10. Robert Southey to Grosvenor Charles Bedford, [c. 14 May 1792]*

Look back on History’s eventful pageRetrace the actions past of every ageClimes — centuries — nations — go, inspect them allSee them successive rise — successsive fallStill still you find dull Ignorance maintainIn state illiberal his drowsy reign.Look where oer Europe wild the natives roamThe forest coverts of the cave their homeThen raisd the God his savage visage boldAnd ruld supreme unlicensed uncontrolled —Then mark where beaming first his morning rayThe sun of Science brightend into dayNo lower nature would be made his toolSo he clapt on a wig & set up school —

Ah Bedford — not alone do we complainOur laurels blasted & our labors vain —Like us full many a hapless victim ledBefore fell Ignorance has bowd & bled —Lo Homer. sad fromx clime to clime he goesNo friend to soothe the wandering minstrels woesA dog perhaps his sightless footsteps ledAs sad from house to house he beggd his breadThus like his own Ulysses doomd to roamMore hapless, in the grave he found his home.See Ovid pining on Sarmatic shores¹ His wife his country & his all deplores —List to the strains that flow from Lucans² tongue —He meets the fate himself so well had sungAh let me from the mournful number ceaseCompanions in misfortune bring not peace —

Tis night — alone & pensive thro’ the airI see the dismal taper’s dreary glare —Ha — hollow murmurs all my spirits dauntThe Ghost arises of the Flagellant!³ Not bound & gilt as once I hopd to seeThe ornament of all the libraryNo ———— a vile grocers hand the paper handlesTo wrap up butter or a pound of candles —.

“Sleepst Gualbertus⁴ <thou my Basil⁵ >? must my restless spriteRise from the hucksters shop to bid thee write?Thus from my low abode in seemly showWhere tallow candles hang in orderd rowSoap sugar cinnamon oil mustard cheeseBread butter earthern <ware> or what you please To these to all the masters various hoardWhere my polluted leaves their aid affordThence in my greasy state must I ariseAnd strike new horror to thy ghastly eyes?Hard is my usage & my grave unmeetFor I myself am made a winding sheet —Dissected thus, by filthy fingers tornI only serve to wrap a peppercorn.Rise Basil rise — tho dead is number five⁶ The Doctor & the Devil are alive —Tho’ Gualbertus sleeps nor sleeps forgotWhy should oblivion be St Basils lot?

Why should the Hermit⁷ thus in sloth remain?Why rests in Idleness the satires strain?Can Satire want an object? turn thine eyesWhere high in air St Peters towers ariseWhere Mr Wingfield sits in Hayes’s⁸ chairWhere Dr Vincent scowls with angry stareWhere all attend to Pedantry’s dull nod“Adultery Lust & Incest thrive in Dodd —Say can thy Satire want an object here?Turn to Whitehall — the Egertons appear —Write Peter⁹ - Basil write redeem my fameRedeem the tarnishd honors of my name —When Time shall sound your praises thro the skyWhen even Envy shall not dare to lieWhen some new paper shall avenge the oldWhere Truth may speak more open & more boldWhere Decency may dare attack the rodIn spite of Devil Doctor or of Dodd —Then on the counter will I rest in peaceThen — not till then shall all my sorrows cease.

Appease the spirit Bedford hear o hearMy eldest born my Flagellant too dear Dearer by all my hopes of Fame een nowThen when the laurel bloomd around thy brow —Hear & attend. by all the hopes I bearOf glorious great REVENGE — by thee I swearSoon shall new numbers issue from my penRegardless or of Doctors Wigs or Men — I dare treat flogging with contempt anewI dare to give the Devil whats his due —I dare to call him author of the rodAnd give him VincentEgerton & Dodd.

———

Direct to me at Thomas Phillips Lambs Esqr

Mountsfield Lodge

Rye

Sussex