So silent late, the shallow current roars;
Fast flow thy waters on their seaward way
Through wider-spreading shores.
Avon! I gaze and know
The lesson emblem’d in thy varying way:
It speaks of human joys that rise so slow,
So rapidly decay.
Kingdoms which long have stood,
And slow to strength and power attain’d at last,
Thus from the summit of high fortune’s flood
They ebb to ruin fast.
Thus like thy flow appears
Time’s tardy course to manhood’s envied stage;
Alas! how hurryingly the ebbing years
Then hasten to old age!
Westbury, 1799
THE COMPLAINTS OF THE POOR
AND wherefore do the Poor complain?
The Rich Man ask’d of me; —
Come walk abroad with me, I said,
And I will answer thee.
’Twas evening, and the frozen streets
Were cheerless to behold,
And we were wrapp’d and coated well,
And yet we were a-cold.
We met an old, bare-headed man;
His locks were thin and white;
I ask’d him what he did abroad
In that cold winter’s night.
The cold was keen indeed, he said,
But at home no fire had he,
And therefore he had come abroad
To ask for charity.
We met a young, bare-footed child,
And she begg’d loud and bold;
I ask’d her what she did abroad
When the wind it blew so cold.
She said her father was at home,
And he lay sick a-bed;
And therefore was it she was sent
Abroad to beg for bread.
We saw a woman sitting down
Upon a stone to rest;
She had a baby at her back,
And another at her breast.
I ask’d her why she loiter’d there
When the night-wind was so chill;
She turn’d her head and bade the child
That scream’d behind, be still; —
Then told us that her husband served,
A soldier, far away,
And therefore to her parish she
Was begging back her way.
We met a girl; her dress was loose,
And sunken was her eye,
Who with a wanton’s hollow voice
Address’d the passers-by.
I ask’d her what there was in guilt
That could her heart allure
To shame, disease, and late remorse:
She answer’d, she was poor.
I turn’d me to the Rich Man then,
For silently stood he, —
You ask’d me why the poor complain.
And these have answer’d thee!
London, 1798.
TO MARY.
MARY; ten checker’d years have past
Since we beheld each other last;
Yet, Mary, I remember thee,
Nor canst thou have forgotten me.
The bloom was then upon thy face;
Thy form had every youthful grace;
I too had then the warmth of youth,
And in our hearts was all its truth.
We conversed, were there others by,
With common mirth and random eye;
But when escaped the sight of men,
How serious was our converse then!
Our talk was then of years to come,
Of hopes which ask’d a humble doom,
Themes which to loving thoughts might move,
Although we never spake of love.
At our last meeting sure thy heart
Was even as loath as mine to part;
And yet we little thought that then
We parted — not to meet again.
Long, Mary! after that adieu,
My dearest day-dreams were of you;
In sleep I saw you still, and long
Made you the theme of secret song.
When manhood and its cares came on,
The humble hopes of youth were gone;
And other hopes and other fears
Effaced the thoughts of happier years.
Meantime through many a varied year
Of thee no tidings did I hear,
And thou hast never heard my name
Save from the vague reports of fame.
But then, I trust, detraction’s lie
Hath kindled anger in thine eye;
And thou my praise wert proud to see, —
My name should still be dear to thee.
Ten years have held their course; thus late
I learn the tidings of thy fate;
A Husband and a Father now,
Of thee, a Wife and Mother thou.
And, Mary, as for thee I frame
A prayer which hath no selfish aim,
No happier lot can I wish thee
Than such as Heaven hath granted me.
London, 1802.
TO A FRIEND, INQUIRING IF I WOULD LIVE OVER MY YOUTH AGAIN.
1.
Do I regret the past?
Would I again live o’er
The morning hours of life?
Nay, William! nay, not so!
In the warm joyance of the summer sun,
I do not wish again
The changeful April day.
Nay, William! nay, not so!
Safe haven’d from the sea,
I would not tempt again
The uncertain ocean’s wrath.
Praise be to Him who made me what I am,
Other I would not be.
2.
Why is it pleasant then, to sit and talk
Of days that are no more?
