishes of my soul to see tears of fond pity filled thy softened 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 through life unpittied, unreleaved, unknown. And as the dear delusions leave my brain she bids the truth recur with aggravated pain. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 39 tonight from the novel of Emeline by Charlotte Turner Smith read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes 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 death cold elements complain and tell the embusomed grief however vain to solemn surges and the viewless wind. Though 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 though wretched hopeless yet resigned while to the winds and waves it sorrows given may reach though lost on earth the ear of heaven. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 40 from the novel of Emeline by Charlotte Turner Smith read for LibriVox.org by Corey Samuel Far on 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 soothe me to repose can the soft luster of the sleeping main yon radiant heaven or all creations charms erase the written troubles of the brain which memory tortures and which guilt alarms orbit a bosom transient quiet prove that bleeds with a vain remorse and unextinguished love. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 41 to Tranquility by Charlotte Turner Smith read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes in this tumultuous sphere for the unfit how seldom art thou found Tranquility unless tis when with mild and downcast eye by the low cradles thou delightest to sit of sleeping infants watching the soft breath and bidding the sweet slumber as easy lie or sometimes hanging o'er the bed of death where the poor languid sufferer hopes to die O beautyous 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 42 composed during a walk on the Downs November 1787 by Charlotte Turner Smith read for LibriVox.org by Corrie Samuel the dark and pillowy cloud the sallow trees seam over the ruins of the year to mourn and cold and hollow the inconstant breeze sobs through the falling leaves and withered fern o'er the tall brow of yonder chalky-born the evening shades their gathered darkness fling while by the lingering light I scarce discern the shrieking nightjar sail on heavy wing ah yet a little and propitious spring crowned 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 siren hope resume her long lost part and chase the vulture care that feeds upon the heart end of poem this recording is in the public domain Sonnet 43 by Charlotte Turner Smith read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes the unhappy exile whom his fates confine to the bleak coast of some unfriendly isle cold barren desert where no harvest 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 end of poem this recording is in the public domain Sonnet 44 written in the churchyard at Middleton in Sussex by Charlotte Turner Smith read for LibriVox.org by Corey Samuel pressed 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 and breaks the silent sabbath of the grave with shells and seaweed mingled on the shore low 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 doomed by life's long storm oppressed to gaze with envy on their gloomy rest end of poem this recording is in the public domain Sonnet 45 on Leaving a Part of Sussex by Charlotte Turner Smith read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes farewell Aruna on whose varied shore my early vows were paid to nature's shrine when thoughtless joy and infant hope were mine and whose lawn stream has heard me since deplore too many sorrows sighing I resigned thy solitary beauties and no more or on thy rocks or in thy woods recline or on the heath by moonlight lingering poor on air-drawn phantoms while in fancies ear as in the evening wind thy murmurs swell the enthusiast of the liar who wandered here seems yet to strike his visionary shell of power to call forth pity's tenderest tear or wake wild frenzy from her hideous cell end of poem this recording is in the public domain Sonnet 46 written at Penhurst in autumn 1788 by Charlotte Turner Smith read for LibriVox.org by Corey Samuel 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 wallors soothing liar were want to hear but where now clamours discordant hern the spoiling hand of time may overturn these lofty battlements and quite deface the fading canvas once we love to learn Sydney's keen look and Sacherissa's grace but fame and beauty still defy decay saved by the historic page the poets tender lay end of poem this recording is in the public domain Sonnet 47 to Fancy by Charlotte Turner Smith read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes 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 showed the beauty us 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 or the sad grave of murdered happiness through thy false medium then no longer viewed may fancied pain and fancied pleasure fly and I as from me all thy dreams depart be to my wayward destiny subdued nor suffer perfection with a poet's eye nor suffer anguish with a poet's heart end of poem this recording is in the public domain Sonnet 48 to Mrs. Blank by Charlotte Turner Smith read for LibriVox.org by Corey Samuel 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 has now lost her powers nor will her fairy loom again essay to dress a fliction 