Smiths Speedway Motorsports owns 11 NASCAR tracks: Charlotte, Atlanta, Las Vegas, Bristol, New Hampshire, Texas, Kentucky and Sonoma (Calif.), as well as Dover, Delaware, Nashville and North Wilkesboro. 'Twas morn; and the wind with a hoarse sullen moanNow seem'd dying away in the wood,When the poor wretched mother still drooping, alone,Beheld on the threshold a figure unknown,In gorgeous apparel who stood. Descartar. Docie Annie Smith, North Carolina, Deaths, 1931-1994 Name: Docie Annie Smith Titles and Terms: Event Type: Death Event Date: 25 Aug 1960 Event Place: Charlotte, Mecklenburg, North Carolina Birth Year: 1882 Birth Year (Estimated): Burial Date: 27 Aug 1960 Burial Place: Charlotte, N.C. who knows,From sad experience, more than I, to feelFor thy desponding spirit, as it sinksBeneath procrastinated fears for thoseMore dear to thee than life! who is happy ? Staff writers Adam Bell, Jonathan Limehouse and Joe Marusak contributed. "Walker handled her dealings with John Rice, who published Dublin editions of many of her works. Toward the end of her life, she turned to writing instructive books for children, the best being Conversations Introducing Poetry for the Use of Children (1804). Born Charlotte Turner in London, England, on May 4, 1749; died in Tilford, near Farnham, Surrey, on October 28, 1806; eldest daughter of Nicholas Turner of Stoke House, Surrey, and Anna (Towers) Turner; sister of Catherine Ann Dorset (c. 1750-c. 1817, a noted writer of children's books); married Benjamin Smith, in 1765; children: 12, one of whom, - Tranquil seclusion I have vainly sought; Peace, who delights solitary shade,No more will spread for me her downy wings,But, like the fabled Danads- or the wretch,Who ceaseless, up the steep acclivity,Was doom'd to heave the still rebounding rock,Onward I labour; as the baffled wave,Which yon rough beach repulses, that returnsWith the next breath of wind, to fail again.- Ah! xx xxx xxxx xxxxxxxxx Wayne, Indiana, USA. could I hear your soft voice there, And see you in the forest green All beauteous as you are, more fair You'ld look, amid the sylvan scene, And in a wood-girl's simple guise, Be still more lovely in mine eyes. So light of heart and plumes, away he flew; And, as above the sheltering rock he springs, She listen'd to the echo of his wings; Those well-known sounds, so soothing heretofore, Which her heart whisper'd she should hear no more. Add a correction. a word That like false fire, from marsh effluvia born, Misleads the wanderer, destin'd to contend In the world's wilderness, with want or woe Yet they are happy, who have never ask'd What good or evil means. Norma J. Smith August 15, 2019 Norma Jean Smith passed away peacefully on August 15, 2019 after a brief illness. Indigence again, an abstract quality personified with a capital letter means neediness or poverty. 14604 People 1 Record 2 Sources. [4], The Smiths had twelve children. Smiths ideas often flew in the face of NASCARs more traditional standards. would that I had died, 'E'er you so chang'd ! And that the peasant who, 'amid 5 the sons'Of Reason, Valour, Liberty, and Virtue,'Displays distinguish'd merit, is a Noble'Of Nature's own creation! He married the wealthy Henrietta Meriton in 1765. [3], Smith's novels were read and assessed by friends who were also writers, as she would return the favour and they found it beneficial to improve and encourage each other's work. Versailles appears- its painted galleries,And rooms of regal splendour, rich with gold,Where, by long mirrors multiply'd, the crowdPaid willing homage- and, united there,Beauty gave charms to empire- Ah! THE trees have now hid at the edge of the hurstThe spot where the ruins decayOf the cottage, where Will of the Woodland was nursed,And lived so beloved, till the moment accursedWhen he went from the woodland away.Among all the lads of the plough or the fold;Best esteem'd by the sober and good,Was Will of the Woodlands; and often the oldWould tell of his frolics, for active and boldWas William the boy of the wood.Yet gentle was he, as the breath of the May, And when sick and declining