Chapter II: Part 2

My friendly fire, thou blazest clear and bright,
Nor smoke nor ashes soil thy grateful flame;
Thy temperate splendour cheers the gloom of night,
Thy genial heat enlivens the chill'd frame.
I love to muse me o'er the evening hearth,
I love to pause in meditation's sway;
And whilst each object gives reflection birth,
Mark thy brisk rise, and see thy slow decay:
And I would wish, like thee, to shine serene,
Like thee, within mine influence, all to cheer;
And wish at last, in life's declining scene,
As I had beam'd as bright, to fade as clear:
So might my children ponder o'er my shrine,
And o'er my ashes muse, as I will muse over thine.

BION.

* * * * *

SONNET XII.

_THE FADED FLOWER._

Ungrateful he who pluckt thee from thy stalk,
Poor faded flow'ret! on his careless way,
Inhal'd awhile thine odours on his walk,
Then past along, and left thee to decay.
Thou melancholy emblem! had I seen
Thy modest beauties dew'd with evening's gem,
I had not rudely cropt thy parent stem,
But left thy blossom still to grace the green;
And now I bend me o'er thy wither'd bloom,
And drop the tear, as Fancy, at my side
Deep-sighing, points the fair frail EMMA's tomb;
"Like thine, sad flower! was that poor wanderer's pride!
O, lost to love and truth! whose selfish joy
Tasted her vernal sweets, but tasted to destroy."

BION.

* * * * *

SONNET XIII.

_TO SENSIBILITY._

I'll court thy lone bow'r, Sensibility!
And mark thy lovely form, wild waving hair,
Thy loosely flowing robe, thy languid eye,
And all those charms which blend to make thee fair.
Far from the madding crowd thou lov'st to stray
Recluse, and listen at the silent hour,
When wildly warbling from her secret bow'r
The pensive night-bird pours her evening lay.
'Tis thine own minstrel's melody is heard,
And as her sad song, by the moon's still beam,
Dies softly on mine ear, more sweet I deem
Her mournful note than song of blither bird;
So more than beauty's cheek of vermeil dye
Charms thy soft downcast mein and tear-dew'd eye.

MOSCHUS.

* * * * *

SONNET XIV.

_TO HEALTH._

Nymph of the splendent eye and rosy cheek,
Who erst from courts and luxury didst speed,
And with thine elder sister, Temperance, seek
The woodbin'd cottage on the daisied mead;
There will I woo thee, for thou dwellest there
Amid the sons of industry; thy smile
Soothes every sorrow, cheers the hour of toil,
And, blest by thee, sweet is their frugal fare.
When the woods echo with the early horn
Thou trip'st the wild heath, clad in flowing vest,
(While youthful zephyr wantons o'er thy breast)
And, with blithe song, dost greet the blushing morn;
The airy sprite, who o'er thy fair form roves,
Thy beauty tastes, and, as he tastes, improves.

MOSCHUS.

* * * * *

SONNET XV.

_TO THE NIGHTINGALE._

Sad songstress of the night, no more I hear
Thy soften'd warblings meet my pensive ear,
As by thy wonted haunts again I rove;
Why art thou silent? wherefore sleeps thy lay?
For faintly fades the sinking orb of day,
And yet thy music charms no more the grove.
The shrill bat flutters by; from yon dark tower
The shrieking owlet hails the shadowy hour;
Hoarse hums the beetle as he drones along,
The hour of love is flown! thy full-fledg'd brood
No longer need thy care to cull their food,
And nothing now remains to prompt the song:
But drear and sullen seems the silent grove,
No more responsive to the lay of love.

BION.

* * * * *

SONNET XVI.

_TO REFLECTION._

Hence, busy torturer, wherefore should mine eye
Revert again to many a sorrow past?
Hence, busy torturer, to the happy fly,
Those who have never seen the sun o'ercast
By one dark cloud, thy retrospective beam,
Serene and soft, may on their bosoms gleam,
As the last splendour of the summer sky.
Let them look back on pleasure, ere they know
To mourn its absence; let them contemplate
The thorny windings of our mortal state,
Ere unexpected bursts the cloud of woe;
Stream not on me thy torch's baneful glow,
Like the sepulchral lamp's funereal gloom,
In darkness glimmering to disclose a tomb.

BION.

* * * * *

THE WISH.

_TO A FRIEND._

The Muse who struck to moral strains the lyre,
Now turns to court a visionary theme,
To frame the wish which flattering hopes inspire,
When fancy revels in her golden dream.

I ask no lone retreat, no shady grove,
Nor grove nor bower can boast a charm for me;
I muse on Justice, Liberty, and Love,
And, need I, ORSON! tell my wish to thee?

I bend, great Justice! at thine awful throne,
Eternal arbiter of good and ill,
The sons of soul shall make thy laws their own,
And form their dictates by thy sov'reign will.

But oft perverted is thy high behest,
And oft I'm doom'd oppression's rod to see;
I see wealth triumph, and the poor opprest,
And, need I, ORSON! tell my wish to thee?

How bounds the soul at freedom's sacred call?
How shrinks from slavery's heart-appalling train?
But still her victims avarice will inthral,
Afric's sad sons still wear the accursed chain.

Still, power despotic, with ambition join'd,
Would crush the soul determin'd to be free;
I see debas'd man's dignity of mind,
And, need I, ORSON! tell my wish to thee?

Were justice follow'd, then would man be good,
Were freedom guarded, then would man be blest;
No generous impulse of the soul subdu'd,
But love, unfraught with anguish, fill the breast.

I felt the magic of LUCINDA's eye,
I thought her charms were of no mean degree;
LUCINDA's name inspir'd the secret sigh,
And, need I, ORSON! tell my wish to thee?

One only wish remain'd! oh! might I find,
Amid this scene of danger and of strife,
Some kindred spirit, some congenial mind,
To cheer my journey through the vale of life.

Indulgent heav'n vouchsafed the boon to send,
A youth I found, and just and mild was he;
My heart sprang mutual to embrace its friend,
And, need I, ORSON! name that friend to thee?

MOSCHUS.

* * * * *

TO LYCON.

