Travelling painfully over the rugged road,
Wild-visaged Wanderer! God help thee, wretched one!
Sorely thy little one drags by thee barefooted;
Cold is the baby that hangs at thy bending back,
Meagre, and livid, and screaming for misery.
Woe-begone mother, half anger, half agony,
As over thy shoulder thou lookest to hush the babe,
Bleakly the blinding snow beats in thy haggard face.
Ne’er will thy husband return from the war again,
Cold is thy heart, and as frozen as Charity!
Cold are thy children. — Now God be thy comforter!
Bristol, 1795.
THE WIDOW.
SAPPHICS.
COLD was the night wind, drifting fast the snow fell
Wide were the downs, and shelterless and naked,
When a poor Wanderer struggled on her journey,
Weary and way-sore.
Drear were the downs, more dreary her reflections,
Cold was the night-wind, colder was her bosom;
She had no home, the world was all before her,
She had no shelter.
Fast o’er the heath a chariot rattled by her,
“Pity me!” feebly cried the lonely wanderer;
“Pity me, strangers! lest with cold and hunger
Here I should perish.
“Once I had friends, — though now by all forsaken!
Once I had parents, — they are now in heaven!
I had a home once — I had once a husband —
Pity me, strangers!
“I had a home once — I had once a husband
I am a widow, poor and broken-hearted!”
Loud blew the wind; unheard was her complaining,
On drove the chariot.
Then on the snow she laid her down to rest her;
She heard a horseman; “Pity me!” she groan’d
out;
Loud was the wind; unheard was her complaining;
On went the horseman.
Worn out with anguish, toil, and cold, and hunger,
Down sunk the Wanderer; sleep had seized her
senses;
There did the traveller find her in the morning;
GOD had released her.
Bristol, 1795.
THE CHAPEL BELL.
Lo I, the man who from the Muse did ask
Her deepest notes to swell the Patriot’s meeds,
Am now enforced, a far unfitter task,
For cap and gown to leave my minstrel weeds;
For yon dull tone, that tinkles on the air,
Bids me lay by the lyre and go to morning prayer.
O how I hate the sound! it is the knell
That still a requiem tolls to Comfort’s hour;
And loath am I, at Superstition’s bell,
To quit or Morpheus’ or the Muse’s bower:
Better to lie and doze, than gape amain,
Hearing still mumbled o’er the same eternal strain.
Thou tedious herald of more tedious prayers,
Say, dost thou ever summon from his rest
One being wakening to religious cares?
Or rouse one pious transport in the breast?
Or rather, do not all reluctant creep
To linger out the time in listlessness or sleep?
I love the bell that calls the poor to pray,
Chiming from village church its cheerful sound,
When the sun smiles on Labor’s holy-day,
And all the rustic train are gather’d round,
Each deftly dizen’d in his Sunday’s best,
And pleased to hail the day of piety and rest.
And when, dim shadowing o’er the face of day,
The mantling mists of even-tide rise slow,
As through the forest gloom I wend my way,
The minster curfew’s sullen voice I know,
And pause, and love its solemn toll to hear,
As made by distance soft it dies upon the ear.
Nor with an idle nor unwilling ear
Do I receive the early passing-bell;
For, sick at heart with many a secret care,
When I lie listening to the dead man’s knell,
I think that in the grave all sorrows cease,
And would full fain recline my head and be at peace.
But thou, memorial of monastic gall!
What fancy sad or lightsome hast thou given?
Thy vision-scaring sounds alone recall
The prayer that trembles on a yawn to heaven,
The snuffling, snaffling Fellow’s nasal tone,
id Romish rites retain’d, though Romish faith be flown.
Oxford, 1793.
TO HYMEN.
GOD of the torch, whose soul-illuming flame
Beams brightest radiance o’er the human heart,
Of many a woe the cure,
Of many a joy the source;
To thee I sing, if haply may the Muse
Pour forth the song unblamed from these dull haunts,
Where never beams thy torch
To cheer the sullen scene.
I pour the song to thee, though haply doom d
Alone and unbeloved to pass my days;
Though doom’d perchance to die
Alone and unbewail’d.
Yet will the lark, albeit in cage enthrall’d,
Send out her voice to greet the morning sun,
As wide his cheerful beams
Light up the landscape round;
When high in heaven she hears the caroling,
The prisoner too begins her morning hymn,
And hails the beam of joy,
Of joy to her denied.
