The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb Volume IV Part 24

TO MRS. SARAH ROBINSON

Soul-breathing verse, thy gentlest guise put on And greet the honor'd name of Robinson.

Rome in her throng'd and stranger-crowded streets, And palaces, where pilgrim _pilgrim_ meets, Holds not, respected Sarah, one that can Revered make the name of Englishman, Or loved, more than thy Kinsman, dear to me By many a friendly act. His heart I see In thee with answering courtesy renew'd.

Nor shall to thee my debt of grat.i.tude Soon fade, that didst receive with open hand One that was come a stranger to thy land-- Now call[s] thee Friend. Her thanks, and mine, command.

Enfield, 14_th March_, 1831.

TO SARAH [APSEY]

_Acrostic_

Sarah,--your other name I know not, And fine encomiums I bestow not, Regard me as an utter stranger, A hair-brain'd, hasty, alb.u.m-ranger, Heaven s.h.i.+eld you, Girl, from every danger!

TO JOSEPH VALE ASBURY

_Acrostic_

Judgements are about us thoroughly; O'er all Enfield hangs the Cholera, Savage monster, none like him Ever rack'd a human limb.

Pest, nor plague, nor fever yellow, Has made patients more to bellow.

Vain his threatnings! Asbury comes, And defiance beats by drums; Label, bottle, box, pill, potion, Each enlists in the commotion.

And with Vials, like to those Seen in Patmos[18], charged with woes, Breathing Wrath, he falls pell-mell Upon the Foe, and pays him well.

Revenge!--he has made the monster sick Yea, Cholera vanish, choleric.

[Footnote 18: _Vide_ Revelations.]

TO D[OROTHY] A[SBURY]

_Acrostic_

Divided praise, Lady, to you we owe, Of all the health your husband doth bestow, Respected wife of skilful Asbury!

Oracular foresight named thee Dorothy; Tis a Greek word, and signifies G.o.d's Gift; (How Learning helps poor Poets at a s.h.i.+ft!)-- You are that gift. When, tired with human ails,

And tedious listening to the sick man's tales, Sore spent, and fretted, he comes home at eve, By mild medicaments you his toils deceive.

Under your soothing treatment he revives; (Restorative is the smile of gentle wives): You lengthen _his_, who lengthens _all our lives._

TO LOUISA MORGAN

How blest is he who in his _age_, exempt From fortune's frowns, and from the troublous strife Of storms that hara.s.s still the private life, "Below ambition, and above contempt,"

Hath gain'd a quiet harbour, where he may Look back on s.h.i.+pwrecks past, without a sigh For busier scenes, and hope's gay dreams gone by!

And such a nook of blessedness, they say, Your Sire at length has found; while you, best Child, Content in _his_ contentment, acquiesce In patient toils; and in a station less, Than you might image, when your prospects smiled.

In your meek virtues there is found a calm, That on his life's soft evening sheds a balm.

TO SARAH JAMES OF BEGUILDY

_Acrostic_

Sleep hath treasures worth retracing: Are you not in slumbers pacing Round your native spot at times, And seem to hear Beguildy's chimes?

Hold the airy vision fast; Joy is but a dream at last: And what was so fugitive, Memory only makes to live.

Even from troubles past we borrow Some thoughts that may lighten sorrow,

Onwards as we pace through life, Fainting under care or strife,

By the magic of a thought Every object back is brought Gayer than it was when real, Under influence ideal.

In remembrance as a gla.s.s, Let your happy childhood pa.s.s; Dreaming so in fancy's spells, You still shall hear those old church bells.

TO EMMA b.u.t.tON

_Acrostic_

EMMA, eldest of your name, Meekly trusting in her G.o.d Midst the red-hot plough-shares trod, And unscorch'd preserved her fame.

By that test if _you_ were tried, Ugly flames might be defied; Though devouring fire's a glutton, Through the trial you might go "On the light fantastic toe,"

Nor for plough-shares care a b.u.t.tON.

WRITTEN UPON THE COVER OF A BLOTTING BOOK

Blank tho' I be, within you'll find Relics of th' enraptured mind: Where truth and fable, mirth and wit, Are safely here deposited.

The placid, furious, envious, wise, Impart to me their secresies; Here hidden thoughts in blotted line Nor sybil can the sense divine; Lethe and I twin sisters be-- Then, stranger, open me and see.