On yon wild waste of ruin thron'd, what form
Beats her swoln breast, and tears her unkempt hair?
Why seems the spectre thus to court the storm?
Why glare her full-fix'd eyes in stern despair?
The deep dull groan I hear,
I see her rigid eye refuse the soothing tear.

Ah! fly her dreadful reign,
For desolation rules o'er all the lifeless plain;
For deadliest nightshade forms her secret bower,
For oft the ill-omen'd owl
Yells loud the dreadful howl,
And the night spectres shriek amid the midnight hour.

Pale spectre, Grief! thy dull abodes I know,
I know the horrors of thy barren plain,
I know the dreadful force of woe,
I know the weight of thy soul-binding chain;
But I have fled thy drear domains,
Have broke thy agonizing chains,
Drain'd deep the poison of thy bowl,
Yet wash'd in Science' stream the poison from my soul.

Fair smiles the morn along the azure sky,
Calm and serene the zephyrs whisper by,
And many a flow'ret gems the painted plain;
As down the dale, with perfumes sweet,
The cheerful pilgrim turns his feet,
His thirsty ear imbibes the throstle's strain;
And every bird that loves to sing
The choral song to coming spring,
Tunes the wild lay symphonious through the grove,
Heaven, earth, and nature, all incite to love.

Ah, pilgrim! stay thy heedless feet,
Distrust each soul-subduing sweet,
Dash down alluring pleasure's deadly bowl,
For thro' thy frame the venom'd juice will creep,
Lull reason's powers to sombrous sleep,
And stain with sable hue the spotless soul;
For soon the valley's charms decay,
In haggard griefs ill omen'd sway,
And barren rocks shall hide the cheering light of day:
Then reason strives in vain,
Extinguish'd hope's enchanting beam for aye,
And virtue sinks beneath the galling chain,
And sorrow deeply drains her lethal bowl,
And sullen fix'd despair benumbs the nerveless soul.

Yet on the summit of yon craggy steep
Stands Hope, surrounded with a blaze of light;
She bids the wretch no more despondent weep,
Or linger in the loathly realms of night;
And Science comes, celestial maid!
As mild as good she comes to aid,
To smooth the rugged steep with magic power,
And fill with many a wile the longly-lingering hour.

Fair smiles the morn, in all the hues of day
Array'd, the wide horizon streams with light;
Anon the dull mists blot the living ray,
And darksome clouds presage the stormy night:
Yet may the sun anew extend his ray,
Anew the heavens may shine in splendour bright;
Anew the sunshine gild the lucid plain,
And nature's frame reviv'd, may thank the genial rain.

And what, my friend, is life?
What but the many weather'd April day!
Now darkly dimm'd by clouds of strife,
Now glowing in propitious fortune's ray;
Let the reed yielding bend its weakly form,
For, firm in rooted strength, the oak defies the storm.

If thou hast plann'd the morrow's dawn to roam
O'er distant hill or plain,
Wilt thou despond in sadness at thy home,
Whilst heaven drops down the rain?
Or will thy hope expect the coming day,
When bright the sun may shine with unremitted ray?

Wilt thou float careless down the stream of time,
In sadness borne to dull oblivion's shore,
Or shake off grief, and "build the lofty rhyme,"
And live 'till time himself shall be no more?
If thy light bark have met the storm,
If threatening clouds the sky deform,
Let honest truth be vain; look back on me,
Have I been "sailing on a summer's sea?"
Have only zephyrs fill'd my swelling sails,
As smooth the gentle vessel glides along?
LYCON, I met unscar'd the wintry gales,
And sooth'd the dangers with the song:
So shall the vessel sail sublime,
And reach the port of fame adown the stream of time.

BION.

* * * * *

TO LYCON.

And does my friend again demand the strain,
Still seek to list the sorrow-soothing lay?
Still would he hear the woe-worn heart complain,
When melancholy loads the lingering day?
Shall partial friendship turn the favouring eye,
No fault behold, but every charm descry;
And shall the thankless bard his honour'd strain deny?

"No single pleasure shall your pen bestow:"
Ah, LYCON! 'tis that thought affords delight;
'Tis that can soothe the wearying weight of woe,
When memory reigns amid the gloom of night:
For fancy loves the distant scene to see,
Far from the gloom of solitude to flee,
And think that absent friends may sometimes think of me.

Oft when my steps have trac'd the secret glade,
What time the pale moon glimmering on the plain
Just mark'd where deeper darkness dyed the shade,
Has contemplation lov'd the night-bird's strain:
Still have I stood, or silent mov'd and slow,
Whilst o'er the copse the thrilling accents flow,
Nor deem'd the pensive bird might pour the notes of woe.

Yet sweet and lovely is the night-bird's lay,
The passing pilgrim loves her notes to hear,
When mirth's rude reign is sunk with parted day,
And silence sleeps upon the vacant ear;
For staid reflection loves the doubtful light,
When sleep and stillness lull the noiseless night,
And breathes the pensive song a soothing sad delight.

Fearful the blast, and loud the torrent's roar,
And sharp and piercing drove the pelting rain,
When wildly wandering on the Volga's shore,
The exil'd OVID pour'd his plaintive strain;
He mourn'd for ever lost the joys of Rome,
He mourn'd his widow'd wife, his distant home,
And all the weight of woe that load the exile's doom.

Oh! could my lays, like SULMO's minstrel, flow,
Eternity might love her BION's name;
The muse might give a dignity to woe,
And grief's steep path should prove the path to fame:
But I have pluck'd no bays from PHOEBUS' bower,
My fading garland, form'd of many a flower,
May haply smile and bloom to last one little hour.

To please that little hour is all I crave,
Lov'd by my friends, I spurn the love of fame;
High let the grass o'erspread my lonely grave,
Let cankering moss obscure the rough-hewn name:
There never may the pensive pilgrim go,
Nor future minstrel drop the tear of woe,
For all would fail to wake the slumbering earth below.

Be mine, whilst journeying life's rough road along
O'er hill and dale the wandering bard shall go,
To hail the hour of pleasure with the song,
Or soothe with sorrowing strains the hour of woe;
The song each passing moment shall beguile,
Perchance too, partial friendship deigns to smile,
Let fame reject the lay, I sleep secure the while.