Friend to each better feeling of the soul,
I sing to thee, for many a joy is thine,
And many a Virtue comes
To join thy happy train.
Lured by the splendor of thy sacred torch,
The beacon-light of bliss, young Love draws near,
And leads his willing slaves
To wear thy flowery chain.
And chasten’d Friendship comes, whose mildest sway
Shall cheer the hour of age, when fainter burn
The fading flame of Love,
The fading flame of Life.
Parent of every bliss, the busy hand
Of Fancy oft will paint in brightest hues
How calm, how clear, thy torch
Illumes the wintry hour;
Will paint the wearied laborer at that hour,
When friendly darkness yields a pause to toil,
Returning blithely home
To each domestic joy;
Will paint the well-trimm’d fire, the frugal meal
Prepared with fond solicitude to please;
The ruddy children round
Climbing the father’s knee.
And oft will Fancy rise above the lot
Of honest Poverty, and think how man
Nor rich, nor poor, enjoys
His best and happiest state;
When toil no longer irksome and constrain’d
By hard necessity, but comes to please,
To vary the still hour
Of tranquil happiness.
Why, Fancy, wilt thou, o’er the lovely scene
Pouring thy vivid hues, why, sorceress bland,
Soothe sad reality
With visionary bliss?
Turn thou thine eyes to where the hallowed light
Of Learning shines; ah, rather lead thy son
Along her mystic paths
To drink the sacred spring.
Lead calmly on along the unvaried path
To solitary Age’s drear abode; —
Is it not happiness
That gives the sting to Death?
Well then is he whose unimbitter’d years
Are waning on in lonely listlessness;
If Life hath little joy,
&
nbsp; Death hath for him no sting.
Oxford, 1794
WRITTEN ON THE FIRST OF DECEMBER.
THOUGH now no more the musing ear
Delights to listen to the breeze,
That lingers o’er the green-wood shade,
I love thee, Winter! well.
Sweet are the harmonies of Spring;
Sweet is the Summer’s evening gale;
And sweet the Autumnal winds that shake
The many-color’d grove.
And pleasant to the sober’d soul
The silence of the wintry scene,
When Nature shrouds herself, entranced
In deep tranquillity.
Not undelightful now to roam
The wild heath sparkling on the sight;
Not undelightful now to pace
The forest’s ample rounds; —
And see the spangled branches shine;
And mark the moss of many a hue
That varies the old tree’s brown bark,
Or o’er the gray stone spreads; —
And see the cluster’d berries bright
Amid the holly’s gay green leaves;
The ivy round the leafless oak
That clasps its foliage close.
So Virtue, diffident of strength,
Clings to Religion’s firmer aid;
So, by Religion’s aid upheld,
Endures calamity.
Nor void of beauties now the spring,
Whose waters hid from summer-sun
Have soothed the thirsty pilgrim’s ear
With more than melody.
Green moss shines there with ice incased;
The long grass bends its spear-like form;
And lovely is the silvery scene
When faint the sun-beams smile.
Reflection, too, may love the hour
When Nature, hid in Winter’s grave,
No more expands the bursting bud,
Or bids the floweret bloom;
For Nature soon in Spring’s best charms,
Shall rise revived from Winter’s grave,
Expand the bursting bud again,
And bid the flower re-bloom.
Bath, 1793.
WRITTEN ON THE FIRST OF JANUARY.
COME, melancholy Moralizer, come!
Gather with me the dark and wintry wreath;
With me engarland now
The Sepulchre of Time.
Come, Moralizer, to the funeral song!
I pour the dirge of the Departed Days;
For well the funeral song
Befits this solemn hour.
But hark! even now the merry bells ring round
With clamorous joy to welcome in this day,
This consecrated day
To Joy and Merriment.
Mortal! while Fortune with benignant hand
Fills to the brim thy cup of happiness,
Whilst her unclouded sun
Illumes thy summer day, —
Canst thou rejoice, — rejoice that Time flies fast:
That night shall shadow soon thy summer sun?
That swift the stream of Years
Rolls to Eternity?
If thou hast wealth to gratify each wish,
If power be thine, remember what thou art!
Remember thou art Man,
And Death thine heritage!
Hast thou known Love! Doth Beauty’s better sun
Cheer thy fond heart with no capricious smile,
Her eye all eloquence,
All harmony her voice?
Oh state of happiness! — Hark! how the gale
Moans deep and hollow through the leafless grove!
