Poem of the Day

Ah, Macbeth, my favorite play…

The Race of Banquo
By Robert Southey

Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly!
Leave thy guilty sire to die.
O’er the heath the stripling fled,
The wild storm howling round his head.
Fear mightier thro’ the shades of night
Urged his feet, and wing’d his flight;
And still he heard his father cry
Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly.

Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly
Leave thy guilty sire to die.
On every blast was heard the moan
The anguish’d shriek, the death-fraught groan;
Loathly night-hags join the yell
And see—the midnight rites of Hell.

Forms of magic! spare my life!
Shield me from the murderer’s knife!
Before me dim in lurid light
Float the phantoms of the night—
Behind I hear my Father cry,
Fly, son of Banquo—Fleance, fly!

Parent of the sceptred race,
Fearless tread the circled space:
Fearless Fleance venture near—
Sire of monarchs—spurn at fear.

Sisters with prophetic breath
Pour we now the dirge of Death!

I was reminded yesterday about Charlotte Brontë sending her poems to the then poet laureate Robert Southey asking for his opinion. He wrote back, saying, “Literature cannot be the business of a woman’s life, and it ought not to be.” (full text here) Just reading that sentence, I always thought him rather awful for discouraging my poor Charlotte. The entire letter isn’t quite as bad, though I still don’t agree with him. Anyway, I’d not read any of his work, so I decided to see how much of a big shot he was. I actually liked the first poem I came across, so here it is. (By the way, I’m quite amused at the description of Southey offered in the above link: “Robert Southey (1774-1843) was a poet, historian, and biographer. He settled in the Lake District and was a close friend of Wordsworth and Coleridge, his fame in his lifetime equalling if not eclipsing theirs. He was made Poet Laureate 1813. He is little read today.” I added the boldface. The same certainly cannot be said about Charlotte Brontë!)

His Books
By Robert Southey

My days among the Dead are past;
   Around me I behold,
Where’er these casual eyes are cast,
   The mighty minds of old:
My never-failing friends are they,
With whom I converse day by day.

With them I take delight in weal
   And seek relief in woe;
And while I understand and feel
   How much to them I owe,
My cheeks have often been bedew’d
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.

My thoughts are with the Dead; with them
   I live in long-past years,
Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
   Partake their hopes and fears;
And from their lessons seek and find
Instruction with an humble mind.

My hopes are with the Dead; anon
   My place with them will be,
And I with them shall travel on
   Through all Futurity;
Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
That will not perish in the dust.