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The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb IV - Poems and Plays
by Charles and Mary Lamb
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WRITTEN AT CAMBRIDGE

(August 15. 1819)

I was not train'd in Academic bowers, And to those learned streams I nothing owe Which copious from those twin fair founts do flow; Mine have been any thing but studious hours. Yet can I fancy, wandering 'mid thy towers, Myself a nursling, Granta, of thy lap; My brow seems tightening with the Doctor's cap, And I walk gowned; feel unusual powers. Strange forms of logic clothe my admiring speech, Old Ramus' ghost is busy at my brain; And my scull teems with notions infinite. Be still, ye reeds of Camus, while I teach Truths, which transcend the searching Schoolmen's vein, And half had stagger'd that stout Stagirite!



TO A CELEBRATED FEMALE PERFORMER IN THE "BLIND BOY"

(1819)

Rare artist! who with half thy tools, or none, Canst execute with ease thy curious art, And press thy powerful'st meanings on the heart, Unaided by the eye, expression's throne! While each blind sense, intelligential grown Beyond its sphere, performs the effect of sight: Those orbs alone, wanting their proper might, All motionless and silent seem to moan The unseemly negligence of nature's hand, That left them so forlorn. What praise is thine, O mistress of the passions; artist fine! Who dost our souls against our sense command, Plucking the horror from a sightless face, Lending to blank deformity a grace.



WORK

(1819)

Who first invented work, and bound the free And holyday-rejoicing spirit down To the ever-haunting importunity Of business in the green fields, and the town— To plough, loom, anvil, spade—and oh! most sad To that dry drudgery at the desk's dead wood? Who but the Being unblest, alien from good, Sabbathless Satan! he who his unglad Task ever plies 'mid rotatory burnings, That round and round incalculably reel— For wrath divine hath made him like a wheel— In that red realm from which are no returnings; Where toiling, and turmoiling, ever and aye He, and his thoughts, keep pensive working-day.



LEISURE

(1821)

They talk of time, and of time's galling yoke, That like a mill-stone on man's mind doth press, Which only works and business can redress: Of divine Leisure such foul lies are spoke, Wounding her fair gifts with calumnious stroke. But might I, fed with silent meditation, Assoiled live from that fiend Occupation— Improbus Labor, which my spirits hath broke— I'd drink of time's rich cup, and never surfeit: Fling in more days than went to make the gem, That crown'd the white top of Methusalem: Yea on my weak neck take, and never forfeit, Like Atlas bearing up the dainty sky, The heaven-sweet burthen of eternity.

DEUS NOBIS HAEC OTIA FECIT.



TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ.

(1829)

Rogers, of all the men that I have known But slightly, who have died, your Brother's loss Touch'd me most sensibly. There came across My mind an image of the cordial tone Of your fraternal meetings, where a guest I more than once have sat; and grieve to think, That of that threefold cord one precious link By Death's rude hand is sever'd from the rest. Of our old Gentry he appear'd a stem— A Magistrate who, while the evil-doer He kept in terror, could respect the Poor, And not for every trifle harass them, As some, divine and laic, too oft do. This man's a private loss, and public too.



THE GIPSY'S MALISON

(1829)

"Suck, baby, suck, mothers love grows by giving, Drain the sweet founts that only thrive by wasting; Black manhood comes, when riotous guilty living Hands thee the cup that shall be death in tasting.

"Kiss, baby, kiss, mother's lips shine by kisses, Choke the warm breath that else would fall in blessings; Black manhood comes, when turbulent guilty blisses Tend thee the kiss that poisons 'mid caressings.

"Hang, baby, hang, mother's love loves such forces, Strain the fond neck that bends still to thy clinging; Black manhood comes, when violent lawless courses Leave thee a spectacle in rude air swinging."

So sang a wither'd Beldam energetical, And bann'd the ungiving door with lips prophetical.



COMMENDATORY VERSES

TO THE AUTHOR OF POEMS,

Published under the name of Barry Cornwall

(1820)

Let hate, or grosser heats, their foulness mask Under the vizor of a borrowed name; Let things eschew the light deserving blame: No cause hast thou to blush for thy sweet task. "Marcian Colonna" is a dainty book; And thy "Sicilian Tale" may boldly pass; Thy "Dream" 'bove all, in which, as in a glass, On the great world's antique glories we may look. No longer then, as "lowly substitute, Factor, or PROCTOR, for another's gains," Suffer the admiring world to be deceived; Lest thou thyself, by self of fame bereaved, Lament too late the lost prize of thy pains, And heavenly tunes piped through an alien flute.



TO R.JS. KNOWLES, ESQ.

On his Tragedy of Virginius

(1820)

Twelve years ago I knew thee, Knowles, and then Esteemed you a perfect specimen Of those fine spirits warm-soul'd Ireland sends, To teach us colder English how a friend's Quick pulse should beat. I knew you brave, and plain, Strong-sensed, rough-witted above fear or gain; But nothing further had the gift to espy. Sudden you re-appear. With wonder I Hear my old friend (turn'd Shakspeare) read a scene Only to his inferior in the clean Passes of pathos: with such fence-like art— Ere we can see the steel, 'tis in our heart. Almost without the aid language affords, Your piece seems wrought. That huffing medium, words, (Which in the modern Tamburlaines quite sway Our shamed souls from their bias) in your play We scarce attend to. Hastier passion draws Our tears on credit: and we find the cause Some two hours after, spelling o'er again Those strange few words at ease, that wrought the pain. Proceed, old friend; and, as the year returns, Still snatch some new old story from the urns Of long-dead virtue. We, that knew before Your worth, may admire, we cannot love you more.



TO THE EDITOR OF THE "EVERY-DAY BOOK"

(1825)

I like you, and your book, ingenuous Hone! In whose capacious all-embracing leaves The very marrow of tradition's shown; And all that history—much that fiction—weaves.

By every sort of taste your work is graced. Vast stores of modern anecdote we find, With good old story quaintly interlaced— The theme as various as the reader's mind.

Rome's life-fraught legends you so truly paint— Yet kindly,—that the half-turn'd Catholic Scarcely forbears to smile at his own saint, And cannot curse the candid heretic.

Rags, relics, witches, ghosts, fiends, crowd your page; Our fathers' mummeries we well-pleased behold, And, proudly conscious of a purer age, Forgive some fopperies in the times of old.

Verse-honouring Phoebus, Father of bright Days, Must needs bestow on you both good and many, Who, building trophies of his Children's praise, Run their rich Zodiac through, not missing any.

Dan Phoebus loves your book—trust me, friend Hone— The title only errs, he bids me say: For while such art, wit, reading, there are shown, He swears,'tis not a work of every day.



* * * * *



ACROSTICS

TO CAROLINE MARIA APPLEBEE

An Acrostic

Caroline glides smooth in verse, And is easy to rehearse; Runs just like some crystal river O'er its pebbly bed for ever.

Lines as harsh and quaint as mine In their close at least will shine, Nor from sweetness can decline, Ending but with Caroline.

Maria asks a statelier pace— "Ave Maria, full of grace!" Romish rites before me rise, Image-worship, sacrifice, And well-meant but mistaken pieties.

Apple with Bee doth rougher run. Paradise was lost by one; Peace of mind would we regain, Let us, like the other, strain Every harmless faculty, Bee-like at work in our degree, Ever some sweet task designing, Extracting still, and still refining.



TO CECILIA CATHERINE LAWTON

An Acrostic

Choral service, solemn chanting, Echoing round cathedrals holy— Can aught else on earth be wanting In heav'n's bliss to plunge us wholly? Let us great Cecilia honour In the praise we give unto them, And the merit be upon her.

Cold the heart that would undo them, And the solemn organ banish That this sainted Maid invented. Holy thoughts too quickly vanish, Ere the expression can be vented. Raise the song to Catherine, In her torments most divine! Ne'er by Christians be forgot— Envied be—this Martyr's lot. Lawton, who these names combinest, Aim to emulate their praises; Women were they, yet divinest Truths they taught; and story raises O'er their mouldering bones a Tomb, Not to die till Day of Doom.



ACROSTIC,

TO A LADY WHO DESIRED ME TO WRITE HER EPITAPH

(1830)

Grace Joanna here doth lie: Reader, wonder not that I Ante-date her hour of rest. Can I thwart her wish exprest, Ev'n unseemly though the laugh

Jesting with an Epitaph? On her bones the turf lie lightly, And her rise again be brightly! No dark stain be found upon her— No, there will not, on mine honour— Answer that at least I can.

Would that I, thrice happy man, In as spotless garb might rise, Light as she will climb the skies, Leaving the dull earth behind, In a car more swift than wind. All her errors, all her failings, (Many they were not) and ailings, Sleep secure from Envy's railings.



ANOTHER,

TO HER YOUNGEST DAUGHTER (1830)

Least Daughter, but not least beloved, of Grace! O frown not on a stranger, who from place, Unknown and distant these few lines hath penn'd. I but report what thy Instructress Friend So oft hath told us of thy gentle heart. A pupil most affectionate thou art,

Careful to learn what elder years impart. Louisa—Clare—by which name shall I call thee? A prettier pair of names sure ne'er was found, Resembling thy own sweetness in sweet sound. Ever calm peace and innocence befal thee!



* * * * *



TRANSLATIONS

From the Latin of Vincent Bourne

I

ON A SEPULCHRAL STATUE OF AN INFANT SLEEPING

Beautiful Infant, who dost keep Thy posture here, and sleep'st a marble sleep, May the repose unbroken be, Which the fine Artist's hand hath lent to thee, While thou enjoy'st along with it That which no art, or craft, could ever hit, Or counterfeit to mortal sense, The heaven-infused sleep of Innocence!

II

THE RIVAL BELLS

A tuneful challenge rings from either side Of Thames' fair banks. Thy twice six Bells, Saint Bride Peal swift and shrill; to which more slow reply The deep-toned eight of Mary Overy. Such harmony from the contention flows, That the divided ear no preference knows; Betwixt them both disparting Music's State, While one exceeds in number, one in weight.

