Poems (Southey)/Volume 1/Elinor
Botany-Bay
Eclogues.
Once more to daily toil, once more to wearThe weeds of infamy, from every joyThe heart can feel excluded, I ariseWorn out and faint with unremitting woe;And once again with wearied steps I traceThe hollow-sounding shore. The swelling wavesGleam to the morning sun, and dazzle o'erWith many a splendid hue the breezy strand.Oh there was once a time when Elinor Gazed on thy opening beam with joyous eyeUndimm'd by guilt and grief! when her full soulFelt thy mild radiance, and the rising dayWaked but to pleasure! on thy sea-girt vergeOft, 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' bosomed rageRush on the rock; and then my timid soulShrunk at the perils of the boundless deep,And heaved a sigh for suffering mariners.Ah! little deeming I myself was doom'dTo tempt the perils of the boundless deep,An Outcast—unbeloved and unbewail'd.
Why stern Remembrance! must thine iron handHarrow my soul? why calls thy cruel powerThe fields of England to my exil'd eyes,The joys which once were mine? even now I see The lowly lovely dwelling! even nowBehold the woodbine clasping its white wallsAnd hear the fearless red-breasts chirp aroundTo ask their morning meal:—for I was wontWith friendly hand to give their morning meal,Was wont to love their song, when lingering mornStreak'd o'er the chilly landscape the dim light,And thro' the open'd lattice hung my headTo view the snow-drop's bud: and thence at eveWhen mildly fading sunk the summer sun,Oft have I loved to mark the rook's slow courseAnd hear his hollow croak, what time he soughtThe church-yard elm, whose wide-embowering boughsFull foliaged, half conceal'd the house of God.There, my dead father! often have I heardThy hallowed voice explain the wonderous worksOf Heaven to sinful man. Ah! little deem'dThy virtuous bosom, that thy shameless childSo soon should spurn the lesson! sink the slaveOf Vice and Infamy! the hireling prey Of brutal appetite! at length worn outWith famine, and the avenging scourge of guilt,Should dare dishonesty—yet dread to die!
Welcome ye savage lands, ye barbarous climes,Where angry England sends her outcast sons—I hail your joyless shores! my weary barkLong tempest-tost on Life's inclement sea,Here hails her haven! welcomes the drear scene,The marshy plain, the briar-entangled wood,And all the perils of a world unknown,For Elinor has nothing new to fearFrom fickle Fortune! all her rankling shaftsBarb'd with disgrace, and venom'd with disease,Have pierced my bosom, and the dart of deathHas lost its terrors to a wretch like me.
Welcome ye marshy heaths! ye pathless woods,Where the rude native rests his wearied frameBeneath the sheltering shade; where, when the storm, As rough and bleak it rolls along the sky,Benumbs his naked limbs, he flies to seekThe dripping shelter. Welcome ye wild plainsUnbroken by the plough, undelv'd by handOf patient rustic; where for lowing herds,And for the music of the bleating flocks,Alone is heard the kangaroo's sad noteDeepening in distance. Welcome ye rude climes,The realm of Nature! for as yet unknownThe crimes and comforts of luxurious life,Nature benignly gives to all enough,Denies to all a superfluity.What tho' the garb of infamy I wear,Tho' day by day along the echoing beachI cull the wave-worn shells, yet day by dayI earn in honesty my frugal food,And lay me down at night to calm repose,No more condemn'd the mercenary toolOf brutal lust, while heaves the indignant heartWith Virtue's stifled sigh, to fold my arms Round the rank felon, and for daily breadTo hug contagion to my poison'd breast;On these wild shores Repentance' saviour handShall probe my secret soul, shall cleanse its woundsAnd fit the faithful penitent for Heaven.
- ↑ The female convicts are frequently employed in collecting shells for the purpose of making lime.