4.
Blow fair, blow fair, thou orient gale!
On the white bosom of the sail,
Ye Winds, enamor’d, lingering lie!
Ye Waves of ocean, spare the bark,
Ye tempests of the sky!
From distant realms she comes to bring
The sugar for my Pie.
For this on Gambia’s arid side
The Vulture’s feet are scaled with blood,
And Beelzebub beholds with pride
H is darling planter brood.
5.
First in the spring thy leaves were seen,
Thou beauteous bush, so early green!
Soon ceased thy blossoms’ little life of love
O safer than the gold-fruit-bearing tree,
The glory of that old Hesperian grove, —
No Dragon does there need for thee
With quintessential sting to work alarms,
Prepotent guardian of thy fruitage fine,
Thou vegetable Porcupine! —
And didst thou scratch thy tender arms,
O Jane! that I should dine!
6.
The flour, the sugar, and the fruit,
Commingled well, how well they suit!
And they were well bestow’d.
O Jane, with truth I praise your Pie,
And will not you in just reply
Praise my Pindaric Ode?
Exeter, 1799.
TO A BEE.
1.
Thou wert out betimes, thou busy, busy Bee!
As abroad I took my early way,
Before the Cow from her resting-place
Had risen up and left her trace
On the meadow, with dew so gray,
Saw I thee, thou busy, busy Bee.
2.
Thou wert working late, thou busy, busy Bee!
After the fall of the Cistus flower,
When the Primrose-of-evening was ready to burst,
I heard thee last, as I saw thee first;
In the silence of the evening hour,
Heard I thee, thou busy, busy Bee.
3.
Thou art a miser, thou busy, busy Bee!
Late and early at employ;
Still on thy golden stores intent,
Thy summer in heaping and hoarding is spent
What thy winter will never enjoy;
Wise lesson this for me, thou busy, busy Bee!
4.
Little dost thou think, thou busy, busy Bee!
What is the end of thy toil.
When the latest flowers of the ivy are gone,
And all thy work for the year is done,
Thy master conies for the spoil.
Woe then for thee, thou busy, busy Bee!
Westbury, 1799.
TO A SPIDER.
1.
SPIDER! thou need’st not run in fear about
To shun my curious eyes;
I won’t humanely crush thy bowels out
Lest thou shouldst eat the flies;
Nor will I roast thee with a damn’d delight
Thy strange instinctive fortitude to see,
For there is One who might
One day roast me.
2.
Thou art welcome to a Rhymer sore-perplex’d,
The subject of his verse;
There’s many a one who, on a better text,
Perhaps might comment worse.
Then shrink not old Free-Mason, from my view,
But quietly like me spin out the line;
Do thou thy work pursue,
As I will mine.
3.
Weaver of snares, thou emblemest the ways
Of Satan, Sire of lies;
Hell’s huge black Spider, for mankind he lays
His toils, as thou for flies.
When Betty’s busy eye runs round the room,
Woe to that nice geometry, if seen!
But where is he whose broom
The earth shall clean?
4.
Spider! of old thy flimsy webs were thought —
And ’twas a likeness true —
To emblem laws in which the weak are caught,
But which the strong break through:
And if a victim in thy toils is ta’en,
Like some poor client is that wretched fly,
I’ll warrant thee thou’lt drain
His life-blood dry.
5.
And is not thy weak work like human schemes
And care on earth employ’d?
Such are young hopes and Love’s delightful dreams
So easily destroy’d!
So does the Statesman, whilst the Avengers sleep,
Self-deem’d secure, his wiles in secret lay;
Soon shall destruction sweep
His work away.
6.
Thou busy laborer! one resemblance more
Way yet the verse prolong,
For, Spider, thou art like the Poet poor,
Whom thou hast help’d in song.
Both busily our needful food to win,
We work, as Nature taught, with ceaseless pains,
Thy bowels thou dost spin,
I spin my brains.
Westbury, 1798.
THE DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM
THE rage of Babylon is roused,
The King puts forth his strength;
And Judah bends the bow
And points her arrows for the coming war.
Her walls are firm, her gates are strong,
Her youth gird on the sword;
High are her chiefs in hope,
For soon will Egypt send the promised aid.
