The Poetical Works of Robert Southey, complete in one volume

Front matter

THE POETICAL WORKS OF ROBERT SOUTHEY PRINTED IIY JULES DIDOT, SENIOR, HUNTER TO HIS MAJESTY, RUE DU PONT-DE-LODI, N° G. THE POETICAL WORKS 01 ROBERT SOUTHEY. COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. PARIS PUBLISHED BY A. AND W. GALIGNANI, N° 1 8, RUE VIYIENNE. 1829.

ADVERTISEMENT.

. The entire of Dr Southey s voluminous works — published in London in fifteen volumes — will be found in tbe present edition, in order to render which as complete as possible, it has been deemed advisable to insert, under a distinct head, the Minor Poems suppressed by the Author in the last collection given to the Public; to these have been added several original productions with which the Publishers have been favoured by a friend of Dr Southey. Under the same head are also given the Fugitive Pieces which have appeared in various miscellaneous publications since the last edition of his Works. Œontentis. Pae- MEMOIR OF ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ. . . .vii JOAN OF ARC i Notes 47 THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS . . 79 Notes 87 (jlIALABA THE DESTROYER ..... 8g Notes 144 MADOC 196 Notes 270 sTHE CURSE OF KEHAMA 3o5 Notes 349 RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS/ . . 384 Notes /■ . 442 WAT TYLER, A DRAMATIC POEM [/ . .489 CARMEN TRIUMPHALE, for 1814 . . . .497 Notes 499 CARMINA AULICA, written in 1814, on the Arrival of the Allied Sovereigns in England . 5o5 THE LAY OF THE LAUREATE ; Carmen Nuptiale. 5oa Notes 5 1 7 THE POETS PILGRIMAGE TO WATERLOO . . 5i8 Notes 542 A TALE OF PARAGUAY 54S Notes 571 A VISION OF JUDGMENT 584 Notes 597 MINOR POEMS.

Preface

The history of Joan of Abc is as mysterious as it is remarkable. That she believed herself inspired, few will deny; that she was inspired, no one will venture to assert; and it is difficult to believe that she was herself imposed upon by Charles and Dunois. That she discovered the King when he disguised himself among the courtiers to deceive her, and that, as a proof of her mission, she demanded a sword from a tomb in the church of St Catharine, are facts in which all historians agree. If this had been done by collusion, the Maid must have known herself an impostor, and with that knowledge could not have performed the enterprise she undertook. Enthusiasm, and that of no common kind, was necessary, to enable a young maiden at once to assume the profession of arms, to lead her troops to battle, to fight among the foremost, and to subdue with an inferior force an enemy then believed invincible.

It is not possible that one who felt herself The alterations which I have made in the history are few and trifling. The death of Salisbury is placed later, and of the Talbots earlier than they occurred. As the battle of Patay is the concluding action of the Poem, I have given it all the previous solemnity of a settled engagement. Whatever appears miraculous, is as serted in history, and my authorities will he found in the notes. His the common fault of Epic Poems, that we feel liltle interest for the heroes they celebrate. The national vanity of a Greek or a Roman might have been gratified by the renown of Achilles or Æneas; but to engage the unprejudiced, there must be more of human feelings than is generally to be found in the character of a warrior. From this objection, the Odyssey alone may be excepted.

Ulysses appears as the father and the husband, and the affections are enlisted on his side. The judgment must applaud the well-digested plan and splendid execution of the Iliad, but the heart always bears testimony to the merit of the Odyssey : it is the poem of nature, and its personages inspire love rather than command admiration. The good herdsman Eu mæus is worth a thousand heroes ! Homer is, indeed, the best of poets, for he is at once dignified and simple; but Pope has disguised him in fop-finery, and Cowper has stripped him naked. i The multitude of obscure Epic writers copy with the most gross servility their ancient models. If a tempest occurs, some envious spirit procures it from the god of the winds or the god of the sea : is there a town besieged ? the eyes of the hero are opened, and he beholds the powers of Heaven assisting in the attack: an angel is at hand to heal bis wounds, and the leader of the enemy in his last combat is seized with the sudden cowardice of Hector.

