Submit a Poem
Get Your Premium Membership
spacer

Best Famous Charlotte Turner Smith Poems


Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Charlotte Turner Smith poems. This is a select list of the best famous Charlotte Turner Smith poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Charlotte Turner Smith poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Charlotte Turner Smith poems.

Search for the best famous Charlotte Turner Smith poems, articles about Charlotte Turner Smith poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Charlotte Turner Smith poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See also: Best Member Poems

Go Back




by Charlotte Turner Smith |

Sonnet XLII: Composed During a Walk

 The dark and pillowy cloud, the sallow trees,
Seem o'er the ruins of the year to mourn;
And, cold and hollow, the inconstant breeze
Sobs thro' the falling leaves and wither'd fern.
O'er the tall brow of yonder chalky bourn, 
The evening shades their gather'd darkness fling,
While, by the lingering light, I scarce discern
The shrieking night-jar sail on heavy wing.
Ah! yet a little—and propitious Spring
Crown'd 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 Syren Hope resume her long-lost part,
And chase the vulture Care—that feeds upon the heart.


by Charlotte Turner Smith |

Sonnet LXVII: On Passing over a Dreary Tract

 Swift fleet the billowy clouds along the sky,
Earth seems to shudder at the storm aghast;
While only beings as forlorn as I,
Court 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.


by Charlotte Turner Smith |

Sonnet VII: Sweet Poet of the Woods

 Sweet poet of the woods---a long adieu!
Farewel, 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 ye 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!


by Charlotte Turner Smith |

Written near a Port on a Dark Evening

 Huge vapours brood above the clifted shore, 
Night on the ocean settles dark and mute, 
Save where is heard the repercussive roar 
Of drowsy billows on the rugged foot 
Of rocks remote; or still more distant tone 
Of seamen in the anchored bark that tell 
The watch relieved; or one deep voice alone 
Singing the hour, and bidding "Strike the bell!" 

All is black shadow but the lucid line 
Marked by the light surf on the level sand, 
Or where afar the ship-lights faintly shine 
Like wandering fairy fires, that oft on land 
Misled the pilgrim--such the dubious ray 
That wavering reason lends in life's long darkling way.


by Charlotte Turner Smith |

Sonnet LXIII: 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 entwined 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 dews of morn,
Leave but the wither'd heath, and barren thorn!


by Charlotte Turner Smith |

Sonnet LXVI: The Night-Flood Rakes

 The night-flood rakes upon the stony shore;
Along the rugged cliffs and chalky caves
Mourns the hoarse 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,
Gleams the wan Moon, by floating mist opprest;
Yet here while youth, and health, and labour sleep,
Alone I wander—Calm untroubled rest,
"Nature's soft nurse," deserts the sigh-swoln breast,
And shuns the eyes, that only wake to weep!


by Charlotte Turner Smith |

Sonnet III: 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?
Say---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!


by Charlotte Turner Smith |

Huge Vapours Brood Above the Clifted Shore

 Huge vapours brood above the clifted shore,
Night o'er the ocean settles, dark and mute,
Save where is heard the repercussive roar
Of drowsy billows, on the rugged foot
Of rocks remote; or still more distant tone
Of seamen, in the anchored bark, that tell
The watch relieved; or one deep voice alone,
Singing the hour, and bidding "strike the bell."
All is black shadow, but the lucid line
Marked by the light surf on the level sand,
Or where afar, the ship-lights faintly shine
Like wandering fairy fires, that oft on land
Mislead the pilgrim; such the dubious ray
That wavering reason lends, in life's long darkling way.


by Charlotte Turner Smith |

Sonnet I

 THE partial Muse, has from my earliest hours, 
Smil'd on the rugged path I'm doom'd to tread, 
And still with sportive hand has snatch'd wild flowers, 
To weave fantastic garlands for my head: 
But far, far happier is the lot of those 
Who never learn'd 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 Pity's melting eye 
Stream o'er the ills she knows not to remove, 
Points 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!


by Charlotte Turner Smith |

Sonnet XLIII: The Unhappy Exile

 The unhappy exile, whom his fates confine
To the bleak coast of some unfriendly isle,
Cold, barren, desart, where no harvests 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.