Doric monument of eternal durability" that should fix his name imperishably in the world's annals—was still a dream—a promise unfulfilled. We need not linger over the sad picture. He gradually became weaker and weaker, and died, after a short fever, on the 21st March, 1843.
They laid him in the quiet churchyard at Crosthwaite, within the shadow of the home he loved so well. And not alone, for by his side rests sleeping his gentle, his all-trusting Edith. They were as one in life, in death they are not divided. There, too, are the children, who, ere soiled by sin or sorrow, preceded to their blissful beatitude, to give him welcome when his toil should be over. Cities may rear their votive tablets to his memory, but his remains could not have a more appropriate resting-place.
It would be incommensurate with the plan of this work to give any detailed account of Southey's literary labours. His writings alone constitute a library. We reckon forty-five independent works, one hundred and twenty-six articles in the "Quarterly," and fifty-two in the "Annual Review." The historical part of "The Edinburgh Annual Register" for 1808 and the two following years was by him; and innumerable other pieces, scattered over various periodical publications, proceeded from his indefatigable pen. Will the prize be his he so ardently coveted? In early life he beheld, in a dream, "the Elysium of the Poets, and that more sacred part of it in which Homer, Virgil, Tasso, Spenser, Camoens, and Milton were assembled. While I was regarding them," he wrote, "Fame came hurrying by, with her arm full of laurels, and asking, in an indignant voice, if there was no poet who would deserve them? Upon which I reached out my hand, snatched at them, and awoke." Later he observed: "One overwhelming propensity has formed my
