English poem
Sonnet XVIII (WYNDHAM! 'tis not thy blood, tho'…)
by Charlotte Smith (1749–1806)
WYNDHAM! 'tis not thy blood, tho' pure it runs Through a long line of glorious ancestry, Percys and Seymours, Britain's boasted sons, Who trust the honors of their race to thee:
'Tis not thy splendid domes, where Science loves To touch the canvas, and the bust to raise; Thy rich domains, fair fields, and spreading groves; 'Tis not all these the Muse delights to praise:
In birth, and wealth, and honours, great thou art! But nobler in thy independent mind; And in that liberal hand and feeling heart Given thee by Heaven—a blessing to mankind! Unworthy oft may titled fortune be; A soul like thine2is true Nobility!
More by Charlotte Smith
- Sonnet XLVII (THEE, Queen of Shadows!—shall I still…)
- Sonnet XLVIII (NO more my wearied soul attempts…)
- Sonnet XVI (YE vales and woods! fair scenes…)
- Sonnet XVII (ON thy grey bark, in witness…)
- Sonnet XX (ON this blest day may no…)
- Sonnet XXI (GO! cruel tyrant of the human…)
- Sonnet XXII (O SOLITUDE! to thy sequester'd vale…)
- Sonnet XXIII (TO thy bright beams I turn…)