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Roderick received the alms; his wandering eye
Fell on the money, and the fallen king,
Seeing his royal impress on the piece,
Broke out into a quick convulsive voice,
That seemed like laughter first, but ended soon
In hollow groan suppressed: the Mussulman
Shrunk at the ghastly sound, and magnified
The name of Allah as he hastened on.
A Christian woman, spinning at her door,
Beheld him-and with sudden pity touched,
She laid her spindle by, and running in,
Took bread, and following after, called him back-
And, placing in his passive hands the loaf,
She said, “Christ Jesus for his Mother's sake
Have mercy on thee!' With a look that seemed
Like idiocy, he heard her, and stood still,
Staring a while; then bursting into tears,

Wept like a child.
Or the following description:

A Moonlight Scene in Spain.
How calmly, gliding through the dark-blue sky,
The midnight moon ascends! Her placid beams,
Through thinly scattered leaves, and boughs grotesque,
Mottle with mazy shades the orchard slope;
Here o'er the chestnut's fretted foliage, gray.
And massy, motionless they spread; here shine
Upon the crags, deepening with blacker night
Their chasms; and there the glittering argentry
Ripples and glances on the confluent streams.
A lovelier, purer light than that of day
Rests on the hills; and oh, how awfully,
Into that deep and tranquil firmament,
The summits of Auseva rise serene!
The watchman on the battlements partakes
The stillness of the solemn hour; he feels
The silence of the earth; the endless sound
Of flowing water soothes him; and the stars
Which in that brightest moonlight well-nigh quenched,
Scarce visible, as in the utmost depth
Of yonder sapphire infinite, are seen,
Draw on with elevating influence
Towards eternity the attempered mind.
Musing on worlds beyond the grave, he stands,
And to the Virgin Mother silently

Breathes forth her hymn of praise. Southey having in 1813, accepted the office of poet-laureate, composed some courtly strains that tended little to advance his reputation. His . Carmen Triumphale’ (1814) and “The Vision of Judg. ment' (1821) provoked much ridicule at the time, and would have passed into utter oblivion, if Lord Byron had not published another * Vision of Judgment'-one of the most powerful, though wild and profane, of his productions, in which the laureate received a mercisess and witty castigation, that even his admirers admitted to be not unmerited. The latest of our author's poetical works was a volume of narrative verse, 'All for Love,' and The Pilgrim of Compostella' (1829). He continued ceaseless round of study and composition, writing on all subjects, and filling ream after ream of paper with his lucubrations on morals, philosophy, poetry, and politics. He was offered a baronetcy and a seat in parliament, both of which he prudently declined. His fame and his fortune, he knew, could only be preserved by adhering to his solitary studies; but these were too constant and uninterrupted. The poet forgot one of his own maxims, that ‘frequent change of air is of all things that which most conduces to joyous health and long life.'

From the year 1833 to 1837 he was chiefly engaged in editing the works of Cowper, published in fifteen volumes. About the year 1834, his wife, the early partner of his affections, sank into a state of mental imbecility, ‘å pitiable state of existence,' in which she continued for about three years, and though he bore up wonder: fully during this period of affliction, his health was irretrievably shattered. In about a year and a half afterwards, however, he married a second time, the object of his choice being Miss Caroline Bowles, the poetess. ‘My spirits,' he says, 'would hardly recover their habitual and healthful cheerfulness, if I had not prevailed upon Miss Bowles to share my lot for the remainder of our lives. There is just such a disparity of age as is fitting; we have been well acquainted with each other more than twenty years, and a more perfect conformity of disposition could not exist." Some members of the poet's grown-up family seem to have been averse to this union, but the devoted attentions of the lady, and her exemplary domestic virtues, soothed the few remaining years of the poet's existence. Those attentions were soon painfully requisite. Southey's intellect became clouded, his accustomed labours were suspended, and though he continued his habit of reading, the power of comprehension was gone. ‘His dearly prized books,' says his son, 'were a pleasure to him almost to the end, and he would walk slowly round his library looking at them, and taking them down mechanically.'

