Icelandic Poetry/Epistle from Robert Southey
A wretched wife. Now may the prosperous windsSpeed thee La Fayette! to that happier shoreWhere Priestly dwells, where Kosciusko restsFrom holy warfare. Persecuted men!Outcasts of Europe! sufferers in the causeOf Truth and Freedom! ye have found a home,And in the peaceful evening of your daysA high reward is yours, the blessednessOf self-applause.
Amos! I did not leave without regretThe pleasant home of Burton. Many monthsOf tranquillest retirement had endear’dThe low abode, and I had sometimes heardThe voice of friendship there, and pass’d with theeHours of such blameless merriment as stillMake memory chearful. Nor wilt thou forgetHow with hard toil and difficult ascentWe scaled the ruining cliff, and often paus’dThat the sea-breeze might cool our throbbing brows,And gazed upon the ocean, shadowed halfBy gathered clouds, beyond whose darker line Its pale grey splendour, far as sight could reachRose like another sky. Nor will my friendForget the scenes of simplest character,The hill that from the water’d vale abruptStarts up, upon whose dark and heathy fideOften at evening I have lain me down,And dwelt upon the green and goodly vale,Its mazy streams and tufted villages,Rich in the sunshine now, now half embrown’dBy the long sweeping shadows, till my soulHad entered in the deep and quiet joyAll its hush’d powers. And thou wilt sometimes loveWith memory’s eye to trace the ruined pileBeneath whose ancient foot with ceaseless lapseThe eternal stream flows on, and that old KeepThro’ whose long rifted chasm the far-seen lightFixes the traveller’s eye, and the white cliffsThat rising stately o’er the distant deepShine silvery in the noon. But thou hast view’dThese scenes like one who passes thro’ a landWhere his heart is not; I, my friend, long timeHad sojourn’d there, and I am one who form With each minutest circumstance of placeAcquaintance, and the unfrequented fieldWhere many a day I walk in solitude,Is as a friend to me. Nor have I leftThat unfrequented field unsorrowing,Over whose wooded limits the church towerArose in single majesty: its bankWas edged with feathery fern, that seem’d to formA little forest to the insect tribesWho lived there, and were happy; and the sunO’er the red ripeness of the bending grass of mePour’d a glad simile. A pleasant place it was!And, Amos! I could wish that thou and IAnd thy good brother, who in my heart holds,Almost a brother’s place, might once again,With as few earthly cares to ruffle us,Meet in that low abode.
Meet in that low abo But now I knowThro’ wildest scenes of strange sublimity,Building the Runic rhyme, thy Fancy roves; Niflhil’s nine worlds, and Surtur’s fiery plain,And where upon Creation’s uttermost verge,The weary Dwarfs, that bear the weight of Heaven,Hope the long winter that no spring must cheer,And the last sound that from Heimdaller’s trumpShall echo thro’ all worlds, and sound the knellOf earth and heaven.
Of earth and hea A strange and savage faithOf mightiest power! it fram’d the unfeeling foulStern to inflict and stubborn to endure,That laugh’d in death. When round the poison’d breastOf Regner clung the viper brood, and trail’dTheir coiling length along his festering wounds,He, fearless in his faith, the death-song pour’d,And lived in his past fame; for sure he hopedAmid the Spirits of the mighty deadSoon to enjoy the fight. And when his sonsAvenged their father’s fate, and like the wings Of some huge eagle spread[1] the severed ribsOf Ella, in the shield-roof’d hall they thoughtOne day from Ella’s skull to quaff the mead,Their valours guerdon.
Their valours guerd Wild the Runic faith,And wild the realms where Scandinavian ChiefsAnd Scalds arose, and hence the Scalds’ strong verse Partook the savage wildness. And methinksAmid such scenes as these, the Poet’s soulMight best attain full growth; pine-cover’d rocks,And mountain forests of eternal shade,And glens and vales, on whose green quietnessThe lingering eye reposes, and fair lakesThat image the light foliage of the beech,Or the grey glitter of the aspen leavesOn the still bough thin trembling. Scenes like theseHave almost lived before me, when I gazedUpon their fair resemblance traced by him[2]Who sung the banish’d man of Ardebeil,Or to the eye of Fancy held by her[3],Who among women left no equal mindWhen from this world she pass’d; and I could weep,To think that She is to the grave gone down! Were I, my friend, a solitary man,Without one tie in life to anchor me,I think that I would wander far to view.Such scenes as these, for they would fill a heartThat loathes the commerce of this wretched world,And sickens at its hollow gaieties.And sure it were most pleasant when the dayWas young, to roam along the mountain path,And mark the upmost pines, or grey with age,Or blue in their first foliage, richly tingedWith the slant sun-beam, then at fits to pauseAnd gaze into the glen, a deep abyssOf vapour, whence the unseen torrents roarUp-thunder’d. Sweet to walk abroad at nightWhen as the summer moon was high in heavenAnd shed a calm clear lustre, such as gaveThe encircling mountains to the eye, distinct,Disrobed of all their bright day-borrow’d hues,The rocks’ huge shadows darker, the glen streamSparkling along its course, and the cool airFill’d with the firs’ faint odour.
