Robert Southey

The Raven croak'd as she sate at her meal, And the Old Woman knew what he said, And she grew pale at the Raven's tale,

It was a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work was done, And he before his cottage door

Small is the new-born plant scarce seen Amid the soft encircling green, Where yonder budding acorn rears,

And wouldst thou seek the low abode Where PEACE delights to dwell? Pause Traveller on thy way of life!

"How does the water Come down at Lodore?" My little boy asked me

From his brimstone bed at break of day A walking the Devil is gone, To look at his snug little farm of the World,

In Finland there is a Castle which is called the New Rock, moated about with a river of unfounded depth, the water black and the fish therein very distateful to the palate. In this are spectres often seen, which foreshew either the death of the Governor, or some prime officer belonging to the place; and most commonly it appeareth in the shape of an harper, sweetly singing and dallying and playing under the water. It is reported of one Donica, that after she was dead, the Devil walked in her body for the space of two years, so that none suspected but that she was still alive; for she did both speak and eat, though very sparingly; only she had a deep paleness on her countenance, which was the only sign of death. At length a Magician coming by where she was then in the company of many other virgins, as soon as he beheld her he said, "fair Maids, why keep you company with the dead Virgin whom you suppose to be alive?" when taking away the magic charm which was tied under her arm, the body fell down lifeless and without motion. The following Ballad is founded on these stories. They are to be found in the notes to The Hierarchies of the blessed Angels; a Poem by Thomas Heywood, printed in folio by Adam Islip, 1635.

STRANGER. Old friend! why you seem bent on parish duty, Breaking the highway stones,--and 'tis a task

JANE. Harry! I'm tired of playing. We'll draw round The fire, and Grandmamma perhaps will tell us

The coffin [1] as I past across the lane Came sudden on my view. It was not here, A sight of every day, as in the streets

WOMAN. Sir for the love of God some small relief To a poor woman!

NATHANIEL. Father! here father! I have found a horse-shoe! Faith it was just in time, for t'other night

Aye Charles! I knew that this would fix thine eye, This woodbine wreathing round the broken porch, Its leaves just withering, yet one autumn flower

(Time, Morning. Scene, the Shore.[1]) Once more to daily toil--once more to wear The weeds of infamy--from every joy

(Time Night. Scene the woods.) Where shall I turn me? whither shall I bend My weary way? thus worn with toil and faint

It was a little island where he dwelt, Or rather a lone rock, barren and bleak, Short scanty herbage spotting with dark spots

(Time, Noon.) HUMPHREY: See'st thou not William that the scorching Sun

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 Title 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.

Here Stranger rest thee! from the neighbouring towers Of Oxford, haply thou hast forced thy bark Up this strong stream, whose broken waters here

Art thou a Patriot Traveller? on this field Did FALKLAND fall the blameless and the brave Beneath a Tyrant's banners: dost thou boast

Enter this cavern Stranger! the ascent Is long and steep and toilsome; here awhile Thou mayest repose thee, from the noontide heat

For thirty years secluded from mankind, Here Marten linger'd. Often have these walls Echoed his footsteps, as with even tread

This mound in some remote and dateless day Rear'd o'er a Chieftain of the Age [1] of Hills, May here detain thee Traveller! from thy road

This is the place where William's kingly power Did from their poor and peaceful homes expel, Unfriended, desolate, and shelterless,

Stranger! awhile upon this mossy bank Recline thee. If the Sun rides high, the breeze, That loves to ripple o'er the rivulet,

STRANGER! the MAN OF NATURE lies not here: Enshrin'd far distant by his [1] rival's side His relics rest, there by the giddy throng

Jaspar was poor, and want and vice Had made his heart like stone, And Jaspar look'd with envious eyes

(Time, Evening.) JOHN. 'Tis a calm pleasant evening, the light fades away,

No eye beheld when William plunged Young Edmund in the stream, No human ear but William's heard

The Emperor Nap he would set off On a summer excursion to Moscow; The fields were green and the sky was blue,

The story of the following ballad was related to me, when a school boy, as a fact which had really happened in the North of England. I have adopted the metre of Mr. Lewis's Alonzo and Imogene--a poem deservedly popular. MARY. I.

