Where crimes and miseries, each producing each,
Render life loathsome, and destroy the hope
That should in death bring comfort. Oh, my friend,
That thy faith were as mine! that thou couldst see
Death still producing life, and evil still
Working its own destruction; couldst behold
The strifes and troubles of this troubled world
With the strong eye that sees the promised day
Dawn through this night of tempest! All things, then,
Would minister to joy; then should thine heart
Be heal’d and harmonized, and thou wouldst feel
GOD, always, every where, and all in all.
Westbury, 1798.
THE VICTORY.
HARK — how the church-bells, with redoubling peals,
Stun the glad ear! Tidings of joy have come,
Good tidings of great joy! two gallant ships
Met on the element, — they met, they fought
A desperate fight! — good tidings of great joy!
Old England triumph’d! yet another day
Of glory for the ruler of the waves!
For those who fell,—’twas in their country’s cause,
They have their passing paragraphs of praise,
And are forgotten.
There was one who died
In that day’s glory, whose obscurer name
No proud historian’s page will chronicle.
Peace to his honest soul! I read his name, —
’Twas in the list of slaughter, — and thank’d God
The sound was not familiar to mine ear.
But it was told me after, that this man
Was one whom lawful violence had forced
From his own home, and wife, and little ones,
Who by his labor lived; that lie was one
Whose uncorrupted heart could keenly feel
A husband’s love, a father’s anxiousness;
That from the wages of his toil he fed
The distant dear ones, and would talk of them
At midnight when he trod the silent deck
With him lie valued, — talk of them, of joys
Which he had known, — oh God! and of the hour
When they should meet again, till his full heart,
His manly heart, at times would overflow,
Even like a child’s, with very tenderness.
Peace to his honest spirit! suddenly
It came, and merciful the ball of death,
That it came suddenly and shatter’d him,
Nor left a moment’s agonizing thought
On those he loved so well.
He ocean-deep
Now lies at rest. Be Thou her comforter,
Who art the widow’s friend! Man does not know
What a cold sickness made her blood run back
When first she heard the tidings of the fight!
Man does not know with what a dreadful hope
She listened to the names of those who died;
Man does not know, or knowing will not heed,
With what an agony of tenderness
She gazed upon her children, and beheld
His image who was gone. O God! be Thou,
Who art the widow’s friend, her comforter!
Westbury, 1798.
HISTORY.
THOU chronicle of crimes! I read no more;
For I am one who willingly would love
His fellow-kind. O gentle Poesy,
Receive me from the court’s polluted scenes,
From dungeon horrors, from the fields of war,
Receive me to your haunts, — that I may nurse
My nature’s better feelings; for my soul
Sickens at man’s misdeeds!
I spake, when lo!
There stood before me, in her majesty,
Clio, the strong-eyed Muse. Upon her brow
Sate a calm anger. Go, young man, she cried,
Sigh among myrtle bowers, and let thy soul
Effuse itself in strains so sorrowful sweet,
That love-sick Maids may weep upon thy page,
Soothed with delicious sorrow. Oh shame! shame!
Was it for this I waken’d thy young mind?
Was it for this I made thy swelling heart
Throb at the deeds of Greece, and thy boy’s eye
So kindle when that glorious Spartan died?
Boy! boy! deceive me not! — What if the tale
Of murder’d millions strike a chilling pang;
What if Tiberius in his island stews,
And Philip at his beads, alike inspire
Strong anger and contempt; hast thou not risen
With nobler feelings, — with a deeper love
For freedom? Yes; if righteously thy soul
Loathes the black history of human crimes
And human misery, let that spirit fill
Thy song, and it shall teach thee, boy! to raise
Strains such as Cato might have deign’d to hear,
As Sidney in his hall of bliss may love.
Westbury, 1798.
THE SPEECH OF ROBERT EMMET
WRITTEN IMMEDIATELY AFTER READING THE SPEECH OF ROBERT EMMET, ON HIS TRIAL AND CONVICTION FOR HIGH TREASON,
SEPTEMBER, 1803.
“LET no man write my epitaph; let my grave
Be uninscribed, and let my memory rest
Till other times are come, and other men,
Who then may do me justice.”
Emmet, no!
