Charlotte Smith (1749–1806)

SHOULD the lone wanderer, fainting on his way,

Rest for a moment of the sultry hours,

And, though his path through thorns and roughness lay,

Pluck the wild rose or woodbine’s gadding flowers;

Weaving gay wreaths beneath some sheltering tree,

The sense of sorrow he awhile may lose:

So have I sought thy flowers, fair Poesy!

So charmed my way with friendship and the Muse.

But darker now grows life’s unhappy day,

Dark with new clouds of evil yet to come;

Her pencil sickening Fancy throws away,

And weary Hope reclines upon the tomb,

And points my wishes to that tranquil shore,

Where the pale spectre, Care, pursues no more!