Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey

by Robert Southey

  He suffer’d death, by our advice and sanction;

  Being however, at our instance, spared

  From all those customary cruelties,

  Which make the Indians odious in the sight

  Of God and man. Seem I to speak severely,

  Beyond what truth or Christian charity

  May warrant? Soon, my friend, thou wilt have cause

  To give that sentence thy convinced assent;

  God in his mercy grant thou may’st not buy

  The sad conviction dearly!

  For awhile

  The hatred which this left between those nations

  Was our security; albeit we knew

  That, in the offended party, the desire

  Of vengeance would outlive the gratitude

  Due for our help, from those whom we had succour’d.

  The sense of injury in the human mind

  Is like a drug upon the offended palate,

  Clinging when bitterest most abidingly:

  The benefits, which men receive, they take

  Like wholesome food, that leaves no tang behind it.

  “We found it thus: for now these Tribes, foregoing

  Their mutual hatred, as of lesser moment,

  Have leagued against us. Philip is the head

  Of the confederacy: his crafty brain

  Combines, provides, prepares and plans the mischief.

  And yet his venomous will and strong desire

  Draw him to this, against his better judgment,

  Possess’d not more with wise prudential fear

  Than with a strange religious awe, so weighty

  That, politic as he is, he hath not sought

  Even from his own people to conceal

  Its dark forebodings. What he wants in hope

  His new ally the Narhaganset Sachem

  Supplies but all too well: for this Canonchet,

  Son of that Miantonnimo whose death

  He charges on our counsels, is the heart

  Of the league. Insidious, resolute, inhuman;

  Brave, both in passive and in active courage,

  Almost beyond belief; implacable

  In malice; wily as a snake to wind

  His silent way unseen, when time requires

  Concealment; furious as a hungry wolf,

  When opportunity allows the indulgence

  Of his fierce hatred, — this man is accomplish’d

  To the height of savage virtue.

  Need I tell thee,

  That, as in civil, so in barbarous states,

  The course of action takes its bias less

  From meditation, and the calm resolve

  Of wisdom, than from accident and temper,

  Private advantage at all costs pursued,

  Private resentments recklessly indulged,

  The humour, will, and pleasure, of the leaders,

  The passions and the madness of the people.

  Under all climes, and in all forms of ride,

  Alike the one, the many, or the few,

  Among all nations of whatever tint,

  All languages, these govern everywhere;

  The difference only is of less or more,

  As chance, to use the common speech, may sway;

  In wiser words, as Providence directs.

  The bond wherein these hostile tribes are knit

  Against us, policy cannot untie,

  Nor the sword cut. No easy conquest ours,

  Such as the Spaniards found in Mexico,

  Or Eldorado’s priestly monarchies,

  Or the well-order’d Incas’ rich domains;

  They could cope there with multitudinous hosts

  Drawn forth in open field, and kings whose will,

  Even in captivity was through the realm

  Religiously obey’d. But we must wage

  Wars that will yield the soldier neither gold

  Nor glory. In the forest and the swamp

  Have we to seek our foes; and if the shield

  Of the good Angel be not over us,

  On all sides from safe cover with sure aim

  The death-shots whiz. Would we then clear the land,

  It is not to be done by victories;

  But head by head must they be hunted down,

  Like wolves; a work of danger and of time;

  And in this region wild of endless woods,

  Possible only to the inveterate hatred

  Of tribe for tribe. We tried the extremity —

  Inhuman as it is — against the Pequods;

  And, with the ferine help of such allies,

  Pursued it to the end. All whom the sword

  Spared, or our mercy interposed to save

  From torments, to the Sugar Isles were sold;

  And in the daily death of bondage there

  The race hath been consumed. But what hath been

  The issue? Why, the tribes which aided us

  To root them out, stand on the hostile part

  Against us now the more audaciously,

  Because they feel themselves in union strong,

  And see us in the land without allies.

  The hope thy hazardous adventure offers

  Is this, that, if the die, whereon thy fate

  For life or death is set, fall favourably,

  And thou shouldst gain access among the elders,

  The exasperate mood, which would too surely else

  Repel our proffer’d terms of amnesty,

  May toward thee be soften’d. For these people

  Act sometimes upon impulse, like thyself;

  A generous action wins them, whom no fear

  Can touch, nor pity move; and they will trust,

  Like dogs and children, to a countenance,

  Wherein, as if instinctively, they read

  Fair testimonials from the unerring hand

  Of Nature, patent there. And if one tribe,

  One chief, unto thy words of peace incline

  A willing ear, the league in all its parts

  Will feel its ill-compacted strength relax:

  Once loosen’d, it dissolves.