But who is he whose voice of woe
Is heard amid the streets?
Whose ominous voice proclaims
Her strength, and arms, and promised succors vain?
His meagre cheek is pale and sunk,
Wild is his hollow eye,
Yet awful is its glance;
And who could bear the anger of his frown?
PROPHET of GOD! in vain thy lips
Proclaim the woe to come;
In vain thy warning voice
Summons her rulers timely to repent!
The Ethiop changes not his skin.
Impious and reckless still
The rulers spurn thy voice,
And now the measure of their crimes is full.
For now around Jerusalem
The countless foes appear;
Far as the eye can reach
Spreads the wide horror of the circling siege.
Why is the warrior’s cheek so pale?
Why droops the gallant youth
Who late in pride of heart
Sharpen’d his javelin for the welcome war?
’Tis not for terror that his eye
Swells with the struggling woe;
Oh! he could bear his ills,
Or rush to death, and in the grave have peace.
His parents do not ask for food,
But they are weak with want;
His wife has given her babes
Her wretched pittance, — she makes no complaint.
The consummating hour is come!
Alas for Solyma!
How is she desolate, —
She that was great among the nations, fallen!
And thou — thou miserable King —
Where is thy trusted flock,
Thy flock so beautiful,
Thy Father’s throne, the temple of thy God?
Repentance brings not back the past;
It will not call again
Thy murder’d sons to life,
Nor vision to those eyeless sockets more.
Thou wretched, childless, blind, old man,
Heavy thy punishment;
Dreadful thy present woes,
Alas, more dreadful thy remember’d guilt!
Westbury, 1798.
THE DEATH OF WALLACE.
<
br /> JOY, joy in London now!
He goes, the rebel Wallace goes to death;
At length the traitor meets the traitor’s doom,
Joy, joy, in London now!
He on a sledge is drawn,
His strong right arm unweapon’d and in chains,
And garlanded around his helmless head
The laurel wreath of scorn.
They throng to view him now
Who in the field had fled before his sword,
Who at the name of Wallace once grew pale
And falter’d out a prayer.
Yes! they can meet his eye,
That only beams with patient courage now;
Yes! they can look upon those manly limbs
Defenceless now and bound.
And that eye did not shrink
As he beheld the pomp of infamy;
Nor one ungovern’d feeling shook those limbs,
When the last moment came.
What though suspended sense
Was by their legal cruelty revived;
What though ingenious vengeance lengthen’d life
To feel protracted death?
What though the hangman’s hand
Grasped in his living breast the heaving heart? —
In the last agony, the last, sick pang,
Wallace had comfort still.
He call’d to mind his deeds
Done for his country in the embattled field;
He thought of that good cause for which he died.
And it was joy in death.
Go, Edward! triumph now!
Cambria is fallen, and Scotland’s strength is crush’d;
On Wallace, on Llewellyn’s mangled limbs,
The fowls of Heaven have fed.
Unrivall’d, unopposed,
Go, Edward, full of glory to thy grave!
The weight of patriot blood upon thy soul,
Go, Edward, to thy God!
Westbury, 1793.
THE SPANISH ARMADA.
CLEAR shone the morn, the gale was fair,
When from Coruna’s crowded port
With many a cheerful shout and loud acclaim
The huge Armada past.
To England’s shores their streamers point,
To England’s shores their sails are spread.
They go to triumph o’er the sea-girt land,
And Rome hath blest their arms.
Along the ocean’s echoing verge,
Along the mountain range of rocks,
The clustering multitudes behold their pomp,
And raise the votive prayer.
Commingling with the ocean’s roar
Ceaseless and hoarse their murmurs rise,
And soon they trust to see the winged bark
That bears good tidings home.
The watch-tower now in distance sinks,
And now Galicia’s mountain rocks
Faint as the far-off clouds of evening lie,
And now they fade away.
Each like some moving citadel,
On through the waves they sail sublime;
And now the Spaniards see the silvery cliffs,
Behold the sea-girt land!
O fools! to think that ever foe
Should triumph o’er that sea-girt land!
O fools! to think that ever Britain’s sons
Should wear the stranger’s yoke!
