Here penanced they perforce must minister:
Did not the Holy One of Nazareth,
Tell them, his kingdom is not of the world?"

So saying, on they pass'd, and now arrived
Where such a hideous ghastly groupe abode,
That the Maid gazed with half-averting eye,
And shudder'd: each one was a loathly corpse,
The worm was feeding on his putrid prey,
Yet had they life and feeling exquisite
Though motionless and mute.

"Most wretched men
Are these," the angel cried. "Poets thou see'st
Whose loose lascivious lays perpetuated
Their own corruption. Soul-polluted slaves,
Who sate them down, deliberately lewd,
So to awake and pamper lusts in minds
Unborn; and therefore foul of body now
As then they were of soul, they here abide
Long as the evil works they left on earth

Shall live to taint mankind. A dreadful doom!
Yet amply merited by all who thus
Have to the Devil's service dedicated

The gift of song, the gift divine of Heaven!"

And now they reach'd a huge and massy pile,
Massy it seem'd, and yet with every blast
As to its ruin shook. There, porter fit,
Remorse for ever his sad vigils kept.
Pale, hollow-eyed, emaciate, sleepless wretch,
Inly he groan'd, or starting, wildly shriek'd,
Aye as the fabric tottering from its base,
Threaten'd its fall, and so expectant still
Lived in the dread of danger still delay'd.
They enter'd there a large and lofty dome,
O'er whose black marble sides a dim drear light
Struggled with darkness from the unfrequent lamp.
Enthroned around, the murderers of mankind,
Monarchs, the great, the glorious, the august,
Each bearing on his brow a crown of fire,
Sat stern and silent. Nimrod, he was there,
First king, the mighty hunter; and that chief
Who did belie his mother's fame, that so

He might be called young Ammon. In this court
Cæsar was crown'd, the great liberticide;
And he who to the death of Cicero
Consented, though the courtly minion's lyre

Hath hymn'd his praise, though Maro sung to him,
And when death levell'd to original clay
The royal body, impious Flattery

Fell at his feet, and worshipp'd the new god,
Titus was here 1, the conqueror of the Jews,
He the delight of human-kind misnamed;
Cæsars and Soldans, Emperors and Kings,
All who for glory fought, here they were all,
Here in the Hall of Glory, reaping now

I During the siege of Jerusalem, "the Roman commander, with a generous clemency, that inseparable attendant on true keroism, laboured incessantly, and to the very last moment, to preserve the place. With this view, he again and again intreated the tyrants to surrender and save their lives. With the same view also, after carrying the second wall, the siege was intermitted four days: to rouse their fears, prisoners | to the number of five hundred or more, were crucified daily

Temperate

I calmly counted up my proper gains,
And sent new herds to slaughter.
Myself, no blood that mutinied, no vice
Tainting my private life, I sent abroad
Murder and Rape; and therefore am I doom'd,
Like these imperial sufferers, crown'd with fire,
Here to remain, till man's awaken'd eye
Shall see the genuine blackness of our deeds;
And warn'd by them, till the whole human race,
Equalling in bliss the aggregate we caused
Of wretchedness, shall form one brotherhood,
One universal family of love."

THE

VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS.

THE THIRD BOOK.

THE Maiden, musing on the warrior's words,
Turn'd from the Hall of Glory. Now they reach'd
A cavern, at whose mouth a Genius stood,
In front a beardless youth, whose smiling eye
Beam'd promise, but behind, wither'd and old,
And all unlovely. Underneath his feet
Records obliterate lay, and laurels sere.
He held an hour-glass, and as the sands fall,
So pass the lives of men. By him they pass'd
Along the darksome cave, and reach'd a stream,

before the walls; till space, Josephus says, was wanting for the crosses, and crosses for the captives."-Churton's Bampton Lectures.

If any of my readers should enquire why Titus Vespasian, the delight of mankind, is placed in such a situation, — I answer, for this instance of "his generous clemency, that inseparable attendant on true heroism!”

And from thy forehead wiped the dews of death, The very anguish of that hour becomes

A joy for memory now.'

"O earliest friend! I too remember," Madelon replied, "That hour, thy looks of watchful agony, The supprest grief that struggled in thine eye Endearing love's last kindness. Thou did'st know With what a deep and earnest hope intense I felt the hour draw on: but who can speak The unutterable transport, when mine eyes, As from a long and dreary dream, unclosed Amid this peaceful vale, . . unclosed upon My Arnaud! He had built me up a bower, A bower of rest. - See, Maiden, where he comes, His manly lineaments, his beaming eye The same, but now a holier innocence Sits on his cheek, and loftier thoughts illume The enlighten'd glance."