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 a loom let thy loved hand with palm and amaranths drew the mournful path approaching to the tomb while faith's consoling voice endears the friendly gloom end of poem this recording is in the public domain Sonnet 49 from the novel of Celestina supposed to have been written in a churchyard over the grave of a young woman of nineteen by Charlotte Turner Smith read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes O thou who's sleep'st where hazel bands entwine the vernal grass with paler violets dressed I would sweet made thy humble bed were mine and mine thy calm and enviable rest for nevermore by human ills oppressed shall thy soft spirit fruitlessly repine thou can'st not now thy fondest hopes resign even in the hour that should have made thee blessed light lies the turf upon thy virgin breast and lingering here to love and sorrow true the youth who once thy simple heart possessed shall mingle tears with April's early dew while still for him shall faithful memory save thy form and virtues from the silent grave end of poem this recording is in the public domain Sonnet 50 by Charlotte Turner Smith read for LibriVox.org by Corey Samuel from the novel of Celestina Farewell ye lawns by fond remembrance blessed as witnesses of gay unclouded hours where to maternal friendship's bosom pressed my happy childhood passed among your bowers ye woodwalks wild where leaves and fairy flowers by spring's luxuriant hand are strewn anew rocks wince with shadowy grace rude nature lowers o a glens and haunted streams along at you and you o promised happiness whose voice deluded fancy herd in every grove bidding this tender trusting heart rejoice in the bright prospect of unfailing love though lost to me still may thy smile serene bless the dear lord of this regretted scene end of poem this recording is in the public domain Sonnet 51 from the novel of Celestina supposed to have been written in the Hebrides by Charlotte Turner Smith read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes on this lone island whose unfruitful breast feeds but the summer shepherd's little flock with scanty herbage from the half-clothed rock where ospreys, cormorants and seamews rest even in a scene so desolate and rude I could with thee for months and years be blessed and of thy tenderness and love possessed find all my world in this wild solitude when summer suns these northern seas allume with thee admire the light's reflected charms and when drear winter spreads his cheerless gloom still find Elysium in thy sheltering arms for thou to me canst sovereign bliss impart thy mind my empire and my throne thy heart end of poem this recording is in the public domain sonnet 52 from the novel of Celestina The Pilgrim by Charlotte Turner Smith read for LibriVox.org by Corey Samuel faltering 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 tempests scowling over the shortened day and hears with ear appalled the impetuous surge beneath him thunder so with heart oppressed alone reluctant desolate and slow by friendship's cheering radiance now unblessed along life's rudest path I seem to go nor see where yet the anxious heart may rest that trembling at the past the coils from future woe end of poem this recording is in the public domain sonnet 53 from the novel of Celestina The Laplander by Charlotte Turner Smith read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes the shivering native who by Tenglio's side beholds with fond regret the parting light zinc 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 reallume his way and from the snows secured within his cave he waits in patient hope returning day not so the sufferer feels who or the waste of joyless life is destined to deplore fond love forgotten tender friendship past which once extinguished can revive no more or the blank void he looks with hopeless pain for him those beams of heaven shall never shine again end of poem this recording is in the public domain sonnet 54 The Sleeping Woodman written in April 1790 by Charlotte Turner Smith read for LibriVox.org by Corey Samuel Yee Cops is wild where April bids arise the vernal grasses and the early flowers my soul depressed from human converse flies to the lone shelter of your pathless bowers low where the woodman with his toil oppressed his careless head on bark and moss reclined lulled by the song of birds the murmuring wind has sunk to calm though momentary rest ah wood twermine in spring's green lap defined such transient respite from the ills I bear would I could taste like the sun thinking hind a sweet forgetfulness of human care till the last sleep these weary eyes shall close and death receive me to his long repose end of poem this recording is in the public domain sonnet 55 Return of the Nightingale written in May 1791 by Charlotte Turner Smith read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes born on the warm wing of the western gale how tremulously low is heard to float through the green budding thorns that fringe the veil the early nightingale's prelusive note to his hope's instinctive power that through the grove tells how benign and heaven revives the earth it is the soft voice of young and timid love that calls these melting sounds of sweetness forth with transport once sweet bird I hailed thy lay and bade thee welcome to our shades again to charm the wandering poet's pensive way and