1559. Robert Southey to Anna Seward, 29 December 1808*

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Midnight & not an eyeThro all the Imperial City closed in slumbers!Behold her streets ablaze, – her countless numbersAbroad! – & hear that universal cryWhose uproar dread in their deep bedMight break the silence of the dead!In vain ye blessed StarsYour feeble beams ye shedQuenchd in the unnatural light, more bright than day.And thou O Queen of NightThine ineffectual ray.Ten thousand torches flame & flareUpon the midnight airBlotting the lights of HeavenWith their portentous glare.The fragrant smoke in many a surging fold,Upward & still upward rolld,Ascendeth thro the yellow skyAnd hangeth visible on highA dark & waving canopy.

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Hark! tis the funeral trumpets breath,The dirge of death!At once ten thousand drums beginWith one long thunder-peal the ear assailingTen thousand voices then join inAnd with one deep & general dinPour their wild wailing.The song of praise is drowndAmid that deafening sound;You hear no more the trumpets tone,You hear no more the mourners moan,Tho the trumpets breath & the dirge of deathMingle, & swell the funeral yell.But rising over all in one acclaimIs heard the echoed nameArvalan! Arvalan!Ten times ten thousand voices in one shoutCall Arvalan; the overpowering soundFrom house to house repeated rings aboutFrom tower to tower reechoing rolls around.

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The death-procession moves alongTheir bare heads shining to the torches ray

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The Bramins lead the wayChaunting the funeral song –And now at once they shoutArvalan! Arvalan! –With quick rebound of soundIn one accordant cryArvalan! Arvalan!The universal multitude reply.In vain ye thunder on his ear the name.xxxxxxx xxxx xxxxx xxxxxWould ye awake the dead? –Borne upright in his PalanquinLo Arvalan is seen!A glow is on his face, a lively red.It is the crimson canopyWhich oer his cheek the reddening shade hath shed.He moves, – he nods his head. –But the motion comes from the Bearers treadAs the Body borne aloft in stateSways with the impulse of its own dead weight.

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Close following his dead son Kehama came,Nor joining in the ritual song,Nor calling the dear name,With head deprest, & funeral vestAnd arms enfolded on his breast,Silent & lost he moves along.King of the World his Slaves unenvying nowBehold their wretched Lord; rejoiced they seeThe mighty Rajahs misery.For Nature in his pride hath dealt the blow,And taught the Master of Mankind to knowEven he is man, & not exempt from woe.

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Woe! woe! the wives of Arvalan!Young Azla, young Nealliné!Their widow robes of whiteWith gold & jewels brightAs on a bridal day.Woe! woe! around their palanquinWith symphony & dance & songTheir kindred & their friends come on.The funeral song! the dance of sacrifice!And next the victim slaves in long arrayRichly bedight to grace the fatal dayMove onward to their deathThe clarions stirring breath,Lifts their thin robes in every flowering foldAnd swells the woven gold,Tremulous & glittering to the torches flame.A Man & Maid of aspect wan & wildThen side by side, by archers guarded, came.Oh wretched Father! Oh unhappy Child!Them were all eyes of all the throng exploring, –Is this the daring manWho raised his vengeful hand at Arvalan?Is this the wretched man condemned to feelKehamas dreadful wrath?Them were all hearts of all the throng deploring,For not in that innumerable throngWas one who loved the dead, for who could knowWhat aggravated wrongProvokd the desperate blow?Far – far behind, beyond all reach of sightIn ordered files the torches flow along,One ever-lengthening line of moving light.Far, far behind Rolls on the undistinguishable clamourOf horn & trump & tambour,Incessant as the roarOf streams which down the massy <wintry> mountain pour,And louder than the dread commotionOf stormy ocean <billows> on a rocky shoreWhen the winds rage over the wavesAnd the sea <ocean> to the Tempest raves.

And now towards the bank they goWhere winding on their way below,Deep & strong the waters flow,Here did the funeral pile appear,With myrrh & ambergris bestrewdAnd built of precious sandal-wood.They cease their music & their outcry here,Gently they rest the bier;They wet the face of Arvalan.No sign of life the sprinkled drops exciteThey feel the breast, no motion thereThey feel his lips, no breath,For not with feeble nor with erring handThe stern avenger dealt the blow of death.Then with a doubling peal & deeper blastAgain they raise the xxxxxxxThe tambours & the trumpets sound on highAnd with a last & loudest cryThey call on Arvalan.

Woe! woe! for Azla takes her seatUpon the funeral pile!Calmly she took her seat,Calmly the whole terrific pomp surveydAs on her lap the whileThe lifeless head of Arvalan was laidWoe! woe! Nealliné –The young Nealliné –They strip her ornaments away,Bracelet & anklet, ring & chain & zone,Around her neck they leaveThe marriage knot alone,That marriage band that whenYon waning moon was young,Around her virgin neckWith bridal joy was flung.Then with white flowers, the coronal of deathHer jetty locks they crown.Oh sight of misery!You cannot hear her cries, – all other soundIn this wild dissonance is drownd,But in her face you seeThe supplication & the agony.See in her swelling throat the desperate strengthThat with vain effort struggled yet for life,Her arms contracted now in fruitless strife,Now wildly at full lengthToward the crowd in vain for pity spread, –They force her on, they bind her to the dead.

