Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey
Page 24
Enrapt on Beauty’s fascinating form,
Gaze on with love, and loving Beauty, learn
To shun abhorrent all the mental eye
Beholds deform’d and foul; for so shall Love
Climb to the Source of Virtue. God of Truth!
All-Just! All-Mighty! I should ill deserve
Thy noblest gift, the gift divine of song,
If, so content with ear-deep melodies
To please all profitless, I did not pour
Severer strains; of Truth — eternal Truth,
Unchanging Justice, universal Love.
Such strains awake the soul to loftiest thoughts,
Such strains the Blessed Spirits of the Good
Waft, grateful incense, to the Halls of Heaven.
The dying notes still murmur’d on the string,
When from his throne arose the raptur’d King.
About to speak he stood, and wav’d his hand,
And all expectant sat the obedient band.
Then just and gen’rous, thus the Monarch cries,
“Be thine Zorobabel the well earned prize.
“The purple robe of state thy form shall fold,
“The beverage sparkle in thy cup of gold;
“The golden couch, the car, and honor’d chain,
“Requite the merits of thy favor’d strain,
“And rais’d supreme the ennobled race among
“Be call’d MY COUSIN for the victor song.
“Nor these alone the victor song shall bless,
“Ask what thou wilt, and what thou wilt, possess.”
“Fall’n is Jerusalem!” the Hebrew cries.
And patriot anguish fills his streaming eyes,
“Hurl’d to the earth by Rapine’s vengeful rod,
“Polluted lies the temple of our God,
“Far in a foreign land her sons remain,
“Hear the keen taunt, and drag the captive chain:
“In fruitless woe they wear the wearying years,
“And steep the bread of bitterness in tears.
“O Monarch, greatest, mildest, best of men,
“Restore us to those ruin’d walls again!
“Allow our race to rear that sacred dome,
“To live in liberty, and die at Home.”
So spake Zorobabel — thus Woman’s praise
Avail’d again Jerusalem to raise,
Call’d forth the sanction of the Despot’s nod,
And freed the Nation best belov’d of God.
Brixton Causeway, 1793.
WAT TYLER
This poetic drama was composed by Southey in 1794 at the height of his radical period. The play concerns the infamous leader of the 1381 Peasants’ Revolt, who marched a group of protesters from Canterbury to London to oppose the institution of a poll tax. While the brief rebellion enjoyed early success, Tyler was eventually killed by officers of King Richard II, during negotiations at Smithfield in London. At the time of the drama’s composition, Southey was a radical supporter of the French Revolution, along with Wordsworth and Coleridge, who were leaning towards conservatism. Therefore Wat Tyler was an apposite theme with which to voice his anti-government beliefs. However, in later years Southey’s political opinions were to dramatically change and the writing of this play was to come back and haunt him.
From 1807 Southey was honoured by the Tory Establishment as Poet Laureate and in receipt of a yearly stipend, and at this time the poet vigorously supported the Liverpool government. He argued against parliamentary reform, blaming the Peterloo Massacre on the allegedly revolutionary “rabble” killed and injured by government troops and he opposed Catholic emancipation. In 1817 he privately proposed penal transportation for those guilty of “libel” or “sedition”. In that same year Southey was confronted by critics for the publication of Wat Tyler. This attack was instigated by his enemies in an attempt to embarrass the Poet Laureate and highlight his apostasy from radical poet to supporter of the Tory establishment. One of his most savage critics was William Hazlitt. In his portrait of Southey, in The Spirit of the Age, Hazlitt wrote: “He wooed Liberty as a youthful lover, but it was perhaps more as a mistress than a bride; and he has since wedded with an elderly and not very reputable lady, called Legitimacy.” Southey largely ignored his critics, but was forced to defend himself when William Smith, a member of Parliament, rose in the House of Commons on 14 March to assail him. In a spirited response Southey wrote an open letter to the MP, in which he explained that he had always aimed at lessening human misery and bettering the condition of all the lower classes and that he had only changed in respect of “the means by which that amelioration was to be effected”. As he put it, “that as he learnt to understand the institutions of his country, he learnt to appreciate them rightly, to love, and to revere, and to defend them.”
Contemporary depiction of Wat Tyler’s death
CONTENTS
Wat Tyler - Act I
Wat Tyler - Act II
Wat Tyler - Act III
A caricature of Southey’s early radical poetry
WAT TYLER
A DRAMATIC POEM,
IN THREE ACTS
Wat Tyler - Act I
ACT I.