Winter is dark and cold;
Where now the charms of Spring!
Say’st thou that Fancy paints the future scene
In hues too sombrous? that the dark-stoled Maid
With frowning front severe
Appalls the shuddering soul:
And wouldst thou bid me court her fairy form,
When, as she sports her in some happier mood,
Her many-colored robes
Float varying in the sun?
Ah! vainly does the Pilgrim, whose long road
Leads o’er a barren mountain’s storm-vex’d height,
With wistful eye behold
Some quiet vale, far off.
And there are those who love the pensive song,
To whom all sounds of Mirth are dissonant;
Them in accordant mood
This thoughtful strain will find.
For hopeless Sorrow hails the lapse of Time,
Rejoicing when the fading orb of day
Is sunk again in night,
That one day more is gone.
And he who bears Affliction’s heavy load
With patient piety, well pleased he knows
The World a pilgrimage,
The Grave his inn of rest.
Bath, 1794.
WRITTEN ON SUNDAY MORNING.
Go thou and seek the House of Praver!
I to the woodlands wend, and there
In lovely Nature see the God of Love.
The swelling organ’s peal
Wakes not my soul to zeal,
Like the sweet music of the vernal grove.
The gorgeous altar and the mystic vest
Excite not such devotion in my breast,
As where the noon-tide beam,
Flash’d from some broken stream,
Vibrates on the dazzled sight;
Or where the cloud-suspended rain
Sweeps in shadows o’er the plain;
Or when, reclining on the cliff s huge height,
I mark the billows burst in silver light.
Go thou and seek the House of Prayer!
I to the Woodlands shall repair,
Feed with all Nature’s charms mine eyes,
And hear all Nature’s melodies.
The primrose bank will there dispense
Faint fragrance to the awaken’d sense;
The morning beams that life and joy impart,
Will with their influence warm my heart,
And the full tear that down my cheek will steal,
Will speak the prayer of praise I feel.
Go thou and seek the House of Prayer!
I to the Woodlands bend my way,
And meet Religion there!
She needs not haunt the high-arch’d dome to pray,
Where storied windows dim the doubtful day;
At liberty she loves to rove,
Wide o’er the healthy hill or cowslip’d dale
Or seek the shelter of the embowering grove,
Or with the streamlet wind along the vale.
Sweet are these scenes toiler; and when the Night
Pours in the North her silver streams of light,
She wooes reflection in the silent gloom,
And ponders on the world to come.
Bristol. 1795.
THE RACE OF BANQUO.
A FRAGMENT.
“FLY, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly!
Leave thy guilty sire to die!”
O’er the heath the stripling fled,
The wild storm howling round his head:
Fear, mightier through the shades of night,
Urged his feet, and wing’d his flight;
And still he heard his father’s cry,
“Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly!”
“Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly!
Leave thy guilty sire to die!”
On every blast was heard the moan,
The anguish’d shriek, the death-fraught groan;
Loathly night-hags join the yell,
And lo! — the midnight rites of Hell!
“Forms of magic! spare my life!
Shield me from the murderer’s knife!
Before me, dim in lurid light,
Float the phantoms of the night —
Behind I hear my father
cry,
Fly, son of Banquo — Fleance, fly!”
“Parent of the sceptred race,
Boldly tread the circled space,
Boldly, Fleance, venture near,
Sire of monarch, spurn at fear.
Sisters, with prophetic breath,
Pour we now the dirge of Death!”
Oxford, 1793.
WRITTEN IN ALENTEJO, JANUARY 23, 1796.
1.
WHEN at morn, the Muleteer
With early call announces day,
Sorrowing that early call I hear,
Which scares the visions of delight away
For dear to me the silent hour
When sleep exerts its wizard power,
And busy fancy, then let free,
Borne on the wings of Hope, ray Edith, flies to thee.
2.
When the slant sunbeams crest
The mountain’s shadowy breast;
When on the upland slope
Shines the green myrtle wet with morning dew,
And lovely as the youthful dreams of Hope,
The dim-seen landscape opens on the view,
I gaze around, with raptured eyes,
On Nature’s charms, where no illusion lies,
And drop the joy and memory mingled tear,
And sigh to think that Edith is not here.
3.
At the cool hour of even,
When all is calm and still,
And o’er the western hill
A richer radiance robes the mellow’d heaven,
Absorb’d in darkness thence,
When slowly fades in night
Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey Page 33