When in his own dear home
The traveller rests at last,
And tells how often in his wanderings,
The thought of those far off
Hath made his eyes o’erflow
With no unmanly tears;
Delighted he recalls
Through what fair scenes his lingering feet have trod;
But ever when he tells of perils past
And troubles now no more,
His eyes are brightest, and a readier joy
Flow’s thankful from his heart.
3.
No, William! no, I would not live again
The morning hours of life;
I would not be again
The slave of hope and fear;
I would not learn again
The wisdom by Experience hardly taught.
4.
To me the past presents
No object for regret;
To me the present gives
All cause for full content.
The future? — it is now the cheerful noon,
And on the sunny-smiling fields I gaze
With eyes alive to joy;
When the dark night descends,
I willingly shall close my weary lids,
In sure and certain hope to wake again.
Westbury, 1798.
THE DEAD FRIEND.
1.
NOT to the grave, not to the grave, my Soul,
Descend to contemplate
The form that once was dear!
The Spirit is not there
Which kindled that dead eye,
Which throbb’d in that cold heart,
Which in that motionless hand
Hath met thy friendly grasp.
The Spirit is not there!
It is but lifeless, perishable flesh
That moulders in the grave;
Earth, air, and water’s ministering particles
Now to the elements
Resolved, their uses done.
Not to the grave, not to the grave, my Soul,
Follow thy friend beloved;
The Spi
rit is not there!
2.
Often together have we talk’d of death;
How sweet it were to see
All doubtful things made clear;
How sweet it were with powers
Such as the Cherubim,
To view the depth of Heaven!
O Edmund! thou hast first
Begun the travel of Eternity!
I look upon the stars,
And think that thou art there,
Unfetter’d as the thought that follows thee.
3.
And we have often said how sweet it were
With unseen ministry of angel power,
To watch the friends we loved.
Edmund! we did not err!
Sure I have felt thy presence! Thou hast given
A birth to holy thought,
Hast kept me from the world unstain’d and pure.
Edmund! we did not err!
Our best affections here
They are not like the toys of infancy;
The Soul outgrows them not;
We do not cast them off;
O, if it could be so,
It were indeed a dreadful thing to die!
4.
Not to the grave, not to the grave, my Soul,
Follow thy friend beloved!
But in the lonely hour,
But in the evening walk,
Think that he companies thy solitude;
Think that he holds with thee
Mysterious intercourse;
And though remembrance wake a tear,
There will be joy in grief.
Weslbury, 1799.
SONGS OF THE AMERICAN INDIANS
CONTENTS
THE HURON’S ADDRESS TO THE DEAD.
THE PERUVIAN’S DIRGE OVER THE BODY OF HIS FATHER.
SONG OF THE ARAUCANS DURING A THUNDER-STORM.
SONG OF THE CHIKKASAH WIDOW
THE OLD CHIKKASAH TO HIS GRANDSON
THE HURON’S ADDRESS TO THE DEAD.
1.
BROTHER, thou wert strong in youth!
Brother, thou wert brave in war!
Unhappy man was he
For whom thou hadst sharpen’d the tomahawk’s edge!
Unhappy man was he
On whom thine angry eye was fix’d in fight!
And he who from thy hand
Received the calumet,
Blest Heaven, and slept in peace.
2.
When the Evil Spirits seized thee,
Brother, we were sad at heart:
We bade the Jongler come
And bring his magic aid;
We circled thee in mystic dance,
With songs and shouts and cries,
To free thee from their power.
Brother, but in vain we strove;
The number of thy days was full.
3.
Thou sittest amongst us on thy mat;
The bear-skin from thy shoulder hangs,
Thy feet are sandall’d ready for the way
Those are the unfatigueable feet
That traversed the forest track;
Those are the lips that late
Thunder’d the yell of war;
And that is the strong right arm
Which never was lifted in vain.
Those lips are silent now;
The limbs that were active are stiff;
Loose hangs the strong right arm!
4.
And where is That which in thy voice
The language of friendship spake?
That gave the strength of thine arm?
That fill’d thy limbs with life?
It was not Thou, for Thou art here,
Thou art amongst us still,
But the Life and the Feeling are gone.
The Iroquois will learn
That thou hast ceased from war;
‘Twill be a joy like victory to them,
For thou wert the scourge of their nation.