  The Governor

  Paused then; and fixing on the youth a look

  Benign though mournful, “Mark me, Oliver,”

  He said; “I call upon thy mother’s soul

  To witness — if the spirits of the dead

  Are cognizant of what is done below —

  That I have sought in all sincerity

  To turn thee from thy purpose! If the event

  Be fatal, before thee, and her, and Heaven,

  Shall I stand unreproved; and with my sorrow

  No self-reproach will mingle. But if still

  Thy purpose holdeth firm, God speed thee! Go

  In hope! I would not that my words should prove

  A load to weigh thy buoyant spirit down.

  It may be thou may’st render to the state

  Some eminent service in this time of need.

  And thus — O son of an unhappy house,

  Born to a sad inheritance! — it may be,

  That in this other England, this new world,

  Thou may’st recast thy fortunes; may’st acquire

  Such honour as consists with peace of mind

  In the end; and for thy children’s children gain

  In this good land a goodly heritage.

  VIII. PARTING WORDS.

  Sox of a hapless house!

  What were the thoughts which then within thy breast,

  At thy true friend’s concluding words, arose?

  Doth that quick flush disclose

  A feeling thou hast labour’d to control,

  And hitherto represt

  In singleness of heart and strength of soul?

  A light, which like a sudden hope might seem,

  Kindled his cheek, and brighten’d in his eye:

  But it departed like a gleam,

  That for a moment in the heav
y sky

  Is open’d when the storm is hurrying by;

  And then his countenance resumed

  Its meek serenity.

  Nor did that sad composure change,

  When of the gentle maiden Leverett spake,

  Whom to his charge her mother’s dying prayer

  In Christian confidence consign’d.

  And yet it was a theme which well might wake

  Oppugnant feelings in his inmost mind;

  For with a hope upon that mother’s heart,

  Implied, though not express’d, the solemn care

  Was given; and therefore in the young man’s heart

  Uneasily it lay,

  As if he were unjust,

  And had received a trust

  He could not, must not, did not dare —

  And yet would fain — repay.

  “That trust I could not choose but take,” he said;

  “And all that I stand pledged for to the dead

  Is soon discharged; it will not from my way

  Detain me long, nor lead me far astray.”

  “’Tis but the easy distance of a day

  From Hadley,” quoth the Governor; and he spread

  A map before them, rudely drawn, wherein

  Wild forests stretching far and wide were seen,

  Rivers whose inland course was unexplored,

  And infant settlements, as yet ill-stored,

  Few, and with dreary intervals between.

  “Here in the vale of the Connecticut,”

  Said Leverett, “Willoby’s allotment lies:

  A part from our immediate enemies

  Remote, and, if reliance might be put

  On distance, safe. From hence it bears due west

  Some five days’ travel through the woods; and now

  The least frequented path will be the best,

  That thou may’st leave behind thee on the left

  The troubled country. Here thou see’st it, south,

  About these creeks and inlets and the mouth

  Of Providence river, and the region wide

  Of lakes and swamps in woodland interspersed,

  That darkens o’er the land on every side.

  This then will be thy course, to render first

  The damsel to her father’s hands; then seek

  Thy fortune with thine Indian company

  In the Narhaganset lands. If it fall fair,

  Thou wilt among their people leave them there,

  And to that painful interview proceed,

  Which of thy dearest hope, full well I know,

  Must undeceive thee. It shall be my care

  To the Connecticut thy way to speed;

  From thence, alas! I can but follow thee

  With anxious thoughts in spirit and in prayer.

  But I will suffer no ill bodings now:

  The Lord is merciful, and thy intent

  Is righteous, and to Him we leave the event.”

  Thus having ended, to the board he led

  His guest: too full of care were they

  For appetite or easy talk that day.

  “This caution let me give thee,” Leverett said,

  “That Willoby is a high old Cavalier!”

  “Fear not lest I should jar upon his ear

  With ill-attuned discourse,” the Youth replied,

  “He bore a part, a brave one too, I hear,

  In those unhappy times, and may look back

  Upon the strife with passion and with pride:

  My soul abhors the ill deeds on either side,

  Even if it had not cost me all too dear.

  Likelier it is that in my Father’s sight

  II — may appear degenerate, and excite

  Sorrow or sterner notions in a heart,

  The which, albeit with piety imbued,

  Is to a Christian temper unsubdued:

  But this too I can bear. Oh what a strength

  For sufferance to the patient soul is given

  When, wholly humbled, it hath placed at length

  Its only hope in Heaven.”

  “Nay,” answer’d Leverett, “earth, I trust, hath yet

  Good hope for thee in store,

  One day with fair performance to be crown’d:

  For one who doth so well discharge the debt

  Of filial duty, will not Heaven fulfil

  The eternal promise which it made of yore?

