Poems

[Greek (transliterated): Ou gar thaeluierais demas opasen aemiielesion Morphaen, ophra xai allaperi chroi technaesainio.

NATMACHIOS.]

TO MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.

The lilly cheek, the "purple light of love," The liquid lustre of the melting eye,-- Mary! of these the Poet sung, for these Did Woman triumph! with no angry frown View this degrading conquest. At that age No MAID OF ARC had snatch'd from coward man The heaven-blest sword of Liberty; thy sex Could boast no female ROLAND'S martyrdom; No CORDE'S angel and avenging arm Had sanctified again the Murderer's name As erst when Caesar perish'd: yet some strains May even adorn this theme, befitting me To offer, nor unworthy thy regard.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

The Subject of the following Poem may be found in the Third and Fourth Chapters of the first Book of Esdras.

THE TRIUMPH of WOMAN.

Glad as the weary traveller tempest-tost To reach secure at length his native coast, Who wandering long o'er distant lands has sped, The night-blast wildly howling round his head, Known all the woes of want, and felt the storm Of the bleak winter parch his shivering form; The journey o'er and every peril past Beholds his little cottage-home at last, And as he sees afar the smoke curl slow, Feels his full eyes with transport overflow: So from the scene where Death and Anguish reign, And Vice and Folly drench with blood the plain, Joyful I turn, to sing how Woman's praise Avail'd again Jerusalem to raise, Call'd forth the sanction of the Despot's nod, And freed the nation best-belov'd of God.

Darius gives the feast: to Persia's court, Awed by his will, the obedient throng resort, Attending Satraps swell the Prince's pride, And vanquish'd Monarchs grace their Conqueror's side. No more the Warrior wears the garb of war, Sharps the strong steel, or mounts the scythed car; No more Judaea's sons dejected go, And hang the head and heave the sigh of woe. From Persia's rugged hills descend the train. From where Orontes foams along the plain, From where Choaspes rolls his royal waves, And India sends her sons, submissive slaves. Thy daughters Babylon to grace the feast Weave the loose robe, and paint the flowery vest, With roseate wreaths they braid the glossy hair. They tinge the cheek which Nature form'd so fair, Learn the soft step, the soul-subduing glance, Melt in the song, and swim adown the dance. Exalted on the Monarch's golden throne In royal state the fair Apame shone;

Her form of majesty, her eyes of fire Chill with respect, or kindle with desire. The admiring multitude her charms adore, And own her worthy of the crown she wore.

Now on his couch reclin'd Darius lay, Tir'd with the toilsome pleasures of the day; Without Judaea's watchful sons await To guard the sleeping pageant of the state. Three youths were these of Judah's royal race, Three youths whom Nature dower'd with every grace, To each the form of symmetry she gave, And haughty Genius curs'd each favorite slave; These fill'd the cup, around the Monarch kept, Serv'd as he spake, and guarded whilst he slept.

Yet oft for Salem's hallowed towers laid low The sigh would heave, the unbidden tear would flow; And when the dull and wearying round of Power Allowed Zorobabel one vacant hour, He lov'd on Babylon's high wall to roam, And stretch the gaze towards his distant home, Or on Euphrates' willowy banks reclin'd Hear the sad harp moan fitful to the wind.

As now the perfum'd lamps stream wide their light, And social converse chears the livelong night, Thus spake Zorobabel, "too long in vain "For Sion desolate her sons complain; "In anguish worn the joyless years lag slow, "And these proud conquerors mock their captive's woe. "Whilst Cyrus triumph'd here in victor state "A brighter prospect chear'd our exil'd fate, "Our sacred walls again he bade us raise, "And to Jehovah rear the pile of praise. "Quickly these fond hopes faded from our eyes, "As the frail sun that gilds the wintry skies, "And spreads a moment's radiance o'er the plain, "Soon hid by clouds that dim the scene again.

"Opprest by Artaxerxes' jealous reign "We vainly pleaded here, and wept in vain. "Now when Darius, chief of mild command, "Bids joy and pleasure fill the festive land, "Still shall we droop the head in sullen grief, "And sternly silent shun to seek relief? "What if amid the Monarch's mirthful throng "Our harps should echo to the chearful song?

"Fair is the occasion," thus the one replied, "And now let all our tuneful skill be tried. "Whilst the gay courtiers quaff the smiling bowl, "And wine's strong fumes inspire the madden'd soul, "Where all around is merriment, be mine "To strike the lute, and praise the power of Wine.

"And whilst" his friend replied in state alone "Lord of the earth Darius fills the throne, "Be yours the mighty power of Wine to sing, "My lute shall sound the praise of Persia's King."

To them Zorobabel, on themes like these "Seek ye the Monarch of Mankind to please; "To Wine superior or to Power's strong arms, "Be mine to sing resistless Woman's charms. "To him victorious in the rival lays "Shall just Darius give the meed of praise; "The purple robe his honor'd frame shall fold, "The beverage sparkle in his cup of gold; "A golden couch support his bed of rest, "The chain of honor grace his favor'd breast; "His the soft turban, his the car's array "O'er Babylon's high wall to wheel its way; "And for his wisdom seated on the throne, "For the KING'S COUSIN shall the Bard be known."