No withering curse hath dried my spirit up,
That I should now be silent, — that my soul
Should from the stirring inspiration shrink,
Now when it shakes her, and withhold her voice,
Of that divinest impulse never more
Worthy, if impious I withheld it now,
Hardening my heart. Here, here in this free Isle,
To which in thy young virtue’s erring zeal
Thou wert so perilous an enemy,
Here in free England shall an English hand
Build thy imperishable monument;
Oh, — to thine own misfortune and to ours,
By thine own deadly error so beguiled,
Here in free England shall an English voice
Raise up thy mourning-song. For thou hast paid
The bitter penalty of that misdeed;
Justice hath done her unrelenting part,
If she in truth be Justice who drives on,
Bloody and blind, the chariot wheels of death.
So young, so glowing for the general good,
Oh, what a lovely manhood had been thine,
When all the violent workings of thy youth
Had passed away, hadst thou been wisely spared,
Left to the slow and certain influences
Of silent feeling and maturing thought!
How had that heart, — that noble heart of thine,
Which even now had snapp’d one spell, which beat
With such brave indignation at the shame
And guilt of France, and of her miscreant Lord, —
How had it clung to England! With what love,
What pure and perfect love, return’d to her,
Now worthy of thy love, the champion now
For freedom, — yea, the only champion now,
And soon to be the Avenger. But the blow
Hath fallen, the indiscriminating blow,
That for its portion to the Grave consign’d
Youth, Genius, generous Virtue. Oh, grief, grief!
Oh, sorrow and reproach! Have ye to learn,
Deaf to the past, and to the future blind,
Ye who thus irremissibly exact
The forfeit life, how lightly life is staked,
When in distempered times the feverish mind
To strong delusion yields?
Have ye to learn
With what a d
eep and spirit-stirring voice
Pity doth call Revenge? Have ye no hearts
To feel and understand how Mercy tames
The rebel nature, madden’d by old wrongs,
And binds it in the gentle bands of love,
When steel and adamant were weak to hold
That Samson-strength subdued!
Let no man write
Thy epitaph! Emmet, nay; thou shalt not go
Without thy funeral strain! Oh, young, and good,
And wise, though erring here, thou shalt not go
Unhonor’d nor unsung. And better thus
Beneath that indiscriminating stroke,
Better to fall, than to have lived to mourn,
As sure thou wouldst, in misery and remorse,
Thine own disastrous triumph; to have seen,
If the Almighty at that awful hour
Had turn’d away his face, wild Ignorance
Let loose, and frantic Vengeance, and dark Zeal,
And all bad passions tyrannous, and the fires
Of Persecution once again ablaze.
How had it sunk into thy soul to see.
Last curse of all, the ruffian slaves of France
In thy dear native country lording it!
How happier thus, in that heroic mood
That takes away the sting of death, to die,
By all the good and all the wise forgiven!
Yea, in all ages by the wise and good
To be remember’d, mourn’d, and honor’d still.
Keswick.
THANKSGIVING FOR VICTORY.
Written for Music, and composed by Shield.
GLORY to thee in thine omnipotence,
O Lord, who art our shield and our defence,
And dost dispense,
As seemeth best to thine unerring will,
(Which passeth mortal sense,)
The lot of Victory still;
Edging sometimes with might the sword unjust;
And bowing to the dust
The rightful cause, that so such seeming ill
May thine appointed purposes fulfil;
Sometimes, as in this late auspicious hour
For which our hymns we raise,
Making the wicked feel thy present power;
Glory to thee and praise,
Almighty God, by whom our strength was given!
Glory to thee, O Lord of Earth and Heaven!
Keswick, 1815.
STANZAS WRITTEN IN LADY LONSDALE’S ALBUM, AT LOWTHER CASTLE, OCTOBER 13, 1821.
1.
SOMETIMES, in youthful years,
When in some ancient ruin I have stood,
Alone and musing, till with quiet tears
I felt my cheeks bedew’d,
A melancholy thought hath made me grieve
For this our age, and humbled me in mind,
That it should pass away and leave
No monuments behind.
2.
Not for themselves alone
Our fathers lived; nor with a niggard hand
Raised they the fabrics of enduring stone,
Which yet adorn the land;
Their piles, memorials of the mighty dead,
Survive them still, majestic in decay;
But ours are like ourselves, I said,
The creatures of a day.
3.
With other feelings now,
Lowther! have I beheld thy stately walls,
Thy pinnacles, and broad, embattled brow,
And hospitable halls.
The sun those wide-spread battlements shall crest,
And silent years unharming shall go by,
Till centuries in their course invest
Thy towers with sanctity.
4.