Even Tasso is too often an imitator. But notwithstanding the censure of a satirist, the name of Tasso will still be ranked among the best heroic poets. Perhaps Boileau only condemned him for the sake of an antithesis; it is with such writers, as wilh those who affect point in their conversation, they will always sacrifice truth to the gratifi cation of their vanity. There are few readers who do not prefer Turnus to Æneas ; a fugitive, suspected of treason, who negligently lefl his wife, seduced Dido, deserted her, and then forcibly took Lavinia from her betrothed husband. What avails a man's piety to the gods, if in all his dealings with men he prove himself a villain? If we represent Deity as commanding a bad action, this is not exculpating the man, but criminating the God. The ill chosen subjects of Lucan1 and Statius have prevented them from acquiring lhe popularity they would otherwise have merited; yet in detached parts, the former of these is perhaps unequalled, certainly unexcelled.

I do not scruple to prefer Statius to Virgil; with inferior taste, he appears to me to possess a richer and more powerful imagination ; his images are strongly conceived, and clearly painted, and the force of his language, while it makes the reader feel, proves that the author felt himself. I have avoided what seems useless and wearying in oiher poems, and my readers will find no description of armour, no muster-rolls, no geographical catalo gues, lion, tiger, bull, bear and boar similes, Phœbuses or Auroras. And where in battle I have particularised the death of an individual, it is not I hope like the common lists of killed and wounded. In Millin's National Antiquities of France, I find that M. Laverdy was in 1791 occupied in collecting whatever has been written concerning the Maid of Orleans.

I have anxiously expected his work, but it is probable, considering the tumults of the intervening period, that it has not been accomplished. Of the various productions to the memory of Joan of Arc, I have only collected a few titles, and, if report may be trusted, need not fear a heavier condemnation than lobe deemed : equally bad. A regular canon of St Euverte has written une tres mauvaise poeme, entitled the Modern Amazon- There is a prose tragedy called La Pucelle d'Orleans, variously attributed to Benserade, to Boyer, and to Menardiere. The abbe Daubignac published a prose tragedy with the same title in 1 642. There is one under the name of Jean Baruel of i5Si, aud another printed anonymously at Rouen 1606. Among the manuscripts of the queen of Sweden in the Vatican, is a dramatic piece in verse called Le Mystere du Si£ge d'Orleans.

In these modem times, says Millin, all Paris has run to the theatre of Nicolet to see a pantomune entitled Le fameux Siege de la Pucelle d'Orleans. I may add, that, after the publication of this Poem, a pantomime upou the same subject was brought forward at Covent- Garden Theatre, in which the heroine, like Don Juan, was carried off by devils and precipitated alive into hell. I mention it, because the feelings of the audience revolted at such a catastrophe, and after a few nights au angel was introduced to rescue her. But among the number of worthless poems upon this subject, there are two which are unfortunately notorious,— the Pucelles of Chapelain and Voltaire. I haw had patience to peruse the first, and never have been guilty of looking into the second ; it is well said by Herbert the poet, Tlie power of story is strikingly exemplified in the Italian heroic poets.

They please universally, even in translations, when little but the story remains. In proportioning his characters, Tasso has erred; Godfrey is the hero of the poem, Rinaldo of the poet, and Tancred of the reader. Secondary characters should not be introduced, like Gyas and Cloanthus, merely to sill a procession; neither should they be so prominent as lo throw the principal into shade. The lawless magic of Ariosto, and the singular theme as well as the singular excellence of Milton, render it impossible todeduce any rules of epic poetry from these authors. So likewise with Spenser, the favourite of my childhood, from whose frequent perusal I have always found increased delight. Against the machinery of Camoens, a heavier charge must be brought than that of profaneness or incon gruity. His floating island is but a floating brothel, and no beauty can make atonement for licentiousness.

From ihis accusation, none but a translator would attempt to justify him; but Camoens had the most able of translators. The Lusiad, though excellent in parts, is uninteresting as a whole : it is read wilh litlle emotion, and remembered with little pleasure. But it was composed in the anguish of disappointed hopes, in the fatigues of war, and in a country far from all he loved; and we should uot forget, that as the Poet of Portugal was among the most unfortunate of men, so he should be ranked among the most respectable. Neither his own country or Spain has yet produced his equal : his heart was broken by calamity, but the spirit of integrity and independence never forsook Camoens. I have endeavoured to avoid what appears to mo the common fault of Epic poems, and to render the Maid of Orleans interesting.