soothe the solitary lover's pain but now such evils in my lot combine a shot my languid sense to hope's dear voice and thine end of poem this recording is in the public domain sonnet 56 The Captive Escaped in the Wilds of America by Charlotte Turner Smith read for LibriVox.org by Corrie Samuel addressed to the Honorable Mrs. O'Neill if by his torturing savage foes untraced the breathless captive gains some trackless glade yet hears the war-loop howl along the waist 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 fast-dreaming 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 end of poem this recording is in the public domain sonnet 57 to Dependence by Charlotte Turner Smith read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes Dependence heavy heavy are thy chains and happier they who from the dangerous sea or the dark mine procure with ceaseless pains a hard-earned pittance than who trust to thee more blessed the hind who from his bed of flock starts when the birds of morn their summons give and wakened by the lark the shepherd's clock lives but to labour labouring but to live more noble than the sycophant whose art must heap with tawdry flowers thy hated shrine I envy not the mead thou canst impart to crown his service while though pride combined with fraud to crush me my unfettered heart still to the mountain nymph may offer mine end of poem this recording is in the public domain sonnet 58 the glow worm by Charlotte Turner Smith read for LibriVox.org by Corey Samuel went 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 Heathbell 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 I make thee mine then air he sleep collects the moistened flower and bids soft leaves his glittering prize in fold and dreams that fairy lamps elume his bower yet with the morning shudders to behold his lucid treasure railess as the dust so turn the world's bright joys to cold and blank disgust end of poem this recording is in the public domain sonnet 59 by Charlotte Turner Smith read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes written september 1791 during a remarkable thunderstorm 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 shrouded sudden from many a deep embattled cloud terrific thunders burst and lightnings fly while in serenist azure beaming high night's regent of her calm pavilion proud guilds the dark shadows that beneath her lie unvext by all their conflicts fierce and loud so in unsolid dignity elate a spirit conscious of superior worth in placid elevation firmly great scorns the vain cares that give contention birth and blessed with peace above the shocks of fate smiles at the tumult of the troubled earth end of poem this recording is in the public domain owed to despair by charlotte turner smith red for LibriVox.org by Corrie Samuel from the novel of emeline thou specter of terrific mean 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 forever from my sight the faithless flatterer hope whose pencil gay portrays some vision of delight then bids the fairy tablet fade away while in dire contrast to mine eyes thy phantoms yet more hideous rise and memory draws from pleasure's withered 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 a tremendous power thy worst of spirit wounding pangs in part with which in dark convictions our thou strikes the guilty unrepentant heart but of illusion long the sport that dreary tranquil gloom I caught where my past errors I may still deplore and dream of long lost happiness no more 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 propose behold in long array the woes of the dread future calm and undismayed till I may claim the hope that shall not fade end of poem this recording is in the public domain Elegy by Charlotte Turner Smith read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes 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 rained on that these streaming eyes deplore flash ye red fires of heaven with fatal light and with conflicting winds ye waters raw loud and more loud ye foaming billows burst ye warring elements more fiercely rave till the wide waves or whelm the spot a cursed where ruthless avarice finds a quiet grave thus with clasped hands wild looks and streaming hair while shrieks of horror broke her trembling speech a wretched maid the victim of despair surveyed the threatening storm and desert beach then to the tomb where now the father slept whose rugged nature bade her sorrow's flow frantic she turned and beat her breast and wept invoking vengeance on the dust below low rising there above each humbler heap yon cyford 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 made to strangers eyes thy worth impart thou hast no grave but in the stormy sea and no memorial but this breaking heart fourth to the world a widowed 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 oh might i fondly clasp him once again while all 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 show 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 low 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 such as when daring the enchieved sea and courting dangerous toil he often said that every peril one soft smile from me one sigh of speechless tenderness or paid but dead disfigured while between the roar of the loud waves his accents pierce my near 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 it is already past along the