Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey

by Robert Southey

  More dread than darkness. Soon the distant sound

  Of clanking anvils, and the lengthened breath

  Provoking fire are heard: and now they reach

  A wide expanded den where all around

  Tremendous furnaces, with hellish blaze,

  Flamed dreadful. At the heaving bellows stood

  The meagre form of Care, and as he blew

  To augment the fire, the fire augmented scorch’d

  His wretched limbs: sleepless for ever thus

  He toil’d and toil’d, of toil to reap no end

  But endless toil and never-ending woe.

  An aged man went round the infernal vault,

  Urging his workmen to their ceaseless task:

  White were his locks, as is the wintry snow

  On hoar Plinlimmon’s head. A golden staff

  His steps supported; powerful talisman,

  Which whoso feels shall never feel again

  The tear of Pity, or the throb of Love.

  Touch’d but by this, the massy gates give way,

  The buttress trembles, and the guarded wall,

  Guarded in vain, submits. Him heathens erst

  Had deified, and bowed the suppliant knee

  To Plutus. Nor are now his votaries few,

  Tho’ he the Blessed Teacher of mankind

  Hath said, that easier thro’ the needle’s eye

  Shall the huge camel pass, than the rich man

  Enter the gates of heaven. “Ye cannot serve

  Your God, and worship Mammon.”

  “Missioned Maid!”

  So spake the Angel, “know that these, whose hands

  Round each white furnace ply the unceasing toil,

  Were Mammon’s slaves on earth. They did not spare

  To wring from Poverty the hard-earn’d mite,

  They robb’d the orphan’s pittance, they could see

  Want’s asking eye unmoved; and therefore these,

  Ranged round the furnace, still must persevere

  In Mammon’s service; scorched by these fierce fires,

  And frequent deluged by the o’erboiling ore:

  Yet still so framed, that oft to quench their thirst

  Unquenchable, large draughts of molten gold

  They drink insatiate, still with pain renewed,

  Pain to destroy.”

  So saying, her he led

  Forth from the dreadful cavern to a cell,

  Brilliant with gem-born light. The rugged walls

  Part gleam’d with gold, and part with silver ore

  A milder radiance shone. The Carbuncle

  There its strong lustre like the flamy sun

  Shot forth irradiate; from the earth beneath,

  And from the roof a diamond light emits;

  Rubies and amethysts their glows commix’d

  With the gay topaz, and the softer ray

  Shot from the sapphire, and the emerald’s hue,

  And bright pyropus.

  There on golden seats,

  A numerous, sullen, melancholy train

  Sat silent. “Maiden, these,” said Theodore,

  Are they who let the love of wealth absorb

  All other passions; in their souls that vice

  Struck deeply-rooted, like the poison-tree

  That with its shade spreads barrenness around.

  These, Maid! were men by no atrocious crime

  Blacken’d, no fraud, nor ruffian violence:

  Men of fair dealing, and respectable

  On earth, but such as only for themselves

  Heap’d up their treasures, deeming all their wealth

  Their own, and given to them, by partial Heaven,

  To bless them only: therefore here they sit,

  Possessed of gold enough, and by no pain

  Tormented, save the knowledge of the bliss

  They lost, and vain repentance. Here they dwell,

  Loathing these useless treasures, till the hour

  Of general restitution.”

  Thence they past,

  And now arrived at such a gorgeous dome,

  As even the pomp of Eastern opulence

  Could never equal: wandered thro’ its halls

  A numerous train; some with the red-swoln eye

  Of riot, and intemperance-bloated cheek;

  Some pale and nerveless, and with feeble step,

  And eyes lack-lustre.

  Maiden? said her guide,

  These are the wretched slaves of Appetite,

  Curst with their wish enjoyed. The epicure

  Here pampers his foul frame, till the pall’d sense

  Loaths at the banquet; the voluptuous here

  Plunge in the tempting torrent of delight,

  And sink in misery. All they wish’d on earth,

  Possessing here, whom have they to accuse,

  But their own folly, for the lot they chose?

  Yet, for that these injured themselves alone,

  They to the house of PENITENCE may hie,

  And, by a long and painful regimen,

  To wearied Nature her exhausted powers

  Restore, till they shall learn to form the wish

  Of wisdom, and ALMIGHTY GOODNESS grants

  That prize to him who seeks it.”

  Whilst he spake,

  The board is spread. With bloated paunch, and eye

  Fat swoln, and legs whose monstrous size disgraced

  The human form divine, their caterer,

  Hight GLUTTONY, set forth the smoaking feast.

  And by his side came on a brother form,

  With fiery cheek of purple hue, and red

  And scurfy-white, mix’d motley; his gross bulk,

  Like some huge hogshead shapen’d, as applied.