With this intent I. have given her, not the passion of love, but the remembrance of sub dued affection, a lingering of human feelings not inconsistent with the enthusiasm and holiness of her character. Make not thy sport abuses, for lhe fly That feeds on dung, is coloured thereby. On lhe eighth of May, the anniversary of its deliverance, an annual fete is held at Orleans; and monu ments have been erected there and at Rouen to the memory of the Maid. Her family was ennobled by JOAN OF AttC Charles; hut it should not be forgotten in the history of this monarch, that, in the hour of misfortune, he abandoned to her sale the woman who had saved his kingdom. The Lord of Vaucouleur, ■ that she frequent* The loneliest haunts and deepest solitude, Estranged from human kind and human cares With loathing like to madness, h were best To place her wilh some pious sisterhood, Who, duly morn and eve for her soul's health Soliciting Heaven, may likeliest remedy The stricken mind, or frenzied or possess'd." November, 1795.

Book I

So as Sir Robert ceased, the Maiden cried, *< I am nol mad. Possess'd indeed I am! The hand of God is strong upon my soul, And I have wrestled vainly with the Lord, And stubbornly 1 fear me. I can save This country, Sir! 1 can deliver France! Yea . . I must save the country ! God is in me . I speak not, think not, feel not of myself. He knew and sanctified me ere my birth, He to the nations hath ordained me, And whither be shall send me, I must go, And whatso he commands, that I must speak, And whalso is his will, that 1 must do; And I must cast away all fear of man Lest be in wrath confound me.» 5 There was high feasting held at Vaucouleur, For old Sir Robert had a noble guest, The Bastard Orleans; ' and lhe festive hours, Cbeer'd wilh the Trobador's sweet minstrelsy, a Pass'd lightly at his hospitable board.

But not to share the hospitable board And hear sweet minstrelsy, Dunois had sought Sir Robert's hall; he came to rouse Lorraine, And glean what force the wasting war had left For one last effort. Liltle had the war Left in Lorraine, but age, and youth unripe For slaughter yet, and widows, and young maids Of widow'd loves. And now with his high guest The Lord of Vaucouleur sat communing On what might profit France, and knew no hope, Despairing of his country, when he heard An old man and a maid awaited him In the castle hall. He knew the old man well, His vassal Claude, and at bis bidding Claude Approach'd, and after meet obeisance made, Bespake Sir Robert. At the first With pity or with scorn Dunois had heard The Maid inspired; but now he in his heart Felt lhat misgiving which precedes belief In what was disbelieved and scoffd at late As folly. «Damsel!» said the Chief, «melhinks It would be wisely done lo doubt this call, Haply of some ill spirit prompting thee To self-destruction. » « Doubt !» the Maid exclaim'd. «Good my Lord, I come, « It were as easy when I gaze around On all this fair variety of things, With a strange tale; I pray you pardon me If it should seem impertinent, and like An old man's weakness.

But, in truth, this Maid Hath with such boding thoughts impress'd my heart, I think I could not longer sleep in peace Denying what she sought. j She sailh that God Bids her go drive the Englishmen from France! — Her parents mock at her and call her crazed, Green fields and tufled woods, and the blue depth Of heaven, and yonder glorious sun, to doubt Creating wisdom! when in the evening gale I breathe the mingled odours of lhe spring, And hear the wild wood melody, and hear The populous air vocal with insect life, To doubt God's goodness! there are feelings, Chief, That may not lie; and I have oftentimes And father Regnier says she is possess'd;. . But I, who know thai never thought of ill Found entrance in her heart,, .for good my Lord, From her first birth-day she hath been to me As mine own child,. . and I am an old man, And have seen many moon-struck in my time, And some who were by evil spirits vex'd, . .

