In search of Ebba; and in the heat of fight
Rejoicing and forgetful of all else,
Set up his cry as he was wont in youth,
Roderick the Goth!... his war-cry known so well.
Pelayo eagerly took up the word,
And shouted out his kinsman’s name beloved,
Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!
Roderick and Vengeance! Odoar gave it forth;
Urban repeated it, and through his ranks
Count Pedro sent the cry. Not from the field
Of his great victory, when Witiza fell,
With louder acclamations had that name
Been borne abroad upon the winds of heaven.
The unreflecting throng, who yesterday,
If it had pass’d their lips, would with a curse
Have clogg’d it, echoed it as if it came
From some celestial voice in the air, reveal’d
To be the certain pledge of all their hopes.
Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!
Roderick and Vengeance! O’er the field it spread.
All hearts and tongues uniting in the cry;
Mountains and rocks and vales re-echoed round;
And he, rejoicing in his strength, rode on,
Laying on the Moors with that good sword, and smote,
And overthrew, and scatter’d, and destroy’d,
And trampled down; and still at every blow
Exultingly he sent the war-cry forth,
Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!
Roderick and Vengeance!
Thus he made his way.
Smiting and slaying through the astonish’d ranks.
Till he beheld, where on a fiery barb,
Ebba, performing well a soldier’s part,
Dealt to the right and left his deadly blows.
With mutual rage they met. The renegade
Displays a seymitar, the splendid gift
Of Walid from Damascus sent; its hilt
Emboss’d with gems, its blade of perfect steel.
Which, like a mirror sparkling to the sun
With dazzling splendour, flash’d. The Goth objects
His shield, and on its rim received the edge
Driven from its aim aside, and of its force
Diminish’d. Many a frustrate stroke was dealt
On either part, and many a foin and thrust
Aim’d and rebated; many a deadly blow
Straight, or reverse, delivered and repell’d.
Roderick at length with better speed hath reached
The apostate’s turban, and through all its folds
The true Cantabrian weapon making way
Attain’d his forehead. Wretch! the avenger cried,
It comes from Roderick’s hand! Roderick the Goth,
Who spared, who trusted thee, and was betray’d!
Go tell thy father now how thou hast sped
With all thy treasons! Saying thus he seized
The miserable, who, blinded now with blood,
Reel’d in the saddle; and with sidelong step
Backing Orelio, drew him to the ground.
He shrieking, as beneath the horse’s feet
He fell, forgot his late-learnt creed, and call’d
On Mary’s name. The dreadful Goth pass’d on,
Still plunging through the thickest war, and still
Scattering, where’er he turn’d, the affrighted ranks.
O who could tell what deeds were wrought that day,
Or who endure to hear the tale of rage,
Hatred, and madness, and despair, and fear,
Horror, and wounds, and agony, and death,
The cries, the blasphemies, the shrieks, and groans,
And prayers, which mingled with the din of arms
In one wild uproar of terrific sounds;
While over all predominant was heard,
Reiterate from the conquerors o’er the field,
Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!
Roderick and Vengeance!... Woe for Africa!
Woe for the circumcised! Woe for the faith
Of the lying Ishmaelite that hour! The Chiefs
Have fallen; the Moors, confused and captainless,
And panic-stricken, vainly seek to escape
The inevitable faite. Turn where they will,
Strong in his cause, rejoicing in success,
Insatiate at the banquet of revenge,
The enemy is there; look where they will,
Death hath environed their devoted ranks;
Fly where they will, the avenger and the sword
Await them,.. wretches! whom the righteous arm
Hath overtaken!... Join’d in bonds of faith
Accurs’d, the most flagitious of mankind
From all parts met are here; the apostate Greek
The vicious Syrian, and the sullen Copt,
The Persian cruel and corrupt of soul.
The Arabian robber, and the prowling sons
Of Africa, who from their thirsty sands
Pray that the locusts on the peopled plain
May settle and prepare their way. Conjoin’d
Beneath an impious faith, which sanctifies
To them all deeds of wickedness and blood,..
Yea, and halloos them on,.. here are they met
To be conjoin’d in punishment this hour.
For plunder, violation, massacre,
All hideous, all unutterable things,
The righteous, the immitigable sword
Exacts due vengeance now! the cry of blood
Is heard, the measure of their crimes is full;
Such mercy as the Moor at Auria gave,
Such mercy hath he found this dreadful hour!
The evening darken’d, but the avenging sword
Turn’d not away its edge till night had closed
Upon the field of blood. The Chieftains then
Blew the recall, and from their perfect work
Return’d rejoicing, all but he for whom
All look’d with most expectance. He full sure
Had thought upon that field to find his end
Desired, and with Florinda in the grave
Rest, in indissoluble union join’d.
