Westbury
March 14 – 99 –
Certainly Grosvenor you cannot be more pleg phlegmatic than I am at
this present writing. the great business of my life now is
blowing my nose, & I have blown it so long & so hard
& so often as to have deranged something in its internal
structure. my pocket-handkerchiefs – alas my
pocket-handkerchiefs! – Sunday ones & all – are in the
foul-bag. & still the cursed the secretion goes on.
You tell me a sad story about a schoolfellow
of ours & never mention his name. who was it?
The song you mention is I suppose the same as
I saw on the Courier of Tuesday – written for the Princes
Catch Club, by Robert Southey Esqr. [1] what squire Southey may have written, I
know not, but the Robert Southey that I am acquainted with
certainly never wrote a song for the Prince’s Catch Club
& certainly never will. if the song was anonymous &
its burden Fight for the Good Old Customs & the Cause of
Religion & Order, such a song of mine is about the world
& from its complexion may likely enough be said to be
mine.
That I could write a good play I think my
volume [2] proves – not in
the Ballads (which only prove pantomime abilities) but in
the Eclogues, where I think the dialogue dramatically true
to Nature. Of late I have written many light little pieces,
of which the following may amuse, the imitation of my own
language & style of thought is compleat.
Inscription under an Oak [3]
_______
Here Traveller pause awhile. this
ancient-oak
Will parasol thee if the sun ride
high,
Or should the sudden shower be falling
fast
Here mayst thou rest umbrellaed. all
around
Is good & lovely; hard by yonder
wall
The Kennel stands, the horse-flesh
hanging near
Perchance with scent unsavoury may
offend
Thy delicate nostrils, but remember
thou,
How sweet a perfume to the hound it
yields
And sure its useful odours will
regale
More gratefully thy philosophic nose,
Than what the unprofitable violet
Wastes on the wandering wind, nor wilt
thou want
Such music as benevolence will love.
For from these fruitful boughs the acorns
fall
Abundant, & the swine that grub
around,
Shaking with restless pleasure their
brief tails
That like the tendrils of the vine curl
up,
Will grunt their greedy joy. dost thou
not love
The sounds that speak enjoyment? oh if
not –
If thou wouldst rather with inhuman
ear
Hark to the warblings of some wretched
bird
Bereft of freedom, sure thine heart is
dead
To each good feeling, & thy spirit
void
Of all that softens or ennobles man.
_____
Eke do I send you a very passionate & pretty
Love Elegy. [4]
_____
The Poet relates how he obtained Delia’s
pocket-handkerchief.
Tis mine! what accents can my joy
declare!
Blest be the pressure of the thronging
rout -
Blest be the hand so hasty of my fair
That left the tempting corner hanging
out!
I envy not the joy the Pilgrim feels
After long travel to some distant
shrine
When to the relic of his Saint he
kneels
For Delias pocket-handkerchief is
mine.
When first with filching fingers I drew
near
Keen hope shot tremulous thro every
vein
And when the s[MS torn]hd deed removed my
fear
Scarce c[MS torn]ld my bounding heart its
joy contain.
What tho the 8
th
commandment
[5] rose to mend,
It only served a moments qualm to
move,
For thefts like this it could not be
designed, –
The 8th commandment
was not made for Love.
Here when she took the macaroons from
me
She wiped her mouth to clean the crumbs
so sweet –
Dear napkin! yes she wiped her lips in
thee –
Lips sweeter than the macaroons she
eat
And when she took that pinch of
Mukkebaw
[6] – how the
Devil do you spell that?
That made my Love so delicately
sneeze,
Thee to her Roman nose applied I saw
–
And thou art doubly dear for things like
these.
No washerwomans filthy hand shall eer –
Sweet pocket-handkerchief! thy worth
profane –
For thou hast touchd the rubies of my
fair
And will I kiss thee oer & oer
again.
______
Of my next publication [7] the intent is this. I have a
swarm of little poems crowding my desk to which I would not
affix my name, yet which I would not burn. it was mentioned
to me as a matter of surprize that none of our Poets
published an annual Anthology like the French & German
Almanacs of the Muses, works of much celebrity on the
continent in Germany Burger, Voss, & Schiller [8] each edited one. I took the
hint. many of my friends write well – & would like me be
glad of a respectable repository for their second-rate
pieces. some write but little – yet will like to see that
little in print. the merit of the first volume & its
popularity, of which I entertain no doubt will attract
shoals of unknown contributions for the succeeding years.
the task of editing will be always an amusement for me,
& in the succeeding years the profit something. my name
appears not – except to one or two of the best pieces I
insert, to give respectability to the collection. [9] I believe after all the nasty original
title must be kept, that it may start as a parallel work
with the foreign ones. it will be better to admit no
translations, judging from myself they disappoint one – we
look in a book for something new – & see a poem in its
hundredth dress.
God bless you.
yrs affectionately
R. Southey
I shall be in town on or before May day,
& will pass as many days with you as you like.
