The Battle of Blenheim

IT was a summer evening,

Old Kaspar's work was done,

And he before his cottage door

Was sitting in the sun,

And by him sported on the green

His little grandchild Wilhemine.

She saw her brother Peterkin

Roll something large and round,

Which he beside the rivulet

In playing there had found;

He came to ask what he had found,

That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,

Who stood expectant by;

And then the old man shook his head,

And with a natural sigh,

" 'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he,

"Who fell in the great victory.

"I find them in the garden,

For there's many here about;

And often when I go to plough,

The ploughshare turns them out!

For many thousand men," said he,

"Were slain in that great victory."

"Now tell us what 'twas all about,"

Young Peterkin, he cries;

And little Wilhemine looks up

With wonder-waiting eyes;

"Now tell us all about the war,

And what they fought each other for.

"It was the English," Kaspar cried,

"Who put the French to rout;

But what they fought each other for,

I could not well make out;

But everybody said," quoth he,

"That 'twas a famous victory.

"My father lived at Blenheim then,

Yon little stream hard by;

They burnt his dwelling to the ground,

And he was forced to fly;

So with his wife and child he fled,

Nor had he where to rest his head.

"With fire and sword the country round

Was wasted far and wide,

And many a childing mother then,

And new-born baby died;

But things like that, you know, must be

At every famous victory.

"They say it was a shocking sight

After the field was won;

For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun;

But things like that, you know, must be

After a famous victory.

"Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,

And our good Prince Eugene."

"Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!"

Said little Wilhemine.

"Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he,

"It was a famous victory.

"And everybody praised the Duke

Who this great fight did win."

"But what good came of it at last?"

Quoth little Peterkin.

"Why, that I cannot tell," said he,

"But 'twas a famous victory."

Richard Southey

The Old Man's Comforts and How He Gained Them

"You are old, father William," the young man cried,

"The few locks which are left you are grey;

You are hale, father William, a hearty old man;

Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"In the days of my youth," father William replied,

"I remember'd that youth would fly fast,

And abus'd not my health and my vigour at first,

That I never might need them at last."

"You are old, father William," the young man cried,

"And pleasures with youth pass away.

And yet you lament not the days that are gone;

Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"In the days of my youth," father William replied,

"I rememberd that youth could not last;

I thought of the future, whatever I did,

That I never might grieve for the past."

"You are old, father William," the young man cried,

"And life must be hast'ning away;

You are cheerful and love to converse upon death;

Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"I am cheerful, young man," father William replied,

"Let the cause thy attention engage;

In the days of my youth I remember'd my God!

And He hath not forgotten my age."

Robert Southey

The Inchcape Rock

NO stir in the air, no stir in the sea,

The ship was still as she could be,

Her sails from heaven received no motion,

Her keel was steady in the ocean.

Without either sign or sound of their shock

The waves flow'd over the Inchape Rock;

So little they rose, so little they fell,

They did not move the Inchcape Bell.

The Abbot of Aberbrothok

Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock;

On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung,

And over the waves its warning rung.

When the Rock was hid by the surge's swell,

The mariners heard the warning bell;

And then they knew the perilous Rock,

And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok.

The Sun in heaven was shining gay,

All things were joyful on that day;

The sea-birds scream'd as they wheel'd round,

And there was joyaunce in their sound.

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen

A darker speck on the ocean green;

Sir Ralph the Rover walk'd his deck,

And he fixed his eye on the darker speck.

He felt the cheering power of spring.

It made him whistle, it made him sing;

His heart was mirthful to excess,

But the Rover's mirth was wickedness.

His eye was on the Inchcape float;

Quoth he, 'My men, put out the boat,

And row me to the Inchape Rock,

And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok.'

The boat is lower'd, the boatmen row,

And to the Inchcape Rock they go;

Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,

And he cut the Bell from the Inchcape float.

Down sunk the Bell with a gurgling sound.

The bubbles rose and burst around;

Quoth Sir Ralph, 'The next who comes to the Rock

Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok.'

