Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey

by Robert Southey

  To bear with wrongs like these? There was a time

  When if the Bard had feign’d you such a tale

  Your eyes had throbb’d with anger, and your hands

  In honest instinct would have graspt the sword.

  O miserable men who have disgraced

  Your fathers, whom your sons must blush to name!

  Aye,.. ye can threaten me! ye can be brave

  In anger to a woman! one whose virtue

  Upbraids your coward vice; whose name will live

  Honoured and prais’d in song, when not a hand

  Shall root from your forgotten monuments

  The cankering moss. Fools! fools! to think that death

  Is not a thing familiar to my mind!

  As if I knew not what must consummate

  My glory! as if ought that earth can give

  Could tempt me to endure the load of life!...

  Scotchmen! ye saw when Fergus to the altar

  Led me, his maiden Queen. Ye blest me then,..

  I heard you bless me,.. and I thought that Heaven

  Had heard you also and that I was blest,

  For I loved Fergus. Bear me witness, God!

  With what a sacred heart-sincerity

  My lips pronounced the unrecallable vow

  That made me his, him mine; bear witness Thou!

  Before whose throne I this day must appear

  Stain’d with his blood and mine! my heart was his,..

  His in the strength of all its first affections.

  In all obedience, in all love, I kept

  Holy my marriage vow. Behold me Thanes!

  Time hath not changed the face on which his eye

  ‘So often dwelt, when with assiduous care

  He sought my love; with seeming truth, for one,

  Sincere herself, impossible to doubt.

  Time hath not changed that face;.. I speak not now

  With pride of beauties that will feed the worm

  To morrow! but with joyful pride I say

  That if the truest and most perfect love

  Deserved requital, such was ever mine.

  How often reeking from the adulterous bed

  Have I received him! and with no complaint.

  Neglect and insult, cruelty and scorn

  Long, long did I endure, and long curb down

  The indignant nature.

  Tell your countrymen,

  Scotchmen, what I have spoken! say to them

  Ye saw the Queen of Scotland lift the dagger

  Red from her husband’s heart; that in her own

  She plunged it.

  stabs herself

  Tell them also, that she felt

  No guilty fear in death.

  LUCRETIA.

  Scene, the house of COLLATINE.

  Welcome, my father! good Valerius,

  Welcome! and thou too, Brutus! ye were both

  My wedding guests, and fitly ye are come.

  My husband.. Collatine.. alas! no more

  Lucretia’s husband, for thou shalt not clasp

  Pollution to thy bosom,... hear me on!

  For I will tell thee all.

  I sate at eve

  Spinning amid my maidens as I wont,

  When from the camp at Ardea Sextus came.

  Curb down thy swelling feelings, Collatine!

  I little liked the man! yet, for he came

  From Ardea, for he brought me news of thee,

  I gladly gave him welcome, gladly listen’d,..

  Thou canst not tell how gladly! to his tales

  Of battles, and the long and perilous siege;

  And when I laid me down at night to sleep,

  ’Twas with a lighten’d heart,.. I knew thee safe,

  My visions were of thee.

  Nay hear me out i

  And be thou wise in vengeance, so thy wife

  Not vainly shall have suffered. I have wrought

  My soul up to the business of this hour

  That it may stir your noble spirits, prompt

  Such glorious deeds that ages yet unborn

  Shall bless my fate. At midnight I awoke,..

  The Tarquin was beside me! O my husband!

  Where wert thou then! gone was my rebel strength,.

  All power of utterance gone! astonish’d, stunn’d,

  I saw the coward ruffian, heard him urge

  His damned suit, and bid me tamely yield,..

  Yield to dishonour. When he proffer’d death,..

  Oh! had leapt to meet the merciful sword!

  But that with most accursed vows he vow’d

  That he would lay a dead slave by my side,

  Murdering my spotless honour... Collatine!

  From what an anguish have I rescued thee!

  And thou my father, wretched as thou art,

  Thou miserable, childless, poor old man,.,

  Think, father, what that agony had been!

  Now thou mayst sorrow for me, thou mayst bless

  The memory of thy poor, polluted child.

  Look if it have not kindled Brutus’ eye!

  Mysterious man! at last I know thee now,

  I see thy dawning glories!.. to the grave

  Not unrevenged Lucretia shall descend,

  Not always shall her wretched country wear

  The Tarquins yoke! ye will deliver Rome,

  And I have comfort in this dreadful hour.

  Thinkest thou, my husband, that I dreaded death?

  O Collatine! the weapon that had gored

  My bosom, had been ease, been happiness,..

  Elysium, to the hell of his hot grasp.

  Judge if Lucretia could have fear’d to die!

  Stats herself.

  LA CABA.

  FATHER! Count Ilian! here — what here I say, —

  Aloft — look up! — ay, father, here I stand,

  Safe of my purpose now! The way is barr’d; —

  Thou need’st not hasten hither! — Ho! Count Ilian,

  I tell thee I have barr’d the battlements!

  I tell thee that no human power can curb

  A desperate will. The poison and the knife —

  These thou couldst wrest from me; but here I stand

  Beyond thy thrall — free mistress of myself.