SCENE, A BLACKSMITH’S-SHOP
Wat Tyler at work within. A May-pole
before the Door.
ALICE, PIERS, &c.
SONG.
CHEERFUL on this holiday,
Welcome we the merry May.
On ev’ry sunny hillock spread,
The pale primrose rears her head;
Rich with sweets the western gale
Sweeps along the cowslip’d dale.
Every bank with violets gay,
Smiles to welcome in the May.
The linnet from the budding grove,
Chirps her vernal song of love.
The copse resounds the throstle’s notes,
On each wild gale sweet music floats;
And melody from every spray,
Welcomes in the merry May.
Cheerful on this holiday,
Welcome we the merry May.
[Dance.
During the Dance, Tyler lays down his
Hammer, and sits mournfully down before
his Door.
[To him.
HOB CARTER.
Why so sad, neighbour? — do not these gay sports,
This revelry of youth, recall the days
When we too mingled in the revelry;
And lightly tripping in the morris dance
Welcomed the merry month?
TYLER.
Aye, we were young;
No cares had quell’d the hey-day of the blood:
We sported deftly in the April morning,
Nor mark’d the black clouds gathering o’er our noon;
Nor fear’d the storm of night.
HOB
Beshrew me, Tyler,
But my heart joys to see the imps so cheerful!
Young, hale, and happy, why should they destroy
These blessings by reflection?
TYLER.
Look ye, neighbour —
You have known me long.
HOB.
Since we were boys together,
And play’d at barley-brake, and danc’d the morris: —
Some five-and-twenty years!
TYLER.
Was not I young,
And hale and happy?
HOB.
Cheerful as the best.
TYLER.
Have not I been a staid, hard-working man?
Up with the lark at labour — sober — honest —
Of an unblemish’d character?
HOB.
Who doubts it,
There’s never a man in Essex bears a better.
TYLER.
And shall not these, tho’ young, and hale and happy,
Look on with sorrow to the future hour?
Shall not reflection poison all their pleasur
es?
When I — the honest, staid, hard-working
Tyler, Toil thro’ the long course of the summer’s day,
Still toiling, yet still poor! when with hard labour
Scarce can I furnish out my daily food —
And age comes on to steal away my strength,
And leave me poor and wretched! Why should this be?
My youth was regular — my labour constant —
I married an industrious, virtuous woman;
Nor while I toiled and sweated at the anvil,
Sat she neglectful of her spinning wheel. —
Hob — I have only six groats in the world,
And they must soon by law be taken from me.
HOB.
Curse on these taxes — one succeeds another —
Our ministers — panders of a king’s will —
Drain all our wealth away — waste it in revels —
And lure, or force away our boys, who should be
The props of our old age! — to fill their armies
And feed the crows of France! year follows year,
And still we madly prosecute the war; —
Draining our wealth — distressing our poor peasants —
Slaughtering our youths — and all to crown our chiefs
With Glory! — I detest the hell-sprung name.
TYLER.
What matters me who wears the crown of France?
Whether a Richard or a Charles possess it?
They reap the glory — they enjoy the spoil —
We pay — we bleed! — The sun would shine as cheerly
The rains of heaven as seasonably fall;
Tho’ neither of these royal pests existed.
HOB.
Nay — as for that, we poor men should fare better!
No legal robbers then should force away
The hard-earn’d wages of our honest toil.
The Parliament for ever cries more money,
The service of the state demands more money.
Just heaven! of what service is the state?
TYLER
Oh! ’tis of vast importance! who should pay for
The luxuries and riots of the court?
Who should support the flaunting courtier’s pride,
Pay for their midnight revels, their rich garments,
Did not the state enforce? — Think ye, my friend,
That I — a humble blacksmith, here at Deptford,
Would part with these six groats — earn’d by hard toil,
All that I have! To massacre the Frenchmen,
Murder as enemies men I never saw!
Did not the state compel me?
(Tax gatherers pass by)
There they go, privileg’d r —— — s! —
(PIERS and ALICE advance to him. )
ALICE.
Did we not dance it well to-day, my father?
You know I always lov’d these village sports,
Even from my infancy, and yet methinks
I never tript along the mead so gaily.
You know they chose me queen, and your friend Piers
Wreath’d me this cowslip garland for my head —
Is it not simple? — you are sad, my father!
You should have rested from your work to-day,
And given a few hours up to merriment —
But you are so serious!
TYLER.
Serious, my good girl!
