Charlotte Turner Smith (Шарлотта Смит)

Sonnet 1. The partial Muse, has from my earliest hours

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! 

1. Sonnet 85. The Fairest Flowers Are Gone! For Tempests Fell
2. Sonnet 51. Supposed to have been written in the Hebrides
3. Sonnet 43. The Unhappy Exile
4. Sonnet 64. Here from the Restless Bed of Lingering Pain
5. Sonnet 27. Sighing I See Yon Little Troop at Play

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