Conversations introducing poetry :: :: University of Virginia Library

Conversations introducing poetry

chiefly on subjects of natural history. For the use of children and young persons. By Charlotte Smith

Smith, Charlotte Turner (1749-1806)

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VOLUME I.

II.

VOLUME II.

CONVERSATION THE SIXTH.

CONVERSATION THE SEVENTH.

CONVERSATION THE EIGHTH.

ON SCARING SOME WATER-FOWL IN LOCH TURIT.

TO THE FIRE-FLY OF JAMAICA,

VERSES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.

LINES COMPOSED IN PASSING THRO' A FOREST IN GERMANY.

TO A GERANIUM WHICH FLOWERED DURING THE WINTER.

CONVERSATION THE NINTH.

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CONVERSATION THE EIGHTH.

ON SCARING SOME WATER-FOWL IN LOCH TURIT.

A WILD SCENE AMONG THE HILLS OF OUGHTER-TYRE.

George.—

Why, ye tenants of the lake,
For me your watry haunts forsake?
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why
At my presence thus you fly?
Why disturb your social joys,
Parent, filial, kindred ties?
Common friend to you and me,
Nature's gifts to all are free:
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave,
Busy feed, or wanton lave;
Or, beneath the sheltering rock,
Bide the surging billows shock.

Conscious, blushing for our race,
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace;
Man, your proud usurping foe,
Would-be lord of all below—
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride,
Tyrant stern to all beside.

The Eagle from the cliffy brow,
Marking you his prey below,
In his breast no pity dwells,
Strong necessity compels.
But Man, to whom, alone is given
A ray direct from pitying Heaven,
Glories in his heart humane,
And creatures for his pleasure slain.

In these savage liquid plains,
Only known to wandering swains,
Where the mossy rivulet strays,
Far from human haunts and ways;
All on Nature you depend,
And life's poor season peaceful spend.

Or if Man's superior might,
Dare invade your native right,
On the lofty ether borne,
Man with all his powers you scorn;
Swiftly seek on clanging wings,
Other lakes and other springs,
And the foe you cannot brave,
Scorn at least to be his slave.

TO THE FIRE-FLY OF JAMAICA,

SEEN IN A COLLECTION.

How art thou alter'd! since afar,
Thou seem'dst a bright earth wandering star;
When thy living lustre ran,
Tall majestic trees between,
And Guazume, or Swietan,
Or the Pimento's glossy green,
As caught their varnish'd leaves, thy glancing light
Reflected flying fires, amid the moonless night.

From shady heights, where currents spring,
Where the ground dove dips her wing,
Winds of night reviving blow,
Thro' rustling fields of maize and cane,
And wave the Coffee's fragrant bough;
But winds of night, for thee in vain
May breathe, of the Plumeria's luscious bloom,
Or Granate's scarlet buds, or Plinia's mild perfume.

The recent captive, who in vain,
Attempts to break his heavy chain,
And find his liberty in flight;
Shall no more in terror hide,
From thy strange and doubtful light,
In the mountain's cavern'd side,

Or gully deep, where gibbering monkies cling,
And broods the giant bat, on dark funereal wing.

Nor thee his darkling steps to aid,
Thro' the forests pathles shade,
Shall the sighing Slave invoke;
Who, his daily task perform'd,
Would forget his heavy yoke;
And by fond affections warm'd,
Glide to some dear sequester'd spot, to prove,
Friendship's consoling voice, or sympathising love.

Now, when sinks the Sun away,
And fades at once the sultry day,
Thee, as falls the sudden night,
Never Naturalist shall view,
Dart with corruscation bright,
Down the coco avenue;
Or see thee give, with transient gleams to glow,
The green Banana's head, or Shaddock's loaded bough.

Ah! never more shalt thou behold,
The midnight Beauty, slow unfold
Her golden zone, and thro' the gloom
To thee her radiant leaves display,
More lovely than the roseate bloom
Of flowers, that drink the tropic day;
And while thy dancing flames around her blaze,
Shed odours more refin'd, and beam with brighter rays.