  Happy, and long, I trust, thy days shall be,

  Here, in the land which the Lord giveth thee.”

  And then, as if with such discursive speech

  To draw his mind from gloomy thoughts away,

  Did Leverett reach

  His lifted hand towards the town and bay,

  Bright in the morning sunshine as they lay

  Before them: “Is it not a goodly land,”

  He cried. “where nought is wanting that may bless

  The heart of man with wholesome happiness?

  Summer subdues not here

  To sloth the dissolute mind;

  Nor doth the rigorous year

  In long inaction bind

  His ice-lock’d arm and torpid faculties.

  But changeful skies

  And varying seasons, in their due career,

  Bring forth his powers; and in the vigorous frame

  The human spirit thrives and ripens here!

  Where might the sober mind,

  Which Heaven with temperate desires’ hath blest,

  A land of happier promise find?

  Where might a good man fitlier fix his rest?

  Where better might he choose a burial-place

  For him and for his race?

  Where wiselier plant the tree

  Of his posterity?”

  The smile wherewith the youth received his speech

  Was cold and feeble, — one in which the heart

  Too plainly had no part;,

  Constrain’d it came, and slowly past away.

  “Truly thou say’st, O friend!”

  He said; “and well are they

  Who, far from plagues and plots, and from the rage

  Of faction, for their children may prepare

  A peaceful heritage.

  For me, if other end

  Await me, fall my fortune as it may,

  A comfort and a strength it is to know

  That, wheresoe’er I go,

  There is the same Heaven over me on high,

  Whereon in faith to fix the steady eye;

  The same access for prayer;

  The same God, always present, every where;

  And if no home, yet every where the bed

  Which Earth makes ready for the weary head.

  “But wherefore should I talk of weariness

  Thus early in the day,

  And when the morning calls me on my way?

  In brightness and in beauty hath it risen,

  As if the eternal skies

  Approved and smiled upon our enterprise!

  Now then farewell! That we shall meet again,

  True friend! we know; but whether among men

  Or angels who can tell? It is not ours

  To choose, or to foresee;

  Such choice or foresight would but ill agree

  With man’s imperfect powers,

  Enough for him, that what is best will be.”

  IX. JOURNEY THROUGH THE FOREST.

  THEY are on their way, and they have enter’d now

  The forest that from earliest time hath stood,

  By human culture unsubdued.

  Strangelier assorted company

  Than this, which through that ancient wood

  Their solitary course pursued,

  No errant knight might chance to see,

  Wandering, in good King Arthur’s days,

  Through Faery or Loegria land,

  Where most adventures were at hand.

  Liken’d the gentle Annabel might be

>   To sweet Serena, ere the blatant mouth

  And cankerous tooth

  Had with their venom stain’d her harmless youth.

  And he who paced beside her steed

  Might seem, in form, and strength, and manly grace,

  Like Calidore, when he had laid aside

  His glorious thoughts and martial pride,

  And, as a shepherd, in the sylvan shade,

  Woo’d Pastorella for his bride,

  Contented to forego for her the meed

  Of high desert;;md with true love

  How largely for ambition overpaid!

  Such Oliver might seem, and such the maid.

  But lighter hearts, I ween, of yore

  The errant knights and damsels bore,

  In ages when the shield and lance

  Gave law through all the realms of Old Romance;

  Who roam’d at hap, or on adventure bent,

  Searching the seas, the isles, and continent;

  When they, in bower, in hermitage, and hall,

  Were welcomed every where by all,

  Or underneath the greenwood tree

  Took up their inn contentedly.

  For in that pensive maiden’s mien

  Had recent sorrow left its trace,

  And plainly too might there be seen

  A present trouble in her face:

  She fear’d the melancholy meeting,

  When grief would mar her father’s greeting;

  And hardly less, I ween, the pain

  With which she soon must part

  From one whose image would remain

  The inmate of her heart.

  For wishes, from herself till now conceal’d —

  Conceal’d, if not represt —

  And thoughts, to whieh the will had not consented,

  Forlornly as she felt them now reveal’d,

  Her seeret soul unwillingly confess’d,

  Unwillingly repented:

  And hopes, that had arisen she scarce knew how,

  Were first acknowledged when they fail’d her now.

  Think not that Oliver was free

  The while from painful sympathy:

  What more had he required his lot to bless,

  Than in the depth of those clear eyes Avas seem —

  The modest, meek, confiding gentleness,

  That soften’d Avhile it sanctified her mien;

  Those looks, devoid of art,

  Whose mild intelligence he loved to meet;

  The voice, that, varying still, but always sweet,

  Still found a chord responsive in his heart?

  If ever at his fate he half repined,

  If ever o’er his calm and constant mind