Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey

by Robert Southey

  Would I forego gardens and green-field walks,

  And hedge-row trees, and stiles, and shady lanes,

  And orchards, were such ordinary scenes

  Alone to me accessible as those

  Wherein I learnt in infancy to love

  The sights and sounds of Nature wholesome sights

  Gladdening the eye that they refresh; and sounds

  Which, when from life and happiness they spring.

  Bear with them to the yet unharden’d heart

  A sense that thrills its cords of sympathy;

  Or, when proceeding from insensate tilings,

  Give to tranquillity a voice wherewith

  To woo the ear and win the soul attuned;...

  Oh not for all that London might bestow,

  Would I renounce the genial influences

  And thoughts and feelings to be found where’er

  We breathe beneath the open sky, and see

  Earth’s liberal bosom. Judge then by thyself,

  Allan, true child of Scotland,.. thou who art

  So oft in spirit on thy native hills,

  And yonder Solway shores,.. a poet thou,

  Judge by thyself how strong the ties which bind

  A poet to his home; when,.. making thus

  Large recompense for all that haply else

  Might seem perversely or unkindly done,..

  Fortune hath set his happy habitacle

  Among the ancient hills, near mountain stream-;

  And lakes pellucid, in a land sublime

  And lovely as those regions of Romance

  Where his young fancy in its day-dreams roam’d.

  Expatiating in forests wild and wide,

  Loëgrian, or of dearest Faery-land.

  Yet, Allan, of the cup of social joy

  No man drinks freelier nor with heartier thirst.

  Nor keener relish, where I see around

  Faces which I have known and loved so long,

  That when he prints a dream upon my brain

  Dan Morpheus takes them for his readiest types.

  And therefore in that loathed metropolis

  Time measured out to me some golden hours.

  They were not leaden-footed while the clay

  Beneath the patient touch of Chantrey’s hand

  Grew to the semblance of my lineaments.

  Lit up in memory’s landscape, like green spots

  Of sunshine, are the mornings, when in talk

  With him, and thee, and Bedford (my true friend

  Of forty years,) I saw the work proceed,

  Subject the while myself to no restraint,

  But pleasureably in frank discourse engaged:

  Pleased too, and with no unbecoming pride

  To think this countenance, such as it is,

  So oft by rascally mislikeness wrong’d,

  Should faithfully to those who in his works

  Have seen the inner man portray’d, be shown,

  And in enduring marble should partake

  Of our great sculptor’s immortality.

  I have been libell’d, Allan, as thou knowest,

  Through all degrees of calumny; but they

  Who fix one’s name for public sale beneath

  A set of features slanderously unlike,

  Are the worst libellers. Against the wrong

  Which they inflict Time hath no remedy.

  Injuries there are which Time redresseth best,

  Being more sure in judgement, though perhaps

  Slower in process even than the court

  Where justice, tortoise-footed and mole-eyed,

  Sleeps undisturb’d, fann’d by the billing wings

  Of harpies at their prey. We soon live down

  Evil or good report, if undeserved.

  Let then the dogs of Faction bark and bay,

  Its bloodhounds, savaged by a cross of wolf.

  Its full-bred kennel from the Blatant-beast;

  And from my lady’s gay varanda, let

  Her pamper’d lap-dog with his fetid breath

  In bold bravado join, and snap and growl,

  With petulant consequentialness clate,

  There in his imbecility at once

  Ridiculous and safe; though all give cry,

  Whiggery’s sleek spaniels, and its lurchers lean.

  Its poodles by unlucky training marr’d,

  Mongrel and cur and bob-tail, let them yelp

  Till weariness and hoarseness shall at length

  Silence the noisy pack; meantime be sure

  I will not stoop for stones to cast among them.

  The foumarts and the skunks may be secure

  In their own scent; and for that viler swarm,

  The vermin of the press, both those that skip,

  And those that creep and crawl, I do not catch

  And pin them for exposure on the page.

  Their filth is their defence.

  But I appeal

  Against the limner’s and the graver’s wrong;

  Their evil works survive them. Bilderdijk,

  Whom I am privileged to call my friend,

  Suffering by graphic libels in likewise,

  Gave his wrath vent in verse. Would I could give

  The life and spirit of his vigorous Dutch,

  As his dear consort hath transfused my strains

  Into her native speech; and made them known

  On Rhine and Yssel, and rich Amstel’s banks;

  And wheresoe’er the voice of Vondel still

  Is heard, and still Antonides and Hooft

  Arc living agencies; and Father Cats,

  The household poet, teacheth in his songs

  The love of all things lovely, all things pure:

  Best poet, who delights the cheerful mind

  Of childhood, stores with moral strength the heart

  Of youth, with wisdom maketh mid-life rich,

  And fills with quiet tears the eyes of age.

  Hear then in English rhyme how Bilderdijk

  Describes his wicked portraits, one by one.

