Poems (Southey)/Volume 1/Hymn to the Penates

by Robert Southey

Hymn

to the

Penates.

Remove far from me vanity and lies; give me neither poverty nor riches; feed me with food convenient for me.The words of Agur. 

 

ΟΙΚΟΙ βελτερον ειναι επει βλαζερον το θυρηφι. ΗΣΙΟΔΟΣ. 

THE Title of the following Poem will probably remind the Reader of Akenside's inimitable Hymn to the Naiads; but the manner in which I have treated the subject, precludes comparison.

HYMN to the PENATES.

 

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Yet one Song more! one high and solemn strainEre Pæan! on thy temple's ruined wallI hang the silent harp: there may its strings,When the rude tempest shakes the aged pile,Make melancholy music. One Song more!Penates! hear me! for to you I hymnThe votive lay. Whether, as sages deem,Ye dwell in the ^[1]inmost Heaven, the ^[2]CounsellorsOf Jove; or if, Supreme of Deities,All things are yours, and in your holy trainJove proudly ranks, and Juno, white arm'd Queen.

And wisest of Immortals, aweful MaidAthenian Pallas. Venerable Powers!Hearken your hymn of praise! Tho' from your ritesEstranged, and exiled from your altars long,I have not ceased to love you, Household Gods!In many a long and melancholy hourOf solitude and sorrow, has my heartWith earnest longings prayed to rest at lengthBeside your hallowed hearth—for Peace is there!

Yes I have loved you long. I call on youYourselves to witness with what holy joy,Shunning the polished mob of human kind,I have retired to watch your lonely firesAnd commune with myself. Delightful hoursThat gave mysterious pleasure, made me knowAll the recesses of my wayward heart,Taught me to cherish with devoutest careIts strange unworldly feelings, taught me tooThe best of lessons—to respect myself!

Nor have I ever ceas'd to reverence youDomestic Deities! from the first dawnOf reason, thro' the adventurous paths of youthEven to this better day, when on mine earThe uproar of contending nations soundsBut like the passing wind, and wakes no pulseTo tumult. When a child—(for still I loveTo dwell with fondness on my childish years,)When first a little one, I left my home,I can remember the first grief I felt,And the first painful smile that cloathed my frontWith feelings not its own: sadly at nightI sat me down beside a stranger's hearth;And when the lingering hour of rest was come,First wet with tears my pillow. As I grewIn years and knowledge, and the course of TimeDeveloped the young feelings of my heart,When most I loved in solitude to roveAmid the woodland gloom; or where the rocksDarken'd old Avon's stream, in the ivied cave Recluse to sit and brood the future song,Yet not the less, Penates, loved I thenYour altars, not the less at evening hourDelighted by the well-trimm'd fire to sit,Absorbed in many a dear deceitful dreamOf visionary joys: deceitful dreams—Not wholly vain—for painting purest joys,They form'd to Fancy's mould her votary's heart.

By Cherwell's sedgey side, and in the meadsWhere Isis in her calm clear stream reflectsThe willow's bending boughs, at earliest dawnIn the noon-tide hour, and when the night-mists rose,I have remembered you: and when the noiseOf loud intemperance on my lonely earBurst with loud tumult, as recluse I sat,Pondering on loftiest themes of man redeemedFrom servitude, and vice, and wretchedness,I blest you, Household Gods! because I lovedYour peaceful altars and serener rites.Nor did I cease to reverence you, when driven Amid the jarring crowd, an unfit manTo mingle with the world; still, still my heartSighed for your sanctuary, and inly pined;And loathing human converse, I have strayedWhere o'er the sea-beach chilly howl'd the blast,And gaz'd upon the world of waves, and wishedThat I were far beyond the Atlantic deep,In woodland haunts, a sojourner with Peace.