I may well be so: when I look at thee
It makes me sad! thou art too fair a flower
To bear the wintry wind of poverty!
PIERS.
Yet I have often head you speak of riches
Even with contempt: they cannot purchase peace,
Or innocence; or virtue — sounder sleep
Waits on the weary plowman’s lowly bed,
Than on the downy couch of luxury
Lulls the rich slave of pride and indolence.
I never wish for wealth! My arm is strong,
And I can purchase by it a coarse meal,
And hunger savours it.
TYLER.
Young man, thy mind
Has yet to bear the hard lesson of experience.
Thou art yet young, the blasting breath of want
Has not yet froze the current of thy blood.
PIERS.
Fare not the birds well, as from spray to spray
Blithsome they bound — yet find their simple food
Scattered abundantly?
TYLER
No fancied boundaries of mine and thine
Restrain their wanderings: Nature gives enough
For all; but Man, with arrogant selfishness,
Proud of his heaps, hoards up superfluous stores
Robb’d from his weaker fellows, starves the poor,
Or gives to pity what he owes to justice!
PIERS.
So I have heard our good friend John Ball preach.
ALICE.
My father, wherefore was John Ball imprisoned?
Was he not charitable, good, and pious?
I have heard him say that all mankind are brethren,
And that like brethren they should love each other; —
Was not that doctrine pious?
TYLER.
Rank sedition —
High treason, every syllable, my child!
The priests cry out on him for heresy,
The nobles all detest him as a rebel,
And this good man, this minister of Christ,
This man, the friend and brother of mankind,
Lingers in the dark dungeon! — my dear Alice,
Retire awhile.
(Exit ALICE.)
Piers, I would speak to thee
Even with a father’s love! you are much with me,
And I believe do court my conversation;
Thou could’st not chuse thee forth a truer friend;
I would fain see thee happy, but I fear
Thy very virtues will destroy thy peace.
My daughter — she is young — not yet fifteen —
Piers, thou art generous, and thy youthful heart
Warm with affection; this close intimacy
Will ere long grow to love.
PIERS.
Suppose it so;
Were that an evil, Walter? She is mild
And cheerful, and industrious — now methinks
With such a partner life would be most happy!
Why would you warn me then of wretchedness?
Is there an evil that can harm our lot?
I have been told the virtuous must be happy,
And have believed it true; tell me, my friend,
What shall disturb the virtuous?
TYLER
Poverty —
A bitter foe?
PIERS.
Nay, you have often told me
That happiness does not consist in riches.
TYLER.
It is most true: but tell me, my dear boy,
Could’st thou be happy to behold thy wife
Pining with want? — the children of your loves
Clad in the squalid rags of wretchedness?
And when thy hard and unremitting toil
Had earn’d with pain a scanty recompense,
Could’st thou be patient when the law should rob thee,
And leave thee without bread and pennyless?
PIERS
It is a dreadful picture.
TYLER.
’Tis a true one.
PIERS.
But yet methinks our sober industry
Might drive away the danger, ’tis but little
That I could wish — food for our frugal meals,
Raiment, however homely, and a bed
To shield us from the night.
TYLER.
Thy honest reason
Could wish no more: but were it not most wretched
To want the coarse food
for the frugal meal?
And by the orders of your merciless lord,
If you by chance were guilty of being poor,
To be turned out adrift to the bleak world,
Unhoused, unfriended? — Piers, I have not been idle,
I never ate the bread of indolence —
Could Alice be more thrifty than her mother?
Yet but with one child, and that one, how good
Thou knowest, I scarcely can provide the wants
Of nature: look at these wolves of the law,
They come to drain me of my hard earn’d wages.
I have already paid the heavy tax
Laid on the wool that clothes me — on my leather,
On all the needful articles of life!
And now three groats (and I work’d hard to earn them)
The Parliament demands — and I must pay them,
Forsooth, for liberty to wear my head. —
Enter Tax-gatherers.
COLLECTOR.
Three groats a head for all your family.
PIERS.
Why is this money gathered?—’tis a hard tax
On the poor labourer! — It can never be
That government should thus distress the people.
Go to the rich for money — honest labour
Ought to enjoy its fruits.
COLLECTOR.
The state wants money.
War is expensive—’tis a glorious war,
A war of honour, and must be supported. —
Three groats a head.
TYLER.
There, three for my own head,
Three for my wife’s! — what will the state tax next?
COLLECTOR.
You have a daughter.
TYLER.