Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey

by Robert Southey

  Must yet abide awhile, content to know

  He should not wait in long expectance here.

  What cause then for repining, or for woe?

  Soon shall he join them in their heavenly sphere,

  And often, even now, he knew that they were near.

  LVII.

  ’Twas but hi open day to close his eyes,

  And shut out the uprofitable view

  Of all this weary world’s realities,

  And forthwith, even as if they lived anew,

  The dead were with him: features, form and hue,

  And looks and gestures were restored again:

  Their actual presence in his heart he knew;

  And when their converse was disturbed. Oh then

  How flat and stale it was to mix with living men!

  LVIII.

  But not the less, whate’er was to be done,

  With living men he took his part content,

  At loom, in garden, or a-field, as one

  Whose spirit wholly no obedience bent,

  To every task its prompt attention lent.

  Alert in labor he among the best;

  And when to church the congregation went,

  None more exact than he to cross his breast,

  And kneel, or rise, and do in all things like the rest.

  LIX.

  Cheerful he was, almost like one elate

  With wine, before it hath disturb’d his power

  Of reason. Yet he seem’d to feel the weight

  Of time; for alway when from yonder tower

  He heard the clock tell out the passing hour,

  The sound appeared to give him some delight:

  And when the evening shades began to lower,

  Then was he seen to watch the fading light

  As if his heart rejoiced at the return of night.

  LX.

  The old man to whom he had been given in care,

  To Dobrizhoffer came one day and said,

  The trouble which our youth was thought to bear,

  With such indifference, hath deranged his head.

  He says that he is nightly visited.

  His Mother and his Sister come and say

  That he must give this message from the dead

  Not to defer his baptism, and delay

  A soul upon the earth which should no longer stay.

  LXI.

  A dream the Jesuit deem’d it; a deceit

  Upon itself by feverish fancy wrought;

  A mere delusion which it were not meet

  To censure, lest the youth’s distempered thought

  Might thereby be to farther error brought;

  But he himself its vanity would find, —

  They argued thus, — if it were noticed not.

  His baptism was in fitting time design’d

  The father said, and then dismiss’d it from his mind.

  LXII.

  But the old Indian came again ere long

  With the same tale, and freely then confest

  His doubt that he had done Yeruti wrong;

  For something more than common seem’d imprest;

  And now he thought that certes it were best

  From the youth’s lips his own account to hear,

  Haply the Father then to his request

  Might yield, regarding his desire sincere,

  Nor wait for farther time if there were aught to fear.

  LXIII.

  Considerately the Jesuit heard and bade

  The youth be called. Yeruti told his tale.

  Nightly these blessed spirits came, he said,

  To warn him he must come within the pale

  Of Christ without delay; nor must he fail

  This warning to their Pastor to repeat,

  Till the renewed intreaty should prevail.

  Life’s business then for him would be complete,

  And ’twas to tell him this they left their starry seat.

  LXIV.

  Came they to him in dreams? — He could not tell.

  Sleeping or waking now small difference made;

  For even while he slept he knew full well

  That his dear Mother and that darling Maid

  Both in the Garden of the Dead were laid:

  And yet he saw them as in life, the same,

  Save only that in radiant robes arrayed,

  And round about their presence when they came

  There shone an effluent light as of a harmless flame.

  LXV.

  And where he was he knew, the time, the place, —

  All circumstantial things to him were clear.

  His own heart undisturb’d. His Mother’s face

  How could he chuse but know; or knowing, fear

  Her presence and that Maid’s, to him more dear

  Than all that had been left him now below?

  Their love had drawn them from their happy sphere;

  That dearest love unchanged they came to show;

  And he must be baptized, and then he too might go.

  LXVI.

  With searching ken the Jesuit while he spake

  Perused him, if in countenance or tone

  Aught might be found appearing to partake

  Of madness. Mark of passion there was none;

  None of derangement: in his eye alone,

  As from a hidden fountain emanate,

  Something of an unusual brightness shone:

  But neither word nor look betrayed a state

  Of wandering, and his speech, though earnest, was sedate.

  LXVII.

  Regular his pulse, from all disorder free;

  The vital powers perform’d their part assign’d;

  And to whate’er was ask’d, collectedly

  He answer’d. Nothing troubled him in mind;

  Why should it? Were not all around him kind?

  Did not all love him with a love sincere,

  And seem in serving him a joy to find?

  He had no want, no pain, no grief, no fear:

  But he must be baptized; he could not tarry here.

  LXVIII.

  Thy will be done, Father in heaven who art!

