 |
Robert Southey, from The
Curse of Kehama
![[Click on image to enlarge]](../../images/romantic/southey2.jpg) Robert
Southey (1774–1843) was one of the most
prolific authors in all of British literature.
His published prose and poetry would, if
collected in a standard format, add up to
more than fifty substantial volumes. Yet
he figures only marginally in modern literary
history — as the friend of Coleridge
and Wordsworth, whose course of youthful
radicalism supplanted by middle-aged conservatism
he paralleled at every stage, and as the
enemy of Byron, who made him the target of
brilliant satire in English Bards and
Scotch Reviewers (1809), Don Juan (1819–24),
and The Vision of Judgment (1822),
among others. He was poet laureate of England
for the last three decades of his life (from
1813), and is currently being reevaluated
as an epitomizing male professional writer
of the age, useful in a way that the more
distinguished, from Blake through Keats,
are not, because they were so conspicuously
exceptional in whatever we take them to represent.
![[Click on image to enlarge]](../../images/romantic/sati2.jpg) The
Curse of Kehama (1810), close to 5,300
lines in twenty-four sections (the number
is modeled on the twenty-four books of
Homer's Iliad and Odyssey),
is Southey's most impressive contribution
to the genre of British Oriental epic.
The first two sections (given here) present
the funeral of Arvalan, son of the cruel
Indian rajah Kehama, and the curse that
Kehama pronounces on Ladurlad, the peasant
who killed Arvalan to protect his daughter
Kailyal from being raped. The remainder
tells of Kehama's pursuit of Ladurlad
and Kailyal until, in a last-minute reversal
of fortunes, Kehama is doomed to eternal
suffering in hell while Ladurlad and Kailyal
are granted immortal lives in heaven. The
work went through several editions. Shelley
called it "my most favorite poem" in
a letter of June 1811, and modeled Prometheus's
powerful curse on it (Prometheus Unbound,
Act 1, NAEL 8, 2.779–802) seven years
later. Keats drew on it for several narrative
details in Endymion.
I. The Funeral
5
10 |
1
Midnight,
and yet no eye
Through all the Imperial City closed in sleep!
Behold
her streets a-blaze
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
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 joyance and delight. |
|
15
20
25 |
2
Vainly, ye blessed twinklers of the night,
Your
feeble beams ye shed,
Quench'd in the unnatural light which might out-stare
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. |
|
30
35
40
45 |
3
Hark! 'tis the funeral trumpet's breath!
'Tis
the dirge of death!
At once ten thousand drums begin,
With one long thunder-peal the ear assailing;
Ten thousand voices then join in,
And with one deep and general din
Pour
their wild wailing.
The
song of praise is drown'd
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.
But rising over all in one acclaim
Is heard the 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 rolls round. |
|
50
55
60
65
70 |
4
The death-procession moves along;
Their bald heads shining to the torches' ray,
The
Bramins lead the way,
Chaunting
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. |
|
75
80 |
5
Close following his dead son, Kehama came,
Nor
joining in the ritual song,
Nor
calling the dear name;
With head deprest and funeral vest,
And arms
enfolded on his breast,
Silent and lost in thought he moves along.
King of the World, his slaves, unenvying now,
Behold their wretched Lord; rejoiced they
see
The
mighty Rajah's misery;
That Nature in his pride hath dealt the blow,
And taught the Master of Mankind to know
Even he himself is man, and not exempt from woe. |
|
85
90
95
100 |
6
O sight of grief! the wives of Arvalan,
Young Azla, young Nealliny, are seen!
Their
widow-robes of white,
With
gold and jewels bright,
Each
like an Eastern queen.
Woe! woe! around their palankeen,
As
on a bridal day,
With symphony, and dance, and song,
Their kindred and their friends come on.
The dance of sacrifice! the funeral song!
And next the victim slaves in long array,
Richly bedight to grace the fatal day,
Move
onward to their death;
The
clarions' stirring breath
Lifts their thin robes in every flowing fold,
And
swells the woven gold,
That
on the agitated air
Flutters and glitters to the torch's glare. |
|
105
110 |
7
A man and maid of aspect wan and wild,
Then, side by side, by bowmen guarded, came;
O wretched father! O unhappy child!
Them were all eyes of all the throng exploring . . .
Is
this the daring man
Who raised his fatal hand at Arvalan?
Is this the wretch condemn'd to feel
Kehama's
dreadful wrath?
Then were all hearts of all the throng deploring;
For not in that innumerable throng
Was one who loved the dead; for who could know
What
aggravated wrong
Provoked
the desperate blow! |
|
115
120
125 |
8
Far, far behind, beyond all reach of sight,
In order'd files the torches flow along,
One ever-lengthening line of gliding 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. |
|
130
135
140 |
9
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 bestrew'd,
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. |
|
145 |
10
Woe! woe! for Azla takes her seat
Upon
the funeral pile!
