563. Robert Southey to Charles Watkin Williams Wynn, 30[–31] December 1800*

Thalaba. Book the last¹

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Then said the grey old man to Thalaba A curse is on our land! Sorcery hath seized the altar & the throne – Our dear liege Lady, sovereign of our choice, Who loved us, whom we loved, who made our name Mighty among the nations, groans enslaved; Her olive sceptre trampled in the dust, Blasted her oaken crown. A rod of iron bruises us, Famine & Misery desolate our fields. An old & hideous Hag Hath brought this evil on us; – she hath made Her giant son our tyrant, & by spells So won the many to her cause That from their loyalty & ancient faith Recreant, bewitched to ruin, they themselves Give their own children for her sacrifice. And daily at this Tyrants Idols feet With hymns of adoration & of joy They shed the life of man.

Him more to honour, hither hath the Hag By her enchantments brought the throne That whilome the Fiends built For Nimrod, he who first among mankind Usurped the attributes of Heaven. The infatuate multitude Haild its descent with joy And song & symphony And human sacrifice. But when the Knife had pierced the victims breast On that accursed Altar, the life-blood Slow rolling into characters distinct Shaped one mysterious line. The sorcerers came, the letters mockd their skill They learnt that in that bloody line The avenging angel had inscribed The secret of their overthrow. Nor could the toil of man, nor wizard spell Blot or obscure the dreaded characters. Therefore they laid a spell That whoso reads shall die. First with their Champion practised long in arms Thou must do battle, & if Heaven should give The conquest over him Essay the danger of the spell. Beyond the city gate we dare not pass, But follow thou thy Damsel guide And blow the battle horn – God & Mohammed prosper thee For thy sake & for ours.

The while he spake the Damsel fixed Her searching eyes in Thalaba, And as she gazed a brightening hope Kindled her animated cheek. No other arms thou needest! she exclaimd Come forth to victory; Lead on! quoth Thalaba – Lead on – in Allahs name.

Beneath an Oak the battle horn was hung, There paused the Damsel guide There take thy stand, quoth she. The plain beyond is set with snares, This ground is holy, underneath his Oak My Mother gave her laws The Lady of this Land – She groans in bondage – blow the battle horn!

Loud rung the echoing blast, Clad in his arms the Enemy came forth. Alas! she cried, that ever Sorcerers art Should make the gallant Leoline the foe Of his liege Lady, whom he served so well, With such true love & peerless hardihood In many a perilous field, Against her bold & bloody enemies – This hateful Hag & her abhorred Son. But ply thine arrows well, & from the plain Beset with treason, tempt him here, This holy ground shall disenchant his soul.

Onward came Leoline And with a loud & threatful tongue provoked His foe to equal battle on the plain. So had the spell abused his noble heart That clad compleat in mail of proof He among snares provoked his naked foes. Obedient to the Damsels voice The Arab plied his arrows well. True to the unerring eye they fled, Not idly aimed at helm or shield But ever where the jointed mail Left one weak part exposed. In vain he lifts the shield to save, So swift, so strong, the arrows fly. Till stung with many a little wound And mad with unavailing rage, On rushes Leoline. And now beneath the Holy Oak He lifts his sword to strike! The Damsel caught his arm – She looked him in the face – she called his name – The well-known tones awakened him – The spell that had abused his noble soul Lost all its power, he dropt the impious sword.

He stood confused, remembering now His deeds of drunkenness, And shame self-loathing & revengeful wrath Inflamed his glowing cheek. Scarce to the daughter of his injured Queen Raised he his eyes abashed. “Thy Mother –” “Soon,” exclaimed the exultant Maid Soon shall we break her fetters! hath not Heaven Inscribed in blood the remedy for all? And then she gazed at Thalaba, “Fearest thou [MS obscured] read the fatal line, “On which the Fiends have laid a spell That whoso reads shall die? Lead on! the Youth replied, In Allahs name lead on.’