  Though thou hadst wings, thou eouldst not overtake

  My purpose. I command my destiny.

  Would I stand dallying on Death’s threshold here,

  If it were possible that hand of man

  Could pluck me back?

  Why didst thou bring me here

  To set my foot, reluctant as I was,

  On this most injured and unhappy land?

  Yonder in Afric — on a foreign shore,

  I might have linger’d out my wretched life —

  I might have found some distant lurking place,

  Where my accursed tale was never known;

  Where Gothic speech would never reach my ear, —

  Where among savages I might have fled

  The leprous curse of infamy! But here —

  In Spain, — in my own country; — night and morn

  Where all good people curse me in their prayers;

  Where every Moorish accent that I hear

  Doth tell me of my country’s overthrow,

  Doth stab me like a dagger to the soul;

  Here — here — in desolated Spain, whose fields

  Yet reek to Heaven with blood, — whose slaughter’d sons

  Lie rotting in the open light of day,

  My victims; — said I, mine? Nay — Nay, Count Ilian,

  They are thy victims! at the throne of God

  Their spirits call for vengeance on thy head;

  Their blood is on thy soul, — even I, myself,

  I am thy victim too, — and this death more

  Must yet be placed in Hell to thy account.

  O my dear country! O my mother Spain!

  My cradle and my gr
ave! — for thou art dear;

  And nursed to thy undoing as I was,

  Still, still I am thy child — and love thee still;

  I shall be written in thy chronicles

  The veriest wretch that ever yet betray’d

  Her native land! From sire to son my name

  Will be transmitted down for infamy! —

  Never again will mother call her child

  La Caba, — an Iscariot curse will lie

  Upon the name, and children in their songs

  Will teach the rocks and hills to echo with it

  Strumpet and traitoress!

  This is thy work, father

  Nay, tell me not my shame is wash’d away —

  That all this ruin and this misery

  Is vengeance for my wrongs. I ask’d not this, —

  I call’d for open, manly, Gothic vengeance.

  Thou wert a vassal, and thy villain lord

  Most falsely and most foully broke his faith;

  Thou wert a father, and the lustful king

  By force abused thy child! — Thou hadst a sword;

  Shame on thee to call in the eimeter

  To do thy work! Thou wert a Goth — a Christian —

  Son of an old and honorable house, —

  It was my boast, my proudest happiness,

  To think I was the daughter of Count Ilian.

  Fool that I am to call this African

  By that good name! O do not spread thy hands

  To me! — and put not on that father’s look!

  Moor! turbaned misbeliever! renegade!

  Circumcised traitor! Thou Count Ilian, Thou! —

  Thou my dear father? — cover me, O Earth?

  Hell, hide me from the knowledge!

  Bristol, 1802.

  THE AMATORY POEMS OF ABEL SHUFFLEBOTTOM

  CONTENTS

  DELIA AT PLAY.

  TO A PAINTER ATTEMPTING DELIA’S PORTRAIT.

  HE PROVES THE EXISTENCE OF A SOUL FROM HIS LOVE FOR DELIA.

  THE POET EXPRESSES HIS FEELINGS RESPECTING A PORTRAIT IN DELIA’S PARLOR.

  ELEGY I. THE POET RELATES HOW HE OBTAINED DELIA’S POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF.

  ELEGY II. THE POET INVOKES THE SPIRITS OF THE ELEMENTS TO APPROACH DELIA.

  ELEGY III. THE POET EXPATIATES ON THE BEAUTY OF DELIA’S HAIR

  ELEGY IV. THE POET RELATES HOW HE STOLE A LOCK OF DELIA’S HAIR, AND HER ANGER.

  DELIA AT PLAY.

  SHE held a Cup and Ball of ivory white,

  Less white the ivory than her snowy hand!

  Enrapt, I watch’d her from my secret stand,

  As now, intent, in innocent delight,

  Her taper fingers twirl’d the giddy ball,

  Now tost it, following still with EAGLE sight,

  Now on the pointed end infix’d its fall.

  Marking her sport I mused, and musing sigh’d.

  Methought the BALL she play’d with was my HEART;

  (Alas! that sport like that should be her pride!)

  And the keen point which steadfast still she eyed

  Wherewith to pierce it, that was CUPID’S dart;

  Shall I not then the cruel Fair condemn

  Who on that dart IMPALES my BOSOM’S GEM?

  TO A PAINTER ATTEMPTING DELIA’S PORTRAIT.

  RASH Painter! canst thou give the ORB OF DAY

  In all its noontide glory? or portray

  The DIAMOND, that athwart the taper’d hall

  Flings the rich flashes of its dazzling light?

  liven if thine art could boast such magic might,

  Yet if it strove to paint my Angel’s EYE,

  Here it perforce must fail. Cease! lest I call

  Heaven’s vengeance on thy sin. Must thou be told

  The CRIME it is to paint DIVINITY?

  Rash Fainter! should the world her charms behold,

  Dim and defiled, as there they needs must be,

  They to their old idolatry would fall,

  And bend before her form the pagan knee,

  Fairer than VENUS, DAUGHTER OF THE SEA.

