Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey

by Robert Southey

  These converts, if the Father had not thought

  Theirs was a case for wise and safe delay,

  Lest lightly learnt might lightly be forgot;

  And meanwhile due instruction day by day

  Would to their opening minds the sense of truth convey.

  XXIII.

  Of this they reck’d not whether soon or late;

  For overpowering wonderment possest

  Their faculties; and in this new estate

  Strange sights and sounds and thoughts well nigh opprest

  Their sense, and raised a turmoil in the breast

  Resenting less of pleasure than of pain;

  And sleep afforded them no natural rest,

  But in their dreams, a mixed disordered train,

  The busy scenes of day disturb’d their hearts again.

  XXIV.

  Even when the spirit to that secret wood

  Return’d, slow Mondai’s silent stream beside,

  No longer there it found the solitude

  Which late it left: strange faces were descried,

  Voices, and sounds of music far and wide,

  And buildings seem’d to tower amid the trees,

  And forms of men and beasts on every side,

  As ever-wakeful fancy hears and sees,

  All things that it had heard, and seen, and more than these.

  XXV.

  For in their sleep strange forms deform’d they saw

  Of frightful fiends, their ghostly enemies:

  And souls who must abide the rigorous law

  Weltering in fire, and there, with dolorous cries

  Blaspheming roll around their hopeless eyes;

  And those who doom’d a shorter term to bear

  In penal flames, look upward to the skies,

  Seeking and finding consolation there,

  And feel, like dew from Heaven, the precious aid of prayer.

  XXVI.

  And Angels who around their glorious Queen

  In adoration bent their heads abased;

  And infant faces in their dreams were seen

  Hovering on cherub wings; and Spirits placed

  To be their guards invisible, who chased

  With fiery arms their fiendish foes away:

  Such visions overheated fancy traced,

  Peopling the night with a confused array

  That made its hours of rest more restless than the day.

  XXVII.

  To all who from an old erratic course

  Of life, within the Jesuit’s fold were led,

  The change was perilous. They felt the force

  Of habit, when till then in forests bred,

  A thick perpetual umbrage overhead,

  They came to dwell in open hght and air.

  This ill the Fathers long had learnt to dread,

  And still devised such means as might prepare

  The new-reclaim’d unhurt this total change to bear.

  XXVIII.

  All thoughts and occupations to commute,

  To change their air, their water, and their food,

  And those old habits suddenly uproot

  Conform’d to which the vital powers pursued

  Their functions, such mutation is too rude

  For man’s fine frame unshaken to sustain.

  And these poor children of the solitude

  Began ere long to pay the bitter pain

  That their new way of life brought with it in its train.

  XXIX.

  On Monnema the apprehended ill

  Came first; the matron sunk beneath the weight

  Of a strong malady, whose force no skill

  In healing, might avert, or mitigate.

  Yet happy in her children’s safe estate

  Her thankfulness for them she still exprest;

  And yielding then complacently to fate,

  With Christian rites her passing hour was blest,

  And with a Christian’s hope she was consign’d to rest.

  XXX.

  They laid her in the Garden of the Dead.

  Such as a Christian burial-place should be

  Was that fair spot, where every grave was spread

  With flowers, and not a weed to spring was free;

  But the pure blossoms of the orange tree

  Dropt like a shower of fragrance, on the bier;

  And palms, the type of immortality,

  Planted in stately colonnades, appear,

  That all was verdant there throughout the unvarying year.

  XXXI.

  Nor ever did irreverent feet intrude

  Within that sacred spot; nor sound of mirth,

  Unseemly there, profane the solitude,

  Where solemnly committed earth to earth,

  Waiting the summons for their second birth,

  Whole generations in Death’s peaceful fold

  Collected lay; green innocence, ripe worth,

  Youth full of hope, and age whose days were told,

  Compress’d alike into that mass of mortal mould.

  XXXII.

  Mortal, and yet at the Archangel’s voice

  To put on immortality. That call

  Shall one day make the sentient dust rejoice;

  These bodies then shall rise and cast off all

  Corruption, with whate’er of earthly thrall

  Had clogg’d the heavenly image, then set free.

  How then should Death a Christian’s heart appal?

  Lo, Heaven for you is open; — enter ye

  Children of God, and heirs of his eternity!

  XXXIII.

  This hope supported Mooma, hand in hand

  When with Yeruti at the grave she stood.

  Less even now of death they understand

  Than of the joys eternal that ensued;

  The bliss of infinite beatitude

  To them had been their teacher’s favourite theme

  Wherewith their hearts so fully were imbued

  That it the sole reality might seem,

  Life, death, and all things else, a shadow or a dream.

