Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey

by Robert Southey

  To take its own wild course, the sport of chance;

  Or the bad Spirit o’er the Good prevails,

  And in the eternal conflict hath arisen

  Lord of the ascendant!

  Rightly wouldst thou say,

  Were there no world but this! the Goth replied.

  The happiest child of earth that e’er was mark ‘d

  To be the minion of prosperity,

  Richest in corporal gifts and wealth of mind,

  Honor and fame attending him abroad,

  Peace and all dear domestic joys at home,

  And sunshine till the evening of his days

  Closed in without a cloud, — even such a man

  Would from the gloom and horror of his heart

  Confirm thy fatal thought, were this world all!

  Oh! who could bear the haunting mystery,

  If death and retribution did not solve

  The riddle, and to heavenliest harmony

  Reduce the seeming chaos! — Here we see

  The water at its well-head; clear it is,

  Not more transpicuous the invisible air;

  Pure as an infant’s thoughts; and here to life

  And good directed all its uses serve.

  The herb grows greener on its brink; sweet flowers

  Bend o’er the stream that feeds their freshened roots;

  The red-breast loves it for his wintry haunts;

  And when the buds begin to open forth,

  Builds near it with his mate their brooding nest;

  The thirsty stag, with widening nostrils, there

  Invigorated draws his copious draught;

  And there, amid its flags, the wild boar stands,

  Nor suffering wrong nor meditating hurt.

  Through woodlands wild and solitary fields,

  Unsullied thus it holds its bounteous course;

  But when it reaches the resorts of men,

  The service of the city there defiles

  The tainted stream; corrupt and foul it flows

  Through loathsome banks and o’er a bed impure,

  Till in the sea, the appointed end to which

  Through all its way it hastens, ’tis received,

  And, losing all pollution, mingles there

  In the wide world of waters. So is it

  With the great stream of things, if all were seen;

  Good the beginning, good the end shall be,

  And transitory evil only make

  The good end happier. Ages pass away,

  Thrones fall, and nations disappear, and worlds

  Grow old and go to wreck; the soul alone

  Endures, and what she chooseth for herself,

  The arbiter of her own destiny,

  That only shall be permanent.

  But guilt,

  And all our suffering? said the Count. The Goth

  Replied, Repentance taketh sin away,

  Death remedies the rest. — Soothed by the strain

  Of such discourse, Julian was silent then,

  And sat contemplating. Florinda too

  Was calm’d. If sore experience may be thought

  To teach the uses of adversity,

  She said, alas! who better learn’d than I

  In that sad school! Methinks, if ye would know

  How visitations of calamity

  Affect the pious soul, ’tis shown ye there!

  Look yonder at that cloud, which, through the sky

  Sailing alone, doth cross, in her career,

  The rolling Moon! I watch’d it as it came,

  And deem’d the deep opake would blot her beams;

  But, melting like a wreath of snow, it hangs

  In folds of wavy silver round, and clothes

  The orb with richer beauties than her own,

  Then passing, leaves her in her light serene

  Thus having said, the pious sufferer sat,

  Beholding with fix’d eyes that lovely orb,

  Till quiet tears confused in dizzy light

  The broken moonbeams. They too by the toil

  Of spirit, as by travail of the day

  Subdued, were silent, yielding to the hour.

  The silver cloud diffusing slowly past,

  And now into its airy elements

  Resolved is gone; while through the azure depth

  Alone in heaven the glorious Moon pursues

  Her course appointed, with indifferent beams

  Shining upon the silent hills around,

  And the dark tents of that unholy host,

  Who, all unconscious of impending fate,

  Take their last slumber there. The camp is still;

  The fires have mouldered, and the breeze which stirs

  The soft and snowy embers, just lays bare

  At times a red and evanescent light,

  Or for a moment wakes a feeble flame.

  They by the fountain hear the stream below,

  Whose murmurs, as the wind arose or fell,

  Fuller or fainter reach the ear attuned.

  And now the nightingale, not distant far,

  Began her solitary song, and pour’d

  To the cold moon a richer, stronger strain

  Than that with which the lyric lark salutes

  The new-born day. Her deep and thrilling song

  Seem’d with its piercing melody to reach

  The soul, and in mysterious unison

  Blend with all thoughts of gentleness and love.

  Their hearts were open to the healing power

  Of nature; and the splendor of the night,

  The flow of waters, and that sweetest lay

  Came to them like a copious evening dew

  Falling on vernal herbs which thirst for rain.

  XXII. THE MOORISH COUNCIL.

  THUS they beside the fountain sat, of food

  And rest forgetful, when a messenger

  Summon’d Count Julian to the Leader’s tent.

  In council there, at that late hour, he found

  The assembled Chiefs, on sudden tidings call’d

  Of unexpected weight from Cordoba.

