Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey

by Robert Southey

  O Jesus God! I hear her cries —

  I see her in her blood!

  The Captain made me tie her up

  And flog while he stood by,

  And then he curs’d me if I staid

  My hand to hear her cry.

  She groan’d, she shriek’d — I could not spare

  For the Captain he stood by —

  Dear God! that I might rest one night

  From that poor woman’s cry!

  She twisted from the blows — her blood

  Her mangled flesh I see —

  And still the Captain would not spare —

  Oh he was worse than me!

  She could not be more glad than I

  When she was taken down,

  A blessed minute—’twas the last

  That I have ever known!

  I did not close my eyes all night,

  Thinking what I had done;

  I heard her groans and they grew faint

  About the rising sun.

  She groan’d and groan’d, but her groans grew

  Fainter at morning tide,

  Fainter and fainter still they came

  Till at the noon she died.

  They flung her overboard; — poor wretch

  She rested from her pain, —

  But when — O Christ! O blessed God!

  Shall I have rest again!

  I saw the sea close over her,

  Yet she was still in sight;

  I see her twisting every where;

  I see her day and night.

  Go where I will, do what I can

  The wicked one I see —

  Dear Christ have mercy on my soul,

  O God deliver me!

  To morrow I set sail again

  Not to the Negroe shore —

  Wretch that I am I will at least

  Commit that sin no more.

  O give me comfort if you can —

  Oh tell me where to fly —

  And bid me hope, if there be hope,

  For one so lost as I.

  Poor wretch, the stranger he replied,

  Put thou thy trust in heaven,

  And call on him for whose dear sake

  All sins shall be forgiven.

  This night at least is thine, go thou

  And seek the house of prayer,

  There shalt thou hear the word of God

  And he will help thee there!

  Verses Spoken in the Theatre at Oxford, upon the Installation of Lord Grenville

  Grenville, few years have had their course, since last

  Exulting Oxford view’d a spectacle

  Like this day’s pomp; and yet to those who throng’d spring

  These walls, which echo’d then with Portland’s praise,

  What change hath intervened ! The bloom of

  Is fled from many a cheek, where roseate joy

  And beauty bloom’d ; the inexorable Grave

  Hath claim’d its portion ; and the band of youths,

  Who then, collected here as in a port,

  From whence to launch on life’s adventurous sea.

  Stood on the beach, ere this have found their lots

  Of good or evil. Thus the lapse of years,

  Evolving all things in its quiet course,

  Hath wrought for them ; and though those years have seen

  Fearful vicissitudes, of wilder change

  Than history yet had learnt, or old romance

  In wildest mood imagined, yet these too.

  Portentous as they seem, not less have risen,

  Each of its natural cause the sure effect.

  All righteously ordain’d. Lo ! kingdoms wreck’d.

  Thrones overturn’d, built up, then swept away

  Like fabrics in the summer clouds, dispersed

  By the same breath that heap’d them; rightful kings,

  Who, from a line of long-drawn ancestry,

  Held the transmitted sceptre, to the axe

  Bowing the anointed head ; or dragg’d away

  To eat the bread of bondage ; or escaped

  Beneath the shadow of Britannia’s shield,

  There only safe. Such fate have vicious courts,

  Statesmen corrupt, and fear-struck policy,

  Upon themselves drawn down ; till Europe, bound

  In iron chains, lies bleeding in the dust,

  Beneath the feet of upstart tyranny :

  Only the heroic Spaniard, he alone

  Yet unsubdued in these degenerate days.

  With desperate virtue, such as in old time

  Hallow’d Saguntum and Numantia’s name,

  Stands up against the oppressor undismay’d.

  So may the Almighty bless the noble race.

  And crown with happy end their holiest cause!

  Deem not these dread events the monstrous birth

  Of chance ! And thou, O England, who dost ride

  Serene amid the waters of the flood,

  Preserving, even like the Ark of old,

  Amid the general wreck, thy purer faith,

  Domestic loves, and ancient liberty.

  Look to thyself, O England ! for be sure,

  Even to the measure of thine own desert,

  The cup of retribution to thy lips

  Shall soon or late be dealt ! — a thought that well

  Might fill the stoutest heart of all thy sons

  With awful apprehension. Therefore, they

  Who fear the Eternal’s justice, bless thy name,

  Grenville, because the wrongs of Africa

  Cry out no more to draw a curse from Heaven

  On England ! — for if still the trooping sharks

  Track by the scent of death the accursed ship

  Freighted with human anguish, in her wake

  Pursue the chase, crowd round her keel, and dart

  Toward the souhd contending, when they hear

  The frequent carcass, from her guilty deck,

  Dash in the opening deep, no longer now

  The guilt shall rest on England ; but if yet

  There be among her children, hard of heart

  And sear’d of conscience, men who set at nought

  Her laws and God’s own word, upon themselves

  Their sin be visited ! — the red-cross flag,

  Redeem’d from stain so foul, no longer now

  Covereth the abomination.