  XXXIV.

  Yea, so possest with that best hope were they,

  That if the heavens had opened overhead,

  And the Archangel with his trump that day

  To judgement had convoked the quick and dead,

  They would have heard the summons not with dread

  But in the joy of faith that knows no fear:

  Come Lord! come quickly! would this pair have said,

  And thou O Queen of men and Angels dear,

  Lift us whom thou hast loved into thy happy sphere!

  XXXV.

  They wept not at the grave, tho’ overwrought

  With feelings there as if the heart would break.

  Some haply might have deem’d they suffered not;

  Yet they who look’d upon that Maiden meek

  Might see what deep emotion blanched her cheek.

  An inward light there was which fill’d her eyes,

  And told, more forcibly than words could speak,

  That this disruption of her earliest ties

  Had shaken mind and frame in all their faculties.

  XXXVI.

  It was not passion only that disturb’d

  Her gentle nature thus; it was not grief;

  Nor human feeling by the effort curb’d

  Of some misdeeming duty, when relief

  Were surely to be found, albeit brief,

  If sorrow at its springs might freely flow;

  Nor yet repining, stronger than belief

  In its first force, that shook the Maiden so,

  Tho’ these alone might that frail fabric overthrow.

  XXXVII.

  The seeds of death were in her at that hour.

  Soon was their quickening and their growth display’d:

  Thenceforth she droop’d and withered like a flower,

  Which when it flourished in its native shade
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  Some child to his own garden hath convey’d,

  And planted in the sun, to pine away.

  Thus was the gentle Mooma seen to fade,

  Not under sharp disease, but day by day

  Losing the powers of life in visible decay.

  XXXVIII.

  The sunny hue that tinged her cheek was gone,

  A deathy paleness settled in its stead;

  The light of joy which in her eyes had shone,

  Now like a lamp that is no longer fed

  Grew dim: but when she raised her heavy head

  Some proffered help of kindness to partake,

  Those feeble eyes a languid lustre shed,

  And her sad smile of thankfulness would wake

  Grief even in callous hearts for that sweet sufferer’s sake.

  XXXIX.

  How had Yeruti borne to see her fade?

  But he was spared the lamentable sight,

  Himself upon the bed of sickness laid.

  Joy of his heart, and of his eyes the light

  Had Mooma been to him, his soul’s delight,

  On whom his mind for ever was intent,

  His darling thought by day, his dream by night,

  The playmate of his youth in mercy sent,

  With whom his life had past in peacefullest content.

  XL.

  Well was it for the youth, and well for her,

  As there in placid helplessness she lay,

  He was not present with his love to stir

  Emotions that might shake her feeble clay,

  And rouse up in her heart a strong array

  Of feelings, hurtful only when they bind

  To earth the soul that soon must pass away.

  But this was spared them; and no pain of mind

  To trouble her had she, instinctively resigned.

  XLI.

  Nor was there wanting to the sufferers aught

  Of careful kindness to alleviate

  The affliction; for the universal thought

  In that poor town was of their sad estate,

  And what might best relieve or mitigate

  Their case, what help of nature or of art;

  And many were the prayers compassionate

  That the good Saints their healing would impart.

  Breathed in that maid’s behalf from many a tender heart.

  XLII.

  And vows were made for her, if vows might save;

  She for herself the while preferr’d no prayer;

  For when she stood beside her Mother’s grave,

  Her earthly hopes and thoughts had ended there.

  Her only longing now was, free as air

  From this obstructive flesh to take her flight

  For Paradise, and seek her Mother there,

  And then regaining her beloved sight

  Rest in the eternal sense of undisturb’d delight.

  XLIII.

  Her heart was there, and there she felt and knew

  That soon full surely should her spirit be.

  And who can tell what foretastes might ensue

  To one, whose soul, from all earth’s thraldom free,

  Was waiting thus for immortality?

  Sometimes she spake with short and hurried breath

  As if some happy sight she seem’d to see,

  While in the fulness of a perfect faith

  Even with a lover’s hope she lay and look’d for death.

  XLIV.

  I said that for herself the patient maid

  Preferr’d no prayer; but oft her feeble tongue

  And feebler breath a voice of praise essay’d;

  And duly when the vesper bell was rung,

  Her evening hymn in faint accord she sung

  So piously, that they who gathered round

  Awe-stricken on her heavenly accents hung,

  As tho’ they thought it were no mortal sound.