Sir Ralph the Rover sail'd away,

He scour'd the seas for many a day;

And now grown rich with plunder'd store,

He steers his course for Scotland's shore.

So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky

They cannot see the Sun on high;

The wind hath blown a gale all day,

At evening it hath died away.

On the deck the Rover takes his stand,

So dark it is they see no land.

Quoth Sir Ralph, 'It will be lighter soon,

For there is the dawn of the rising Moon.'

'Canst hear,' said one, 'the breakers roar?

For methinks we should be near the shore.'

'Now where we are I cannot tell,

But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell.'

They hear no sound, the swell is strong;

Though the wind hath fallen they drift along,

Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock,--

'Oh, Christ! it is the Inchcape Rock!'

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair;

He curst himself in his despair;

The waves rush in on every side,

The ship is sinking beneath the tide.

But even in his dying fear

One dreadful sound could the Rover hear,

A sound as if with the Inchcape Bell,

The Devil below was ringing his knell.

Robert Southey

My Days Among the Dead Are Past

MY days among the Dead are past;

Around me I behold,

Where'er these casual eyes are cast,

The mighty minds of old;

My never-failing friends are they,

With whom I converse day by day.

With them I take delight in weal,

And seek relief in woe;

And while I understand and feel

How much to them I owe,

My cheeks have often been bedew'd

With tears of thoughtful gratitude.

My thoughts are with the Dead, with them

I live in long-past years,

Their virtues love, their faults condemn,

Partake their hopes and fears,

And from their lessons seek and find

Instruction with an humble mind.

My hopes are with the Dead, anon

My place with them will be,

And I with them will travel on

Through all Futurity;

Yet leaving here a name, I trust,

That will not perish in the dust.

Robert Southey

The Old Woman of Berkeley

THE Raven croak'd as she sate at her meal,

And the Old Woman knew what he said,

And she grew pale at the Raven's tale,

And sicken'd and went to her bed.

'Now fetch me my children, and fetch them with speed,'

The Old Woman of Berkeley said,

'The Monk my son, and my daughter the Nun,

Bid them hasten or I shall be dead.'

The Monk her son, and her daughter the Nun,

Their way to Berkeley went,

And they have brought with pious thought

The holy sacrament.

The Old Woman shriek'd as they enter'd her door,

And she cried with a voice of despair,

'Now take away the sacrament,

For its presence I cannot bear!'

Her lip it trembled with agony,

The sweat ran down her brow,

'I have tortures in store for evermore,

But spare me, my children, now!'

Away they sent the sacrament,

The fit it left her weak,

She look's at her children with ghastly eyes,

And faintly struggled to speak.

'All kind of sin have I rioted in,

And the judgement now must be,

But I secured my children's souls,

Oh! pray, my children, for me!

'I have 'nointed myself with infant's fat,

The fiends have been my slaves,

From sleeping babes I have suck'd the breath,

And breaking by charms the sleep of death,

I have call'd the dead from their graves.

'And the Devil will fetch me now in fire,

My witchcrafts to atone;

And I who have troubled the dead man's grave

Shall never have rest in my own.

'Bless, I entreat, my winding sheet,

My children, I beg of you;

And with holy water sprinkle my shroud,

And sprinkle my coffin, too.

'And let me be chain'd in my coffin of stone,

And fasten it strong, I implore,

With iron bars, and with three chains,

Chain it to the church floor.

'And bless the chains and sprinkle them,

And let fifty Priests stand round,

Who night and day the mass may say

Where I lie on the ground.

'And see that fifty Choristers

Beside the bier attend me,

And day and night by the tapers' light,

With holy hymns defend me.

'Let the church bells all, both great and small,

Be toll'd by night and day,

To drive from thence the fiends who come

To bear my body away.

`And ever have the church door barr'd

After the even-song;

And I beseech you, children dear,

Let the bars and bolts be strong.

'And let this be three days and nights

My wretched corpse to save;

Till the fourth morning keep me safe,

And then I may rest in my grave.'

The Old Woman of Berkeley laid her down,

And her eyes grew deadly dim,

Short came her breath, and the struggle of death

Did loosen every limb.

