Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey
Page 57
Avenging Nemesis, if I did not feel
Just now God Cynthius pluck me by the ear.
But, Allan, in what shape God Cynthius comes,
And wherefore he admonisheth me thus,
Nor thou nor I will tell the world; hereafter
The commentators, my Malones and Reids,
May if they can. For in my gallery
Though there remaineth undescribed good store,
Yet “of enough enough, and now no more,”
(As honest old George Gascoigne said of yore,)
Save only a last couplet to express
That I am always truly yours,
R. S.
Keswick, August, 1828.
OP EENE VERZAMELING VAN MIJNE
AFBEELDINGEN.
In pejus vultu proponi cereus ustquam. — Horat.
Een Wildeman hot dolliuis u’ltgovlogen:
Een goedo Hals, maar zonder zicl of kracht:
Een Sukkelaar, die met verwondorde oogen
Om alles mot verbeten weerzin lacht
Eon Franschmans Iach op halfverwrongen kaken.
Die geest boduidt op’t aanziclit van een bloed:
Er om ‘t getal dier fraaiheen vol te maken,
Eens Financiers vonvaunde dommo snoot.’1
En dat moot ik, dat moot eon Dichter wez en!
Gelooft gy’t ooit die doze monsters ziet?
Gceft, wat ik sechreef, een trek daar van to lezen
Zoo zog gcrust: ‘‘lly kent zich zelven niet.”
Maar zacht oon poos!.. Hoe langer hoe verkoerder!
Men vomit, my na uit Poltobakkers aard;
Doch do Adamskop beshaaamt den kuunstootseorder.
En ‘t ziolluos ding is zolf’s don klci uiet waanl...
Nil komt or oon, dio zal “ ‘t oolite Ioven
In lenig wasch mot voile lijk’nis geven;
En deze held, wat spreidt hy ons ten toon?
De knorrigheid in eigen hoofdpersoon;
Met zulk een lach van meêlij’ op de lippen,
A Is’t zelfgevoel eens Trotzaarts af laat glippen
Verachting spreidt op al wat hem omringt,
En half in spijt, zich tot verneedring dwingt.
Mijn God! is ‘t waar, zijn dit mijn wezenstrekken,
En is’t mijn hart, dat ze aan my-zelf onbdekken?
Of maaldet gy, wier kunst my dus herteelt,
Uw eigen aart onwetend in mijn beeld?
Het moog zoo zijn. De Rubens en Van Dijken
Zijn lang voorby, die zielen deên gelijken:
Wier oog hun ziel een heldre spiegel was,
En geest en hart in elken vezel las,
Niet, dagen lang, op’t uiterlijk bleef staren,
Maar d’ecrsten blik in’t harte kon bewaren,
Dien blik getrouw in klei of verven bracht,
En spreken deed tot Tijd-en-Nageslacht.
Die troffen, ja! die wisten af te malen
Wat oog en mond, wat elke zenuw sprak;
Wier borst, doorstroomd van hooger idealen,
Een hand bewoog die’t voorwerj) noort, ontbrak.
Doch wat maalt gy?.. ‘t Misnoegim van’t vervelen
Voor Rust der ziel in zalig zelfgenot;
Met Ongeduld om’t haatlijk tijdontstelen;
En-Bitterheid, die met uw wanklap spot
Wen ge, om den mond iets vriendlijks af te prachen,
Of slaaprigheid of mijmrende ernst verstoort,
En door uw boert het aanzicht tergt tot lachen
Met zotterny, sleehts wreevlig aangehoord.
Maar HODGES! gy, die uit vervlogen ectiwen
De Sehilderkunst te rug riept op ‘t paneeI,
Geen mond mismaakt door’t zielverteerend geenwen.
Maar kunstgesprek vereenigt aan ‘t peneel!
Zoo ‘t Noodlot wil dat zieh in later dagen
Mijn liaam bewaar in ‘t omvijs Vaderlaml,
En eenig beeld mijn leest moet overdragen,
Het zij gesehetst door mw bi gaatde hand.
