Charlotte Smith

“Press'd by the Moon, mute arbitress of tides.”

“And yet, alas! to me the jocund Spring, Vainly her renovated beauties brings; To me, her blossoms and her birds but sing, Of vanish'd Hope, and Time's destructive wings.”

“The pensive poet dreams, Or pours his plaintive strain.”

“One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that throws Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes.”

“Ah! then, how dear the Muse's favors cost, If those paint sorrow best who feel it most!”

“Sighing I see yon little troop at play, By sorrow yet untouched; and running wild.”

“On some rude fragment of the rocky shore, Where the waves dash and cease to dash no more.”

“The garlands fade that Spring so lately wove, Each simple flower which she had nursed in dew.”

“For me, the blasts of disappointment roar.”

“Far on the sands, the low, retiring tide, In distant murmurs hardly seems to flow.”

“The partial Muse has from my earliest hours Smiled on the rugged path I'm doomed to tread.”

“Reason and fortitude are the only supports, under the worst of human evils.”