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While thy low murmurs sooth'd his pensive ear;
And still the poet consecrates the stream.
Beneath the oak and beech, 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!"

It now became necessary for her to exert her faculties as a means of support, and she translated two or three stories from the French. Her husband being again obliged to leave the country, she removed with her children to a small cottage in another part of Sussex, and, while residing here, published a new edition of her Sonnets, with additions. She then tried her powers in another line of literature, and in 1788 gave to the public her Emmeline, or the Orphan of the Castle," which novel was exceedingly popular. In the following year, she published another novel, entitled "Ethelinde;" and to this succeeded, in very rapid succession, "Celestina," "Desmond," "The Old Manor House," "The Wanderings of War"The Banished Man,' wick,' Montalbert," and others, besides several beautiful little volumes for young persons, entitled, "Rural Walks," "Rambles Farther," "Minor Morals;"-in all about forty volumes! During all this time, she suffered severe family afflictions, in the loss of three children, as well as pecuniary trials in the adjustment of her husband's affairs. But the hour was arriving when grief was to subdue this long-tried victim. Her husband, it is said, died in legal confinement in March, 1806; and on the 28th of October following, she died herself, after a lingering and painful illness, which she bore with the utmost patience, retaining her faculties to the last.



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As a poetess, Charlotte Smith has been excelled by few of her countrywomen. Her Sonnets are "most musical, most melancholy, and abound with touches of tenderness, grace, and beauty; and her descriptions of rural scenery are particularly fresh and vivid." "But while we allow," says Sir Walter Scott, "high praise to the sweet and sad effusions of Mrs. Smith's muse, we cannot admit that by these alone she could ever have risen to the height of eminence which we are disposed to claim for her for her prose narratives." But, however this might have been during her life, and when Walter Scott included her in his library of British Novelists, Charlotte Smith is now most known and valued for her poetry.


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,

Releas'd by death, to thy benignant sphere,
And the sad children of despair and woe

Forget, in thee, their cup of sorrow here.
Oh! that I soon may reach thy world serene,
Poor wearied pilgrim in this toiling scene!


Sweet poet of the woods, a long adieu!

Farewell, soft minstrel of the early year!
Ah! 'twill be long ere thou shalt sing anew,

And pour thy music on the night's dull ear.
Whether on Spring thy wandering flights await,
Or whether silent in our groves you dwell,
The pensive muse shall own thee for her mate,
And still protect the song she loves so well.
With cautious step the love-lorn youth shall glide

Thro' the lone brake that shades thy mossy nest;
And shepherd girls from eyes profane shall hide

The gentle bird who sings of pity best:
For still thy voice shall soft affections move,
And still be dear to sorrow, and to love!


Sighing, I see yon little troop at play,

By sorrow yet untouch'd, unhurt by care,
While free and sportive they enjoy to-day,

"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!


I once was happy, when, while yet a child,
I learn'd to love these upland solitudes,

And when, elastic as the mountain air,
To my light spirit care was yet unknown,
An evil unforeseen;-early it came,

And childhood scarcely past, I was condemn'd,
A guiltless exile, silently to sigh,
While Memory, with faithful pencil, drew
The contrast; and regretting, I compar'd,
With the polluted smoky atmosphere

And dark and stifling streets, the southern hills
That, to the setting sun their graceful heads
Rearing, o'erlook the frith, where Vecta breaks
With her white rocks the strong impetuous tide,
When western winds the vast Atlantic urge
To thunder on the coast. Haunts of my youth!
Scenes of fond day-dreams, I behold ye yet!
Where 'twas so pleasant, by thy northern slopes,
To climb the winding sheep-path, aided oft
By scatter'd thorns, whose spiny branches bore
Small woolly tufts, spoils of the vagrant lamb
There seeking shelter from the noonday sun:
And pleasant, seated on the short soft turf,
To look beneath upon the hollow way
While heavily upward mov'd the laboring wain,
And, stalking slowly by, the sturdy hind,
To ease his panting team, stopp'd with a stone
The grating wheel.

Advancing higher still, The prospect widens, and the village church But little o'er the lowly roofs around Rears its gray belfry, and its simple vane; Those lowly roofs of thatch are half conceal'd By the rude arms of trees, lovely in spring, When on each bough the rosy-tinctur'd bloom Sits thick, and promises autumnal plenty. For even those orchards round the Norman farms, Which, as their owners mark the promis'd fruit, Console them for the vineyards of the south, Surpass not these.