In uw tafreel, bevredigd met my-zelven.
Ontdek ik ‘t hart dat lof nocli la?ter aelit;
En, die daaruit mijn ziel weet op te delven
Miskent in my noch inborst noch geslaeht.
1822.
MADOC
This 1805 epic poem is based on the legend of Madoc, the supposed Welsh prince that fled conflict in Wales to sail for America in the 12th century. The first half of the poem, Madoc in Wales, introduces the young Welsh nobleman, whose family is embroiled in a series of bloody disputes over royal succession. Madoc, unwilling to participate in the struggle, decides to journey to America and start a new life. When he reaches America, he witnesses bloody human sacrifices inflicted by the Aztec nation upon the surrounding tribes in Aztlan. Believing such acts a defiance against God, Madoc leads the Hoamen, a local tribe, into warfare against the Aztecs. Eventually, Madoc conquers his foes and converts the Americans to Christianity, before returning to Wales to find more recruits for his colony. In the second part of the epic, Madoc in Aztlan, Madoc returns to find that the Aztecs have resumed their human sacrifices. After long and bloody warfare, Madoc is able to defeat the Aztecs and force them out of their homeland and into exile.
Southey first approached the theme during his schoolboy days when he completed a prose version of Madoc’s story. The subject had been suggested by a school friend, who claimed to be a descendant of Madoc’s brother, Rhodri. By the time the poet was in his twenties, he began to devote himself to working on the poem in earnest, hoping that he could sell the work to raise money to attain his ambition to start a new life in America and found a Utopian commune or “Pantisocracy”. Southey finally completed Madoc as a whole in 1799, though he postponed publishing the work, devoting more time to extensively editing the poem, and thus it was not ready for publication until 1805. Madoc was finally published in two volumes by the London publisher Longman with extensive footnotes.
The poem contains Southey’s bias against superstition, whether Catholic, Protestant or pagan. He believed that the work itself was more historical than epic, and it contained many of Southey’s political views. Critics gave the work mixed reviews, with many praising the epic’s beautiful scenes, whilst others felt that the language fell short of being adequate for the subject matter. One reviewer went so far to mock Southey’s reliance on Welsh and Aztec names.
William Wordsworth claimed that he was “highly pleased with it; it abounds in beautiful pictures and descriptions happily introduced, and there is an animation diffused through the whole story though it cannot perhaps be said that any of the characters interest you much, except perhaps young Llewllyn whose situation is highly interesting, and he appears to me the best conceived and sustained character in the piece… The Poem fails in the highest gifts of the poet’s mind Imagination in the true sense of the word, and knowledge of human Nature and human heart. There is nothing that shows the hand of the great Master”. He followed this with a letter on 29 July 1805 saying “Southey’s mind does not seem strong enough to draw the picture of a Hero. The character of Madoc is often very insipid and contemptible In short, according to my notion, the character is throughout languidly conceived”. Dorothy Wordsworth, William’s sister, wrote: “We have read Madoc with great delight... I had one painful feeling throughout, that I did not care as much about Madoc as the Author wished me to do, and that the characters in general are not sufficiently distinct to make them have a separate after-existence in my affection.”
Dolwyddelan Castle, the reputed birthplace of Madoc
CONTENTS
MADOC IN WALES. PART I.
NOTES ON THE FIRST PART.
MADOC IN AZTLAN. PART II.
NOTES ON THE SECOND PART.
Large ceramic statue of an Aztec Eagle Warrior
PREFACE
THE historical facts on which this Poem is founded may be related in a few words. On the death of Owen Gwyneth, King of North Wales, A.D. 1169, his children disputed the
succession. Yorwerth, the elder, was set aside without a struggle, as being incapacitated by a blemish in his face. Hoel, though illegitimate and born of an Irish mother, obtained possession of the throne for a while, till he was defeated and slain by David, the eldest son of the late king by a second wife. The conqueror, who then succeeded without opposition, slew Yorwerth, imprisoned Rodri, and hunted others of his brethren into exile. But Madoc, meantime, abandoned his barbarous country, and sailed away to the West in search of some better resting-place. The land which he discovered pleased him: he left there part of his people, and went back to Wales for a fresh supply of adventurers, with whom he again set sail, and was heard of no more. Strong evidence has been adduced that he reached America, and that his posterity exist there to this day, on the southern branches of the Missouri, retaining their complexion, their language, and, in some degree, their arts.