III

EPITAPH ON A DOG

(1820)

Poor Irus' faithful wolf-dog here I lie, That wont to tend my old blind master's steps, His guide and guard; nor, while my service lasted, Had he occasion for that staff, with which He now goes picking out his path in fear Over the highways and crossings, but would plant Safe in the conduct of my friendly string, A firm foot forward still, till he had reach'd His poor seat on some stone, nigh where the tide Of passers-by in thickest confluence flow'd: To whom with loud and passionate laments From morn to eve his dark estate he wail'd. Nor wail'd to all in vain: some here and there, The well disposed and good, their pennies gave. I meantime at his feet obsequious slept; Not all-asleep in sleep, but heart and ear Prick'd up at his least motion, to receive At his kind hand my customary crumbs, And common portion in his feast of scraps; Or when night warn'd us homeward, tired and spent With our long day, and tedious beggary. These were my manners, this my way of life, Till age and slow disease me overtook, And sever'd from my sightless master's side. But lest the grace of so good deeds should die, Through tract of years in mute oblivion lost, This slender tomb of turf hath Irus rear'd, Cheap monument of no ungrudging hand, And with short verse inscribed it, to attest, In long and lasting union to attest, The virtues of the Beggar and his Dog.

IV

THE BALLAD SINGERS

Where seven fair Streets to one tall Column[8] draw, Two Nymphs have ta'en their stand, in hats of straw; Their yellower necks huge beads of amber grace, And by their trade they're of the Sirens' race: With cloak loose-pinn'd on each, that has been red, But long with dust and dirt discoloured Belies its hue; in mud behind, before, From heel to middle leg becrusted o'er. One a small infant at the breast does bear; And one in her right hand her tuneful ware, Which she would vend. Their station scarce is taken, When youths and maids flock round. His stall forsaken, Forth comes a Son of Crispin, leathern-capt, Prepared to buy a ballad, if one apt To move his fancy offers. Crispin's sons Have, from uncounted time, with ale and buns Cherish'd the gift of Song, which sorrow quells; And, working single in their low-rooft cells, Oft cheat the tedium of a winter's night With anthems warbled in the Muses' spight. Who now hath caught the alarm? the Servant Maid Hath heard a buzz at distance; and, afraid To miss a note, with elbows red comes out. Leaving his forge to cool, Pyracmon stout Thrusts in his unwash'd visage. He stands by, Who the hard trade of Porterage does ply With stooping shoulders. What cares he? he sees The assembled ring, nor heeds his tottering knees, But pricks his ears up with the hopes of song. So, while the Bard of Rhodope his wrong Bewail'd to Proserpine on Thracian strings, The tasks of gloomy Orcus lost their stings, And stone-vext Sysiphus forgets his load. Hither and thither from the sevenfold road Some cart or waggon crosses, which divides The close-wedged audience; but, as when the tides To ploughing ships give way, the ship being past, They re-unite, so these unite as fast. The older Songstress hitherto hath spent Her elocution in the argument Of their great Song in prose; to wit, the woes Which Maiden true to faithless Sailor owes— Ah! "Wandering He!"—which now in loftier verse Pathetic they alternately rehearse. All gaping wait the event. This Critic opes His right ear to the strain. The other hopes To catch it better with his left. Long trade It were to tell, how the deluded Maid A victim fell. And now right greedily All hands are stretching forth the songs to buy, That are so tragical; which She, and She, Deals out, and sings the while; nor can there be A breast so obdurate here, that will hold back His contribution from the gentle rack Of Music's pleasing torture. Irus' self, The staff-propt Beggar, his thin-gotten pelf Brings out from pouch, where squalid farthings rest. And boldly claims his ballad with the best. An old Dame only lingers. To her purse The penny sticks. At length, with harmless curse, "Give me," she cries. "I'll paste it on my wall, While the wall lasts, to show what ills befal Fond hearts seduced from Innocency's way; How Maidens fall, and Mariners betray."

[Footnote 8: Seven Dials.]

V.

TO DAVID COOK,

Of the Parish of Saint Margaret's, Westminster, Watchman

For much good-natured verse received from thee, A loving verse take in return from me. "Good morrow to my masters," is your cry; And to our David "twice as good," say I. Not Peter's monitor, shrill chanticleer, Crows the approach of dawn in notes more clear, Or tells the hours more faithfully. While night Fills half the world with shadows of affright, You with your lantern, partner of your round, Traverse the paths of Margaret's hallow'd bound. The tales of ghosts which old wives' ears drink up, The drunkard reeling home from tavern cup, Nor prowling robber, your firm soul appal; Arm'd with thy faithful staff thou slight'st them all. But if the market gard'ner chance to pass, Bringing to town his fruit, or early grass, The gentle salesman you with candour greet, And with reit'rated "good mornings" meet. Announcing your approach by formal bell, Of nightly weather you the changes tell; Whether the Moon shines, or her head doth steep In rain-portending clouds. When mortals sleep In downy rest, you brave the snows and sleet Of winter; and in alley, or in street, Relieve your midnight progress with a verse. What though fastidious Phoebus frown averse On your didactic strain—indulgent Night With caution hath seal'd up both ears of Spite, And critics sleep while you in staves do sound The praise of long-dead Saints, whose Days abound In wintry months; but Crispen chief proclaim: Who stirs not at that Prince of Coblers' name? Profuse in loyalty some couplets shine, And wish long days to all the Brunswick line! To youths and virgins they chaste lessons read; Teach wives and husbands how their lives to lead; Maids to be cleanly, footmen free from vice; How death at last all ranks doth equalise; And, in conclusion, pray good years befal, With store of wealth, your "worthy masters all." For this and other tokens of good will, On boxing day may store of shillings fill Your Christmas purse; no householder give less, When at each door your blameless suit you press: And what you wish to us (it is but reason) Receive in turn—the compliments o' th' season!

VI

ON A DEAF AND DUMB ARTIST[9]

And hath thy blameless life become A prey to the devouring tomb? A more mute silence hast thou known, A deafness deeper than thine own, While Time was? and no friendly Muse, That mark'd thy life, and knows thy dues, Repair with quickening verse the breach, And write thee into light and speech? The Power, that made the Tongue, restrain'd Thy lips from lies, and speeches feign'd; Who made the Hearing, without wrong Did rescue thine from Siren's song. He let thee see the ways of men, Which thou with pencil, not with pen, Careful Beholder, down did'st note, And all their motley actions quote, Thyself unstain'd the while. From look Or gesture reading, more than book, In letter'd pride thou took'st no part, Contented with the Silent Art, Thyself as silent. Might I be As speechless, deaf, and good, as He!

[Footnote 9: Benjamin Ferrers—died A.D. 1732.]

VII

NEWTON'S PRINCIPIA

Great Newton's self, to whom the world's in debt, Owed to School Mistress sage his Alphabet; But quickly wiser than his Teacher grown, Discover'd properties to her unknown; Of A plus B, or minus, learn'd the use, Known Quantities from unknown to educe; And made—no doubt to that old dame's surprise— The Christ-Cross-Row his Ladder to the skies. Yet, whatsoe'er Geometricians say, Her Lessons were his true PRINCIPIA!

VIII

THE HOUSE-KEEPER

The frugal snail, with fore-cast of repose, Carries his house with him, where'er he goes; Peeps out—and if there comes a shower of rain, Retreats to his small domicile amain. Touch but a tip of him, a horn—'tis well— He curls up in his sanctuary shell. He's his own landlord, his own tenant; stay Long as he will, he dreads no Quarter Day. Himself he boards and lodges; both invites, And feasts, himself; sleeps with himself o' nights. He spares the upholsterer trouble to procure Chattles; himself is his own furniture, And his sole riches. Wheresoe'er he roam— Knock when you will—he's sure to be at home.

IX

THE FEMALE ORATORS

Nigh London's famous Bridge, a Gate more famed Stands, or once stood, from old Belinus named, So judged Antiquity; and therein wrongs A name, allusive strictly to two Tongues[10]. Her School hard by the Goddess Rhetoric opes, And gratis deals to Oyster-wives her Tropes. With Nereid green, green Nereid disputes, Replies, rejoins, confutes, and still confutes. One her coarse sense by metaphors expounds, And one in literalities abounds; In mood and figure these keep up the din: Words multiply, and every word tells in. Her hundred throats here bawling Slander strains; And unclothed Venus to her tongue gives reins In terms, which Demosthenic force outgo, And baldest jests of foul-mouth'd Cicero. Right in the midst great Ate keeps her stand, And from her sovereign station taints the land. Hence Pulpits rail; grave Senates learn to jar; Quacks scold; and Billinsgate infects the Bar.

[Footnote 10: Billingis in the Latin.]



PINDARIC ODE TO THE TREAD MILL

(1825)

I

Inspire my spirit, Spirit of De Foe, That sang the Pillory, In loftier strains to show A more sublime Machine Than that, where them wert seen, With neck out-stretcht and shoulders ill awry, Courting coarse plaudits from vile crowds below— A most unseemly show!

II

In such a place Who could expose thy face, Historiographer of deathless Crusoe! That paint'st the strife And all the naked ills of savage life, Far above Rousseau? Rather myself had stood In that ignoble wood, Bare to the mob, on holyday or high day. If nought else could atone For waggish libel, I swear on bible, I would have spared him for thy sake alone, Man Friday!

III

Our ancestors' were sour days, Great Master of Romance! A milder doom had fallen to thy chance In our days: Thy sole assignment Some solitary confinement, (Not worth thy care a carrot,) Where in world-hidden cell Thou thy own Crusoe might have acted well, Only without the parrot; By sure experience taught to know, Whether the qualms thou mak'st him feel were truly such or no.

IV

But stay! methinks in statelier measure— A more companionable pleasure— I see thy steps the mighty Tread Mill trace, (The subject of my song Delay'd however long,) And some of thine own race, To keep thee company, thou bring'st with thee along. There with thee go, Link'd in like sentence, With regulated pace and footing slow, Each old acquaintance, Rogue—harlot—thief—that live to future ages; Through many a labour'd tome, Rankly embalm'd in thy too natural pages. Faith, friend De Foe, thou art quite at home! Not one of thy great offspring thou dost lack, From pirate Singleton to pilfering Jack. Here Flandrian Moll her brazen incest brags; Vice-stript Roxana, penitent in rags, There points to Amy, treading equal chimes, The faithful handmaid to her faithless crimes.