Intent they meditate the future lay, And watch impatient for the dawn of day. The morn rose clear, and shrill were heard the flute, The cornet, sackbut, dulcimer, and lute; To Babylon's gay streets the throng resort, Swarm thro' the gates, and fill the festive court. High on his throne Darius tower'd in pride, The fair Apame grac'd the Sovereign's side; And now she smil'd, and now with mimic frown Placed on her brow the Monarch's sacred crown. In transport o'er her faultless form he bends, Loves every look, and every act commends.

And now Darius bids the herald call Judaea's Bard to grace the thronging hall. Hush'd is each sound--the attending crowd are mute, The Hebrew lightly strikes the chearful lute:

When the Traveller on his way, Who has toil'd the livelong day, Feels around on every side The chilly mists of eventide, Fatigued and faint his wearied mind Recurs to all he leaves behind; He thinks upon the well-trimm'd hearth, The evening hour of social mirth, And her who at departing day Weeps for her husband far away. Oh give to him the flowing bowl, Bid it renovate his soul; Then shall sorrow sink to sleep, And he who wept, no more shall weep; For his care-clouded brow shall clear, And his glad eye shall sparkle thro' the tear.

When the poor man heart-opprest Betakes him to his evening rest, And worn with labour thinks in sorrow Of the labor of to-morrow; When sadly musing on his lot He hies him to his joyless cot, And loathes to meet his children there, The rivals for his scanty fare: Oh give to him the flowing bowl, Bid it renovate his soul; The generous juice with magic power Shall cheat with happiness the hour, And with each warm affection fill The heart by want and wretchedness made chill.

When, at the dim close of day, The Captive loves alone to stray Along the haunts recluse and rude Of sorrow and of solitude; When he sits with moveless eye To mark the lingering radiance die, And lets distemper'd Fancy roam Amid the ruins of his home,-- Oh give to him the flowing bowl, Bid it renovate his soul; The bowl shall better thoughts bestow, And lull to rest his wakeful woe, And Joy shall bless the evening hour, And make the Captive Fortune's conqueror.

When the wearying cares of state Oppress the Monarch with their weight, When from his pomp retir'd alone He feels the duties of the throne, Feels that the multitude below Depend on him for weal or woe; When his powerful will may bless A realm with peace and happiness, Or with desolating breath Breathe ruin round, and woe, and death: Oh give to him the flowing bowl, Bid it humanize his soul; He shall not feel the empire's weight, He shall not feel the cares of state, The bowl shall each dark thought beguile, And Nations live and prosper from his smile.

Husht was the lute, the Hebrew ceas'd the song; Long peals of plaudits echoed from the throng; Each tongue the liberal words of praise repaid, On every cheek a smile applauding play'd; The rival Bard advanced, he struck the string, And pour'd the loftier song to Persia's King.

Why should the wearying cares of state Oppress the Monarch with their weight? Alike to him if Peace shall bless The multitude with happiness; Alike to him if frenzied War Careers triumphant on the embattled plain, And rolling on o'er myriads slain, With gore and wounds shall clog his scythed car. What tho' the tempest rage! no sound Of the deep thunder shakes his distant throne, And the red flash that spreads destruction round, Reflects a glorious splendour on the Crown.

Where is the Man who with ennobling pride Beholds not his own nature? where is he Who but with deep amazement awe allied Must muse the mysteries of the human mind, The miniature of Deity. For Man the vernal clouds descending Shower down their fertilizing rain, For Man the ripen'd harvest bending Waves with soft murmur o'er the plenteous plain. He spreads the sail on high, The rude gale wafts him o'er the main; For him the winds of Heaven subservient blow, Earth teems for him, for him the waters flow, He thinks, and wills, and acts, a Deity below!

Where is the King who with elating pride Sees not this Man--this godlike Man his Slave? Mean are the mighty by the Monarch's side, Alike the wife, alike the brave With timid step and pale, advance, And tremble at the royal glance; Suspended millions watch his breath Whose smile is happiness, whose frown is death.

Why goes the Peasant from that little cot, Where PEACE and LOVE have blest his humble life? In vain his agonizing wife With tears bedews her husband's face, And clasps him in a long and last embrace; In vain his children round his bosom creep, And weep to see their mother weep, Fettering their father with their little arms; What are to him the wars alarms? What are to him the distant foes? He at the earliest dawn of day To daily labor went his way; And when he saw the sun decline, He sat in peace beneath his vine:-- The king commands, the peasant goes, From all he lov'd on earth he flies, And for his monarch toils, and fights, and bleeds, and dies.

What tho' yon City's castled wall Casts o'er the darken'd plain its crested shade? What tho' their Priests in earnest terror call On all their host of Gods to aid? Vain is the bulwark, vain the tower; In vain her gallant youths expose Their breasts, a bulwark, to the foes. In vain at that tremendous hour, Clasp'd in the savage soldier's reeking arms, Shrieks to tame Heaven the violated Maid. By the rude hand of Ruin scatter'd round Their moss-grown towers shall spread the desart ground. Low shall the mouldering palace lie, Amid the princely halls the grass wave high, And thro' the shatter'd roof descend the inclement sky.