  Him had antiquity with mystic rites

  Ador’d, to him the sons of Greece, and thine

  Imperial Rome, on many an altar pour’d

  The victim blood, with godlike titles graced,

  BACCHUS, or DIONUSUS; son of JOVE,

  Deem’d falsely, for from FOLLY’S ideot form

  He sprung, what time MADNESS, with furious hand,

  Seiz’d on the laughing female. At one birth

  She brought the brethren, menial here, above

  Reigning with sway supreme, and oft they hold

  High revels: mid the Monastery’s gloom,

  The sacrifice is spread, when the grave voice

  Episcopal, proclaims approaching day

  Of visitation, or Churchwardens meet

  To save the wretched many from the gripe

  Of eager Poverty, or mid thy halls

  Of London, mighty Mayor! rich Aldermen,

  Of coming feast hold converse.

  Otherwhere,

  For tho’ allied in nature as in blood,

  They hold divided sway, his brother lifts

  His spungy sceptre. In the noble domes

  Of Princes, and state-wearied Ministers,

  Maddening he reigns; and when the affrighted mind

  Casts o’er a long career of guilt and blood

  Its eye reluctant, then his aid is sought

  To lull the worm of Conscience to repose.

  He too the halls of country Squires frequents,

  But chiefly loves the learned gloom that shades

  Thy offspring Rhedycina! and thy walls,

  Granta! nightly libations there to him

  Profuse are pour’d, till from the dizzy brain

  Triangles, Circles, Parallelograms,

  Moods, Tenses, Dialects, and Demigods,

  And Logic and Theology are swept

  By the red deluge.

  Unmolested there

  He reigns; till comes at length the general feast,

  Septennial sacrifice; then when the sons

  Of England meet, with watchful care to chuse

  Their delegates, wise, independent men,

  Unbribing and unbrib’d, and cull’d to g
uard

  Their rights and charters from the encroaching grasp

  Of greedy Power: then all the joyful land

  Join in his sacrifices, so inspir’d

  To make the important choice.

  The observing Maid

  Address’d her guide, “These Theodore, thou sayest

  Are men, who pampering their foul appetites,

  Injured themselves alone. But where are they,

  The worst of villains, viper-like, who coil

  Around the guileless female, so to sting

  The heart that loves them?”

  “Them,” the spirit replied,

  A long and dreadful punishment awaits.

  For when the prey of want and infamy,

  Lower and lower still the victim sinks,

  Even to the depth of shame, not one lewd word,

  One impious imprecation from her lips

  Escapes, nay not a thought of evil lurks

  In the polluted mind, that does not plead

  Before the throne of Justice, thunder-tongued

  Against the foul Seducer.”

  Now they reach’d

  The house of PENITENCE. CREDULITY

  Stood at the gate, stretching her eager head

  As tho’ to listen; on her vacant face,

  A smile that promis’d premature assent;

  Tho’ her REGRET behind, a meagre Fiend,

  Disciplin’d sorely.

  Here they entered in,

  And now arrived where, as in study tranced,

  She sat, the Mistress of the Dome. Her face

  Spake that composed severity, that knows

  No angry impulse, no weak tenderness,

  Resolved and calm. Before her lay that Book

  That hath the words of Life; and as she read,

  Sometimes a tear would trickle down her cheek,

  Tho’ heavenly joy beam’d in her eye the while.

  Leaving her undisturb’d, to the first ward

  Of this great Lazar-house, the Angel led

  The favour’d Maid of Orleans. Kneeling down

  On the hard stone that their bare knees had worn,

  In sackcloth robed, a numerous train appear’d:

  Hard-featured some, and some demurely grave;

  Yet such expression stealing from the eye,

  As tho’, that only naked, all the rest

  Was one close fitting mask. A scoffing Fiend,

  For Fiend he was, tho’ wisely serving here

  Mock’d at his patients, and did often pour

  Ashes upon them, and then bid them say

  Their prayers aloud, and then he louder laughed:

  For these were Hypocrites, on earth revered

  As holy ones, who did in public tell

  Their beads, and make long prayers, and cross themselves,

  And call themselves most miserable sinners,

  That so they might be deem’d most pious saints;

  And go all filth, and never let a smile

  Bend their stern muscles, gloomy, sullen men,

  Barren of all affection, and all this

  To please their God, forsooth! and therefore SCORN

  Grinn’d at his patients, making them repeat

  Their solemn farce, with keenest raillery

  Tormenting; but if earnest in their prayer,

  They pour’d the silent sorrows of the soul

  To Heaven, then did they not regard his mocks

  Which then came painless, and HUMILITY

  Soon rescued them, and led to PENITENCE,

  That She might lead to Heaven.

  From thence they came,

  Where, in the next ward, a most wretched band

  Groan’d underneath the bitter tyranny

  Of a fierce Daemon. His coarse hair was red,

  Pale grey his eyes, and blood-shot; and his face

  Wrinkled by such a smile as Malice wears

  In ecstacy. Well-pleased he went around,

  Plunging his dagger in the hearts of some,

  Or probing with a poison’d lance their breasts,

  Or placing coals of fire within their wounds;

  Or seizing some within his mighty grasp,

  He fix’d them on a stake, and then drew back,

  And laugh’d to see them writhe.

  “These,” said the Spirit,

  Are taught by CRUELTY, to loath the lives

  They led themselves. Here are those wicked men

  Who loved to exercise their tyrant power

  On speechless brutes; bad husbands undergo

  A long purgation here; the traffickers

  In human flesh here too are disciplined.

