Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey

by Robert Southey

A voice that went before him

  The cry of woe preferred;

  The motion of his brazen wings

  Was what the deaf had heard;

  The flashing of his eyes, that light

  The which upon their inward sight

  The blind had felt astounded;

  What wonder then, when from the wall

  They saw him in the vale, if all

  With terror were confounded..

  Compared to that strong armour

  Of scales which he was in,

  The hide of a rhinoceros

  Was like a lady’s skin.

  A battering ram might play in vain

  Upon his head, with might and main,

  Though fifty men had work’d it;

  And from his tail they saw him fling

  Out, like a rocket, a long sting,

  When he for pastime jerk’d it.

  To whom of Gods or Heroes

  Should they for aid apply?

  Where should they look for succour now,

  Or whither should they fly?

  For now no Demigods were found

  Like those whose deathless deeds abound

  In ancient song and story;

  No Hercules was then on earth,

  Nor yet of her St. George’s birth

  Could Cappadocia glory.

  And even these against him

  Had found their strength but small;

  He could have swallowed Hercules,

  Club, lion-skin, and all.

  Yea had St. George himself been there

  Upon the fiercest steed that e’er

  To battle bore bestrider,

  This dreadful Dragon in his might,

  One mouthful only, and one bite,

  Had made of horse and rider.

  They see how unavailing

  All human force must prove;

  Oh might their earnest prayers obtain

  Protection from above I

  The Christians sought our Lady’s shrine

  To invocate her aid divine;

  And, with a like emotion,

  The Pagans on that fearful day

  Took to Diana’s fane their way,

  And offered their devotion.

  But there the offended Goddess

  Beheld them with a frown;

  The indignant altar heaved itself

  And shook their offerings down;

  The Priestess with a deathlike hue

  Pale as the marble Image grew,

  The marble Image redden’d;

  And these poor suppliants at the sight

  Felt in fresh access of affright

  Their hearts within them deaden’d.

  Behold the marble eyeballs

  With life and motion shine!

  And from the moving marble lips

  There comes a voice divine.

  A demon voice, by all the crowd

  Distinctly heard, nor low, nor loud,

  But deep and clear and thrilling;

  And carrying to the soul such dread

  That they perforce must what it said

  Obey, however unwilling.

  Hear! hear! it said, ye people!

  The ancient Gods have sent

  In anger for your long neglect

  This signal punishment.

  To mortal Mary vows were paid,

  And prayers preferr’d, and offerings made

  Our temples were deserted;

  Now when our vengeance makes ye wise

  Unto your proper Deities

  In fear ye have reverted!

  Hear now the dreadful judgement

  For this which ye have done,

  The infernal Dragon will devour

  Your daughters, one by one;

  A Christian Virgin every day

  Ye must present him for his prey,

  With garlands deck’d, as meet is:

  That with the Christians he begins

  Is what, in mercy to your sins,

  Ye owe to my entreaties.

  Whether, if to my worship

  Ye now continue true,

  I may, when these are all consumed,

  Avert the ill from you:

  That on the Ancient Gods depends,

  If they be made once more your friends

  By your sincere repentance:

  But for the present, no delay;

  Cast lots among ye, and obey

  The inexorable sentence.

  PART III.

  Though to the Pagan priesthood

  Few families there were who thus

  Could in their grief misdeem;

  For oft is those distracted days,

  Parent and child went different ways,

  The sister and the brother;

  And when in spirit moved, the wife

  Chose one religious course of life,

  The husband took the other.

  Therefore in every household

  Was seen the face of fear;

  They who were safe themselves, exposed

  In those whom they held dear.

  The lists are made, and in the urn

  The names are placed to wait their turn

  For this far worse than slaughter;

  And from that fatal urn, the first

  Drawn for this dreadful death accurst

  Was of Pithyrian’s daughter.

  With Christian-like composure

  Marana heard her lot,

  And though her countenance at first

  Grew pale, she trembled not.

  Not for herself the Virgin grieved;

  She knew in whom she had believed,

  Knew that a crown of glory

  In Heaven would recompense her worth,

  And her good name remain on earth

  The theme of sacred story.

  Her fears were for her father,

  How he should bear this grief,

  Poor wretched heathen, if he still

  Remain’d in misbelief;

  Her looks amid the multitude,

  Who struck with deep compassion stood,

  Are seeking for Pithyrian:

  He cannot bear to meet her eye.

  Where goest thou? whither wouldst thou fly,

  Thou miserable Syrian?

