Poems by Robert Southey Part 14

Then did the cheek of Rudiger a.s.sume a death-pale hue, And on his clammy forehead stood The cold convulsive dew;

And faltering in his speech he bade The Priest the rites delay, Till he could, to right health restor'd, Enjoy the festive day.

When o'er the many-tinted sky He saw the day decline, He called upon his Margaret To walk beside the Rhine.

"And we will take the little babe, "For soft the breeze that blows, "And the wild murmurs of the stream "Will lull him to repose."

So forth together did they go, The evening breeze was mild, And Rudiger upon his arm Did pillow the sweet child.

And many a one from Waldhurst's walls Along the banks did roam, But soon the evening wind came cold, And all betook them home.

Yet Rudiger in silent mood Along the banks would roam, Nor aught could Margaret prevail To turn his footsteps home.

"Oh turn thee--turn thee Rudiger, "The rising mists behold, "The evening wind is damp and chill, "The little babe is cold!"

"Now hush thee--hush thee Margaret, "The mists will do no harm, "And from the wind the little babe "Lies sheltered on my arm."

"Oh turn thee--turn thee Rudiger, "Why onward wilt thou roam?

"The moon is up, the night is cold, "And we are far from home."

He answered not, for now he saw A Swan come sailing strong, And by a silver chain she drew A little boat along.

To sh.o.r.e they came, and to the boat Fast leapt he with the child, And in leapt Margaret--breathless now And pale with fear and wild.

With arching crest and swelling breast On sail'd the stately swan, And lightly down the rapid tide The little boat went on.

The full-orb'd moon that beam'd around Pale splendor thro' the night, Cast through the crimson canopy A dim-discoloured light.

And swiftly down the hurrying stream In silence still they sail, And the long streamer fluttering fast Flapp'd to the heavy gale.

And he was mute in sullen thought And she was mute with fear, Nor sound but of the parting tide Broke on the listening ear.

The little babe began to cry And waked his mother's care, "Now give to me the little babe "For G.o.d's sake, Rudiger!"

"Now hush thee, hush thee Margaret!

"Nor my poor heart distress-- "I do but pay perforce the price "Of former happiness.

"And hush thee too my little babe, "Thy cries so feeble cease: "Lie still, lie still;--a little while "And thou shalt be at peace."

So as he spake to land they drew, And swift he stept on sh.o.r.e, And him behind did Margaret Close follow evermore.

It was a place all desolate, Nor house nor tree was there, And there a rocky mountain rose Barren, and bleak, and bare.

And at its base a cavern yawn'd, No eye its depth might view, For in the moon-beam shining round That darkness darker grew.

Cold Horror crept thro' Margaret's blood, Her heart it paus'd with fear, When Rudiger approach'd the cave And cried, "lo I am here!"

A deep sepulchral sound the cave Return'd "lo I am here!"

And black from out the cavern gloom Two giant arms appear.

And Rudiger approach'd and held The little infant nigh; Then Margaret shriek'd, and gather'd then New powers from agony.

And round the baby fast and firm Her trembling arms she folds, And with a strong convulsive grasp The little infant holds.

"Now help me, Jesus!" loud she cries.

And loud on G.o.d she calls; Then from the grasp of Rudiger The little infant falls.

And now he shriek'd, for now his frame The huge black arms clasp'd round, And dragg'd the wretched Rudiger Adown the dark profound.

Hymn

TO THE

Penates.

Remove far from me vanity and lies; give me neither poverty nor riches; feed me with food convenient for me.

The words of Agur.

The t.i.tle of the following Poem will probably remind the Reader of Akenside's Hymn to the Naiads, but the manner in which I have treated the subject fortunately precludes comparison.

HYMN to the PENATES.

Yet one Song more! one high and solemn strain Ere PAEAN! on thy temple's ruined wall I hang the silent harp: there may its strings, When the rude tempest shakes the aged pile, Make melancholy music. One Song more!

PENATES! hear me! for to you I hymn The votive lay. Whether, as sages deem, Ye dwell in the [1]inmost Heaven, the [2]COUNSELLORS Of JOVE; or if, SUPREME OF DEITIES, All things are yours, and in your holy train JOVE proudly ranks, and JUNO, white arm'd Queen.

And wisest of Immortals, aweful Maid ATHENIAN PALLAS. Venerable Powers!

Hearken your hymn of praise! tho' from your rites Estranged, and exiled from your altars long, I have not ceased to love you, HOUSEHOLD G.o.dS!

In many a long and melancholy hour Of solitude and sorrow, has my heart With earnest longings prayed to rest at length Beside your hallowed hearth--for PEACE is there!