Calmly
she took her seat,
Calmly the whole terrific pomp survey'd;
As
on her lap the while
The lifeless head of Arvalan was laid. |
|
150
155
160 |
11
Woe!
woe! Nealliny,
The
young Nealliny!
They
strip her ornaments away,
Bracelet and anklet, ring, and chain, and zone;
Around
her neck they leave
The
marriage knot alone, . . .
That
marriage band, which when
Yon
waning moon was young,
Around
her virgin neck
With
bridal joy was hung.
Then with white flowers, the coronal of death,
Her
jetty locks they crown. |
|
165
170 |
12
O
sight of misery!
You cannot hear her cries, . . . their sound
In that wild dissonance is drown'd; . . .
But
in her face you see
The supplication
and the agony, . . .
See in her swelling throat the desperate strength
That with vain effort struggles yet for life;
Her arms contracted now in fruitless strife,
Now
wildly at full length
Towards the crowd in vain for pity spread,
. . .
They force her on, they bind her to the dead. |
|
175 |
13
Then
all around retire;
Circling the pile, the ministering Bramins
stand,
Each lifting in his hand a torch on fire.
Alone the Father of the dead advanced
And
lit the funeral pyre. |
|
180
185
190
195 |
14
At
once on every side
The
circling torches drop,
At
once on every side
The
fragrant oil is pour'd,
At
once on every side
The
rapid flames rush up.
Then hand in hand the victim band
Roll in the dance around the funeral pyre;
Their
garments' flying folds
Float
inward to the fire;
In drunken whirl they wheel around;
One drops,
. . . another plunges in;
And
still with overwhelming din
The tambours and the trumpets sound;
And clap of hand, and shouts, and cries,
From
all the multitude arise;
While round and round, in giddy wheel,
Intoxicate
they roll and reel,
Till one by one whirl'd in they fall,
And the devouring flames have swallow'd all. |
|
200 |
15
Then all was still; the drums and clarions
ceased;
The multitude were hush'd in silent awe;
Only the roaring of the flames was heard. |
|
II. The Curse
5
10 |
1
Alone towards the Table of the Dead
Kehama moved; there on the alter-stone
Honey
and rice he spread.
There with collected voice and painful tone
He
call'd upon his son.
Lo!
Arvalan appears;
Only Kehama's powerful eye beheld
The thin ethereal spirit hovering nigh;
Only
the Rajah's ear
Received
his feeble breath.
"And is this all?" the mournful Spirit said,
"This all that thou canst give me after
death?
This
unavailing pomp,
These empty pageantries that mock the dead!" |
|
15 |
2
In
bitterness the Rajah heard,
And groan'd, and smote his breast,and o'er his face
Cowl'd
the white mourning vest. |
|
20
25 |
3
ARVALAN
"Art thou not powerful, . . .
even like a God?
And must
I, through my years of wandering,
Shivering and naked to the elements,
In
wretchedness await
The
hour of Yamen's wrath?
I thought thou wouldst embody me anew,
Undying
as I am, . . .
Yea, re-create me! . . . Father, is this all?
This
all? and thou Almighty!" |
|
30
35 |
4
But in that wrongful and upbraiding tone,
Kehama
found relief,
For rising anger half supprest his grief.
"Reproach
not me!" he cried,
"Had I not spell-secured thee from disease,
Fire, sword, . . . all common accidents
of man, . . .
And thou! . . . fool, fool . . . to perish by a stake!
And by
a peasant's arm! . . .
Even now, when from reluctant Heaven,
Forcing new gifts and mightier attributes,
So soon I should have quell'd the Death-God's power." |
|
40
45
50 |
5
"Waste not thy wrath on me," quoth
Arvalan,
"It was my hour of folly! Fate prevail'd,
Nor boots it to reproach me that I fell.
I am in misery, Father! Other souls
Predoom'd
to Indra's Heaven, enjoy the dawn
Of bliss, . . . to them the temper'd elements
Minister joy: genial delight the sun
Sheds on their happy being, and the stars
Effuse on them benignant influences;
And thus o'er earth and air they roam at will,
And when the number of their days is full,
Go fearlessly before the aweful throne.
But I, . . . all naked feeling and raw life, . . .
What worse than this hath Yamen's hell in store?
If ever
thou didst love me, mercy, Father!
Save me, for thou canst save . . .
the Elements
Know
and obey thy voice." |
|
55
60
65
70 |
6
KEHAMA
"The
Elements
Shall sin no more against thee; whilst I speak
Already dost thou feel their power is gone.
Fear not! I cannot call again the past,
Fate hath made that its own; but Fate shall yield
To me the future; and thy doom be fix'd
By mine, not Yamen's will. Meantime all power
Whereof thy feeble spirit can be made
Participant, I give. Is there aught else
To
mitigate thy lot?"
