Icelandic Poetry/Epistle from Robert Southey
A wretched wife. Now may the prosperous winds
Speed thee La Fayette! to that happier shore
Where Priestly dwells, where Kosciusko rests
From holy warfare. Persecuted men!
Outcasts of Europe! sufferers in the cause
Of Truth and Freedom! ye have found a home,
And in the peaceful evening of your days
A high reward is yours, the blessedness
Of self-applause.
Amos! I did not leave without regret
The pleasant home of Burton. Many months
Of tranquillest retirement had endear’d
The low abode, and I had sometimes heard
The voice of friendship there, and pass’d with thee
Hours of such blameless merriment as still
Make memory chearful. Nor wilt thou forget
How with hard toil and difficult ascent
We scaled the ruining cliff, and often paus’d
That the sea-breeze might cool our throbbing brows,
And gazed upon the ocean, shadowed half
By gathered clouds, beyond whose darker line
Its pale grey splendour, far as sight could reach
Rose like another sky. Nor will my friend
Forget the scenes of simplest character,
The hill that from the water’d vale abrupt
Starts up, upon whose dark and heathy fide
Often at evening I have lain me down,
And dwelt upon the green and goodly vale,
Its mazy streams and tufted villages,
Rich in the sunshine now, now half embrown’d
By the long sweeping shadows, till my soul
Had entered in the deep and quiet joy
All its hush’d powers. And thou wilt sometimes love
With memory’s eye to trace the ruined pile
Beneath whose ancient foot with ceaseless lapse
The eternal stream flows on, and that old Keep
Thro’ whose long rifted chasm the far-seen light
Fixes the traveller’s eye, and the white cliffs
That rising stately o’er the distant deep
Shine silvery in the noon. But thou hast view’d
These scenes like one who passes thro’ a land
Where his heart is not; I, my friend, long time
Had sojourn’d there, and I am one who form
With each minutest circumstance of place
Acquaintance, and the unfrequented field
Where many a day I walk in solitude,
Is as a friend to me. Nor have I left
That unfrequented field unsorrowing,
Over whose wooded limits the church tower
Arose in single majesty: its bank
Was edged with feathery fern, that seem’d to form
A little forest to the insect tribes
Who lived there, and were happy; and the sun
O’er the red ripeness of the bending grass of me
Pour’d a glad simile. A pleasant place it was!
And, Amos! I could wish that thou and I
And thy good brother, who in my heart holds,
Almost a brother’s place, might once again,
With as few earthly cares to ruffle us,
Meet in that low abode.
The pleasant home of Burton. Many months
Of tranquillest retirement had endear’d
The low abode, and I had sometimes heard
The voice of friendship there, and pass’d with thee
Hours of such blameless merriment as still
Make memory chearful. Nor wilt thou forget
How with hard toil and difficult ascent
We scaled the ruining cliff, and often paus’d
That the sea-breeze might cool our throbbing brows,
And gazed upon the ocean, shadowed half
By gathered clouds, beyond whose darker line
Its pale grey splendour, far as sight could reach
Rose like another sky. Nor will my friend
Forget the scenes of simplest character,
The hill that from the water’d vale abrupt
Starts up, upon whose dark and heathy fide
Often at evening I have lain me down,
And dwelt upon the green and goodly vale,
Its mazy streams and tufted villages,
Rich in the sunshine now, now half embrown’d
By the long sweeping shadows, till my soul
Had entered in the deep and quiet joy
All its hush’d powers. And thou wilt sometimes love
With memory’s eye to trace the ruined pile
Beneath whose ancient foot with ceaseless lapse
The eternal stream flows on, and that old Keep
Thro’ whose long rifted chasm the far-seen light
Fixes the traveller’s eye, and the white cliffs
That rising stately o’er the distant deep
Shine silvery in the noon. But thou hast view’d
These scenes like one who passes thro’ a land
Where his heart is not; I, my friend, long time
Had sojourn’d there, and I am one who form
With each minutest circumstance of place
Acquaintance, and the unfrequented field
Where many a day I walk in solitude,
Is as a friend to me. Nor have I left
That unfrequented field unsorrowing,
Over whose wooded limits the church tower
Arose in single majesty: its bank
Was edged with feathery fern, that seem’d to form
A little forest to the insect tribes
Who lived there, and were happy; and the sun
O’er the red ripeness of the bending grass of me
Pour’d a glad simile. A pleasant place it was!
