Too Close to See the Battle

Robert Southey

Robert Southey (1774–1843), Selected Poems

Vol. 41, pp. 732-735 of The Harvard Classics

(Battle of Blenheim, Aug. 13. 1704.)

England and France caine to battle near Blenheim. Years later the people of Blenheim called it a "famous victory," but could not tell whose victory it was.

After Blenheim

IT was a summer evening,

  Old Kaspar’s work was done,

And he before his cottage door

  Was sitting in the sun;

And by him sported on the green

His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin

  Roll something large and round

Which he beside the rivulet

  In playing there had found;

He came to ask what he had found

That was so large and smooth and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy

  Who stood expectant by;

And then the old man shook his head,

  And with a natural sigh

‘’Tis some poor fellow’s skull,’ said he.

‘Who fell in the great victory.

‘I find them in the garden,

  For there’s many here about;

And often when I go to plough

  The ploughshare turns them out.

For many thousand men,’ said he,

‘Were slain in that great victory.’

‘Now tell us what ’twas all about,’

  Young Peterkin he cries;

And little Wilhelmine looks up

  With wonder-waiting eyes;

‘Now tell us all about the war,

And what they fought each other for.’

‘It was the English,’ Kaspar cried,

  ‘Who put the French to rout;

But what they fought each other for

  I could not well make out.

But everybody said,’ quoth he,

‘That ’twas a famous victory.

‘My father lived at Blenheim then,

  Yon little stream hard by;

They burnt his dwelling to the ground,

  And he was forced to fly:

So with his wife and child he fled,

Nor had he where to rest his head.

‘With fire and sword the country round

  Was wasted far and wide,

And many a childing mother then

  And newborn baby died:

But things like that, you know, must be

At every famous victory.

‘They say it was a shocking sight

  After the field was won;

For many thousand bodies here

  Lay rotting in the sun:

But things like that, you know, must be

After a famous victory.

‘Great praise the Duke of Marlbro’ won

  And our good Prince Eugene;’

‘Why ’twas a very wicked thing!’

  Said little Wilhelmine;

‘Nay . . nay . . my little girl,’ quoth he,

‘It was a famous victory.

‘And every body praised the Duke

  Who this great fight did win.’

‘But what good came of it at last?’

  Quoth little Peterkin:—

‘Why that I cannot tell,’ said he,

‘But ’twas a famous victory.’

The Scholar

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.