Be mine to taste the humbler joys of life,
Lull'd in oblivion's lap to wear away,
And flee from grandeur's scenes of vice and strife,
And flee from fickle fashion's empty sway:
Be mine, in age's drooping hour, to see
The lisping children climb their grandsire's knee,
And train the future race to live and act like me.

Then, when the inexorable hour shall come
To tell my death, let no deep requiem toll,
No hireling sexton dig the venal tomb,
Nor priest be paid to hymn my parted soul;
But let my children, near their little cot,
Lay my old bones beneath the turfy spot:
So let me live unknown, so let me die forgot.

BION.

* * * * *

_ROSAMUND TO HENRY._

WRITTEN AFTER SHE HAD TAKEN THE VEIL.

HENRY, 'tis past! each painful effort o'er,
Thy love, thy ROSAMUND, exists no more:
She lives, but lives no longer now for you;
She writes, but writes to bid the last adieu.

Why bursts the big tear from my guilty eye?
Why heaves my love-lorn breast the impious sigh?
Down, bosom! down, and learn to heave in prayer;
Flow, flow, my tears, and wash away despair:
Ah, no! still, still the lurking sin I see,
My heart will heave, my tears will fall for thee.
Yes, HENRY! through the vestal's guilty veins,
With burning sway the furious passion reigns;
For thee, seducer, still the tear will fall,
And Love torment in Godstow's hallow'd wall.

Yet virtue from her deathlike sleep awakes,
Remorse comes on, and rears her whip of snakes.
Ah, HENRY! fled are all those fatal charms
That led their victim to the monarch's arms;
No more responsive to the evening air
In wanton ringlets waves my golden hair;
No more amid the dance my footsteps move,
No more the languid eye dissolves with love;
Fades on the cheek of ROSAMUND the rose,
And penitence awakes from sin's repose.

Harlot! adultress! HENRY! can I bear
Such aggravated guilt, such full despair!
By me the marriage-bed defil'd, by me
The laws of heaven forsook, defied for thee!
Dishonour fix'd on CLIFFORD's ancient name,
A father sinking to the grave with shame;
These are the crimes that harrow up my heart,
These are the crimes that poison memory's dart;
For these each pang of penitence I prove,
Yet these, and more than these, are lost in love.

Yes, even here amid the sacred pile,
The echoing cloister, and the long-drawn aisle;
Even here, when pausing on the silent air,
The midnight bell awakes and calls to prayer;
As on the stone I bend my clay-cold knee,
Love heaves the sigh, and drops the tear for thee:
All day the penitent but wakes to weep,
'Till nature and the woman sink in sleep;
Nightly to thee the guilty dreams repair,
And morning wakes to sorrow and despair!
Lov'd of my heart, the conflict soon must cease,
Soon must this harrow'd bosom rest in peace;
Soon must it heave the last soul-rending breath,
And sink to slumber in the arms of death.

To slumber! oh, that I might slumber there!
Oh, that that dreadful thought might lull despair!
That death's chill dews might quench this vital flame,
And life lie mouldering with this lifeless frame!
Then would I strike with joy the friendly blow,
Then rush to mingle with the dead below.
Oh, agonizing hour! when round my head
Dark-brow'd despair his shadowing wings shall spread;
When conscience from herself shall seek to fly,
And, loathing life, still more shall loath to die!
Already vengeance lifts his iron rod,
Already conscience sees an angry God!
No virtue now to shield my soul I boast,
No hope protects, for innocence is lost!

Oh, I was cheerful as the lark, whose lay
Trills through the ether, and awakes the day!
Mine was the heartfelt smile, when earliest light
Shot through the fading curtain of the night;
Mine was the peaceful heart, the modest eye
That met the glance, or turn'd it knew not why.
At evening hour I struck the melting lyre,
Whilst partial wonder fill'd my doating sire,
'Till he would press me to his aged breast,
And cry, "My child, in thee my age is blest!
Oh! may kind heaven protract my span of life
To see my lovely ROSAMUND a wife;
To view her children climb their grandsire's knee,
To see her husband love, and love like me!
Then, gracious heaven, decree old CLIFFORD's end,
Let his grey hairs in peace to death descend."

The dreams of bliss are vanish'd from his view,
The buds of hope are blasted all by you;
Thy child, O CLIFFORD! bears a mother's name,
A mother's anguish, and a harlot's shame;
Even when her darling children climb her knee
Feels the full force of guilt and infamy!
Wretch, most unhappy! thus condemn'd to know,
Even in her dearest bliss, her keenest woe;
Curst be this form, accurst these fatal charms
That buried virtue in seduction's arms;
Or rather curst that sad, that fatal hour,
When HENRY first beheld and felt their power;
When my too-partial brother's doating tongue
On each perfection of a sister hung;
Told of the graceful form, the rose-red cheek,
The ruby lip, the eye that knew to speak,
The golden locks, that shadowing half the face
Display'd their charms, and gave and hid a grace:
'Twas at that hour when night's englooming sway
Steals on the fiercer glories of the day;
Sad all around, as silence stills the whole,
And pensive fancy melts the softening soul;
These hands upon the pictur'd arras wove
The mournful tale of EDWY's hapless love;
When the fierce priest, inflam'd with savage pride,
From the young monarch tore his blushing bride:
Loud rung the horn, I heard the coursers' feet,
My brothers came, o'erjoy'd I ran to meet;
But when my sovereign met my wandering eye,
I blush'd, and gaz'd, and fear'd, yet knew not why;
O'er all his form with wistful glance I ran,
Nor knew the monarch, 'till I lov'd the man:
Pleas'd with attention, overjoy'd I saw
Each look obey'd, and every word a law;
Too soon I felt the secret flame advance,
Drank deep the poison of the mutual glance;
And still I ply'd my pleasing task, nor knew
In shadowing EDWY I had pourtray'd you.

