Poems by Robert Southey Part 9

How many a day, O pleasant Lesbos! in thy secret streams Delighted have I plung'd, from the hot sun Screen'd by the o'er-arching groves delightful shade, And pillowed on the waters: now the waves Shall chill me to repose.

Tremendous height!

Scarce to the brink will these rebellious limbs Support me. Hark! how the rude deep below Roars round the rugged base, as if it called Its long-reluctant victim! I will come.

One leap, and all is over! The deep rest Of Death, or tranquil Apathy's dead calm Welcome alike to me. Away vain fears!

Phaon is cold, and why should Sappho live?

Phaon is cold, or with some fairer one-- Thought worse than death!

(She throws herself from the precipice.)

[Footnote A: [Greek (transliterated)]: Ou tini choimaetheisa thea teche NUTH erezennae. HESIOD]

ODE

(Written on the FIRST of DECEMBER, 1793.)

Tho' now no more the musing ear Delights to listen to the breeze That lingers o'er the green wood shade, I love thee Winter! well.

Sweet are the harmonies of Spring, Sweet is the summer's evening gale, Pleasant the autumnal winds that shake The many-colour'd grove.

And pleasant to the sober'd soul The silence of the wintry scene, When Nature shrouds her in her trance

Not undelightful now to roam The wild heath sparkling on the sight; Not undelightful now to pace The forest's ample rounds;

And see the spangled branches s.h.i.+ne, And mark the moss of many a hue That varies the old tree's brown bark, Or o'er the grey stone spreads.

The cl.u.s.ter'd berries claim the eye O'er the bright hollies gay green leaves, The ivy round the leafless oak Clasps its full foliage close.

So VIRTUE diffident of strength Clings to RELIGION'S firmer aid, And by RELIGION'S aid upheld Endures calamity.

Nor void of beauties now the spring, Whose waters hid from summer sun Have sooth'd the thirsty pilgrim's ear With more than melody.

The green moss s.h.i.+nes with icey glare, The long gra.s.s bends its spear-like form, And lovely is the silvery scene When faint the sunbeams smile.

Reflection too may love the hour When Nature, hid in Winter's grave, No more expands the bursting bud Or bids the flowret bloom.

For Nature soon in Spring's best charms Shall rise reviv'd from Winter's grave.

Again expand the bursting bud, And bid the flowret bloom.

Written on SUNDAY MORNING.

Go thou and seek the House of Prayer!

I to the Woodlands wend, and there In lovely Nature see the G.o.d OF LOVE.

The swelling organ's peal Wakes not my soul to zeal, Like the wild music of the wind-swept grove.

The gorgeous altar and the mystic vest Rouse not such ardor in my breast, As where the noon-tide beam Flash'd from the broken stream, Quick vibrates on the dazzled sight; Or where the cloud-suspended rain Sweeps in shadows o'er the plain; Or when reclining on the clift's huge height I mark the billows burst in silver light.

Go thou and seek the House of Prayer!

I to the Woodlands shall repair, Feed with all Natures charms mine eyes, And hear all Natures melodies.

The primrose bank shall there dispense Faint fragrance to the awaken'd sense, The morning beams that life and joy impart Shall with their influence warm my heart.

And the full tear that down my cheek will steal, Shall speak the prayer of praise I feel!

Go thou and seek the House of Prayer!

I to the woodlands bend my way And meet RELIGION there.

She needs not haunt the high-arch'd dome to pray Where storied windows dim the doubtful day: With LIBERTY she loves to rove.

Wide o'er the heathy hill or cowslip'd dale; Or seek the shelter of the embowering grove, Sweet are these scenes to her, and when the night Pours in the north her silver streams of light, She woos Reflexion in the silent gloom, And ponders on the world to come.

ON THE DEATH Of a Favourite Old SPANIEL.

And they have drown'd thee then at last! poor Phillis!

The burthen of old age was heavy on thee.

And yet thou should'st have lived! what tho' thine eye Was dim, and watch'd no more with eager joy The wonted call that on thy dull sense sunk With fruitless repet.i.tion, the warm Sun Would still have cheer'd thy slumber, thou didst love To lick the hand that fed thee, and tho' past Youth's active season, even Life itself Was comfort. Poor old friend! most earnestly Would I have pleaded for thee: thou hadst been Still the companion of my childish sports, And, as I roam'd o'er Avon's woody clifts, From many a day-dream has thy short quick bark Recall'd my wandering soul. I have beguil'd Often the melancholy hours at school, Sour'd by some little tyrant, with the thought Of distant home, and I remember'd then Thy faithful fondness: for not mean the joy, Returning at the pleasant holydays, I felt from thy dumb welcome. Pensively Sometimes have I remark'd thy slow decay, Feeling myself changed too, and musing much On many a sad vicissitude of Life!

Ah poor companion! when thou followedst last Thy master's parting footsteps to the gate That clos'd for ever on him, thou didst lose Thy truest friend, and none was left to plead For the old age of brute fidelity!

But fare thee well! mine is no narrow creed, And HE who gave thee being did not frame The mystery of life to be the sport Of merciless man! there is another world For all that live and move--a better one!

Where the proud bipeds, who would fain confine INFINITE GOODNESS to the little bounds Of their own charity, may envy thee!

To CONTEMPLATION.

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

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 sh.o.r.e When Ocean stills his waves to rest; Or when slow-moving on the surge's h.o.a.r Meet with deep hollow roar And whiten o'er his breast; For lo! the Moon with softer radiance gleams, And lovelier heave the billows in her beams.

When the low gales of evening moan along, I love with thee to feel the calm cool breeze, And roam the pathless forest wilds among, Listening the mellow murmur of the trees Full-foliaged as they lift their arms on high And wave their shadowy heads in wildest melody.

Or lead me where amid the tranquil vale The broken stream flows on in silver light, And I will linger where the gale O'er the bank of violets sighs, Listening to hear its soften'd sounds arise; And hearken the dull beetle's drowsy flight, And watch the horn-eyed snail Creep o'er his long moon-glittering trail, And mark where radiant thro' the night Moves in the gra.s.s-green hedge the glow-worms living light.

Thee meekest Power! I love to meet, As oft with even solitary pace The scatter'd Abbeys hallowed rounds I trace And listen to the echoings of my feet.