Not idly fabled they the Bards inspired,Who peopled Earth with Deities. They trodThe wood with reverence where the Dryads dwelt;At day's dim dawn or evening's misty hourThey saw the Oreads on their mountain haunts,And felt their holy influence, nor impureOf thought, or ever with polluted hands^[3] Touched they without a prayer the Naiad's spring;Yet was their influence transient; such brief aweInspiring as the thunder's long loud pealStrikes to the feeble spirit. Household Gods,Not such your empire! in your votaries' breastsNo momentary impulse ye awake;Nor fleeting, like their local energies,The deep devotion that your fanes impart.O ye whom Youth has wilder'd on your way,Or Vice with fair-mask'd foulness, or the lureOf Fame that calls ye to her crowded pathsWith Folly's rattle, to your Household Gods,Return! for not in Vice's gay abodes,Not in the unquiet unsafe halls of FameDoes Happiness abide! O ye who weepMuch for the many miseries of Mankind,More for their vices; ye whose honest eyesFrown on Oppression,—ye whose honest heartsBeat high when Freedom sounds her dread alarm;—O ye who quit the path of peaceful life Crusading for mankind—a spaniel raceThat lick the hand that beats them, or tear allAlike in frenzy—to your Household GodsReturn, for by their altars Virtue dwellsAnd Happiness with her; for by their firesTranquillity in no unsocial moodSits silent, listening to the pattering shower;For, so ^[4]Suspicion sleep not at the gateOf Wisdom,—Falsehood shall not enter there.As on the height of some huge eminenceReach'd with long labour, the way-faring manPauses awhile, and gazing o'er the plainWith many a sore step travelled, turns him thenSerious to contemplate the onward road,And calls to mind the comforts of his home,And sighs that he has left them, and resolves To stray no more: I on my way of lifeMuse thus Penates, and with firmest faithDevote myself to you. I will not quit,To mingle with the mob, your calm abodes,Where, by the evening hearth Contentment sitsAnd hears the cricket chirp; where Love delightsTo dwell, and on your altars lays his torchThat burns with no extinguishable flame.

Hear me ye Powers benignant! there is oneMust be mine inmate—for I may not chuseBut love him. He is one whom many wrongsHave sicken'd of the world. There was a timeWhen he would weep to hear of wickednessAnd wonder at the tale; when for the opprestHe felt a brother's pity, to the oppressorA good man's honest anger. His quick eyeBetray'd each rising feeling, every thoughtLeapt to his tongue. When first among mankindHe mingled, by himself he judged of them,And loved and trusted them, to Wisdom deaf, And took them to his bosom. Falsehood metHer unsuspecting victim, fair of front,And lovely as ^[5]Apega's sculptured form,Like that false image caught his warm embraceAnd gored his open breast. The reptile raceClung round his bosom, and with viper foldsEncircling, stung the fool who fostered them.His mother was Simplicity, his sireBenevolence; in earlier days he boreHis father's name; the world who injured himCall him Misanthropy. I may not chuseBut love him, Household Gods! for we were nurstIn the same school.Penates! some there areWho say, that not in the inmost heaven ye dwell, Gazing with eye remote on all the waysOf man, his Guardian Gods; wiselier they deemA dearer interest to the human raceLinks you, yourselves the Spirits of the Dead.No mortal eye may pierce the invisible world,No light of human reason penetrateThat depth where Truth lies hid. Yet to this faithMy heart with instant sympathy assents;And I would judge all systems and all faithsBy that best touchstone, from whose test DeceitShrinks like the Arch-Fiend at Ithuriel's spear,And Sophistry's gay glittering bubble bursts,As at the spousals of the Nereid's son,When that false ^[6]Florimel, by her prototype Display'd in rivalry, with all her charmsDissolved away.Nor can the halls of HeavenGive to the human soul such kindred joy,As hovering o'er its earthly haunts it feels,When with the breeze it wantons round the browOf one beloved on earth; or when at nightIn dreams it comes, and brings with it the DaysAnd Joys that are no more. Or when, perchanceWith power permitted to alleviate illAnd fit the sufferer for the coming woe,Some strange presage the Spirit breathes, and fillsThe breast with ominous fear, and disciplinesFor sorrow, pours into the afflicted heartThe balm of resignation, and inspiresWith heavenly hope. Even as a child delightsTo visit day by day the favorite plantHis hand has sown, to mark its gradual growth,And watch all anxious for the promised flower;Thus to the blessed spirit, in innocence And pure affections like a little child,Sweet will it be to hover o'er the friendsBeloved; then sweetest if, as Duty prompts,With earthly care we in their breasts have sownThe seeds of Truth and Virtue, holy flowersWhose odour reacheth Heaven.When my sick Heart,(Sick^[7] with hope long delayed, than, which no carePresses the crush'd heart heavier;) from itselfSeeks the best comfort, often have I deemedThat thou didst witness every inmost thoughtSeward! my dear dead friend! for not in vain,Oh early summon'd in thy heavenly course!Was thy brief sojourn here: me didst thou leave With strengthen'd step to follow the right pathTill we shall meet again. Meantime I sootheThe deep regret of Nature, with belief,My Edmund! that thine eye's celestial kenPervades me now, marking no mean joyThe movements of the heart that loved thee well!Such feelings Nature prompts, and hence your ritesDomestic Gods! arose. When for his sonWith ceaseless grief Syrophanes bewail'd,Mourning his age left childless, and his wealthHeapt for an alien, he with fixed eyeStill on the imaged marble of the deadDwelt, pampering sorrow. Thither from his wrathA safe asylum, fled the offending slave,And garlanded the statue and imploredHis young lost Lord to save: Remembrance thenSoftened the father, and he loved to seeThe votive wreath renewed, and the rich smokeCurl from the costly censer slow and sweet.From Egypt soon the sorrow-soothing rites Divulging spread; before your ^[8]idol formsBy every hearth the blinded Pagan knelt,Pouring his prayers to these, and offering thereVain sacrifice or impious, and sometimesWith human blood your sanctuary defil'd:Till the first Brutus, tyrant-conquering chief,Arose; he first the impious rites put down,He fithest, who for Freedom lived and died,The friend of humankind. Then did your feastsFrequent recur and blameless; and when cameThe solemn ^[9]festival, whose happiest ritesEmblem'd Equality, the holiest truth!Crown'd with gay garlands were your statues seen,To you the fragrant censer smok'd, to youThe rich libation flow'd: vain sacrifice! For nor the poppy wreath nor fruits nor wineYe ask, Penates! nor the altar cleans'dWith many a mystic form; ye ask the heartMade pure, and by domestic Peace and LoveHallowed to you.Hearken your hymn of praise,Penates! to your shrines I come for rest,There only to be found. Often at eve,Amid my wanderings I have seen far offThe lonely light that spake of comfort there;It told my heart of many a joy of home,And my poor heart was sad. When I have gazedFrom some high eminence on goodly valesAnd cots and villages embower'd below,The thought would rise that all to me was strangeAmid the scene so fair, nor one small spotWhere my tir'd mind might rest and call it home.There is a magic in that little word;It is a mystic circle that surroundsComforts and Virtues never known beyond The hallowed limit. Often has my heartAched for that quiet haven!—haven'd now,I think of those in this world's wildernessWho wander on and find no home of restTill to the grave they go! them PovertyHollow-eyed fiend, the child of Wealth and Power,Bad offspring of worse parents, aye afflicts,Cankering with her foul mildews the chill'd heart—Them Want with scorpion scourge drives to the denOf Guilt—them Slaughter with the price of deathBuys for her raven brood. Oh not on themGod of eternal justice! not on themLet fall thy thunder!

