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VAIN HOPE THAT PUTS ITS TRUST IN HUMAN LIFE!"-SOUTHEY.

THE FUNERAL PROCESSION.

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It is for this reason that, as a poet, he is nowadays little read; and that, in spite of great and rare gifts of description, sentiment, and pathos, his works are mostly relegated to the bookshelves of the student and the critic. Yet the reader will find much to interest him, and much to call forth his admiration, in his epic poems of " The Curse of Kehama," "Thalaba,' Joan of Arc," "Madoc," "A Tale of Paraguay;" and his last and finest, "Roderick, the Last of the Goths," a work abounding in lofty thoughts and splendid imagery. Many of his minor poems are gracefully written; some of his ballads are spirited; and in his Eclogues runs a vein of quiet humour which is very diverting.

Southey was a man of great and varied learning, and of extraordinary industry. His whole life, till clouded over in old age with the dark shade of mental disease, was devoted to literary labour. He loved work for its own sake, and poured out book upon book with astonishing profusionespecially astonishing when we remember their uniform excellence. His lives of "John Wesley" and "Lord Nelson" are model biographies. In the latter, says Mr. Hannay, the tale of that hero's doings is told "with infinite clearness and grace, in a beautiful yet simple English style, glowing all over with noble feeling." His semi-fictitious colloquial narrative, "The Doctor," abounds in quaint erudition, genial philosophy, and admirable portraiture of character.

Robert Southey was born at Bristol, August 12, 1774; was educated at Westminster School, and afterwards at Baliol College, Oxford. He commenced authorship in 1794. His later years were spent at Greta Hall, Keswick, among the beautiful scenery of the Lakes. Here he died, March 21, 1843. He had held the office of poet-laureate from the year 1813.]

"ALL THAT HE WILLS IS RIGHT; AND DOUBT NOT THOU, HOWE'ER OUR FEEBLE SCOPE OF SIGHT

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THE FUNERAL PROCESSION.

IN

|IDNIGHT, and yet no eye

Through all the imperial city closed in
sleep!

Behold her streets ablaze

With light that seems to kindle the red sky,
Her myriads swarming through the crowded ways!
Master and slave, old age and infancy,
All, all abroad to gaze;
House-top and balcony

Clustered with women, who throw back their veils

LET THE FUTURE FOR THE PAST ATONE."-ROBERT SOUTHEY.

MAY FAIL US NOW, HIS RIGHTEOUS WILL IN ALL THINGS MUST BE DONE."-ROBERT SOUTHEY.

"THE LIGHT OF FAITH HATH RISEN TO US: THE VANQUISHED GRAVE TO US THE GREAT

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MAN CREATES THE EVIL HE ENDURES."-ROBERT SOUTHEY.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

With unimpeded and insatiate sight

To view the funeral pomp which passes by,

As if the mournful rite

Were but to them a scene of joyaunce and delight.

Vainly, ye blessed twinklers of the night,

Your feeble beams ye shed,

Quenched in the unnatural light which might outstare

Even the broad eye of day;

And thou from thy celestial way

Pourest, O Moon, an ineffectual ray! *
For lo ten thousand torches flame and flare

Upon the midnight air,
Blotting the lights of heaven

With one portentous glare.

Behold the fragrant smoke in many a fold
Ascending, floats along the fiery sky,
And hangeth visible on high,

A dark and waving canopy.

Hark! 'tis the funeral trumpet's breath!
'Tis the dirge of death!

At once ten thousand drums begin,
With one long thunder-peal the air assailing;
Ten thousand voices then join in,

And with one deep and general din
Pour their wild wailing.
The song of praise is drowned
Amid the deafening sound;

You hear no more the trumpet's tone,
You hear no more the mourner's moan,
Though the trumpet's breath and the dirge of death

Swell with commingled force the funeral yell.

*Imitated from Milton.

THE WICKED WORK THE RIGHTEOUS WILL OF HEAVEN."-IBID.

CONSOLATORY TRUTH PROCLAIMED THAT HE WHO WOUNDS WILL HEAL."-R. SOUTHEY.

"HOW BEAUTIFUL IS NIGHT! A DEWY FRESHNESS FILLS THE SILENT AIR;-(ROBERT SOUTHEY)

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behold the FRAUDFUL ARTS, THE COVERT STRIFE,SOUTHEY)

THE FUNERAL PROCESSION.

421

But rising over all in one acclaim

Is heard the re-echoed and re-echoed name,

From all that countless rout:

Arvalan! Arvalan!

