Southey, Robert, was born at Bristol, England, in August, 1774. He was educated at Westminster School and at Balliol College, Oxford. After some years of wandering he took up his residence (1803) at Greta Hall, near Keswick, where he continued to live until his death in 1843. In 1813 he was made poet laureate. Although Southey wrote much prose, he is chiefly known as a poet, and his poems are innumerable. His little piece, The Battle of Blenheim, though one of the least pretentious of his works, has been very widely quoted, and is here given for the sake of younger readers.

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM

It was a summer's evening;
Old Kaspar's work was done;
And he before his cottage door,
Was sitting in the sun;
And near him sported on the green,
His little grandchild, Wilhelmine:
She saw her brother, Peterkin,
Roll something smooth and round,
Which he, beside the rivulet,
In playing there had found.
He came to ask what he had found,
Which looked so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the lad,
Who stood expecting 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;
There are many hereabout;
And often, when I go to plough,
The ploughshare turns them out;
For many thousand men," said he,
"Were slain in the great victory."
"Now tell us what it was about,"
Young Peterkin he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looked up,
With wonder-waiting eyes—
"Now tell us all about the war,
And what they killed each other for."
"It was the English," Kaspar cried,
"Who put the French to rout;
But what they killed each other for,
I never could find out;
But things like this, you know, must be
In every famous victory.
"My father had a cottage 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,
And had not where to lay his head.

"They burnt the country all around,
And wasted far and wide,
And many a tender mother then
And new-born infant died;
But things like this, you know, must be,
At every famous victory.
"Great praise the Duke of Marlborough won,
And our good Prince Eugene."
"But 'twas a very wicked thing,"
Said little Wilhelmine.
"Nay, nay, my little girl," said he,
"It was a famous victory."