TO SOUTHEY.
I thought to see thee in thy lake-girt home,
Thou of creative soul! I thought with thee
Amid thy mountain solitudes to roam,
And hear the voice, whose echoes wild and free
Had strangely thrilled me, when my life was new,
With old romantic tales of wondrous lore;
But ah! they told me that thy mind withdrew
Into its mystic cell,—nor evermore
Sate on the lip, in fond, familiar word,
Nor through the speaking eye her love repaid,
Whose heart for thee with ceaseless care is stirred,
Both night and day; upon the willow shade
Her sweet harp hung. They told me, and I wept,
As on my pilgrim way o'er England's vales I kept.
August 28, 1840.
From Wordsworth, while at Rydal-Mount, I received the first information of Southey's melancholy
