MY DEAR SOUTHEY,--I wrote you a very, very gloomy letter; and I have taken blame to myself for inflicting so much pain on you without any adequate motive. Not that I exaggerated anything, as far as the immediate present is concerned; but had I been in better health and a more genial state of sensation, I should assuredly have looked out upon a more cheerful future. Since I wrote you, I have had another and more severe fit of illness, which has left me weak, very weak, but with so calm a mind that I am determined to believe that this fit was _bonâ fide_ the last. Whether I shall be able to pass the next winter in this country is doubtful; nor is it possible I should know till the fall of the leaf. At all events, you will (I hope and trust, and if need were, _entreat_) spend as much of the summer and autumn with us as will be in your power, and if our _healths_ should permit it, I am confident there will be no other solid objection to our living together in the same house, divided. We have ample room,--room enough, and more than enough, and I am willing to believe that the blessed dreams we dreamt some six years ago may be auguries of something really noble which we may yet perform together.
We wait impatiently, anxiously, for a letter announcing your arrival. Indeed, the article _Falmouth_ has taken precedence of the _Leading Paragraph_ with me for the last three weeks. Our best love to Edith. Derwent is the boast of the county; the little river god is as beautiful as if he had been the child of Venus Anaduomene previous to her emersion. Dear Hartley! we are at times alarmed by the state of his health, but at present he is well. If I were to lose him, I am afraid it would exceedingly deaden my affection for any other children I may have.
A little child, a limber elf Singing, dancing to itself; A faery thing with red round cheeks That always _finds_, and never _seeks_, Doth make a vision to the sight, 5 Which fills a father's eyes with light! And pleasures flow in so thick and fast Upon his heart that he at last Must needs express his love's excess In words of wrong and bitterness. 10 Perhaps it is pretty to force together Thoughts so all unlike each other; To mutter and mock a broken charm; To dally with wrong that does no harm. Perhaps 'tis tender, too, and pretty, 15 At each wild word to feel within A sweet recoil of love and pity; And what if in a world of sin (Oh sorrow and shame! should this be true) Such giddiness of heart and brain 20 Comes seldom, save from rage and pain, So talks as it's most used to do.[244]