Poem by Charlotte Turner Smith

Sonnet 9. Blest is yon shepherd, on the turf reclined

BLEST is yon shepherd, on the turf reclined,
Who on the varied clouds which float above
Lies idly gazing--while his vacant mind
Pours out some tale antique of rural love!
Ah! he has never felt the pangs that move
Th' indignant spirit, when with selfish pride
Friends, on whose faith the trusting heart relied,
Unkindly shun th' imploring eye of woe!
The ills they ought to soothe with taunts deride,
And laugh at tears themselves have forced to flow.
Nor his rude bosom those fine feelings melt,
Children of Sentiment and Knowledge born,
Through whom each shaft with cruel force is felt,
Empoison'd by deceit--or barb'd with scorn.

1. Sonnet 33. To the Naiad of the Arun
2. Sonnet 16. From Petrarch (YE vales and woods! fair scenes of happier hours!)
3. Sonnet 43. The Unhappy Exile
4. Sonnet 66. The Night-Flood Rakes
5. Sonnet 51. Supposed to have been written in the Hebrides

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