THE POETICAL WORKS OF ROBERT SOUTHEY. PREFACE. Ar the age of sixty-three I have undertaken | worth. But inherent faults of conception and to collect and edite my Poetical Works, with structure are incurable; and it would have been the last corrections that I can expect to bestow mere waste of time to recompose what it was imupon them. They have obtained a reputation possible otherwise to amend. equal to my wishes; and I have this ground for hoping it may not be deemed hereafter more than commensurate with their deserts, that it has been gained without ever accommodating myself to the taste or fashion of the times. Thus to collect and revise them is a duty which I owe to that part of the Public by whom they have been auspiciously received, and to those who will take a lively concern in my good name when I shall have departed. The arrangement was the first thing to be considered. In this the order wherein the respective poems were written has been observed, so far as was compatible with a convenient classification. Such order is useful to those who read critically, and desire to trace the progress of an author's mind in his writings; and by affixing dates to the minor pieces, under whatever head they are disposed, the object is sufficiently attained. If these poems had been now for the first time to be made public, there are some among them which, instead of being committed to the press, would have been consigned to the flames; not for any disgrace which could be reflected upon me by the crude compositions of my youth, nor for any harm which they could possibly do the reader, but merely that they might not cumber the collection. But "nescit vox missa reverti." Pirated editions would hold out as a recommendation, that they contained what I had chosen to suppress, and thus it becomes prudent, and therefore proper, that such pieces should be retained. It has ever been a rule with me when I have imitated a passage, or borrowed an expression, to acknowledge the specific obligation. Upon the present occasion it behoves me to state the more general and therefore more important obligations which I am conscious of owing either to my predecessors or my contemporaries. Next came the question of correction. There was no difficulty with those poems which were My first attempts in verse were much too early composed after the author had acquired his art, (so to be imitative; but I was fortunate enough to find far as he has acquired it,) and after his opinions my way, when very young, into the right path. were matured. It was only necessary to bear in I read the "Jerusalem Delivered" and the "Ormind the risk there must ever be of injuring a lando Furioso," again and again, in Hoole's trans- ́ poem by verbal alterations made long after it was lations; it was for the sake of their stories that I written; inasmuch as it must be impossible to perused and re-perused these poems with everrecall the precise train of thought in which any new delight; and by bringing them thus within passage was conceived, and the considerations my reach in boyhood, the translator rendered me upon which not the single verse alone, but the a service which, when I look back upon my inwhole sentence, or paragraph, had been con- tellectual life, I cannot estimate too highly. I structed: but with regard to more important owe him much also for his notes, not only for the changes, there could be no danger of introducing any discrepance in style. With juvenile pieces the case is different. From these the faults of diction have been weeded, wherever it could be done without more trouble than the composition originally cost, and than the piece itself was information concerning other Italian romances which they imparted, but also for introducing me to Spenser;-how early, an incident which I well remember may show. Going with a relation into Bull's circulating library at Bath, (an excellent one for those days,) and asking whether they had the "Faery Queen," the person who managed | borhood of Bristol, are some of those which have the shop said, "Yes, they had it, but it was in left with me "a joy for memory." obsolete language, and the young gentleman I have thus acknowledged all the specific obliwould not understand it." But I, who had gations to my elders or contemporaries in the art, learned all I then knew of the history of England of which 1 am distinctly conscious. The advanfrom Shakespear, and who had moreover read tages arising from intimate intercourse with those Beaumont and Fletcher, found no difficulty in who were engaged in similar pursuits cannot be in Spenser's English, and felt in the beauty of his like manner specified, because in their nature they versification a charm in poetry of which I had are imperceptible; but of such advantages no man never been fully sensible before. From that time has ever possessed more or greater, than at differI took Spenser for my master. I drank also be-ent times it has been my lot to enjoy. Personal times of Chaucer's well. The taste which had attachment first, and family circumstances afterbeen acquired in that school was confirmed by wards, connected me long