The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb Volume IV Part 3

SONNET

_(Summer, 1795)_

The Lord of Life shakes off his drowsihed, And 'gins to sprinkle on the earth below Those rays that from his shaken locks do flow; Meantime, by truant love of rambling led, I turn my back on thy detested walls, Proud City! and thy sons I leave behind, A sordid, selfish, money-getting kind; Brute things, who shut their ears when Freedom calls.

I pa.s.s not thee so lightly, well-known spire, That minded me of many a pleasure gone, Of merrier days, of love and Islington; Kindling afresh the flames of past desire.

And I shall muse on thee, slow journeying on To the green plains of pleasant Hertfordshire.

1795.

TO THE POET COWPER

_On his Recovery from an Indisposition.

Written some Time Back

(Summer, 1796)_

Cowper, I thank my G.o.d, that thou art heal'd.

Thine was the sorest malady of all; And I am sad to think that it should light Upon the worthy head: but thou art heal'd, And thou art yet, we trust, the destin'd man, Born to re-animate the lyre, whose chords Have slumber'd, and have idle lain so long; To th' immortal sounding of whose strings Did Milton frame the stately-paced verse; Among whose wires with lighter finger playing Our elder bard, Spencer, a gentler name, The lady Muses' dearest darling child, Enticed 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!

_December 1, 1796._

LINES

_Addressed, from London, to Sara and S.T.C. at Bristol, in the Summer of 1796._

Was it so hard a thing? I did but ask A fleeting holiday, a little week.

What, if the jaded steer, who, all day long, Had borne the heat and burthen of the plough, When ev'ning came, and her sweet cooling hour, Should seek to wander in a neighbour copse, Where greener herbage wav'd, or clearer streams Invited him to slake his burning thirst?

The man were crabbed who should say him nay; The man were churlish who should drive him thence.

A blessing light upon your worthy heads, Ye hospitable pair! I may not come To catch, on Clifden's heights, the summer gale; I may not come to taste the Avon wave; Or, with mine eye intent on Redcliffe tow'rs, To muse in tears on that mysterious youth, Cruelly slighted, who, in evil hour, Shap'd his advent'rous course to London walls!

Complaint, be gone! and, ominous thoughts, away!

Take up, my Song, take up a merrier strain; For yet again, and lo! from Avon's vales, Another Minstrel[2] cometh. Youth endear'd, G.o.d and good Angels guide thee on thy road, And gentler fortunes 'wait the friends I love!

[Footnote 2: "From vales where Avon winds, the Minstrel came."

COLERIDGE'S _Monody on Chatterton._]

SONNET TO A FRIEND

_(End of 1796)_

Friend of my earliest years and childish days, My joys, my sorrows, thou with me hast shar'd Companion dear, and we alike have far'd (Poor pilgrims we) thro' life's unequal ways.

It were unwisely done, should we refuse To cheer our path as featly as we may, Our lonely path to cheer, as trav'llers use, With merry song, quaint tale, or roundelay; And we will sometimes talk past troubles o'er, Of mercies shewn, and all our sickness heal'd, And in his judgments G.o.d rememb'ring love; And we will learn to praise G.o.d evermore, For those glad tidings of great joy reveal'd By that sooth Messenger sent from above.

TO A YOUNG LADY

_(Early, 1797)_

Hard is the heart that does not melt with ruth, When care sits, cloudy, on the brow of youth; When bitter griefs the female bosom swell, And Beauty meditates a fond farewell To her lov'd native land, prepar'd to roam, And seek in climes afar the peace denied at home.

The Muse, with glance prophetic, sees her stand (Forsaken, silent lady) on the strand Of farthest India, sick'ning at the roar Of each dull wave, slow dash'd upon the sh.o.r.e; Sending, at intervals, an aching eye O'er the wide waters, vainly, to espy The long-expected bark, in which to find Some tidings of a world she left behind.

At such a time shall start the gushing tear, For scenes her childhood lov'd, now doubly dear.

At such a time shall frantic mem'ry wake Pangs of remorse, for slighted England's sake; And for the sake of many a tender tie Of love, or friendship, pa.s.s'd too lightly by.

Unwept, unhonour'd, 'midst an alien race, And the _cold_ looks of many a _stranger_ face, How will her poor heart bleed, and chide the day, That from her country took her far away.

LIVING WITHOUT G.o.d IN THE WORLD

_(? 1798)_

Mystery of G.o.d! thou brave and beauteous world, Made fair with light and shade and stars and flowers, Made fearful and august with woods and rocks, Jagg'd precipice, black mountain, sea in storms, Sun, over all, that no co-rival owns, But thro' Heaven's pavement rides as in despite Or mockery of the littleness of man!

I see a mighty arm, by man unseen, Resistless, not to be controul'd, that guides, In solitude of unshared energies, All these thy ceaseless miracles, O world!

Arm of the world, I view thee, and I muse On Man, who, trusting in his mortal strength, Leans on a shadowy staff, a staff of dreams.

We consecrate our total hopes and fears To idols, flesh and blood, our love, (heaven's due) Our praise and admiration; praise bestowed By man on man, and acts of worship done To a kindred nature, certes do reflect Some portion of the glory and rays oblique Upon the politic worshipper,--so man Extracts a pride from his humility.

Some braver spirits of the modern stamp Affect a G.o.dhead nearer: these talk loud Of mind, and independent intellect, Of energies omnipotent in man, And man of his own fate artificer; Yea of his own life Lord, and of the days Of his abode on earth, when time shall be, That life immortal shall become an art, Or Death, by chymic practices deceived, Forego the scent, which for six thousand years Like a good hound he has followed, or at length More manners learning, and a decent sense And reverence of a philosophic world, Relent, and leave to prey on carca.s.ses.

But these are fancies of a few: the rest, Atheists, or Deists only in the name, By word or deed deny a G.o.d. They eat Their daily bread, and draw the breath of heaven Without or thought or thanks; heaven's roof to them Is but a painted ceiling hung with lamps, No more, that lights them to their purposes.

They wander "loose about," they nothing see, Themselves except, and creatures like themselves, Short-liv'd, short-sighted, impotent to save.

So on their dissolute spirits, soon or late, Destruction cometh "like an armed man,"

Or like a dream of murder in the night, Withering their mortal faculties, and breaking The bones of all their pride.

POEMS FROM _BLANK VERSE_, BY CHARLES LLOYD AND CHARLES LAMB, 1798