But still where through the press of war he went
Half-arm’d, and like a lover seeking death,
The arrows past him by to right and left,
The spear-point pierced him not, the scymitar
Glanced from his helmet; he, when he beheld
The rout complete, saw that the shield of Heaven
Mad been extended over him once more.
And bowed before its will. Upon the banks
Of Sella was Orelio found, his legs
And flanks incarnadined, his poitral smeared
With froth and foam and gore, his silver mane
Sprinkled with blood, which hung on every hair,
Aspersed like dew-drops; trembling there he stood
From the toil of battle, and at times sent forth
His tremulous voice far echoing loud and shrill,
A frequent anxious cry, with which he seem’d
To call the master whom he loved so well,
And who had thus again forsaken him.
Siverian’s helm and cuirass on the grass
Lay near; and Julian’s sword, its hilt and chain
Clotted with blood; but where was he whose hand
Had wielded it so well that glorious day?...
Days, months, and years, and generations pass’d,
And centuries held their course, before, far off
Within a hermitage near Viseu’s walls
A humble tomb was found, which bore inscribed
In ancient characters King Roderick’s name.
THE POET’S PILGRIMAGE TO WATERLOO
Published in 1816, this long ballad recounts Southey’s journey to the battlefield i
n Waterloo, which unfolds in two parts, each divided into several sections. In the first part the poet describes the journey to the scene of the battle, whilst the second concerns an allegorical vision underscoring the historical and theological significance of the event. Although many other poets had already explored this theme, following the famous battle of 1815, Southey’s poem was illustrated with engravings of the battlefield, making the book successful enough to go through three editions.
The poem opens with a description of the poet’s arrival at Bruges, his admiration of the medieval city and a trip by barge to Ghent, followed by land to Brussels. The description is punctuated with Spenserian language, establishing a tone of cheerful pilgrimage as the travellers pass through a flourishing countryside. At Brussels the signs of the conflict begin to appear, as three months after the battle the hospitals are still heavily crowded with wounded and dying soldiers. Proceeding south to Waterloo, Southey then describes the site of the battle, whilst mingling recollections of the earlier wars of William III and Marlborough. Amid the grim reminders of death the landscape bursts into bloom. Napoleon’s retreat is described and the vengeance inflicted by the Prussians on the fleeing soldiers.
The poem received overall positive reviews, with the Monthly Review declaring: “The Pilgrimage to Waterloo appears to us to be not only the best of the numerous effusions on that victory, but, on the whole, the most pleasing, the most classical, and the least prosaic of all Mr. Southey’s compositions. The last epithet is, in truth, indicative of the sin which most easily and most uniformly besets the author. A want of figurative and poetical expression is the prevailing defect of his writings in verse; while a great clearness, simplicity, and freedom from bombast, form their prevailing excellence.” The reviewer of the British Critic wrote: “The versification (the sweetest beyond compare which we have seen since the days of Spenser) flows on without much break or burst, soothing and delighting, rather than rousing or hurrying away the mind of the reader.… Mr. Southey will not be offended, when we say, that he has not improved upon his master Spenser; it is no small praise to say, that he has shewn himself his worthy scholar”. The Anti-Jacobin Review also praised the poem, proclaiming, “We have accompanied Mr. Southey through his pilgrimage with unmixed pleasure, with satisfaction unalloyed.”
Detail of ‘Battle of Waterloo’ by William Sadler
CONTENTS
Argument.
Proem.
Part the First. The Journey.
Part the Second. The Vision.
Waterloo Church — the original frontispiece
TO JOHN MAY,
AFTER A FRIENDSHIP OF TWENTY YEARS
THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED,
IN TESTIMONY OF THE HIGHEST ESTEEM AND AFFECTION,
BY ROBERT SOUTHEY.
Argument.
The first part of this Poem describes a journey to the scene of war. The second is in an allegorical form; it exposes the gross material philosophy which has been the guiding principle of the French politicians, from Mirabeau to Bonaparte; and it states the opinions of those persons who lament the restoration of the Bourbons, because the hopes which they entertained from the French Revolution have not been realized; and of those who see only evil, or blind chance, in the course of human events.
To the Christian philosopher all things are consistent and clear. Our first parents brought with them the light of natural religion and the moral law; as men departed from these, they tended towards barbarous and savage life; large portions of the world are in this degenerated state; still, upon the great scale, the human race, from the beginning, has been progressive. But the direct object of Bonaparte was to establish a military despotism wherever his power extended; and the immediate and inevitable consequence of such a system is to brutalize and degrade mankind. The contest in which this country was engaged against that Tyrant, was a struggle between good and evil principles; and never was there a victory so important to the best hopes of human nature as that which was won by British valor at Waterloo, — its effects extending over the whole civilized world, and involving the vital interests of all mankind.
