Wordsworth, and the Library of entertaining knowledge). Have you seen the first part yet? If Hal takes it in, you will get a sight of it. I would be obliged to you to puff it as much as you modestly can, but I by no means expect you will much admire it. I shall never be a Biographer like Uncle. To morrow, God willing, the first sheet of Prometheus will be put to press with a dedicatory sonnet to my Father.1 I shall not include any ludicrous poems excepting one which you have never seen, which has a very serious meaning and conclusion. If there be any others which you or any body else objects to, they shall be thrown aside.
I will write to Hal as soon as he returns and probably to Father before you see him. Dearest love to Sara, and the dear little ones. Alas--the Post. More in Dad's letter.
Your truly affectionate Son, H. COLERIDGE.
N.B. I am writing at the shop, and there is a bothering fellow making a noise in it. The Baby is a sweet creature. O that I could see yours my dear Sara, and before long I will see them. In a week's time I shall have all arranged about money matters, and then I will tell you all about it.
Leeds, Christmas day, 1832.
My dear Mother
Your last brought melancholy tidings. I should have stolen a quarter of an hour to answer before, but really of____________________
Father, and Bard revered! to whom I owe,
Whate'er it be, my little art of numbers,
Thou, in thy night-watch o'er my cradled slumbers,
Didst meditate the verse that lives to shew,
(And long shall live, when we alike are low)
Thy prayer how ardent, and thy hope how strong,
That I should learn of Nature's self the song,
The lore which none but Nature's pupils know.
The prayer was heard: I 'wander'd like a breeze',
By mountain brooks and solitary meres,
And gather'd there the shapes and phantasies
Which, mixt with passions of my sadder years,
Compose this book. If good therein there be,
That good, my sire, I dedicate to thee.