and closely with Mr. Percy's "Reliques" and Warton's "History of Coleridge; and three-and-thirty years have ratiEnglish Poetry;" and a little later by Homer fied a friendship with Mr. Wordsworth, which we and the Bible. It was not likely to be corrupted believe will not terminate with this life, and afterwards. which it is a pleasure for us to know will be continued and cherished as an heir-loom by those who are dearest to us both. My school-boy verses savored of Gray, Mason, and my predecessor Warton; and in the best of my juvenile pieces it may be seen how much the writer's mind had been imbued by Akenside. I am conscious also of having derived much benefit at one time from Cowper, and more from Bowles; for which, and for the delight which his poems gave me at an age when we are most susceptible of such delight, my good friend at Bremhill, to whom I was then and long afterwards personally unknown, will allow me to make this grateful and cordial acknowledgment. My obligation to Dr. Sayers is of a different kind. Every one who has an ear for metre and a heart for poetry, must have felt how perfectly the metre of Collins's "Ode to Evening" is in accordance with the imagery and the feeling. None of the experiments which were made of other unrhymed stanzas proved successful. They were either in strongly-marked and well-known measures, which unavoidably led the reader to expect rhyme, and consequently balked him when he looked for it; or they were in stanzas as cumbrous as they were ill constructed. Dr. Sayers went upon a different principle, and succeeded admirably. I read his "Dramatic Sketches of Northern Mythology" when they were first published, and convinced myself, when I had acquired some skill in versification, that the kind of verse in which his choruses were composed was not less applicable to narration than to lyrical poetry. Soon after I had begun the Arabian romance, for which this measure seemed the most appropriate vehicle, "Gebir" fell into my hands; and my verse was greatly improved by it, both in vividness and strength. Several years elapsed before I knew that Walter Landor was the author, and more before I had the good fortune to meet the person to whom I felt myself thus beholden. The days which I have passed with him in the Vale of Ewias, at Como, and lastly in the neigh When I add, what has been the greatest of all advantages, that I have passed more than half my life in retirement, conversing with books rather than men, constantly and unweariably engaged in literary pursuits, communing with my own heart, and taking that course which, upon mature consideration, seemed best to myself, I have said every thing necessary to account for the characteristics of my poetry, whatever they may be. It was in a mood resembling in no slight degree that wherewith a person in sound health, both of body and mind, makes his will and sets his worldly affairs in order, that I entered upon the serious task of arranging and revising the whole of my poetical works. What, indeed, was it but to bring in review before me the dreams and aspirations of my youth, and the feelings whereto I had given that free utterance which by the usages of this world is permitted to us in poetry, and in poetry alone? Of the smaller pieces in this collection there is scarcely one concerning which 1 cannot vividly call to mind when and where it was composed. I have perfect recollection of the spots where many, not of the scenes only, but of the images which I have described from nature, were observed and noted. And how would it be possible for me to forget the interest taken in these poems, especially the longer and more ambitious works, by those persons nearest and dearest to me then, who witnessed their growth and completion? Well may it be called a serious task thus to resuscitate the past! But, serious though it be, it is not painful to one who knows that the end of his journey cannot be far distant, and, by the blessing of God, looks on to its termination with sure and certain hope. KESWICK, 10th May, 1857. Joan of ΕΙΣ ΟΙΩΝΟΣ ΑΡΙΣΤΟΣ ΑΜΥΝΕΣΘΑΙ ΠΕΡΙ ΠΑΤΡΗΣ........Homer Perlege, cognosces animum sine viribus alas PREFACE TO JOAN OF ARC. |iting had not obtained among them. Uncle Toby himself might have enjoyed his rood and a half of ground there, and not have had it known. A forecourt separated the house from the foot-path and the road in front; behind, there was a large and well-stocked garden, with other spacious premises, in which utility and ornament were in some degree combined. At the extremity of the garden, and under the shade of four lofty linden trees, was a EARLY in July, 1793, I happened to fall in conversation, at Oxford, with an old schoolfellow upon the story of Joan of Arc; and it then struck me as being singularly well adapted for a poem. The long vacation commenced immediately afterwards. As soon as I reached home I formed the outline of a plan, and wrote about three hundred lines. The remainder of the month was passed in trav-summer-house looking on an ornamented grasselling; and I was too much engaged in new scenes and circumstances to proceed, even in thought, with