The Two Boys
I saw a boy with eager eye
Open a book upon a stall,
And read as he'd devour it all:
Which when the stall-man did espy,
Soon to the boy I heard him call,
'You, sir, you never buy a book,
Therefore in one you shall not look.'
The boy passed slowly on, and with a sigh
He wished he never had been taught to read,
Then of the old churl's books he should have had no need.
Of sufferings the poor have many,
Which never can the rich annoy.
I soon perceived another boy
Who looked as if he'd not had any
Food for that day at least, enjoy
The sight of cold meat in a tavern-larder.
This boy's case, thought I, is surely harder,
Thus hungry longing, thus without a penny,
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poem by Charles Lamb
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To The Poet Cowper, On His Recovery From An Indisposition
WRITTEN SOME TIME BACK.
Cowper, I thank my God that thou art healed.
Thine was the sorest malady of all,
And I am sad to think that it should light
Upon the worthy head; but thou art healed,
And thou art yet, we trust, the destined man,
Born to re-animate the lyre, whose chords
Have slumbered, and have idle lain so long;
To the immortal sounding of whose strings
Did Milton frame the stately-paced verse;
Among whose wires with lighter finger playing
Our elder bard, Spenser, a gentler name,
The lady Muses' dearest darling child,
Enticëd forth the deftest tunes yet heard
In hall or bower; taking the delicate ear
Of the brave Sidney, and the Maiden Queen.
Thou, then, take up the mighty epic strain,
Cowper, of England's bards the wisest and the best!
poem by Charles Lamb
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Lines
ON THE CELEBRATED PICTURE BY LEONARDO DA VINCI, CALLED THE VIRGIN OF THE ROCKS
While young John runs to greet
The greater Infant's feet,
The Mother standing by, with trembling passion
Of devout admiration,
Beholds the engaging mystic play, and pretty adoration;
Nor knows as yet the full event
Of those so low beginnings,
From whence we date our winnings,
But wonders at the intent
Of those new rites, and what that strange child-worship meant.
But at her side
An angel doth abide,
With such a perfect joy
As no dim doubts alloy,
An intuition,
A glory, an amenity,
Passing the dark condition
Of blind humanity,
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poem by Charles Lamb
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The Reaper's Child
If you go to the field where the reapers now bind
The sheaves of ripe corn, there a fine little lass,
Only three months of age, by the hedge-row you'll find,
Left alone by its mother upon the low grass.
While the mother is reaping, the infant is sleeping;
Not the basket that holds the provision is less
By the hard-working reaper, than this little sleeper,
Regarded, till hunger does on the babe press.
Then it opens its eyes, and it utters loud cries,
Which its hard-working mother afar off will hear;
She comes at its calling, she quiets its squalling,
And feeds it, and leaves it again without fear.
When you were as young as this field-nursëd daughter,
You were fed in the house, and brought up on the knee;
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poem by Charles Lamb
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What Is Fancy?
SISTER.
I am to write three lines, and you
Three others that will rhyme.
There-now I've done my task.
BROTHER.
Three stupid lines as e'er I knew.
When you've the pen next time,
Some question of me ask.
SISTER.
Then tell me, brother, and pray mind,
Brother, you tell me true:
What sort of thing is fancy?
BROTHER.
By all that I can ever find,
'Tis something that is very new,
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poem by Charles Lamb
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Penny Pieces
'I keep it, dear papa, within my glove.'
'You do-what sum then usually, my love,
Is there deposited? I make no doubt,
Some penny pieces you are not without.'
'O no, papa, they'd soil my glove, and be
Quite odious things to carry. O no-see,
This little bit of gold is surely all
That I shall want; for I shall only call
For a small purchase I shall make, papa,
And a mere trifle I'm to buy mamma;
Just to make out the change: so there's no need
To carry penny pieces, sir, indeed.'
'O now I know then why a blind man said
Unto a dog which this blind beggar led,-
'Where'er you see some fine young ladies, Tray,
Be sure you lead me quite another way.
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poem by Charles Lamb
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The Force Of Habit
A little child, who had desired
To go and see the Park guns fired,
Was taken by his maid that way
Upon the next rejoicing day.
Soon as the unexpected stroke
Upon his tender organs broke,
Confused and stunned at the report,
He to her arms fled for support,
And begged to be conveyed at once
Out of the noise of those great guns,
Those naughty guns, whose only sound
Would kill (he said) without a wound:
So much of horror and offence
The shock had given his infant sense.
Yet this was he in after days
Who filled the world with martial praise,
When from the English quarter-deck
His steady courage swayed the wreck
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poem by Charles Lamb
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A Parody
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-five Angels must come into Town,
All for to help you to make your new gown-
Dainty aerial Spinsters & Singers:
Aren't you asham'd to employ such white fingers?
Delicate Hands, unaccustom'd to reels,
To set 'em a washing at 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 & the Presence Angelical cut,
To eke out the work of a lazy young slut.
Angel-duck, angel-duck, wingèd & 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.
poem by Charles Lamb
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The New-Born Infant
Whether beneath sweet beds of roses,
As foolish little Ann supposes,
The spirit of a babe reposes
Before it to the body come;
Or, as philosophy more wise
Thinks, it descendeth from the skies,-
We know the babe's now in the room
And that is all which is quite clear
Even to philosophy, my dear.
The God that made us can alone
Reveal from whence a spirit's brought
Into young life, to light, and thought;
And this the wisest man must own.
We'll now talk of the babe's surprise,
When first he opens his new eyes,
And first receives delicious food.
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poem by Charles Lamb
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The Young Letter Writer
Dear Sir, Dear Madam, or Dear Friend,
With ease are written at the top;
When those two happy words are penned,
A youthful writer oft will stop,
And bite his pen, and lift his eyes
As if he thinks to find in air
The wished-for following words, or tries
To fix his thoughts by fixëd stare.
But haply all in vain-the next
Two words may be so long before
They'll come, the writer, sore perplext,
Gives in despair the matter o'er;
And when maturer age he sees
With ready pen so swift inditing,
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poem by Charles Lamb
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