Wordsworth, writing to Lady Frederick Bentinck in July 1840, says, that on visiting his early friend, he did not recognise him till he was told. Then his eyes flashed for a moment with their former brightness, but he sank into the state in which I had found him, patting with both hands his books affectionately like a child.' Three years were passed in this deplorable condition, and it was a matter of satisfaction rather than regret that death at length stepped into shroud this painful spectacle from the eyes of affection as well as from the gaze of vulgar curiosity. He died in his house at Greta on the 21st of March 1843. He left at his death a sum of about £12,000, to be divided among his children, and one of the most valuable private libraries in the kingdom. The life and correspondence of Southey have been published by his son, the Rev. Charles Cuthbert Southey, in six volumes. His son-in-law, the Rev. J. Wood Warter, published his Commonplace Book,' 4 vols., and Selections from his Letters,' 4 Vols. In these works the amiable private life of Southey-his index

fatigable application, his habitual cheerfulness and lively fancy, and
his steady friendships and true generosity, are strikingly displayed,
The only drawback is the poet's egotism, which was inordinate, and
"he hasty uncharitable judgments sometimes passed on his contem-
poraries, the result partly of temperament and partly of his seclusion
from general society. Southey was interred in the churchyard of
Crosthwaite, and in the church is a marble monument to his memory,
a full-length recumbent figure, with the following inscription by
Wordsworth on the base of the monument:

Wordsworth's Epitaph on Southey.
Ye vales and hills, whose beauty hither drew
The poet's steps, and fixed him here, on you
His eyes have closed : and ye, loved books, no more
Shall Southey feed upon your precious lore,
To works that ne'er shall forfeit their renown,
Adding immortal labours of his own;
Whether he traced historic truth with zeal
For the state's guidance, or the church's weal;
Or Fancy, disciplined by studious Art,
Informed his pen, or Wisdom of the heart,
Or Judgments sanctioned in the patriot's mind
By reverence for the rights of all mankind.
Large were his aims, yet in no human breast
Could private feelings find a holier nest.
His joys, his griefs, have vanished like a cloud
From Skiddaw's top; but he to heaven was vowed
Through a life long and pure, and steadfast faith

Calmed in his soul the fear of change and death. Few authors have written so much and so well, with so little real popularity, as Southey. Of all his prose works, admirable as they are in purity of style, the Life of Nelson' alone is a general favourite. The magnificent creations of his poetry-piled up like clouds at sunset, in the calm serenity of his capacious intellect-have always been duly appreciated by poetical students and critical readers; but by the public at large they are neglected. An attempt to revive them, by the publication of the whole poetical works in ten uniform and cheap volumes, has only shewn that they are unsuited to the taste of the present generation. The reason of this may be found both in the subjects of Southey's poetry, and in his manner of treating them. His fictions are wild and supernatural, and have no hold on human affections. Gorgeous and sublime as some of his images and descriptions are, they come like shadows, so depart.' They are too remote, too fanciful, and often too learned. The Grecian mythology is graceful and familiar;

but Southey's Hindu superstitions are extravagant and strange. To relish them requires considerable previous reading and research, and this is a task which few will undertake. The dramatic art or power of vivid delineation is also comparatively unknown to Southey, and hence the dialogues in ‘Madoc' and ‘Roderick’are generally flat and uninteresting. His observation was of books, not nature. Some affectations of style and expression also marred the effect of his conceptions, and the copious flow of his versification, unrelieved by bursts of passion or elegant sentiment, sometimes becomes heavy and monotonous in its uniform smoothness and dignity.

The Battle of Blenheim. It was a summer evening,

I could not well make out. Old Kaspar's work was done,

But everybody said,' quoth he, And he before his cottage-door

• That 'twas a famous victory. Was sitting in the sun : And by him sported on the green

My father lived at Blenheim then, His little grandchild Wilhelmine..

