He may be envied, who with tranquil breast

HE may be envied, who with tranquil breast

Can wander in the wild and woodland scene,

When Summer's glowing hands have newly drest

The shadowy forests and the copses green;

Who, unpursued by care, can pass his hours

Where briony and woodbine fringe the trees,

On thymy 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 ozier-whispering bed

Of some clear current, bid his wishes turn

From this bad world; and by calm reason led,

Knows, in refined retirement to possess

By friendship hallow'd - rural happiness.

Charlotte Smith

Sonnet Written at the Close of Spring

THE garlands fade that Spring so lately wove,

  Each simple flower, which she had nurs'd in dew,

Anemonies that spangled every grove,

  The primrose wan, and hare-bell, mildly blue.

No more shall violets linger in the dell,

  Or purple orchis variegate 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?

Charlotte Smith

Sonnet to a Nightingale

POOR melancholy bird, that all night long

  Tell'st to the moon thy tale of tender woe;

  From what sad cause can such sweet sorrow flow,

And whence this mournful melody of song?

Thy poet's musing fancy would translate

  What mean the sounds that swell thy little breast,

  When still at dewy eve thou leav'st thy nest,

Thus to the listening night to sing thy fate.

Pale Sorrow's victims wert thou once among,

  Tho' now releas'd in woodlands wild to rove,

  Or hast thou felt from friends 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!

Charlotte Smith

Sonnet to the South Downs

AH, hills belov'd! where once, an happy child,

  Your beechen shades, "your turf, your flowers among,"

I wove your blue-bells into garlands wild,

  And woke your echoes with my artless song.

Ah, hills belov'd! your turf, your flowers remain;

  But can they peace to this sad breast restore,

For one poor moment soothe the sense of pain,

  And teach a breaking heart to throb no more?

And you, Aruna! in the vale below,

  As to the sea your limpid waves you bear,

Can you one kind Lethean cup bestow,

  To drink a long oblivion to my care?

Ah, no!--when all, e'en hope's last ray is gone,

There's no oblivion--but in death alone!

Charlotte Smith

The Gossamer

O'ER faded heath-flowers spun or thorny furze,

The filmy gossamer is lightly spread;

Waving in every sighing air that stirs,

As fairy fingers had entwin'd the thread:

A thousand trembling orbs of lucid dew

Spangle the texture of the fairy loom,

As if soft Sylphs, 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 morn,

Leave but the withered heath and barren thorn.

Charlotte Smith