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Robert Southey - Metrical Letter, Written From London.
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Margaret! my Cousin!--nay, you must not smile;
  I love the homely and familiar phrase;
  And I will call thee Cousin Margaret,
  However quaint amid the measured line
  The good old term appears. Oh! it looks ill
  When delicate tongues disclaim old terms of kin,
  Sirring and Madaming as civilly
  As if the road between the heart and lips
  Were such a weary and Laplandish way
  That the poor travellers came to the red gates
  Half frozen. Trust me Cousin Margaret,
  For many a day my Memory has played
  The creditor with me on your account,
  And made me shame to think that I should owe
  So long the debt of kindness. But in truth,
  Like Christian on his pilgrimage, I bear
  So heavy a pack of business, that albeit
  I toil on mainly, in our twelve hours race
  Time leaves me distanced. Loath indeed were I
  That for a moment you should lay to me
  Unkind neglect; mine, Margaret, is a heart
  That smokes not, yet methinks there should be some
  Who know how warm it beats. I am not one
  Who can play off my smiles and courtesies
  To every Lady of her lap dog tired
  Who wants a play-thing; I am no sworn friend
  Of half-an-hour, as apt to leave as love;
  Mine are no mushroom feelings that spring up
  At once without a seed and take no root,
  Wiseliest distrusted. In a narrow sphere
  The little circle of domestic life
  I would be known and loved; the world beyond
  Is not for me. But Margaret, sure I think
  That you should know me well, for you and I
  Grew up together, and when we look back
  Upon old times our recollections paint
  The same familiar faces. Did I wield
  The wand of Merlin`s magic I would make
  Brave witchcraft. We would have a faery ship,
  Aye, a new Ark, as in that other flood
  That cleansed the sons of Anak from the earth,
  The Sylphs should waft us to some goodly isle
  Like that where whilome old Apollidon
  Built up his blameless spell; and I would bid
  The Sea Nymphs pile around their coral bowers,
  That we might stand upon the beach, and mark
  The far-off breakers shower their silver spray,
  And hear the eternal roar whose pleasant sound
  Told us that never mariner should reach
  Our quiet coast. In such a blessed isle
  We might renew the days of infancy,
  And Life like a long childhood pass away,
  Without one care. It may be, Margaret,
  That I shall yet be gathered to my friends,
  For I am not of those who live estranged
  Of choice, till at the last they join their race
  In the family vault. If so, if I should lose,
  Like my old friend the Pilgrim, this huge pack
  So heavy on my shoulders, I and mine
  Will end our pilgrimage most pleasantly.
  If not, if I should never get beyond
  This Vanity town, there is another world
  Where friends will meet. And often, Margaret,
  I gaze at night into the boundless sky,
  And think that I shall there be born again,
  The exalted native of some better star;
  And like the rude American I hope
  To find in Heaven the things I loved on earth.
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