About the same timer the Aztecas, an American tribe, in consequence of certain calamities and of a particular omen, forsook Aztlan, their own country, under the guidance of Yuhidthiton. They became a mighty people, and founded the Mexican empire, talking the name of Mexicans, in honor of Mexitli, their tutelary god. Their emigration is here connected with the adventures of Madoc; and their superstition is represented as the same which their descendants practised, when discovered by the Spaniards. The manners of the Poem, in both its parts, will be found historically true. It assumes not the degraded title of Epic; and the question, therefore, is not whether the story is formed upon the rules of Aristotle, but whether it be adapted to the purposes of poetry.
1805.
Three things must be avoided in Poetry; the frivolous, the obscure, and the superfluous.
The three excellences of Poetry; simplicity of language, simplicity of subject, and simplicity of invention.
The three indispensable purities of Poetry; pure truth, pure language, and pure manners.’
Three things should all Poetry be; thoroughly erudite, thoroughly animated, and thoroughly natural.
Triads.
COME, LISTEN TO A TALE OF TIMES OF OLD!
COME, FOR YE KNOW ME. I AM HE WHO SANG
THE MAID OF ARC, AND I AM HE WHO FRAMED
OF THALABA THE WILD AND WONDROUS SONG.
COME, LISTEN TO MY LAY; AND YE SHALL HEAR
HOW MADOC FROM THE SHORES OF BRITAIN SPREAD
THE ADVENTUROUS SAIL, EXPLORED THE OCEAN-PATHS,
AND QUELLED BARBARIAN POWER, AND OVERTHREW
THE BLOODY ALTARS OF IDOLATRY,
AND PLANTED IN ITS FANES TRIUMPHANTLY
THE CROSS OF CHRIST. COME, LISTEN TO MY LAY!
MADOC IN WALES. PART I.
I.
FAIR blows the wind... the vessel drives along,
Her streamers fluttering at their length, her sails
All full; she drives along, and round her prow
Scatters the ocean-spray. What feelings then
Filled every bosom, when the mariners,
After the peril of that weary way,
Beheld their own dear country! Here stands one
Stretching his sight toward the distant shore;
And, as to well-known forms his busy joy
Shapes the dim outline, eagerly he points
The fancied headland, and the cape and bay,
Till his eyes ache o’erstraining. This man shakes
His comrade’s hand, and bids him welcome home,
And blesses God, and then he weeps aloud:
Here stands another, who, in secret prayer,
Calls on the Virgin, and his patron Saint,
Renewing his old vows of gifts and alms
And pilgrimage, so he may find all well.
Silent and thoughtful, and apart from all,
Stood Madoc; now his noble enterprize
Proudly remembering, now in dreams of hope,
Anon of bodings full, and doubt and fear.
Fair smiled the evening, and the favoring gale
Sung in the shrouds, and swift the steady bark
Rushed roaring through the waves.
The sun goes down:
Far off his light is on the naked crags
Of Penmanmawr, and Arvon’s ancient hills;
And the last glory lingers yet awhile,
Crowning old Snowdon’s venerable head,
That rose amid his mountains. Now the ship
Drew nigh where Mona, the dark island, stretch’d
Her shore along the ocean’s lighter line.
There, through the mist and twilight, many a fire,
Upflaming, streamed upon the level sea
Red lines of lengthening light, which far away
Rising and falling, flashed athwart the waves.
