Charlotte Turner Smith (Шарлотта Смит)

Ode to Death

FRIEND of the wretched! wherefore should the eye
Of blank Despair, whence tears have ceased to flow,
Be turn'd from thee?--Ah! wherefore fears to die
He, who compell'd each poignant grief to know,
Drains to its lowest dregs the cup of woe?
Would Cowardice postpone thy calm embrace,
To linger out long years in torturing pain?
Or not prefer thee to the ills that chase
Him, who too much impoverish'd to obtain
From British Themis right , implores her aid in vain!
Sharp goading Indigence who would not fly,
That urges toil the exhausted strength above?
Or shun the once fond friend's averted eye?
Or who to thy asylum not remove,
To lose the wasting anguish of ungrateful love?
Can then the wounded wretch, who must deplore
What most she loved, to thy cold arms consign'd,
Who hears the voice that soothed her soul no more,
Fear thee , O Death!--Or hug the chains that bind
To joyless, cheerless life, her sick, reluctant mind?

Oh, Misery's cure! who e'er in pale dismay
Has watch'd the angel form they could not save,
And seen their dearest blessing torn away,
May well the terrors of thy triumph brave,
Nor pause in fearful dread before the opening grave! 

1. Sonnet 16. From Petrarch (YE vales and woods! fair scenes of happier hours!)
2. Sonnet 51. Supposed to have been written in the Hebrides
3. Sonnet 33. To the Naiad of the Arun
4. Sonnet 13. From Petrarch (OH! place me where the burning moon)
5. Sonnet 70. On Being Cautioned Against Walking on an Headland Overlooking the Sea Because It Was Frequented by a Lunatic

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