Ode to Despair. From the Novel of Emmeline. Charlotte Smith (née Turner) Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. N22357 Smith, Charlotte Turner, 1749-1806. Elegiac sonnets, and other poems. By Charlotte Smith. The first Worcester edition, from the sixth London edition, with additions. Printed at Worcester [Mass.] by Isaiah Thomas, sold by him in Worcester, and by said Thomas and Andrews in Boston 1795 pp. 80-82. xix,[2],22-126,[2]p.,[5] leaves of plates: ill.; 15 cm. (12mo)

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Ode to Despair . From the Novel of Emmeline . THOU spectre of terrific mein , Lord of the hopeless heart and hollow eye , In whose fierce train each form is seen That drives sick Reason to insanity ! I woo thee with unusual pray'r , ' Grim visag'd , comfortless Despair ! ' Approach ; in me a willing victim find , Who seeks thine iron sway — and calls thee kind ! Ah ! hide forever from my sight The faithless flatt'rer Hope — whose pencil , gay , Pourtrays some vision of delight , Then bids the fairy tablet fade away ; While in dire contrast , to mine eyes Thy phantoms , yet more hideous , rise , And Mem'ry draws , from Pleasure's wither'd flow'r , Corrosives for the heart — of fatal pow'r ! I bid the traitor Love , adieu ! Who to this fond , believing bosom came , A guest insidious and untrue , With Pity's soothing voice — in Friendship's name ; The wounds he gave , nor Time shall cure , Nor Reason teach me to endure : And to that breast mild Patience pleads in vain , Which feels the curse — of meriting its pain . Yet not to me , tremendous pow'r ! Thy worst of spirit wounding pangs impart , With which , in dark Conviction's hour , Thou strik'st the guilty , unrepentant heart ! But of illusion long the sport , That dreary , tranquil gloom I court , Where my past errors I may still deplore , And dream of long lost Happiness no more ! To thee I give this tortur'd breast , Where Hope arises but to foster pain ; Ah ! lull its agonies to rest ! Ah ! let me never be deceiv'd again ! But callous , in thy deep repose Behold , in long array , the woes . Of the dread future , calm and undismay'd , Till I may claim the Hope — that shall not fade !