They blest the old woman's winding sheet

With rites and prayers due,

With holy water they sprinkled her shroud,

And they sprinkled her coffin too.

And they chain'd her in her coffin of stone,

And with iron barr'd it down,

And in the church with three strong chains

The chain'd it to the ground.

And they blest the chains and sprinkled them,

And fifty Priests stood round,

By night and day the mass to say

Where she lay on the ground.

And fifty sacred Choristers

Beside the bier attend her,

Who day and night by the taper's light

Should with holy hymns defend her.

To see the Priests and Choristers

It was a goodly sight,

Each holding, as it were a staff,

A taper burning bright.

And the church bells all, both great and small,

Did toll so loud and long;

And they have barr'd the church door hard,

After the even-song.

And the first night the tapers' light

Burnt steadily and clear,

But they without a hideous rout

Of angry fiends could hear;

A hideous roar at the church door

Like a long thunder peal;

And the Priests they pray'd, and the Choristers sung

Louder in fearful zeal.

Loud toll'd the bell, the Priests pray'd well,

The tapers they burnt bright,

The Monk her son, and her daughter the Nun,

They told their beads all night.

The cock he crew, the Fiends they flew

From the voice of the morning away;

Then undisturb'd the Choristers sing,

And the fifty Priests they pray;

As they had sung and pray'd all night,

They pray'd and sung all day.

The second night the tapers' light

Burnt dismally and blue,

And every one saw his neighbour's face

Like a dead man's face to view.

And yells and cries without arise

That the stoutest heart might shock,

And a deafening roar like a cataract pouring

Over a mountain rock.

The Monk and Nun they told their beads

As fast as they could tell,

And aye as louder grew the noise

The faster went the bell.

Louder and louder the Choristers sung

As they trembled more and more,

And the Priests as they pray'd to heaven for aid,

They smote their breasts full sore.

The cock he crew, the Fiends they flew

From the voice of the morning away;

Then undisturb'd the Choristers sing,

And the fifty Priests they pray;

As they had sung and pray'd all night,

The pray'd and sung all day.

The third night came, and the tapers' flame

A frightful stench did make;

And they burnt as though they had been dipt

In the burning brimstone lake.

And the loud commotion, like the rushing of ocean,

Grew momently more and more;

And strokes as of a battering ram

Did shake the strong church door.

The bellmen, they for very fear

Could toll the bell no longer;

And still as louder grew the strokes

Their fear it grew the stronger.

The Monk and Nun forgot their beads,

They fell on the ground in dismay;

There was not a single Saint in heaven

To whom they did not pray.

And the Choristers' song, which late was so strong,

Falter'd with consternation,

For the church did rock as an earthquake shock

Uplifed its foundation.

And a sound was heard like the trumpet's blast,

That shall one day wake the dead;

The strong church door could bear no more,

And the bolts and the bars they fled;

And the tapers' light was extinguish'd quite,

And the Choristers faintly sung,

And the Priests dismay'd, panted and pray'd,

And on all the Saints in heaven for aid

They call'd with trembling tongue.

And in He came with eyes of flame,

The Devil to fetch the dead,

And all the church with his presence glow'd

Like a fiery furnace red.

He laid his hand on the iron chains,

And like flax they moulder'd asunder,

And the coffin lid, which was barr'd so firm,

He burst with his voice of thunder.

And he bade the Old Woman of Berkeley rise,

And some with her Master away;

A cold sweat started on that cold corpse,

At the voice she was forced to obey.

She rose on her feet in her winding sheet,

Her dead flesh quiver'd with fear,

And a groan like that which the Old Woman gave

Never did mortal hear.

She follow'd her Master to the church door,

There stood a black horse there;

His breath was red like furnace smoke,

His eyes like a meteor's glare.

The Devil he flung her on the horse,

And he leapt up before,

And away like the lightning's speed they went,

And she was seen no more.

They saw her no more, but her cries

For four miles round they could hear,

And children at rest at their mothers' breast

Started, and scream'd with fear.

Robert Southey