For not in vain hath Nature rear’d
Around her coast those silvery cliffs;
For not in vain old Ocean spreads his waves
To guard his favourite isle!
On come her gallant mariners!
What now avail Rome’s boasted charms?
Where are the Spaniard’s vaunts of eager wrath?
His hopes of conquest now?
And hark! the angry Winds arise;
Old Ocean heaves his angry Waves;
The Winds and Waves against the invaders fight,
To guard the sea-girt land.
Howling around his palace-towers
The Spanish despot hears the storm;
He thinks upon his navies far away,
And boding doubts arise.
Long, over Biscay’s boisterous surge
The watchman’s aching eye shall strain!
Long shall he gaze, but never wing’d bark
Shall bear good tidings home.
Westbury, 1793.
ST. BARTHOLOMEW’S DAY.
THE night is come; no fears disturb
The dreams of innocence;
They trust in kingly faith and kingly oaths;
They sleep, — alas! they sleep!
Go to the palace, wouldst thou know
How hideous night can be;
Eye is not closed in those accursed walls,
Nor heart at quiet there.
The Monarch from the window leans,
He listens to the night,
And with a horrible and eager hope
Awaits the midnight bell.
Oh, he has Hell within him now!
God, always art thou just!
For innocence can never know such pangs
As pierce successful guilt.
He looks abroad, and all is still.
Hark! — now the midnight bell
Sounds through the silence of the night alone, —
And now the signal gun!
Thy hand is on him, righteous God!
He hears the frantic shrieks,
He hears the glorying yells of massacre,
And he repents, — too late.
He hears the murderer’s savage shout,
He hears the groan of death;
In vain they lay, — soldiers defenceless now,
Women, old men, and babes.
Righteous and just art thou, O God!
For at his dying hour
Those shrieks and groans reechoed in his ear,
He heard that murderous yell!
They throng’d around his midnight couch,
The phantoms of the slain; —
It prey’d like poison on his powers of life:
Righteous art thou, O God!
Spirits! who suffer’d at that hour
For freedom and for faith.
Ye saw your country bent beneath the yoke,
Her faith and freedom crush’d.
And like a giant from his sleep
Ye saw when France awoke;
Ye saw the people burst their double chain,
And ye had joy in Heaven!
Westbury, 1798.
THE HOLLY-TREE.
1.
O READER! hast thou ever stood to see
The Holly-Tree?
The eye that contemplates it well perceives
Its glossy leaves
Order’d by an intelligence so wise,
As might confound the Atheist’s sophistries.
2.
Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen
Wrinkled and keen;
No grazing cattle through their prickly round
Can reach to wound;
But as they grow where nothing is to fear,
Smooth and unarm’d the pointless leaves appear.
3.
I love to view these things with curious eyes,
And moralize;
And in this wisdom of the Holly-Tree
Can emblem see
Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme,
One which may profit in the after time.
4.
Thus, though abroad perchance I might appear
Harsh and austere,
To those who on my leisure would intrude
Reserved and rude,
Gentle at home amid my friends I’d be
Like the high leaves upon the Holly-Tree.
5.
And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know,
Some harshness show,
All vain asperities I day by day
Would wear away,
Till the smooth temper of my age should be
Like the high leaves upon the Holly-Tree.
6.
And as, when all the summer trees are seen
So bright and green,
The Holly leaves a sober hue display
Less bright than they;
But when the bare and wintry woods we see,
What then so cheerful as the Holly-Tree?
7.
So serious should my youth appear among
The thoughtless throng;
So would I seem amid the young and gay
More grave than they,
That in my age as cheerful I might be
As the green winter of the Holly-Tree.
Westbury, 1798.
THE EBB TIDE.
SLOWLY thy flowing tide
Came in, old Avon! scarcely did mine eyes,
At? watchfully I roam’d thy green-wood side,
Perceive its gentle rise.
With many a stroke and strong
The laboring boatmen upward plied their oars;
Yet little way they made, though laboring long
Between thy winding shores.
Now down thine ebbing tide
The unlabor’d boat falls rapidly along;
The solitary helmsman sits to guide,
And sings an idle song.
Now o’er the rocks that lay
Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey Page 35