Thine, HENRY, is the crime! 'tis thine to bear
The aggravated weight of full despair;
To wear the day in woe, the night in tears,
And pass in penitence the joyless years:
Guiltless in ignorance, my love-led eyes
Knew not the monarch in the knight's disguise;
Fraught with deceit th' insidious monarch came
To blast his faithful subject's spotless name;
To pay each service of old CLIFFORD's race
With all the keenest anguish of disgrace!
Of love he talk'd; abash'd my down-cast eye
Nor seem'd to seek, nor yet had power to fly;
Still, as he urg'd his suit, his wily art
Told not his rank 'till victor o'er my heart:
Ah, known too late! in vain my reason strove,
Fame, honour, reason, all were lost in love.

How heav'd thine artful breast the deep-drawn sigh?
How spoke thy looks? how glow'd thine ardent eye?
When skill'd in guile, that soft seductive tongue
Talk'd of its truth, and CLIFFORD was undone.
Oh, cursed hour of passion's maddening sway,
Guilt which a life of tears must wash away!
Gay as the morning lark no more I rose,
No more each evening sunk to calm repose;
No more in fearless innocence mine eye,
Or met the glance, or turn'd it knew not why;
No more my fingers struck the trembling lyre,
No more I ran with joy to meet my sire;
But guilt's deep poison ran through every vein,
But stern reflection claim'd his ruthless reign;
Still vainly seeking from myself to fly,
In anxious guilt I shunn'd each friendly eye;
A thousand torments still my steps pursue,
And guilt, still lovely, haunts my soul with you.
Harlot, adultress, each detested name,
Stamps everlasting blots on CLIFFORD's fame!
How can this wretch prefer the prayer to heaven?
How, self-condemn'd, expect to be forgiven?

And yet, fond Hope, with self-deluding art,
Still sheds her opiate poison o'er my heart;
Paints thee most wretched in domestick strife,
Curst with a kingdom, and a royal wife;
And vainly whispers comfort to my breast--
"I curst myself that HENRY might be blest."
Too fond deluder! impotent thy power
To whisper comfort in the mournful hour;
Weak, vain seducer, Hope! thy balmy breath
To soothe Reflection on the bed of death;
To calm stern Conscience' self-afflicting care,
Or ease the raging pangs of wild Despair.

Why, nature, didst thou give this fatal face?
Why heap with charms to load me with disgrace?
Why bid mine eyes two stars of beauty move?
Why form the melting soul too apt for love?
Thy last best blessing meant, the feeling breast,
Gave way to guilt, and poison'd all the rest;
Now bound in sin's indissoluble chains,
Fled are the charms, the guilt alone remains!

Oh! had fate plac'd amidst Earl CLIFFORD's hall
Of menial vassals, me most mean of all;
Low in my hopes, and homely rude my face,
Nor form, nor wishes, rais'd above my place;
How happy, ROSAMUND, had been thy lot,
In peace to live unknown, and die forgot!
Guilt had not then infix'd her piercing sting,
Nor scorn revil'd the harlot of a king;
Contempt had not revil'd my fallen fame,
Nor infamy debas'd a CLIFFORD's name.

Oh, CLIFFORD! oh, my sire! thy honours now
Thy child has blasted on thine ancient brow;
Fallen is that darling child from virtue's name,
And thy grey hairs sink to the grave with shame!
Still busy fancy bids the scene arise,
Still paints the father to these wretched eyes;
Methinks I see him now, with folded arms,
Think of his child, and curse her fatal charms;
Those charms, her ruin! that in happier days,
With all a father's love, he lov'd to praise:
Unkempt his hoary locks, his head hung low
In all the silent energy of woe;
Yet still the same kind parent, still all mild,
He prays forgiveness for his sinful child.
And yet I live! if this be life, to know
The agonizing weight of hopeless woe:
Thus far, remote from every friendly eye,
To drop the tear, and heave the ceaseless sigh;
Each dreadful pang remorse inflicts to prove,
To weep and pray, yet still to weep and love:
Scorn'd by the virgins of this holy dome,
A living victim in the cloyster'd tomb,
To pray, though hopeless, justice should forgive,
Scorn'd by myself--if this be life--I live!

Oft will remembrance, in her painful hour,
Cast the keen glance to Woodstock's lovely bower:
Recal each sinful scene of bliss to view,
And give the soul again to guilt and you.
Oh! I have seen thee trace the bower around,
And heard the forest echo ROSAMUND;
Have seen thy frantick looks, thy wildering eye,
Heard the deep groan and bosom-rending sigh;
Vain are the searching glance, the love-lorn groan,
I live--but live to penitence alone;
Depriv'd of every joy which life can give,
Most vile, most wretched, most despis'd, I live.

Too well thy deep regret, thy grief, are known,
Too true I judge thy sorrows by my own!
Oh! thou hast lost the dearest charm of life,
The fondest, tenderest, loveliest, more than wife;
One who, with every virtue, only knew
The fault, if fault it be, of loving you;
One whose soft bosom seem'd as made to share
Thine every joy, and solace every care;
For crimes like these secluded, doom'd to know
The aggravated weight of guilt and woe.

Still dear, still lov'd, I learnt to sin of thee,
Learn, thou seducer, penitence from me!
Oh! that my soul this last pure joy may know,
Sometimes to soothe the dreadful hour of woe:
HENRY! by all the love my life has shown,
By all the sinful raptures we have known,
By all the parting pangs that rend my breast,
Hear, my lov'd lord, and grant my last request;
And, when the last tremendous hour shall come,
When all my woes are buried in the tomb,
Then grant the only boon this wretch shall crave--
Drop the sad tear to dew my humble grave;
Pause o'er the turf in fullness bent of woe,
And think who lies so cold and pale below!
Think from the grave she speaks the last decree,
"What I am now--soon, HENRY, thou must be!"
Then be this voice of wonted power possest,
To melt thy heart, and triumph in thy breast:
So should my prayers with just success be crown'd,
Should HENRY learn remorse from ROSAMUND;
Then shall thy sorrow and repentance prove,
That even death was weak to end our love.

BION.

* * * * *

_THE RACE OF ODIN._

Loud was the hostile clang of arms,
And hoarse the hollow sound,
When POMPEY scatter'd wild alarms
The ravag'd East around,
The crimson deluge dreadful dy'd the ground:
An iron forest of destructive spears
Rear'd their stern stems, where late
The bending harvest wav'd its rustling ears:
Rome, through the swarming gate,
Pour'd her ambitious hosts to slaughter forth:
Such was the will of fate!
From the cold regions of the North,
At length, on raven wings, shall vengeance come,
And justice pour the urn of bitterness on Rome.