And, Amos! I could wish that thou and I
And thy good brother, who in my heart holds,
Almost a brother’s place, might once again,
With as few earthly cares to ruffle us,
Meet in that low abode.
Meet in that low abo But now I know
Thro’ wildest scenes of strange sublimity,
Building the Runic rhyme, thy Fancy roves;
Niflhil’s nine worlds, and Surtur’s fiery plain,
And where upon Creation’s uttermost verge,
The weary Dwarfs, that bear the weight of Heaven,
Hope the long winter that no spring must cheer,
And the last sound that from Heimdaller’s trump
Shall echo thro’ all worlds, and sound the knell
Of earth and heaven.
Thro’ wildest scenes of strange sublimity,
Building the Runic rhyme, thy Fancy roves;
Niflhil’s nine worlds, and Surtur’s fiery plain,
And where upon Creation’s uttermost verge,
The weary Dwarfs, that bear the weight of Heaven,
Hope the long winter that no spring must cheer,
And the last sound that from Heimdaller’s trump
Shall echo thro’ all worlds, and sound the knell
Of earth and heaven.
Of earth and hea A strange and savage faith
Of mightiest power! it fram’d the unfeeling foul
Stern to inflict and stubborn to endure,
That laugh’d in death. When round the poison’d breast
Of Regner clung the viper brood, and trail’d
Their coiling length along his festering wounds,
He, fearless in his faith, the death-song pour’d,
And lived in his past fame; for sure he hoped
Amid the Spirits of the mighty dead
Soon to enjoy the fight. And when his sons
Avenged their father’s fate, and like the wings
Of some huge eagle spread[1] the severed ribs
Of Ella, in the shield-roof’d hall they thought
One day from Ella’s skull to quaff the mead,
Their valours guerdon.
Of mightiest power! it fram’d the unfeeling foul
Stern to inflict and stubborn to endure,
That laugh’d in death. When round the poison’d breast
Of Regner clung the viper brood, and trail’d
Their coiling length along his festering wounds,
He, fearless in his faith, the death-song pour’d,
And lived in his past fame; for sure he hoped
Amid the Spirits of the mighty dead
Soon to enjoy the fight. And when his sons
Avenged their father’s fate, and like the wings
Of some huge eagle spread[1] the severed ribs
Of Ella, in the shield-roof’d hall they thought
One day from Ella’s skull to quaff the mead,
Their valours guerdon.
Their valours guerd Wild the Runic faith,
And wild the realms where Scandinavian Chiefs
And Scalds arose, and hence the Scalds’ strong verse
Partook the savage wildness. And methinks
Amid such scenes as these, the Poet’s soul
Might best attain full growth; pine-cover’d rocks,
And mountain forests of eternal shade,
And glens and vales, on whose green quietness
The lingering eye reposes, and fair lakes
That image the light foliage of the beech,
Or the grey glitter of the aspen leaves
On the still bough thin trembling. Scenes like these
Have almost lived before me, when I gazed
Upon their fair resemblance traced by him[2]
Who sung the banish’d man of Ardebeil,
Or to the eye of Fancy held by her[3],
Who among women left no equal mind
When from this world she pass’d; and I could weep,
To think that She is to the grave gone down!
Were I, my friend, a solitary man,
Without one tie in life to anchor me,
I think that I would wander far to view.
Such scenes as these, for they would fill a heart
That loathes the commerce of this wretched world,
And sickens at its hollow gaieties.
And sure it were most pleasant when the day
Was young, to roam along the mountain path,
And mark the upmost pines, or grey with age,
Or blue in their first foliage, richly tinged
With the slant sun-beam, then at fits to pause
And gaze into the glen, a deep abyss
Of vapour, whence the unseen torrents roar
Up-thunder’d. Sweet to walk abroad at night
When as the summer moon was high in heaven
And shed a calm clear lustre, such as gave
The encircling mountains to the eye, distinct,
Disrobed of all their bright day-borrow’d hues,
The rocks’ huge shadows darker, the glen stream
Sparkling along its course, and the cool air
Fill’d with the firs’ faint odour.
And wild the realms where Scandinavian Chiefs
And Scalds arose, and hence the Scalds’ strong verse
Partook the savage wildness. And methinks
Amid such scenes as these, the Poet’s soul
Might best attain full growth; pine-cover’d rocks,
And mountain forests of eternal shade,
And glens and vales, on whose green quietness
The lingering eye reposes, and fair lakes
That image the light foliage of the beech,
Or the grey glitter of the aspen leaves
On the still bough thin trembling. Scenes like these
Have almost lived before me, when I gazed
Upon their fair resemblance traced by him[2]
Who sung the banish’d man of Ardebeil,
Or to the eye of Fancy held by her[3],
Who among women left no equal mind
When from this world she pass’d; and I could weep,
To think that She is to the grave gone down!