V

Incompetent my song to raise To its just height thy praise, Great Mill! That by thy motion proper (No thanks to wind, or sail, or working rill) Grinding that stubborn corn, the Human will, Turn'st out men's consciences, That were begrimed before, as clean and sweet As flower from purest wheat, Into thy hopper. All reformation short of thee but nonsense is, Or human, or divine.

VI

Compared with thee, What are the labours of that Jumping Sect, Which feeble laws connive at rather than respect? Thou dost not bump, Or jump, But walk men into virtue; betwixt crime And slow repentance giving breathing time, And leisure to be good; Instructing with discretion demi-reps How to direct their steps.

VII

Thou best Philosopher made out of wood! Not that which framed the tub, Where sate the Cynic cub, With nothing in his bosom sympathetic; But from those groves derived, I deem, Where Plato nursed his dream Of immortality; Seeing that clearly Thy system all is merely Peripatetic. Thou to thy pupils dost such lessons give Of how to live With temperance, sobriety, morality, (A new art,) That from thy school, by force of virtuous deeds, Each Tyro now proceeds A "Walking Stewart!"



EPICEDIUM

GOING OR GONE

(1827)

I

Fine merry franions, Wanton companions, My days are ev'n banyans With thinking upon ye; How Death, that last stinger, Finis-writer, end-bringer, Has laid his chill finger, Or is laying on ye.

II

There's rich Kitty Wheatley, With footing it featly That took me completely, She sleeps in the Kirk House; And poor Polly Perkin, Whose Dad was still firking The jolly ale firkin, She's gone to the Work-house;

III

Fine Gard'ner, Ben Carter (In ten counties no smarter) Has ta'en his departure For Proserpine's orchards; And Lily, postillion, With cheeks of vermilion, Is one of a million That fill up the church-yards;

IV

And, lusty as Dido, Fat Clemitson's widow Flits now a small shadow By Stygian hid ford; And good Master Clapton Has thirty years nap't on The ground he last hap't on, Intomb'd by fair Widford;

V

And gallant Tom Dockwra, Of nature's finest crockery, Now but thin air and mockery, Lurks by Avernus, Whose honest grasp of hand Still, while his life did stand, At friend's or foe's command, Almost did burn us.

VI

Roger de Coverley Not more good man than he; Yet has he equally Push'd for Cocytus, With drivelling Worral, And wicked old Dorrell, 'Gainst whom I've a quarrel, Whose end might affright us!—

VII

Kindly hearts have I known; Kindly hearts, they are flown; Here and there if but one Linger yet uneffaced, Imbecile tottering elves, Soon to be wreck'd on shelves, These scarce are half themselves, With age and care crazed.

VIII

But this day Fanny Hutton Her last dress has put on; Her fine lessons forgotten, She died, as the dunce died: And prim Betsy Chambers, Decay'd in her members, No longer remembers Things, as she once did;

IX

And prudent Miss Wither Not in jest now doth wither, And soon must go—whither Nor I well, nor you know; And flaunting Miss Waller, That soon must befal her, Whence none can recal her, Though proud once as Juno![11]

[Footnote 11: Here came, in Album Verses, 1830, "The Wife's Trial," for which see page 273, where it is placed with Lamb's other plays.]



NEW POEMS IN LAMB'S POETICAL WORKS, 1836

IN THE ALBUM OF EDITH S[OUTHEY] (1833)

In Christian world MARY the garland wears! REBECCA sweetens on a Hebrew's ear; Quakers for pure PRISCILLA are more clear; And the light Gaul by amorous NINON swears. Among the lesser lights how LUCY shines! What air of fragrance ROSAMOND throws round! How like a hymn doth sweet CECILIA sound! Of MARTHAS, and of ABIGAILS, few lines Have bragg'd in verse. Of coarsest household stuff Should homely JOAN be fashioned. But can You BARBARA resist, or MARIAN? And is not CLARE for love excuse enough? Yet, by my faith in numbers, I profess, These all, than Saxon EDITH, please me less.



TO DORA W[ORDSWORTH],

On Being Asked by Her Father to Write in Her Album

An Album is a Banquet: from the store, In his intelligential Orchard growing, Your Sire might heap your board to overflowing; One shaking of the Tree—'twould ask no more To set a Salad forth, more rich than that Which Evelyn[12] in his princely cookery fancied: Or that more rare, by Eve's neat hands enhanced, Where, a pleased guest, the angelic Virtue sat. But like the all-grasping Founder of the Feast, Whom Nathan to the sinning king did tax, From his less wealthy neighbours he exacts; Spares his own flocks, and takes the poor man's beast. Obedient to his bidding, lo, I am, A zealous, meek, contributory

LAMB.

[Footnote 12: Acetaria, a Discourse of Sallets, by J.E., 1706.]



IN THE ALBUM OF ROTHA Q[UILLINAN]

A passing glance was all I caught of thee, In my own Enfield haunts at random roving. Old friends of ours were with thee, faces loving; Time short: and salutations cursory, Though deep, and hearty. The familiar Name Of you, yet unfamiliar, raised in me Thoughts—what the daughter of that Man should be, Who call'd our Wordsworth friend. My thoughts did frame A growing Maiden, who, from day to day Advancing still in stature, and in grace, Would all her lonely Father's griefs efface, And his paternal cares with usury pay. I still retain the phantom, as I can; And call the gentle image—Quillinan.



IN THE ALBUM OF CATHERINE ORKNEY

Canadia! boast no more the toils Of hunters for the furry spoils; Your whitest ermines are but foils To brighter Catherine Orkney.

That such a flower should ever burst From climes with rigorous winter curst!— We bless you, that so kindly nurst This flower, this Catherine Orkney.

We envy not your proud display Of lake—wood—vast Niagara: Your greatest pride we've borne away. How spared you Catherine Orkney?

That Wolfe on Heights of Abraham fell, To your reproach no more we tell: Canadia, you repaid us well With rearing Catherine Orkney.

O Britain, guard with tenderest care The charge allotted to your share: You've scarce a native maid so fair, So good, as Catherine Orkney.



TO T. STOTHARD, ESQ.

On His Illustrations of the Poems of Mr. Rogers

(1833)

Consummate Artist, whose undying name With classic Rogers shall go down to fame, Be this thy crowning work! In my young days How often have I with a child's fond gaze Pored on the pictured wonders[13] thou hadst done: Clarissa mournful, and prim Grandison! All Fielding's, Smollett's heroes, rose to view; I saw, and I believed the phantoms true. But, above all, that most romantic tale[14] Did o'er my raw credulity prevail, Where Glums and Gawries wear mysterious things, That serve at once for jackets and for wings. Age, that enfeebles other men's designs, But heightens thine, and thy free draught refines. In several ways distinct you make us feel— Graceful as Raphael, as Watteau genteel. Your lights and shades, as Titianesque, we praise; And warmly wish you Titian's length of days.

[Footnote 13: Illustrations of the British Novelists.]

[Footnote 14: Peter Wilkins.]



TO A FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE

(1833)

What makes a happy wedlock? What has fate Not given to thee in thy well-chosen mate? Good sense—good humour;—these are trivial things, Dear M——, that each trite encomiast sings. But she hath these, and more. A mind exempt From every low-bred passion, where contempt, Nor envy, nor detraction, ever found A harbour yet; an understanding sound; Just views of right and wrong; perception full Of the deformed, and of the beautiful, In life and manners; wit above her sex, Which, as a gem, her sprightly converse decks; Exuberant fancies, prodigal of mirth, To gladden woodland walk, or winter hearth; A noble nature, conqueror in the strife Of conflict with a hard discouraging life, Strengthening the veins of virtue, past the power Of those whose days have been one silken hour, Spoil'd fortune's pamper'd offspring; a keen sense Alike of benefit, and of offence, With reconcilement quick, that instant springs From the charged heart with nimble angel wings; While grateful feelings, like a signet sign'd By a strong hand, seem burnt into her mind. If these, dear friend, a dowry can confer Richer than land, thou hast them all in her; And beauty, which some hold the chiefest boon, Is in thy bargain for a make-weight thrown.



THE SELF-ENCHANTED

(1833)

I had a sense in dreams of a beauty rare, Whom Fate had spell-bound, and rooted there, Stooping, like some enchanted theme, Over the marge of that crystal stream, Where the blooming Greek, to Echo blind, With Self-love fond, had to waters pined. Ages had waked, and ages slept, And that bending posture still she kept: For her eyes she may not turn away, 'Till a fairer object shall pass that way— 'Till an image more beauteous this world can show, Than her own which she sees in the mirror below. Pore on, fair Creature! for ever pore, Nor dream to be disenchanted more; For vain is expectance, and wish is vain, 'Till a new Narcissus can come again.



TO LOUISA M[ARTIN], WHOM I USED TO CALL "MONKEY"

(1831)

Louisa, serious grown and mild, I knew you once a romping child, Obstreperous much and very wild. Then you would clamber up my knees, And strive with every art to tease, When every art of yours could please. Those things would scarce be proper now. But they are gone, I know not how, And woman's written on your brow. Time draws his finger o'er the scene; But I cannot forget between The Thing to me you once have been Each sportive sally, wild escape,— The scoff, the banter, and the jape,— And antics of my gamesome Ape.



CHEAP GIFTS: A SONNET

(1834)

[In a leaf of a quarto edition of the 'Lives of the Saints, written in Spanish by the learned and reverend father, Alfonso Villegas, Divine, of the order of St. Dominick, set forth in English by John Heigham, Anno 1630,' bought at a Catholic book-shop in Duke Street, Lincoln's Inn Fields, I found, carefully inserted, a painted flower, seemingly coeval with the book itself; and did not, for some time, discover that it opened in the middle, and was the cover to a very humble draught of a St. Anne, with the Virgin and Child; doubtless the performance of some poor but pious Catholic, whose meditations it assisted.]