By armed hosts surrounded, on his throne Sate the Great Tyrant. they full willingly Had drenched their weapons in the adventurers heart, Yea in the Damsels bosom had they plunged Their murderous javelins, but beside them went The dreaded Leoline, Whose eye & ready arm Awed all the ruffian troop Raised on a purple pedestal The golden throne was seen Where sate the Hell Hags son. And daily on his purple pedestal The human victim bled. There uneffaceable The line of blood appeared, And fresh as from the Martyrs life it ran. And now it was the ritual hour And bound before the throne the victim stood And on the Altar lay The Axe of sacrifice.

Hold! cried the Damsel, for our champion comes To read the writing. at that voice so feared Pale grew the Usurpers cheek. Knows he – he cried, the spell That whoso reads shall die? Behold its proof, said Thalaba! And fearlessly approached And stood against the Altar & beheld The bloody characters, & read aloud “Strike here, & seek & find.”

Was it Abdaldars ring That broke the spell of death? Or did the confidence of faith secure Hodeirahs fearless son? The Tyrant Sorcerer when he heard his voice And in the baffling of the trusted charm Knew his near ruin, from the throne Rose desperate, & with lifted scymatar Came on the unarmed Youth. But lightly from the blow leapt Thalaba, And from the Altar seizd The Axe of Sacrifice, And with the strength of his united hands He smote the Usurper; on his neck he smote, Down to the chest the forceful weapon drove, The Giant reeld & fell.

Then the Destroyer raised the reeking Axe And struck the purple altar – “Seek & find!” The hollow Altar yielded to his stroke – Within appeared the talisman To quell the Mother Witch, A torch of everlasting light. Eternal Wisdom when the Fiends For Nimrod built his throne, Inclosed the inextinguishable flame.

Thalaba graspt the Torch – ‘On to the conquest oer this Hag of Hell.’ The Damsel wept aloud with joy – Come on she cried to victory – To break my Mothers chains – Come on – destroy & save!

Hark! the loud uproar – the tumultuous cry Of wailing from the Idol House – Yes he is fallen – the Son of Sorcery – The Mighty – the Blasphemer! – the Hell Hag Sounds her alarum here – Her Servants with the hasty arms of fear Crowd round her temple home – All who have fed & fattened on the blood Shed hourly at her shrine, All whom her witcheries Made to their ruin blind They rush to her defence, a raging throng. But Leoline appears Their trusted champion late, Their shield, their arm of strength! But loud the Damsel shouts her mothers name! But Thalaba comes on Shaking the holy Torch! Blow now the clarion blast And mutter oer thy charms – For broken is the purple pedestal – For shines the unextinguishable light – For the Destroyer comes!

On came the Avengers. the deluded yield – Before that holy Torch. Awakened from the spell Their old & honourable feelings rise Revived, they rally at the name Of their Liege Lady, of their Queen beloved. Beneath the sword of Leoline The guilty fly & fall. Bar ye the Temple gates? – He thunders there – he grasps with Sampson strength The iron doors. they shake – they ply – they yield! – The clang of battle penetrates Down to the dungeon depths – The light long lost visits her eyes once more – Hope once again is stirring in her heart – Yes! the Deliverer comes – her chains are broke The Lady of the Land is free.’

Then what an anguish & a shame O Leoline, were thine To see thy sovereign Lady bare of foot, The fetter-mark upon her limbs! He furious to atone his crime And vent the mingled passion, rushes on And turns upon the Hag of Hell And lifts his vengeful sword To purify the land. But she was strong, & feared no weapons edge, And clenching in her naked hand the sword Strove with her enemy in perilous strife. Which when the Damsel saw Not these, O Leoline, the arms, she cried That can prevail on her – Not this the remedy – Appointed from the first! And as the Damsel spake Lo! Thalaba comes on xx And shakes the holy Torch. Then shrieked the Hag, then hid her eyes, Then desperate strove to wrest The deadly weapon from the Avengers hand. And now all agony she flies Before the lightning fire. On presses Thalaba And shakes around her head the lightning torch. She screams – she flies – she seeks the sanctuary – The iron doors unfold, She hurries down the dark & winding way.

