Poems by Robert Southey Part 5

BOTANY BAY

Eclogues

Where a sight shall shuddering Sorrow find.

Sad as the ruins of the human mind!

BOWLES.

ELINOR.

(Time, Morning. Scene, the Sh.o.r.e.[1])

Once more to daily toil--once more to wear The weeds of infamy--from every joy The heart can feel excluded, I arise Worn out and faint with unremitting woe; And once again with wearied steps I trace The hollow-sounding sh.o.r.e. The swelling waves Gleam to the morning sun, and dazzle o'er With many a splendid hue the breezy strand.

Oh there was once a time when ELINOR Gazed on thy opening beam with joyous eye Undimm'd by guilt and grief! when her full soul Felt thy mild radiance, and the rising day Waked but to pleasure! on thy sea-girt verge Oft England! have my evening steps stole on, Oft have mine eyes surveyed the blue expanse, And mark'd the wild wind swell the ruffled surge, And seen the upheaved billows bosomed rage Rush on the rock; and then my timid soul Shrunk at the perils of the boundless deep, And heaved a sigh for suffering mariners.

Ah! little deeming I myself was doom'd.

To tempt the perils of the boundless deep, An Outcast--unbeloved and unbewail'd.

Why stern Remembrance! must thine iron hand Harrow my soul? why calls thy cruel power The fields of England to my exil'd eyes, The joys which once were mine? even now I see The lowly lovely dwelling! even now Behold the woodbine clasping its white walls And hear the fearless red-b.r.e.a.s.t.s chirp around To ask their morning meal:--for I was wont With friendly band to give their morning meal, Was wont to love their song, when lingering morn Streak'd o'er the chilly landskip the dim light, And thro' the open'd lattice hung my head To view the snow-drop's bud: and thence at eve When mildly fading sunk the summer sun, Oft have I loved to mark the rook's slow course And hear his hollow croak, what time he sought The church-yard elm, whose wide-embowering boughs Full foliaged, half conceal'd the house of G.o.d.

There, my dead father! often have I heard Thy hallowed voice explain the wonderous works Of Heaven to sinful man. Ah! little deem'd Thy virtuous bosom, that thy shameless child So soon should spurn the lesson! sink the slave Of Vice and Infamy! the hireling prey Of brutal appet.i.te! at length worn out With famine, and the avenging scourge of guilt, Should dare dishonesty--yet dread to die!

Welcome ye savage lands, ye barbarous climes, Where angry England sends her outcast sons-- I hail your joyless sh.o.r.es! my weary bark Long tempest-tost on Life's inclement sea, Here hails her haven! welcomes the drear scene, The marshy plain, the briar-entangled wood, And all the perils of a world unknown.

For Elinor has nothing new to fear From fickle Fortune! all her rankling shafts Barb'd with disgrace, and venom'd with disease.

Have pierced my bosom, and the dart of death Has lost its terrors to a wretch like me.

Welcome ye marshy heaths! ye pathless woods, Where the rude native rests his wearied frame Beneath the sheltering shade; where, when the storm, As rough and bleak it rolls along the sky, Benumbs his naked limbs, he flies to seek The dripping shelter. Welcome ye wild plains Unbroken by the plough, undelv'd by hand Of patient rustic; where for lowing herds, And for the music of the bleating flocks, Alone is heard the kangaroo's sad note Deepening in distance. Welcome ye rude climes, The realm of Nature! for as yet unknown The crimes and comforts of luxurious life, Nature benignly gives to all enough, Denies to all a superfluity, What tho' the garb of infamy I wear, Tho' day by day along the echoing beach I cull the wave-worn sh.e.l.ls, yet day by day I earn in honesty my frugal food, And lay me down at night to calm repose.

No more condemn'd the mercenary tool Of brutal l.u.s.t, while heaves the indignant heart With Virtue's stiffled sigh, to fold my arms Round the rank felon, and for daily bread To hug contagion to my poison'd breast; On these wild sh.o.r.es Repentance' saviour hand Shall probe my secret soul, shall cleanse its wounds And fit the faithful penitent for Heaven.

[Footnote 1: The female convicts are frequently employed in collecting sh.e.l.ls for the purpose of making lime.]

HUMPHREY and WILLIAM.

(Time, Noon.)

HUMPHREY:

See'st thou not William that the scorching Sun By this time half his daily race has run?

The savage thrusts his light canoe to sh.o.r.e And hurries homeward with his fishy store.

Suppose we leave awhile this stubborn soil To eat our dinner and to rest from toil!

WILLIAM:

Agreed. Yon tree whose purple gum bestows A ready medicine for the sick-man's woes, Forms with its shadowy boughs a cool retreat To s.h.i.+eld us from the noontide's sultry heat.

Ah Humphrey! now upon old England's sh.o.r.e The weary labourer's morning work is o'er: The woodman now rests from his measur'd stroke Flings down his axe and sits beneath the oak, Savour'd with hunger there he eats his food, There drinks the cooling streamlet of the wood.

To us no cooling streamlet winds its way, No joys domestic crown for us the day, The felon's name, the outcast's garb we wear, Toil all the day, and all the night despair.

HUMPHREY:

Ah William! labouring up the furrowed ground I used to love the village clock's dull sound, Rejoice to hear my morning toil was done, And trudge it homewards when the clock went one.

'Twas ere I turn'd a soldier and a sinner!

Pshaw! curse this whining--let us fall to dinner.

WILLIAM:

I too have loved this hour, nor yet forgot Each joy domestic of my little cot.

For at this hour my wife with watchful care Was wont each humbler dainty to prepare, The keenest sauce by hunger was supplied And my poor children prattled at my side.

Methinks I see the old oak table spread, The clean white trencher and the good brown bread, The cheese my daily food which Mary made, For Mary knew full well the housewife's trade: The jug of cyder,--cyder I could make, And then the knives--I won 'em at the wake.

Another has them now! I toiling here Look backward like a child and drop a tear.

HUMPHREY:

I love a dismal story, tell me thine, Meantime, good Will, I'll listen as I dine.

I too my friend can tell a piteous story When I turn'd hero how I purchas'd glory.

WILLIAM:

But Humphrey, sure thou never canst have known The comforts of a little home thine own: A home so snug, So chearful too as mine, 'Twas always clean, and we could make it fine; For there King Charles's golden rules were seen, And there--G.o.d bless 'em both--the King and Queen.

The pewter plates our garnish'd chimney grace So nicely scour'd, you might have seen your face; And over all, to frighten thieves, was hung Well clean'd, altho' but seldom us'd, my gun.

Ah! that d.a.m.n'd gun! I took it down one morn-- A desperate deal of harm they did my corn!

Our testy Squire too loved to save the breed, So covey upon covey eat my seed.

I mark'd the mischievous rogues, and took my aim, I fir'd, they fell, and--up the keeper came.

That cursed morning brought on my undoing, I went to prison and my farm to ruin.

Poor Mary! for her grave the parish paid, No tomb-stone tells where her cold corpse is laid!

My children--my dear boys--

HUMPHREY:

Come--Grief is dry-- You to your dinner--to my story I.

To you my friend who happier days have known And each calm comfort of a home your own, This is bad living: I have spent my life In hardest toil and unavailing strife, And here (from forest ambush safe at least) To me this scanty pittance seems a feast.

I was a plough-boy once; as free from woes And blithesome as the lark with whom I rose.