  Jealous that Abdalaziz had assumed

  A regal state, affecting in his court

  The forms of Gothic sovereignty, the Moors,

  Whom artful spirits of ambitious mould

  Stirr’d up, had risen against him in revolt:

  And he who late had in the Caliph’s name

  Ruled from the Ocean to the Pyrenees,

  A mutilate and headless carcass now,

  From pitying hands received beside the road

  A hasty grave, scarce hidden there from dogs

  And ravens, nor from wintry rains secure.

  She, too, who in the wreck of Spain preserved

  Her queenly rank, the wife of Roderick first,

  Of Abdalaziz after, and to both

  Alike unhappy, shared the ruin now

  Her counsels had brought on; for she had led

  The infatuate Moor, in dangerous vauntery,

  To these aspiring forms, — so should he gain

  Respect and honor from the Mussulman,

  She said, and that the obedience of the Goths

  Follow’d the sceptre. In an evil hour

  She gave the counsel, and in evil hour

  He lent a willing ear; the popular rage

  Fell on them both; and they to whom her name

  Had been a mark for mockery and reproach,

  Shudder’d with human horror at her fate.

  Ayub was heading the wild anarchy;

  But where the cement of authority

  Is wanting, all things there are dislocate:

  The mutinous soldiery, by every cry

  Of rumor set in wild career, were driven

  By every gust of passion, setting up

  One hour, what in the impulse of the next,

  Equally unreasoning, they destroy’d; thus all

  Was in misrule where uproar
gave the law,

  And ere from far Damascus they could learn

  The Caliph’s pleasure, many a moon must pass.

  What should be done? should Abulcacem march

  To Cordoba, and in the Caliph’s name

  Assume the power which to his rank in arms

  Rightly devolved, restoring thus the reign

  Of order? or pursue, with quicken’d speed,

  The end of this great armament, and crush

  Rebellion first, then to domestic ills

  Apply’ his undivided mind and foree

  Victorious? What, in this emergency,

  Was Julian’s counsel, Abuleaeem ask’d;

  Should they accomplish soon their enterprise?

  Or would the insurgent infidels prolong

  The contest, seeking by protracted war

  To weary them, and trusting in the strength

  Of these wild hills?

  Julian replied, The Chief

  Of this revolt is wary, resolute,

  Of approved worth in war: a desperate part

  He for himself deliberately hath chosen,

  Confiding in the hereditary love

  Borne to him by these hardy mountaineers —

  A love which his own noble qualities

  Have strengthen’d so that every heart is his.

  When ye can bring them to the open proof

  Of battle, ye will find them in his cause

  Lavish of life; but well they know the strength

  Of their own fastnesses, the mountain paths

  Impervious to pursuit, the vantages

  Of rock, and pass, and woodland, and ravine;

  And hardly will ye tempt them to forego

  These natural aids wherein they put their trust

  As in their stubborn spirit, each alike

  Deem’d by themselves invincible, and so

  By Roman found and Goth — beneath whose sway

  Slowly persuaded rather than subdued

  They came, and still through every change retain’d

  Their manners obstinate and barbarous speech.

  My counsel, therefore, is, that we secure

  With strong increase of force the adjacent posts,

  And chiefly Gegio, leaving them so mann’d

  As may abate the hope of enterprise,

  Their strength being told. Time, in a strife like this,

  Becomes the ally of those who trust in him:

  Make then with Time your covenant. Old feuds

  May disunite the chiefs: some may be gain’d

  By fair entreaty, others by the stroke

  Of nature, or of policy, cut off.

  This was the counsel which in Cordoba

  I offer’d Abdalaziz: in ill hour

  Rejecting it, he sent upon this war

  His father’s faithful friend! Dark are the ways

  Of Destiny! Had I been at his side,

  Old Muza would not now have mourn’d his age

  Left childless, nor had Ayub dared defy

  The Caliph’s represented power. The case

  Calls for thine instant presence, with the weight

  Of thy legitimate authority.

  Julian, said Orpas, turning from beneath

  His turban to the Count a crafty eye,

  Thy daughter is return’d; doth she not bring

  Some tidings of the movements of the foe?

  The Count replied, When child and parent meet

  First reconciled from discontents which wrung

  The hearts of both, ill should their converse be

  Of warlike matters! There hath been no time

  For such inquiries, neither should I think

  To ask her touching that for which I know

  She hath neither eye nor thought.

  There was a time —

  Orpas with smile malignant thus replied —

  When in the progress of the Caliph’s arms

  Count Julian’s daughter had an interest

  Which touch’d her nearly! But her turn is served,

  And hatred of Prince Orpas may beget

  Indifference to the cause. Yet Destiny

  Still guideth to the service of the faith

  The wayward heart of woman; for as one

  Delivered Roderick to the avenging sword,

  So hath another at this hour betray’d

  Pelayo to his fall. His sister came

  At nightfall to my tent a fugitive.