I, Sirs, do think that there is more in this. . . And who can tell if, in these perilous times, It should please God,. . but hear the Maid yourselves, For if, as I believe, this is of Heaven, Felt in the midnight silence of my soul The call of God.» They listen'd to the Maid, And they almost believed. Then spake Dunois, « Wilt ihou go with me, Maiden, to the King, And there announce thy mission?" Thus he said, For thoughts of politic craftiness arose Within him, and his unconfirmed faith Determined to prompt action. She replied, b Therefore I sought the Lord of Vaucouleur, That with such credence as prevents delay. He to the King might send me. Now beseech you, Speed our departure." My silly speech doth wrong it.» While he spake Curious they mark'd the Damsel. She appear'd Of eighteen years; 4 there was no bloom of youth Upon her cheek, yet had the loveliest hues Of health with lesser fascination six'd The gazer's eye ; for wan the Maiden was.

Of saintly paleness, and there seem'd to dwell In the strong beauties of her countenance Then Dunois address'd Sir Robert : •< Fare thee well, my friend aud host ! It were ill done to linger here wheu Heaven Hath sent such strange assistance. Let what force Lorraine can yield to Chinon follow us; And with the tidings of this holy Maid, Rais'd up by God, fill thou the country; soon The country shall awake as from the sleep Of death. Nov, Maid! depart we at ihy will." Something that was not earthly. «<l have heard Of this your niece's malady," replied Taught wisdom to mankind!6 Unhappy France! Fiercer than evening wolves thy bitter foes Rush o'er the land and desolate and kill;7 Long has the widows and the orphan's groan Accused Heaven's justice;— but the hour is come; God hath inclined his ear, hath heard the voice Of mourning, and his anger is gone forth.** Then said the Son of Orleans, « Holy Maid!

Fain would I know, if blameless I may seek Such knowledge, how the heavenly call was heard First in ihy waken'd soul; nor deem in me Aught idly curious, if of thy past days I ask the detail. In the hour of age. » God's blessing go with thee!» exclaim'd old Claude; « Good Angels guard my girl!" and as he spake The tears stream'd fast adown his aged cheeks. ■ And if I do not live to see thee more, As sure I think I shall not, yet sometimes Remember thine old Dncle. I have loved thee Even from thy childhood, JOAN! and I shall lose The comfort of mine age in losing thee. But God be with thee, Child!-' Nor was the Maid, Though all subdued of soul, untroubled now In that sad parting;— but she calm'd herself, Painfully keeping down her heart, and said, « Comfort thyself, my Uncle, with lhe thought Of what I am, and for what enterprise Chosen from among the people.

Oh be sure I shall remember thee, in whom I found A parents love, when parents were unkind ! And when the ominous broodings of my soul Were scoffd and made a mock of by all else, Thou for thy love didst hear me and believe. Shall I forget these things?" ... By this Dunois Had arm'd, the steeds stood ready at lhe gate; But ihen she fell upon the old man's neck And cried, « Pray for me ! . . 1 shall need thy prayers ! Pray for me that I fail not in my hour ! » Thereat awhile, as if some awful thought Had overpower'd her, on his neck she hung; Then rising with ttush'd cheek and kindling eye, « Farewell!" quoth she, « and live in hope! anon Thou shalt hear tidings to rejoice thy heart, If haply I survive to see this realm By thee deliver'd, dear will be the thought That I have seen the delegated Maid, And heard from her the wonderous ways of Heaven. « « A simple tele," the mission'd Maid replied, w Yel may it well employ the journeying hour, And pleasant is the memory of the past. « Scest thou, Sir Chief, where yonder forest skirts The Meuse, that in its winding mazes shows As ou the farther bank the distant towers Of Vaucouleur? there in ihe hamlet Arc My father's dwelling stands; a lowly hut.

Yet nought of needful comfort did it lack. For iu Lorraine there lived no kinder Lord Than old Sir Robert, and my father Jaques In flocks and herds was rich. A toiling man Intent on worldly gains, one in whose heart Affection had no root. I never knew A parent's love; for harsh my mother was, And deem'd the cares which infancy demands Irksome, and ill-repaid. Severe they were, And would have made me fear them, but my soul Possess'd the germ of steady forlilude, Tidings of joy for all, but most for thee! Be this ihy comfort!" The old man received Her last embrace, and weeping like a child Scarcely through tears could see them on their steeds Spring up and go their way. So ou they went. And now along the mountains winding path Upward they journey'd slow, and now they paused And gazed where o'er the plain the stately towers Of Vaucouleur arose, in distance seen^ Dark and distinct; below the castled height, Through fair and senile pastures, the deep Meuse Rolld glittering on.