  HE PROVES THE EXISTENCE OF A SOUL FROM HIS LOVE FOR DELIA.

  Some have denied a soul! THEY NEVER LOVED.

  Far from my Delia now by fate removed,

  At home, abroad, I viewed her every where;

  Her ONLY in the FLOOD OF NOON I see,

  My Goddess Maid, my OMNIPRESENT FAIR,

  For LOVE annihilates world to me!

  And when the weary Sol around his led

  Closes the SABLE CURTAINS of the night,

  SUN OF MY SLUMBERS, on my dazzled sight

  She shines confest. When every sound is dead,

  The SPIRIT OF HER VOICE comes then to roll

  The surge of music o’er my wavy brain.

  Far, far from her my Body drags its chain,

  But sure with Delia I exist a soul!

  THE POET EXPRESSES HIS FEELINGS RESPECTING A PORTRAIT IN DELIA’S PARLOR.

  WOULD I were that portly Gentleman

  With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane,

  Who hangs in Delia’s parlor! For whene’er

  From book or needlework her looks arise,

  On him converge the, SUN-BEAMS of her eyes,

  And he unblamed may gaze upon MY FAIR,

  And oft MY FAIR his favor’d form surveys.

  O HAPPY PICTURE! still on HER to gaze;

  I envy him! and jealous fear alarms,

  Lest the STRONG glance of those divinest charms

  WARM HIM TO LIFE, as in the ancient days,

  When MARBLE MELTED in Pygmalion’s arms.

  I would I were that portly Gentleman

  With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane.

  ELEGY I. THE POET RELATES HOW HE OBTAINED DELIA’S POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF.

  ’Tis mine! what accents can my joy declare?

  Blest be the pressure of the thronging rout!

  Blest be the hand so hasty of my fair,

  That left the tempting corner hanging out!

  I envy not the joy the pilgrim feels,

  After long travel to some distant shrine,

  When at the relic of his saint he kneels,

  For Delia s pocket-handkerchief is mine.

  When first with filching fingers I drew near,

  Keen hope shot tremulous thro’ every vein,

  And when the finish’d deed removed my fear,

  Scarce could my bounding heart its joy contain

  What tho’ the eighth commandment rose to mind,

  It only served a moment’s qualm to move,

  For thefts like this it could not be design’d,

  The eighth commandment WAS NOT MADE FOR LOVE!

  Here when she took the macaroons from me,

  She wiped her mouth to clean the crumbs so sweet

  Dear napkin! yes she wiped her lips in thee!

  Lips sweeter than the macaroons she eat.

  And when she took that pinch of Mocabaw

  That made my Love so delicately sneeze,

  Thee to her Roman nose applied I saw,

  And thou art doubly dear for things like these.

  No washerwoman’s filthy hand shall e’er,

  SWEET POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF! thy worth profane;

  For thou hast touched the rubies of my fair,

  And I will kiss thee o’er and o’er again.

  ELEGY II. THE POET INVOKES THE SPIRITS OF THE ELEMENTS TO APPROACH DELIA.

  He describes her singing.

  Ye Sylphs who banquet on my Delia’s blush,

  Who on her locks of floating gold repose,

  Dip in her cheek your gossamery brush,

  And with its bloom of beauty tinge the rose.

  Hover around her lips on rainbow wing,

  Load from her honeyed breath your viewless feet,

  Bear thence a richer fragrance for the spring,

  And make the lily and the violet sweet.

  Ye Gnomes, whose toil thro’ many
a dateless year

  Its nurture to the infant gem supplies,

  From central caverns bring your diamonds here,

  To ripen in the sun of Delia’s eyes.

  And ye who bathe in Etna’s lava springs,

  Spirits of fire! to see my love advance;

  Fly, Salamanders, on Asbestos wings,

  To wanton in my Delia’s fiery glance.

  She weeps, she weeps! her eye with anguish swells.

  Some tale of sorrow melts my feeling girl?

  NYMPHS! catch the tears, and in your lucid shells’

  Enclose them, embryos the orient pearl.

  She sings! the Nightingale with envy hears,

  The Cherubim bends from his starry throne,

  And motionless are stopt the attentive Spheres,

  To hear more heavenly music than their own.

  Cease, Delia, cease! for all the angel throng,

  Listening to thee, let sleep their golden wires!

  Cease, Delia! cease that too surpassing song,

  Lest, stung to envy, they should break their lyres.

  Cease, ere my senses are to madness driven

  By the strong joy! cease, Delia, lest my soul

  Enrapt, already think itself in heaven,

  And burst my feeble body’s frail controul.

  ELEGY III. THE POET EXPATIATES ON THE BEAUTY OF DELIA’S HAIR

  The comb between whose ivory teeth she strains

  The straitening curls of gold so beamy bright,

  Not spotless merely from the touch remains,

  But issues forth more pure, more milky white.

  The rose-pomatum that the Friseur spreads

  Sometimes with honour’d fingers for my fair,

  No added perfume on her tresses sheds.

  But borrows sweetness from her sweeter hair.

  Happy the Friseur who in Delia’s hair

  With licensed fingers uncontroul’d may rove,

  And happy in his death the dancing bear,