Robert Southey

How darkly o'er yon far-off mountain frowns
    The gather'd tempest! from that lurid cloud
    The deep-voiced thunders roll, aweful and loud
Tho' distant; while upon the misty downs
Fast falls in shadowy streaks the pelting rain.
    I never saw so terrible a storm!
Perhaps some way-worn traveller in vain
    Wraps his torn raiment round his shivering form
Cold even as Hope within him! I the while
Pause me in sadness tho' the sunbeams smile
    Cheerily round me. Ah that thus my lot
Might be with Peace and Solitude assign'd,
    Where I might from some little quiet cot,
Sigh for the crimes and miseries of mankind!

With wayworn feet a Pilgrim woe-begone
    Life's upward road I journeyed many a day,
    And hymning many a sad yet soothing lay
Beguil'd my wandering with the charms of song.
    Lonely my heart and rugged was my way,
Yet often pluck'd I as I past along
    The wild and simple flowers of Poesy,
And as beseem'd the wayward Fancy's child
    Entwin'd each random weed that pleas'd mine eye.
Accept the wreath, BELOVED! it is wild
    And rudely garlanded; yet scorn not thou
The humble offering, where the sad rue weaves
'Mid gayer flowers its intermingled leaves,
    And I have twin'd the myrtle for thy brow.

    And wherefore do the Poor complain?
    The rich man asked of me,--
    Come walk abroad with me, I said
    And I will answer thee.

    Twas evening and the frozen streets
    Were cheerless to behold,
    And we were wrapt and coated well,
    And yet we were a-cold.

    We met an old bare-headed man,
    His locks were few and white,
    I ask'd him what he did abroad
    In that cold winter's night:

    'Twas bitter keen indeed, he said,
    But at home no fire had he,
    And therefore, he had come abroad
    To ask for charity.

    We met a young bare-footed child,
    And she begg'd loud and bold,
    I ask'd her what she did abroad
    When the wind it blew so cold;

    She said her father was at ho...

The circumstance related in the following Ballad happened about forty years ago in a village adjacent to Bristol. A person who was present at the funeral, told me the story and the particulars of the interment, as I have versified them.




THE CROSS ROADS.


    There was an old man breaking stones
    To mend the turnpike way,
    He sat him down beside a brook
    And out his bread and cheese he took,
    For now it was mid-day.

    He lent his back against a post,
    His feet the brook ran by;
    And there were water-cresses growing,
    And pleasant was the water's flowing
    For he was hot and dry.

    A soldier with his knapsack on
    Came travelling o'er the down,
    The sun was strong and he was tired,
    And...

What! and not one to heave the pious sigh!
Not one whose sorrow-swoln and aching eye
For social scenes, for life's endearments fled,
Shall drop a tear and dwell upon the dead!
Poor wretched Outcast! I will weep for thee,
And sorrow for forlorn humanity.
Yes I will weep, but not that thou art come
To the stern Sabbath of the silent tomb:
For squalid Want, and the black scorpion Care,
Heart-withering fiends! shall never enter there.
I sorrow for the ills thy life has known
As thro' the world's long pilgrimage, alone,
Haunted by Poverty and woe-begone,
Unloved, unfriended, thou didst journey on:
Thy youth in ignorance and labour past,
And thine old age all barrenness and blast!
Hard was thy Fate, which, while it doom'd to woe,
Denied thee wisdom to support t...

Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly!
Leave thy guilty sire to die.
O'er the heath the stripling fled,
The wild storm howling round his head.
Fear mightier thro' the shades of night
Urged his feet, and wing'd his flight;
And still he heard his father cry
Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly.

Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly
Leave thy guilty sire to die.
On every blast was heard the moan
The anguish'd shriek, the death-fraught groan;
Loathly night-hags join the yell
And see--the midnight rites of Hell.

Forms of magic! spare my life!
Shield me from the murderer's knife!
Before me dim in lurid light
Float the phantoms of the night--
Behind I hear my Father cry,
Fly, son of Banquo--Fleance, fly!

Parent of the sceptred race,
Fearl...

