And calls to mind the comforts of his home, To mingle with the crowd, your calm abodes, Hear me, ye Powers benignant! there is one His father's name; the world who injured him Penates! some there are Who say, that not in the inmost heaven ye dwell, Nor can the halls of Heaven Give to the human soul such kindred joy, His hand has sown, to mark its gradual growth, When my sick Heart (Sick with hope long delay'd, than which no care Weighs on the spirit heavier) from itself vain, O early summon'd on thy heavenly course, Such feelings Nature prompts, and hence your Domestic Gods! arose. When for his son The depths where Truth lies hid. Yet to this faith Heap'd for an alien, he with obstinate eye My heart with instant sympathy assents; One of the ways and means of the tyrant Nabis. If one of his subjects refused to lend him money, he commanded him to embrace his Apega- the statue of a beautiful woman, so formed as to clasp the victim to her breast, in which a pointed dagger was concealed. Then did he set her by that snowy one, Still on the imaged marble of the dead Divulging spread; before your idol forms* For not the poppy wreath, nor fruits, nor wine Hearken your hymn of praise, * It is not certainly known under what form the Penates were worshipped; according to some, as wooden or brazen rods shaped like trumpets; according to others, they were represented as young men. †The Saturnalia. Comforts and virtues never known beyond Them Want with scorpion scourge drives to the den Household Deities! Meantime, all hoping and expecting all Juvenile and Minor Poems. VOL. II. Que fol ou que sage on m'estime, JEAN DU NESME. PREFACE. general character of Chiabrera's epitaphs. Those which relate to the Peninsular War are part of a IN a former Preface my obligations to Akenside series which I once hoped to have completed. The were acknowledged, with especial reference to the epitaph for Bishop Butler was originally composed Hymn to the Penates; the earliest of my Inscrip- in the lapidary style, to suit the monument in tions also originated in the pleasure with which Bristol Cathedral: it has been remodelled here, I perused those of this favorite author. Others that I might express myself more at length, and of a later date bear a nearer resemblance to the in a style more accordant with my own judgment. One thing remains to be explained, and I shall | write your Ode for the New Year. You can never then have said all that it becomes me to say concerning these Minor Poems. It was stated in some of the newspapers that Walter Scott and myself became competitors for the Poet-Laureateship upon the death of Mr. Pye; that we met accidentally at the Prince Regent's levee, each in pursuit of his pretensions, and that some words which were not over-courteous on either side passed between us on the occasion; -to such impudent fabrications will those persons resort who make it their business to pander for public curiosity. The circumstances relating to that appointment have been made known in Mr. Lockhart's Life of Sir Walter. His conduct was, as it always was, characteristically generous, and in the highest degree friendly. Indeed, it was neither in his nature nor in mine to place ourselves in competition with any one, or ever to regard a contemporary as a rival. The world was wide enough for us all. Upon his declining the office, and using his influence, without my knowledge, to obtain it for me, his biographer says, "Mr. Southey was invited to accept the vacant laurel; and to the honor of the Prince Regent, when he signified that his acceptance must depend on the office being thenceforth so modified as to demand none of the old formal odes, leaving it to the Poet-Laureate to choose his own time for celebrating any great public event that might occur, his Royal Highness had the good sense and good taste at once to acquiesce in the propriety of this alteration. The office was thus relieved from the burden of ridicule which had, in spite of so many illustrious names, adhered to it." The alteration, however, was not brought about exactly in this manner. I was on the way to London when the correspondence upon this subject between Sir Walter Scott and Mr. Croker took place: a letter from Scott followed me thither, and on my arrival in town I was informed of what had been done. No wish for the Laureateship had passed across my mind, nor had I ever dreamt that it would be proposed to me. My first impulse was to decline it; not from any fear of ridicule, still less of obloquy, but because I had ceased for several years to write occasional verses: the inclination had departed; and though willing as a bee to work from morn till night in collecting honey, I had a great dislike to spinning like a spider. Other considerations overcame this reluctance, and made it my duty to accept the appointment. I then expressed a wish to Mr. Croker that it might be placed upon a footing which would exact from the holder nothing like a school-boy's task, but leave him at liberty to write when, and in what manner, he thought best, and thus render the office as honorable as it was originally designed to be. Upon this, Mr. Croker, whose friendliness to me upon every occasion I gladly take this opportunity of acknowledging, observed that it was not for us to make terms with the Prince Regent. "Go you," said he, "and * Vol. iii. p. 81. have a better subject than the present state of the war affords you." He added that some fit time might be found for representing the matter to the Prince in its proper light. My appointment had no sooner been made known, than I received a note with Sir William Parsons's compliments, requesting that I would let him have the Ode as soon as possible, Mr. Pye having always provided him with it six weeks before the New Year's Day. I was not wanting in punctuality; nevertheless, it was a great trouble to Sir William that the office should have been conferred upon a poet who did not walk in the ways of his predecessor, and do according to all things that he had done; for Mr. Pye had written his odes always in regular stanzas and in rhyme. Poor Sir