ARVALAN
"Only the sight of vengeance. Give me that!
Vengeance, full, worthy, vengeance! . . .
not the stroke
Of sudden
punishment, . . . no agony
That spends itself and leaves the wretch at rest,
But
lasting long revenge."
KEHAMA
"What, boy? is that cup sweet? then
take thy fill!" |
|
75
80 |
7
So as he spake, a glow of dreadful pride
Inflamed his cheek, with quick and angry
stride
He
moved toward the pile,
And raised his hand to hush the crowd, and cried,
"Bring forth the murderer!" At
the Rajah's voice
Calmly, and like a man whom fear had stunn'd,
Ladurlad came, obedient to the call;
But Kailyal
started at the sound,
And gave a womanly shriek, and back she drew,
And eagerly she roll'd her eyes around,
As if to seek for aid, albeit she knew
No
aid could there be found. |
|
85
90 |
8
It chanced that near her on the river brink,
The sculptured
form of Marriataly stood;
It was an Idol roughly hewn of wood,
Artless,
and mean, and rude;
The Goddess
of the poor was she;
None
else regarded her with piety.
But when that holy Image Kailyal view'd,
To that she sprung, to that she clung,
On her own Goddess, with close-clasping arms,
For
life the maiden hung. |
|
95
100
105 |
9
They seized the maid; with unrelenting grasp
They
bruised her tender limbs;
She, nothing yielding, to this only hope
Clings with the strength of frenzy and despair.
She screams not now, she breathes not now,
She sends not up one vow,
She forms not in her soul one secret prayer,
All thought, all feeling, and all powers of life
In the one effort centering. Wrathful they
With tug and strain would force the maid
away; . . .
Didst thou, O Marriataly, see their strife,
In pity didst thou see the suffering maid?
Or was thine anger kindled, that rude hands
Assail'd thy holy Image? . . . for behold
The
holy image shakes! |
|
110
115 |
10
Irreverently bold, they deem the maid
Relax'd
her stubborn hold,
And now with force redoubled drag their prey;
And now the rooted Idol to their sway
Bends, . . . yields, . . .
and now it falls.
But
then they scream,
For lo! they feel the crumbling bank give way,
And all are plunged into the stream. |
|
120
125 |
11
"She hath escaped my will," Kehama cried,
"She hath escaped, . . . but
thou art here,
I
have thee still,
The
worser criminal!"
And on Ladurlad, while he spake, severe
He
fix'd his dreadful frown.
The strong
reflection of the pile
Lit
his dark lineaments,
Lit the protruded brow, the gathered front,
The
steady eye of wrath. |
|
130
135 |
12
But while the fearful silence yet endured,
Ladurlad
roused himself;
Ere
yet the voice of destiny
Which trembled on the Rajah's lips was loosed,
Eager
he interposed,
As if
despair had waken'd him to hope;
"Mercy! oh mercy! only in defence . . .
Only
instinctively, . . .
Only
to save my child, I smote the Prince;
King
of the world, be merciful!
Crush
me, . . . but torture not!" |
|
140 |
13
The Man-Almighty deign'd him no reply,
Still he stood silent; in no human mood
Of mercy,
in no hesitating thought
Of right and justice. At the length he raised
His brow
yet unrelax'd, . . . his lips unclosed,
And
uttered from the heart,
With the whole feeling of his soul enforced,
The
gathered vengeance came. |
|
145
150
155
160
165
170 |
14
"I
charm thy life
From
the weapons of strife,
From
stone and from wood,
From
fire and from flood,
From
the serpent's tooth,
And
the beasts of blood:
From
Sickness I charm thee,
And Time
shall not harm thee;
But
Earth which is mine,
Its
fruits shall deny thee;
And
Water shall hear me,
And
know thee and fly thee;
And the Winds shall not touch thee
When
they pass by thee,
And the
Dews shall not wet thee,
When
they fall nigh thee:
And
thou shalt seek Death
To
release thee, in vain;
Thou
shalt live in thy pain
While
Kehama shall reign,
With
a fire in thy heart,
And
a fire in thy brain;
And
Sleep shall obey me,
And
visit thee never,
And
the Curse shall be on thee
For
ever and ever." |
|
175
180
185 |
15
There where the Curse had stricken him,
There
stood the miserable man,
There stood Ladurlad, with loose-hanging arms;
And
eyes of idiot wandering.
Was
it a dream? alas,
He
heard the river flow,
He heard the crumbling of the pile,
He heard the wind which shower'd
The
thin white ashes round.
There
motionless he stood,
As if
he hoped it were a dream,
And feared to move, lest he should prove
The
actual misery;
And still at times he met Kehama's eye,
Kehama's eye that fastened on him still.
*
* * |
|
|
 |