“Thy life was a day; and sum it well, life is but a week of such days—with how much storm and cold and darkness! Thine was a sweet spring day—a vernal Sabbath, all sunshine, hope, and promise.”
“And that name In sacred silence buried, which was still At morn and eve the never-wearying theme Of dear discourse.”
“Playful thoughts Turned now to gall and esil.”
“No more great attempts, only a few autumnal flowers like second primroses, etc.”
“They who look for me in our Father’s kingdom Will look for him also; inseparably Shall we be remembered.”
“Come, then, Pain and Infirmity—appointed guests, My heart is ready.”
From the day of his son’s death Southey began to step down from the heights of life, with a steadfast foot, and head still held erect. He recovered cheerfulness, but it was as one who has undergone an amputation seeks the sunshine. Herbert’s grave anchored him in Keswick. An offer of 2000_l._ a year for a daily article in the _Times_ did not tempt him to London. His home, his books, his literary work, Skiddaw, Derwentwater, and Crosthwaite churchyard were too dear. Three years later came the unlooked-for birth of a second boy; and Cuthbert was loved by his father; but the love was chastened and controlled of autumnal beauty and seriousness.
