127. Robert Southey to Grosvenor Charles Bedford, [possibly started before and continued on 12 May 1795]*

ELINOR.¹

a Monologue.

Scene the shores of New Holland. Morning.

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Once more to daily toil! once more to wearThe weeds of Infamy — from every joyThe heart could feel, excluded, I ariseWorn out & faint with unremitting woe.And once again with wearied steps I traceThe hollow-sounding shore. the full swoln <waves>Gleam to the morning sun & dazzle oerWith many a splendid hue the breezy strand.Oh there was once a time, when ElinorGazed on thine opening beam with joyous eyeUndimmd by guilt & grief! when her full soulFelt thy mild radiance, & the rising dayWaked but to pleasure. on thy sea-girt vergeOft England! have my evening steps stole onOft have mine eyes surveyed the blue expanse,And markd the wild wind swell the ruffled surgeAnd seen the upheaved billows bosomed rageRush on the rock; & then my timid soulShrunk at the perils of the boundless deepAnd heaved a sigh for suffering mariners.Ah! little deeming I myself was doomedTo tempt the perils of the boundless deepAn Outcast! unbelovd & unbewaild!

Why stern Remembrance must thy iron handHarrow my soul? why calls thy cruel powerThe fields of England to my exiled eyesThe joys which once were mine? even now I seeThe lowly lovely dwelling! even nowBehold the woodbine clasping its white walls,And hear the fearless redbreasts chirp aroundTo ask their morning meal; for I was wontWith friendly hand to give their morning mealWas wont to love their song, when lingering <morn>Streakd over the chilly landskip the dim lightAnd thro the opened lattice hung my headTo view the snow-drops bud. & thence at eve,When mildly-fading sunk the summer sun,Oft have I loved to mark the rooks slow courseAnd hear his hollow croak, what time he soughtThe church-yard elm whose wide-embowering boughsFull-foliagd, half conceald the house of God.There my dead father! often have I heardThy hallowed voice explain the wonderous worksOf Heaven to sinful man. ah! little deemdThy virtuous bosom that thy shameless childSo soon should spurn the lesson! — sink the SlaveOf Vice & Infamy! the hireling preyOf brutal appetite! at length worn outWith famine & the avenging scourge of guiltShould dare dishonesty — yet dread to die!

Welcome ye savage lands — ye barbarous climesWhere angry England sends her outcast sons,I hail your joyless shores! my weary barkLong tempest-tost on Lifes inclement seaHere hails her haven welcomes the drear sceneThe marshy plain, the briar-entangled woodAnd all the perils of a world unknown.For Elinor has nothing new to fearFrom fickle Fortune! all her rankling shaftsBarbd with disgrace & venomed with diseaseHave pierced my bosom — & the dart of deathHas lost its terrors to a wretch like me.

Welcome ye marshy heaths — ye pathless woodsWhere the rude native rests his wearied frameBeneath the sheltering shade. where when the stormAs rough & bleak it rolls along the skyBenumbs his naked limbs, he flies to seekThe dripping shelter. welcome ye wild plainsUnbroken by the plough, undelved by handOf patient rustic, where for lowing herdsAnd for the music of the bleating flocksAlone is heard the Kangaroos sad noteDeepening in distance. welcome ye rude climeThe realm of Nature! for as yet unknownThe crimes & comfrots of luxurious life,Nature benignly gives to all enough,Denies to all a superfluity.What tho the garb of Infamy I wearTho day by day along the echoing beachI cull the wave-worn shells — yet day by dayI earn in honesty the frugal foodAnd lay me down at night to calm repose.No more condemned the mercenary toolOf brutal Lust — whilst heaves the indignant <heart>With Virtues stifled sigh — to fold my armsRound the rank felon, & for daily breadTo hug contagion to my poisoned breast —On these wild shores Repentance savior handShall probe my secret soul shall cleanse its <wounds>And fit the faithful penitent for heaven.

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Ode to a Frog²

1

Poor being! wherefore dost thou flyWhy seek to shun my gazing eye And palpitate with fear?Indulge a passing travellers sightAnd leap not on in vain affright — No cruel foe is here.

2

I would but pause awhile to viewThy dappled coat of many a hue Thy rapid bound survey,And see how well thy limbs can glideAlong the sedge-crownd streamlets tide, Then journey on my way.

