The Unbeloved
Not a woman, child, or man in
All this isle, that loves thee, C--ng.
Fools, whom gentle manners sway,
May incline to C--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--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.
[...] Read more
poem by Charles Lamb
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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 through thy book,
Adventurous Hardy! Thou a diver 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.
poem by Charles Lamb
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As when a child...
As when a child on some long winter's night
Affrighted clinging to its Grandam's knees
With eager wond'ring and perturbed delight
Listens strange tales of fearful dark decrees
Muttered to wretch by necromantic spell;
Or of those hags, who at the witching time
Of murky midnight ride the air sublime,
And mingle foul embrace with fiends of Hell:
Cold Horror drinks its blood! Anon the tear
More gentle starts, to hear the Beldame tell
Of pretty babes, that loved each other dear,
Murdered by cruel Uncle's mandate fell:
Ev'n such the shiv'ring joys thy tones impart,
Ev'n so thou, Siddons! meltest my sad heart!
poem by Charles Lamb
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A timid grace sits trembling in her eye
A timid grace sits trembling in her eye,
As loath to meet the rudeness of men's sight,
Yet shedding a delicious lunar light
That steeps in kind oblivious ecstasy
The care-crazed mind, like some still melody:
Speaking most plain the thoughts which do possess
Her gentle sprite: peace, and meek quietness,
And innocent loves, and maiden purity:
A look whereof might heal the cruel smart
Of changed friends, or fortune's wrongs unkind:
Might to sweet deeds of mercy move the heart
Of him who hates his brethren of mankind.
Turned are those lights from me, who fondly yet
Past joys, vain loves, and buried hopes regret.
poem by Charles Lamb
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Why Not Do It, Sir, Today?
'Why so I will, you noisy bird,
This very day I'll advertise you,
Perhaps some busy ones may prize you.
A fine-tongued parrot as was ever heard,
I'll word it thus-set forth all charms about you,
And say no family should be without you.'
Thus far a gentleman addressed a bird,
Then to his friend: 'An old procrastinator,
Sir, I am: do you wonder that I hate her?
Though she but seven words can say,
Twenty and twenty times a day
She interferes with all my dreams,
My projects, plans, and airy schemes,
Mocking my foible to my sorrow:
I'll advertise this bird to-morrow.'
To this the bird seven words did say:
[...] Read more
poem by Charles Lamb
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The Peach
Mamma gave us a single peach,
She shared it among seven;
Now you may think that unto each
But a small piece was given.
Yet though each share was very small,
We owned when it was eaten,
Being so little for us all
Did its fine flavour heighten.
The tear was in our parent's eye,
It seemed quite out of season;
When we asked wherefore she did cry,
She thus explained the reason:-
'The cause, my children, I may say,
Was joy, and not dejection;
[...] Read more
poem by Charles Lamb
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On the sight of swans in Kensington Gardens
Queen-bird, that sittest on thy shining nest
And thy young cygnets without sorrow hatchest,
And thou, thou other royal bird, that watchest
Lest the white mother wandering feet molest:
Shrined are your offspring in a crystal cradle,
Brighter than Helen's ere she yet had burst
Her shelly prison. They shall be born at first
Strong, active, graceful, perfect, swan-like, able
To tread the land or waters with security,
Unlike poor human births, conceived in sin,
In grief brought forth, both outwardly and in
Confessing weakness, error, and impurity.
Did heavenly creatures own succession's line,
The births of heaven like to yours would shine.
poem by Charles Lamb
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The Men And Women, And The Monkeys
A FABLE
When beasts by words their meanings could declare,
Some well-dressed men and women did repair
To gaze upon two monkeys at a fair:
And one who was the spokesman in the place
Said, in their countenance you might plainly trace
The likeness of a withered old man's face.
His observation none impeached or blamed,
But every man and woman when 'twas named
Drew in the head, or slunk away ashamed.
One monkey, who had more pride than the other,
His infinite chagrin could scarcely smother;
But Pug the wiser said unto his brother:
[...] Read more
poem by Charles Lamb
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The Offer
'Tell me, would you rather be
Changed by a fairy to the fine
Young orphan heiress Geraldine,
Or still be Emily?
'Consider, ere you answer me,
How many blessings are procured
By riches, and how much endured
By chilling poverty.'
After a pause, said Emily:
'In the words orphan heiress I
Find many a solid reason why
I would not changëd be.
'What though I live in poverty,
And have of sisters eight-so many,
That few indulgencies, if any,
Fall to the share of me:
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poem by Charles Lamb
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Written In The First Leaf Of A Child's Memorandum-Book
My neat and pretty book, when I thy small lines see
They seem for any use to be unfit for me.
My writing, all misshaped, uneven as my mind,
Within this narrow space can hardly be confined.
Yet I will strive to make my hand less awkward look;
I would not willingly disgrace thee, my neat book.
The finest pens I'll use, and wondrous pains I'll take,
And I these perfect lines my monitors will make.
And every day I will set down in order due
How that day wasted is; and should there be a few
At the year's end that show more goodly to the sight,
If haply here I find some days not wasted quite,
If a small portion of them I have passed aright,
Then shall I think the year not wholly was misspent,
And that my Diary has been by some good angel sent.
poem by Charles Lamb
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