"_Roman_! ('twas thus the chief of ASGARD cry'd)
Ambitious _Roman_! triumph for a while;
Trample on freedom in thy victor pride;
Yet, though now thy fortune smile,
Though MITHRIDATES fly forlorn,
Once thy dread, but now thy scorn,
ODIN will never live a shameful slave;
Some region will he yet explore,
Beyond the reach of Rome;
Where, upon some colder shore,
Freedom yet thy force shall brave,
Freedom yet shall find a home:
There, where the eagle dares not soar,
Soon shall the raven find a safe retreat.
ASGARD, farewell! farewell my native seat!
Farewell for ever! yet, whilst life shall roll
Her warm tide thro' thine injur'd chieftain's breast,
Oft will he to thy memory drop the tear:
Never more shall ODIN rest,
Never quaff the sportive bowl,
Or soothe in peace his slothful soul,
Whilst Rome triumphant lords it here.
Triumph in thy victor might,
Mock the chief of ASGARD's flight;
But soon the seeds of vengeance shall be sown,
And ODIN's race hurl down thy blood-cemented throne."

Nurtur'd by Scandinavia's hardy soil,
Strong grew the vigorous plant;
Danger could ne'er the nation daunt,
For war, to other realms a toil,
Was but the pastime here;
Skill'd the bold youth to hurl the unerring spear,
To wield the falchion, to direct the dart,
Firm was each warrior's frame, yet gentle was his heart.

Freedom, with joy, beheld the noble race,
And fill'd each bosom with her vivid fire;
Nor vice, nor luxury, debase
The free-born offspring of the free-born sire;
There genuine poesy, in freedom bright,
Diffus'd o'er all her clear, her all-enlivening light.

From Helicon's meandering rills
The inspiring goddess fled;
Amid the Scandinavian hills
In clouds she hid her head;
There the bold, the daring muse,
Every daring warrior wooes;
The sacred lust of deathless fame
Burnt in every warrior's soul:
"Whilst future ages hymn my name,
(The son of ODIN cries)
I shall quaff the foaming bowl
With my forefathers in yon azure skies;
Methinks I see my foeman's skull
With the mantling beverage full;
I hear the shield-roof'd hall resound
To martial music's echoing sound;
I see the virgins, valour's meed,--
Death is bliss--I rush to bleed."

See where the murderer EGILL stands,
He grasps the harp with skilful hands,
And pours the soul-emoving tide of song;
Mute admiration holds the listening throng:
The royal sire forgets his murder'd son;
ERIC forgives; a thousand years
Their swift revolving course have run,
Since thus the bard could check the father's tears,
Could soothe his soul to peace,
And never shall the fame of EGILL cease.

Dark was the dungeon, damp the ground,
Beneath the reach of cheering day,
Where REGNER dying lay;
Poisonous adders all around
On the expiring warrior hung,
Yet the full stream of verse flow'd from his dauntless tongue:
"We fought with swords," the warrior cry'd,
"We fought with swords," he said--he dy'd.

Jomsburg lifts her lofty walls,
Sparta revives on Scandinavia's shore;
Undismay'd each hero falls,
And scorns his death in terror to deplore.
"Strike, THORCHILL, strike! drive deep the blow,
Jomsburg's sons shall not complain,
Never shall the brave appear
Bound in slavery's shameful chain,
Freedom ev'n in death is dear.
Strike, THORCHILL, strike! drive deep the blow,
We joy to quit this world of woe;
We rush to seize the seats above,
And gain the warrior's meed of happiness and love."

The destin'd hour at length is come,
And vengeful heaven decrees the queen of cities' doom;
No longer heaven withholds the avenging blow
From those proud domes whence BRUTUS fled;
Where just CHEREA bow'd his head,
And proud oppression laid the GRACCHI low:
In vain the timid slaves oppose,
For freedom led their sinewy foes,
For valour fled with liberty:
Rome bows her lofty walls,
The imperial city falls,
"She falls--and lo, the world again is free!"

BION.

* * * * *

_THE DEATH OF ODIN._

Soul of my much-lov'd FREYA! yes, I come!
No pale disease's slow-consuming power
Has hasten'd on thy husband's hour;
Nor pour'd by victor's thirsty hand
Has ODIN's life bedew'd the land:
I rush to meet thee by a self-will'd doom.
No more my clattering iron car
Shall rush amid the throng of war;
No more, obedient to my heavenly cause,
Shall crimson conquest stamp his ODIN's laws.
I go--I go;
Yet shall the nations own my sway
Far as yon orb shall dart his all-enlivening ray:
Big is the death-fraught cloud of woe
That hangs, proud Rome, impending o'er thy wall,
For ODIN shall avenge his ASGARD's fall.

Thus burst from ODIN's lips the fated sound,
As high in air he rear'd the gleaming blade;
His faithful friends around
In silent wonder saw the scene, affray'd:
He, unappall'd, towards the skies
Uplifts his death-denouncing eyes;
"Ope wide VALHALLA's shield-roof'd hall,
Virgins of bliss! obey your master's call;
From these injurious realms below
The sire of nations hastes to go."

Say, faulters now your chieftain's breath?
Or chills pale terror now his death-like face?
Then weep not, THOR, thy friend's approaching death,
Let no unmanly tears disgrace
The first of mortal's valiant race:
Dauntless HEIMDAL, mourn not now,
BALDER! clear thy cloudy brow;
I go to happier realms above,
To realms of friendship and of love.

This unmanly grief dispelling,
List to glory's rapturous call;
So with ODIN ever dwelling,
Meet him in the shield-roof'd hall:
Still shall ODIN's fateful lance
Before his daring friends advance;
When the bloody fight beginning,
Helms and shields, and hauberks ringing,
Streaming life each fatal wound
Pours its current on the ground;
Still in clouds portentous riding
O'er his comrade host presiding.
ODIN, from the stormy air,
O'er your affrighted foes shall scatter wild despair.

