June 4. 1798.
Edith, it ever was thy
husband’s wish,
Since he hath known in what is
happiness,
To find some little home, some low
retreat,
Where the vain uproar of the
worthless world
Might never reach his ear; and where,
if chance
The tidings of its horrible strifes
arrived,
They would endear retirement, as the
blast
Of winter makes the sheltered
traveller
Draw closer to the hearth-side, every
nerve
Awake to the warm comfort.
Quietness
Should be his inmate there; and he
would live
To thee, and to himself, and to our
God.
To dwell in that foul city, — to
endure
The common, hollow, cold,
lip-intercourse
Of life; to walk abroad and never
see
Green field, or running brook, or
setting sun!
Will it not wither up my
faculties,
Like some poor myrtle that in the
town air
Pines on the parlour window?
Everywhere
Nature is lovely: on the mountain
height,
Or where the embosomed mountain-glen
displays
Secure sublimity, or where around
The undulated surface gently
slopes
With mingled hill and valley; —
everywhere
Nature is lovely; even in scenes like
these,
Where not a hillock breaks the
unvaried plain,
The eye may find new charms that
seeks delight.
At eve I walk abroad; the setting
sun
Hath softened with a calm and mellow
hue
The cool fresh air; below, a bright
expanse,
The waters of the
Broad
[1] lie luminous
I gaze around; the unbounded plain
presents
Ocean immensity, whose circling
line
The bending heaven shuts in. So even
here
Methinks I could be well content to
fix
My sojourn; grow familiar with these
scenes
Till time and memory make them dear
to me,
And wish no other home.
There have been hours
When I have longed to mount the
winged bark
And seek those better climes,
[2]
where orange groves
Breathe on the evening gale
voluptuous joy.
And, Edith! though I heard from thee
alone
The pleasant accents of my native
tongue,
And saw no wonted countenance but
thine,
I could be happy in the
stranger’s land,
Possessing all in thee. O best
beloved!
Companion, friend, and yet a dearer
name!
I trod those better climes a
heartless thing,
Cintra’s cool rocks, and where
Arrabida
Lifts from the ocean its sublimer
heights,
Thine image wandered with me, and one
wish
Disturbed the deep delight.
Even now that wish,
Making short absence painful, still
recurs.
The voice of friendship, that
familiar voice,
From which in other scenes I daily
heard
First greeting, poorly satisfies the
heart.
And wanting thee, tho’ in best
intercourse,
Such as in after years remembrance
oft
Will love to dwell upon; yet when the
sun
Goes down, I see his setting beams
with joy,
And count again the allotted days,
and think
The hour will soon arrive when I
shall meet
The eager greeting of
affection’s eye,
And hear the welcome of the voice I
love.
What have I to tell you? Can you be
interested in the intercourse I have had with people whose
very names are new to you? On Sunday I went to dine with Sir
Lambert Blackwell [3] . . . . He has a very pretty house, and
the finest picture I ever saw; it is St. Cecilia at the
moment when the heads of her parents are brought in to
terrify her into an abandonment of Christianity. I never saw
a countenance so full of hope, and resignation, and purity,
and holy grief; it is by Carlo Dolce. I have seen many fine
pictures, but never one so perfect, so sublime, so
interesting, irresistibly interesting, as this. . . .
God bless you.
Your Robert Southey.
