Have I been gazing on the western sky, And its peculiar tint of yellow green; I see them all so excellently fair, I see, not feel, how beautiful they are! My genial spirits fail; And what can these avail III To lift the smothering weight from off my breast? It were a vain endeavour, Though I should gaze for ever On that green light that lingers in the west; IV O Lady! we receive but what we give, And in our life alone does Nature live; And from the soul itself must there be sent O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist, Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given, Life, and life's effluence, cloud at once and shower, Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower, Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud- And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, All colours a suffusion from that light. VI There was a time when, though my path was rough, This joy within me dallied with distress, And all misfortunes were but as the stuff Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness: And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine. But oh! each visitation Suspends what nature gave me at my birth, For not to think of what I needs must feel From my own nature all the natural man— VII Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind, I turn from you, and listen to the wind, Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that rav'st without, 'Tis of the rushing of an host in rout, With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds— At once they groan with pain and shudder with the cold! But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence! And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd, With groans, and tremulous shudderings-all is overIt tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud! A tale of less affright, And tempered with delight, As Otway's self had framed the tender lay. 'Tis of a little child, Upon a lonesome wild, Not far from home, but she hath lost her way; And now moans low in bitter grief and fear, And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear. VIII 'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep: Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep! Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing, And may this storm be but a mountain-birth, May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling, Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth! With light heart may she rise, Gay fancy, cheerful eyes. Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice; To her may all things live, from pole to pole, 422 ROBERT SOUTHEY [1774-1843] AFTER BLENHEIM It was a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work was done, And by him sported on the green She saw her brother Peterkin In playing there had found; He came to ask what he had found That was so large and smooth and round. Old Kaspar took it from the boy Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head, And with a natural sigh "Tis some poor fellow's skull,' said he, 'I find them in the garden, For there's many here about; And often when I go to plough The ploughshare turns them out. For many thousand men,' said he, 'Were slain in that great victory.' 'Now tell us what 'twas all about,' With wonder-waiting eyes; 'Now tell us all about the war, And what they fought each other for.' 'It was the English,' Kaspar cried, 'My father lived at Blenheim then, They burnt his dwelling to the ground, And he was forced to fly: So with his wife and child he fled, Nor had he where to rest his head. 'With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide, And many a childing mother then And newborn baby died: But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory. They say it was a shocking sight For many thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun: But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory. |