Here you will find the Long Poem The Emigrants: Book II of poet Charlotte Smith
Scene, on an Eminence on one of those Downs, which afford to the South a view of the Sea; to the North of the Weald of Sussex. Time, an Afternoon in April, 1793. Long wintry months are past; the Moon that now Lights her pale crescent even at noon, has made Four times her revolution; since with step, Mournful and slow, along the wave-worn cliff, Pensive I took my solitary way, Lost in despondence, while contemplating Not my own wayward destiny alone, (Hard as it is, and difficult to bear!) But in beholding the unhappy lot Of the lorn Exiles; who, amid the storms Of wild disastrous Anarchy, are thrown, Like shipwreck'd sufferers, on England's coast, To see, perhaps, no more their native land, Where Desolation riots: They, like me, From fairer hopes and happier prospects driven, Shrink from the future, and regret the past. But on this Upland scene, while April comes, With fragrant airs, to fan my throbbing breast, Fain would I snatch an interval from Care, That weighs my wearied spirit down to earth; Courting, once more, the influence of Hope (For "Hope" still waits upon the flowery prime) As here I mark Spring's humid hand unfold The early leaves that fear capricious winds, While, even on shelter'd banks, the timid flowers Give, half reluctantly, their warmer hues To mingle with the primroses'pale stars. No shade the leafless copses yet afford, Nor hide the mossy labours of the Thrush, That, startled, darts across the narrow path; But quickly re-assur'd, resumes his talk, Or adds his louder notes to those that rise From yonder tufted brake; where the white buds Of the first thorn are mingled with the leaves Of that which blossoms on the brow of May. Ah! 'twill not be:---- So many years have pass'd, Since, on my native hills, I learn'd to gaze On these delightful landscapes; and those years Have taught me so much sorrow, that my soul Feels not the joy reviving Nature brings; But, in dark retrospect, dejected dwells On human follies, and on human woes.---- What is the promise of the infant year, The lively verdure, or the bursting blooms, To those, who shrink from horrors such as War Spreads o'er the affrighted world? With swimming eye, Back on the past they throw their mournful looks, And see the Temple, which they fondly hop'd Reason would raise to Liberty, destroy'd By ruffian hands; while, on the ruin'd mass, Flush'd with hot blood, the Fiend of Discord sits In savage triumph; mocking every plea Of policy and justice, as she shews The headless corse of one, whose only crime Was being born a Monarch--Mercy turns, From spectacle so dire, her swol'n eyes; And Liberty, with calm, unruffled brow Magnanimous, as conscious of her strength In Reason's panoply, scorns to distain Her righteous cause with carnage, and resigns To Fraud and Anarchy the infuriate crowd.---- What is the promise of the infant year To those, who (while the poor but peaceful hind Pens, unmolested, the encreasing flock Of his rich master in this sea-fenc'd isle) Survey, in neighbouring countries, scenes that make The sick heart shudder; and the Man, who thinks, Blush for his species? There the trumpet's voice Drowns the soft warbling of the woodland choir; And violets, lurking in their turfy beds Beneath the flow'ring thorn, are stain'd with blood. There fall, at once, the spoiler and the spoil'd; While War, wide-ravaging, annihilates The hope of cultivation; gives to Fiends, The meagre, ghastly Fiends of Want and Woe, The blasted land--There, taunting in the van Of vengeance-breathing armies, Insult stalks; And, in the ranks, "1 Famine, and Sword, and Fire, "Crouch for employment."--Lo! the suffering world, Torn by the fearful conflict, shrinks, amaz'd, From Freedom's name, usurp'd and misapplied, And, cow'ring to the purple Tyrant's rod, Deems that the lesser ill--Deluded Men! Ere ye prophane her ever-glorious name, Or catalogue the thousands that have bled Resisting her; or those, who greatly died Martyrs to Liberty --revert awhile To the black scroll, that tells of regal crimes Committed to destroy her; rather count The hecatombs of victims, who have fallen Beneath a single despot; or who gave Their wasted lives for some disputed claim Between anointed robbers: 2 Monsters both! "3 Oh! Polish'd perturbation--golden care!" So strangely coveted by feeble Man To lift him o'er his fellows;--Toy, for which Such showers of blood have drench'd th'affrighted earth-- Unfortunate his lot, whose luckless head Thy jewel'd circlet, lin'd with thorns, has bound; And who, by custom's laws, obtains from thee Hereditary right to rule, uncheck'd, Submissive myriads: for untemper'd power, Like steel ill form'd, injures the hand It promi