  This thy praise,

  O Grenville, and while ages roll away

  This shall be thy remembrance. Yea, when all

  For which the tyrant of these abject times

  Hath given his honorable name on earth,

  His nights of innocent sleep, his hopes of heaven;

  When all his triumphs and his deeds of blood,

  The fretful changes of his feverish pride.

  His midnight murders and perfidious plots.

  Are but a tale of years so long gone by.

  That they who read distrust the hideous truth.

  Willing to let a charitable doubt

  Abate their horror; Grenville, even then

  Thy memory will be fresh among mankind ;

  Afric with all her tongues will speak of thee.

  With Wilberforce and Clarkson, he whom Heaven,

  To be the apostle of this holy work,

  Raised up and strengthen’d, and upheld through all

  His arduous toil. To end the glorious task,

  That blessed, that redeeming deed was thine :

  Be it thy pride in life, thy thought in death.

  Thy praise beyond the tomb. The statesman’s fame

  Will fade, the conqueror’s laurel crown grow sear;

  Fame’s loudest trump upon the ear of Time

  Leaves but a dying echo ; they alone

  Are held in everlasting memory.

  Whose deeds partake of heaven. Long ages hence

  Nations unborn, in cities that shall rise

  .Hong the palmy coast, will bless t
hy name;

  And Senegal and secret Niger’s shore.

  And Calabar, no longer startled then

  With sounds of murder, will, like Isis now,

  Ring with the songs that tell of Grenville’s praise.

  Keswick, 1810.

  BOTANY BAY ECLOGUES

  This blank-verse pastoral collection of monologues was written in 1794 and collected in 1797. The first eclogue concerns Elinor, a prostitute being led to transportation, who resolves to make a new life for herself in Australia. The speaker recalls her happy youth and feels shame for the life she was previously compelled to lead. Throughout the cycle of poems, Southey develops a deliberately plain style depicting the suffering that an empire imposes upon humble provincials. In these poems Southey assimilates a whole tradition of eighteenth-century pastoral poetry, stylistically blending a plaintive tone with an authentic Spenserian form. As the poet predicted in a letter to his friend on completing the collection, the Botany Bay Eclogues became popular with readers at once and “Elinor” was widely reprinted in British and American periodicals.

  Botany Bay, New South Wales

  CONTENTS

  ELINOR.

  HUMPHREY AND WILLIAM.

  JOHN, SAMUEL, & RICHARD.

  FREDERIC.

  Southey, close to the time of publication, 1795

  Botany Bay Eclogues

  Where a sight shall shuddering Sorrow find.

  Sad as the ruins of the human mind!

  BOWLES.

  ELINOR.

  (Time, Morning. Scene, the Shore.)

  Once more to daily toil — once more to wear

  The weeds of infamy — from every joy

  The heart can feel excluded, I arise

  Worn out and faint with unremitting woe;

  And once again with wearied steps I trace

  The hollow-sounding shore. The swelling waves

  Gleam to the morning sun, and dazzle o’er

  With many a splendid hue the breezy strand.

  Oh there was once a time when ELINOR

  Gazed on thy opening beam with joyous eye

  Undimm’d by guilt and grief! when her full soul

  Felt thy mild radiance, and the rising day

  Waked but to pleasure! on thy sea-girt verge

  Oft England! have my evening steps stole on,

  Oft have mine eyes surveyed the blue expanse,

  And mark’d the wild wind swell the ruffled surge,

  And seen the upheaved billows bosomed rage

  Rush on the rock; and then my timid soul

  Shrunk at the perils of the boundless deep,

  And heaved a sigh for suffering mariners.

  Ah! little deeming I myself was doom’d.

  To tempt the perils of the boundless deep,

  An Outcast — unbeloved and unbewail’d.

  Why stern Remembrance! must thine iron hand

  Harrow my soul? why calls thy cruel power

  The fields of England to my exil’d eyes,

  The joys which once were mine? even now I see

  The lowly lovely dwelling! even now

  Behold the woodbine clasping its white walls

  And hear the fearless red-breasts chirp around

  To ask their morning meal: — for I was wont

  With friendly band to give their morning meal,

  Was wont to love their song, when lingering morn

  Streak’d o’er the chilly landskip the dim light,

  And thro’ the open’d lattice hung my head

  To view the snow-drop’s bud: and thence at eve

  When mildly fading sunk the summer sun,

  Oft have I loved to mark the rook’s slow course

  And hear his hollow croak, what time he sought

  The church-yard elm, whose wide-embowering boughs

  Full foliaged, half conceal’d the house of God.