    Betwene the Cytee and the Chirche of Bethlehem, is the felde Floridus,    that is to seyne, the feld florisched. For als moche as a fayre Mayden    was blamed with wrong and sclaundred, that sche hadde don fornicacioun, for whiche cause sche was demed to the dethe, and to be brent in that place, to the whiche sche was ladd. And as the fyre began to brenne about hire, she made hire preyeres to oure Lord, that als wissely as sche was not gylty of that synne, that he wold help hire, and make it to be knowen to alle men of his mercyfulle grace; and whanne she had thus seyd, sche entered into the fuyer, and anon was the fuyer quenched and oute, and the brondes that weren brennynge, becomen white Roseres, fulle of roses, and theise weren the first Roseres and roses, bothe white and rede, that evere ony man saughe.    And thus was this Maide...

In September, 1798, a Dissenting Minister of Bristol, discovered a Sailor in the neighbourhood of that City, groaning and praying in a hovel. The circumstance that occasioned his agony of mind is detailed in the annexed Ballad, without the slightest addition or alteration. By presenting it as a Poem the story is made more public, and such stories ought to be made as public as possible.




THE SAILOR,

WHO HAD SERVED IN THE SLAVE-TRADE.


    He stopt,--it surely was a groan
    That from the hovel came!
    He stopt and listened anxiously
    Again it sounds the same.

    It surely from the hovel comes!
    And now he hastens there,
    And thence he hears the name of Christ
    Amidst a broken prayer.

    He entered in the hovel now,

DACTYLICS.

Weary way-wanderer languid and sick at heart
Travelling painfully over the rugged road,
Wild-visag'd Wanderer! ah for thy heavy chance!

Sorely thy little one drags by thee bare-footed,
Cold is the baby that hangs at thy bending back
Meagre and livid and screaming its wretchedness.

[1] Woe-begone mother, half anger, half agony,
As over thy shoulder thou lookest to hush the babe,
Bleakly the blinding snow beats in thy hagged face.

Thy husband will never return from the war again,
Cold is thy hopeless heart even as Charity--
Cold are thy famish'd babes--God help thee, widow'd One!

The subject of this parody was given me by a friend, to whom also I am indebted for some of the stanzas.

Respecting the patent coffins herein mentioned, after the manner of Catholic Poets, who confess the actions they attribute to their Saints and Deity to be but fiction, I hereby declare that it is by no means my design to depreciate that useful invention; and all persons to whom this Ballad shall come are requested to take notice, that nothing here asserted concerning the aforesaid Coffins is true, except that the maker and patentee lives by St. Martin's Lane.


THE SURGEONS' WARNING.


The Doctor whispered to the Nurse
    And the Surgeon knew what he said,
And he grew pale at the Doctor's tale
    And trembled in his sick bed.

Now fetch me my brethren and fetch them wi...

    Hark--how the church-bells thundering harmony
    Stuns the glad ear! tidings of joy have come,
    Good tidings of great joy! two gallant ships
    Met on the element,--they met, they fought
    A desperate fight!--good tidings of great joy!
    Old England triumphed! yet another day
    Of glory for the ruler of the waves!
    For those who fell, 'twas in their country's cause,
    They have their passing paragraphs of praise
    And are forgotten.
    There was one who died
    In that day's glory, whose obscurer name
    No proud historian's page will chronicle.
    Peace to his honest soul! I read his name,
    'Twas in the list of slaughter, and blest God
    The sound was not familiar to mine ear.
    But it was told me after that this man
    ...

SAPPHICs.

Cold was the night wind, drifting fast the snows fell,
Wide were the downs and shelterless and naked,
When a poor Wanderer struggled on her journey
        Weary and way-sore.

Drear were the downs, more dreary her reflexions;
Cold was the night wind, colder was her bosom!
She had no home, the world was all before her,
        She had no shelter.

Fast o'er the bleak heath rattling drove a chariot,
"Pity me!" feebly cried the poor night wanderer.
"Pity me Strangers! lest with cold and hunger
        Here I should perish.

"Once I had friends,--but they have all forsook me!
"Once I had parents,--they are now in Heaven!
"I had a home once--I had once a husband--
        "Pity me Strangers!

"I had a home once--I had once ...

[Greek (transliterated):
                Kai pagas fileoimi ton enguthen aechon achthein,
                A terpei psopheoisa ton agrikon, thchi tarassei.