They met; what joy was theirs He best can feel, who for a dear friend dead Hath wet the midnight pillow with his tears.

Fair was the scene around; an ample vale
Whose mountain circle at the distant verge
Lay soften'd on the sight; the near ascent
Rose bolder up, in part abrupt and bare,
Part with the ancient majesty of woods
Adorn'd, or lifting high its rocks sublime.
A river's liquid radiance roll'd beneath;
Beside the bower of Madelon it wound

A broken stream, whose shallows, though the waves
Roll'd on their way with rapid melody,

A child might tread. Behind, an orange grove
Its gay green foliage starr'd with golden fruit.
But with what odours did their blossoms load
The passing gale of eve! Less thrilling sweets
Rose from the marble's perforated floor,
Where kneeling at her prayers, the Moorish queen
Inhaled the cool delight1, and whilst she ask'd
The prophet for his promised paradise,
Shaped from the present bliss its utmost joys.
A goodly scene! fair as that faery land
Where Arthur lives, by ministering spirits borne
From Camelot's bloody banks; or as the groves
Of earliest Eden, where, so legends say,
Enoch abides; and he who, rapt away
By fiery steeds and charioted in fire,
Pass'd in his mortal form the eternal ways;
And John, beloved of Christ, enjoying there
The beatific vision, sometimes seen,
The distant dawning of eternal day,
Till all things be fulfilled.

Waiting the allotted hour when capable
Of loftier callings, to a better state
They pass; and hither from that better state
Frequent they come, preserving so those ties
Which through the infinite progressiveness
Complete our perfect bliss.

Even such, so blest,

Save that the memory of no sorrows past Heighten'd the present joy, our world was once, In the first æra of its innocence,

Ere man had learnt to bow the knee to man.
Was there a youth whom warm affection fill'd,
He spake his honest heart; the earliest fruits
His toil produced, the sweetest flowers that deck'd
The sunny bank, he gather'd for the maid,
Nor she disdain'd the gift; for Vice not yet
Had burst the dungeons of her Hell, and rear'd
Those artificial boundaries that divide
Man from his species. State of blessedness!
Till that ill-omen'd hour when Cain's true son
Delved in the bowels of the earth for gold,
Accursed bane of virtue, . . of such force
As poets feign dwelt in the Gorgon's locks,
Which whoso saw, felt instant the life-blood
Cold curdle in his veins, the creeping flesh
Grew stiff with horror, and the heart forgot
To beat. Accursed hour! for man no more
To Justice paid his homage, but forsook
Her altars, and bow'd down before the shrine
Of Wealth and Power, the idols he had made.
Then Hell enlarged herself, her gates flew wide,
Her legion fiends rush'd forth. Oppression came,
Whose frown is desolation, and whose breath
Blasts like the pestilence; and Poverty,
A meagre monster, who with withering touch
Makes barren all the better part of man,
Mother of Miseries. Then the goodly earth,
Which God had framed for happiness, became
One theatre of woe, and ail that God
Had given to bless free men, these tyrant fiends
His bitterest curses made. Yet for the best
Have all things been appointed by the All-wise!
For by experience taught shall man at length
Dash down his Moloch-idols, Samson-like,
And burst his fetters. Then in the abyss
Oppression shall be chain'd, and Poverty
Die, and with her, her brood of miseries;
And Virtue and Equality preserve
The reign of Love, and earth shall once again
Be Paradise, where Wisdom shall secure
The state of bliss which Ignorance betray'd.

"O, age of happiness!" the Maid exclaim'd, "Roll fast thy current, Time, till that blest age Arrive and happy thou, my Theodore, Permitted thus to see the sacred depths Of wisdom!"

"Such," the blessed spirit replied, "Beloved! such our lot; allowed to range

In the cabinet of the Alhambra where the queen used to dress and say her prayers, and which is still an enchanting sight, there is a slab of marble full of small holes, through which perfumes exhaled that were kept constantly burning beneath. The doors and windows are disposed so as to

afford the most agreeable prospects, and to throw a soft yet lively light upon the eyes. Fresh currents of air too are admitted, so as to renew every instant the delicious coolness of this apartment. - Sketch of the History of the Spanish Moors, prefixed to Florian's Gonsalvo of Cordova.