Margaret! my Cousin!--nay, you must not smile; I love the homely and familiar phrase; And I will call thee Cousin Margaret,

Poussin! most pleasantly thy pictur'd scenes Beguile the lonely hour; I sit and gaze With lingering eye, till charmed FANCY makes

written on the first of January, 1794 Come melancholy Moralizer--come! Gather with me the dark and wintry wreath;

Written on SUNDAY MORNING. Go thou and seek the House of Prayer! I to the Woodlands wend, and there

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

A COLLOQUIAL POEM Jacob! I do not like to see thy nose Turn'd up in scornful curve at yonder pig,

Divers Princes and Noblemen being assembled in a beautiful and fair Palace, which was situate upon the river Rhine, they beheld a boat or small barge make toward the shore, drawn by a Swan in a silver chain, the one end fastened about her neck, the other to the vessel; and in it an unknown soldier, a man of a comely personage and graceful presence, who stept upon the shore; which done, the boat guided by the Swan left him, and floated down the river. This man fell afterward in league with a fair gentlewoman, married her, and by her had many children. After some years, the same Swan came with the same barge into the same place; the soldier entering into it, was carried thence the way he came, left wife, children and family, and was never seen amongst them after. Now who can judge this to be other than one of those spirits that are named Incubi? says Thomas Heywood. I have adopted his story, but not his solution, making the unknown soldier not an evil spirit, but one who had purchased happiness of a malevolent being, by the promised sacrifice of his first-born child. RUDIGER.

Argument. To leap from the promontory of LEUCADIA was believed by the Greeks to be a remedy for hopeless love, if the self-devoted victim escaped with life. Artemisia lost her life in the dangerous experiment: and Sappho is said thus to have perished, in attempting to cure her passion for Phaon. SAPPHO

Hold your mad hands! for ever on your plain Must the gorged vulture clog his beak with blood? For ever must your Nigers tainted flood

Go Valentine and tell that lovely maid Whom Fancy still will pourtray to my sight, How her Bard lingers in this sullen shade,

Why dost thou beat thy breast and rend thine hair, And to the deaf sea pour thy frantic cries? Before the gale the laden vessel flies;

Think Valentine, as speeding on thy way Homeward thou hastest light of heart along, If heavily creep on one little day

Oh he is worn with toil! the big drops run Down his dark cheek; hold--hold thy merciless hand, Pale tyrant! for beneath thy hard command

Not to thee Bedford mournful is the tale Of days departed. Time in his career Arraigns not thee that the neglected year

'Tis night; the mercenary tyrants sleep As undisturb'd as Justice! but no more The wretched Slave, as on his native shore,

What tho' no sculptur'd monument proclaim Thy fate-yet Albert in my breast I bear Inshrin'd the sad remembrance; yet thy name

Fair is the rising morn when o'er the sky The orient sun expands his roseate ray, And lovely to the Bard's enthusiast eye

Did then the bold Slave rear at last the Sword Of Vengeance? drench'd he deep its thirsty blade In the cold bosom of his tyrant lord?

Hard by the road, where on that little mound The high grass rustles to the passing breeze, The child of Misery rests her head in peace.

High in the air expos'd the Slave is hung To all the birds of Heaven, their living food! He groans not, tho' awaked by that fierce Sun

to a brook near the village of Corston. As thus I bend me o'er thy babbling stream And watch thy current, Memory's hand pourtrays

Mild arch of promise! on the evening sky Thou shinest fair with many a lovely ray Each in the other melting. Much mine eye

With many a weary step, at length I gain Thy summit, Lansdown; and the cool breeze plays, Gratefully round my brow, as hence the gaze

How darkly o'er yon far-off mountain frowns The gather'd tempest! from that lurid cloud The deep-voiced thunders roll, aweful and loud