3

No savage sage am I whose powerShall bear thee from thy rush-wove bower To feel the unsparing knife;No barbarous schemes this hand shall try,Nor to prolong thy death would I Prolong thy little life.

4

Ah let not him, whose wanton skillDelights the mangled frog to kill The meed of praise attain!Philosophy abhors the heartThat prostitutes her sacred art To give one being pain.³

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Did you ever see the cruel experiments tried upon frogs to discover the cause of muscular motion?

Sonnet.⁴ the 6 last lines by

Coleridge.

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Poor Wanderer of the Night! thou pale forlorn! Remorse that man on his death-bed possess, Who in the hour of credulous tendernessBetrayed & left thee to the hard worlds scorn.The hard world scoffs thy woes! the chaste Ones pride Mimic of virtue mocks thy keen distress.Thy Loves & they that envied thee, deride, And Vice alone will shelter Wretchedness —Oh I am sad to think — that there should be Cold-bosomed lewd Ones who endure to placeFoul offerings at the shrine of Misery. Forcing from Famines arms the embrace of Love — May he shed healing on thy sore disgrace He, the great Comforter who rules above.

Sonnet.⁵

Fair is the rising morn when oer the sky The orient sun expands his roseate ray,And lovely to the Bards enthusiasts eye Fades the meek radiance of departing day.But fairer is the smile of one we love Than all the scenes in Natures amply swayAnd sweeter than the music of the groveThe Voice that bids us welcome. such delight Were ours my Edith, on the distant shore When all the labors of the day were oerIf thou shouldst smile a welcome. at thy sightMy heart would bound to rapture! far removed To woodland scenes where Care intrudes no <more,>We should be blest beloving & beloved.⁶

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The Soldier’s Wife⁷

(written with Coleridge. <read this aloud & accent it>

Weàry way-wànderer ׀ lànguid & sìck at heartTràvelling paìnfully ׀ over the rùgged road,Wìld-visagd Wànderer ׀ àh for thy heàvy chance!

Sorèly thy little one dràgs by thee bàre-footedBut àh for the bàby that hàngs at thy bènding backMeàgre & livìd & screàming its wrètchedness.

Woè-begone mòther half ànger half àgony,Ovèr thy shoùlders thou tùrnest to hùsh the babeBleàkly the blinding snow drìfts in thy hàgged cheek.

Thy hùsband will nèver retùrn for the wàr againCòld is thy hòpeless heart — even as ChàrityCòld are thy fàmishd babes — Gòd help thee wìdowed One!

There my dear Grosvenor. for RS returning at eleven o’clock — find your letter & immediately write thus much — you will allow no small miracle. now my eyes ache & I must to bed — by the by before I bid you good night take these lines which tickle me hugely

Despairing beside a clear stream An elderly Gentleman sat,A willow supported his wig And over his wig was his hat.

Good night my dear Grosvenor. I will to my worst companion — the pillow! heigh ho! — God bless you.

Tuesday night.Bristol College Street. No 25

Now my dear Grosvenor you see why you could not receive this on Wednesday — because you directed to Bath & your letter came to me at eleven last night. you shall have another letter from me very shortly with what poetry I have yet unseen by you — but I have a good piece to send you soon — the first book of Madoc. I will ask your question tho methinks there would be but little probability of erring if I answered in the affirmative. perhaps the female heart is more alive to affection than mans — & the dangerous error entailed upon them by education is — that they almost always act from their feelings & not from fixed principles. you may be assured that no fixed principles can possibly form a resolution of celibacy.

I would willingly pass a fortnight with you could I quit this place. but I fear me that love makes a man very selfish when he seems to himself the most remote from selfishness. in truth Bedford I have almost insulated myself from mankind — I shun all company as much as possibly & when not with Edith love to be alone — that if unemployed in reading & writing I may enjoy solitary thoughts. this is better than sitting silent in company, & observing the little errors & follies of all around me — for I am grown an acute observer of men & agree with Burns that “they are an ugly squad.”⁸

fare thee well. I could say very much — & will write to you very soon. “be just & fear not”.⁹ without φλαττεργ — Ι θινκ υ καπαβλε οφ πλησινγ ανγ υομαν θοτ υ υισh το πλςασε.*¹⁰

*the language of the look the meaning of those attentions that really spring from a sincere desire of pleasing can never be mistaken. God bless you. remember me affectionately to your father & mother — & Horace. I will write soon to Wynn. — God bless him!

my Joan goes to the press immediately.¹¹