Domremi's cottages Gleam d in the sun hard by, while collages, That in the evening traveller's weary mind Had waken'd thoughts of comfort and of home, Till his heart ached for rest. But on one spot, One little spol, the Virgiu's eye was fix'd. And stubbornly I bore unkind rebuke And wrathful chalisement. Yet was the voice That spake in tones of tenderness most sweet To my young heart; how have 1 felt it leap With transport, when mine Uncle Claude approach'd! For he would place me on his knee, and tell The wonderous tales that childhood loves to hear, Listening with eager eyes and open lips Devouily in aitentiou. Good old man! Oh if I ever pour'd a prayer to Heaven L'nhallow'd by lhe grateful thought of him, Methinks the righteous winds would scatter il! He was a parent to me, and his home Was mine, when in advancing years I found No peace, no comfort in my father's house.

With him I pass'd the pleasant evening hours, By day I drove my father's flock afield,8 Her native Arc; embower'd the hamlet lay Upon the forest edge, whose ancient woods, Wilh all their infinite varieties, Now form'd a mass of shade. The distant plain Rose on the horizon rich wilh pleasant groves, And vineyards in the greenest hue of spring. And streams now hidden on their winding way. Now issuing forth in light. And this was happiness. Amid these wilds The Maiden gazed Ofien to summer pasture have I driven Till all grew dim upon her dizzy eye. The flock ; and well I know these mountain witds, And every bosom'd vale, and valley stream Is dear to memory. I have laid me down Beside you valley stream, lhat up the ascent Scarce sends the sound of waters now, and watch'd The Beck roll glittering to the noon-tide sun, And listen'd to its ceaseless murmuring, Till all was hush'd and tranquil in my soul. s\ O whai a blessed world were this!" she cried, But thai the great and honourable men Have seized the earth, and of the heritage Which God, the Sire of all, to all had given, Disherited their brethren! happy those Who in the afler days shall live when Time Halh spoken, and the multitude of years Fill'd with a strange and undefined delight That pass'd across the mind like summer clouds Over the lake at eve, tlieir fleeting hues The traveller cannot trace with memory's eye, Yet he remembers well how fair they were, How lovely.

She sunk. Then would she sit and think all day Upon the past, and talk of happiness That never would return, as though she found Best solace in the thoughts which rainister'd To sorrow : and she loved to see the sun Go down, because another day was gone, And then she might retire to solitude And wakeful recollections, or perchance To sleep more wearying far than wakefuluess. Dreams of his safety and return, and starts Of agony; so neither night nor day Here in solitude and peace My soul was nurst, amid the loveliest scenes Of unpolluted nature. Sweet it was As the white mists of morning roll'd away To see the mountain's wooded heights appear Dark in the early dawn, and mark ils slope With gorse-flowers glowing, as the rising sun On the golden ripeness pour'd a deepening light. Pleasant at noon beside the vocal brook To lie me down, and watch the floating clouds, And shape to Fancy's wild similitudes Their ever-varying forms; and oh how sweet !

To drive my flock at evening to the fold, And hasten to our little hut, and hear The voice of kindness bid me welcome home. Amid the village playmates of my youth Was one whom riper years approved a friend. A gentle maid was my poor Madelon, Could she find rest, but pin'd and pin'd away. « Death ! to the happy thou art terrible, But how the wretched love to think of thee ! O thou true comforter, the friend of all Who have no friend beside ! 9 By the sick bed Of Madelon I sate, when sure she felt The hour of her deliverance drawing near; I saw her eye kindle with heavenly hope, I had her latest look of earthly love, I felt her baud's last pressure — Son of Orleans ! I would uot wish lo live lo know that hour, When I could think upon a dear friend dead, And weep not. I loved her as a sister, aud long lime Her undivided tenderness possess'd, Till that a better and a holier tie I remember as her bier Went to the grave, a lark sprung up aloft, And soar'd amid the sunshine carolling So full of joy, that to the mourner's ear More mournfully than dirge or passing bell, His joyful carol came, and made us feel That of the multitude of beings, none Gave her one nearer friend; and then my heart Partook her happiness, for never lived A happier pair lhan Arnaud and his wife. « Lorraiue was call'd to arms, and with her youth Went Arnaud to the war.