With wayworn feet a Pilgrim woe-begone Life's upward road I journeyed many a day, And hymning many a sad yet soothing lay

And wherefore do the Poor complain? The rich man asked of me,— Come walk abroad with me, I said

The circumstance related in the following Ballad happened about forty years ago in a village adjacent to Bristol. A person who was present at the funeral, told me the story and the particulars of the interment, as I have versified them. THE CROSS ROADS. There was an old man breaking stones

What! and not one to heave the pious sigh! Not one whose sorrow-swoln and aching eye For social scenes, for life's endearments fled,

Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly! Leave thy guilty sire to die. O'er the heath the stripling fled,

Betwene the Cytee and the Chirche of Bethlehem, is the felde Floridus,    that is to seyne, the feld florisched. For als moche as a fayre Mayden    was blamed with wrong and sclaundred, that sche hadde don fornicacioun, for whiche cause sche was demed to the dethe, and to be brent in that place, to the whiche sche was ladd. And as the fyre began to brenne about hire, she made hire preyeres to oure Lord, that als wissely as sche was not gylty of that synne, that he wold help hire, and make it to be knowen to alle men of his mercyfulle grace; and whanne she had thus seyd, sche entered into the fuyer, and anon was the fuyer quenched and oute, and the brondes that weren brennynge, becomen white Roseres, fulle of roses, and theise weren the first Roseres and roses, bothe white and rede, that evere ony man saughe.    And thus was this Maiden saved be the Grace of God. 'The Voiage and Travaile of Sir John Maundevile'. THE ROSE.

In September, 1798, a Dissenting Minister of Bristol, discovered a Sailor in the neighbourhood of that City, groaning and praying in a hovel. The circumstance that occasioned his agony of mind is detailed in the annexed Ballad, without the slightest addition or alteration. By presenting it as a Poem the story is made more public, and such stories ought to be made as public as possible. THE SAILOR, WHO HAD SERVED IN THE SLAVE-TRADE.

DACTYLICS. Weary way-wanderer languid and sick at heart Travelling painfully over the rugged road,

The subject of this parody was given me by a friend, to whom also I am indebted for some of the stanzas. Respecting the patent coffins herein mentioned, after the manner of Catholic Poets, who confess the actions they attribute to their Saints and Deity to be but fiction, I hereby declare that it is by no means my design to depreciate that useful invention; and all persons to whom this Ballad shall come are requested to take notice, that nothing here asserted concerning the aforesaid Coffins is true, except that the maker and patentee lives by St. Martin's Lane. THE SURGEONS' WARNING.

Glad as the weary traveller tempest-tost To reach secure at length his native coast, Who wandering long o'er distant lands has sped,

Hark--how the church-bells thundering harmony Stuns the glad ear! tidings of joy have come, Good tidings of great joy! two gallant ships

She spake, and lo! celestial radiance beam'd Amid the air, such odors wafting now As erst came blended with the evening gale,

The Maiden, musing on the Warrior's words, Turn'd from the Hall of Glory. Now they reach'd A cavern, at whose mouth a Genius stood,

Orleans was hush'd in sleep. Stretch'd on her couch The delegated Maiden lay: with toil Exhausted and sore anguish, soon she closed

SAPPHICs. Cold was the night wind, drifting fast the snows fell, Wide were the downs and shelterless and naked,

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

[GREEK (transliterated): Tin gar potaeisomai tan chai schuliches tromeonti

The lilly cheek, the "purple light of love," The liquid lustre of the melting eye,-- Mary! of these the Poet sung, for these

And I was once like this! that glowing cheek Was mine, those pleasure-sparkling eyes, that brow Smooth as the level lake, when not a breeze

"Lo I, the man who erst the Muse did ask Her deepest notes to swell the Patriot's meeds, Am now enforst a far unfitter task

O thou who from the mountain's height Roll'st down thy clouds with all their weight Of waters to old Niles majestic tide;

A Well there is in the west country, And a clearer one never was seen; There is not a wife in the west country