was laidThe woodman his father, young William awayWould go to the forest to labour all day,And perform his hard task in his stead.And when his poor father the forester died, And his mother was sad, and alone,He toil'd from the dawn, and at evening he hiedIn storm or in snow, or whate'er might betide,To supply all her wants from the town.One neighbour they had on the heath to the west,And no other the cottage was near,But she would send Phoebe, the child she loved best,To stay with the widow, thus sad and distress'd,Her hours of dejection to cheer.As the buds of wild roses, the cheeks of the maidWere just tinted with youth's lovely hue,Her form, like the aspen, wild graces display'd,And the eyes, over which her luxuriant locks stray'd,As the skies of the summer were blue.Still labouring to live, yet reflecting the while,Young William consider'd his lot;'Twas hard, yet 'twas honest; and one tender smileFrom Phoebe at night overpaid ev'ry toil,And then all his fatigues were forgot.By the brook where it glides through the copse of Arbeal,When to eat his cold fare he reclined,Then soft from her home his sweet Phoebe would steal,And bring him wood-strawberries to finish his meal,And would sit by his side while he dined.And though when employed in the deep forest glade,His days have seem'd slowly to move,Yet Phoebe going home, through the wood-walk has stray'dTo bid him good night!--and whatever she saidWas more sweet than the voice of the dove.Fair Hope, that the lover so fondly believes,Then repeated each soul-soothing speech,And touch'd with illusion, that often deceivesThe future with light; as the sun through the leavesIllumines the boughs of the beech.But once more the tempests of chill winter blow,To depress and disfigure the earth;And now ere the dawn, the young woodman must goTo his work in the forest, half buried in snow,And at night bring home wood for the hearth.The bridge on the heath by the flood was wash'd down,And fast fell the sleet and the rain,The stream to a wild rapid river was grown,And long might the widow sit sighing aloneEre sweet Phoebe could see her again.At the town was a market--and now for supplies,Such as needed her humble abode,Young William went forth; and his mother with sighsWatch'd long at the window, with tears in her eyes,Till he turn'd through the fields to the road.Then darkness came on; and she heard with affrightThe wind every moment more high;She look'd from the door; not a star lent its light,But the tempest redoubled the gloom of the night,And the rain pour'd in sheets from the sky.The clock in her cottage now mournfully toldThe hours that went heavily on;'Twas midnight: her spirits sank hopeless and cold,And it seem'd as each blast of wind fearfully toldThat long, long would her William be gone.Then heart-sick and cold to her sad bed she crept,Yet first made up the fire in the roomTo guide his dark steps; but she listen'd and wept,Or if for a moment forgetful she slept,Soon she started!--and thought he was come. Are your cares, Ye who despise him, never worse applied ? In 1786, she published it anonymously. GREEN o'er the copses spring's soft hues are spreading,High wave the reeds in the transparent floods,The oak its sear and sallow foliage shedding,From their moss'd cradles start its infant buds.Pale as the tranquil tide of summer's ocean,The willow now its slender leaf unveils;And through the sky with swiftly fleeting motion,Driv'n by the wind, the rack of April sails.Then, as the gust declines, the stealing showersFall fresh and noiseless; while at closing dayThe low sun gleams on moist and half-blown flowers,That promise garlands for approaching May.Bless'd are yon peasant children, simply singing,Who through the new-sprung grass rejoicing rove;More bless'd! Smith's poetry and prose was praised by contemporaries such as Romantic poets William Wordsworth and Samuel Coleridge as well as novelist Walter Scott. She was an amazing wife, mother, and grandmother. One dark night The equinoctial wind blew south by west, Fierce on the shore; the bellowing cliffs were shook Even to their stony base, and fragments fell Flashing and thundering on the angry flood. Time, an Afternoon in April, 1793.Long wintry months are past; the Moon that nowLights her pale crescent even at noon, has madeFour times her revolution; since with step,Mournful and slow, along the wave-worn cliff,Pensive I took my solitary way,Lost in despondence, while contemplatingNot my own wayward destiny alone,(Hard as it is, and difficult to bear! Charlotte had a zest for life and made the most of each minute. Smith was born into a wealthy family and received a typical education for a woman during the late 18th century. 