'Mid the mighty din of battle,
Whilst conflicting chariots rattle,
Floods of purple slaughter streaming,
Fate-fraught falchions widely gleaming;
When MISTA marks her destin'd prey,
When dread and death deform the day;
Happy he amid the strife,
Who pours the current of his life;
Every toil and trouble ending,
ODIN from his hall descending,
Shall bear him to his blest retreat,
Shall place him in the warrior's seat.

Not such the destin'd joys that wait
The wretched dastard's future fate:
Wild shrieks shall yell in every breath,--
The agonizing shrieks of death.
Adown his wan and livid face
Big drops their painful way shall trace;
Each limb in that tremendous hour
Shall quiver in disease's power.
Grim HELA o'er his couch shall hang,
Scoff at his groans, and point each pang;
No Virgin Goddess him shall call
To join you in the shield-roof'd hall;
No Valkery for him prepare
The smiling mead with lovely care:
Sad and scorn'd the wretch shall lie,
Despairing shriek--despairing die!
No Scald in never-dying lays
Shall rear the temple of his praise;
No Virgin in her vernal bloom
Bedew with tears his high-rear'd tomb;
No Soldier sound his honor'd name;
No song shall hand him down to fame;
But rank weeds o'er the inglorious grave
Shall to the blast their high heads wave;
And swept by time's strong stream away,
He soon shall sink--oblivion's prey;
And deep in Niflehim--dreary cell,
Aye shall his sprite tormented dwell,
Where grim Remorse for ever wakes,
Where Anguish feeds her torturing snakes,
Where Disappointment and Delay
For ever guard the doleful way;
Amid the joyless land of woe
Keen and bleak the chill blasts blow;
Drives the tempest, pours the rain,
Showers the hail with force amain;
Yell the night-birds as they fly
Flitting in the misty sky;
Glows the adder, swells the toad,
For sad is HELA's cold abode.

Spread then the Gothic banners to the sky,
Lift your sable banners high;
Yoke your coursers to the car,
Strike the sounding shield of war;
Go, my lov'd companions, go
Trample on the opposing foe;
Be like the raging torrent's force,
That, rushing from the hills, speds on its foaming course.

Haste, my sons, to war's alarms,
Triumph in the clang of arms;
Joy amid the warlike toil,
Feed the raven with your spoil;
Go, prepare the eagle's food,
Go, and drench the wolf with blood,
'Till ye shall hear dark HELA's call,
And virgins waft ye to my hall;
There, wrapt in clouds, the shadowy throng
To airy combat glide along;
'Till wearied with the friendly fight,
SERIMNER's flesh recruits their might;
There, whilst I grasp the Roman skull,
With hydromel sweet-smiling full,
The festive song shall echo round,
The Scald repeat the deathless sound:
Then, THOR, when thou from fight shall cease,
When death shall lay that arm in peace,
Still shall the nations fear thy nod,
The first of warriors now, and then their god;
But be each heart with rage possest,
Let vengeance glow in every breast;
Let conquest fell the Roman wall,
Revenge on Rome my ASGARD's fall.

The Druid throng shall fall away,
And sink beneath your victor sway;
No more shall nations bow the knee,
Vanquish'd TARANIS, to thee;
No more upon the sacred stone,
TENTATES, shall thy victims groan;
The vanquish'd ODIN, Rome, shall cause thy fall,
And his destruction shake thy proud imperial wall.

Yet, my faithful friends, beware
Luxury's enerving snare;
'Twas this that shook our ASGARD's dome,
That drove us from our native home;
'Twas this that smooth'd the way for victor Rome:
Gaul's fruitful plains invite your sway,
Conquest points the destin'd way;
Conquest shall attend your call,
And your success shall gild still more VALHALLA's hall.

So spake the dauntless chief, and pierc'd his breast,
Then rush'd to seize the seat of endless rest.

BION.

* * * * *

_THE DEATH OF MOSES._

Israel, my hour is come!
Borne on the wings of time
Death marks his destin'd prey.
Now in the fullness of my age,
Ere faint my shrunken limbs wax weak,
Ere dim my rayless eye,
Of years and honours full, I seek the tomb.

Offspring of ABRAM, MOSES' guardian voice
No more shall breathe the will
Of your protecting God.
For not to me is given
On Canaan's promis'd land
At last to rest in peace:
For not to me is given
O'er Jordan's barrier flood
To reach the abundant clime:
On Moab's pathless plains
Must MOSES rest in peace.

When wandering o'er the desert wilds of Zin
Faint grew your parched frames,
Then Israel sinn'd against the GOD of Hosts.
Have ye forgot the hour
When murmuring Anger buzz'd
Along the busy tents?
Have ye forgot the hour
When, bold in secrecy,
Sedition's impious feet
Stole on from tent to tent?
Then Israel sinn'd against the GOD of Hosts:
On me his vengeance fell.
Twas there where MIRIAM died,
Where o'er a sister's corse
I rear'd in grief the monumental stone.

'Twas then, the prophet's ardour lost,
I felt the brother's grief:
For Memory's painful gratitude recall'd
The succour MIRIAM gave,
The succour MIRIAM gave
When haven'd on the sedgy banks of Nile
Repos'd my infant ark.
I call'd to mind her care;
I call'd to mind her love;
How sweetly soft she touch'd the lute,
How graceful moved amid the dance.
Sedition's impious feet
Stole on from tent to tent,
Till, boldened by success,
Aloud the Fury lifts her daring voice.

"Why, MOSES, did thy treach'rous art
Lead us from Egypt's fertile clime,
Amid these pathless wilds
To sink, wan Famine's prey?
Amid these pathless wilds,
Where even nature dies!
For here no seeds enrich the earth,
No fig-tree spreads its grateful shade,
No vine depends its cluster'd boughs,
Nor frigid fountain winds
Its murmuring course along.
Our parch'd frames sink--
We die for thirst."