what had been broken off. In August I went to visit my old schoolfellow, Mr. Grosvenor Bedford, who, at that time, resided with his parents at Brixton Causeway, about four miles on the Surrey side of the metropolis. There, the day after completing my nineteenth year, I resumed the undertaking, and there, in six weeks from that day, finished what I called an Epic Poem in twelve books. plot, and fitted up as a conveniently habitable room. That summer-house was allotted to me, and there my mornings were passed at the desk. Whether it exists now or not, I am ignorant. The property has long since passed into other hands. The common is enclosed and divided by rectangular hedges and palings; rows of brick houses have supplanted the shade of oaks and elms; the brows of the Surrey hills bear a parapet of modern villas, and the face of the whole district is changed. I was not a little proud of my performance. My progress would not have been so rapid had Young poets are, or at least used to be, as amit not been for the opportunity of retirement which bitious of producing an epic poem, as stage-stricken I enjoyed there, and the encouragement that I youths of figuring in Romeo or Hamlet. It had received. In those days London had not extended been the earliest of my day-dreams. I had begun in that direction farther than Kennington, beyond many such; but this was the first which had been which place the scene changed suddenly, and completed, and I was too young and too ardent to there was an air and appearance of country which perceive or suspect that the execution was as might now be sought in vain at a far greater dis- crude as the design. In the course of the autumn tance from town. There was nothing indeed to I transcribed it fairly from the first draught, making remind one that London was so near, except the no other alterations or corrections of any kind than smoke which overhung it. Mr. Bedford's res- such as suggested themselves in the act of tranidence was situated upon the edge of a common, scription. Upon showing it to the friend in conon which shady lanes opened leading to the neigh-versation with whom the design had originated, boring villages (for such they were then) of Cam- | he said, “I am glad you have written this; it will berwell, Dulwich, and Clapham, and to Norwood. serve as a store where you will find good passages The view in front was bounded by the Surrey hills. Its size and structure showed it to be one of those good houses built in the early part of the last century by persons who, having realized a Toward the close of 1794, it was announced as respectable fortune in trade, were wise enough to to be published by subscription in a quarto volume, be contented with it, and retire to pass the evening price one guinea. Shortly afterwards I became of their lives in the enjoyment of leisure and tran- acquainted with my fellow-townsman, Mr. Joseph quillity. Tranquil indeed the place was; for the Cottle, who had recently commenced business as neighborhood did not extend beyond half a dozen a bookseller in our native city of Bristol. One families, and the London style and habits of vis-evening I read to him part of the poem, without for better poems." His opinion of it was more judicious than mine; but what there was good in it or promising, would not have been transplantable. any thought of making a proposal concerning it, or expectation of receiving one. He, however, offered me fifty guineas for the copyright, and fifty copies for my subscribers, which was more than the list amounted to; and the offer was accepted as promptly as it was made. It can rarely happen that a young author should meet with a bookseller as inexperienced and as ardent as himself, and it would be still more extraordinary if such mutual indiscretion did not bring with it cause for regret to both. But this transaction was the commencement of an intimacy which has continued, without the slightest shade of displeasure at any time, on either side, to the present day. ORIGINAL PREFACE. The history of Joan of Arc is as mysterious as it is remarkable. That she believed herself inspired, few will deny; that she was inspired, no one will venture to assert; and it is difficult to believe that she was herself imposed upon by Charles and Dunois. That she discovered the King when he disguised himself among the courtiers to deceive her, and that, as a proof of her mission, she demanded a sword from a tomb in the church of St. Catharine, are facts in which all historians agree. If this had been done by collusion, the Maid must have known herself an impostor, and with that knowledge could not have performed the enter At that time, few books were printed in the country, and it was seldom indeed that a quarto volume issued from a provincial press. A font ofprise she undertook. Enthusiasm, and that of no new types was ordered for what was intended to be the handsomest book that Bristol had ever yet sent forth; and when the paper arrived, and the printer was ready to commence his operations, nothing had been done toward preparing the poem for the press, except that a few verbal alterations had