'The Ocean hears--The embodied waters come--Rise o'er the land, and with resistless sweepTear from its base the proud aggressor's tomb,And bear the injured to eternal sleep. This reinforces the idea of being released from those mind-forged chains that bind one to a life of misery, as does the triple-rhyming of save and brave both verbs with positive connotations pertaining to salvation and courage with grave, reinforcing the notion that embracing the grave as a release from suffering is a courageous act. One of the first poets to receive a salary, Henry James Pye claimed Smith was "[excelled] in two species of composition so different as the novel and the sonnet, and whose powers are so equally capable of charming the imagination, and awakening the passions. The favoured son of a doting father, and ruler-in-waiting of the great city, his fate is set. Laura Smith Obituary - Charlotte, NC OBITUARY Laura Christine Smith February 5, 1987 - January 22, 2023 IN THE CARE OF McEwen Funeral Service-Pineville Chapel Laura passed away peacefully on January 22, 2023 following a brief illness. I gave you all 'Your farthest wanderings then were but to fetch 'The pea, the tare, the beechmast, and the vetch, 'For my repast; within my rocky bower, 'With spleenwort shaded, and the blue-bell's flower, 'For prospects then you never wish'd to roam, 'But the best scenery was our happy home; 'And when, beneath my breast, then fair and young, 'Our first dear pair, our earliest nestlings sprung, 'And weakly, indistinctly, tried to coo 'Were not those moments picturesque to you ?' 'Yet what if my Phoebe another should wed,And lament her lost William no more? Enter your email address to subscribe to this site and receive notifications of new posts by email. If we compare a poem by an earlier eighteenth-century poet, like Alexander Pope or Samuel Johnson, with Smiths poem, we can see how the discursive and didactic style of those poets has shifted to a style that is more emotive and personal. I learned to drive, but that career didnt last long., His mother started fighting dirty, Smith recalled with a laugh in a 2005 interview with Motorsport.com, Speedway Motorsports officials said. Clipping found in Port Charlotte Sun in Port Charlotte, Florida on May 4, 2017. againThe driving tempest bears the cry of Death,And, with deep sudden thunder, the dread soundOf cannon vibrates on the tremulous earth;While, bursting in the air, the murderous bombGlares o'er her mansion. [3], At the age of six, Charlotte went to school in Chichester and took drawing lessons from the painter George Smith. A 22-year-old race car driver from Ft. Lauderdale will become the first American on the Formula One grid since 2015 when the season opens this weekend in Bahrain. Death provides an asylum from all of these troubles. In 2011, the Charlotte speedway installed a 16,000 square-foot high-definition video screen, then the largest in the world but since eclipsed by the Big Hoss screen at Smiths Texas track (where Smith also built condos). However, he drew up the will himself and it contained legal problems. Ye pamper'd Parasites! Charlotte A. Smith, age 78, of Rice Lake, WI died Sunday, September 25th, 2022 at Woodstone Assisted Living in Rice Lake. Interesting Literature is a participant in the Amazon EU Associates Programme, an affiliate advertising programme designed to provide a means for sites to earn advertising fees by linking to Amazon.co.uk. Charlotte J. Smith Carthage, MS Charlotte J. Smith, 86, a homemaker, died Sunday, January 22, 2023 at Beehive Personal Care. There (where, from hollows fring'd with yellow broom,The birch with silver rind, and fairy leaf,Aslant the low stream trembles) I have stood,And meditated how to venture bestInto the shallow current, to procureThe willow herb of glowing purple spikes,Or flags, whose sword-like leaves conceal'd the tide,Startling the timid reed-bird from her nest,As with aquatic flowers I wove the wreath,Such as, collected by the shepherd girls,Deck in the villages the turfy shrine,And mark the arrival of propitious May.