  “A madman who from Bedlam hath broke loose;

  An honest fellow of the numskull race;

  And pappyer-headed still, a very goose

  Staring with eyes aghast and vacant face;

  A Frenchman who would mirthfully display

  On some poor idiot his malicious wit;

  And lastly, one who, train’d up in the way

  Of worldly craft, hath not forsaken it,

  But hath served Mammon with his whole intent,

  A thing of Nature’s worst materials made,

  Low-minded, stupid, base and insolent.

  I,.. I,.. a Poet,.. have been thus portray’d.

  Can ye believe that my true effigy

  Among these vile varieties is found?

  What thought, or line, or word, hath fallen from me

  In all my numerous works whereon to ground

  The opprobrious notion? Safely I may smile

  At these, acknowledging no likeness here.

  But worse is yet to come: so, soft awhile!

  For now in potter’s earth must I appear,

  And in such workmanship, that, sooth to say,

  Humanity disowns the imitation,

  And the dolt image is not worth its clay.

  Then comes there one who will to admiration

  In plastic wax my perfect face present;

  And what of his performance comes at last?

  Folly itself in every lineament!

  Its consequential features overcast

  With the coxcombical and shallow laugh

  Of one who would, for condescension, hide,

  Yet in his best behaviour, can bat half

  Suppress the scornfulness of empty pride.”

  “And who is Bilderdijk?” methinks thou mayest,

  A ready question; yet which, trust me, Allan,

  Would not be ask’d, had not the curse that
came

  From Babel, dipt the wings of Poetry.

  Napoleon ask’d him once with cold fix’d look,

  “Art thou then in the world of letters known?”

  “I have deserved to be,” the Hollander

  Replied, meeting that proud imperial look

  With calm and proper confidence, and eye

  As little wont to turn away abash’d

  Before a mortal presence. He is one

  Who hath received upon his constant breast

  The sharpest arrows of adversity;

  Whom not the clamours ol the multitude.

  Demanding in their madness and their might

  Iniquitous things, could shake in his firm mind;

  Nor the strong hand of instant tyranny,

  From the straight path of duty turn aside.

  But who in public troubles, in the wreck

  Of his own fortunes, in proscription, exile,

  Want, obloquy, ingratitude, neglect,

  And what severer trials Providence

  Sometimes inflicteth, chastening whom it loves,

  In all, thro’ all, and over all, hath borne

  An equal heart, as resolute toward

  The world, as humbly and religiously

  Beneath his heavenly Father’s rod resign’d.

  Right-minded, happy-minded, righteous man,

  True lover of his country and his kind;

  In knowledge, and in inexhaustive stores

  Of native genius rich; philosopher,

  Poet, and sage. The language of a State

  Inferior in illustrious deeds to none,

  But circumscribed by narrow bounds, and now

  Sinking in irrecoverable decline,

  Hath pent within its sphere a name wherewith

  Europe should else have rung from side to side.

  Such, Allan, is the Hollander to whom

  Esteem and admiration have attach’d

  My soui, not less than pre-consent of mind,

  And gratitude for benefits, when being

  A stranger, sick, and in a foreign land,

  He took me like a brother to his house,

  And ministered to me, and made a time

  Which had been wearisome and careful else,

  So pleasurable, that in my kalendar

  There are no whiter days. ‘T will be a joy

  For us to meet in Heaven, tho’ we should look

  Upon each other’s earthly face no more.

  ..This is this world’s complexion! “cheerful thoughts

  Bring sad thoughts to the mind,” and those again

  Give place to calm content, and steadfast hope,

  And happy faith assured... Return we now,

  With such transition as our daily life

  Imposes in its wholesome discipline,

  To a lighter strain; and from the gallery

  Of the Dutch Poet’s mis-resemblances

  Pass into mine; where I shall show thee, Allan,

  Such an array of villainous visages,

  That if among them all there wore but one

  Which as a likeness could be proved upon me,

  It were enough to make me in mere shame

  Take up an alias, and forswear myself.

  Whom have we first? A dainty gentleman.

  His sleepy eyes half-closed, and countenance

  To no expression stronger than might suit

  A simper, capable of being moved:

  Sawney and sentimental; with an air

  So lack-thought and so lackadaisical,

  You might suppose the volume in his hand

  Must needs be Zimmermann on Solitude.

  Then comes a jovial landlord, who hath made it

  Part of his trade to be the shoeing horn

  For his commercial customers, God Bacchus

  Hath not a thirstier votary. Many a pipe

  Of Porto’s vintage hath contributed

  To give his cheeks that deep carmine engrain’d,

  And many a runlet of right Nantes, I ween,

  Hath suffered percolation thro’ that trunk,

  Leaving behind it in the boozey eyes

  A swoln and red suffusion, glazed and dim.

  Our next is in the evangelical line,

  A leaden-visaged specimen; demure,

  Because he hath put on his Sunday’s face:

  Dull by formation, by complexion sad,

  By bile, opinions, and dyspepsy sour.

  One of the sons of Jack,.. I know not which,

  For Jack hath a most numerous progeny,..