O lift with reverent hand that tarnish'd flower, That 'shrines beneath her modest canopy Memorials dear to Romish piety; Dim specks, rude shapes, of Saints! in fervent hour The work perchance of some meek devotee, Who, poor in worldly treasures to set forth The sanctities she worshipped to their worth, In this imperfect tracery might see Hints, that all Heaven did to her sense reveal. Cheap gifts best fit poor givers. We are told Of the lone mite, the cup of water cold, That in their way approved the offerer's zeal. True love shows costliest, where the means are scant; And, in her reckoning, they abound, who want.



FREE THOUGHTS ON SEVERAL EMINENT COMPOSERS

(1830)

Some cry up Haydn, some Mozart, Just as the whim bites; for my part, I do not care a farthing candle For either of them, or for Handel.— Cannot a man live free and easy, Without admiring Pergolesi? Or thro' the world with comfort go, That never heard of Doctor Blow? So help me heaven, I hardly have; And yet I eat, and drink, and shave, Like other people, if you watch it, And know no more of stave or crotchet, Than did the primitive Peruvians; Or those old ante-queer-diluvians That lived in the unwash'd world with Jubal, Before that dirty blacksmith Tubal By stroke on anvil, or by summ'at, Found out, to his great surprise, the gamut. I care no more for Cimarosa, Than he did for Salvator Rosa, Being no painter; and bad luck Be mine, if I can bear that Gluck! Old Tycho Brahe, and modern Herschel, Had something in them; but who's Purcel? The devil, with his foot so cloven, For aught I care, may take Beethoven; And, if the bargain does not suit, I'll throw him Weber in to boot. There's not the splitting of a splinter To chuse 'twixt him last named, and Winter. Of Doctor Pepusch old queen Dido Knew just as much, God knows, as I do. I would not go four miles to visit Sebastian Bach (or Batch, which is it?); No more I would for Bononcini. As for Novello, or Rossini, I shall not say a word to grieve 'em, Because they're living; so I leave 'em.



* * * * *



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, NOT COLLECTED BY LAMB

DRAMATIC FRAGMENT

(1798)

Fie upon't. All men are false, I think. The date of love Is out, expired, its stories all grown stale, O'er past, forgotten, like an antique tale Of Hero and Leander. JOHN WOODVIL.

All are not false. I knew a youth who died For grief, because his Love proved so, And married with another. I saw him on the wedding-day, For he was present in the church that day, In festive bravery deck'd, As one that came to grace the ceremony. I mark'd him when the ring was given, His countenance never changed; And when the priest pronounced the marriage blessing, He put a silent prayer up for the bride, For so his moving lip interpreted. He came invited to the marriage feast With the bride's friends, And was the merriest of them all that day: But they, who knew him best, called it feign'd mirth; And others said, He wore a smile like death upon his face. His presence dash'd all the beholders' mirth, And he went away in tears.

What followed then?

Oh! then He did not, as neglected suitors use, Affect a life of solitude in shades, But lived, In free discourse and sweet society, Among his friends who knew his gentle nature best. Yet ever when he smiled, There was a mystery legible in his face, That whoso saw him said he was a man Not long for this world.—— And true it was, for even then The silent love was feeding at his heart Of which he died: Nor ever spake word of reproach, Only, he wish'd in death that his remains Might find a poor grave in some spot, not far From his mistress' family vault, "being the place Where one day Anna should herself be laid."



DICK STRYPE; OR, THE FORCE OF HABIT

A Tale—By Timothy Bramble

(1801)

Habits are stubborn things: And by the time a man is turn'd of forty, His ruling passion's grown so haughty There is no clipping of its wings. The amorous roots have taken earth, and fix And never shall P—TT leave his juggling tricks, Till H——Y quits his metre with his pride, Till W——M learns to flatter regicide, Till hypocrite-enthusiasts cease to vant And Mister W——E leaves off to cant. The truth will best be shewn, By a familiar instance of our own.

Dick Strype Was a dear friend and lover of the PIPE; He us'd to say, one pipe of Kirkman's best Gave life a zest. To him 'twas meat, and drink, and physic, To see the friendly vapour Curl round his midnight taper, And the black fume Clothe all the room, In clouds as dark as science metaphysic. So still he smok'd, and drank, and crack'd his joke; And, had he single tarried He might have smok'd, and still grown old in smoke: But RICHARD married. His wife was one, who carried The cleanly virtues almost to a vice, She was so nice: And thrice a week, above, below, The house was scour'd from top to toe, And all the floors were rubb'd so bright, You dar'd not walk upright For fear of sliding: But that she took a pride in.

Of all things else REBECCA STRYPE Could least endure a pipe. She rail'd upon the filthy herb tobacco, Protested that the noisome vapour Had spoilt the best chintz curtains and the paper And cost her many a pound in stucco: And then she quoted our King James, who saith "Tobacco is the Devil's breath." When wives will govern, husbands must obey; For many a day DICK mourn'd and miss'd his favourite tobacco, And curs'd REBECCA.

At length the day approach'd, his wife must die: Imagine now the doleful cry Of female friends, old aunts and cousins, Who to the fun'ral came by dozens— The undertaker's men and mutes Stood at the gate in sable suits With doleful looks, Just like so many melancholy rooks. Now cakes and wine are handed round, Folks sigh, and drink, and drink, and sigh, For Grief makes people dry: But DICK is missing, nowhere to be found Above, below, about They searched the house throughout, Each hole and secret entry, Quite from the garret to the pantry, In every corner, cupboard, nook and shelf, And all concluded he had hang'd himself. At last they found him—reader, guess you where— 'Twill make you stare— Perch'd on REBECCA'S Coffin, at his rest, SMOKING A PIPE OF KIRKMAN'S BEST.



TWO EPITAPHS ON A YOUNG LADY WHO LIVED NEGLECTED AND DIED OBSCURE

(1801 or 1802)

I

Under this cold marble stone Lie the sad remains of one Who, when alive, by few or none Was lov'd, as lov'd she might have been, If she prosp'rous days had seen, Or had thriving been, I ween. Only this cold funeral stone Tells, she was beloved by one, Who on the marble graves his moan.

II

A Heart which felt unkindness, yet complained not, A Tongue which spake the simple Truth, and feigned not: A Soul as white as the pure marble skin (The beauteous Mansion it was lodged in) Which, unrespected, could itself respect, On Earth was all the Portion of a Maid Who in this common Sanctuary laid, Sleeps unoffended by the World's neglect.



THE APE

(1806)

An Ape is but a trivial beast, Men count it light and vain; But I would let them have their thoughts, To have my Ape again.

To love a beast in any sort, Is no great sign of grace; But I have loved a flouting Ape's 'Bove any lady's face.

I have known the power of two fair eyes, In smile, or else in glance, And how (for I a lover was) They make the spirits dance;

But I would give two hundred smiles, Of them that fairest be, For one look of my staring Ape, That used to stare on me.

This beast, this Ape, it had a face— If face it might be styl'd— Sometimes it was a staring Ape, Sometimes a beauteous child—

A Negro flat—a Pagod squat, Cast in a Chinese mold— And then it was a Cherub's face, Made of the beaten gold!

But TIME, that's meddling, meddling still And always altering things— And, what's already at the best, To alteration brings—

That turns the sweetest buds to flowers, And chops and changes toys— That breaks up dreams, and parts old friends, And still commutes our joys—

Has changed away my Ape at last And in its place convey'd, Thinking therewith to cheat my sight, A fresh and blooming maid!

And fair to sight is she—and still Each day doth sightlier grow, Upon the ruins of the Ape, My ancient play-fellow!

The tale of Sphinx, and Theban jests, I true in me perceive; I suffer riddles; death from dark Enigmas I receive:

Whilst a hid being I pursue, That lurks in a new shape, My darling in herself I miss— And, in my Ape, THE APE.



In tabulam eximii pictoris B. HAYDONI, in qua Solymaei, adveniente Domino, palmas in via, prosternentes mira arte depinguntur

(1820)

Quid vult iste equitans? et quid oclit ista virorum Palmifera ingens turba, et vox tremebunda Hosanna, Hosanna Christo semper semperque canamus.

Palma fuit Senior pictor celeberrimus olim; Sed palmam cedat, modo si foret ille superstes, Palma, Haydone, tibi: tu palmas omnibus aufers.

Palma negata macrum, donataque reddit opimum. Si simul incipiat cum fama increscere corpus, Tu cito pinguesces, fies et, amicule, obesus.

Affectat lauros pictores atque poetae Sin laurum invideant (sed quis tibi?) laurigerentes, Pro lauro palma viridante tempora cingas.



CARLAGNULUS.

Translation of the Latin Verses on Mr. Haydon's Picture

What rider's that? and who those myriads bringing Him on his way with palms, Hosannas singing? Hosanna to the Christ, HEAVEN—EARTH—should still be ringing.

In days of old, old Palma won renown: But Palma's self must yield the painter's crown, Haydon, to thee. Thy palm put every other down.

If Flaccus' sentence with the truth agree, That "palms awarded make men plump to be," Friend Horace, Haydon soon in bulk shall match with thee.

Painters with poets for the laurel vie: But should the laureat band thy claims deny, Wear thou thy own green palm, Haydon, triumphantly.



SONNET

To Miss Burney, on her Character of Blanch in "Country Neighbours," a Tale

(1820)

Bright spirits have arisen to grace the BURNEY name, And some in letters, some in tasteful arts, In learning some have borne distinguished parts; Or sought through science of sweet sounds their fame: And foremost she, renowned for many a tale Of faithful love perplexed, and of that good Old man, who, as CAMILLA'S guardian, stood In obstinate virtue clad like coat of mail. Nor dost thou, SARAH, with unequal pace Her steps pursue. The pure romantic vein No gentler creature ever knew to feign Than thy fine Blanch, young with an elder grace, In all respects without rebuke or blame, Answering the antique freshness of her name.