--How little dream'd I then the time would come,When the bright Sun of that delicious monthShould, from disturb'd and artificial sleep,Awaken me to never-ending toil,To terror and to tears!--Attempting still,With feeble hands and cold desponding heart,To save my children from the o'erwhelming wrongs,That have for ten long years been heap'd on me!--The fearful spectres of chicane and fraudHave, Proteus like, still chang'd their hideous forms(As the Law lent its plausible disguise),Pursuing my faint steps; and I have seenFriendship's sweet bonds (which were so early form'd,)And once I fondly thought of amaranthInwove with silver seven times tried) give way,And fail; as these green fan-like leaves of fernWill wither at the touch of Autumn's frost.Yet there are those , whose patient pity stillHears my long murmurs; who, unwearied, tryWith lenient hands to bind up every woundMy wearied spirit feels, and bid me go"Right onward 7 "--a calm votary of the Nymph,Who, from her adamantine rock, points outTo conscious rectitude the rugged path,That leads at length to Peace!--Ah! "So strangely coveted by feeble ManTo lift him o'er his fellows;--Toy, for whichSuch showers of blood have drench'd th' affrighted earth--Unfortunate his lot, whose luckless headThy jewel'd circlet, lin'd with thorns, has bound;And who, by custom's laws, obtains from theeHereditary right to rule, uncheck'd,Submissive myriads: for untemper'd power,Like steel ill form'd, injures the handIt promis'd to protect--Unhappy France!If e'er thy lilies, trampled now in dust,And blood-bespotted, shall again reviveIn silver splendour, may the wreath be wov'nBy voluntary hands; and Freemen, suchAs England's self might boast, unite to placeThe guarded diadem on his fair brow,Where Loyalty may join with LibertyTo fix it firmly.--In the rugged schoolOf stern Adversity so early train'd,His future life, perchance, may emulateThat of the brave Bernois 4 , so justly call'dThe darling of his people; who rever'dThe Warrior less, than they ador'd the Man!But ne'er may Party Rage, perverse and blind,And base Venality, prevail to raiseTo public trust, a wretch, whose private viceMakes even the wildest profligate recoil;And who, with hireling ruffians leagu'd, has burstThe laws of Nature and Humanity!Wading, beneath the Patriot's specious mask,And in Equality's illusive name,To empire thro' a stream of kindred blood--Innocent prisoner!--most unhappy heirOf fatal greatness, who art suffering nowFor all the crimes and follies of thy race;Better for thee, if o'er thy baby browThe regal mischief never had been held:Then, in an humble sphere, perhaps content,Thou hadst been free and joyous on the heightsOf Pyrennean mountains, shagg'd with woodsOf chesnut, pine, and oak: as on these hillsIs yonder little thoughtless shepherd lad,Who, on the slope abrupt of downy turfReclin'd in playful indolence, sends offThe chalky ball, quick bounding far below;While, half forgetful of his simple task,Hardly his length'ning shadow, or the bells'Slow tinkling of his flock, that supping tendTo the brown fallows in the vale beneath,Where nightly it is folded, from his sportRecal the happy idler.--While I gazeOn his gay vacant countenance, my thoughtsCompare with his obscure, laborious lot,Thine, most unfortunate, imperial Boy!Who round thy sullen prison daily hear'stThe savage howl of Murder, as it seeksThy unoffending life: while sad withinThy wretched Mother, petrified with grief,Views thee with stony eyes, and cannot weep!-- Ah! 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