That victory leaves England in security and peace. In no age, and in no country, has man ever existed under circumstances so favorable to the full development of his moral and intellectual faculties, as in England at this time. The peace which she has won by the battle of Waterloo, leaves her at leisure to pursue the great objects and duties of bettering her own condition, and diffusing the blessings of civilization and Christianity.
The Poet’s Pilgrimage to Waterloo.
Proem.
Once more I see thee, Skiddaw! once again
Behold thee in thy majesty serene,
Where like the bulwark of this favoured plain,
Alone thou standest, monarch of the scene...
Thou glorious Mountain, on whose ample breast
The sunbeams love to play, the vapours love to rest!
Once more, O Derwent! to thy aweful shores
I come, insatiate of the accustomed sight;
And listening as the eternal torrent roars,
Drink in with eye and ear a fresh delight:
For I have wandered far by land and sea,
In all my wanderings still remembering thee.
Twelve years, (how large a part of man’s brief day!)
Nor idly, nor ingloriously spent,
Of evil and of good have held their way,
Since first upon thy banks I pitched my tent.
Hither I came in manhood’s active prime,
And here my head hath felt the touch of time.
Heaven hath with goodly increase blest me here,
Where childless and opprest with grief I came;
With voice of fervent thankfulness sincere
Let me the blessings which are mine proclaim:
Here I possess,.. what more should I require?
Books, children, leisure,.. all my heart’s desire.
O joyful hour, when to our longing home
The long-expected wheels at length drew nigh!
When the first sound went forth, “They come, they come!”
And hope’s impatience quickened every eye!
“Never had man whom Heaven would heap with bliss
More glad return, more happy hour than this.”
Aloft on yonder bench, with arms dispread,
My boy stood, shouting there his father’s name,
Waving his hat around his happy head;
And there, a younger group, his sisters came:
Smiling they stood with looks of pleased surprize,
While tears of joy were seen in elder eyes.
Soon each and all came crouding round to share
The cordial greeting, the beloved sight;
What welcomings of hand and lip were there!
And when those overflowings of delight
Subsided to a sense of quiet bliss,
Life hath no purer deeper happiness.
The young companion of our weary way
Found here the end desired of all her ills;
She who in sickness pining many a day
Hungered and thirsted for her native hills,
Forgetful now of sufferings past and pain,
Rejoiced to see her own dear home again.
Recovered now, the homesick mountaineer
Sate by the playmate of her infancy,
Her twin-like comrade,.. rendered doubly dear
For that long absence: full of life was she,
With voluble discourse and eager mien
Telling of all the wonders she had seen.
Here silently between her parents stood
My dark-eyed Bertha, timid as a dove;
And gently oft from time to time she wooed
Pressure of hand, or word, or look of love,
With impulse shy of bashful tenderness,
Soliciting again the wished caress.
The younger twain in wonder lost were they,
My gentle Kate, and my sweet Isabel:
Long of our promised coming, day by day
It had been their delight to hear and tell;
And now when that long-promised hour was come,
Surprize and wakening memory held them dumb.
For in the infant mind, as in the old,
When to its second childhood life declines,
A dim and troubled power doth Memory hold:
But soon the light of young Remembrance shines
Renewed, and influences of dormant love
Wakened within, with quickening influence move.
O happy season theirs, when absence brings
Small feeling of privation, none of pain,
Yet at the present object love re-springs,
As night-closed flowers at morn expand again!
Nor deem our second infancy unblest,
When gradually composed we sink to rest.
Soon they grew blithe as they were wont to be;
Her old endearments each began to seek:
And Isabel drew near to climb my knee,
And pat with fondling hand her father’s cheek;
With voice and touch and look reviving thus
The feelings which had slept in long disuse.
But there stood one whose heart could entertain
And comprehend the fullness of the joy;
The father, teacher, playmate, was again
Come to his only and his studious boy:
And he beheld again that mother’s eye,
Which with such ceaseless care had watch’d his infancy.
Bring forth the treasures now,.. a proud display,..
For rich as Eastern merchants we return!
Behold the black Beguine, the Sister grey,
The Friars whose heads with sober motion turn,
The Ark well-fill’d with all its numerous hives,
Noah and Shem and Ham and Japhet, and their wives.
The tumbler, loose of limb; the wrestlers twain;
And many a toy beside of quaint device,
Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey Page 178