  There, my dead father! often have I heard

  Thy hallowed voice explain the wonderous works

  Of Heaven to sinful man. Ah! little deem’d

  Thy virtuous bosom, that thy shameless child

  So soon should spurn the lesson! sink the slave

  Of Vice and Infamy! the hireling prey

  Of brutal appetite! at length worn out

  With famine, and the avenging scourge of guilt,

  Should dare dishonesty — yet dread to die!

  Welcome ye savage lands, ye barbarous climes,

  Where angry England sends her outcast sons —

  I hail your joyless shores! my weary bark

  Long tempest-tost on Life’s inclement sea,

  Here hails her haven! welcomes the drear scene,

  The marshy plain, the briar-entangled wood,

  And all the perils of a world unknown.

  For Elinor has nothing new to fear

  From fickle Fortune! all her rankling shafts

  Barb’d with disgrace, and venom’d with disease.

  Have pierced my bosom, and the dart of death

  Has lost its terrors to a wretch like me.

  Welcome ye marshy heaths! ye pathless woods,

  Where the rude native rests his wearied frame

  Beneath the sheltering shade; where, when the storm,

  As rough and bleak it rolls along the sky,

  Benumbs his naked limbs, he flies to seek

  The dripping shelter. Welcome ye wild plains

  Unbroken by the plough, undelv’d by hand

  Of patient rustic; where for lowing herds,

  And for the music of the bleating flocks,

  Alone is heard the kangaroo’s sad note

  Deepening in distance. Welcome ye rude climes,

  The realm of Nature! for as yet unknown

  The crimes and comforts of luxurious life,

  Nature benignly gives to all enough,

  Denies to all a superfluity,

  What tho’ the garb of infamy I wear,

  Tho’ day by day along the echoing beach

  I cull the wave-worn shells, yet day by day

  I earn in honesty my frugal food,

  And lay me down at night to calm repose.

  No more condemn’d the mercenary tool

  Of brutal lust, while heaves the indignant heart

  With Virtue’s stiffled sigh, to fold my arms

  Round the rank felon, and for daily bread

  To hug contagion to my poison’d breast;

  On these wild shores Repentance’ saviour hand

  Shall probe my secret soul, shall cleanse its wounds

  And fit the faithful penitent for Heaven.

  HUMPHREY AND WILLIAM.

  (Time, Noon.)

  HUMPHREY:

  See’st thou not William that the scorching Sun

  By this time half his daily race has run?

  The savage thrusts his light canoe to shore

  And hurries homeward with his fishy store.

  Suppose we leave awhile this stubborn soil

  To eat our dinner and to rest from toil!

  WILLIAM:

  Agreed. Yon tree whose purple gum bestows

  A ready medicine for the sick-man’s woes,

  Forms with its shadowy boughs a cool retreat

  To shield us from the noontide’s sultry heat.

  Ah Humphrey! now upon old England’s shore

  The weary labourer’s morning work is o’er:

  The woodman now rests from his measur’d stroke

  Flings down his axe and sits beneath the oak,

  Savour’d with hunger there he eats his food,

  There drinks the cooling streamlet of the wood.

  To us no cooling streamlet winds its way,

  No joys domestic crown for us the day,

  The felon’s name, the outcast’s garb we wear,

  Toil all the day, and all the night despair.

  HUMPHREY:

  Ah William! labouring up the furrowed ground

  I used to love the village clock’s dull sound,


  Rejoice to hear my morning toil was done,

  And trudge it homewards when the clock went one.

  ’Twas ere I turn’d a soldier and a sinner!

  Pshaw! curse this whining — let us fall to dinner.

  WILLIAM:

  I too have loved this hour, nor yet forgot

  Each joy domestic of my little cot.

  For at this hour my wife with watchful care

  Was wont each humbler dainty to prepare,

  The keenest sauce by hunger was supplied

  And my poor children prattled at my side.

  Methinks I see the old oak table spread,

  The clean white trencher and the good brown bread,

  The cheese my daily food which Mary made,

  For Mary knew full well the housewife’s trade:

  The jug of cyder, — cyder I could make,

  And then the knives — I won ’em at the wake.

  Another has them now! I toiling here

  Look backward like a child and drop a tear.

  HUMPHREY:

  I love a dismal story, tell me thine,

  Meantime, good Will, I’ll listen as I dine.

  I too my friend can tell a piteous story

  When I turn’d hero how I purchas’d glory.

  WILLIAM:

  But Humphrey, sure thou never canst have known

  The comforts of a little home thine own:

  A home so snug, So chearful too as mine,

  ’Twas always clean, and we could make it fine;

  For there King Charles’s golden rules were seen,

  And there — God bless ’em both — the King and Queen.

  The pewter plates our garnish’d chimney grace

  So nicely scour’d, you might have seen your face;

  And over all, to frighten thieves, was hung

  Well clean’d, altho’ but seldom us’d, my gun.

  Ah! that damn’d gun! I took it down one morn —

  A desperate deal of harm they did my corn!

  Our testy Squire too loved to save the breed,

  So covey upon covey eat my seed.