Yes I have loved you long. I call on you Yourselves to witness with what holy joy, Shunning the polished mob of human kind, I have retired to watch your lonely fires And commune with myself. Delightful hours That gave mysterious pleasure, made me know All the recesses of my wayward heart, Taught me to cherish with devoutest care Its strange unworldly feelings, taught me too The best of lessons--to respect myself!

Nor have I ever ceas'd to reverence you DOMESTIC DEITIES! from the first dawn Of reason, thro' the adventurous paths of youth Even to this better day, when on mine ear The uproar of contending nations sounds, But like the pa.s.sing wind--and wakes no pulse To tumult. When a child--(for still I love To dwell with fondness on my childish years, Even as that Persian favorite would retire From the court's dangerous pageantry and pomp, To gaze upon his shepherd garb, and weep, Rememb'ring humble happiness.) When first A little one, I left my father's home, I can remember the first grief I felt, And the first painful smile that cloathed my front With feelings not its own: sadly at night I sat me down beside a stranger's hearth; And when the lingering hour of rest was come, First wet with tears my pillow. As I grew In years and knowledge, and the course of Time Developed the young feelings of my heart, When most I loved in solitude to rove Amid the woodland gloom; or where the rocks Darken'd old Avon's stream, in the ivied cave Recluse to sit and brood the future song, Yet not the less, PENATES, loved I then Your altars, not the less at evening hour Delighted by the well-trimm'd fire to sit, Absorbed in many a dear deceitful dream Of visionary joys: deceitful dreams-- Not wholly vain--for painting purest joys, They form'd to Fancy's mould her votary's heart.

By Cherwell's sedgey side, and in the meads Where Isis in her calm clear stream reflects The willow's bending boughs, at earliest dawn In the noon-tide hour, and when the night-mists rose, I have remembered you: and when the noise Of loud intemperance on my lonely ear Burst with loud tumult, as recluse I sat, Pondering on loftiest themes of man redeemed From servitude, and vice, and wretchedness, I blest you, HOUSEHOLD G.o.dS! because I loved Your peaceful altars and serener rites.

Nor did I cease to reverence you, when driven Amid the jarring crowd, an unfit man To mingle with the world; still, still my heart Sighed for your sanctuary, and inly pined; And loathing human converse, I have strayed Where o'er the sea-beach chilly howl'd the blast, And gaz'd upon the world of waves, and wished That I were far beyond the Atlantic deep, In woodland haunts--a sojourner with PEACE.

Not idly fabled they the Bards inspired, Who peopled Earth with Deities. They trod The wood with reverence where the DRYADS dwelt; At day's dim dawn or evening's misty hour They saw the OREADS on their mountain haunts.

And felt their holy influence, nor impure Of thought--or ever with polluted hands Touched they without a prayer the NAIAD'S spring; Yet was their influence transient; such brief awe Inspiring as the thunder's long loud peal Strikes to the feeble spirit. HOUSEHOLD G.o.dS, Not such your empire! in your votaries' b.r.e.a.s.t.s No momentary impulse ye awake-- Nor fleeting like their local energies, The deep devotion that your fanes impart.

O ye whom YOUTH has wilder'd on your way, Or VICE with fair-mask'd foulness, or the lure Of FAME that calls ye to her crowded paths With FOLLY's rattle, to your HOUSEHOLD G.o.dS Return! for not in VICE's gay abodes, Not in the unquiet unsafe halls of FAME Does HAPPINESS abide! O ye who weep Much for the many miseries of Mankind, More for their vices, ye whose honest eyes Frown on OPPRESSION,--ye whose honest hearts Beat high when FREEDOM sounds her dread tocsin;-- O ye who quit the path of peaceful life Crusading for mankind--a spaniel race That lick the hand that beats them, or tear all Alike in frenzy--to your HOUSEHOLD G.o.dS Return, for by their altars VIRTUE dwells And HAPPINESS with her; for by their fires TRANQUILLITY in no unsocial mood Sits silent, listening to the pattering shower; For, so [3]SUSPICION sleep not at the gate Of WISDOM,--FALSEHOOD shall not enter there.

As on the height of some huge eminence, Reach'd with long labour, the way-faring man Pauses awhile, and gazing o'er the plain With many a sore step travelled, turns him then Serious to contemplate the onward road, And calls to mind the comforts of his home, And sighs that he has left them, and resolves To stray no more: I on my way of life Muse thus PENATES, and with firmest faith Devote myself to you. I will not quit To mingle with the mob your calm abodes, Where, by the evening hearth CONTENTMENT sits And hears the cricket chirp; where LOVE delights To dwell, and on your altars lays his torch That burns with no extinguishable flame.