270. Robert Southey to William Bowyer Thomas, 11 November 1797*

Saturday. 11. Nov. 1797.My dear Thomas

I am now anxious to see you. my Mother has met with a person to take the house — & furniture at a fair appraisement — thus is the greatest difficulty removed, & I should hope the whole business may soon be settled, with little trouble to you, & little expence to my Uncle.

We returned from Bristol yesterday; it is my intention to go to town on Monday the 20th & keep the term the ensuing day. if you hold your intention of entering at Grays Inn — we may dine there together.

perhaps the remainder of this paper cannot be better employed than in sending you Mrs Barbaulds¹ lines to Coleridge.

Midway the hill of science, after steepAnd rugged paths that tire the unpractisd feet,A grove extends, in tangled mazes wrought,And filld with strange enchantment. dubious shapesFlit thro dim glades, & lure the eager footOf youthful ardour to eternal chase.Dreams hang on every leaf; unearthly formsGlide thro the gloom, & mystic visions swimBefore the cheated sense. athwart the mistsFar into vacant space, huge shadows stretchAnd seem realities, while things of life,Obvious to sight & touch, all glowing round,Fade to the hues of shadows. Scruples hereWith filmy net most like the autumnal websOf floating gossamer, arrest the footOf generous enterprize, & palsy hopeAnd fair ambition, with the chilling touchOf sickly hesitation, & blank fear.Nor seldom Indolence these walks amongFixes her turf-built seat, & museful sitsIn dreamy twilight of the vacant mind,Soothd by the whispering shade, for soothing softThe shades, & vistas lengthening into airWith moon beam rainbows tinted. here each mindOf finer mould, acute & delicateIn its high progress to eternal truthRests for a space in fairy bowers entranced,And loves the softend light & tender gloom,And, pamperd with most unsubstantial food,Looks down indignant on the grosser worldAnd matters cumberous shapings. Youth belovedOf Science, of the Muse beloved, not here,Not in the maze of metaphysic lore,Build thou thy place of resting. lightly treadThe dangerous ground, on higher aim intent,And be this Circe of the studious cellEnjoyd, but still subservient. Active scenesShall soon with healthful spirit brace thy mind,And fair exertion for bright fame sustaindFor friends, for country, chace each spleen-fed [MS obscured]That blots the wide creation.Now Heaven conduct thee with a Parents love.²

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I hate metaphysics as much as Mrs B. can do. but her these verses are trite. an old allegory — & the <patchd with> shreds of Coleridgewith which she has patched it. I like the idea of “things of life, obvious to sight & touch, fade to the hue of shadows.” it is well conceived & well expressd — but the half line, “all glowing round,” adds nothing to the picture — & destroys the meaning, by contradicting directly what follows.

let me hear from you. my Mother must not commence another quarter here.

God bless you.

yrs affectionately R Southey.