Poems by Robert Southey Part 10

Or on the half demolished tomb, Whole warning texts antic.i.p.ate my doom: Mark the clear orb of night Cast thro' the storying gla.s.s a faintly-varied light.

Nor will I not in some more gloomy hour Invoke with fearless awe thine holier power, Wandering beneath the sainted pile When the blast moans along the darksome aisle, And clattering patters all around The midnight shower with dreary sound.

But sweeter 'tis to wander wild By melancholy dreams beguil'd, While the summer moon's pale ray Faintly guides me on my way To the lone romantic glen Far from all the haunts of men, Where no noise of uproar rude Breaks the calm of solitude.

But soothing Silence sleeps in all Save the neighbouring waterfall, Whose hoa.r.s.e waters falling near Load with hollow sounds the ear, And with down-dasht torrent white Gleam h.o.a.ry thro' the shades of night.

Thus wandering silent on and slow I'll nurse Reflection's sacred woe, And muse upon the perish'd day When Hope would weave her visions gay, Ere FANCY chill'd by adverse fate Left sad REALITY my mate.

O CONTEMPLATION! when to Memory's eyes The visions of the long-past days arise, Thy holy power imparts the best relief, And the calm'd Spirit loves the joy of grief.

To HORROR.

[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, loud and keen and chill, The evening winds of winter blow Drifting deep the dismal snow.

Or if thou followest now on Greenland's sh.o.r.e, With all thy terrors, on the lonely way Of some wrecked mariner, when to the roar Of herded bears the floating ice-hills round Pour their deep echoing sound, And by the dim drear Boreal light Givest half his dangers to the wretches sight.

Or if thy fury form, When o'er the midnight deep The dark-wing'd tempests sweep Watches from some high cliff the encreasing storm, Listening with strange delight As the black billows to the thunder rave When by the lightnings light Thou seest the tall s.h.i.+p sink beneath the wave.

Dark HORROR! bear me where the field of fight Scatters contagion on the tainted gale, When to the Moon's faint beam, On many a carcase s.h.i.+ne the dews of night And a dead silence stills the vale Save when at times is heard the glutted Raven's scream.

Where some wreck'd army from the Conquerors might Speed their disastrous flight, With thee fierce Genius! let me trace their way, And hear at times the deep heart-groan Of some poor sufferer left to die alone, His sore wounds smarting with the winds of night; And we will pause, where, on the wild, The [1] Mother to her frozen breast, On the heap'd snows reclining clasps her child And with him sleeps, chill'd to eternal rest!

Black HORROR! speed we to the bed of Death, Where he whose murderous power afar Blasts with the myriad plagues of war, Struggles with his last breath, Then to his wildly-starting eyes The phantoms of the murder'd rise, Then on his frenzied ear Their groans for vengeance and the Demon's yell In one heart-maddening chorus swell.

Cold on his brow convulsing stands the dew, And night eternal darkens on his view.

HORROR! I call thee yet once more!

Bear me to that accursed sh.o.r.e Where round the stake the impaled Negro writhes.

a.s.sume thy sacred terrors then! dispense The blasting gales of Pestilence!

Arouse the race of Afric! holy Power, Lead them to vengeance! and in that dread hour When Ruin rages wide I will behold and smile by MERCY'S side.

[Footnote 1: I extract the following picture of consummate horror, from the notes to a Poem written in twelve syllable verse upon the campaign of 1794 and 1795; it was during the retreat to Deventer.

"We could not proceed a hundred yards without perceiving the dead bodies of men, women, children and horses in every direction. One scene made an impression upon my memory which time will never be able to efface. Near another cart we perceived a stout looking man, and a beautiful young woman with an infant, about seven months old, at the breast, all three frozen and dead. The mother had most certainly expired in the act of suckling her child, as with one breast exposed, she lay upon the drifted snow, the milk to all appearance in a stream drawn from the nipple by the babe, and instantly congealed. The infant seemed as if its lips had but just then been disengaged, and it reposed its little head upon the mother's bosom, with, an overflow of milk, frozen as it trickled from the mouth; their countenances were perfectly composed and fresh, resembling those of persons in a sound and tranquil slumber."]

The SOLDIER'S WIFE.

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--G.o.d help thee, widow'd One!

[Footnote 1: This stanza was supplied by S.T. COLERIDGE.]

The WIDOW.

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 a husband-- "I am a Widow poor and broken-hearted!"

Loud blew the wind, unheard was her complaining.

On drove the chariot.

On the cold snows she laid her down to rest her; She heard a horseman, "pity me!" she groan'd out; Loud blew the wind, unheard was her complaining, On went the horseman.

Worn out with anguish, toil and cold and hunger, Down sunk the Wanderer, sleep had seiz'd her senses; There, did the Traveller find her in the morning, G.o.d had releast her.

To the CHAPEL BELL.