TO MY FRIEND THE INDICATOR

(1820)

Your easy Essays indicate a flow, Dear Friend, of brain which we may elsewhere seek; And to their pages I, and hundreds, owe, That Wednesday is the sweetest of the week. Such observation, wit, and sense, are shewn, We think the days of Bickerstaff returned; And that a portion of that oil you own, In his undying midnight lamp which burned. I would not lightly bruise old Priscian's head, Or wrong the rules of grammar understood; But, with the leave of Priscian be it said, The Indicative is your Potential Mood. Wit, poet, prose-man, party-man, translator— H[unt], your best title yet is INDICATOR.



ON SEEING MRS. K—— B——, AGED UPWARDS OF EIGHTY, NURSE AN INFANT

A sight like this might find apology In worlds unsway'd by our Chronology; As Tully says, (the thought's in Plato)— "To die is but to go to Cato." Of this world Time is of the essence,— A kind of universal presence; And therefore poets should have made him Not only old, as they've pourtray'd him, But young, mature, and old—all three In one—a sort of mystery— ('Tis hard to paint abstraction pure.) Here young—there old—and now mature— Just as we see some old book-print, Not to one scene its hero stint; But, in the distance, take occasion To draw him in some other station. Here this prepost'rous union seems A kind of meeting of extremes. Ye may not live together. Mean ye To pass that gulf that lies between ye Of fourscore years, as we skip ages In turning o'er historic pages? Thou dost not to this age belong: Thou art three generations wrong: Old Time has miss'd thee: there he tarries! Go on to thy contemporaries! Give the child up. To see thee kiss him Is a compleat anachronism. Nay, keep him. It is good to see Race link'd to race, in him and thee. The child repelleth not at all Her touch as uncongenial, But loves the old Nurse like another— Its sister—or its natural mother; And to the nurse a pride it gives To think (though old) that still she lives With one, who may not hope in vain To live her years all o'er again!



TO EMMA, LEARNING LATIN, AND DESPONDING

(By Mary Lamb. ? 1827)

Droop not, dear Emma, dry those falling tears, And call up smiles into thy pallid face, Pallid and care-worn with thy arduous race: In few brief months thou hast done the work of years. To young beginnings natural are these fears. A right good scholar shalt thou one day be, And that no distant one; when even she, Who now to thee a star far off appears, That most rare Latinist, the Northern Maid— The language-loving Sarah[15] of the Lake— Shall hail thee Sister Linguist. This will make Thy friends, who now afford thee careful aid, A recompense most rich for all their pains, Counting thy acquisitions their best gains.

[Footnote 15: Daughter of S.T. Coleridge, Esq.; an accomplished linguist in the Greek and Latin tongues, and translatress of a History of the Abipones. [Note in Blackwood.]]



LINES

Addressed to Lieut. R.W.H. Hardy, R.N., on the Perusal of his Volume of Travels in the Interior of Mexico

'Tis pleasant, lolling in our elbow chair, Secure at home, to read descriptions rare Of venturous traveller in savage climes; His hair-breadth 'scapes, toil, hunger—and sometimes The merrier passages that, like a foil To set off perils past, sweetened that toil, And took the edge from danger; and I look With such fear-mingled pleasure thro' thy book, Adventurous Hardy! Thou a diver[16] art, But of no common form; and for thy part Of the adventure, hast brought home to the nation Pearls of discovery—jewels of observation.

ENFIELD, January, 1830.

[Footnote 16: Captain Hardy practised this art with considerable success. [Note in Athenaeum.]]



LINES

[For a Monument Commemorating the Sudden Death by Drowning of a Family, of Four Sons and Two Daughters]

(1831)

Tears are for lighter griefs. Man weeps the doom, That seals a single victim to the tomb. But when Death riots—when, with whelming sway, Destruction sweeps a family away; When infancy and youth, a huddled mass, All in an instant to oblivion pass, And parents' hopes are crush'd; what lamentation Can reach the depth of such a desolation? Look upward, Feeble Ones! look up and trust, That HE who lays their mortal frame in dust, Still hath the immortal spirit in his keeping— In Jesus' sight they are not dead but sleeping.



TO C. ADERS, ESQ.

On his Collection of Paintings by the old German Masters

(1831)

Friendliest of men, ADERS, I never come Within the precincts of this sacred Room, But I am struck with a religious fear, Which says "Let no profane eye enter here." With imagery from Heav'n the walls are clothed, Making the things of Time seem vile and loathed. Spare Saints, whose bodies seem sustain'd by Love, With Martyrs old in meek procession move. Here kneels a weeping Magdalen, less bright To human sense for her blurr'd cheeks; in sight Of eyes, new-touch'd by Heav'n, more winning fair Than when her beauty was her only care. A Hermit here strange mysteries doth unlock In desart sole, his knees worn by the rock. There Angel harps are sounding, while below Palm-bearing Virgins in white order go. Madonnas, varied with so chaste design, While all are different, each seems genuine, And hers the only Jesus: hard outline, And rigid form, by DURER'S hand subdued To matchless grace, and sacro-sanctitude; DURER, who makes thy slighted Germany Vie with the praise of paint-proud Italy.

Whoever enter'st here, no more persume To name a Parlour, or a Drawing Room; But, bending lowly to each holy Story, Make this thy Chapel, and thine Oratory.



HERCULES PACIFICATUS

A Tale from Suidas

(1831)

In days of yore, ere early Greece Had dream'd of patrols or police, A crew of rake-hells in terrorem Spread wide, and carried all before 'em, Rifled the poultry, and the women, And held that all things were in common; Till Jove's great Son the nuisance saw, And did abate it by Club Law. Yet not so clean he made his work, But here and there a rogue would lurk In caves and rocky fastnesses, And shunn'd the strength of Hercules.

Of these, more desperate than others, A pair of ragamuffin brothers In secret ambuscade join'd forces, To carry on unlawful courses. These Robbers' names, enough to shake us, Where, Strymon one, the other Cacus. And, more the neighbourhood to bother, A wicked dam they had for mother, Who knew their craft, but not forbid it, And whatsoe'er they nymm'd, she hid it; Received them with delight and wonder, When they brought home some 'special plunder; Call'd them her darlings, and her white boys, Her ducks, her dildings—all was right boys— "Only," she said, "my lads, have care Ye fall not into BLACK BACK'S snare; For, if he catch, he'll maul your corpus, And clapper-claw you to some purpose." She was in truth a kind of witch, Had grown by fortune-telling rich; To spells and conjurings did tackle her, And read folks' dooms by light oracular; In which she saw, as clear as daylight, What mischief on her bairns would a-light; Therefore she had a special loathing For all that own'd that sable clothing.

Who can 'scape fate, when we're decreed to 't? The graceless brethren paid small heed to 't. A brace they were of sturdy fellows, As we may say, that fear'd no colours, And sneer'd with modern infidelity At the old gipsy's fond credulity. It proved all true tho', as she'd mumbled— For on a day the varlets stumbled On a green spot—sit linguae fides— 'Tis Suidas tells it—where Alcides Secure, as fearing no ill neighbour, Lay fast asleep after a "Labour." His trusty oaken plant was near— The prowling rogues look round, and leer, And each his wicked wits 'gan rub, How to bear off the famous Club; Thinking that they sans price or hire wou'd Carry 't strait home, and chop for fire wood.

'Twould serve their old dame half a winter— You stare? but 'faith it was no splinter; I would not for much money 'spy Such beam in any neighbour's eye. The villains, these exploits not dull in, Incontinently fell a pulling. They found it heavy—no slight matter— But tugg'd, and tugg'd it, till the clatter 'Woke Hercules, who in a trice Whipt up the knaves, and with a splice, He kept on purpose—which before Had served for giants many a score— To end of Club tied each rogue's head fast; Strapping feet too, to keep them steadfast; And pickaback them carries townwards, Behind his brawny back head-downwards, (So foolish calf—for rhyme I bless X— Comes nolens volens out of Essex); Thinking to brain them with his dextra, Or string them up upon the next tree. That Club—so equal fates condemn— They thought to catch, has now catch'd them.

Now Hercules, we may suppose, Was no great dandy in his clothes; Was seldom, save on Sundays, seen In calimanco, or nankeen; On anniversaries would try on A jerkin spick-span new from lion; Went bare for the most part, to be cool, And save the time of his Groom of the Stole; Besides, the smoke he had been in In Stygian gulf, had dyed his skin To a natural sable—a right hell-fit— That seem'd to careless eyes black velvet.

The brethren from their station scurvy, Where they hung dangling topsy turvy, With horror view the black costume, And each persumes his hour is come! Then softly to themselves 'gan mutter The warning words their dame did utter; Yet not so softly, but with ease Were overheard by Hercules. Quoth Cacus—"This is he she spoke of, Which we so often made a joke of." "I see," said the other, "thank our sin for't, 'Tis BLACK BACK sure enough—we're in for 't."

His Godship who, for all his brag Of roughness, was at heart a wag, At his new name was tickled finely, And fell a laughing most divinely. Quoth he, "I'll tell this jest in heaven— The musty rogues shall be forgiven." So in a twinkling did uncase them, On mother earth once more to place them— The varlets, glad to be unhamper'd, Made each a leg—then fairly scamper'd.



