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III.

hear that she a Book hath gotAs what young damsel now hath not, In which they scribble favourite fancies,

Copied from poems or romances?
And prettiest draughts, of her design,
About the curious Album shine;
And therefore she shall have for me
The style of tasteful Daubeny.

IV.

Thus far I have taken on believing: But well I know without deceiving, That in her heart she keeps alive still Old school-day likings, which survive still

In spite of absence-worldly cold

ness

And thereon can my Muse take bold

ness

To crown her other praises three With praise of-friendly Daubeny.

IN MY OWN ALBUM.

FRESH clad from heaven in robes of white,

A young probationer of light,
Thou wert my soul, an Album bright,
A spotless leaf; but thought, and care,
And friend and foe, in foul or fair,
Have written strange defeatures"
there;

And Time with heaviest hand of all,
Like that fierce writing on the wall,
Hath stamp'd sad dates he can't
recall;

And error gilding worst designsLike speckled snake that strays and shines

Betrays his path by crooked lines;

And vice hath left his ugly blot :
And good resolves, a moment hot,
Fairly began-but finish'd not;

And fruitless, late reinorse doth

trace

Like Hebrew lore a backward paceHer irrecoverable race.

F

Disjointed numbers; sense unknit ; Huge reams of folly, shreds of wit; Compose the mingled mass of it.

My scalded eyes no longer brook Upon this ink-blurr'd thing to lookGo, shut the leaves, and clasp the book.

ANGEL HELP.

(The New Monthly Magazine, June, 1827.)

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[Quoted in Blackwood's Magazine within little more than two years after their first appearance, that is, in August, 1830, these lines were introduced thus: "Charles! we love the following strain," the critic adding with effusion, at their close, "Oh! rare Charles Lamb! An explanatory note appended to the poem by the lyrist himself tells the reader how they were "Suggested by a drawing in the possession of Charles Aders, Esq., in which is represented the legend of a poor female saint who, having spun past midnight, to maintain a bedridden mother, has fallen asleep from fatigue, and angels are finishing her work. In another part of the chamber," he adds, "an angel is tending a lily, the emblem of purity."]

THIS rare tablet doth include
Poverty with Sanctitude.

Past midnight this poor Maid hath spun,

And yet the work is not half done, Which must supply from earnings

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The flesh-clogg'd spirit disabusing,
Death-disarming sleeps infusing,
Prelibations, foretastes high,
And equal thoughts to live or die.
Gardener bright from Eden's bower,
Tend with care that lily flower;
To its leaves and root infuse
Heaven's sunshine, Heaven's dews.
'Tis a type, and 'tis a pledge,
Of a crowning privilege.
Careful as that lily flower,

This Maid must keep her precious dower;

Live a sainted Maid, or die
Martyr to virginity.

Virtuous poor ones, sleep, sleep on,
And waking find your labours done.

THE CHRISTENING. (Blackwood's Magazine, May, 1829.)

[These verses were written in celebration of the christening of the infant son of Charles and Mary Gisburne May, on the 25th March, 1829, at Enfield, Charles and Mary Lamb standing, on the occasion, as sponsors.]

ARRAY'D-a half-angelic sight-
In vests of pure Baptismal white,
The Mother to the Font doth bring
The little helpless nameless thing,
With hushes soft and mild caressing,
At once to get-a name and blessing.
Close by the Babe the Priest doth
stand,

The Cleansing Water at his hand,
Which must assoil the soul within
From every stain of Adam's sin.
The Infant eyes the mystic scenes,
Nor knows what all this wonder

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Enough for him, in after-times,
When he shall read these artless
rhymes,

If, looking back upon this day
With quiet conscience, he can say
"I have in part redeem'd the pledge
Of my Baptismal privilege;

And more and more will strive to flee All which my Sponsors kind did then renounce for me.'

ON AN INFANT DYING. AS
SOON AS BORN.

I SAW where in the shroud did lurk
A curious frame of Nature's work.
A floweret crushèd in the bud,
A nameless piece of Babyhood,
Was in a cradle-coffin lying;
Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying;
So soon to exchange the imprisoning
womb

For darker closets of the tomb!
She did but ope an eye, and put
A clear beam forth, then straight up
shut

For the long dark: ne'er more to see
Through glasses of mortality.
Riddle of destiny, who can show
What thy short visit meant, or know
What thy errand here below?
Shall we say, that Nature blind
Check'd her hand, and changed her
mind,

Just when she had exactly wrought
A finish'd pattern without fault?
Could she flag, or could she tire,
Or lack'd she the Promethean fire
(With her nine, moons' long workings
sicken'd)

That should thy little limbs have quicken'd?

Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure
Life of health, and days mature :
Woman's self in miniature !
Limbs so fair, they might supply
(Themselves now but cold imagery)
The sculptor to make Beauty by.
Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry,
That babe, or mother, one must die;
So in mercy left the stock,

And cut the branch; to save the shock
Of young years widow'd; and the pain,
When Single State comes back again

"To the lone man who, 'reft of wife, Thenceforward drags a maimèd life? The economy of Heaven is dark; And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark,

Why Human Buds, like this, should fall,

More brief than fly ephemeral,

That has his day; while shrivell'd

crones

Stiffen with age to stocks and stones;
And crabbed use the conscience sears
In sinners of an hundred years.
Mother's prattle, mother's kiss,
Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss.
Rites, which custom does impose,
Silver bells and baby clothes;
Coral redder than those lips,
Which pale death did late eclipse;
Music framed for infants' glee,
Whistle never tuned for thee;
Though thou want'st not, thou shalt
have them,

Loving hearts were they which gave them.

Let not one be missing; nurse,
See them laid upon the hearse
Of infant slain by doom perverse.
Why should kings and nobles have
Pictured trophies to their grave;
And we, churls, to thee deny
Thy pretty toys with thee to lie,
A more harmless vanity?

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The subject? what I pleased, if comely;

But something scriptural and homely:
A sober Piece, not gay or wanton,
For winter fire-sides to descant on,
The theme so scrupulously handled,
A Quaker might look on unscandal'd;
Such as might satisfy Ann Knight,
And Classic Mitford just not fright.
Just such a one I've found and send it;
If liked, I give-if not, but lend it.
The moral? nothing can be sounder.
The fable? 'tis its own expounder-
A Mother teaching to her Chit
Some good book, and explaining it.
He, silly urchin, tired of lesson,
His learning lays no mighty stress on,
But seems to hear not what he hears;
Thrusting his fingers in his ears,
Like Obstinate, that perverse funny

one,

In honest parable of Bunyan.
His working Sister, more sedate,
Listens; but in a kind of state,
The painter meant for steadiness,
But has a tinge of sullenness;
And, at first sight, she seems to brook
As ill her needle, as he his book.
This is the Picture. For the Frame-
'Tis not ill-suited to the same;
Oak-carved, not gilt, for fear of falling;
Old fashion'd; plain, yet not appalling;
And sober, as the Owner's Calling.

From her stock of Scriptural knowledge,

Bible-taught without a college,
Which by reading she could gather,
Teaches him to say OUR FATHER
To the common Parent, who
Colour not respects, nor hue.
White and black in him have part,
Who looks not to the skin, but heart.

SHE IS GOING.

FOR their elder sister's hair
Martha does a wreath prepare
Of bridal rose, ornate and gay:
To-morrow is the wedding day:
She is going.

Mary, youngest of the three,
Laughing idler, full of glee,
Arm in arm does fondly chain her,
Thinking, poor trifler, to detain her-
But she's going.

Vex not, maidens, nor regret
Thus to part with Margaret.
Charms like yours can never stay
Long within doors; and one day
You'll be going.

THE YOUNG CATECHIST.

[Lines suggested, as the author's foothote intimates, by "a picture by Henry Meyer, Esq."]

WHILE this tawny Ethiop prayeth,
Painter, who is she that stayeth
By, with skin of whitest lustre,
Sunny locks, a shining cluster,
Saint-like seeming to direct him
To the Power that must protect him?
Is she of the Heaven-born Three,
Meek Hope, strong Faith, sweet
Charity:

Or some Cherub ?—

They you mention Far transcend my week invention. 'Tis a simple Christian child,

Missionary young and mild,

TO A YOUNG FRIEND. ON HER TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY.

[The young friend thus tenderly addressed was Emma Isola (afterwards Mrs. Edward Moxon), one of Charles Lamb's especial child-favourites.]

CROWN me a cheerful goblet, while I pray

A blessing on thy years, young Isola; Young, but no more a child. How swift have flown

To me thy girlish times, a woman grown

Beneath my heedless eyes! In vain I rack

My fancy to believe the almanack, That speaks thee twenty-one. Thou should'st have still Remain'd a child, and at thy sovereign will

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wish was cold.

O far more aged and wrinkled, till folks say,

Looking upon thee reverend in decay, "This dame for length of days, and virtues rare,

With her respected grandsire may compare.

Grandchild of that respected Isola, Thou should'st have had about thee on this day

Kind looks of parents, to congratulate Their pride grown up to woman's grave estate.

But they have died, and left thee, to advance

Thy fortunes how thou may'st, and owe to chance

The friends which Nature grudged. And thou wilt find,

Or make such, Emma, if I am not blind To thee and thy deservings. That last strain

Had too much sorrow in it.

Fill again Another cheerful goblet, while I say "Health, and twice health, to our lost Isola."

TO THE SAME. EXTERNAL gifts of fortune or of face, Maiden, in truth, thou hast not much to show;

Much fairer damsels have I known, and know,

And richer may be found in every place.

In thy mind seek thy beauty and thy wealth.

Sincereness lodgeth there, the soul's best health.

O guard that treasure above gold or pearl,

Laid up secure from moths and worldly stealth

And take my benison, plain-hearted girl.

TO JAMES SHERIDAN
KNOWLES,

ON HIS TRAGEDY OF VIRGINIUS.

(London Magazine, September, 1820.)

[As originally published in the London Magazine, these complimentary verses had prefixed to them the odd misprint of R. S. Knowles, which, still more strangely, was repeated ten years afterwards, when they were reissued towards the end of the little volume containing the Album Verses.]

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

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