'Twas thus, blaspheming Heaven, ye spake:--
Heaven burst in twain by me the rock;
The spring rush'd forth.
"But never, MOSES, shall thy feet
Possess the promis'd land:"
For Israel sinn'd against the GOD of Hosts:
On me his vengeance fell.
From Nebo's mountain top
I view'd the promis'd land;
O'er Palestine's luxuriant soil
I cast the eagle ken.
Far as the distant ocean's shore,
O'er Gilead's fertile soil I gaz'd:
The southward plains I saw,
And Jericho's rich plain,
Where, bower'd in palm trees, rise her lofty towers.

Blest are ABRAM's favour'd race,
Blest above the sons of men;
For their's are Canaan's fertile lands,
For their's the aid of Heav'n.
From stern Oppression's tyrant sway,
From ignominy, bonds, and death,
Heaven led the people forth.
Thro' pathless deserts wild and waste,
Thro' the wide wilderness of dearth,
Where desolation blasted all around,
Heaven led the people forth.
E'en as the eagle's parent care
Hangs o'er the lofty nest;
And flutters fondly o'er her young,
And spreads her guardian wings,
And leads them from the eyry forth,
And bids them face the sun.

Offspring of Israel! have your thankless hearts
Forgot the bounteous gifts of Heaven?
When frighted ocean stopt his waves,
And rushing seas stood still?
Have ye forgot the fires
That led your nightly march?
Forgot the heavenly food
That fell like evening dew,
For Israel's chosen race?
Oh! write his mercies on your hearts,
Treasure his bounties in your soul;
Obey the will of Heaven.

Sons of my care! to you, from highest heaven,
JESHURUN's GOD has spoke.
By me JEHOVAH gave the words of life:
Observe his sacred laws,
And fly the snares which superstition spreads.
Fly MOLOCH's horrid rites,
ASTARTE's orgies lewd,
And THAMMUZ' annual dirge,
And CHEMOS' wanton wiles.

Is SITTIM's field forgot?
Forgot the fatal hour when thousands fell;
And Heaven's avenging arm
Hurl'd down the shafts of death?

For then in CHEMOS' wanton rites
The sons of Israel join'd;
And caught the harlot's melting eye,
And gave the soul to love.
Then, subdued by syren pleasure,
Captive reason bow'd to beauty;
Forgot the laws of God!
Forgot avenging Heaven:--
For woman's mildly-melting eye
Thrill'd through the soften'd soul.

Then ZIMRI died:
Then COZBI's voice,
That stole resistless o'er the Hebrew's heart,
In vain for pity pray'd.
The zealous priest arose;
E'en thro' her lover's breast
He pierc'd the lovely fair idolater.

Blest, PHINEAS, be thy name;
Blest be thy heart of adamantine faith,
That spurn'd the woman's prayer.

Israel, be thine to shun
Alluring beauty's wiles,
To fly the melting glance
The loosely-languid look.
'Tis thine to wreak the wrath of Heaven;
'Tis thine to lift aloft the sword,
Lay low the despot chiefs,
Lay low the lofty tow'r's.

Let the despots assemble their hosts,
Let them marshall their thousands in pride;
Let the offspring of ANAK arise
From Jericho's palm-bower'd throne,
And Aï and Solyma's towers.
Let them rush from their mountains to war,
Let them cover the valley with arms,
For JEHOVAH will war for his sons.

Low Aï's walls shall lie;
Devouring flames shall waste
Huge Hazor's strength to dust.
Of Jericho's tall towers
No relics shall remain.
There shall the pilgrim, tempest-torn,
When on the light'ning flash Destruction rides,
In vain for shelter seek.
O'er ruin'd palaces the fox shall roam;
Amid the desert halls,
Where once was spread the feast,
Where once was heard the song,
Now shall the wild wolf's howl resound;
Now build the bird obscene her secret nest.

Yet, from the storm of war reserv'd,
With added strength Jerusalem shall rise,
The city of your God!
To guard her favour'd tow'rs
Shall Heaven protecting spread th' immortal shield:
Her trees with honey ooze,
Her rivers flow with milk.
There, Israel, shall the fig-tree bend
To you its laden boughs;
There shall the cluster'd vine expand
Its wildly-wanton arms.

O'er MOSES' clayey corse
Drop ye the grateful tear,
And hide his relics in the narrow house.
O'er Jordan then rush for the prize;
Spread terror o'er Canaan afar,
And triumphantly fight for the LORD.

* * * * *

_THE DEATH OF MATTATHIAS._

Sons of my age, attend;
Come round the bed of death,
Ere yet his cold damp dews
Extinguish life's weak flame.

For MATTATHIAS' arm no more
Shall scatter terror o'er the host
Of Israel's foes.
Now triumphant Pride disdainful
Lifts elate his royal head;
Lawless Might and ruffian Rapine
Stalk o'er Israel uncontroul'd.
JEHOVAH hides his face,
And stern Destruction shakes the spear;
Wide-wasting Vengeance pours the show'r of death--
JEHOVAH hides his face.

Now, then, my sons be firm;
Be like the mighty rock,
Against whose foot the waves
For ever dash in vain.
Now, then, in your God confiding,
Lift the sword, and break the shield:
Look upon your great forefathers,
Call each long-past deed to view;
Let remembrance fire your souls--
Lift the sword, and break the shield.

On Moriah mount is laid
The father's only child!
Down ABRAHAM's aged cheek
Roll'd the paternal tear;
The big sob spoke his grief,
And nature rived his heart, but rived in vain--
For faith prevail'd.
He rear'd the pile,
He bound the silent child;
The child whose silence spoke
Most moving eloquence.
Nor did not ABRAHAM feel
The father's mighty grief,
Nor paint the wretched mother's woe-fraught cries;
Nor did he not perceive
The deadly blow more deep would rive his heart:
Yet faith prevail'd--
He lifts the knife of sacrifice!
JEHOVAH saw and saved.

O'er JOSEPH's robe, bedied with guileful blood,
The aged patriarch wept:
He rear'd the fancied tomb,
And tore his hoary locks,
Yet bow'd resign'd to Heaven's high will.
Meantime, in foreign land,
JOSEPH forgot not God.
Vice, her tinsel charms displaying,
Vainly sought to melt his mind;
Vainly plann'd the wile deceitful,
Seeking soft to sooth the soul,
To sooth the soul to sin.
He saw the languid eye,
The breast that heav'd with love;
White as the new-fall'n snow,
Unchill'd by modesty.
Her hot grasp seiz'd his arms:
He fled--
And when seducing pleasure to his lips
Held forth the honey'd draught,
He dash'd the poison down.
Nor Heaven, all-just, withheld relief:
He mark'd the father's woe,
He lov'd the virtuous child;
And JOSEPH clos'd in peace the patriarch's eyes.