Where woods of ash, and beech, And partial copses, fringe the green hill foot, The upland shepherd rears his modest home; There wanders by a little nameless stream, That from the hill wells forth, bright now and clear, Or, after rain, with chalky mixture gray, But still refreshing in its shallow course The cottage garden; most for use design'd, Yet not of beauty destitute. The vine Mantles the little casement; yet the brier Drops fragrant dew among the July flowers; And pansies ray'd, and freak'd and mottled pinks Grow among balm, and rosemary, and rue; There honeysuckles flaunt, and roses blow

Almost uncultur'd: some with dark green leaves
Contrast their flowers of pure unsullied white;
Others like velvet robes of regal state
Of richest crimson, while, in thorny moss
Enshrin'd and cradled, the most lovely wear
The hues of youthful beauty's glowing cheek.-
With fond regret I recollect, e'en now,
In Spring and Summer, what delight I felt
Among these cottage gardens, and how much
Such artless nosegays, knotted with a rush
By village housewife or her ruddy maid,
Were welcome to me; soon and simply pleas'd.
An early worshipper at Nature's shrine,
I lov'd her rudest scenes.

From "Beachy Head," a Poem.

MARY TIGHE, 1774-1810.

MRS. MARY TIGHE was the daughter of the Rev. William Blackford, of the county of Wicklow, Ireland. Her history seems to be but little known to the public, as I have tried in vain to find some account of her; but her early death, after six years of protracted suffering, has been commemorated by Moore, in a most beautiful lyric.'

Mrs. Tighe is chiefly known by her poem of "Psyche," in six cantos, written in the Spenserian stanza, founded on the classic fable of Apuleius, of the loves of Cupid and Psyche, or the allegory of Love and the Soul (4x). Many of the pictures in this, the chief production of her muse, are conceived in the true spirit of poetry, while over the whole composition is spread the richest glow of purified passion. Some of her minor pieces, also, are exceedingly beautiful; and the lines "On Receiving a Branch of Mezereon," are scarcely exceeded, for beauty and pathos, by anything of the kind in the language.


When vexed by cares and harassed by distress,
The storms of fortune chill thy soul with dread,
Let Love, consoling Love! still sweetly bless,
And his assuasive balm benignly shed:

See this lyric in the Selections from Thomas Moore.

The fable, it is said, is a representation of the soul, here in its prison house, subjected to error. Trials are set before it to purify it; two loves meet -the earthly, to draw it down to sensuous things; and the heavenly, who, directing its view above, gains the victory, and leads off the soul as his bride.

His downy plumage, o'er thy pillow spread,
Shall lull thy weeping sorrows to repose;
To Love the tender heart hath ever fled,
As on its mother's breast the infant throws
Its sobbing face, and there in sleep forgets its woes.

Oh! fondly cherish then the lovely plant, Which lenient Heaven hath given thy pains to ease; Its lustre shall thy summer hours enchant, And load with fragrance every prosperous breeze; And when rude winter shall thy roses seize, When naught through all thy bowers but thorns remain, This still with undeciduous charms shall please, Screen from the blast and shelter from the rain, And still with verdure cheer the desolated plain.

Through the hard season, Love with plaintive note
Like the kind red-breast tenderly shall sing,
Which swells mid dreary snows its tuneful throat,
Brushing the cold dews from its shivering wing,
With cheerful promise of returning spring
To the mute tenants of the leafless grove.

Guard thy best treasure from the venomed sting
Of baneful peevishness; oh! never prove

How soon ill-temper's power can banish gentle Love!

The tears capricious beauty loves to shed,

The pouting lip, the sullen silent tongue,

May wake the impassioned lover's tender dread,
And touch the spring that clasps his soul so strong;
But ah, beware! the gentle power too long
Will not endure the frown of angry strife;

He shuns contention, and the gloomy throng
Who blast the joys of calm domestic life,

And flies when discord shakes her brand with quarrels rife.

Oh! he will tell you that these quarrels bring

The ruin, not renewal, of his flame:

If oft repeated, lo! on rapid wing

He flies to hide his fair but tender frame;
From violence, reproach, or peevish blame
Irrevocably flies. Lament in vain!

Indifference comes the abandoned heart to claim,
Asserts forever her repulsive reign,
Close followed by disgust and all her chilling train.

Indifference, dreaded power! what art shall save
The good so cherished from thy grasping hand?
How shall young Love escape the untimely grave
Thy treacherous arts prepare? or how withstand
The insidious foe, who with her leaden band
Enchains the thoughtless, slumbering deity?
Ah, never more to wake! or e'er expand
His golden pinions to the breezy sky,
Or open to the sun his dim and languid eye.

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