Yon little stream hard by;

They burned his dwelling to the ground, She saw her brother Peterkin

And he was forced to fly;
Roll something large and round So with his wife and child he fled,
Which he beside the rivulet,

Nor had he where to rest his head.
In playing there had found;
He came to ask what he had found, • With fire and sword, the country round
That was 80 large, and smooth, and Was wasted far and wide;

And many a childing mother then,

And new-born baby, died ; Old Kaspar took it from the boy,

But things like that, you know, must be Who stood expectant by;

At every

famous victory. And then the old man shook his head, And with a natural sigh,

They say it was a shocking sight ''Tis some poor fellow's skull,' said he,

After the field was won ; "Who fell in the great victory.

For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun ; 'I find them in the garden,

But things līke that, you know,'must be For there's many here about;

After a famous victory. And often, when I go to plough,

The ploughshare turns them out! • Great praise the Duke of Marlbro', For many thousand men,' said he,

won, "Were slain in that great victory.'

And our good prince, Eugene.'

Why 'twas a very wicked thing !' Now tell us what 'twas all about,'

Said little Wilhelmine. Young Peterkin he cries :

Nay-nay--my little girl,' quoth he, While little Wilhelmine looke up,

'It was a famous victory, With wonder-waiting eyes; Now tell us all about the war,

"And everybody praised the duke, And what they kill each other for.'

Who this great fight did win.'

' And what good came of it at last?' 'It was the English,' Kaspar cried,

Quoth little Peterkin. Who put the French to rout;

"Why, that I cannot tell,' said he, But what they killed each other for, But 'twas a famous victory.'

The Holly Tree.
O reader ! bast thou ever stood to see

The holly tree?
The eye that contemplates it, well perceives

Its glossy leaves
Ordered by an intelligence so wise
As might confound the atheist's sophistries.
Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen

Wrinkled and keen;
No grazing cattle through their prickly round

Can reach to wound;
But as they grow where nothing is to fear,
Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear.

young and

I love to view these things with curious eyes,

And moralise;
And in this wisdom of the holly tree

Can emblems see
Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme,
One which may profit in the after-time.
Thus, though abroad perchance I might appear

Harsh and austere,
To those who on my leisure would intrude

Reserved and rude,
Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be
Like the high leaves upon the holly tree.
And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know,

Some harshness shew,
All vain asperities I day by day

Would wear away,
Till the smooth temper of my age should be
Like the high leaves upon the holly tree.
And as, when all the summer trees are seen

So bright and green,
The holly leaves a sober hue display

Less bright than they,
But when the bare and wintry woods we see,
What then so cheerful as the holly, tree?
So serious should my youth appear among

The thoughtless throng,
So would I seem amid the

More grave than they,
That in my age as cheerful I might be

As the green winter of the holly tree. Some of the youthful ballads of Southey were extremely popu. lar._His 'Lord William,’ ‘Mary the Maid of the Inn,' The Welf of St. Keyne,' ' and The Old Woman of Berkeley,' were the delight of most young readers seventy years since. He loved to sport with subjects of diablerie ; and one satirical piece of this kind, The Devils Thoughts,' the joint production of Southey and Coleridge, had the honour of being ascribed to various persons. The conception of the piece was Southey's, who led off with the following opening stanzas:

From his brimstone bed at break of day

A-walking the devil is gone,
To visit his

snug little farm the earth,
And see how his stock goes on.
Over the hill and over the dale,

And he went over the plain,
Backward and forward he switched his long tail,

As a gentleman switches his cane.
But the best and most piquant verses are by Coleridge:
these has passed into a proverb:

He saw a cottage with a double coach-house,

A cottage of gentility;
And the devil did grin, for his darling sin

Is pride that apes humility.

one of

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