5.
Brother, we sing thee the song of death;
In thy coffin of bark we lay thee to rest;
The bow shall be placed by thy side,
And the shafts that are pointed and feather’d for flight.
To the country of the Dead
Long and painful is thy way;
Over rivers wide and deep
Lies the road that must be past,
By bridges narrow-wall’d,
Where scarce the Soul can force its way,
While the loose fabric totters under it.
6.
Safely may our brother pass!
Safely may he reach the fields,
Where the sound of the drum and the shell
Shall be heard from the Country of Souls!
The Spirits of thy Sires
Shall come to welcome thee:
The God of the Dead in his Bower
Shall receive thee, and bid thee join
The dance of eternal joy.
7.
Brother, we pay thee the rites of death;
Rest in thy Bower of Delight!
Westbury, 1799.
THE PERUVIAN’S DIRGE OVER THE BODY OF HIS FATHER.
1.
REST in peace, my Father, rest!
With danger and toil have I borne thy corpse
From the Stranger’s field of death.
I bless thee, O Wife of the Sun,
For veiling thy beams with a cloud,
While at the pious task
Thy votary toil’d in fear.
Thou badest the clouds of night
Enwrap thee, and hide thee from Man;
But didst thou not see my toil,
And put on the darkness to aid,
O Wife of the visible God?
2.
Wretched, my Father, thy life!
Wretched the life of the Slave!
All day for another he toils;
Overwearied at night he lies down,
And dreams of the freedom that once he enjoy’d.
Thou wert blest in the days of thy youth,
My Father! for then thou wert free.
In the fields of the nation thy hand
Bore its part of the general task;
And when, with the song and the dance,
Ye brought the harvest home,
As all in the labor had shared,
So justly they shared in the fruits.
3.
Thou visible Lord of the Earth,
Thou God of my Fathers, thou God of my heart.
O Giver of light and of life!
When the Strangers came to our shores,
Why didst thou not put forth thy power?
Thy thunders should then have been hurl’d,
Thy fires should in lightnings have flash’d! —
Visible God of the Earth,
The Strangers mock at thy might!
To idols and beams of wood
They force us to bow the knee;
They plunge us in caverns and dens,
Where never thy blessed light
Shines on our poisonous toil!
But not in the caverns and dens,
O Sun, are we mindless of thee!
We pine for the want of thy beams,
We adore thee with anguish and groans.
4.
My Father, rest in peace!
Rest with the dust of thy Sires!
They placed their Cross in thy dying grasp; —
They bore thee to their burial-place.
And over thy breathless frame
Their bloody and merciless Priest
Mumbled his magic hastily.
Oil! could thy bones be at peace
In the field where the Strangers are laid? —
Alone, in danger and in pain,
My Father, I bring thee here:
So may our God, in reward,
Allow me one faithful friend
To lay me beside thee when I am released!
&nb
sp; So may he summon me soon,
That my Spirit may join thee there,
Where the strangers never shall come!
Exeter, 1799.
SONG OF THE ARAUCANS DURING A THUNDER-STORM.
THE storm-cloud grows deeper above,
Araucans! the tempest is ripe in the sky;
Our forefathers come from their Islands of Bliss,
They come to the war of the winds
The Souls of the Strangers are there,
In their garments of darkness they ride through the heaven;
Yon cloud that rolls luridly over the hill
Is red with their weapons of fire.
Hark! hark! in the howl of the wind
The shout of the battle, the clang of their drums;
The horsemen are met, and the shock of the fight
Is the blast that disbranches the wood.
Behold from the clouds of their power
The lightning, — the lightning is lanced at our sires!
And the thunder that shakes the broad pavement of Heaven!
And the darkness that quenches the day!
Ye Souls of our Fathers, be brave!
Ye shrunk not before the invaders on earth,
Ye trembled not then at their weapons of fire;
Brave Spirits, ye tremble not now!
We gaze on your warfare in hope,
We send up our shouts to encourage your arms!
Lift the lance of your vengeance, O Fathers, with force,
For the wrongs of your country strike home!
Remember the land was your own
When the Sons of Destruction came over the seas,
That the old fell asleep in the fulness of days,
Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey Page 36