Thereat, full many a thought of ill disturbed
Prince Madoc’s mind: did some new conqueror seize
The throne of David? had the tyrant’s guilt
Awakened vengeance to the deed of death?
Or blazed they for a brother’s obsequies,
The sport and mirth of murder? Like the lights
Which there upon Aberfraw’s royal walls
Are waving with the wind, the painful doubt
Fluctuates within him. — Onward drives the gale;
On flies the bark; and she hath reached at length
Her haven, safe from her unequalled way!
And now, in louder and yet louder joy
Clamorous, the happy mariners all-hail
Their native shore, and now they leap to land.
There stood-an old man on the beach to wait
The comers from the ocean; and he ask’d,
“Is it the Prince?” And Madoc knew his voice,
And turned to him, and fell upon his neck;
For it was Urien, who had fostered him,
Had loved him like a child; and Madoc lov’d,
Even as a father loved he that old man.
My sister? quoth the Prince... Oh, she and I
Have wept together, Madoc, for thy loss,
That long and cruel absence!.. She and I,
Hour after hour and day by day, have look’d
Toward the waters, and, with aching eyes
And aching heart, sate watching every sail.
And David, and our brethren? cried the prince,
As they moved on... But then old Urien’s lips
Were slow at answer; and he spake, and paus’d
In the first breath of utterance, as to choose
Fit words for uttering some unhappy tale.
More blood, quoth Madoc, yet? Hath David’s fear
Forced him to still more cruelty? Alas...
Woe for the house of Owen!”
Evil stars,
Replied the old man, ruled o’er thy brethren’s birth.
From Dolwyddelan driven, his peaceful home,
Poor Yorwerth sought the church’s sanctuary;
The murderer followed... Madoc, need I say
Who sent the sword?... Llewelyn, his brave boy,
Where wanders he? in this his rightful realm,
Houseless and hunted! Richly would the king
Gift the red hand that rid him of that fear!
Ririd, an outlawed fugitive, as yet
Eludes his deadly purpose; Rodri lives,
A prisoner he,.. I know not in what fit
Of natural mercy from the slaughter spar’d.
Oh, if my dear old master saw the wreck
And scattering of his house!... that princely race!
The beautiful band of brethren that they were!
Madoc made no reply;.. he clos’d his lids,
Groaning. But Urien, for his soul was full,
Loving to linger on the woe, pursued:
I did not think to live to such an hour
Of joy as this; and often, when my eyes
Turned dizzy from the ocean, overcome
With heavy anguish, Madoc, I have pray’d
That God would please to take me to his rest.
So, as he ceas’d his speech, a sudden shout
Of popular joy awaken’d Madoc’s ear;
And, calling then to mind the festal fires,
He ask’d their import. The old man replied,
It is the giddy people merry-making
To welcome their new queen; unheeding they
The shame and the reproach to the long line
Of our old royalty!.. Thy brother weds
The Saxon’s sister.
What!.. in loud reply
Madoc exclaim’d, hath he forgotten all!
David! King Owen’s son,.. my father’s son,...
He wed the Saxon,... the Plantagenet!
Quoth Urien, He so dotes, as she had dropt
Some philter in his cup, to lethargize
The British blood that came from Owen’s veins.
Three days his halls have echoed to the song
Of joyance.
Shame! foul shame! that they should hear
Songs of such joyance! cried the indignant prince.
Oh that my Father’s hall, where I have heard
The songs of Corwen and of Keiriog’s day,
Should echo this pollution! Will the chiefs
Brook this alliance, this unnatural tie?
There is no face but wears a courtly smile
Urien replied: Aberfraw’s ancient towers
Beheld no pride of festival like this,
No like solemnities, when Owen came
In conquest, and Gwalchmai struck the harp.
Only Goervyl, careless of the pomp,
Sits in her solitude, lamenting thee.
Saw ye not, then, my banner? quoth the Lord
Of Ocean; on the topmast-head it stood
To tell the tale of triumph;... or did night
Hide the glad signal, and the joy hath yet
To reach her?
Now had they almost attain’d