By the prayers which rise for curses on his head—
Redeem, O France, thine ancient fame!
Revenge thy sufferings and thy shame!
Open thine eyes! Too long hast thou been blind!
Take vengeance for thyself and for mankind!”
This seems to me only the outcry of a tempestuous British scold; and yet a late eulogist has the effrontery to name it in connection with the great prayerful burst of Milton upon the massacre of the Waldenses:—
“Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints whose bones
Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold.”
No, no; Southey was no Milton—does not reach to the height of an echo of Milton.
Yet he was a rare and accomplished man of books—of books rather than genius, I think. An excellent type of the very clever and well-trained professional writer, working honestly and steadily in the service to which he has put himself. Very politic, too, in his personal relations. Even Carlyle—for a wonder—speaks of him without lacerating him.