Were I, my friend, a solitary man,
Without one tie in life to anchor me,
I think that I would wander far to view.
Such scenes as these, for they would fill a heart
That loathes the commerce of this wretched world,
And sickens at its hollow gaieties.
And sure it were most pleasant when the day
Was young, to roam along the mountain path,
And mark the upmost pines, or grey with age,
Or blue in their first foliage, richly tinged
With the slant sun-beam, then at fits to pause
And gaze into the glen, a deep abyss
Of vapour, whence the unseen torrents roar
Up-thunder’d. Sweet to walk abroad at night
When as the summer moon was high in heaven
And shed a calm clear lustre, such as gave
The encircling mountains to the eye, distinct,
Disrobed of all their bright day-borrow’d hues,
The rocks’ huge shadows darker, the glen stream
Sparkling along its course, and the cool air
Fill’d with the firs’ faint odour.
Well pleas’d am I to sit me But in sooth
Well pleas’d am I to sit me down in peace,
While Phantasy, an untir’d traveller
Goes forth; and I shall thank thee for the rhyme
That with the Poets of the distant years
Makes me hold converse. ’Twas a strange belief!
And evil was the hour when men began
To humanize their God, and gave to stocks
And stones the incommunicable name[4].
It is not strange that simple men should rear
The grassy altar to the glorious sun,
And pile it with spring flowers and summer fruits,
And when the glorious sun smil’d on their rites
And made the landskip lovely, the warm heart
With no unholy zeal might swell the hymn
Of adoration. When the savage hears
The thunder burst, and sees the lurid sky
Glow with repeated fires, it is not strange
That he should hasten to his hut and veil
His face[5], and dread the Dæmon of the storm.
Nor that the ancient Poet, he who fed
His flock beside the stream of Helicon,
Should let creative fancy people earth
With unseen powers, that clad in darkness roam
Around the world, and mark the deeds of men[6].
But that the Priest with solemn mockery,
Or monstrous faith, should call on God to lead
His armies forth, and desolate and kill,
And over the red banners of the war,
Even in the blessed name of Jesus, pour
Prayers of a bloodier hate than ever rose
At Odin’s altar, or the Mexican,
The victim’s heart still quivering in his grasp,
Rais’d at Mexitlis’ shrine—this is most foul,
Most rank, most blasphemous idolatry!
And better were it for these wretched men
With infant victims to have fed the fire
Of Moloch, in that hour when they shall call
Upon the hills and rocks to cover them,
For the judgment day is come.
Well pleas’d am I to sit me down in peace,
While Phantasy, an untir’d traveller
Goes forth; and I shall thank thee for the rhyme
That with the Poets of the distant years
Makes me hold converse. ’Twas a strange belief!
And evil was the hour when men began
To humanize their God, and gave to stocks
And stones the incommunicable name[4].
It is not strange that simple men should rear
The grassy altar to the glorious sun,
And pile it with spring flowers and summer fruits,
And when the glorious sun smil’d on their rites
And made the landskip lovely, the warm heart
With no unholy zeal might swell the hymn
Of adoration. When the savage hears
The thunder burst, and sees the lurid sky
Glow with repeated fires, it is not strange
That he should hasten to his hut and veil
His face[5], and dread the Dæmon of the storm.
Nor that the ancient Poet, he who fed
His flock beside the stream of Helicon,
Should let creative fancy people earth
With unseen powers, that clad in darkness roam
Around the world, and mark the deeds of men[6].
But that the Priest with solemn mockery,
Or monstrous faith, should call on God to lead
His armies forth, and desolate and kill,
And over the red banners of the war,
Even in the blessed name of Jesus, pour
Prayers of a bloodier hate than ever rose
At Odin’s altar, or the Mexican,
The victim’s heart still quivering in his grasp,
Rais’d at Mexitlis’ shrine—this is most foul,
Most rank, most blasphemous idolatry!
And better were it for these wretched men
With infant victims to have fed the fire
Of Moloch, in that hour when they shall call
Upon the hills and rocks to cover them,
For the judgment day is come.
