Lines Suggested By A Sight Of Waltham Cross

Time-mouldering crosses, gemmed with imagery
Of costliest work and Gothic tracery,
Point still the spot, to hallowed 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 banished grave,
High-minded Wife, were all that thou couldst have.
Grieve not, great Ghost, nor count in death in losses;
Thou in thy life-time hadst thy share of crosses

poem by Charles Lamb
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To A River In Which A Child Was Drowned

Smiling river, smiling river,
On thy bosom sun-beams play;
Though they're fleeting, and retreating,
Thou hast more deceit than they.

In thy channel, in thy channel,
Choak'd with ooze and grav'lly stones,
Deep immersed, and unhearsed,
Lies young Edward's corse: his bones

Ever whitening, ever whitening,
As thy waves against them dash;
What thy torrent, in the current,
Swallow'd, now it helps to wash.

As if senseless, as if senseless
Things had feeling in this case;

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poem by Charles Lamb
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Incorrect Speaking

Incorrectness in your speech
Carefully avoid, my Anna;
Study well the sense of each
Sentence, lest in any manner
It misrepresent the truth;
Veracity's the charm of youth.

You will not, I know, tell lies,
If you know what you are speaking.
Truth is shy, and from us flies;
Unless diligently seeking
Into every word we pry,
Falsehood will her place supply.

Falsehood is not shy, not she,-
Ever ready to take place of
Truth, too oft we Falsehood see,
Or at least some latent trace of

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poem by Charles Lamb
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To Margaret W

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

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!

poem by Charles Lamb
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Beauty's Song

What's Life still changing ev'ry hour?
Tis all the seasons in a Day!
The Smile, the Tear, the Sun, the Show'r'
Tis now December, now tis May
At morn we hail some envied Queen;
At eve she sinks some Cottage guest;
Yet if contentment gilds the scene
Contentment makes the Cottage blest.

Who more than I, this truth can feel?
I feel it yet am charm'd to find
While thus I turn the spinning-wheel
The station humbles not the mind.
Ah no! in days of youth and health
Nature will smile tho' fortune frown
Be this my song Content is wealth'
And duty ev'ry toil shall crown.

poem by Charles Lamb
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Clock Striking

Did I hear the church-clock a few minutes ago,
I was asked, and I answered, I hardly did know,
But I thought that I heard it strike three.
Said my friend then, 'The blessings we always possess
We know not the want of, and prize them the less;
The church-clock was no new sound to thee.

'A young woman, afflicted with deafness a year,
By that sound you scarce heard, first perceived she could hear;
I was near her, and saw the girl start
With such exquisite wonder, such feelings of pride,
A happiness almost to terror allied,
She showed the sound went to her heart.'

poem by Charles Lamb
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Envy

This rose-tree is not made to bear
The violet blue, nor lily fair,
Nor the sweet mignonette:
And if this tree were discontent,
Or wished to change its natural bent,
It all in vain would fret.

And should it fret, you would suppose
It ne'er had seen its own red rose,
Nor after gentle shower
Had ever smelled its rose's scent,
Or it could ne'er be discontent
With its own pretty flower.

Like such a blind and senseless tree
As I've imagined this to be,
All envious persons are:
With care and culture all may find

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poem by Charles Lamb
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Anger

Anger in its time and place
May assume a kind of grace.
It must have some reason in it,
And not last beyond a minute.
If to further lengths it go,
It does into malice grow.
'Tis the difference that we see
'Twixt the serpent and the bee.
If the latter you provoke,
It inflicts a hasty stroke,
Puts you to some little pain,
But it never stings again.
Close in tufted bush or brake
Lurks the poison-swellëd snake
Nursing up his cherished wrath;
In the purlieux of his path,
In the cold, or in the warm,
Mean him good, or mean him harm,
Whensoever fate may bring you,
The vile snake will always sting you.

poem by Charles Lamb
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On Being Asked To Write In Miss Westwood's Album

My feeble Muse, that fain her best would
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 of 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.

Oct. 12, 1827.

poem by Charles Lamb
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Sonnet VIII

As when a child on some long winter's night
Affrighted clinging to its Grandam's knees
With eager wond'ring and perturb'd delight
Listens strange tales of fearful dark decrees
Mutter'd 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 lov'd each other dear,
Murder'd 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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