Well pleas’d am I to sit me But in soothWell pleas’d am I to sit me down in peace,While Phantasy, an untir’d travellerGoes forth; and I shall thank thee for the rhymeThat with the Poets of the distant yearsMakes me hold converse. ’Twas a strange belief!And evil was the hour when men beganTo humanize their God, and gave to stocksAnd stones the incommunicable name[4].It is not strange that simple men should rearThe grassy altar to the glorious sun,And pile it with spring flowers and summer fruits,And when the glorious sun smil’d on their ritesAnd made the landskip lovely, the warm heartWith no unholy zeal might swell the hymnOf adoration. When the savage hearsThe thunder burst, and sees the lurid skyGlow with repeated fires, it is not strange That he should hasten to his hut and veilHis face[5], and dread the Dæmon of the storm.Nor that the ancient Poet, he who fedHis flock beside the stream of Helicon,Should let creative fancy people earthWith unseen powers, that clad in darkness roamAround the world, and mark the deeds of men[6].But that the Priest with solemn mockery,Or monstrous faith, should call on God to leadHis armies forth, and desolate and kill,And over the red banners of the war,Even in the blessed name of Jesus, pourPrayers of a bloodier hate than ever roseAt Odin’s altar, or the Mexican,The victim’s heart still quivering in his grasp, Rais’d at Mexitlis’ shrine—this is most foul,Most rank, most blasphemous idolatry!And better were it for these wretched menWith infant victims to have fed the fireOf Moloch, in that hour when they shall callUpon the hills and rocks to cover them,For the judgment day is come.
Now mark the spot where A few grey stonesNow mark the spot where Odin’s temple stood,And there the traveller seeks with busy eyeHis altar green with moss. The Northern chiefsCast not their captive in the dungeon nowTo the viper brood, nor to the eagle’s shapeCarve out his mangled form. Yet let not Earth,Yet let not Heaven forget the prison houseOf Olmutz! what tho’ to his Conqueror’s swordCrouching, the Oppressor lets his victim seeOnce more the light of day, let Earth and HeavenRemember to his Conqueror’s sword he yieldsWhat at his feet a woman begg’d in vain,
Of self-applause. Is it not strange, my friend,If ought of human folly could surprize,That men should with such duteous zeal observeEach ideot form, each agonizing riteOf Pagan faith, whilst there are none who keepThe easy precepts of the Nazarene,The faith that with it brings its own reward,The law of peace and love?—But they are wiseWho in these evil and tumultuous timesHeed not the world’s mad business: chiefly theyWho with most pleasant labouring acquire No selfish knowledge. Of his fellow kindHe well deserves, who for their evening hoursA blameless joy affords, and his good works,When in the grave he sleeps, shall still survive.Now fare thee well and prosper in thy task.
ROBERT SOUTHEY.
- ↑ Apud Anglos, Danos, aliasque nationes Boreales, victor
ignominia summâ debellatum adversarium affecturus, gladium
circa scapulas ad spinam dorsi adigebat, costasque, amplissimo
per corporis longitudinem facto vulnere, utrinque a spinâ
seperabet, quæ, ad latera deductæ, alas repræsentabent
Aquilinas. Hoc genus mortis vocabant Aquilam in dorso alicujus
delincere. Glossarium Islandicum M. S. S. ejusmodi vulnus sive
plagam testatur. In Jarlasagu, “tunc Comes Einarus in
dorso Halfdani Aquilinam excitavit plagam, ita ut gladuim
dorso adigerit, omnesque costas a spinâ seperaret usque ad
lumbos, indeque pulmones extraxit.” In Ormsagu, “Ormerus
evaginato gladio in dorso Erusi Aquilinam inflexit plagam,
separatis a dorso costis, and pulmonibus exemptis.
Stephanus Stephanius.
The death of Regner Lothbrog is well known. His sons revenged him by thus executing Ella of Northumberland.
- ↑ Alluding to some views in Norway, taken by Mr. Charles Fox—Whose Plaints, Consolations, and Delights of Achmed Ardebeili, from the Persian, are well known.
- ↑ Mary Wollstonecraft.
- ↑ Men, serving either calamity or tyranny, did ascribe unto
stones and stocks the incommunicable name.
Wisdom of Solomon, xiv. 21.
- ↑ Τρις γαρ μυριοι εισιν επι χθονι πουλυβοτειρῃΑθανατοι Ζηνος, φυλακες θνητων ανθρωπων,Οι ρα φυλασσουσιν τε δικας και σχετλια εργα,Ηερα εσσαμενοι, παντη φοιτωντες εν᾽ αιαν.ΗΣΙΟΔΟΣ.
- ↑ Lafitau sur les Mœurs Sauvages.
This work was published before January 1, 1930, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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