William, though he had not fallen upon evil tongues and evil times, thought he had fallen upon evil ears when he was to set verses like mine to music. But the labor which the Chief Musician bestowed upon the verses of the Chief Poet was so much labor lost. The performance of the Annual Odes had been suspended from the time of the King's illness, in 1810. Under the circumstances of his malady, any festal celebration of the birthday would have been a violation of natural feeling and public propriety. On those occasions it was certain that nothing would be expected from me during the life of George III. But the New Year's performance might perhaps be called for, and for that, therefore, I always prepared. Upon the accession of George IV. I made ready an Ode for St. George's Day, which Mr. Shield, who was much better satisfied with his yoke-fellow than Sir William had been, thought happily suited for his purpose. It was indeed well suited for us both. All my other Odes related to the circumstances of the passing times, and could have been appropri ately performed only when they were composed; but this was a standing subject, and, till this should be called for, it was needless to provide any thing else. The annual performance had, however, by this time fallen completely into disuse; and thus terminated a custom which may truly be said to have been more honored in the breach than in the observance. Keswick, Dec. 12, 1837. ENGLISH ECLOGUES. The following Eclogues, I believe, bear no resemblance to any poems in our language. This species of composition has become popular in Germany, and I was induced to attempt it by what was told me of the German Idyls by my friend Mr. William Taylor of Norwich. So far, therefore, these pieces may be deemed imitations, though I am not acquainted with the German language at present, and have never seen any translations or specimens in this kind. With bad Eclogues I am sufficiently acquainted, from Tityrus and Corydon down to our English Strephons and Thirsisses. No kind of poetry can boast of more illustrious names, or is sense. more distinguished by the servile dulness of imitated non- | That sweeps conveniently from gate to gate. Pastoral writers, "more silly than their sheep," have, like their sheep, gone on in the same track one after another. Gay struck into a new path His eclogues were the only ones which interested me when I was a boy, and did not know they were burlesque. The subject would furnish matter for an essay, but this is not the place for it. In spring the lilac, and the snow-ball flower, STRANGER. OLD MAN. They're demolish'd too,As if he could not see through casement glass' The very red-breasts, that so regular Came to my Lady for her morning crumbs, Won't know the windows now! OLD MAN. Ay, Master! fine old trees! My poor old lady many a time would come STRANGER. But 'twill be lighter and more cheerful now; A fine smooth turf, and with a carriage road STRANGER. Nay, they were small, And then so darken'd round with jessamine, Harboring the vermin;- yet I could have wish'd That jessamine had been saved, which canopied, And bower'd, and lined the porch. OLD MAN. It did one good To pass within ten yards, when 'twas in blossom. There was a sweet-brier, too, that grew beside; My Lady loved at evening to sit there And knit; and her old dog lay at her feet And slept in the sun; 'twas an old favorite dog,— She did not love him less that he was old And feeble, and he always had a place By the fire-side: and when he died at last, She made me dig a grave in the garden for him. For she was good to all! a woful day 'Twas for the poor when to her grave she went! STRANGER. They lost a friend then? OLD MAN. You're a stranger here, Or you wouldn't ask that question. Were they sick? She had rare cordial waters, and for herbs In the poor old porch, to see her and to hear STRANGER. Things may be better yet than you suppose, And you should hope the best. OLD MAN. That's all you'll quarrel with walk in and taste To make you like the outside; but within, Westbury, 1798 II. THE GRANDMOTHER'S TALE. JANE. HARRY! I'm tired of playing. We'll draw round The fire, and Grandmamma, perhaps, will tell us One of her stories. HARRY. Ay-dear Grandmamma! A pretty story! something dismal now; A bloody murder. JANE. Or about a ghost. GRANDMOTHER. It don't look well,- Nay, nay, I should but frighten ye. You know These alterations, Sir! I'm an old man, A comfort I shan't live to see it long. STRANGER. But sure all changes are not needs for the worse, My friend? OLD MAN. Mayhap they mayn't, Sir; - for all that, I like what I've been used to. I remember All this from a child up; and now to lose it, "Tis losing an old friend. There's nothing left As 'twas;-I go abroad, and only meet With men whose fathers I remember boys; The brook that used to run before my door, That's gone to the great pond; the trees I learnt To climb are down; and I see nothing now That tells me of old times,-except the stones In the churchyard. You are young, Sir, and I hope Have many years in store,—but pray to God You mayn't be left the last of all your friends. STRANGER. Well! well! you've one friend more than you're aware of. The other night, when I was telling ye [bled About the light in the churchyard, how you tremBecause the screech-owl hooted at the window, And would not go to bed. JANE. Why, Grandmamma, You said yourself you did not like to hear him. Pray now! - we won't be frightened. GRANDMOTHER. Well, well, children! But you've heard all my stories. - Let me see,Did I never tell you how the smuggler murder'd The woman down at Pill? HARRY. No-never! never! GRANDMOTHER. Not how he cut her head off in the stable? HARRY. Oh-now!-do tell us that! GRANDMOTHER. You must have heard Your mother, children! often tell of her. She used to weed in the garden here, and worm Your uncle's dogs,* and serve the house with coal; I know not whether this cruel and stupid custom is common in other parts of England. It is supposed to prevent the dogs from doing any mischief, should they afterwards become If the Squire's taste don't suit with yours, I warrant mad. |