  But that the place whereon they stood was holy ground.

  XLV.

  At such an hour when Dobrizhoffer stood

  Beside her bed, oh how unlike, he thought

  This voice to that which ringing thro’ the wood

  Had led him to the secret bower he sought!

  And was it then for this that he had brought

  That harmless household from their native shade?

  Death had already been the mother’s lot;

  And this fair Mooma, was she form’d to fade

  So soon, — so soon must she in earth’s cold lap be laid?

  XLVI.

  Yet he had no misgiving at the sight;

  And wherefore should he? he had acted well,

  And deeming of the ways of God aright,

  Knew that to such as these, whate’er befell

  Must needs for them be best. But who could dwell

  Unmoved upon the fate of one so young,

  So blithesome late? What marvel if tears fell,

  From that good man as over her he hung,

  And that the prayers he said came faltering from his tongue!

  XLVII.

  She saw him weep, and she could understand

  The cause thus tremulously that made him speak.

  By his emotion moved she took his hand;

  A gleam of pleasure o’er her pallid cheek

  Past, while she look’d at him with meaning meek,

  And for a little while, as loth to part,

  Detaining him, her fingers lank and weak,

  Play’d with their hold; then letting him depart

  She gave him a slow smile that touch’d him to the heart.

  XLVIII.

  Mourn not for her! for what hath life to give

  That should detain her ready spirit here?

  Thinkest thou that it were worth a wish to live,

  Could wishes hold her from her proper sphere?

  That simple heart, that innocence sincere

  The world would stain. Fitter she ne’er could be

  For the great change; and now that change is near,

  Oh who would keep her soul from being free!

  Maiden beloved of Heaven, to die is best for thee!

  XLIX.

  She hath past away, and on her lips a smile

  Hath settled, fix’d in death. Judged they aright,

  Or suffered they their fancy to beguile

  The reason, who believed that she had sight

  Of Heaven before her spirit took its flight;

  That Angels waited round her lowly bed;

  And that in that last effort of delight,

  When lifting up her dying arms, she said,

  I come! a ray from Heaven upon her face was shed?

  L.

  St. Joachin’s had never seen a day

  Of such profuse and general grief before,

  As when with tapers, dirge, and long array

  The Maiden’s body to the grave they bore.

  All eyes, all hearts, her early death deplore;

  Yet wondering at the fortune they lament,

  They the wise ways of Providence adore,

  By whom the Pastor surely had been sent

  When to the Mondai woods upon his quest he went.

  LI.

  This was, indeed, a chosen family.

  For Heaven’s especial favor mark’d, they said;

  Shut out from all mankind they seem’d to be,

  Yet mercifully there were visited,

  That so within the fold they might be led,

  Then call’d away to bliss. Already two

  In their baptismal innocence were dead;

  The third was on the bed of death they knew,

  And in the appointed course must presently ensue.

  LII.

  They marvell’d, therefore, when the youth once more

  Rose from his bed and walk’d abroad again;

  Severe had been the malady, and sore

  The trial, while life struggled to maintain

  Its seat against
the sharp assaults of pain:

  But life in him was vigorous; long he lay

  Ere it could its ascendancy regain:

  Then when the natural powers resumed their sway

  All trace of late disease past rapidly away.

  LIII.

  The first enquiry when his mind was free,

  Was for his sister. She was gone, they said,

  Gone to her Mother, evermore to be

  With her in Heaven. At this no tears he shed

  Nor was he seen to sorrow for the dead;

  But took the fatal tidings in such part

  As if a dull unfeeling nature bred

  His unconcern; for hard would seem the heart

  To which a loss like his no suffering could impart.

  LIV.

  How little do they see what is, who frame

  Their hasty judgement upon that which seems!

  Waters that babble on their way proclaim

  All shallowness: but in their strength deep stream

  Flow silently. Of death Yeruti deems

  Not as an ill, but as the last great good,

  Compared with which all other he esteems

  Transient and void: how then should thought intrude

  Of sorrow in his heart for their beatitude?

  LV.

  While dwelling in their sylvan solitude

  Less had Yeruti learnt to entertain

  A sense of age than death. He understood

  Something of death from creatures he had slain;

  But here the ills which follow in the train

  Of age, had first to him been manifest, —

  The shrunken form, the limbs that move with pain,

  The failing sense, infirmity, unrest, —

  That in his heart he said to die betimes was best.

  LVI.

  Nor had he lost the dead: they were but gone

  Before him, whither he should shortly go.

  Their robes of glory they had first put on;

  He, cumbered with mortality, below