been made. I was not, however, without misgivings, and when the first proof-sheet was brought me, the more glaring faults of the composition stared me in the face. But the sight of a well-printed page, which was to be set off with all the advantages that fine wove paper and hot-pressing could impart, put me in spirits, and I went to work with good-will. About half the first book was left in its original state; the rest of the poem was re-cast and re-composed while the printing This occupied six months. I corrected the concluding sheet of the poem, left the Preface in the publisher's hands, and departed for Lisbon by way of Coruña and Madrid. went on. common kind, was necessary, to enable a young maiden at once to assume the profession of arms, to lead her troops to battle, to fight among the foremost, and to subdue with an inferior force an enemy then believed invincible. It is not possible that one who felt herself the puppet of a party, could have performed these things. The artifices of a court could not have persuaded her that she discovered Charles in disguise; nor could they have prompted her to demand the sword which they might have hidden, without discovering the deceit. The Maid then was not knowingly an impostor; nor could she have been the instrument of the court; and to say that she believed herself inspired, will neither account for her singling out the King, or prophetically claiming the sword. After crowning Charles, she declared that her mission was accomplished, and demanded leave to retire. Enthusiasm would not have ceased here; and if they who imposed on her could persuade her still to go with their armies, they could still have continued her delusion. The Preface was written with as little discretion as had been shown in publishing the work itself. It stated how rapidly the poem had been produced, This mysteriousness renders the story of Joan and that it had been almost re-composed during of Arc peculiarly fit for poetry. The aid of angels its progress through the press. This was not said and devils is not necessary to raise her above manas taking merit for haste and temerity, nor to kind; she has no gods to lackey her, and inspire excuse its faults, only to account for them. But her with courage, and heal her wounds: the Maid here I was liable to be misapprehended, and of Orleans acts wholly from the workings of her likely to be misrepresented. The public indeed own mind, from the deep feeling of inspiration. care neither for explanations nor excuses; and The palpable agency of superior powers would desuch particulars might not unfitly be deemed un-stroy the obscurity of her character, and sink her becoming in a young man, though they may be to the mere heroine of a fairy tale. excused, and even expected, from an old author, who, at the close of a long career, looks upon himself as belonging to the past. Omitting these passages, and the specification of what Mr. Coleridge had written in the second book, (which was withdrawn in the next edition,) the remainder of the Preface is here subjoined. It states the little which I had been able to collect concerning the subject of the poem, gives what was then my own view of Joan of Arc's character and history, and expresses with overweening confidence the opinions which the writer entertained concerning those poets whom it was his ambition not to imitate, but to follow. It cannot be necessary to say, that some of those opinions have been modified, and others completely changed, as he grew older. The alterations which I have made in the history are few and trifling. The death of Salisbury is placed later, and of the Talbots earlier than they occurred. As the battle of Patay is the concluding action of the Poem, I have given it all the previous solemnity of a settled engagement. Whatever appears miraculous is asserted in history, and my authorities will be found in the notes. It is the common fault of Epic Poems, that we feel little interest for the heroes they celebrate. The national vanity of a Greek or a Roman might have been gratified by the renown of Achilles or Eneas; but to engage the unprejudiced, there must be more of human feelings than is generally to be found in the character of a warrior. From this objection, the Odyssey alone may be excepted. Ulysses appears as the father and the husband, and the affections are enlisted on his side. The judgment must applaud the well-digested plan and splendid execution of the Iliad, but the heart always bears testimony to the merit of the Odyssey: it is the poem of nature, and its personages inspire love rather than command admiration. The good herdsman Eumæus is worth a thousand heroes. Homer is, indeed, the best of poets, for he is at once dignified and simple; but Pope has disguised him in fop-finery, and Cowper has stripped hin naked. There are few readers who do not prefer Turnus to Æneas -a fugitive, suspected of treason, who negligently left his wife, seduced Dido, deserted her, and then forcibly took Lavinia from her betrothed husband. What avails a man's piety to the gods, if in all his dealings with men he prove himself a villain? If we