Then all around retire;Circling the pile the ministring Bramins standEach lifting in his hand a torch of fire.Alone the Father of the Dead advancedAnd lit the funeral pyre

At once on every sideThe circling torches drop,At once on every sideThe rapid flames rush up.Then hand in hand the victim bandRoll in the dance around the funeral pyre,Their garments flying foldsFloat inward to the fireIn drunken whirl they wheel around, –One drops, another plunges in,And still with overwhelming dinThe tambours & the trumpets soundAnd clap of hand & shouts & criesFrom all the multitude arise, While round & round in giddy wheelIntoxicate they roll & reel,Till one by one whirld in they fall,And the devouring flames have swallowed all.

Then all was still; the drums & clarions ceasd.The multitude were hushed in silent awe, –Only the roaring of the flame was heard.¹

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You have here the first section of Kehama. It was written between seven & eight years ago in the metre of Thalaba,² & has since been thrown into rhyme, piece-meal, – in consequence of which I suspect that the language flows less naturally than it would have otherwise have done. I am a patient transcriber, & usually in transcribing make so many alterations that the time so bestowed is not unprofitably spent, & if you will find out the faults here half as keenly as you have found out the beauties of Madoc,³ I will send section after section, as leisure & opportunity may serve.

Your letter would have been more welcome but for the intelligence with which it concluded. That mind of yours is so vigorous & that heart so young, – so beyond the reach of time & infirmity, that I would fain persuade myself the system is yet sound, notwithstanding the attacks which it has sustained. As for presentiments there are many facts which tend to prove that they act just contrary to the manner in which they are commonly supposed to do, – & that when persons fix the day or hour for their death, & are punctual to the engagement, they are kept alive to that moment by their faith that they shall not die before it, which otherwise would have been the case. I feared [MS torn] were ill, because a longer time than usual had elapsed without my hearing from you.

It would be in vain to argue with you about the Cid,⁴ – you are as insensible to the beauties of that stile of history, as I am to the charms of music, & hundreds have the same want of faculty in both cases. To me that Chronicle⁵ seems not only one of the most curious pieces of history in existence (that it is assuredly is,) but also one of the most delightful; & no employment ever gave me more pleasure than that of reducing it to the shape in which it now appears. But I am historian as well as poet, & you do not sympathize with me in the emotions that an old Chronicle excites.

Do not mistake me about peace. It is an abuse of words to talk of peace with Bonaparte. Such peace as Prussia has we might obtain, but that is submission. Such peace as Mr Addington made⁶ we might make again, – the experiment has happily been made, & it proved to be only a truce, – but that gives him all he wanted, & we get only a breathing time by it, when blessed be God we are not out of breath. Is there any man in England fool enough to believe that the word or oath of Bonaparte is to be trusted? that he would make peace with us for a with any other intent than that of creating a navy to destroy us? – It is not my sentiments that have changed; – precisely the same principles which made me the loud enemy of war in 1793 make me now the loud enemy of peace; for the same reasons that I abominated then & ever shall abominate Pitt⁷ & his cursed crew, precisely do I in like manner abominate the French Government now. What I love best on earth is liberty; – it xxx xxxx xxxxx Milton & Hutchinson⁸ did not love it more religiously than I do. But if this country bends her knee to France, – & it is only on her knees that the deadly truce is to be had, – there will be no liberty left on earth. It is mere bigotry to call for peace now, because the war was unjust ten years ago.

You have well commented upon Hayleys senseless comparison of Cowper with Milton.⁹ The success of his feeble piece of biography seems to have turned Hayleys head, as He has mistaken the liking of the public for admiration; Cowpers letters are easy & unaffected, sometimes sprightly, sometimes elegant, always natural. You like him the better, – that is the Public like him the better because they find an intellect quite level with their own, & their own imbecility is never made to feel his strength. The Yardley Oak¹⁰ & the Task¹¹ would not be expected from those Letters, – & even there Cowper is not to be named, not to be thought of with Milton. Am I wrong in suspecting that Cowper, tho he has not more applause than he rightly deserves, is indebted for one half of his crazy superstition, & for good part of the other because he is more often footing than flying? – Both he & Churchill¹² were slovens in rhyme for fear of being coxcombs. I believe it possible to give to rhyme the who strength & manliness of blank verse, but this they never arrived at, & this must not be in the couplet. Our Miltonic Sonnets have effected it, – & I hope you will find something of this union in some of the Kehama, where the subject requires a slow movement.

If Carys¹³ be not an hereditary affection it will probably pass away. In general genius is a preservative against madness, – it affords vent, scope & purpose to those feelings & passionate thoughts, which if pent up, undefined & undirected, overthrow the intellect mind of man. When the fit is over (I trust it is but a fit) the best advice that can be given him, is to suspend every study or pursuit as soon as he finds that he dreams about it. This is my receipt for keeping in sound health of nerves; – I have two or three things of nearly equal interest in hand at once, & pass from one to the other in the same day, quieting all at night with half an hours desultory reading. Experience taught me the necessity of the system, & my sleep is in consequence as sweet as an infants.

R Southey

Dec. 29. 1808.