The vast infinity, progressive still
In knowledge and increasing blessedness,
This our united portion. Thou hast yet
A little while to sojourn amongst men:

I will be with thee; there shall not a breeze
Wanton around thy temples, on whose wing
I will not hover near; and at that hour
When from its fleshly sepulchre let loose,
Thy phoenix-soul shall soar, O best-beloved!
I will be with thee in thine agonies,
And welcome thee to life and happiness,
Eternal infinite beatitude!"

He spake, and led her near a straw-roof'd cot,
Love's palace. By the Virtues circled there,
The Immortal listen'd to such melodies,
As aye, when one good deed is register'd
Above, re-echo in the halls of Heaven.
Labour was there, his crisp locks floating loose,
Clear was his cheek, and beaming his full eye,
And strong his arm robust; the wood-nymph Health
Still follow'd on his path, and where he trod
Fresh flowers and fruits arose. And there was Hope,
The general friend; and Pity, whose mild eye
Wept o'er the widow'd dove: and, loveliest form,
Majestic Chastity, whose sober smile

Delights and awes the soul; a laurel wreath
Restrain'd her tresses, and upon her breast
The snow-drop hung its head, that seem'd to grow
Spontaneous, cold and fair. Beside the maid
Love went submiss, with eye more dangerous

"The grave matron does not perceive how time has impaired her charms, but decks her faded bosom with the same

Than fancied basilisk to wound whoe'er

Too bold approach'd; yet anxious would he read
Her every rising wish, then only pleased
When pleasing. Hymning him the song was raised.

"Glory to thee, whose vivifying power
Pervades all Nature's universal frame!
Glory to thee, Creator Love! to thee,
Parent of all the smiling Charities,

That strew the thorny path of life with flowers!
Glory to thee, Preserver! To thy praise
The awakened woodlands echo all the day
Their living melody; and warbling forth
To thee her twilight song, the nightingale
Holds the lone traveller from his way, or charms
The listening poet's ear. Where Love shall deign
To fix his seat, there blameless Pleasure sheds
Her roseate dews; Content will sojourn there,
And Happiness behold Affection's eye
Gleam with the mother's smile. Thrice happy he
Who feels thy holy power! he shall not drag,
Forlorn and friendless, along life's long path
To age's drear abode; he shall not waste
The bitter evening of his days unsooth'd;
But Hope shall cheer his hours of solitude,
And Vice shall vainly strive to wound his breast,
That bears that talisman; and when he meets
The eloquent eye of Tenderness, and hears
The bosom-thrilling music of her voice,
The joy he feels shall purify his soul,
And imp it for anticipated heaven."

snow-drop that seems to grow on the breast of the virgin."— P. H.

TO

EDITH SOUTHEY.!

WITH Way-worn feet, a traveller woe-begone,
Life's upward road I journey'd many a day,
And framing many a sad yet soothing lay,
Beguil'd the solitary hours with song.
Lonely my heart and rugged was the way
Yet often pluck'd I, as I pass'd along,

The wild and simple flowers of poesy;
And sometimes, unreflecting as a child,
Entwined the weeds which pleased a random eye.
Take thou the wreath, BELOVED; it is wild
And rudely garlanded; yet scorn not thou
The humble offering, where dark rosemary weaves
Amid gay flowers its melancholy leaves,
And myrtle gathered to adorn thy brow.
Bristol, 1796.

1 Prefixed to a volume of Juvenile and Minor Poems, of which "The Triumph of Woman" was one.

TO

MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.

THE lily cheek, the "purple light of love,"
The liquid lustre of the melting eye, . .
Mary of these the Poet sung, for these
Did Woman triumph; . . . . turn not thou away
Contemptuous from the theme. No Maid of Arc
Had, in those ages, for her country's cause
Wielded the sword of freedom; no Roland
Had borne the palm of female fortitude;
No Cordé with self-sacrificing zeal
Had glorified again the Avenger's name,
As erst when Cæsar perish'd: haply too
Some strains may hence be drawn, befitting me
To offer, nor unworthy thy regard.

Bristol, 1795.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

THE TRIUMPH OF WOMAN.

GLAD as the weary traveller tempest-tost
To reach secure at length his native coast;
Who wandering long o'er distant lands hath sped,
The night-blast wildly howling round his head,
Known all the woes of want, and felt the storm
Of the bleak winter parch his shivering form;
The journey o'er and every peril past
Beholds his little cottage-home at last,
And as he sees afar the smoke curl slow,
Feels his full eyes with transport overflow;

So from the scene where Death and Misery reign,
And Vice and Folly drench with blood the plain,
Joyful I turn, to sing how Woman's praise
Avail'd again Jerusalem to raise,
Call'd forth the sanction of the Despot's nod,
And freed the nation best beloved of God.