waves his shadow glides away i lose his voice amid the deafening blast ah wild delusion 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 it is not his voice hark the deep thunder's roll up heaves the ground the rock 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 end of poem this recording is in the public domain song from the french of cardinal bernie by charlotte turner smith redvillibrocks.org by cori samuel one fruit of aurora's tears fair rose on whose soft leaves fond zeffers play oh queen of flowers thy buds disclose and give thy fragrance to the day unveil thy transient charms i'll know a little be thy bloom delayed since the same hour that bids thee blow shall see thee droop thy languid head two but go and on thymir is breast find happy flower thy throne and tomb while jealous of a fate so blessed how shall i envy thee thy doom should some rude hand approach thee there guard the sweet shrine thou wilted on ah punish those who rashly dare and for my rivals keep thy thorn three love shall himself thy boughs compose and bid thy wanton leaves divide he'll show 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 end of poem this recording is in the public domain the origin of flattery by charlotte turner smith read for LibriVox.org by david barnes when jove in anger to the sons of the earth bid artful vulcan give pandora birth and sent the fatal gift which spread below are all the wretched race contagious woe unhappy man by vice and folly tossed found in the storms of life his quiet lost while envy avarice and ambition hurled discord and death around the warring world then the blessed peasant left his fields and fold and bartered 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 no longer then his woodland walks among the shepherd lad his genuine passion song 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 possessed 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 threatened womankind ills that she knew her empire would disarm and rob her subjects of their sweetest charm good humours potent influence destroy and change for lowering frowns the smile of joy then deeply sighing deeply sighing at the mournful view she tried 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 cask the fair enchantress on its silver bound weaved with soft spells her magic cestus round then shaking from her hair and brosial dew infused fair hope and expectation new and stifled wishes and persuasive sighs and fond belief and eloquence of eyes and faltering accents which explain so well what studded speeches vainly try to tell and more pathetic silence which imparts infectious tenderness to feeling hearts soft tones of pity fascinating smiles and my son assisted with her wiles and brought gay dreams fantastic visions brought and waived his wand or the seducing draught then zephyr came to him the goddess cried 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 lois the garon and the sen 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 fleur de lis that poignant spirit will complete my spell tis done the lovely sorcerer 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 tempering his favorite arrows in the flame 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 subtle spirit duly found more soft than oil than aether more refined of power to cure the woes of womankind and called 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 pulsed age with youthful spirit glow and hangs maize garlands on december's snow delicious essence house aware applied by what rude nature is thy charm denied some form seducing still thy whisper hears stern wisdom turns to thee her willing ears and prudery listens and forgets her fears the rustic nymph whom rigid aunts restrain condemned to dress and practice airs in vain at thy first summons finds her bosom swell and bids her crab guvernance farewell 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 enrolled and dwelling yet on scenes by memory nursed when george the second reigned or george the first she sees the scenes of ancient bow arise who swear her eyes exceeded modern eyes when poets sung for her and lovers bled and giddy fashion followed 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 she deems ungraceful trifling and absurd the gayer world that moves round george the third nor thy soft influence will the train refuse who caught in distant shades the modest muse though in a dim form more pure and more refined thy soothing spirit meets the lettered mind not death itself thine empire can destroy towards thee even then we turn the languid eye still trust in thee to bid our memory bloom and scatter roses round the silent tomb end of poem this recording is in the public domain the peasant of the alps by charlotte turner smith red filibra rocks dot org by cori samuel from the novel of selestina where cliffs arise by winter crown and through dark groves of pine around down the deep chasms the snow-fed torrents foam within some hollow sheltered 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 plane waves its wild harvests and its olive groves more dear to him his hut with plantain thatched where long his unambitious heart attached finds all he wishes all he loves 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 veil its fertile soil he climbs the precipice with patient toil to plant her favorite flower it's there with native shrubs a hardy race there the