His chief poem is called _St. Peter's Complaint_. It is of considerable length--a hundred and thirty-two stanzas. It reminds us of the Countess of Pembroke's poem, but is far more articulate and far superior in versification. Perhaps its chief fault is that the pauses are so measured with the lines as to make every line almost a sentence, the effect of which is a considerable degree of monotony. Like all writers of the time, he is, of course, fond of antithesis, and abounds in conceits and fancies; whence he attributes a multitude of expressions to St. Peter of which never possibly could the substantial ideas have entered the Apostle's mind, or probably any other than Southwell's own. There is also a good deal of sentimentalism in the poem, a fault from which I fear modern Catholic verse is rarely free. Probably the Italian poetry with which he must have been familiar in his youth, during his residence in Rome, accustomed him to such irreverences of expression as this sentimentalism gives occasion to, and which are very far from indicating a correspondent state of feeling. Sentiment is a poor ape of love; but the love is true notwithstanding. Here are a few stanzas from _St. Peter's Complaint_: Titles I make untruths: am I a rock, That with so soft a gale was overthrown? Am I fit pastor for the faithful flock To guide their souls that murdered thus mine own? A rock of ruin, not a rest to stay; A pastor,--not to feed, but to betray. Parting from Christ my fainting force declined; With lingering foot I followed him aloof; Base fear out of my heart his love unshrined, Huge in high words, but impotent in proof. My vaunts did seem hatched under Samson's locks, Yet woman's words did give me murdering knocks * * * * * At Sorrow's door I knocked: they craved my name I answered, "One unworthy to be known." "What one?" say they. "One worthiest of blame." "But who?" "A wretch not God's, nor yet his own." "A man?" "Oh, no!" "A beast?" "Much worse." "What creature?" "A rock." "How called?" "The rock of scandal, Peter." * * * * * Christ! health of fevered soul, heaven of the mind, Force of the feeble, nurse of infant loves, Guide to the wandering foot, light to the blind, Whom weeping wins, repentant sorrow moves! Father in care, mother in tender heart, Revive and save me, slain with sinful dart! If King Manasseh, sunk in depth of sin, With plaints and tears recovered grace and crown, A worthless worm some mild regard may win, And lowly creep where flying threw it down. A poor desire I have to mend my ill; I should, I would, I dare not say I will.