To shield her and shelter her from the damp air."

ROBERT SOUTHEY (1774-1843)

FROM THE CURSE OF KEHAMA

XIII. THE RETREAT

O force of faith! O strength of virtuous will! Behold him in his endless martyrdom, Triumphant still!

The curse still burning in his heart and brain,
And yet doth he remain

Patient the while, and tranquil, and content!
The pious soul hath framed unto itself
A second nature, to exist in pain
As in its own allotted element.

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Such strength the will reveal'd had given
This holy pair, such influxes of grace,
That to their solitary resting place
They brought the peace of Heaven.
Yea, all around was hallow'd! Danger, Fear,
Nor thought of evil ever enter'd here.
A charm was on the Leopard when he came
Within the circle of that mystic glade; 150
Submiss he crouch'd before the heavenly maid,

And offer'd to her touch his speckled side; Or with arch'd back erect, and bending head, And eyes half-closed for pleasure, would he stand Courting the pressure of her gentle hand.

Trampling his path through wood and brake, And canes which crackling fall before his way, And tassel-grass, whose silvery feathers play O'ertopping the young trees,

On comes the Elephant to slake His thirst at noon in yon pellucid springs. Lo! from his trunk upturn'd, aloft he flings The grateful shower; and now Plucking the broad-leaved bough

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Of yonder plane, with wavy motion slow,

Fanning the languid air,

He moves it to and fro.

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But when that form of beauty meets his sight,
The trunk its undulating motion stops,
From his forgetful hold the plane-branch drops,
Reverent he kneels, and lifts his rational eyes
To her as if in prayer;

And when she pours her angel voice in song Entranced he listens to the thrilling notes, Till his strong temples, bathed with sudden dews,

Their fragrance of delight and love diffuse.

Well might they thus adore that heavenly Maid!
For never Nymph of Mountain,
Or Grove, or Lake, or Fountain,
With a diviner presence fill'd the shade.
No idle ornaments deface
Her natural grace,

Musk-spot,
stain,
Ear-drop nor chain, nor arm nor ankle-
ring,

nor sandal-streak, nor scarlet

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Nor trinketry on front, or neck, or breast, Marring the perfect form: she seem'd a thing Of Heaven's prime uncorrupted work, a child Of early nature undefiled,

A daughter of the years of innocence.

And therefore all things loved her. When she stood

Beside the glassy pool, the fish, that flies Quick as an arrow from all other eyes, Hover'd to gaze on her. The mother bird, When Kailyal's step she heard, Sought not to tempt her from her secret nest, But hastening to the dear retreat, would fly To meet and welcome her benignant eye.

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THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM

It was a summer evening,

Old Kaspar's work was done, And he before his cottage door

Was sitting in the sun,

And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin

Roll something large and round, Which he beside the rivulet

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, "Who fell in the great victory.

"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 me what 'twas all about,"
Young Peterkin, he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes;
"Now tell us all about the war,
And what they fought each other for."

"It was the English," Kaspar cried,
"Who put the French to rout;
But what they fought each other for,
I could not well make out;
But everybody said," quoth he,
"That 'twas a famous victory.

"My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by;
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 new-born baby died;

But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.

II

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FROM A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO

May the Babylonish curse

"Straight confound my stammering verse,

If I can a passage see

In this word-perplexity,

Or a language to my mind

(Still the phrase is wide or scant),
To take leave of thee, Great Plant!
Or in any terms relate

Half my love, or half my hate;
For I hate, yet love, thee so,
That, whichever thing I show,
The plain truth will seem to be
A constrain'd hyperbole,

And the passion to proceed

More from a mistress than a weed.

Sooty retainer to the vine!

Bacchus' black servant, negro fine!
Sorcerer! that mak'st us dote upon
Thy begrimed complexion,
And, for thy pernicious sake,
More and greater oaths to break
Than reclaimèd lovers take

'Gainst women! Thou thy siege dost lay
Much, too, in the female way,
While thou suck'st the labouring breath
Faster than kisses, or than death.

Thou in such a cloud dost bind us

That our worst foes cannot find us, And ill fortune, that would thwart us, Shoots at rovers, shooting at us;

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IO

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While each man, through thy heightening steam, Does like a smoking Etna seem;

And all about us does express

(Fancy and wit in richest dress)

A Sicilian fruitfulness.

ΙΟ

Aped the true Hebrew miracle?
Some few vapours thou mayst raise
The weak brain may serve to amaze;

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Bound with so playful and so light a foot, That the pressed daisy scarce declined her head.