The International Weekly Miscellany - Volume I, No. 3 | Page 4

my thoughts, and has been (involuntarily) put into rhyme. This song
may be found in the first part of the poem mentioned. The lyric metre
in which it now appears must rather injure than improve the belle
nature of the original. Still I wish it to be published, as coming from
my hand; because it gives me an opportunity of expressing, in some
degree, my unqualified admiration of its composer. Well may he be
called THE POET AND HISTORIAN OF THE NEW WORLD. To
justify this appellation, one has only to look at Madoc and the History
of Brazil. I have heard, from a friend, of a rumor that Southey is ill; and,
as it is feared, irrecoverably.
This intelligence is unexpected as it is melancholy; for who had better
reason to look forward to a protracted existence upon earth, than he
who has written more than any other man except Voltaire--than Robert
Southey, perfectly proportioned in person, just in mind, regular in his
way of living, and benevolent in all his doings?
During that Spring which hallowed the last revolution in France, (that
of July, 1830,) I saw this bard of the lakes surrounded by his most
amiable and certainly beautiful family; one only individual of which,
his "Dark-eyed Birtha, timid as a dove," was then absent. I must ever
believe that a common reputation for beauty depends more on
circumstances than on any particular faultlessness in the person said
generally to be handsome.
Byron, in some one of the letters or conversations, written either by or
for him, says, or is said to say: "I saw Southey (naming the time) at
Lord Holland's, and would give Newstead for his head and shoulders."
This quotation is from memory, but, I trust, right in sentiment, though it
may not be perfectly so in words; but I have seen little else concerning
the physique either of him "Who framed of Thalaba that wild and
wondrous song," or of those to whom his blood is transmitted. Still, at
the time I have mentioned, it was impossible to look unmoved upon so
much perfection of color, sound and expression as arrested my eyes at

Keswick; in the tasteful and hospitable dwelling of him who brought to
earth that "Glendoveer," "one of the fairest race of Heaven," (the
heaven of India,) who averted the designs of Arvalan, in that glowing
and magnificent poem "The Curse of Kehama."
The Herodotus of Brazil, himself, had seen, when I first saw him,
fifty-seven winters; but his once dark locks, though sprinkled with
snow, were still curling as if childhood had not passed; and looked wild
and thick as those of his own Thalaba. A "chevelure" like this, with
black eyes, aquiline features, and figure tall and slender, without
attenuation, assisted in presenting such an image as is seldom viewed in
reality; while the effect of the whole was enhanced by easy,
unpretending and affectionate manners.
The eldest daughter of this Minstrel of the Mountains was called Edith
May, (the name of May having been given because she was born in the
month of blossoms.) This lady (now Mrs. Warter,) was the bard himself
with a different sex and complexion. "Her features his, but softened."
Her gentle, graceful deportment was in perfect harmony with flaxen
hair tinted with gold; and the outline of her father's face was
embellished by the blue eyes and other delicate colors of her too
sensitive mother, (named, also, Edith,) who had been chosen for love
alone. The second daughter, Birtha, as I have said, was absent. The
third, Catherine, "between the woman and the child," had hazel eyes
and fine features, altogether with a delicate shape and complexion.
Cuthbert, the only son, was a boy of eleven or twelve, with an open,
expressive countenance.
I could not help remarking that in the names of each individual of this
pleasing group was heard that sound produced by the letter T followed
by its companion H, which is so difficult to the organs of foreigners,
but which, when tenderly pronounced, brings to mind the down of a
swan or the wing of a dove. Edith, Birtha, Catherine, Cuthbert, Southey.
If affection and innocence can insure felicity on earth, the course of
their lives must be smooth as waters where the swan reposes; for
certainly all their movements seemed innocent as those of the dove.
The month of March was nearly half gone, when I reached Keswick, by

the road from Edinburgh; having passed, in my way, an old stone
building, pointed out to me as "Branksome Tower," known by the "Lay
of the Last Minstrel," who has sung the achievements of Scottish
knights and ladies. This village, at the foot of Skiddaw, though much
visited in the summer, has still all the wildness of nature. Daffodils
were