Date: 1784

"The hidden lead indents the murderer's brain; / With one demoniac glance, as down he fell, / The soul starts furious from its vital cell."

— Seward, Anna (1742-1809)

Date: 1784, 1810

"Oh! let thy mind's pure eye behold me soar / Where light, and life, from springs unfailing pour!"

— Seward, Anna (1742-1809)

Date: October 1784

"She grows up, and of course mixes with those who are less interested: strangers will be sincere; she encounters the tongue of the flatterer, he will exaggerate, she finds herself possessed of accomplishments which have been studiously concealed from her, she throws the reins upon the neck of fan...

— Murray, Judith Sargent (1751-1820)

Date: 1784

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 i...

— Smith, Charlotte (1749-1806)

Date: 1784

Ah! poor humanity! so frail, so fair, / Are the fond visions of thy early day, / Till tyrant passion, and corrosive care, / Bid all thy fairy colours fade away!"

— Smith, Charlotte (1749-1806)

Date: 1784

"Ah! season of delight!--could aught be found / To soothe awhile the tortur'd bosom's pain, / Of Sorrow's rankling shaft to cure the wound, / And bring life's first delusions once again, / 'Twere surely met in thee!."

— Smith, Charlotte (1749-1806)

Date: 1784

"Whate'er my destiny may be, / That faithful heart, still burns for thee!"

— Smith, Charlotte (1749-1806)

Date: 1784

Go, cruel tyrant of the human breast! / To other hearts, thy burning arrows bear; / Go, where fond hope, and fair illusion rest!"

— Smith, Charlotte (1749-1806)

Date: 1784

"I hurry forward, passion's helplesss slave! And scorning reason's mild and sober light, / Pursue the path that leads me to the grave!"

— Smith, Charlotte (1749-1806)

Date: 1784

"Not death itself thine empire can destroy; / Towards thee, even then, we turn the languid eye; / Still trust in thee to bid our memory bloom, / And scatter roses round the silent tomb."

— Smith, Charlotte (1749-1806)