I've harnessed thee, my faithful steed--
Now, by the ocean, prove thy speed,
While, as we pass, th' advancing spray
Shall kiss thy side of glossy gray;--
Oh! fairer than the ocean foam
Is that cold maid for whom we roam!
Her cheek is like the apple flower
Or summer heavens, at evening hour,
While, in her tender bashfulness,
She starts and files my love's excess,
Tho' dim my brow, beneath its mail,
As ocean when the sun is pale.
On, on! until my longing sight,
Can fix upon that dwelling white,
Beside a verdant bank that braves
The ocean's ever-sounding waves;--
There, all alone, she loves to sing,
Watching the silver sea-mew's wing.
In crowded halls, my spirit flies
To wait upon her; and wasting sighs
Consume my nights; where'er I turn
For her I pant, for her I burn,
Who, like some timid, graceful bird,
Shrinks from my glance and fears my word.
I faint; my glow of youth is gone;
Sleepless at night and sick at morn,
My strength departs; I droop, I fade,
Yet think upon that lonely maid,
And pity her, the while I pine
That she should spurn a love like mine
_This_, Madoc took the harp to play;
Cold in the earth Prince Hoel lay;
And Llaian listened, fain to speak
But wept as if her heart would break.
In this connection, writing of Southey, soon after intelligence was
received in this country of the decay of his intelligence, from her
coffee estate in Cuba, Mrs. Brooks says:
When a child of ten years old I could admire the poem "Madoc,"
such is the simplicity of its sentiments and the beauty of
its delineations. Looking it over, here, (amidst the woods and
canes of that island where repose the bones of Columbus,) the
song of Prince Hoel attached itself to my thoughts, and has
been (involuntarily) put into rhyme. This song may be found in
the first part of the poem mentioned. The lyric metre in which
it now appears must rather injure than improve the _belle
nature_ of the original. Still I wish it to be published, as
coming from my hand; because it gives me an opportunity of
expressing, in some degree, my unqualified admiration of its
composer. Well may he be called THE POET AND HISTORIAN OF THE
NEW WORLD. To justify this appellation, one has only to look
at Madoc and the History of Brazil. I have heard, from a
friend, of a rumor that Southey is ill; and, as it is feared,
irrecoverably.
This intelligence is unexpected as it is melancholy; for who had
better reason to look forward to a protracted existence upon earth,
than he who has written more than any other man except Voltaire--than
Robert Southey, perfectly proportioned in person, just in mind,
regular in his way of living, and benevolent in all his doings?
During that Spring which hallowed the last revolution in France, (that
of July, 1830,) I saw this bard of the lakes surrounded by his most
amiable and certainly beautiful family; one only individual of which,
his "Dark-eyed Birtha, timid as a dove," was then absent. I must
ever believe that a common reputation for beauty depends more on
circumstances than on any particular faultlessness in the person said
generally to be handsome.
Byron, in some one of the letters or conversations, written either
by or for him, says, or is said to say: "I saw Southey (naming the
time) at Lord Holland's, and would give Newstead for his head and
shoulders." This quotation is from memory, but, I trust, right in
sentiment, though it may not be perfectly so in words; but I have
seen little else concerning the physique either of him "Who framed of
Thalaba that wild and wondrous song," or of those to whom his blood is
transmitted. Still, at the time I have mentioned, it was impossible to
look unmoved upon so much perfection of color, sound and expression as
arrested my eyes at Keswick; in the tasteful and hospitable dwelling
of him who brought to earth that "Glendoveer," "one of the fairest
race of Heaven," (the heaven of India,) who averted the designs of
Arvalan, in that glowing and magnificent poem "The Curse of Kehama."
The Herodotus of Brazil, himself, had seen, when I first saw him,
fifty-seven winters; but his once dark locks, though sprinkled with
snow, were still curling as if childhood had not passed; and looked
wild and thick as those of his own Thalaba. A "chevelure" like this,
with black eyes, aquiline features, and figure tall and slender,
without attenuation, assisted in presenting such an image as is seldom
viewed in reality; while the effect of the whole was enhanced by easy,
unpretending and affectionate manners.
The eldest daughter of this Minstrel of the Mountains was called
_Edith May_, (the name of May having been given because she was born
in the month of blossoms.) This lady (now Mrs. Warter,) was the bard
himself with a different sex and complexion. "Her features his, but
softened." Her gentle, graceful deportment was in perfect harmony with
flaxen hair tinted with gold; and the outline of her father's face
was embellished by the blue eyes and other delicate colors of her too
sensitive mother, (named, also, Edith,) who had been chosen for love
alone. The second daughter, Birtha, as I have said, was absent. The
third, Catherine, "between the woman and the child," had hazel eyes
and fine features, altogether with a delicate shape and complexion.
Cuthbert, the only son, was a boy of eleven or twelve, with an open,
expressive countenance.
I could not help remarking that in the names of each individual of
this pleasing group was heard that sound produced by the letter T
followed by its companion H, which is so difficult to the organs of
foreigners, but which, when tenderly pronounced, brings to mind
the down of a swan or the wing of a dove. Edith, Birtha, Catherine,
Cuthbert, Southey. If affection and innocence can insure felicity on
earth, the course of their lives must be smooth as waters where the
swan reposes; for certainly all their movements seemed innocent as
those of the dove.
The month of March was nearly half gone, when I reached Keswick,
by the road from Edinburgh; having passed, in my way, an old stone
building, pointed out to me as "Branksome Tower," known by the "Lay of
the Last Minstrel," who has sung the achievements of Scottish knights
and ladies. This village, at the foot of Skiddaw, though much visited
in the summer, has still all the wildness of nature. Daffodils were
in blossom when I walked there; and primroses, daisies and violets
opened, among the trees, upon every bank and grass plat, while the
mountains, clustering about Derwent Water, assumed such tints and
shades of purple and blue as are peculiar to a northern climate.
"Oh, man, thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear!"
All these pleasing images seemed to flit before me while putting into
rhyme the "Song of Prince Hoel,"--but before I could write it down,
tidings reached me of the illness, (perhaps incurable,) of him who
drew it from the oblivion of its native Welsh.
Death already has robbed me of so much, that I have become, as it
were, inured to grief, and accustomed, even in my least unhappy
moments to reflect on the incertitude of all earthly hopes and wishes.
I can now hear of losses with melancholy rather than with horror.
So much of the soul of Robert Southey has been dispersed about the
world that a translation to some other state of being, (now, before
time has given him any burthen to carry,) would be, perhaps, no
misfortune, except to those left to sorrow. Yet to know that so
benevolent a being is still existing, feeling, joying, and suffering,
on the sphere of our own mortality, awakens a feeling so nearly allied
to pleasure that all who can appreciate excellence must entreat of
Heaven the continuance upon earth of a contemporary of whom it may be
said:
"VIRTUE AND HE ARE ONE!"
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