  She tells me that, on learning our approach,

  The rebel to a cavern in the hills

  Had sent his wife and children, and with them

  Those of his followers, thinking, there conceal’d,

  They might be safe. She, moved by injuries

  Which stung her spirit, on the way escaped,

  And for revenge will guide us. In reward

  She asks her brother’s forfeiture of lands

  In marriage with Numacian: something too

  Touching his life, that for her services

  It might be spared, she said; — an after-thought

  To salve decorum, and if conscience wake,

  Serve as a sop; but when the sword shall smite

  Pelayo and his dangerous race, I ween,

  That a thin kerchief will dry all the tears

  The Lady Guisla sheds!

  ’Tis the old taint!

  Said Julian mournfully; from her mother’s womb

  She brought the inbred wickedness which now

  In ripe infection blossoms. Woman, woman,

  Still to the Goths art thou the instrument

  Of overthrow; thy virtue and thy vice

  Fatal alike to them!

  Say rather, cried

  The insidious renegade, that Allah thus

  By woman punisheth the idolatry

  Of those who raise a woman to the rank

  Of godhead, calling on their Mary’s name

  With senseless prayers. In vain shall they invoke

  Her trusted succor now! Like silly birds,

  By fear betray’d, they fly into the toils;

  And this Pelayo, who, in lengthen’d war

  Baffling our force, has thought perhaps to reign

  Prince of the Mountains, when we hold his wife

  And offspring at our mercy, must himself

  Come to the lure.

  Enough, the Leader said;

  This unexpected work of favoring Fate

  Opens an easy way to our desires,

  And renders further counsel needless now.

  Great is the Prophet whose protecting power

  Goes with the faithful forth! The rebels’ days

  Are number’d; Allah hath deliver’d them

  Into our hands!

  So saying he arose;

  The Chiefs withdrew; Orpas alone remain’d

  Obedient to his indicated will.

  The event, said Abulcaecin, hath approved

  Thy judgment in all points; his daughter comes

  At the first summons, even as thou saidst;

  Her errand with the insurgents done, she brings

  Their well-concerted project back, a safe

  And unexpected messenger; — the Moor —

  The shallow Moor — must see and not perceive;

  Must hear and understand not; yea, must bear,

  Poor easy fool, to serve their after-mirth,

  A part in his own undoing! But just Heaven

  With this unlook’d-for incident hath marr’d

  Their complots, and the sword shall cut this web

  Of treason.

  Well, the renegade replied,

  Thou knowest Count Julian’s spirit, quick in wiles,

  In act audacious. Baffled now, he thinks

  Either by instant warning to apprize

  The rebels of their danger, or preserve

  The hostages when fallen into our power,

  Till secret craft contrive, or open force

  Win their
enlargement. Haply, too, he dreams

  Of Cordoba, the avenger and the friend

  Of Abdalaziz, in that cause to arm

  Moor against Moor, preparing for himself

  The victory o’er the enfeebled conquerors.

  Success in treason hath imbolden’d him,

  And power but serves him for fresh treachery, false

  To Roderick first, and to the Caliph now.

  The guilt, said Abulcacem, is confirm’d,

  The sentence past; all that is now required

  Is to strike sure and safely. He hath with him

  A veteran force devoted to his will,

  Whom to provoke were perilous; nor less

  Of peril lies there in delay: what course

  Between these equal dangers should we steer?

  They have been train’d beneath him in the wars

  Of Africa, the renegade replied;

  Men are they, who, from their youth up, have found

  Their occupation and their joy in arms;

  Indifferent to the cause for which they fight,

  But faithful to their leader, who hath won

  By license largely given, yet temper’d still

  With exercise of firm authority,

  Their whole devotion. Vainly should we seek

  By proof of Julian’s guilt to pacify

  Such martial spirits, unto whom all creeds

  And countries are alike; but take away

  The head, and forthwith their fidelity

  Goes at the market price. The act must be

  Sudden and secret; poison is too slow.

  Thus it may best be done; the Mountaineers,

  Doubtless, erelong will rouse us with some spur

  Of sudden enterprise; at such a time

  A trusty minister approaching him

  May smite him, so that all shall think the spear

  Comes from the hostile troops.

  Right counsellor!

  Cried Abulcacem, thou shalt have his lands,

  The proper meed of thy fidelity:

  His daughter thou mayst take or leave. Go now

  And find a faithful instrument to put

  Our purpose in effect! — And when ’tis done,

  The Moor, as Orpas from the tent withdrew,

  Muttering pursued, — look for a like reward

  Thyself! That restless head of wickedness

  In the grave will brood no treasons. Other babes

  Scream when the Devil, as they spring to life,

  Infects them with his touch; but thou didst stretch

  Thine arms to meet him, and, like mother’s milk,

  Suck the congenial evil! Thou hast tried

  Both laws, and, were there aught to gain, wouldst prove

  A third as readily; but when thy sins

  Are weigh’d, twill be against an empty scale,

  And neither Prophet will avail thee then!