  Hath sudden hope inspired him,

  Or is it in despair

  That through the throng he made his way

  And sped he knew not where?

  For how could he the sight sustain

  When now the sacrificial train

  Inhumanly surround her!

  How bear to see her when with flowers

  From rosiers and from jasmine bowers

  They like a victim crown’d her!

  He knew not why nor whither

  So fast he harried thence,

  Bat felt like one possess’d by some

  Controlling influence,

  Nor turn’d he to Diana’s fane,

  Inly assured that prayers were vain

  If made for such protection;

  His pagan faith he now forgot,

  And the wild way he took was not

  His own, bat Heavens direction.

  He who had never enter’d

  A Christian church till then,

  Except in idle mood profane

  To view the ways of men,

  Now to a Christian church made straight,

  And hastened through its open gate.

  By his good Angel guided,

  And thinking, though he knew not why,

  That there some blessed Power on high

  Had help for him provided.

  Wildly he look’d about him

  On many a form divine,

  Whose Image o’er its altar stood,

  And many a sculptured shrine,

  In which believers might behold

  Relics more precious than the gold

  And jewels which encased them.

  With painful search from far and near

  Brought to be venerated h
ere

  Where piety had placed them.

  There stood the Virgin Mother

  Crown’d with a starry wreath,

  And there the aweful Crucifix,

  Appeared to bleed and breathe;

  Martyrs to whom their palm is given,

  And sainted Maids who now in Heaven

  With glory are invested;

  Glancing o’er these his rapid eye

  Toward one image that stood nigh

  Was drawn, and there it rested.

  The countenance that fix’d him

  Was of a sun-burnt mien,

  The face was like a Prophet’s face

  Inspired, but yet serene;

  His arms and legs and feet were bare;

  The raiment was of camel’s hair,

  That, loosely hanging round him,

  Fell from the shoulders to the knee;

  And round the loins, though elsewhere free,

  A leathern girdle bound him.

  With his right arm uplifted

  The great Precursor stood,

  Thus represented to the life

  In carved and painted wood.

  Below the real arm was laid

  Within a crystal shrine display’d

  For public veneration;

  Not now of flesh and blood,.. but bone,

  Sinews, and shrivell’d skin alone,

  In ghastly preservation.

  Moved by a secret impulse

  Which he could not withstand,

  Let me, Pithyrian cried, adore

  That blessed arm and hand!

  This day, this miserable day,

  My pagan faith I put away, —

  Abjure it and abhor it;

  And in the Saints I put my trust,

  And in the Cross; and, if I must,

  Will die a Martyr for it.

  This is the arm whose succour

  Heaven brings me here to seek!

  Oh let me press it to my lips,

  And so its aid bespeak!

  A strong faith makes me now presume

  That when to this unhappy doom

  A hellish power hath brought her,

  The heavenly hand whose mortal mold

  I humbly worship, will unfold

  Its strength, and save my daughter.

  The Sacristan with wonder

  And pity heard his prayer,

  And placed the relic in his hand

  As he knelt humbly there.

  Right thankfully the kneeling man

  To that confiding Sacristan

  Return’d it, after kissing;

  And he within its crystal shrine

  Replaced the precious arm divine,

  Nor saw that aught was missing

  PART IV.

  OH piety audacious!

  Oh boldness of belief!

  Oh sacrilegious force of faith,

  That then inspired the thief!

  Oh wonderful extent of love,

  That Saints enthroned in bliss above

  Should bear such profanation,

  And not by some immediate act,

  Striking the offender in the fact,

  Prevent the perpetration!

  But sure the Saint that impulse

  Himself from Heaven had sent,

  In mercy predetermining

  The marvellous event;

  So inconceivable a thought,

  Seeming with such irreverence fraught

  Could else have no beginning;

  Nor else might such a deed be done,

  As then Pithyrian ventured on,

  Yet had no fear of sinning.

  Not as that Church he enter’d

  Did he from it depart,

  Like one bewildered by his grief,

  But confident at heart;

  Triumphantly he went his way

  And bore the Holy Thumb away,

  Elated with his plunder;

  That Holy Thumb which well he knew

  Could pierce the Dragon through and through,

  Like Jupiter’s own thunder.

  Meantime was meek Marana

  For sacrifice array’d,

  And now in sad procession forth

  They led the flower-crown’d Maid.

  Of this infernal triumph vain,

  The Pagan Priests precede the train,

  Oh hearts devoid of pity!

  And to behold the abhorr’d event,

  At far or nearer distance went

  The whole of that great city.