The morn was fair, Bright shone the sun, the birds sung cheerfully. And all the fields look'd lovely in the spring ; But to Domremi wretched was that day, For there was lamentation, and the voice But man was wretched. Then my soul awoke, For it had slumber'd long in happiness, And never feeling misery, never thought What others suffer. I, as best I might, Solaced the keen regret of Elinor; Of anguish, and lhe deeper agony That spake not. Never will my heart forget The feelings that shot through mt, when lhe horn Gave its last call, and through the castle-gate The banner moved, and from the clinging arms Which hung on them, as for a last embrace Sons, brethren, husbands went. And much my cares avail'd, and much her son's, On whom, the only comfort of her age, She center'd now her love. A younger birth, Aged nearly as myself was Theodore, An ardent youth, who with the kindest cares Had soothed his sister's sorrows.

We had knelt By her death-bed together, and no bond In closer union knits two human hearts More frequent now Sought I the converse of poor Madelon, For now she needed friendship's soothing voice. AU the long summer did she live in hope Of tidings from the war; and as at eve Than fellowship in grief. It chanced as once Beside the fire of Elinor I sate, She with her mother by the cottage door Sat in the sunshine, isa traveller Appear'd at distance coming o'er the brow, Her eye was on him, aud ii might be seen Thenighfwas comfortless, tlie loud blast howl'd, And as we drew around lhe social heanh, We heard the rain beat hard: driven by the storm, A warrior mark'd our distant taper's light ; We heapt the fire, and spread the friendly hoard. ' The slorm beats hard,' the stranger cried : < safe hous'd Pleasant it is to hear the pelting rain.

By tbe slush'd cheek what thoughts were in her heart, And by the deadly paleness which ensued How her heart died within her. So the days And weeks and months pass'd on, and when the leaves Fell in the autumn, a most painful hope That reason own'd not, that with expectation I too were well content to dwell in peace, Resting my head upon the lap of Love, But that my country calls. When the winds roar, Remember sometimes what a soldier suffers, And think on Conrade.' Did never cheer her as she rose at morn, Still linger'd in her heart, and still at night Made disappointment dreadful. Winter came But Arnaud never from the war return'd, He far away had perish'd ; and when late The tidings of his certain death arrived, Sore with long anguish underneath that blow Theodore replied, ' Success go with thee!

Something we have known Of war, and tasted its calamity ; And I am well content to dwell in peace. Albeit inglorious, thanking that good God To hear this maiden call on you in vain For aid, and see her dragg'd, and hear her scream In the blood-reeking soldier's lustful arms, Think that there are such horrors;" that even now, Some city flames, and haply as in Roan, Some famish d babe on his dead mother's breast Yet haogs and pulls for food!'2 . . -woe be to those By whom the evil comes ! and woe to him, . . For little less his guilt, . . who dwells in peace, WThen every arm is needed for the strife! m When we bad all betaken us to rest, Sleepless I lay, and in my mind revolved The high-soul'd warrior's speech. Then Madelon Rose iu remembrance; over her the grave Had closed ; her sorrows were not registerd In the rolls of Fame: but when the tears run down Tbe widow's cheek, shall not her cry be beard In Heaven against the oppressor? will not God In sunder smile tiie unmerciful, and break The sceptre of the wicked?'3 . . thoughts like these Possessed my soul, till at the break of day I slept; nor did my heated brain repose Even then, for visions, sent, as I believe, From the Most High, arose.

A high-tower'd town Hemm'd in and girt with enemies, I saw, Where Famine on a heap of carcasses, Half envious of the unutterable feast, Mark'd the gorged raven clog his beak with gore. I turn'd me then to the besieger's camp. And there was revelry : the loud lewd laugh Burst on mine ear, and I beheld the chiefs Sit at their feast, and plan the work of death. My soul grew sick within me; I look'd up, Reproaching Heaven,... lo! from the clouds an arm As of the avenging Angel was put forth, And from his hand a sword, like lightning, fell. « From that night I could feel my burthen'd soul Heaving beneadi incumbent Deity. I sate in silence, musing on the days To come, unheeding and unseeing all Around me, iu diat dreaminess of thought When every bodily sense is as it slept, And the mind alone is wakeful.