  Till by their suffering they have equall’d all

  The miseries they inflicted, all the mass

  Of wretchedness caused by the wars they waged,

  The towns they burnt, for they who bribe to war

  Are guilty of the blood, the widows left

  In want, the slave or led to suicide,

  Or murdered by the foul infected air

  Of his close dungeon, or more sad than all,

  His virtue lost, his very soul enslaved,

  And driven by woe to wickedness.

  These next,

  Whom thou beholdest in this dreary room,

  So sullen, and with such an eye of hate

  Each on the other scowling, these have been

  False friends. Tormented by their own dark thoughts

  Here they dwell: in the hollow of their hearts

  There is a worm that feeds, and tho’ thou seest

  That skilful leech who willingly would heal

  The ill they suffer, judging of all else

  By their own evil standard, they suspect

  The aid be vainly proffers, lengthening thus

  By vice its punishment.”

  “But who are these,”

  The Maid exclaim’d, “that robed in flowing lawn,

  And mitred, or in scarlet, and in caps

  Like Cardinals, I see in every ward,

  Performing menial service at the beck

  Of all who bid them?”

  Theodore replied,

  These men are they who in the name of CHRIST

  Did heap up wealth, and arrogating power,

  Did make men bow the knee, and call themselves

  Most Reverend Graces and Right Reverend Lords.

  They dwelt in palaces, in purple clothed,

  And in fine linen: therefore are they here;

  And tho’ they would not minister on earth,

  Here penanced they perforce must minister:

  For he, the lowly man of Nazareth,

  Hath said, his kingdom is not of the world.”

  So Saying on they past, and now arrived

  Where such a hideous ghastly groupe abode,

  That the Maid gazed with half-averting eye,

  And shudder’d: each one was a loathly corpse,

  The worm did banquet on his putrid prey,

  Yet had they life and feeling exquisite

  Tho’ motionless and mute.

  “Most wretched men

  Are these, the angel cried. These, JOAN, are bards,

  Whose loose lascivious lays perpetuate

  Who sat them down, deliberately lewd,

  So to awake and pamper lust in minds

  Unborn; and therefore foul of body now

  As then they were of soul, they here abide

  Long as the evil works they left on earth

  Shall live to taint mankind. A dreadful doom!

  Yet amply merited by that bad man

  Who prostitutes the sacred gift of song!”

  And now they reached a huge and massy pile,

  Massy it seem’d, and yet in every blast

  As to its ruin shook. There, porter fit,

  REMORSE for ever his sad vigils kept.

  Pale, hollow-eyed, emaciate, sleepless wretch.

  Inly he groan’d, or, star
ting, wildly shriek’d,

  Aye as the fabric tottering from its base,

  Threatened its fall, and so expectant still

  Lived in the dread of danger still delayed.

  They enter’d there a large and lofty dome,

  O’er whose black marble sides a dim drear light

  Struggled with darkness from the unfrequent lamp.

  Enthroned around, the MURDERERS OF MANKIND,

  Monarchs, the great! the glorious! the august!

  Each bearing on his brow a crown of fire,

  Sat stern and silent. Nimrod he was there,

  First King the mighty hunter; and that Chief

  Who did belie his mother’s fame, that so

  He might be called young Ammon. In this court

  Cæsar was crown’d, accurst liberticide;

  And he who murdered Tully, that cold villain,

  Octavius, tho’ the courtly minion’s lyre

  Hath hymn’d his praise, tho’ Maro sung to him,

  And when Death levelled to original clay

  The royal carcase, FLATTERY, fawning low,

  Fell at his feet, and worshipped the new God.

  Titus was here, the Conqueror of the Jews,

  He the Delight of human-kind misnamed;

  Cæsars and Soldans, Emperors and Kings,

  Here they were all, all who for glory fought,

  Here in the COURT OF GLORY, reaping now

  The meed they merited.

  As gazing round

  The Virgin mark’d the miserable train,

  A deep and hollow voice from one went forth;

  “Thou who art come to view our punishment,

  Maiden of Orleans! hither turn thine eyes,

  For I am he whose bloody victories

  Thy power hath rendered vain. Lo! I am here,

  The hero conqueror of Azincour,

  HENRY OF ENGLAND! — wretched that I am,

  I might have reigned in happiness and peace,

  My coffers full, my subjects undisturb’d,

  And PLENTY and PROSPERITY had loved

  To dwell amongst them: but mine eye beheld

  The realm of France, by faction tempest-torn,

  And therefore I did think that it would fall

  An easy prey. I persecuted those

  Who taught new doctrines, tho’ they taught the truth:

  And when I heard of thousands by the sword

  Cut off, or blasted by the pestilence,

  I calmly counted up my proper gains,

  And sent new herds to slaughter. Temperate

  Myself, no blood that mutinied, no vice

  Tainting my private life, I sent abroad

  MURDER and RAPE; and therefore am I doom’d,

  Like these imperial Sufferers, crown’d with fire,

  Here to remain, till Man’s awaken’d eye

  Shall see the genuine blackness of our deeds,