The glass thy faded form contains,
But of thy lamp no spark remains;
That lamp, which through the palmy grove,
Floated once with sapphire beam,
As lucid as the star of Love,
Reflected in the bickering stream;
Transient and bright! so human meteors rise,
And glare and sink, in pensive Reason's eyes.

Ye dazzling comets that appear
In Fashion's rainbow atmosphere,
Lightning and flashing for a day;
Think ye, how fugitive your fame?
How soon from her light scroll away,
Is wafted your ephemeron name?
Even tho' on canvas still your forms are shewn,
Or the slow chisel shapes the pale resembling stone.

Let vaunting Ostentation trust
The pencil's art, or marble bust,
While long neglected modest worth,
Unmark'd, unhonor'd, and unknown,
Obtains at length a little earth,
Where kindred merit weeps alone;
Yet there, tho' Vanity no trophies rear,
Is Friendship's long regret, and true Affection's tear!

105

VERSES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.

As in the woods, where leathery lichen weaves
Its wintry web among the sallow leaves,
Which (thro' cold months in 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 Pilewort dares,
Expand her clouded leaves and shining stars;
And, veins empurpling all her tassels pale,
Bends the soft wind-flower in the vernal gale.
Uncultured bells of azure jacinths blow,
And the breeze scenting violet lurks below.
So views the Wanderer, with delighted eyes,
Reviving hopes from black despondence rise;

106

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 and Friendship dress the summer bowers;
And, as delicious dreams enchant his mind,
Forgets his sorrows past, and gives them to the wind.

107

LINES COMPOSED IN PASSING THRO' A FOREST IN GERMANY.

If, when to-morrow's Sun, with upward ray,
Gilds the wide spreading oak, and burnish'd pine,
Destin'd to mingle here with foreign clay,
Pale, cold, and still, should sleep this form of mine;
The Day-star, with as lustrous warmth would glow,
And thro' the ferny lairs and forest shades,
With sweetest woodscents fraught, the air would blow,
And timid wild deer, bound along the glades;

108

While in a few short months, to clothe the mould,
Would velvet moss and purple melic rise,
By Heaven's pure dew drops water'd, clear and cold,
And birds innumerous sing my obsequies;
But, in my native land, no faithful maid
To mourn for me, would pleasure's orgies shun;
No sister's love my long delay upbraid;
No mother's anxious love demand her son.
Thou, only thou, my friend, would feel regret,
My blighted hopes and early fate deplore;
And, while my faults thou'dst palliate or forget,
Would half rejoice, I felt that fate no more.

117

TO A GERANIUM WHICH FLOWERED DURING THE WINTER.

WRITTEN IN AUTUMN.

Native of Afric's arid lands,
Thou, and thy many-tinctur'd bands,
Unheeded and unvalued grew,
While Caffres crush'd beneath the sands
Thy pencil'd flowers of roseate hue.

118

But our cold northern sky beneath,
For thee attemper'd zephyrs breathe,
And art supplies the tepid dew,
That feeds, in many a glowing wreath,
Thy lovely flowers of roseate hue.

Thy race, that spring uncultur'd here,
Decline with the declining year,
While in successive beauty new,
Thine own light bouquets fresh appear,
And marbled leaves of cheerful hue.

Now buds and bells of every shade,
By Summer's ardent eye survey'd,
No more their gorgeous colours shew;
And even the lingering asters fade,
With drooping heads of purple hue.

But naturalized in foreign earth,
'Tis thine, with many a beauteous birth,
As if in gratitude they blew,
To hang, like blushing trophies forth,
Thy pencill'd flowers of roseate hue.

Oh then, amidst the wintry gloom,
Those flowers shall dress my cottage room,
Like friends in adverse fortune true;
And soothe me with their roseate bloom,
And downy leaves of vernal hue.