620
POEMS WRITTEN IN 1820
In words like flakes of sulphur, such as thaw 15
The frozen tears . . .
If Satire's scourge could wake the slumbering hounds
Of Conscience, or erase the deeper wounds,
The leprous scars of callous Infamy;
If it could make the present not to be, 20
Or charm the dark past never to have been,
Or turn regret to hope; who that has seen
What Southey is and was, would not exclaim,
'Lash on!'be the keen verse dipped in flame;
Follow his flight with winged words, and urge 25
The strokes of the inexorable scourge
Until the heart be naked, till his soul
See the contagion's spotsfoul;
And from the mirror of Truth's sunlike shield,
From which his Parthian arrow . . . 30
Flash on his sight the spectres of the past,
Until his mind's eye paint thereon—
Let scorn likeyawn below,
And rain on him like flakes of fiery snow.
This cannot be, it ought not, evil still— 35
Suffering makes suffering, ill must follow ill.
Rough words beget sad thoughts,and, beside,
Men take a sullen and a stupid pride
In being all they hate in others' shame,
By a perverse antipathy of fame. 40
'Tis not worth while to prove, as I could, how
From the sweet fountains of our Nature flow
These bitter waters; I will only say,
If any friend would take Southey some day,
And tell him, in a country walk alone, 45
Softening harsh words with friendship's gentle tone,
How incorrect his public conduct is,
And what men think of it, 'twere not amiss.
Far better than to make innocent ink—
The frozen tears . . .
If Satire's scourge could wake the slumbering hounds
Of Conscience, or erase the deeper wounds,
The leprous scars of callous Infamy;
If it could make the present not to be, 20
Or charm the dark past never to have been,
Or turn regret to hope; who that has seen
What Southey is and was, would not exclaim,
'Lash on!'be the keen verse dipped in flame;
Follow his flight with winged words, and urge 25
The strokes of the inexorable scourge
Until the heart be naked, till his soul
See the contagion's spotsfoul;
And from the mirror of Truth's sunlike shield,
From which his Parthian arrow . . . 30
Flash on his sight the spectres of the past,
Until his mind's eye paint thereon—
Let scorn likeyawn below,
And rain on him like flakes of fiery snow.
This cannot be, it ought not, evil still— 35
Suffering makes suffering, ill must follow ill.
Rough words beget sad thoughts,and, beside,
Men take a sullen and a stupid pride
In being all they hate in others' shame,
By a perverse antipathy of fame. 40
'Tis not worth while to prove, as I could, how
From the sweet fountains of our Nature flow
These bitter waters; I will only say,
If any friend would take Southey some day,
And tell him, in a country walk alone, 45
Softening harsh words with friendship's gentle tone,
How incorrect his public conduct is,
And what men think of it, 'twere not amiss.
Far better than to make innocent ink—
GOOD-NIGHT
[Published by Leigh Hunt over the signature Σ, The Literary Pocket-Book, 1822. It is included in the Harvard MS. book, and there is a transcript by Shelley in a copy of The Literary Pocket-Book, 1819, presented by him to Miss Sophia Stacey, Dec. 29, 1820. (See Love's Philosophy and Time Long Past.) Our text is that of the editio princeps, 1822, with which the Harvard MS. and P. P., 1824, agree. The variants of the Stacey MS., 1820, are given in the footnotes.]
I
Good-night? ah! no; the hour is ill[1]
Which severs those it should unite;
Let us remain together still,
Then it will be good night.
Good-night? ah! no; the hour is ill[1]
Which severs those it should unite;
Let us remain together still,
Then it will be good night.
- ↑ 1 Good-night? no, love! the night is ill Stacey MS.