Hark! the hurtling din of battle!
Clanging shields and biting falchions
Rend the air with fearful terror.
JOSHUA leads the war:
His voice controuls the orbs of heaven!
The sun stood still,
The moon obedient held her chariot back;
Then fell the royal power.
To Makkedah's dark cave the monarchs fled;
Upon the fatal tree
They wave with every wind.
Round Jericho was borne the mystick ark,
Was blown the blairing blast;
Proud on the blairing blast
Triumphant ruin rode.
From their foundations hurl'd,
The mighty bulwarks load the ground.

By prodigies announc'd, ere yet
Rank'd in existence roll,
MANOAH's offspring tow'rs in giant strength:
His crisp locks wave amid the wind,
His crisped hair of strength.
On rushes Philistia's host,
They environ the warrior unarm'd;
He grasps the jaw-bone in his hand,
He levels their thousands in death.
Fatigued with deeds of death,
The victor's limbs relax,
His parch'd mouth gapes with thirst;
Heaven saw and sent relief,
And from the wondrous weapon flow'd the spring.

By Cherith's hidden stream recluse,
The faithful prophet lay;
He drank the running brook,
The ravens brought the due supply.
Firm in the path of faith
Through life ELIJAH trod.
Nor through the narrow portals of the grave
He past to realms of bliss;
For ravish'd in the car of flames,
He fled the gate of death;
Thus mortal rapt to immortality.

High from his lofty throne
The impious tyrant cries,
"Fall down, ye men of earth,
Revere the image of your King and God."
Faith stood firm.
"Heap the fierce furnace high,"
(The angry despot cries)
"Fan the red flames till the hot furnace pales,
Sick'ning itself with heat."
The fire flames fierce!
Amid the pallid flames
The faithful friends are hurl'd!
But blasted fall the slaves,
The slaves of tyranny:
GOD stretch'd the robe of preservation forth,
And mantled o'er his sons.

Amid the lions hurl'd,
In conscious faith serene the prophet lay.
Nor DANIEL knew to fear,
Nor did his pale limbs quiver with affright;
He dar'd for GOD to die,
And Heaven, for ever good, preserv'd the seer:
The gaunt beasts, famine-fall'n,
Creep at his feet, and suppliant lick his hand.

Sons of my age, look back;
Call up the shadowy scenes
Of ages now no more:
For never, since yon font of light
First shed the new-born stream,
For never, since the breath of life
Breath'd through the realms of space,
Has Virtue trusted in her god in vain.
Amid the storm serene she goes,
Nor heeds black Malice' sharpest shafts,
Nor Envy's venom'd tooth;
The warring winds roar round her head,
Nor knows the constant maid to fear,
But lifts her looks to GOD.
Not 'till the sun, for ever quench'd,
In darkness cease to shine;
'Till nature feel no more the breath
Of life pervade her frame;
'Till Time himself expir'd
Sink in eternity,
Shall Faith be firm in vain.

Now then, indeed, be men,
Grasp firm the shield of Faith,
Lift high the sword of Hope,
Nor fear yon haughty tyrant's impious vaunts;
To-day elate he stalks,
Lifts his tiared brows,
Self-deem'd a more than man:
To-morrow, fall'n in dust,
Food for the worm corrupt,
Sunk to primeval nothing, low he lies.

And, sometimes, when your lips repeat the deeds
Your forefathers achiev'd,
Of me the meanest think, not wholly mean:
Let MATTATHIAS' name
Full-fill your souls with fire,
Recal that hour to view
When this indignant hand
Drench'd deep my dagger in apostate blood.
Even at the altar's foot
The tyrant chief I stabb'd,
I hurl'd the altar down.

Nor then, in sacred sloth subdued,
Upon the sabbath fell we unreveng'd.
We serv'd our God in fight,
We sacrific'd his foes,
We pray'd amid the war.
Then through these limbs burnt high
Indignant valour's flame;
Then glow'd the lamp of life,
Now pale and wavering as the dews of death,
Slow quench its fading light.

GOD of my fathers, thou hast seen my life
Worn in defence of thee;
Thou hast beheld me firm in danger's face,
Maintain thy holy cause,
Amid embattled hosts
Defend thy mystic rites.
Now to the unknown world,
Unchill'd by fear, I sink;
And whilst my chilly limbs grow faint,
Whilst Death's dull mists bedim my eye,
Hope lifts my soul to thee.

* * * * *

FINIS.

* * * * *

_Proposals for publishing by Subscription,_

JOAN of ARC,
AN EPIC POEM,

By ROBERT SOUTHEY,
_Of Balliol College, Oxford_.

To be handsomely printed in One Volume Quarto, price _One Guinea_, to be paid on delivery. Subscriptions will be received by Mr. _C. Dilly_, Poultry, London; by the Booksellers of Oxford, Cambridge, and Bath.

* * * * *

REPRINT INFORMATION:

Robert Lovell
Robert Southey

Poems

1795

Woodstock Books
_Otley. Washington D.C._
2000

This edition first published 2000 by
Woodstock Books
Otley, West Yorkshire
England LS21 3JP
and
Books International
PO Box 605, Herndon
VA 20172, U.S.A.

ISBN 1 85477 239 2
Introduction copyright (c) 2000 Jonathan Wordsworth

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is
available from the British Library

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
applied for

Printed and bound in England by
Smith Settle
Otley LS21 3JP

* * * * *

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:

Effort has been made to retain the poetry indentation and stanza breaks present in the original text, but it is not always possible to be entirely sure, particularly in some of the more free-form poems.

The original used 'continuation quotes' on every new line of text. These have been updated to our modern quotation style.

Words surrounded by _ are italicized.

Reprint information which was originally in the beginning of the book has been moved to the end of this e-text.

End of Project Gutenberg's Poems, by Robert Lovell and Robert Southey