But thou the while shalt bear,
To after-times, an old and honored name,
And to remote posterity declare
Thy Founder’s virtuous fame.
Fair structure! worthy the triumphant age
Of glorious England’s opulence and power,
Peace be thy lasting heritage,
And happiness thy dower!
STANZAS ADDRESSED TO W. R. TURNER, ESQ., R. A., ON HIS VIEW OF THE LAGO MAGGIORE FROM THE TOWN OF ARONA.
Engraved for the Keepsake of 1829.
1.
TURNER, thy pencil brings to mind a day
When from Laveno and the Beuscer hill
I over Lake Verbanus held my way,
In pleasant fellowship, with wind at will;
Smooth were the waters wide, the sky serene,
And our hearts gladden’d with the joyful scene; —
2.
Joyful, — for all things minister’d delight, —
The lake and land, the mountains and the vales;
The Alps their snowy summits rear’d in light,
Tempering with gelid breath the summer gales;
And verdant shores and woods refresh’d the eye
That else had ached beneath that brilliant sky.
3.
To that elaborate island were we bound,
Of yore the scene of Borromean pride, —
Folly’s prodigious work; where all around,
Under its coronet and self-belied,
Look where you will, you cannot choose but see
The obtrusive motto’s proud “HUMILITY!”
4.
Far off the Borromean saint was seen,
Distinct, though distant, o’er his native town,
Where his Colossus with benignant mien
Looks from its station on Arona down:
To it the inland sailor lifts his eyes,
From the wide lake, when perilous storms arise.
5.
But no storm threaten’d on that summer-day;
The whole rich scene appear’d for joyance made;
With many a gliding bark the mere was gay,
The fields and groves in all their wealth array’d;
I could have thought the Sun beheld with smiles
Those towns, and palaces, and populous isles.
6.
From fair Arona, even on such a day,
When gladness was descending like a shower,
Great painter, did thy gifted eye survey
The splendid scene; and, conscious of its power,
Well hath thine hand inimitable given
The glories of the lake, and land, and heaven.
Keswick, 1828.
ON A PICTURE BY J. M. WRIGHT, ESQ.
Engraved for the Keepsake of 1829
1.
THE sky-lark hath perceived his prison-door
Unclosed; for liberty the captive tries:
Puss eagerly hath watched him from the floor,
And in her grasp he flutters, pants, and dies
2.
Lucy’s own Puss, and Lucy’s own dear Bird,
Her foster’d favorites both for many a day,
That which the tender-hearted girl preferr’d,
She in her fondness knew not, sooth to say.
3.
For if the sky-lark’s pipe were shrill and strong,
And its rich tones the thrilling ear might please,
Yet Pussybel could breathe a fire-side song
As winning, when she lay on Lucy’s knees.
4.
Both knew her voice, and each alike would seek
Her eye, her smile, her fondling touch to gain:
How faintly, then, may words her sorrow speak,
When by the one she sees the other slain.
5.
The flowers fall scatter’d from her lifted hand;
A cry of grief she utters in affright;
And self-condemn’d for negligence she stands
Aghast and helpless at the cruel sight.
6.
Come, Lucy, let me dry those tearful eyes;
Take thou, dear child, a lesson not unholy,
From one whom nat
ure taught to moralize,
Both in his mirth and in his melancholy.
7.
I will not warn thee not to set thy heart
Too fondly upon perishable things;
In vain the earnest preacher spends his art
Upon that theme; in vain the poet sings.
8.
It is our nature’s strong necessity,
And this the soul’s unerring instincts tell.
Therefore I say, let us love worthily,
Dear child, and then we cannot love too well.
9.
Better it is all losses to deplore,
Which dutiful affection can sustain,
Than that the heart should, in its inmost core,
Harden without it, and have lived in vain.
10.
This love which thou hast lavish’d, and the woe
Which makes thy lip now quiver with distress,
Are but a vent, an innocent overflow,
From the deep springs of female tenderness.
11.
And something I would teach thee from the grief
That thus hath fill’d those gentle eyes with tears,
The which may be thy sober, sure relief,
When sorrow visits thee in after years.
12.
I ask not whither is the spirit flown
That lit the eye which there in death is seal’d;
Our Father hath not made that mystery known;
Needless the knowledge, therefore not reveal’d.
13.
But didst thou know, in sure and sacred truth,
It had a place assign’d in yonder skies,
There, through an endless life of joyous youth,
To warble in the bowers of Paradise, —
14.
Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey Page 39