THE PARTING SPEECH OF THE CELESTIAL MESSENGER TO THE POET

From the Latin of Palingenius, in the Zodiacus Vitae

(1832)

But now time warns (my mission at an end) That to Jove's starry court I re-ascend; From whose high battlements I take delight To scan your earth, diminish'd to the sight, Pendant, and round, and, as an apple, small; Self-propt, self-balanced, and secure from fall By her own weight: and how with liquid robe Blue ocean girdles round her tiny globe, While lesser Nereus, gliding like a snake, Betwixt her hands his flexile course doth take, Shrunk to a rivulet; and how the Po, The mighty Ganges, Tanais, Ister, show No bigger than a ditch which rains have swell'd. Old Nilus' seven proud mouths I late beheld, And mock'd the watery puddles. Hosts steel-clad Ofttimes I thence behold; and how the sad Peoples are punish'd by the fault of kings, Which from the purple fiend Ambition springs. Forgetful of mortality, they live In hot strife for possessions fugitive, At which the angels grieve. Sometimes I trace Of fountains, rivers, seas, the change of place; By ever shifting course, and Time's unrest, The vale exalted, and the mount deprest To an inglorious valley; plough-shares going Where tall trees rear'd their tops; and fresh trees growing In antique pastures. Cities lose their site. Old things wax new. O what a rare delight To him, who from this vantage can survey At once stern Afric, and soft Asia, With Europe's cultured plains; and in their turns Their scatter'd tribes: those whom the hot Crab burns, The tawny Ethiops; Orient Indians; Getulians; ever-wandering Scythians; Swift Tartar hordes; Cilicians rapacious, And Parthians with back-bended bow pugnacious; Sabeans incense-bringing, men of Thrace, Italian, Spaniard, Gaul, and that rough race Of Britons, rigid as their native colds; With all the rest the circling sun beholds! But clouds, and elemental mists, deny These visions blest to any fleshly eye.



EXISTENCE, CONSIDERED IN ITSELF, NO BLESSING

From the Latin of Palingenius

(1832)

The Poet, after a seeming approval of suicide, from a consideration of the cares and crimes of life, finally rejecting it, discusses the negative importance of existence, contemplated in itself, without reference to good or evil.

Of these sad truths consideration had— Thou shalt not fear to quit this world so mad, So wicked; but the tenet rather hold Of wise Calanus, and his followers old, Who with their own wills their own freedom wrought, And by self-slaughter their dismissal sought From this dark den of crime—this horrid lair Of men, that savager than monsters are; And scorning longer, in this tangled mesh Of ills, to wait on perishable flesh, Did with their desperate hands anticipate The too, too slow relief of lingering fate. And if religion did not stay thine hand, And God, and Plato's wise behests, withstand, I would in like case counsel thee to throw This senseless burden off, of cares below. Not wine, as wine, men choose, but as it came From such or such a vintage: 'tis the same With life, which simply must be understood A black negation, if it be not good. But if 'tis wretched all—as men decline And loath the sour lees of corrupted wine— 'Tis so to be contemn'd. Merely TO BE Is not a boon to seek, nor ill to flee, Seeing that every vilest little Thing Has it in common, from a gnat's small wing, A creeping worm, down to the moveless stone, And crumbling bark from trees. Unless TO BE, And TO BE BLEST, be one, I do not see In bare existence, as existence, aught That's worthy to be loved, or to be sought.



TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ.

On the New Edition of his "Pleasures of Memory"

(1833)

When thy gay book hath paid its proud devoirs, Poetic friend, and fed with luxury The eye of pampered aristocracy In glittering drawing-rooms and gilt boudoirs, O'erlaid with comments of pictorial art, However rich and rare, yet nothing leaving Of healthful action to the soul-conceiving Of the true reader—yet a nobler part Awaits thy work, already classic styled. Cheap-clad, accessible, in homeliest show The modest beauty through the land shall go From year to year, and render life more mild; Refinement to the poor man's hearth shall give, And in the moral heart of England live.



TO CLARA N[OVELLO]

(1834)

The Gods have made me most unmusical, With feelings that respond not to the call Of stringed harp, or voice—obtuse and mute To hautboy, sackbut, dulcimer, and flute; King David's lyre, that made the madness flee From Saul, had been but a jew's-harp to me: Theorbos, violins, French horns, guitars, Leave in my wounded ears inflicted scars; I hate those trills, and shakes, and sounds that float Upon the captive air; I know no note, Nor ever shall, whatever folks may say, Of the strange mysteries of Sol and Fa; I sit at oratorios like a fish, Incapable of sound, and only wish The thing was over. Yet do I admire, O tuneful daughter of a tuneful sire, Thy painful labours in a science, which To your deserts I pray may make you rich As much as you are loved, and add a grace To the most musical Novello race. Women lead men by the nose, some cynics say; You draw them by the ear—a delicater way.



THE SISTERS

On Emma's honest brow we read display'd The constant virtues of the Nut Brown Maid; Mellifluous sounds on Clara's tongue we hear, Notes that once lured a Seraph from his sphere; Cecilia's eyes such winning beauties crown As without song might draw her Angel down.



LOVE WILL COME

Tune—The Tartar Drum

I

Guard thy feelings, pretty Vestal, From the smooth Intruder free; Cage thy heart in bars of chrystal, Lock it with a golden key: Thro' the bars demurely stealing, Noiseless footstep, accent dumb, His approach to none revealing— Watch, or watch not, LOVE WILL COME.

His approach to none revealing— Watch, or watch not, Love will come—Love, Watch, or watch not, Love will come.

II

Scornful Beauty may deny him— He hath spells to charm disdain; Homely Features may defy him— Both at length must wear the chain. Haughty Youth in Courts of Princes— Hermit poor with age o'er come— His soft plea at last convinces; Sooner, later, LOVE WILL COME.

His soft plea at length convinces; Sooner, later, Love will come—Love, Sooner, later, Love will come.



TO MARGARET W——

Margaret, in happy hour Christen'd from that humble flower Which we a daisy[17] call! May thy pretty name-sake be In all things a type of thee, And image thee in all.

[Footnote 17: Marguerite, in French, signifies a daisy. [Note in Athenaeum.]]



To Margaret W——

Like it you show a modest face, An unpretending native grace;— The tulip, and the pink, The china and the damask rose, And every flaunting flower that blows, In the comparing shrink.

Of lowly fields you think no scorn; Yet gayest gardens would adorn, And grace, wherever set. Home-seated in your lonely bower, Or wedded—a transplanted flower— I bless you, Margaret!

EDMONTON, 8th October, 1834.



* * * * *



ADDITIONAL ALBUM VERSES AND ACROSTICS

WHAT IS AN ALBUM?

'Tis a Book kept by modern Young Ladies for show, Of which their plain grandmothers nothing did know. 'Tis a medley of scraps, fine verse, and fine prose, And some things not very like either, God knows. The soft First Effusions of Beaux and of Belles, Of future LORD BYRONS, and sweet L.E.L.'s; Where wise folk and simple both equally shine, And you write your nonsense, that I may write mine. Stick in a fine landscape, to make a display, A flower-piece, a foreground, all tinted so gay, As NATURE herself (could she see them) would strike With envy, to think that she ne'er did the like: And since some LAVATERS, with head-pieces comical, Have pronounc'd people's hands to be physiognomical, Be sure that you stuff it with AUTOGRAPHS plenty, All framed to a pattern, so stiff, and so dainty. They no more resemble folks' every-day writing, Than lines penn'd with pains do extemp'rel enditing; Or the natural countenance (pardon the stricture) The faces we make when we sit for our picture.

Thus you have, dearest EMMA, an ALBUM complete— Which may you live to finish, and I live to see it; And since you began it for innocent ends, May it swell, and grow bigger each day with new friends, Who shall set down kind names, as a token and test, As I my poor autograph sign with the rest.



THE FIRST LEAF OF SPRING

Written on the First Leaf of a Lady's Album

Thou fragile, filmy, gossamery thing, First leaf of spring! At every lightest breath that quakest, And with a zephyr shakest; Scarce stout enough to hold thy slender form together, In calmest halcyon weather; Next sister to the web that spiders weave, Poor flutterers to deceive Into their treacherous silken bed: O! how art thou sustained, how nourished! All trivial as thou art, Without dispute, Thou play'st a mighty part; And art the herald to a throng Of buds, blooms, fruit, That shall thy cracking branches sway, While birds on every spray Shall pay the copious fruitage with a sylvan song. So 'tis with thee, whoe'er on thee shall look, First leaf of this beginning modest book. Slender thou art, God knowest, And little grace bestowest, But in thy train shall follow after, Wit, wisdom, seriousness, in hand with laughter; Provoking jests, restraining soberness, In their appropriate dress; And I shall joy to be outdone By those who brighter trophies won; Without a grief, That I thy slender promise have begun, First leaf.

1832.



TO MRS. F[IELD]

On Her Return from Gibraltar

Jane, you are welcome from the barren Rock, And Calpe's sounding shores. Oh do not mock, Now you have rais'd, our greetings; nor again Ever revisit that dry nook of Spain.

Friends have you here, and friendships to command, In merry England. Love this hearty land. Ease, comfort, competence—of these possess'd, Let prodigal adventurers seek the rest: Dear England is as you,—a Field the Lord hath blest.



TO M[ARY] L[AETITIA] F[IELD]

(Expecting to See Her Again after a Long Interval)

How many wasting, many wasted years, Have run their round, since I beheld your face! In Memory's dim eye it yet appears Crowned, as it then seemed, with a chearful grace. Young prattling Maiden, on the Thames' fair side, Enlivening pleasant Sunbury with your smiles, Time may have changed you: coy reserve, or pride, To sullen looks reduced those mirthful wiles. I will not 'bate one smile on that clear brow, But take of Time a rigorous account, When next I see you; and Maria now Must be the Thing she was. To what amount These verses else?—all hollow and untrue— This was not writ, these lines not meant, for YOU.



TO ESTHER FIELD

Esther, holy name and sweet, Smoothly runs on even feet, To the mild Acrostic bending; Hebrew recollections blending. Ever keep that Queen in view— Royal namesake—bold, and true!

Firm she stood in evil times, In the face of Haman's crimes.— Ev'n as She, do Thou possess Loftiest virtue in the dress, Dear F——, of native loveliness.



[TO MRS. WILLIAMS]

(1830)

Go little Poem, and present Respectful terms of compliment; A gentle lady bids thee speak! Courteous is she, tho' thou be weak— Evoke from Heaven as thick as manna

Joy after joy on Grace Joanna: On Fornham's Glebe and Pasture land A blessing pray. Long, long may stand, Not touched by Time, the Rectory blithe; No grudging churl dispute his Tithe; At Easter be the offerings due

With cheerful spirit paid; each pew In decent order filled; no noise Loud intervene to drown the voice, Learning, or wisdom of the Teacher; Impressive be the Sacred Preacher, And strict his notes on holy page; May young and old from age to age Salute, and still point out, 'The good man's Parsonage!'