  The Pastor said, nor longer now denied;

  But with a weight of awe upon his heart

  Entered the Church, and there the font beside.

  With holy water, chrism and salt applied,

  Perform’d in all solemnity the rite.

  His feeling was that hour with fear allied;

  Yeruti’s was a sense of pure delight.

  And while he knelt his eyes seem’d larger and more bright.

  LXIX.

  His wish had been obtain’d, and this being done

  His soul was to its full desire content.

  The day in its accustomed course past on:

  The Indian mark’d him ere to rest he went,

  How o’er his beads, as he was wont, he bent,

  And then, like one who casts all care aside,

  Lay down. The old man fear’d no ill event,

  When, “Ye are come for me!” Yeruti cried;

  “Yes, I am ready now!” and instantly he died.

  ALL FOR LOVE.

  OR A SINNER WELL SAVED

  TO CAROLINE BOWLES.

  Could I look forward to a distant day,

  With hope of building some elaborate lay,

  Then would I wait till worthier strains of mine,

  Might have inscribed thy name, O Caroline!

  For I would, while my voice is heard on earth,

  Bear witness to thy genius and thy worth.

  But we have been both taught to feel with fear,

  How frail the tenure of existence here;

  What unforeseen calamities prevent,

  Alas! how oft, the best resolved intent;

  And, therefore, this poor volume I address

  To thee, dear friend, and sister poetess!

  ROBERT SOUTHEY.

  Keswick, Feb. 21,
1829.

  THE story of the following Poem is taken from a Life of St. Basil, ascribed to his contemporary St. Amphilochius, Bishop of Iconium; a Latin version of which, made by Cardinal Ursus in the ninth century, is inserted by Rosweyde, among the Lives of the Fathers, in his compilation Historiæ Eremiticœ. The original had not then been printed, but Rosweyde obtained a copy of it from the Royal Library at Paris. He intimates no suspicion concerning the authenticity of the life, or the truth of this particular legend; observing only, that hæc narratio apud solum invenitur Amphilochium. It is, indeed, the flower of the work, and as such had been culled by some earlier translator than Ursus. The very learned Dominican, P. François Combefis, published the original with a version of his own, and endeavoured to establish its authenticity in opposition to Baronius, who supposed the life to have been written by some other Amphilochius, not by the Bishop of Iconium. Had Combefis pos sessed powers of mind equal to his erudition, he might even then have been in some degree prejudiced upon this subject, for, according to Baillet, il avait un attachement particulier pour S. Basile. His version is inserted in the Acta Sanctorum (Jun t. ii pp. 937 — 957.) But the Bollandist Baert brands the life there as apocryphal; and in his annotations treats Combefis more rudely, it may be suspected, than he would have done, had he not belonged to a rival and hostile order. Should the reader be desirous of comparing the Poem with the Legend, he may find the story, as transcribed from Rosweyde, among the Notes.

  I.

  A YOUTH hath enter’d the Sorcerer’s door,

  But he dares not lift his eye,

  For his knees fail and his flesh quakes,

  And his heart beats audibly.

  “Look up, young man!” the Sorcerer said,

  “Lay open thy wishes to me!

  Or art thou too modest to tell thy tale?

  If so,.. I can tell it thee.

  “Thy name is Eleëmon;

  Proterius’s freedman thou art;

  And on Cyra, thy Master’s daughter,

  Thou hast madly fix’d thy heart.

  “But fearing (as thou well mayest fear!)

  The high-born Maid to woo,

  Thou hast tried what secret prayers and vows

  And sacrifice might do.

  “Thou hast prayed unto all Saints in Heaven,

  And to Mary their vaunted Queen;

  And little furtherance hast thou found

  From them, or from her, I ween!

  “And thou, I know, the Ancient Gods,

  In hope forlorn hast tried,

  If haply Venus might obtain

  The maiden for thy bride.

  “On Jove and Phoebus thou hast call’d,

  And on Astarte’s name;

  And on her, who still at Ephesus

  Retains a faded fame.

  “Thy voice to Baal hath been raised;

  To Nile’s old Deities;

  Ana to all Gods of elder time

  Adored by men in every clime

  When they ruled earth, seas and skies.

  “Their Images are deaf!

  Their Oracles are dumb!

  And therefore thou, in thy despair,

  To Abibas art come.

  “Ay, because neither Saints nor Gods

  Thy pleasure will fulfil,

  Thou comest to me, Eleëmon,

  To ask if Satan will!

  “I answer thee, Yes. But a faint heart

  Can never accomplish its ends;

  Put thy trust boldly in him, and be sure

  He never forsakes his friends.”