Arvalan! Arvalan!

Ten times ten thousand voices in one shout
Call Arvalan! The overpowering sound
From house to house repeated rings about,
From tower to tower rings round.

The death-procession moves along;
Their bald heads shining to the torches' ray,
The Bramins lead the way,
Chanting the funeral song.
And now at once they shout,
Arvalan! Arvalan!

With quick rebound of sound,
All in accordance cry,
Arvalan! Arvalan!

The universal multitude reply.

In vain ye thunder on his ear the name;

Would ye awake the dead?
Borne upright in his palankeen,
There Arvalan is seen!

A glow is on his face.. a lively red;

...

It is the crimson canopy

Which o'er his cheek a reddening shade hath shed;
He moves. . . . he nods his head. . . .

But the motion comes from the bearers' tread,
As the body, borne aloft in state,

Sways with the impulse of its own dead weight.

Far, far behind, beyond all reach of sight,
In ordered files the torches flow along,

THE JARRING INTERESTS THAT ENGROSS MANKIND."-SOUTHEY.

NO MIST OBSCURES, NOR CLOUD, NOR SPECK, NOR STAIN, BREAKS THE SERENE OF HEAVEN."-SOUTHEY.

"LOOK ROUND THE WORLD, AND SEE WHERE, OVER ALL, INJURIOUS PASSIONS HOLD

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STUDIES THAT WEARY AND CONTRACT THE MIND,-(SOUTHEY)

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

One ever-lengthening line of gilding light;
Far. . . . far behind,

Rolls on the undistinguishable clamour

Of horn, and trump, and tambour;

Incessant as the roar

Of streams which down the wintry mountain pour,

And louder than the dread commotion

Of breakers on a rocky shore,
When the winds rage over the waves,

And Ocean to the tempest raves.

And now toward the bank they go,
Where, winding on their way below,
Deep and strong the waters flow.
Here doth the funeral pile appear,
With myrrh and ambergris bestrewed,
And built of precious sandal-wood.
They cease their music and their outcry here,
Gently they rest the bier;

They wet the face of Arvalan,

No sign of life the sprinkled drops excite;
They feel his breast. no motion there;

They feel his lips. . . . no breath;
For not with feeble nor with erring hand
The brave avenger dealt the blow of death.
Then, with a doubling peal and deeper blast,
The tambours and the trumpets sound on high,
And with a last and loudest cry
They call on Arvalan.

[From "The Curse of Kehama."-" Notwithstanding the wildness, the
irregularity, the monstrosity of Southey's Arabian and Hindu romances,
they possess a fascination, a power, and a beauty which could only have
been imparted by the touch of genius. If occasionally we meet the polish
of high art, we have always the freshness of nature, and its variety."-
D. M. MOIR.]

THAT BRING NO JOY, AND LEAVE NO PEACE BEHIND."-SOUTHEY.

MANKIND IN THRALL; HOW BARBAROUS FORCE ASSERTS A RUTHLESS REIGN."-SOUTHEY.

LOVE, FRIENDSHIP, GRATEFUL DUTY IN ITS HEIGHT; MEEKNESS AND TRUTH, THAT KEEP ALL STRIFE APART,

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A SCENE IN THE DESERT.
TILL o'er the wilderness

Settled the moveless mist.

The timid antelope, that heard their steps,
Stood doubtful where to turn in that dim light;
The ostrich, blindly hastening, met them full.
At night, again in hope,

Young Thalaba lay down;

The morning came, and not one guiding ray

Through the thick mist was visible,

The same deep, moveless mist that mantled all.

Oh, for the vulture's scream,

Who haunts for prey the abode of human-kind!

Oh, for the plover's pleasant cry

To tell of water near!

Oh, for the camel-driver's song!
For now the water-skin grows light,
Though of the draught, more eagerly desired,
Imperious prudence took with sparing thirst.
Oft from the third night's broken sleep,

As in his dreams he heard

The sound of rushing winds,

Started the anxious youth, and looked abroad,
In vain! for still the deadly calm endured.
Another day passed on;

The water-skin was drained;
But then one hope arrived;

For there was motion in the air!
The sound of the wind arose anon,

That scattered the thick mist,
And lo! at length the lovely face of heaven!

WAS THEIRS; SIMPLICITY THAT KNOWS NO ART;

423

AND FAITH AND HOPE WHICH ELEVATE THE HEART UPON ITS HEAVENLY HERITAGE INTENT."-ROBERT SOUTHEY.

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