Robert Southey

Robert Southey was an English poet, biographer, essayist, and historian. Born on August 12, 1774, he was associated with the Romantic school of poetry and is well known for his works such as 'The Story of the Three Bears', which is the origin of the famous Goldilocks tale. He served as Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom from 1813 until his death in 1843. His prolific output included not just poetry, but also significant biographical and historical works.

August 12, 1774

March 21, 1843

English

Robert Southey

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A Ballad, Shewing How An Old Woman Rode Double, And Who Rode Before Her.

    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,
    And sicken'd and went to her bed.

    Now fetch me my children, and fetch them with speed,
    The Old Woman of Berkeley said,
    The monk my son, and my daughter the nun
    Bid them hasten or I shall be dead.

    The monk her son, and her daughter the nun,
    Their way to Berkeley went,
    And they have brought with pious thought
    The holy sacrament.

    The old Woman shriek'd as they entered her door,
    'Twas fearful her shrieks to hear,
    Now take the sacrament away
    For mercy, my children dear!

    Her lip it trembled with agony,
    The sweat ran down her brow,
    I have tor...

Robert Southey

Battle Of Blenheim, The

It was a summer's evening;
    Old Casper'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,
That 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 Casper 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...

Robert Southey

Birth-Day Ode, 1793.

    Small is the new-born plant scarce seen
    Amid the soft encircling green,
        Where yonder budding acorn rears,
    Just o'er the waving grass, its tender head:
        Slow pass along the train of years,
    And on the growing plant, their dews and showers they shed.
        Anon it rears aloft its giant form,
        And spreads its broad-brown arms to meet the storm.
    Beneath its boughs far shadowing o'er the plain,
From summer suns, repair the grateful village train.

        Nor BEDFORD will my friend survey
    The book of Nature with unheeding eye;
        For never beams the rising orb of day,
        For never dimly dies the refluent ray,
    But as the moralizer marks the sky,
He broods with strange delight upon futurity.

    ...

Robert Southey

Birth-Day Ode, 1796.

    And wouldst thou seek the low abode
        Where PEACE delights to dwell?
    Pause Traveller on thy way of life!
    With many a snare and peril rife
        Is that long labyrinth of road:
    Dark is the vale of years before
        Pause Traveller on thy way!
    Nor dare the dangerous path explore
Till old EXPERIENCE comes to lend his leading ray.

    Not he who comes with lanthorn light
    Shall guide thy groping pace aright
        With faltering feet and slow;
    No! let him rear the torch on high
    And every maze shall meet thine eye,
        And every snare and every foe;
    Then with steady step and strong,
    Traveller, shalt thou march along.

    Tho' POWER invite thee to her hall,
    Regard not thou her tempting ...

Robert Southey

Cataract Of Lodore, The

            "How does the water
                Come down at Lodore?"
                    My little boy asked me
                Thus, once on a time;
            And moreover he tasked me
                To tell him in rhyme.
                    Anon at the word,
            There first came one daughter,
                And then came another,
                    To second and third
                The request of their brother,
            And to hear how the water
                    Comes down at Lodore,
                    With its rush and its roar,
            As many a time
                    They had seen it before.
                    So I told them in rhyme,
                For of rhymes I had store;
                And 'twas in my vocatio...

Robert Southey

Devil's Walk On Earth, The

From his brimstone bed at break of day
    A walking the Devil is gone,
To look at his snug little farm of the World,
    And see how his stock went on.

Over the hill and over the dale,
    And he went over the plain;
And backward and forward he swish'd his tail
    As a gentleman swishes a cane.

    How then was the Devil drest?
    Oh, he was in his Sunday's best
His coat was red and his breeches were blue,
And there was a hole where his tail came through.
A lady drove by in her pride,
In whose face an expression he spied
    For which he could have kiss'd her;
Such a flourishing, fine, clever woman was she,
With an eye as wicked as wicked can be,
I should take her for my Aunt, thought he,
    If my dam had had a sister.

    ...

Robert Southey

Donica.

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 sai...

Robert Southey

Eclogue I. The Old Mansion-House.

STRANGER.
        Old friend! why you seem bent on parish duty,
        Breaking the highway stones,--and 'tis a task
        Somewhat too hard methinks for age like yours.


OLD MAN.
        Why yes! for one with such a weight of years
        Upon his back. I've lived here, man and boy,
        In this same parish, near the age of man
        For I am hard upon threescore and ten.
        I can remember sixty years ago
        The beautifying of this mansion here
        When my late Lady's father, the old Squire
        Came to the estate.


STRANGER.
            Why then you have outlasted
        All his improvements, for you see they're making
        Great alterations here.


OLD MAN.
            Aye-great indeed!...

Robert Southey

Eclogue II. The Grandmothers 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.
            Aye--dear Grandmamma!
    A pretty story! something dismal now;
    A bloody murder.


JANE.
            Or about a ghost.


GRANDMOTHER.
    Nay, nay, I should but frighten you. You know
    The other night when I was telling you
    About the light in the church-yard, how you trembled
    Because 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 wo'nt be frightened.


GRANDMOTHER.
            Well, well, children!

Robert Southey

Eclogue III. The Funeral.

    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
    Of the great city, and we paus'd and ask'd
    Who to the grave was going. It was one,
    A village girl, they told us, who had borne
    An eighteen months strange illness, and had pined
    With such slow wasting that the hour of death
    Came welcome to her. We pursued our way
    To the house of mirth, and with that idle talk
    That passes o'er the mind and is forgot,
    We wore away the time. But it was eve
    When homewardly I went, and in the air
    Was that cool freshness, that discolouring shade
    That makes the eye turn inward. Then I heard
    Over the vale the heavy toll of death
    Sound slow; it made ...

Robert Southey

Eclogue IV. The Sailor's Mother.

