Robert Southey

He was an English Romantic poet and prose writer, known for his narrative poems and ballads that often drew on exotic settings and moral themes. Biographie ↓Plus ↓

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Robert Southey

Winter

A wrinkled crabbed man they picture thee, Old Winter, with a rugged beard as grey As the long moss upon the apple-tree; Blue-lipt, an icedrop at thy sharp blue nose, Close muffled up, and on thy dreary way Plodding alone through sleet and drifting snows. They should have drawn thee by the high-heapt hearth, Old Winter! seated in thy great armed chair, Watching the children at their Christmas mirth; Or circled by them as thy lips declare Some merry jest, or tale of murder dire, Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night, Pausing at times to rouse the mouldering fire, Or taste the old October brown and bright.

Robert Southey

To My Own Minature Picture Taken At Two Years Of Age

And I was once like this! that glowing cheek Was mine, those pleasure-sparkling eyes, that brow Smooth as the level lake, when not a breeze Dies o'er the sleeping surface! twenty years Have wrought strange alteration! Of the friends Who once so dearly prized this miniature, And loved it for its likeness, some are gone To their last home; and some, estranged in heart, Beholding me with quick-averted glance Pass on the other side! But still these hues Remain unalter'd, and these features wear The look of Infancy and Innocence. I search myself in vain, and find no trace Of what I was: those lightly-arching lines Dark and o'erhanging now; and that mild face Settled in these strong lineaments!--There were

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Ode Written On The First Of December

Tho' now no more the musing ear Delights to listen to the breeze That lingers o'er the green wood shade, I love thee Winter! well.

Sweet are the harmonies of Spring, Sweet is the summer's evening gale, Pleasant the autumnal winds that shake The many-colour'd grove.

And pleasant to the sober'd soul The silence of the wintry scene, When Nature shrouds her in her trance

Not undelightful now to roam The wild heath sparkling on the sight; Not undelightful now to pace The forest's ample rounds;

And see the spangled branches shine, And mark the moss of many a hue That varies the old tree's brown bark, Or o'er the grey stone spreads.

The cluster'd berries claim the eye O'er the bright hollies gay green leaves, The ivy round the leafless oak Clasps its full foliage close.

So VIRTUE diffident of strength Clings to RELIGION'S firmer aid, And by RELIGION'S aid upheld Endures calamity.

Nor void of beauties now the spring, Whose waters hid from summer sun Have sooth'd the thirsty pilgrim's ear With more than melody.

The green moss shines with icey glare, The long grass bends its spear-like form, And lovely is the silvery scene When faint the sunbeams smile.

Reflection too may love the hour When Nature, hid in Winter's grave, No more expands the bursting bud Or bids the flowret bloom.

For Nature soon in Spring's best charms Shall rise reviv'd from Winter's grave. Again expand the bursting bud, And bid the flowret bloom.

The Pauper's Funeral

What! and not one to heave the pious sigh! Not one whose sorrow-swoln and aching eye For social scenes, for life's endearments fled, Shall drop a tear and dwell upon the dead! Poor wretched Outcast! I will weep for thee, And sorrow for forlorn humanity. Yes I will weep, but not that thou art come To the stern Sabbath of the silent tomb: For squalid Want, and the black scorpion Care, Heart-withering fiends! shall never enter there. I sorrow for the ills thy life has known As thro' the world's long pilgrimage, alone, Haunted by Poverty and woe-begone, Unloved, unfriended, thou didst journey on: Thy youth in ignorance and labour past, And thine old age all barrenness and blast! Hard was thy Fate, which, while it doom'd to woe, Denied thee wisdom to support the blow; And robb'd of all its energy thy mind, Ere yet it cast thee on thy fellow-kind, Abject of thought, the victim of distress, To wander in the world's wide wilderness.

Poor Outcast sleep in peace! the wintry storm Blows bleak no more on thine unshelter'd form; Thy woes are past; thou restest in the tomb;-- I pause--and ponder on the days to come.

The Soldier's Wife

Weary way-wanderer languid and sick at heart Travelling painfully over the rugged road, Wild-visag'd Wanderer! ah for thy heavy chance!

Sorely thy little one drags by thee bare-footed, Cold is the baby that hangs at thy bending back Meagre and livid and screaming its wretchedness.

Woe-begone mother, half anger, half agony, As over thy shoulder thou lookest to hush the babe, Bleakly the blinding snow beats in thy hagged face.

Thy husband will never return from the war again, Cold is thy hopeless heart even as Charity-- Cold are thy famish'd babes--God help thee, widow'd One!

Biographie

Born in 1774 in Bristol, he was a central figure of the Romantic movement and a member of the Lake Poets alongside Wordsworth and Coleridge. After a brief period at Oxford, he turned to writing and produced a substantial body of work, including epic poems, histories, and biographies. His poetry frequently incorporates mythological and oriental narratives, as seen in long works like “Thalaba the Destroyer” and “The Curse of Kehama.” Shorter pieces, such as “The Inchcape Rock,” demonstrate his skill with ballad form and moral storytelling. His verse is marked by a strong narrative drive, vivid description, and a concern with justice and retribution. A prolific writer, he also composed biting political satire and biographical accounts, most notably a life of Nelson. In 1813 he was appointed Poet Laureate, a role he held until his death in 1843. Though sometimes overshadowed by his contemporaries, his experimentation with exotic subjects and narrative structure influenced later Romantic and Victorian poets. His output helped broaden the thematic range of English poetry and solidified his place in the Lake District literary circle.

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