TO THE BOOK

Little Casket! Storehouse rare Of rich conceits, to please the Fair! Happiest he of mortal men,— (I crown him monarch of the pen,)— To whom Sophia deigns to give The flattering prerogative To inscribe his name in chief, On thy first and maiden Leaf. When thy pages shall be full Of what brighter wits can cull Of the Tender or Romantic, Creeping Prose or Verse Gigantic,— Which thy spaces so shall cram That the Bee-like Epigram (Which a two-fold tribute brings, Honey gives at once, and stings,) Hath not room left wherewithal To infix its tiny scrawl; Haply some more youthful swain, Striving to describe his pain, And the Damsel's ear to seize With more expressive lays than these, When he finds his own excluded And these counterfeits intruded; While, loitering in the Muse's bower, He overstayed the eleventh hour, Till the tables filled—shall fret, Die, or sicken with regret Or into a shadow pine: While this triumphant verse of mine, Like to some favoured stranger-guest, Bidden to a good man's Feast Shall sit—by merit less than fate— In the upper Seat in State.



TO S[OPHIA] F[REND]

Acrostic

Solemn Legends we are told Of bright female Names of old, Phyllus fair, Laodameia, Helen, but methinks Sophia Is a name of better meaning And a sort of Christian leaning.

For it Wisdom means, which passes Rubies, pearls, or golden masses. Ever try that Name to merit; Never quit what you inherit, Duly from your Father's spirit.



TO R[OTHA] Q[UILLINAN]

Acrostic

ROTHA, how in numbers light, Ought I to express thee? Take my meaning in its flight— Haste imports not always slight— And believe, I bless thee.



TO S[ARAH] L[OCKE]

Acrostic

Shall I praise a face unseen, And extol a fancied mien, Rave on visionary charm, And from shadows take alarm? Hatred hates without a cause;

Love may love, with more applause, Or, without a reason given, Charmed be with unknown Heaven. Keep the secrets, though, unmocked, Ever in your bosom Locke'd.



TO M[ARY] L[OCKE]

Acrostic

Must I write with pen unwilling And describe those graces killing Rightly, which I never saw? Yes—it is the Album's law.

Let me then Invention strain On your excelling charms to feign— Cold is Fiction? I believe it Kindly, as I did receive it, Even as J.F.'s tongue did weave it.



AN ACROSTIC AGAINST ACROSTICS

[To Edward Hogg]

Envy not the wretched Poet Doomed to pen these teasing strains, Wit so cramped, ah, who can show it, Are the trifles worth the pains. Rhyme compared with this were easy, Double Rhymes may not displease ye.

Homer, Horace sly and caustic, Owed no fame to vile acrostic. G's, I am sure, the Readers choked with, Good men's names must not be joked with.



ON BEING ASKED TO WRITE IN MISS WESTWOOD'S ALBUM

My feeble Muse, that fain her best wou'd Write, at command of Frances Westwood, But feels her wits not in their best mood, Fell lately on some idle fancies, As she's much given to romances, About this self-same style as Frances; Which seems to be a name in common Attributed to man or woman. She thence contrived this flattering moral, With which she hopes no soul will quarrel, That she, whom this twin title decks, Combines what's good in either sex; Unites—how very rare the case is!— Masculine sense to female graces; And, quitting not her proper rank, Is both in one—Fanny, and frank.

12th October, 1827.



[IN MISS WESTWOOD'S ALBUM]

By Mary Lamb

Small beauty to your Book my lines can lend, Yet you shall have the best I can, sweet friend, To serve for poor memorials 'gainst the day That calls you from your Parent-roof away, From the mild offices of Filial life To the more serious duties of a Wife. The World is opening to you—may you rest With all your prospects realised, and blest!— I, with the Elder Couple left behind, On evenings chatting, oft shall call to mind Those spirits of Youth, which Age so ill can miss, And, wanting you, half grudge your S—n's bliss; Till mirthful malice tempts us to exclaim 'Gainst the dear Thief, who robb'd you of your Name.

ENFIELD CHASE, 17th May, 1828.



UN SOLITAIRE

A Drawing by E.I. [Emma Isola]

[To Sarah Lachlan]

Solitary man, around thee Are the mountains: Peace hath found thee Resting by that rippling tide; All vain toys of life expelling, Hermit-like, thou find'st a dwelling, Lost 'mid foliage stretching wide. Angels here alone may find thee, Contemplation fast may bind thee. Holier spot, or more fantastic, Livelier scene of deep seclusion, Armed by Nature 'gainst intrusion, Never graced a seat Monastic.



TO S[ARAH] T[HOMAS]

An Acrostic

Sarah, blest wife of "Terah's faithful Son," After a race of years with goodness run, Regardless heard the promised miracle, And mocked the blessing as impossible. How weak is Faith!—even He, the most sincere,

Thomas, to his meek Master not least dear, Holy, and blameless, yet refused assent Of full belief, until he could content Mere human senses. In your piety, As you are one in name, industriously So copy them: but shun their weak part—Incredulity.



TO MRS. SARAH ROBINSON

Soul-breathing verse, thy gentlest guise put on And greet the honor'd name of Robinson. Rome in her throng'd and stranger-crowded streets, And palaces, where pilgrim pilgrim meets, Holds not, respected Sarah, one that can Revered make the name of Englishman, Or loved, more than thy Kinsman, dear to me By many a friendly act. His heart I see In thee with answering courtesy renew'd. Nor shall to thee my debt of gratitude Soon fade, that didst receive with open hand One that was come a stranger to thy land— Now call[s] thee Friend. Her thanks, and mine, command.

Enfield, 14th March, 1831.



TO SARAH [APSEY]

Acrostic

Sarah,—your other name I know not, And fine encomiums I bestow not, Regard me as an utter stranger, A hair-brain'd, hasty, album-ranger, Heaven shield you, Girl, from every danger!



TO JOSEPH VALE ASBURY

Acrostic

Judgements are about us thoroughly; O'er all Enfield hangs the Cholera, Savage monster, none like him Ever rack'd a human limb. Pest, nor plague, nor fever yellow, Has made patients more to bellow.

Vain his threatnings! Asbury comes, And defiance beats by drums; Label, bottle, box, pill, potion, Each enlists in the commotion.

And with Vials, like to those Seen in Patmos[18], charged with woes, Breathing Wrath, he falls pell-mell Upon the Foe, and pays him well. Revenge!—he has made the monster sick Yea, Cholera vanish, choleric.

[Footnote 18: Vide Revelations.]



TO D[OROTHY] A[SBURY]

Acrostic

Divided praise, Lady, to you we owe, Of all the health your husband doth bestow, Respected wife of skilful Asbury! Oracular foresight named thee Dorothy; Tis a Greek word, and signifies God's Gift; (How Learning helps poor Poets at a shift!)— You are that gift. When, tired with human ails,

And tedious listening to the sick man's tales, Sore spent, and fretted, he comes home at eve, By mild medicaments you his toils deceive. Under your soothing treatment he revives; (Restorative is the smile of gentle wives): You lengthen his, who lengthens all our lives.



TO LOUISA MORGAN

How blest is he who in his age, exempt From fortune's frowns, and from the troublous strife Of storms that harass still the private life, "Below ambition, and above contempt," Hath gain'd a quiet harbour, where he may Look back on shipwrecks past, without a sigh For busier scenes, and hope's gay dreams gone by! And such a nook of blessedness, they say, Your Sire at length has found; while you, best Child, Content in his contentment, acquiesce In patient toils; and in a station less, Than you might image, when your prospects smiled. In your meek virtues there is found a calm, That on his life's soft evening sheds a balm.



TO SARAH JAMES OF BEGUILDY

Acrostic

Sleep hath treasures worth retracing: Are you not in slumbers pacing Round your native spot at times, And seem to hear Beguildy's chimes? Hold the airy vision fast; Joy is but a dream at last: And what was so fugitive, Memory only makes to live. Even from troubles past we borrow Some thoughts that may lighten sorrow,

Onwards as we pace through life, Fainting under care or strife,

By the magic of a thought Every object back is brought Gayer than it was when real, Under influence ideal. In remembrance as a glass, Let your happy childhood pass; Dreaming so in fancy's spells, You still shall hear those old church bells.



TO EMMA BUTTON

Acrostic

EMMA, eldest of your name, Meekly trusting in her God Midst the red-hot plough-shares trod, And unscorch'd preserved her fame. By that test if you were tried, Ugly flames might be defied; Though devouring fire's a glutton, Through the trial you might go "On the light fantastic toe," Nor for plough-shares care a BUTTON.



WRITTEN UPON THE COVER OF A BLOTTING BOOK

Blank tho' I be, within you'll find Relics of th' enraptured mind: Where truth and fable, mirth and wit, Are safely here deposited. The placid, furious, envious, wise, Impart to me their secresies; Here hidden thoughts in blotted line Nor sybil can the sense divine; Lethe and I twin sisters be— Then, stranger, open me and see.



* * * * *



POLITICAL AND OTHER EPIGRAMS



TO SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH

(1801)

Though thou'rt like Judas, an apostate black, In the resemblance one thing thou dost lack: When he had gotten his ill-purchased pelf, He went away, and wisely hanged himself. This thou may'st do at last; yet much I doubt, If thou hast any bowels to gush out!



* * * * *



TWELFTH NIGHT

Characters That Might Have Been Drawn on the Above Evening

(1802)

MR. A[DDINGTON]

I put my night-cap on my head, And went, as usual, to my bed; And, most surprising to relate, I woke—a Minister of State!

MESSRS. C[ANNIN]G AND F[RER]E

At Eton School brought up with dull boys, We shone like men among the school-boys; But since we in the world have been, We are but school-boys among men.

COUNT RUMFORD

I deal in aliments fictitious And teaze the poor with soups nutritious. Of bones and flesh I make dilution And belong to the National Institution.



ON A LATE EMPIRIC OF "BALMY" MEMORY

(1802. Not printed till 1820)

His namesake, born of Jewish breeder, Knew "from the Hyssop to the Cedar;" But he, unlike the Jewish leader, Scarce knew the Hyssop from the Cedar.



