The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb Volume III Part 35

REPENTANCE AND RECONCILIATION

JANE

Mamma is displeased and looks very grave, And I own, brother, I was to blame Just now when I told her I wanted to have, Like Miss Lydia, a very fine _name_.

'Twas foolish, for, Robert, Jane sounds very well, When mamma says, "I love my good Jane."

I've been lately so naughty, I hardly can tell If she ever will say so again.

ROBERT

We are each of us foolish, and each of us young, And often in fault and to blame.

Jane, yesterday I was too free with my tongue, I acknowledge it now to my shame.

For a speech in my good mother's hearing I made, Which reflected upon her whole s.e.x; And now like you, Jenny, I am much afraid That this might my dear mother vex.

JANE

But yet, brother Robert, 'twas not quite so bad As that naughty reflection of mine, When I grumbled because Liddy Bellenger had Dolls and dresses expensive and fine.

For then 'twas of her, her own self, I complain'd; Since mamma does provide all I have.

MOTHER

Your repentance, my children, I see is unfeign'd, You are now my good Robert, and now my good Jane; And if you never will be naughty again, Your fond mother will never look grave.

NEATNESS IN APPAREL

In your garb and outward clothing A reserved plainness use; By their neatness more distinguish'd Than the brightness of their hues.

All the colours in the rainbow Serve to spread the peac.o.c.k's train; Half the l.u.s.tre of his feathers Would turn twenty c.o.xcombs vain.

Yet the swan that swims in rivers, Pleases the judicious sight; Who, of brighter colours heedless, Trusts alone to simple white.

Yet all other hues, compared With his whiteness, show amiss; And the peac.o.c.k's coat of colours Like a fool's coat looks by his.

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, Ev'n to philosophy, my dear.

The G.o.d 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.

Before the age of six or seven, To mortal children is not given Much reason; or I think he would

(And very naturally) wonder What happy star he was born under, That he should be the only care Of the dear sweet-food-giving lady, Who fondly calls him her own baby, Her darling hope, her infant heir.

MOTES IN THE SUN-BEAMS

The motes up and down in the sun Ever restlessly moving we see; Whereas the great mountains stand still, Unless terrible earthquakes there be.

If these atoms that move up and down Were as useful as restless they are, Than a mountain I rather would be A mote in the sun-beam so fair.

THE BOY AND SNAKE

Henry was every morning fed With a full mess of milk and bread.

One day the boy his breakfast took, And eat it by a purling brook Which through his mother's orchard ran.

From that time ever when he can Escape his mother's eye, he there Takes his food in th' open air.

Finding the child delight to eat Abroad, and make the gra.s.s his seat, His mother lets him have his way.

With free leave Henry every day Thither repairs, until she heard Him talking of a fine _grey bird_.

This pretty bird, he said, indeed, Came every day with him to feed, And it lov'd him, and lov'd his milk, And it was smooth and soft like silk.

His mother thought she'd go and see What sort of bird this same might be.

So the next morn she follows Harry, And carefully she sees him carry Through the long gra.s.s his heap'd-up mess.

What was her terror and distress, When she saw the infant take His bread and milk close to a snake!

Upon the gra.s.s he spreads his feast, And sits down by his frightful guest, Who had waited for the treat; And now they both begin to eat.

Fond mother! shriek not, O beware The least small noise, O have a care-- The least small noise that may be made, The wily snake will be afraid-- If he hear the lightest sound, He will inflict th' envenom'd wound.

She speaks not, moves not, scarce does breathe, As she stands the trees beneath; No sound she utters; and she soon Sees the child lift up its spoon, And tap the snake upon the head, Fearless of harm; and then he said, As speaking to familiar mate, "Keep on your own side, do, Grey Pate:"

The snake then to the other side, As one rebuked, seems to glide; And now again advancing nigh, Again she hears the infant cry, Tapping the snake, "Keep further, do; Mind, Grey Pate, what I say to you."

The danger's o'er--she sees the boy (O what a change from fear to joy!) Rise and bid the snake "good-bye;"

Says he, "Our breakfast's done, and I Will come again to-morrow day:"

Then, lightly tripping, ran away.

THE FIRST TOOTH

SISTER

Through the house what busy joy, Just because the infant boy Has a tiny tooth to show.

I have got a double row, All as white, and all as small; Yet no one cares for mine at all.

He can say but half a word, Yet that single sound's preferr'd To all the words that I can say In the longest summer day.

He cannot walk, yet if he put With mimic motion out his foot, As if he thought, he were advancing, It's prized more than my best dancing.

BROTHER

Sister, I know, you jesting are, Yet O! of jealousy beware.

If the smallest seed should be In your mind of jealousy, It will spring, and it will shoot, Till it bear the baneful fruit.

I remember you, my dear, Young as is this infant here.

There was not a tooth of those Your pretty even ivory rows, But as anxiously was watched, Till it burst its sh.e.l.l new hatched, As if it a Phoenix were, Or some other wonder rare.

So when you began to walk-- So when you began to talk-- As now, the same encomiums past.

'Tis not fitting this should last Longer than our infant days; A child is fed with milk and praise.

TO A RIVER IN WHICH A CHILD WAS DROWNED

(_Text of 1818_)