Now mark the spot where A few grey stones
Now mark the spot where Odin’s temple stood,
And there the traveller seeks with busy eye
His altar green with moss. The Northern chiefs
Cast not their captive in the dungeon now
To the viper brood, nor to the eagle’s shape
Carve out his mangled form. Yet let not Earth,
Yet let not Heaven forget the prison house
Of Olmutz! what tho’ to his Conqueror’s sword
Crouching, the Oppressor lets his victim see
Once more the light of day, let Earth and Heaven
Remember to his Conqueror’s sword he yields
What at his feet a woman begg’d in vain,
Now mark the spot where Odin’s temple stood,
And there the traveller seeks with busy eye
His altar green with moss. The Northern chiefs
Cast not their captive in the dungeon now
To the viper brood, nor to the eagle’s shape
Carve out his mangled form. Yet let not Earth,
Yet let not Heaven forget the prison house
Of Olmutz! what tho’ to his Conqueror’s sword
Crouching, the Oppressor lets his victim see
Once more the light of day, let Earth and Heaven
Remember to his Conqueror’s sword he yields
What at his feet a woman begg’d in vain,
Speed thee La Fayette! to that happier shore
Where Priestly dwells, where Kosciusko rests
From holy warfare. Persecuted men!
Outcasts of Europe! sufferers in the cause
Of Truth and Freedom! ye have found a home,
And in the peaceful evening of your days
A high reward is yours, the blessedness
Of self-applause.
Of self-applause. Is it not strange, my friend,
If ought of human folly could surprize,
That men should with such duteous zeal observe
Each ideot form, each agonizing rite
Of Pagan faith, whilst there are none who keep
The easy precepts of the Nazarene,
The faith that with it brings its own reward,
The law of peace and love?—But they are wise
Who in these evil and tumultuous times
Heed not the world’s mad business: chiefly they
Who with most pleasant labouring acquire
No selfish knowledge. Of his fellow kind
He well deserves, who for their evening hours
A blameless joy affords, and his good works,
When in the grave he sleeps, shall still survive.
Now fare thee well and prosper in thy task.
If ought of human folly could surprize,
That men should with such duteous zeal observe
Each ideot form, each agonizing rite
Of Pagan faith, whilst there are none who keep
The easy precepts of the Nazarene,
The faith that with it brings its own reward,
The law of peace and love?—But they are wise
Who in these evil and tumultuous times
Heed not the world’s mad business: chiefly they
Who with most pleasant labouring acquire
No selfish knowledge. Of his fellow kind
He well deserves, who for their evening hours
A blameless joy affords, and his good works,
When in the grave he sleeps, shall still survive.
Now fare thee well and prosper in thy task.
ROBERT SOUTHEY.
- ↑ Apud Anglos, Danos, aliasque nationes Boreales, victor
ignominia summâ debellatum adversarium affecturus, gladium
circa scapulas ad spinam dorsi adigebat, costasque, amplissimo
per corporis longitudinem facto vulnere, utrinque a spinâ
seperabet, quæ, ad latera deductæ, alas repræsentabent
Aquilinas. Hoc genus mortis vocabant Aquilam in dorso alicujus
delincere. Glossarium Islandicum M. S. S. ejusmodi vulnus sive
plagam testatur. In Jarlasagu, “tunc Comes Einarus in
dorso Halfdani Aquilinam excitavit plagam, ita ut gladuim
dorso adigerit, omnesque costas a spinâ seperaret usque ad
lumbos, indeque pulmones extraxit.” In Ormsagu, “Ormerus
evaginato gladio in dorso Erusi Aquilinam inflexit plagam,
separatis a dorso costis, and pulmonibus exemptis.
Stephanus Stephanius.
The death of Regner Lothbrog is well known. His sons revenged him by thus executing Ella of Northumberland.
- ↑ Alluding to some views in Norway, taken by Mr. Charles Fox—Whose Plaints, Consolations, and Delights of Achmed Ardebeili, from the Persian, are well known.
- ↑ Mary Wollstonecraft.
- ↑ Men, serving either calamity or tyranny, did ascribe unto
stones and stocks the incommunicable name.
Wisdom of Solomon, xiv. 21.
- ↑ Τρις γαρ μυριοι εισιν επι χθονι πουλυβοτειρῃ
Αθανατοι Ζηνος, φυλακες θνητων ανθρωπων,
Οι ρα φυλασσουσιν τε δικας και σχετλια εργα,
Ηερα εσσαμενοι, παντη φοιτωντες εν᾽ αιαν.
ΗΣΙΟΔΟΣ. - ↑ Lafitau sur les Mœurs Sauvages.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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