  The Christians go to succour

  The sufferer with their prayers,

  The Pagans to a spectacle

  Which dreadfully declares,

  In this their over-ruling hour,

  Their Gods’ abominable power;

  Yet not without emotion

  Of grief, and horror, and remorse,

  And natural piety, whose force

  Prevail’d o’er false devotion.

  The walls and towers are cluster’d,

  And every hill and height

  That overlooks the vale, is throng’d

  For this accursed sight.

  Why art thou joyful, thou green Earth?

  Wherefore, ye happy Birds, your mirth

  Are ye in carols voicing?

  And thou, O Sun, in yon blue sky

  How canst thou hold thy course on high

  This day, as if rejoicing?

  Already the procession

  Hath past the city gate,

  And now along the vale it moves

  With solemn pace sedate.

  And now the spot before them lies

  Where wailing for his promised prize

  The Dragon’s chosen haunt is;

  Blacken’d beneath his blasting feet,

  Though yesterday a green retreat

  Beside the clear Orontes.

  There the procession halted;

  The Priests on either hand

  Dividing then, a long array,

  In order took their stand.

  Midway between, the Maid is left,

  Alone, of human aid bereft:

  The Dragon now hath spied her,

  But in that moment of most need,

  Arriving breathless with his speed,

  Her Father stood beside her.

  On came the Dragon rampant,

  Half running, half on wing,

  His tail uplifted o’er his back

  In many a spiral ring;

  His scales he ruffled in his pride,

  His brazen pennons waving wide

  Were gloriously distended;

  His nostrils smoked, his eyes flash’d fire,

  His lips were drawn, and in his ire

  His mighty jaws extended.

  On came the Dragon rampant,

  Expecting there no check,

  And open-mouth’d to swallow both

  He stretch’d his burnish’d neck.

  Pithyrian put his daughter by,

  Waiting for this with watchful eye

  And ready to prevent it;

  Within arm’s length he let him come,

  Then in he threw the Holy Thumb,

  And down his throat he sent it.

  The hugest brazen mortar

  That ever yet fired bomb,

  Could not have check’d this fiendish beast

  As did that Holy Thumb.

  He stagger’d as he wheel’d short round,

  His loose feet scraped along the ground,

  To lift themselves unable:

  His pennons in their weakness flagg’d,

  His tail erected late, now dragg’d,

  Just like a long wet cable.

  A rumbling and a tumbling

  Was heard in his inside,

  He gasp’d, he panted, he lay down,

  He rolled from side to side:

  He moan’d, he groan’d, he snuff’d, he snored,

  He growl’d, he howl’d, he raved, he roar’d;

  But loud as were his clamours,
<
br />   Far louder was the inward din,

  Like a hundred braziers working in

  A caldron with their hammers.

  The hammering came faster,

  More faint the moaning sound,

  And now his body swells, and now

  It rises from the ground.

  Not upward with his own consent,

  Nor borne by his own wings he went,

  Their vigour was abated;

  But lifted no one could tell how

  By power unseen, with which he now

  Was visibly inflated.

  Abominable Dragon,

  Now art thou overmatch’d,

  And better had it been for thee

  That thou hadst ne’er been hatch’d;

  For now, distended like a ball

  To its full stretch, in sight of all,

  The body mounts ascendant;

  The head before, the tail behind,

  The wings, like sails that want a wind,

  On either side are pendant.

  Not without special mercy

  Was he thus borne on high.

  Till he appear’d no bigger than

  An Eagle in the sky.

  For when about some three miles height,

  Yet still in perfect reach of sight,

  Oh, wonder of all wonders!

  He burst in pieces, with a sound

  Heard for a hundred leagues around,

  And like a thousand thunders.

  But had that great explosion

  Been in the lower sky,

  All Antioch would have been laid

  In ruins, certainly.

  And in that vast assembled rout

  Who crowded joyfully about

  Pithyrian and his daughter,

  The splinters of the monster’s hide

  Must needs have made on every side

  A very dreadful slaughter.

  So far the broken pieces

  Were now dispersed around,

  And shiver’d so to dust, that not

  A fragment e’er was found.

  The Holy Thumb (so it is thought)

  When it this miracle had wrought

  At once to Heaven ascended:

  As if, when it had thus display’d

  Its power, and saved the Christian Maid,

  Its work on earth was ended.

  But at Constantinople

  The arm and hand were shown,

  Until the mighty Ottoman

  Overthrew the Grecian throne.

  And when the Monks this tale who told

  To pious visitors would hold

  The holy hand for kissing,

  They never fail’d with faith devout