  While Eleëmon listen’d

  He shudder’d inwardly,

  At the ugly voice of Abibas,

  And the look in his wicked eye.

  And he could then almost have given

  His fatal purpose o’er;

  But his Good Angel had left him,

  When he entered the Sorcerer’s door.

  So in the strength of evil shame,

  His mind the young man knit

  Into a desperate resolve,

  For his bad purpose fit.

  “Let thy Master give me what I seek,

  O Servant of Satan,” he said,

  “As I ask firmly, and for his

  Renounce all other aid!

  “Time presses. Cyra is content

  To bid the world farewell,

  And pass her days, a virgin vow’d,

  Among Emmelia’s sisterhood,

  The tenant of a cell.

  “Thus hath her Father will’d, that so

  A life of rigour here below

  May fit her for the skies;

  And Heaven acceptably receive

  His costliest sacrifice.

  “The admiring people say of this

  That Angels, or that Saints in bliss,

  The holy thought inspire;

  And she is call’d a blessed Maid,

  And he a happy Sire.

  “Through Cappadocia far and wide

  The news hath found its way,

  And crowds to Caesarea flock

  To attend the solemn day.

  “The robes are ready, rich with gold,

  Even like a bridal dress,

  Which at the altar she will wear

  When self-devoted she stands there

  In all her loveliness.

  “And that coarse habit too, which she

  Must then put on, is made,

  Therein to be for life and death

  Unchangeably array’d.

  “This night,.. this precious night is ours,...

  Late, late, I come to you;

  But all that must be dared, or done,

  Prepared to dare and do.”

  “Thou hast hesitated long! said Abibas,

  “And thou hast done amiss,

  In praying to Him whom I name not,

  That it never might come to this!

  “But thou hast chosen thy part, and here thou art

  And thou shalt have thy desire;

  And tho’ at the eleventh hour

  Thou hast come to serve our Prince of Power,

  He will give thee in full thine hire.

  “These Tablets take (he wrote as he spake,)

  “My letters, which thou art to bear,

  Wherein I shall commend thee

  To the Prince of the Powers of the Air.

  “Go from the North Gate out, and take

  On a Pagan’s tomb thy stand;

  And, looking to the North, hold up

  The Tablets in thy hand;

  “And call the Spirits of the Air,

  That they my messenger may bear

  To the place whither he would pass,

  And there present him to their Prince

  In the name of Abibas.

  “The passage will be swift and safe,

  No danger awaits thee beyond;

  Thou wilt only have now to sign and seal,

  And hereafter to pay the Bond.”

  II.

  SHUNNING human sight, like a thief in the night,

  Eleëmon made no delay,

  But went unto a Pagan’s tomb

  Beside the public way.

  Inclosed with barren elms it stood,

  There planted when the dead

  Within the last abode of man

  Had been deposited.

  And thrice ten years those barren trees,

  Enjoying light and air,

  Had grown and flourish’d, while the dead

  In darkness moulder’d there.

  Long had they overtopt the tomb;

  And closed was now that upper room

  Where friends were wont to pour,

  Upon the honour’d dust below,

  Libations thro’ the floor.

  There on that unblest monument

  The young man took his stand,

  And northward he the tablets held

  In his uplifted hand.

  A courage not his own he felt,

  A wicked fortitude,
/>   Wherewith bad influences unseen

  That hour his heart endued.

  The rising Moon grew pale in heaven

  At that unhappy sight;

  And all the blessed Stars seem’d then

  To close their twinkling light;

  And a shuddering in the elms was heard,

  Tho’ winds were still that night.

  He call’d the Spirits of the Air,

  He call’d them in the name

  Of Abibas; and at the call

  The attendant Spirits came.

  A strong hand which he could not see

  Took his uplifted hand;

  He felt a strong arm circle him,

  And lift him from his stand;

  A whirr of unseen wings he heard

  About him every where,

  Which onward with a mighty force,

  Impell’d him through the air.

  Fast through the middle sky and far

  It hurried him along,

  The Hurrican is not so swift,

  The Torrent not so strong;

  The Lightning travels not so fast,

  The Sunbeams not so far;

  And now behind him he hath left

  The Moon and every Star.

  And still erect as on the tomb

  In impious act he stood,

  Is he rapt onward... onward... still

  In that fix’d attitude.

  But as he from the living world

  Approach’d where Spirits dwell,

  His bearers there in thinner air

  Were dimly visible;

  Shapeless, and scarce to be descried

  In darkness where they flew;

  But still as they advanced, the more

  And more distinct they grew:

  And when their way fast-speeding they

  Thro’ their own region went,