Household Deities!Then only shall be Happiness on earthWhen Man shall feel your sacred power, and loveYour tranquil joys; then shall the city standA huge void sepulchre, and rising fairAmid the ruins of the palace pileThe Olive grow, there shall the Tree of Peace Strike its roots deep and flourish. This the stateShall bless the race redeemed of Man, when WealthAnd Power and all their hideous progenyShall sink annihilate, and all mankindLive in the equal brotherhood of love.Heart-calming hope and sure! for hitherwardTend all the tumults of the troubled world,Its woes, its wisdom, and its wickednessAlike: so he hath will'd whose will is just.

Meantime, all hoping and expecting allIn patient faith, to you, Domestic Gods!I come, studious of other lore than song,Of my past years the solace and support:Yet shall my Heart remember the past yearsWith honest pride, trusting that not in vainLives the pure song of Liberty and Truth.1796. 

 

END.

1. Hence one explanation of the name Penates, because they were supposed to reign in the inmost Heavens.
2. This was the belief of the ancient Hetrusci, who called them Consentes and Complices]
3. Μηδε ποτ᾽ αεναων ποταμων χαλλιρροον υδωρΠοσσι περαν πριν γ ευξη ιρων ες καλα ρεεθρα,Χειρας νιψαμενος πολυηρατω υὄατι λευκω.Ος ποταμον διαξη κακοτητι δε χειρας ανιπτος,Τωδε θεοι νεμεσωσι, και αλγεα δωκαν οπισσω.ΗΣΙΟΔΟΣ.
   
4. Oft, tho' Wisdom wake, Suspicion sleepsAt Wisdom's gate, and to SimplicityResigns her charge, while Goodness thinks no illWhere no ill seems.Milton.
   
5. One of the ways and means of the Tyrant Nabis. If one of his subjects refused to lend him money, he commanded him to embrace his Apega; the statue of a beautiful Woman so formed as to clasp the victim to her breast, in which a pointed dagger was concealed.
6. Then did he set her by that snowy one,Like the true saint beside the image set,Of both their beauties to make paragoneAnd trial whether should the honour get:Streightway so soone as both together met,The enchaunted damzell vanish'd into nought;Her snowy substance melted as with heat,Ne of that goodly hew remayned oughtBut the emptie girdle which about her wast was wrought.Spenser.
   
7. Hope deferred maketh the heart sick.Proverbs. 
   

   Qua non gravior mortalibus addita cura,Spes ubi longa venit.Statius. 
   
8. It is not certainly known under what form the Penates were worshipped. Some assert, as wooden or brazen rods shaped like trumpets: others, that they were represented as young men.
9. The Saturnalia.