On rushes Thalaba. At once he stopt with sudden start For lo! the Torch that flashed so flamey late Now scatters not one ray. It burns & it is seen, sole object there Amid the impenetrable gloom That utter blackness seemed As it the Powers of Darkness with their force Repelled the hostile light.

Enter not there, the Damsel cried – Those iron doors no foot Of living man has past. The Hag of Hell is fled Down to the caves accurst from whence she came, The central depths of the Dom-Daniel den. When will avenging Heaven Send the Destroyer there?

Oh then the joy that lighted up The face of Thalaba! Is all accomplished he exclaimd – She answered, yes Deliverer – all is done! The Enchantment is dissolved The Tyrant Idol slain The Hell Hag chased away. In peace, in happiness, in liberty, Deliverer! we shall teach Our babes to bless thy name

Her answered Thalaba The blessings of the Prophet & the L[MS obscured] Be on your country. in your hand The unextinguishable light. I must go onward & compleat the work – This enterprize is mine. Long have I lopt the branches, now I lay The axe unto the root.

Then drawing off Abdaldars ring Away he cast the spell, & cried aloud² Thou art my shield, my trust, my hope O God Behold & guard me now Thou who alone canst save If from my childhood up I have looked on With exultation to my destiny – If in the hour of anguish I have owned The justice of the hand that chastened me, If of all selfish passions purified I go to work thy will & from the world Root up the ill doing race – Lord! let not thou the weakness of my arm Make vain the enterprize.

He entered the darkness. on he went With cautious step adown the winding way. At length a dim, dim gleam appears Ascending from beneath – It ends upon a precipice Two Dives are on its brink – &c &c.

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With all this I am little satisfied. it is the worst of the poem – far the worst.

Tuesday 30 December. 1800 – Lewis’s book³ has not yet reached me. perhaps the Secretary has not unpacked his trunks. – I shall be obliged to Lewis for his name in the Anthology [MS obscured] whatever he chuses to give me –

Your letter with Ld Grenvilles⁴ name, as usual came thro the Post Office, the fact is no person in England can possibly frank a letter thro a Portugueze post office. write straight to me – & your letter comes with the fair price by weight, but any attempt to frank it on[MS obscured] charges me with the cover – & the immense weight of wax upon your Uncles seal has terrified me least the next should have come under cover of the Great Imperial seal itself.

Wednesday. I have got the Tales of Wonder – & barely skimmed the cream as yet. The Eve of St Johns⁵ pleases me much – so does the Gay gold ring. how could Lewis insert that foul flat, vulgar Giles Jollup? I designed to have lengthened the Purgatory of Patrick⁶ – having got the authentic narrative from Matthew Paris⁷ of Owens adventure – but as the grub is now enshrined in amber he has no chance of ever becoming a butterfly. Ballads are catching – & my fingers tickle with a legendary itch – but I will refrain – & instead of wasting gunpowder in squibs – keep it for a great explosion. My “Curse of Keradou” ⁸ – promises to be better than Thalaba –

Mr Bunburys ballad is very bad.⁹ it offers only a succession of disgusting images. I like the Fire King of Scott. & his Glenfinlas is good, but faultily obscure – for it is not understood on a first perusal. My name should not have been prefixed to those Balladlings¹⁰ which I published anonymously & look upon as the cask-droppings – cheese-parings & candle-ends. – The Spanish Ballads are in general as inferiour to our Old English ones – as the Spaniards to the Englishmen. A ballad simplicity of language is their merit – they never display imagination. I have fou[MS obscured] a curious volume¹¹ – the commonstreet Ballads – the Bloody Gardeners, & Master Cooks of the Spanish Priory-Garden-Walls – collected by some curioso & bound together. they were printed between 1720 & 1730 – in the different provincial towns.

God bless you. R S.