75. Robert Southey to Nicholas Lightfoot, 22 December 1793*

Bristol. Dec. 22nd. 1793

In various scenes & ways six months are pastSince you & I dear Lightfoot parted last.Twas then in sultry Summers genial reignWhen blazing Sirius scorchd the arid plain,To Isis minstrelld banks we bade adieuFor Bristol I for plains Danmonian¹ youWe left old Pompey² tottering to its fallAnd aged Cæsars stronger neighbouring wall³ We fled from quadrangles & duty prayerTo health & exercise & country air.

Now Summer burns the arid earth no moreNow haly Autumns fruitful reign is oerStern Winter comes & rarifies the airAnd Balliol aged matron calls us there.

Tis said that Oxfords genius will inspireWith heaven taught strains the youthful minstrels <lyre>That as the Bard shall wander oer that groveWhere musing Addison⁴ was wont to roveOr stroll where Isis rolls along the plainsOr Cherwells murmurs found in Wartons⁵ strainThe local power shall give the kindling flame And Inspiration point the path to Fame.

Vain dreams are these as you & I can tellNo meditation fills the students cellOf Helicon⁶ the Genius scorns to tasteAnd lets the insipid waters run to wasteFor Helicon has lost its power divineAnd Oxford rather loves inspiring wine —For Aganippes font⁷ experience tellsThey rather go to Godwin Joyce or Wells⁸ —The virgin Muses too have had their daySo Oxford courts Sal Draper or Sue Gray.⁹

Where wizard power enthralld the sacred <ground>The weird dames their cauldron circled roundAs round & round in mystic wise they goEach various seed of magic ills they throwRites that appal all Hells affrighted earAnd even Demogorgon¹⁰ owns with fear.Yet be the magic sisters might forgotSince Science Lightfoot owns thy mystic Pot.

Methinks I see thee now the closet shutDown at thy mighty incantations set.The gown of flannel wraps thy limbs aroundAbominations Pot is on the ground.Each dire ingredient flung each morning thereThe dry old thumb preservd with curious careThe shavings — cucumber & soap & bloodAnd water of all sorts compose the flood.Down on thy table lies the flute whose soundShall call the magic powers of Taste aroundTill thy whole soul fulfilld with feard rageTurns to the good Lactantius’¹¹ pious pageOr casts oer Hutcheson¹² the moral eyeOr reads & uses famous Calliepi.¹³

There as you sit in slippers loose aloneFalls full & banging on the door the stoneLike hail they come — you need not look to seeSuch folly only can proceed from me.No modest lie is this tis plain & trueFor I must have my turn as well as you.

No magic cauldron does your friend requireYou stir the Pot & S — --y stirs the fire —If his dull Reason fails to understandUp goes the restless poker in his handOr should his intellect more bright appearWhy tis but just the fire should burn as clear.Then up I set the loud harmonious roarNot bottle when hes drunk can bellow more

Sit down again to study at my easeAnd eat some solid feet of toasted cheeseAnd then for exercise & change of air —I quit the sofa for the great armd chair.At chapel too I sleep or talk each dayLaugh — read — in short do any thing but prayFor when Devotions fervor strongest glowsComes the curst twang of Ginger kennel nose.And then I feel a strange & wicked whimAnd hope the Cherubims dont sing like himThen comes a laugh — so Satan is so strongThat I must sleep to save from doing wrong.

Tis true that every day your friendly careWould drag me out to catch a breath of air.Perhaps at last I sally forth — but thenOld Nick himself cant get me back again.Thus obstinately mulish & perverseI grow each day dear Lightfoot worse & worse.

For other task at home my time employsI neither stir the fire or keep a noiseBut quit my bed & then take up my penQuit that at night & go to bed again.

But Term approaching bars my longer stayTime Inclination call me hence awayWith pleasure I once more my friends shall viewOur SewardBurnettCollins Pot & you.Already dinging donging on my earThat most abominable bell I hearAlready Gingers snaffles service oerYou seem to pray & I most truely snore.Already you to play the flute beginBurnett to fiddle & your friend to singAlready will my Fancys eager eye Look on to Summer & the gooseberry pyeAnd ten o clock I seem to hate een nowThat calls me up to lecture & Tom HoweTis true. for him a very due respect stirsGod bless my tutor — but Duce take his lectures

The name composes me so if you pleaseMy good friend Shad Ill have my toasted cheese

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now in plain prose my dear Lightfoot I write to settle our journey to old Ball Coll. come to Bristol Tuesday Wednesday. Thursday we will see all the seeables & Friday off. I wish it were in my power to offer you a bed but you will take inclination for ability. we have much to be seen so come earlier if you can. but write & let me know all the whens &c.

you see I must this term. E Seward cannot be ordaind till Trinity he will spend the intermediate time with us at Ball.

poor Burnett has been alone. they all got drunk in the Batchelor’s common room on the Gaudy except our friend who went to Lewis. they broke all his windows forced thro the wainscott & flung all the chairs out of window. his absence was most fortunate as they brought a bottle of wine to pour down his throat by force. execrable blockheads twas well both for me & for them that I was absent for had my passions been stirrd I should have used my leveller & got beat. Phelpss¹⁴ adventures that night will amuse you another time. now time presses. so believe me

most sincerely yourRS.

direct to Miss Tylers

Bristol.