MOSCHOS.]



Faint gleams the evening radiance thro' the sky,
    The sober twilight dimly darkens round;
In short quick circles the shrill bat flits by,
    And the slow vapour curls along the ground.

Now the pleas'd eye from yon lone cottage sees
    On the green mead the smoke long-shadowing play;
    The Red-breast on the blossom'd spray
    Warbles wild her latest lay,
And sleeps along the dale the silent breeze.
Calm CONTEMPLATION,'tis thy favorite hour!
Come fill my bosom, tranquillizing Power.

Meek Power! I view thee on the calmy shore
    When Ocean stills his waves ...

[GREEK (transliterated):
            Tin gar potaeisomai
                tan chai schuliches tromeonti
                    Erchomenan nechuon ana t'aeria, chai melan aima.
                                                    Theocritos]


Dark HORROR, hear my call!
    Stern Genius hear from thy retreat
    On some old sepulchre's moss-cankered seat,
Beneath the Abbey's ivied wall
    That trembles o'er its shade;
Where wrapt in midnight gloom, alone,
    Thou lovest to lie and hear
    The roar of waters near,
And listen to the deep dull groan
    Of some perturbed sprite
Borne fitful on the heavy gales of night.

Or whether o'er some wide waste hill
    Thou mark'st the traveller stray,
    Bewilder'd on his lonely way,
When, lou...

The lilly cheek, the "purple light of love,"
The liquid lustre of the melting eye,--
Mary! of these the Poet sung, for these
Did Woman triumph! with no angry frown
View this degrading conquest. At that age
No MAID OF ARC had snatch'd from coward man
The heaven-blest sword of Liberty; thy sex
Could boast no female ROLAND'S martyrdom;
No CORDE'S angel and avenging arm
Had sanctified again the Murderer's name
As erst when Caesar perish'd: yet some strains
May even adorn this theme, befitting me
To offer, nor unworthy thy regard.

And I was once like this! that glowing cheek
Was mine, those pleasure-sparkling eyes, that brow
Smooth as the level lake, when not a breeze
Dies o'er the sleeping surface! twenty years
Have wrought strange alteration! Of the friends
Who once so dearly prized this miniature,
And loved it for its likeness, some are gone
To their last home; and some, estranged in heart,
Beholding me with quick-averted glance
Pass on the other side! But still these hues
Remain unalter'd, and these features wear
The look of Infancy and Innocence.
I search myself in vain, and find no trace
Of what I was: those lightly-arching lines
Dark and o'erhanging now; and that mild face
Settled in these strong lineaments!--There were
Who form'd high hopes and flattering ones of thee
Young...

    "Lo I, the man who erst the Muse did ask
    Her deepest notes to swell the Patriot's meeds,
    Am now enforst a far unfitter task
    For cap and gown to leave my minstrel weeds,"
    For yon dull noise that tinkles on the air
Bids me lay by the lyre and go to morning prayer.

    Oh how I hate the sound! it is the Knell,
    That still a requiem tolls to Comfort's hour;
    And loth am I, at Superstition's bell,
    To quit or Morpheus or the Muses bower.
    Better to lie and dose, than gape amain,
Hearing still mumbled o'er, the same eternal strain.

    Thou tedious herald of more tedious prayers
    Say hast thou ever summoned from his rest,
    One being awakening to religious awe?
    Or rous'd one pious transport in the breast?
    Or r...

    O thou who from the mountain's height
    Roll'st down thy clouds with all their weight
Of waters to old Niles majestic tide;
    Or o'er the dark sepulchral plain
Recallest thy Palmyra's ancient pride,
    Amid whose desolated domes
    Secure the savage chacal roams,
Where from the fragments of the hallow'd fane
The Arabs rear their miserable homes!

Hear Genius hear thy children's cry!
    Not always should'st thou love to brood
    Stern o'er the desert solitude
Where seas of sand toss their hot surges high;
    Nor Genius should the midnight song
Detain thee in some milder mood
    The palmy plains among
Where Gambia to the torches light
Flows radiant thro' the awaken'd night.

Ah, linger not to hear the song!
Genius avenge th...