green myrtle finds a place and roses there the dewy leaves decline while from the crags 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 a softly spread the chamois velvet spoil that forms the bed where in her arms he finds repose 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 alarmed he listens to the crash of rifted ice oh man of woe oh are his dear cot a mass of snow by the storm severed from the cliff above has fallen and buried in its marble breast all that for him lost wretch the world possessed his home his happiness his love aghast the heart-struck mourner stands glazed by his eyes convulsed his hands or a well-ming anguish checks his laboring breath crushed by despair's intolerable weight frantic he seeks the mountain's giddiest height and headlong seeks relief in death 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 fixed its home and love and happiness our mine no more end of poem this recording is in the public domain song by charlotte turner smith red four livery vox.org by david barnes does pity give though fate denies and to my wounds her balm in part oh speak with those expressive eyes let one low sigh escape thine heart the gazing crowd shall never guess what anxious watchful love can see nor know what those soft looks express nor dream that sign is meant for me our words are useless words are vain thy generous sympathy to prove and well that sign those looks explain that clara mourns my hapless love end of poem this recording is in the public domain 38 addressed to mrs. he by charlotte turner smith red four livery vox.org by cori samuel in early youths unclouded scene the brilliant morning of 18 with health and sprightly joy in late we gazed on life's enchanting spring nor thought how quickly time would bring the mournful period 38 then the starch maid or matron sage already at 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 38 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 met neglect and 38 but time in spite of wishes flies and fate our simple prayer denies and bids us deaths own hour await the urban locks are mixed with gray the transient roses fade away but reason comes at 38 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 a smile at 38 no more shall scandals breath destroy the social converse we enjoy with bard or critic tetetet or youths bright blooms herb lights shall pour but spare the improving friendly hour that science gives to 38 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 38 though time's inexorable sway has torn the metal bands away for other wreaths it is not too late the amaranths purple glows survives and still Minerva's olive lives on the calm brow of 38 with I'm more steady we engage to contemplate approaching age and life more justly estimate with firmer souls and stronger powers with reason faith and friendship hours will not regret the stealing hours that lead from 30 even to 48 end of poem this recording is in the public domain versus intended to have been prefixed to the novel of emeline but then suppressed by charlotte turner smith read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes or wellmed with sorrow and sustaining long the proud man's conchumely the oppressors wrong languid despondency and vain regret must my exhausted spirit struggle yet yes robbed myself of all that fortune gave even of all hope but shelter in the grave still shall the plaintive liar assay its powers to dress the cave of care with fancies flowers maternal love the fiend despair withstand still animates 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 tempest's roll yet there where I have treasured up my soul may the soft rays of dawning hope impart reviving patience to my fainting heart and when its sharp solicitude shall cease may I be conscious in the realms of peace that every tear which swells my children's eyes from sorrow's past not present ills arise then with some friend who loves to share your pain for it is my boast that some such friends remain by filial grief and fond remembrance pressed you'll seek the spot where all my sorrows rest recall my hapless days in sad review the long calamities I bore for you and with a happier fate resolve to prove how well you merited your mother's love end of poem this recording is in the public domain sonnet 60 to an amiable girl by shallots turner smith red for libra rocks dot org by corrie samuel miranda mark where shrinking from the gale its silken leaves yet moist with early dew that fair faint flower the lily of the veil droops its meek head and looks me thinks like you wrapped 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 soothes the sense with bosom bared to meet the garish day the glaring tulip gaudy undismayed 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 end of poem this recording is in the public domain sonnet 61 by charlotte turner smith red for librae vox dot org by david barnes sonnet 61 supposed to have been written in america ill omen bird whose cries portentous float to a yon savannah with the mournful wind while as the indian hears your piercing note dark dread of future evils 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 or my sick soul thus roused from transient rest pale superstition sheds her influence drear and to my shuddering fancy would suggest thou comes to speak of every woe i fear our reason little or the soul prevails when from ideal ill the enfeebled