Darius gives the feast; to Persia's court,
Awed by his will, the obedient throng resort:
Attending Satraps swell their prince's pride,
And vanquish'd Monarchs grace the Conqueror's side.
No more the warrior wears the garb of war,
Girds on the sword, or mounts the scythed car;
No more Judæa's sons dejected go,

And hang the head, and heave the sigh of woe.
From Persia's rugged hills descend the train,
From where Orontes foams along the plain,
From where Choaspes rolls his royal waves,
And India sends her sons, submissive slaves.
Thy daughters, Babylon, for this high feast
Weave the loose robe, and paint the flowery vest,
With roseate wreaths they braid the glossy hair,
They tinge the cheek which nature form'd so fair,
Learn the soft step, the soul-subduing glance,
Melt in the song, and swim adown the dance.
Exalted on the Monarch's golden throne,
In royal state the fair Apame shone;
Her form of majesty, her eyes of fire,
Chill with respect, or kindle with desire;
The admiring multitude her charms adore,
And own her worthy of the rank she bore.

Now on his couch reclined Darius lay, Tired with the toilsome pleasures of the day, Without Judæa's watchful sons await, To guard the sleeping idol of the state. Three youths were these of Judah's royal race, Three youths whom Nature dower'd with every grace, To each the form of symmetry she gave, And haughty genius cursed each favourite slave; These fill'd the cup, around the Monarch kept, Served when he spake, and guarded while he slept.

Yet oft for Salem's hallow'd towers laid low
The sigh would heave, the unbidden tear would flow,
And when the dull and wearying round of power
Allow'd Zorobabel one vacant hour,

He loved on Babylon's high wall to roam,
And lingering gaze toward his distant home;

Or on Euphrates' willowy banks reclined Hear the sad harp moan fitful to the wind.

As now the perfumed lamps stream wide their

light,

And social converse cheers the livelong night,
Thus spake Zorobabel: "Too long in vain
For Zion desolate her sons complain;

All hopelessly our years of sorrow flow,

And these proud heathen mock their captives' woe.
While Cyrus triumph'd here in victor state
A brighter prospect cheer'd our exiled fate;
Our sacred walls again he bade us raise,
And to Jehovah rear the pile of praise.
Quickly these fond hopes faded from our eyes,
As the frail sun that gilds the wintry skies,
And spreads a moment's radiance o'er the plain,
Soon hid by clouds which dim the scene again.

"Opprest by Artaxerxes' jealous reign, We vainly pleaded here, and wept in vain. Now when Darius, chief of mild command, Bids joy and pleasure fill the festive land, Still shall we droop the head in sullen grief, And sternly silent shun to seek relief? What if amid the Monarch's mirthful throng Our harps should echo to the cheerful song?"

"Fair is the occasion," thus the one replied, "Now then let all our tuneful skill be tried. And while the courtiers quaff the smiling bowl, And wine's strong fumes inspire the gladden'd soul, Where all around is merriment, be mine

To strike the lute, and praise the power of Wine."

"And while," his friend rejoin'd, "in state alone, Lord of the earth, Darius fills the throne, Be yours the mighty power of Wine to sing, My lute shall sound the praise of Persia's King."

To them Zorobabel: "On themes like these Seek ye the Monarch of Mankind to please; To Wine superior, or to Power's strong arms, Be mine to sing resistless Woman's charms. To him victorious in the rival lays Shall just Darius give the meed of praise; A purple robe his honour'd frame shall fold, The beverage sparkle in his cup of gold; A golden couch support his bed of rest, The chain of honour grace his favourd breast; His the rich turban, his the car's array, On Babylon's high wall to wheel its way; And for his wisdom seated on the throne, For the King's Cousin shall the Bard be known."

Intent they meditaté the future lay, And watch impatient for the dawn of day The morn rose clear, and shrill were heard the flute, The cornet, sackbut, dulcimer, and lute; To Babylon's gay streets the throng resort, Swarm through the gates, and fill the festive court. High on his throne Darius tower'd in pride, The fair Apame graced her Sovereign's side: And now she smiled, and now with mimic frown Placed on her brow the Monarch's sacred crown.