represent Deity as commanding a bad action, this is not exculpating the man, but criminating the God. The ill-chosen subjects of Lucan and Statius have prevented them from acquiring the popularity they would otherwise have merited; yet in detached parts, the former of these is perhaps unequalled, certainly unexcelled. I do not scruple to prefer Statius to Virgil; with inferior taste, he appears to me to possess a richer and more powerful imagination; his images are strongly conceived, and clearly painted, and the force of his language, while it makes the reader feel, proves that the author felt himself. The power of story is strikingly exemplified in the Italian heroic poets. They please universally, even in translations, when little but the story remains. In proportioning his characters, Tasso has erred; Godfrey is the hero of the poem, Rinaldo of the poet, and Tancred of the reader. Secondary characters should not be introduced, like Gyas and Cloanthus, merely to fill a procession; neither should they be so prominent as to throw the principal into shade. The lawless magic of Ariosto, and the singular theme as well as the singular excellence of Milton, render it impossible to deduce any rules of epic poetry from these authors. So likewise with Spenser, the favorite of my childhood, from whose frequent perusal I have always found increased delight. has yet produced his equal: his heart was broken by calamity, but the spirit of integrity and independence never forsook Camoens. I have endeavored to avoid what appears to me the common fault of epic poems, and to render the Maid of Orleans interesting. With this intent I have given her, not the passion of love, but the remembrance of subdued affection, a lingering of human feelings not inconsistent with the enthusiasm and holiness of her character. The multitude of obscure epic writers copy with the most gross servility their ancient models. If a tempest occurs, some envious spirit procures it from the God of the winds or the God of the sea. Is there a town besieged? the eyes of the hero are opened, and he beholds the powers of Heaven assisting in the attack; an angel is at hand to heal his wounds, and the leader of the enemy in his last combat is seized with the sudden cowardice of Hector. Even Tasso is too often an imitator. But notwithstanding the censure of a satirist, the name of Tasso will still be ranked among the best heroic poets. Perhaps Boileau only condemned him for the sake of an antithesis; it is with such writers, as with those who affect point in their conversation- they will always sacrifice truth to the gratification of their vanity. I have avoided what seems useless and wearying in other poems, and my readers will find no descriptions of armor, no muster-rolls, no geographical catalogues, lion, tiger, bull, bear, and boar similes, Phoebuses or Auroras. And where in battle I have particularized the death of an individual, it is not, I hope, like the common lists of killed and wounded. It has been established as a necessary rule for the epic, that the subject should be national. To this rule I have acted in direct opposition, and chosen for the subject of my poem the defeat of the English. If there be any readers who can wish success to an unjust cause, because their country was engaged in it, I desire not their approbation. In Millin's National Antiquities of France, I find that M. Laverdy was, in 1791, occupied in collecting whatever has been written concerning the Maid of Orleans. I have anxiously looked for his work, but it is probable, considering the tumults of the intervening period, that it has not been Against the machinery of Camoens, a heavier accomplished. Of the various productions to the charge must be brought than that of profaneness memory of Joan of Arc, I have only collected a or incongruity. His floating island is but a float- few titles, and, if report may be trusted, need not ing brothel, and no beauty can make atonement fear a heavier condemnation than to be deemed for licentiousness. From this accusation, none equally bad. A regular canon of St. Euverte has but a translator would attempt to justify him; but written what is said to be a very bad poem, enCamoens had the most able of translators. The titled the Modern Amazon. There is a prose Lusiad, though excellent in parts, is uninteresting tragedy called La Pucelle d'Orleans, variously as a whole it is read with little emotion, and attributed to Benserade, to Boyer, and to Meremembered with little pleasure. But it was composed in the anguish of disappointed hopes, in the fatigues of war, and in a country far from all he loved; and we should not forget, that as the Poet of Portugal was among the most unfortunate of men, so he should be ranked among the most respectable. Neither his own country or Spain nardiere. The abbé Daubignac published a prose tragedy with the same title in 1642. There is one under the name of Jean Baruel of 1581, and another printed anonymously at Rouen, 1606. Among the manuscripts of the queen of Sweden in the Vatican, is a dramatic piece in verse called Le Mystere du Siege d'Orleans. In these modern |