* * * * *



EPIGRAMS

(1812)

I

Princeps his rent from tinneries draws, His best friends are refiners;— What wonder then his other friends He leaves for under-miners.

II

Ye Politicians, tell me, pray, Why thus with woe and care rent? This is the worst that you can say, Some wind has blown the wig away, And left the hair apparent.



* * * * *



THE TRIUMPH OF THE WHALE

(1812)

Io! Paean! Io! sing To the funny people's King. Not a mightier whale than this In the vast Atlantic is; Not a fatter fish than he Flounders round the polar sea. See his blubbers—at his gills What a world of drink he swills, From his trunk, as from a spout, Which next moment he pours out. Such his person—next declare, Muse, who his companions are.— Every fish of generous kind Scuds aside, or slinks behind; But about his presence keep All the Monsters of the Deep; Mermaids, with their tails and singing His delighted fancy stinging; Crooked Dolphins, they surround him, Dog-like Seals, they fawn around him. Following hard, the progress mark Of the intolerant salt sea shark. For his solace and relief, Flat fish are his courtiers chief. Last and lowest in his train, Ink-fish (libellers of the main) Their black liquor shed in spite: (Such on earth the things that write.) In his stomach, some do say, No good thing can ever stay. Had it been the fortune of it To have swallowed that old Prophet, Three days there he'd not have dwell'd, But in one have been expell'd. Hapless mariners are they, Who beguil'd (as seamen say), Deeming him some rock or island, Footing sure, safe spot, and dry land, Anchor in his scaly rind; Soon the difference they find; Sudden plumb, he sinks beneath them; Does to ruthless seas bequeath them.

Name or title what has he? Is he Regent of the Sea? From this difficulty free us, Buffon, Banks or sage Linnaeus. With his wondrous attributes Say what appellation suits. By his bulk, and by his size, By his oily qualities, This (or else my eyesight fails), This should be the PRINCE OF WHALES.



SONNET

St. Crispin to Mr. Gifford (1819)

All unadvised, and in an evil hour, Lured by aspiring thoughts, my son, you daft The lowly labours of the Gentle Craft For learned toils, which blood and spirits sour. All things, dear pledge, are not in all men's power; The wiser sort of shrub affects the ground; And sweet content of mind is oftener found In cobbler's parlour, than in critic's bower. The sorest work is what doth cross the grain; And better to this hour you had been plying The obsequious awl with well-waxed finger flying, Than ceaseless thus to till a thankless vein; Still teazing Muses, which are still denying; Making a stretching-leather of your brain.



THE GODLIKE

(1820)

In one great man we view with odds A parallel to all the gods. Great Jove, that shook heaven with his brow, Could never match his princely bow. In him a Bacchus we behold: Like Bacchus, too, he ne'er grows old. Like Phoebus next, a flaming lover; And then he's Mercury—all over. A Vulcan, for domestic strife, He lamely lives without his wife. And sure—unless our wits be dull— Minerva-like, when moon was full, He issued from paternal skull.



THE THREE GRAVES

(1820)

Close by the ever-burning brimstone beds Where Bedloe, Oates and Judas, hide their heads, I saw great Satan like a Sexton stand With his intolerable spade in hand, Digging three graves. Of coffin shape they were, For those who, coffinless, must enter there With unblest rites. The shrouds were of that cloth Which Clotho weaveth in her blackest wrath: The dismal tinct oppress'd the eye, that dwelt Upon it long, like darkness to be felt. The pillows to these baleful beds were toads, Large, living, livid, melancholy loads, Whose softness shock'd. Worms of all monstrous size Crawl'd round; and one, upcoil'd, which never dies. A doleful bell, inculcating despair, Was always ringing in the heavy air. And all about the detestable pit Strange headless ghosts, and quarter'd forms, did flit; Rivers of blood, from living traitors spilt, By treachery stung from poverty to guilt. I ask'd the fiend, for whom these rites were meant? "These graves," quoth he, "when life's brief oil is spent, When the dark night comes, and they're sinking bedwards, —I mean for Castles, Oliver, and Edwards."



SONNET TO MATHEW WOOD, ESQ.

Alderman and M.P.

(1820)

Hold on thy course uncheck'd, heroic WOOD! Regardless what the player's son may prate, Saint Stephens' fool, the Zany of Debate— Who nothing generous ever understood. London's twice Praetor! scorn the fool-born jest— The stage's scum, and refuse of the players— Stale topics against Magistrates and Mayors— City and Country both thy worth attest. Bid him leave off his shallow Eton wit, More fit to sooth the superficial ear Of drunken PITT, and that pickpocket Peer, When at their sottish orgies they did sit, Hatching mad counsels from inflated vein, Till England, and the nations, reeled with pain.



ON A PROJECTED JOURNEY

(1820)

To gratify his people's wish See G[eorg]e at length prepare— He's setting out for Hanover— We've often wished him there.

SONG FOR THE C[ORONATIO]N

Tune, "Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch"

(1820)

Roi's wife of Brunswick Oels! Roi's wife of Brunswick Oels! Wot you how she came to him, While he supinely dreamt of no ills? Vow! but she is a canty Queen, And well can she scare each royal orgie.— To us she ever must be dear, Though she's for ever cut by Georgie.— Roi's wife, etc. Da capo.



THE UNBELOVED

(1820)

Not a woman, child, or man in All this isle, that loves thee, C[anni]ng. Fools, whom gentle manners sway, May incline to C[astlerea]gh, Princes, who old ladies love, Of the Doctor may approve, Chancery lads do not abhor Their chatty, childish Chancellor. In Liverpool some virtues strike, And little Van's beneath dislike. Tho, if I were to be dead for't, I could never love thee, H[eadfor]t: (Every man must have his way) Other grey adulterers may. But thou unamiable object,— Dear to neither prince, nor subject;— Veriest, meanest scab, for pelf Fastning on the skin of Guelph, Thou, thou must, surely, loathe thyself.



ON THE ARRIVAL IN ENGLAND OF LORD BYRON'S REMAINS

(1824)

Manners, they say, by climate alter not: Who goes a drunkard will return a sot. So lordly Juan, damn'd to lasting fame, Went out a pickle, and came back the same.



LINES

Suggested by a Sight of Waltham Cross

(1827)

Time-mouldering CROSSES, gemm'd with imagery Of costliest work, and Gothic tracery, Point still the spots, to hallow'd wedlock dear, Where rested on its solemn way the bier, That bore the bones of Edward's Elinor To mix with Royal dust at Westminster.— Far different rites did thee to dust consign, Duke Brunswick's daughter, Princely Caroline. A hurrying funeral, and a banish'd grave, High-minded Wife! were all that thou could'st have. Grieve not, great Ghost, nor count in death thy losses; Thou in thy life-time had'st thy share of crosses.



FOR THE "TABLE BOOK"

(1827)

Laura, too partial to her friends' enditing, Requires from each a pattern of their writing. A weightier trifle Laura might command; For who to Laura would refuse his—hand?



THE ROYAL WONDERS

(1830)

Two miracles at once! Compell'd by fate, His tarnish'd throne the Bourbon doth vacate; While English William,—a diviner thing,— Of his free pleasure hath put off the king. The forms of distant old respect lets pass, And melts his crown into the common mass. Health to fair France, and fine regeneration! But England's is the nobler abdication.



"BREVIS ESSE LABORO"

"ONE DIP"

(1830)

Much speech obscures the sense; the soul of wit Is brevity: our tale one proof of it. Poor Balbulus, a stammering invalid, Consults the doctors, and by them is bid To try sea-bathing, with this special heed, "One Dip was all his malady did need; More than that one his certain death would be." Now who so nervous or so shook as he, For Balbulus had never dipped before? Two well-known dippers at the Broadstairs' shore, Stout, sturdy churls, have stript him to the skin, And naked, cold, and shivering plunge him in. Soon he emerges, with scarce breath to say, "I'm to be dip—dip—dipt—." "We know it," they Reply; expostulation seemed in vain, And over ears they souse him in again, And up again he rises, his words trip, And falter as before. Still "dip—dip—dip"— And in again he goes with furious plunge, Once more to rise; when, with a desperate lunge, At length he bolts these words out, "Only once!" The villains crave his pardon. Had the dunce But aimed at these bare words the rogues had found him, But striving to be prolix, they half drowned him.



SUUM CUIQUE

(1830)

Adsciscit sibi divitias et opes alienas Fur, rapiens, spolians quod mihi, quodque tibi Proprium erat, temnens haec verba, Meumque Tuumque; Omne Suum est. Tandem cuique suum tribuit. Dat laqueo collum: vestes, vah! carnifici dat: Sese Diabolo; sic bene, Cuique Suum.



[ON THE LITERARY GAZETTE]

(1830)

In merry England I computed once The number of the dunces—dunce for dunce; There were four hundred, if I don't forget, All readers of the L———y G——-e; But if the author to himself keep true, In some short months they'll be reduced to two.



ON THE FAST-DAY

To name a Day for general prayer and fast Is surely worse than of no sort of use; For you may see with grief, from first to last On fast-days people of all ranks are loose.



NONSENSE VERSES

Lazy-bones, lazy-bones, wake up, and peep! The cat's in the cupboard, your mother's asleep. There you sit snoring, forgetting her ills; Who is to give her her Bolus and Pills? Twenty fine Angels must come into town, All for to help you to make your new gown: Dainty AERIAL Spinsters, and Singers; Aren't you ashamed to employ such white fingers? Delicate hands, unaccustom'd to reels, To set 'em a working a poor body's wheels? Why they came down is to me all a riddle, And left HALLELUJAH broke off in the middle: Jove's Court, and the Presence angelical, cut— To eke out the work of a lazy young slut. Angel-duck, Angel-duck, winged, and silly, Pouring a watering-pot over a lily, Gardener gratuitous, careless of pelf, Leave her to water her lily herself, Or to neglect it to death if she chuse it: Remember the loss is her own, if she lose it.

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