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


TRAVELLER.
        Whither are you bound?
        'Tis a late hour to travel o'er these downs,
        No house for miles around us, and the way
        Dreary and wild. The evening wind already
        Makes one's teeth chatter, and the very Sun,
        Setting so pale behind those thin white clouds,
        Looks cold. 'Twill be a bitter night!


WOMAN.
        Aye Sir
        'Tis cutting keen! I smart at every breath,
        Heaven knows how I shall reach my journey's end,
        For the way is long before me, and my feet,
        God help me! sore with travelling. I would gladly,
        If it pleased God, lie down at once and die.

Robert Southey

Eclogue V. The Witch.

NATHANIEL.
        Father! here father! I have found a horse-shoe!
        Faith it was just in time, for t'other night
        I laid two straws across at Margery's door,
        And afterwards I fear'd that she might do me
        A mischief for't. There was the Miller's boy
        Who set his dog at that black cat of hers,
        I met him upon crutches, and he told me
        'Twas all her evil eye.


FATHER.
            'Tis rare good luck;
        I would have gladly given a crown for one
        If t'would have done as well. But where did'st find it?


NATHANIEL.
        Down on the Common; I was going a-field
        And neighbour Saunders pass'd me on his mare;
        He had hardly said "good day," before I saw
        The ...

Robert Southey

Eclogue VI. The Ruined Cottage.

    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
    Still fresh and fragrant; and yon holly-hock
    That thro' the creeping weeds and nettles tall
    Peers taller, and uplifts its column'd stem
    Bright with the broad rose-blossoms. I have seen
    Many a fallen convent reverend in decay,
    And many a time have trod the castle courts
    And grass-green halls, yet never did they strike
    Home to the heart such melancholy thoughts
    As this poor cottage. Look, its little hatch
    Fleeced with that grey and wintry moss; the roof
    Part mouldered in, the rest o'ergrown with weeds,
    House-leek and long thin grass and greener moss;
    So Natur...

Robert Southey

Elinor.

(Time, Morning. Scene, the Shore.[1])

Once more to daily toil--once more to wear
The weeds of infamy--from every joy
The heart can feel excluded, I arise
Worn out and faint with unremitting woe;
And once again with wearied steps I trace
The hollow-sounding shore. The swelling waves
Gleam to the morning sun, and dazzle o'er
With many a splendid hue the breezy strand.
Oh there was once a time when ELINOR
Gazed on thy opening beam with joyous eye
Undimm'd by guilt and grief! when her full soul
Felt thy mild radiance, and the rising day
Waked but to pleasure! on thy sea-girt verge
Oft England! have my evening steps stole on,
Oft have mine eyes surveyed the blue expanse,
And mark'd the wild wind swell the ruffled surge,
And seen the upheaved billows boso...

Robert Southey

Frederic.

(Time Night. Scene the woods.)


Where shall I turn me? whither shall I bend
My weary way? thus worn with toil and faint
How thro' the thorny mazes of this wood
Attain my distant dwelling? that deep cry
That rings along the forest seems to sound
My parting knell: it is the midnight howl
Of hungry monsters prowling for their prey!
Again! oh save me--save me gracious Heaven!
I am not fit to die!
                Thou coward wretch
Why heaves thy trembling heart? why shake thy limbs
Beneath their palsied burden? is there ought
So lovely in existence? would'st thou drain
Even to its dregs the bitter draught of life?
Dash down the loathly bowl! poor outcast slave
Stamp'd with the brand of Vice and Infamy
Why should the villain Frederic shrink from Dea...

Robert Southey

Henry The Hermit.

It was a little island where he dwelt,
    Or rather a lone rock, barren and bleak,
    Short scanty herbage spotting with dark spots
    Its gray stone surface. Never mariner
    Approach'd that rude and uninviting coast,
    Nor ever fisherman his lonely bark
    Anchored beside its shore. It was a place
    Befitting well a rigid anchoret,
    Dead to the hopes, and vanities, and joys
    And purposes of life; and he had dwelt
    Many long years upon that lonely isle,
    For in ripe manhood he abandoned arms,
    Honours and friends and country and the world,
    And had grown old in solitude. That isle
    Some solitary man in other times
    Had made his dwelling-place; and Henry found
    The little chapel that his toil had built
    Now by the st...

Robert Southey

Humphrey And William.

(Time, Noon.)


HUMPHREY:

See'st thou not William that the scorching Sun
By this time half his daily race has run?
The savage thrusts his light canoe to shore
And hurries homeward with his fishy store.
Suppose we leave awhile this stubborn soil
To eat our dinner and to rest from toil!


WILLIAM:

Agreed. Yon tree whose purple gum bestows
A ready medicine for the sick-man's woes,
Forms with its shadowy boughs a cool retreat
To shield us from the noontide's sultry heat.
Ah Humphrey! now upon old England's shore
The weary labourer's morning work is o'er:
The woodman now rests from his measur'd stroke
Flings down his axe and sits beneath the oak,
Savour'd with hunger there he eats his food,
There drinks the cooling streamle...

Robert Southey

Inscription I. For A Tablet At Godstow Nunnery.

Here Stranger rest thee! from the neighbouring towers
Of Oxford, haply thou hast forced thy bark
Up this strong stream, whose broken waters here
Send pleasant murmurs to the listening sense:
Rest thee beneath this hazel; its green boughs
Afford a grateful shade, and to the eye
Fair is its fruit: Stranger! the seemly fruit
Is worthless, all[1] is hollowness within,
For on the grave of ROSAMUND it grows!
Young lovely and beloved she fell seduced,
And here retir'd to wear her wretched age
In earnest prayer and bitter penitence,
Despis'd and self-despising: think of her
Young Man! and learn to reverence Womankind!

Robert Southey

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