104. Robert Southey to Grosvenor Charles Bedford, 10 September 1794*

Bristol. Sept. 10. 1794.

Bedford — my kalendar shall mark this day Sacred to Friendship — for to Orsons¹ soulDear wilt thou be tho absent. far away Memory to thee shall fill the votive bowlAnd mingle in the cup one pious tear. Fancy shall oft revisit thee & holdHigh converse; & thine image will appear Such as I leave thee. sometimes changd & old,Bearing like me the mark of many a year — Deep on thy furrowed front, I shall beholdThy form amid my slumbers. let this day Be hallowed. when the friends thou holdst most dearFor natal festivals to come shall pray,Think I am thinking of thee far away.

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Not to thee Bedford mournful is the tale² Of days departed. Time in his career Arraigns thee not that the neglected yearHas past <fled> unheeded onward. to the valeOf years thou journiest, may the future road Be pleasant as the past, & on my friend Friendship & Love best blessing still attendThus <Till>, full of days, he reach the calm abodeWhere Nature slumbers. lovely is the age Of Virtue. with such reverence we behold — The silver hairs, as some gray oak grown oldThat whilome mockd the rushing tempests rageNow like the monument of strength decaydWith rarely scatterd leaves casting a trembling shade.

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Parturiunt montes nascitur ridiculus mus —³

But better are two good sonnets than nothing. — Grosvenor I verily sat down last night to indite an ode — like Jupiter I thought my brain pregnant with wisdom — & behold it was full of Self!!! however take the odious composition. the two sonnets are this mornings work.

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Driven by Misfortunes ruthless hand To sojourn in some foreign land Will not the exile drop the tearEre yet the swift bark quits his natal shore, Lamenting all his soul held dearLamenting all he leaves to meet no more? And if in childhoods early year Some favorite tree he wont to rearAnd see with anxious joy the sapling grow, Till widely bowering oer his head A grateful shade its broad boughs spreadWill he not heave the sigh of woeAs to the accustomd seat he looks adieuAnd lingering as he goes oft turn again to view?

Ah Bedford — even with such joyI markd our growing friendship. & I dwell With pleasure on that hour when, yet a boyI sought thy converse. careless then & wildTho sorrow even then I knew full wellWith many a rudest song that sorrow I beguild.

Thou knewest my every thought What time with anguish fraughtThe high-tond spirit murmured at its wrong, Or Pleasures mantling tide rolld high, Throbbd in my heart & glistned in mine eyeOr Fancy pourd her wild enthusiast song,Thou didst partake each feeling, & thy heartDwelt in my bosom. — now my friend we part.

We part. yet tho between us Oceans roll Still shall we commune thro the unmeasurd space Thy form unfaded still mine eye will trace,And from domestic joys sometimes my soul,Wafted on Memorys wing, to thee shall flyWhilst pensive Friendship heaves the sorrowing sigh.

Far oer the Atlantic mainIn woodland scenes we woo the cherub Peace. And Love & Friendship join our blameless train,And Care his racking sway shall cease, Anxiety no more molest Fear harrow up no more the breast, Nor the pale forms of Pleasures fled Float round the melancholy head, But Memory in her fond employReflect on sorrows past & heighten present joy

Let Fancy Bedford paint the lot Of calm Contentments woodbind cot — At summer evenings gentle gloom The smile that bids me welcome home The high heapd hearth the social bowl And every charm that soothes the soul —Pourtray each feeling Virtue must approveAnd see me blest with Friendship & with Love.

There each beneath his mantling vine Shall quaff in peace the generous wine No worldly cares shall there intrude On our calm of Solitude But stern Ambitions hideous brood On Europes shores shall bathe in blood Where Discord rouses all her hellish train Where Slaughter strides oer hills of slain, Death triumphs in the battles roarAnd the gorged Ravens surfeit them with gore.

Meantime secluded from a world of woe The wood nymph Peace will smile on that far shore.And as the Pilgrim when the wild winds blow Tho shelterd — sadly lists the tempests roar And sighs to think some way-worn form Abides the pelting of the pityless storm; Such grief such only we shall knowAnd heave (secure ourselves) the sigh for Europes woe.

Robert Southey.