  Made up for Mr. Colburn’s Magazine

  This pleasant composite; a bust supplied

  The features; look, expression, character

  Are of the artist’s fancy and free grace.

  Such was that fellow’s birth and parentage.

  The rascal proved prolific; one of his breed,

  By Docteur Pichot introduced in France,

  Passes for Monsieur Sooté; and another,..

  An uglier miscreant too,.. the brothers Schumann

  And their most cruel copper-scratcher Zschoch,

  From Zwickau sent abroad through Germany.

  I wish the Schumen and the copper-scratcher

  No worse misfortune for their recompence,

  Than to encounter such a cut-throat face

  In the Black Forest or the Odenwald.,

  And now is there a third derivative

  From Mr. Colburn’s composite, which late

  The Arch-Pirate Galignani hath prefix’d,

  A spurious portrait to a faithless life.

  And bearing lyingly the libell’d name

  Of Lawrence, impudently there insculpt.

  The bust that was the innocent forefather

  To all this base, abominable brood,

  I blame not, Allan. T was the work of Smith.

  A modest, mild, ingenious man, and errs,

  Where erring, only because over-true,

  Too close a likeness for similitude;

  Fixing to every part and lineament

  Its separate character, and missing thus

  That which results from all.

  Sir Smug comes next;

  Allan, I own Sir Smug! I recognise

  That visage with its dull sobriety;

  I see it duly as the day returns,

  When at the looking-glass with lather’d chin

  And razor-weapon’d hand I sit, the face

  Composed and apprehensively intent

  Upon the necessary operation

  About to be perform’d, with touch, alas,

  Not always confident of hair-breadth skill.

  Even in such sober sadness and constrain’d

  Composure cold, the faithful Painter’s eye

  Had fix’d me like a spell, and I could feel

  My features stiffen as he glanced upon them.

  And vet he was a man whom I loved dearly,

  My fellow-traveller, my familiar friend,

  My household guest. But when he look’d upon me

  Anxious to exercise his excellent art,

  The countenance he knew so thoroughly

  Was gone, and in its stead there sate Sir Smug.

  Under the graver’s hand, Sir Smug became

  Sir Smouch,.. a son of Abraham. Now albeit,

  Far rather would I trace my lineage thence

  Than with the oldest line of Peers or Kings

  Claim consanguinity, that cast of features

  Would ill accord with me, who in all forms

  Of pork, baked, roasted, toasted, boil’d or broil’d,

  Fresh, salted, pickled, seasoned, moist or dry,

  Whether ham, bacon, sausage, souse or brawn,

  Leg, bladebone, baldrib, griskin, chine, or chop,

  Profess myself a genuine Philopig.

  It was, however, as a Jew whose portion

  Had fallen unto him in a goodly land

  Of loans, of omnium, and o
f three per cents,

  That Messrs. Percy of the Anecdote-firm

  Presented me unto their customers.

  Poor Smouch endured a worse judaization

  Under another hand. In this next stage

  He is on trial at the Old Bailey, charged

  With dealing in base coin. That he is guilty

  No Judge or Jury could have half a doubt

  When they saw the culprit’s face; and he himself,

  As you may plainly see, is comforted

  By thinking he has just contrived to keep

  Out of rope’s reach, and will come off this time

  For transportation.

  Stand thou forth for trial,

  Now, William Darton, of the Society

  Of Friends called Quakers; thou who in 4th month

  Of the year 21 on Holborn Hill,

  At No. 58., didst wilfully,

  Falsely, and knowing it was falsely done,

  Publish upon a card, as Robert Southey’s,

  A face which might be just as like Tom Fool’s.

  Or John, or Richard Any-body-else’s!

  What had I done to thee, thou William Darton,

  That thou shouldst for the lucre of base gain,

  Yea, for the sake of filthy fourpences,

  Palm on my countrymen that face for mine?

  O William Darton, let the Yearly Meeting

  Deal with thee for that falseness! All the rest

  Are traceable; Smug’s Hebrew family;

  The German who might properly adorn

  A gibbet or a wheel, and Monsieur Sooté,

  Sons of Fitzbust the Evangelical;..

  I recognize all these unlikenesses,

  Spurious abominations tho’ they be,

  Each filiated on some original;

  But thou, Friend Darton, and.. observe me, man.

  Only in courtesy, and quast Quaker,

  I call thee Friend!.. hadst no original;

  No likeness, or unlikeness, silhouette,

  Outline, or plaister, representing me,

  Whereon to form thy misrepresentation.

  If I guess rightly at the pedigree

  Of thy bad groatsworth, thou didst get a barber

  To personate my injured Laureateship;

  An advertising barber,.. one who keeps

  A bear, and when he puts to death poor Bruin

  Sells his grease, fresh as trom the carcase cut,

  Pro bono publico, the price per pound

  Twelve shillings and no more. From such a barber,

  O unfriend Darton! was that portrait made

  I think, or peradventure from his block.

  Next comes a minion worthy to be set

  In a wooden frame; and here I might invoke