spirit fails end of poem this recording is in the public domain sonnet 62 written on passing by moonlight through a village while ground was covered with snow by charlotte turner smith red for librae vox dot org by corrie samuel while thus i wonder cheerless and unblessed and find in change of place but change of pain in tranquil sleep the village laborer's rest and taste that quiet i pursue in vain hushed is the hamlet now and faintly gleam the dying embers from the casement low of the thatched cottage while the moon's one beam lends a new luster to the dazzling snow over the cold waste amid the freezing night scarce heeding wither desolate i stray for me pale i 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 end of poem this recording is in the public domain sonnet 63 the gossamer by charlotte turner smith red for librae vox dot org by david barnes our faded heath flowers spun or thorny furs the filmy gossamer is lightly spread waving in every sighing air that stares as fairy fingers had entwined the thread a thousand trembling orbs of lucid dew spangle the texture of the fairy loom as if soft silphs 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 dreams of mourn leave but the withered heath and barren thorn end of poem this recording is in the public domain sonnet 64 written at bristol in the summer of 1794 by charlotte turner smith red for librae vox dot org by cori samuel 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 stained with veins of awe called native genius fourth whose heaven-tort skill charmed the deep echoes of the rifted shore but tepid waves wild scenes or summer air restore they pulsed fancy woe depressed check they the torpid influence of despair orbit warm health reanimate the breast where hopes soft visions have no longer part and whose sad inmate is a broken heart end of poem this recording is in the public domain sonnet 65 by charlotte turner smith red for librae vox dot org by david barnes sonnet 65 to dr. parry of bath with some botanic drawings which had been made some years in happier hours a yet so keenly blue adversities cold blight and bitter storms luxuriant summers even escent forms and spring 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 pencils mimic powers nor will kind fancy even by memories 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 end of poem this recording is in the public domain sonnet 66 written in a tempestuous night on the coast of sussex by charlotte turner smith red for librae rox dot org by corrie samuel the night flood rakes upon the stony shore along the rugged cliffs and chalky caves mourns the horse 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 bleems the one moon by floating mist oppressed yet here while youth and health and labour sleep alone i wonder calm untroubled rest nature's soft nurse deserts the high swollen breast and shuns the eyes that only make to weep end of poem this recording is in the public domain sonnet 67 by charlotte turner smith red for librae rox dot org by david barnes sonnet 67 on passing over a dreary tract of country and near the ruins of a deserted chapel during a tempest swift fleets the billowy clouds along the sky earth seems to shudder at the storm aghast while only beings as forlorn as i caught 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 end of poem this recording is in the public domain sonnet 68 written at xmouth midsummer 1795 by charlotte turner smith red for libra rock start org by kori samuel fall dews of heaven upon my burning breast bathed with cool drops these ever-streaming eyes ye gentle winds that fan the barmy west with the soft rippling tide of mourning 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 middle summer ah in vain to those who mourn like me does radiant tune lead on her fragrant hours for hopeless pain darkens with sullen clouds the sun of noon and veiled in shadows nature's face appears two hearts overwhelmed with grief two eyes suffused with tears end of poem this recording is in the public domain sonnet 69 by charlotte turner smith red for librae vox.org by david barnes sonnet 69 written at the same place on seeing a seaman return who had been imprisoned at rochefort clouds gold and purple or the western ray through 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 increasing numbers hail it from the shore low 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 a late though poor and plundered he absolves his fate end of poem this recording is in the public domain sonnet 70 on being cautioned against walking over a headland overlooking the sea because it was frequented by a lunatic by charlotte turner smith red for librae vox.org by corrie samuel is there a solitary wretch who highs 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 seaborn gale with frequent sighs chills his cold bed upon the mountain turf with horse 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 wondering here he seems uncursed with reason not to know the depth or the duration of his woe end of poem this recording is in the public domain sonnet 71 by charlotte turner smith red for librae vox.org by david barnes sonnet 71 written at weymouth in winter the chill waves whiten in the sharp northeast 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 people's strand pleasure shall all her varied forms display nymphs lightly tread the bright reflecting sand and proud saiyans