The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb Volume IV Part 28

MARMOR LOQUITUR

He lies a Volunteer so fine, Who died of a decline, As you or I, may do one day; Reader, think of this, I pray; And I humbly hope you'll drop a tear For my poor Royal Volunteer.

He was as brave as brave could be, n.o.body was so brave as he; He would have died in Honor's bed, Only he died at home instead.

Well may the Royal Regiment swear, They never had such a Volunteer.

But whatsoever they may say, Death is a man that will have his way: Tho' he was but an ensign in this world of pain; In the next we hope he'll be a captain.

And without meaning to make any reflection on his mentals, He begg'd to be buried in regimentals.

ON TIMOTHY WAGSTAFF

Here lies the body of Timothy Wagstaff, Who was once as tall and as straight as a flagstaff; But now that he's gone to another world, His staff is broken and his flag is furled.

ON CAPTAIN STURMS

Here lieth the body of Captain Sturms, Once "food for powder," now for worms, At the battle of Meida he lost his legs, And stumped about on wooden pegs.

Naught cares he now for such worthless things, He was borne to Heaven on angels' wings.

ON MARGARET DIX

_(Born on February 29)_

_Ci git_ the remains of Margaret Dix, Who was young in old age I ween, Though Envy with Malice cried "seventy-six,"

The Graces declared her "nineteen."

ON ONESIMUS DRAKE

To the memory of Dr. Onesimus Drake, Who forced good people his drugs to take-- No wonder his patients were oft on the rack For this "duck of a man" was a terrible quack.

ON MATTHEW DAY

Beneath this slab lies Matthew Day, If his body had not been s.n.a.t.c.hed away To be by Science dissected; Should it have gone, one thing is clear: His soul the last trump is sure to hear, And thus be resurrected.

TIME AND ETERNITY

Where the soul drinks of misery's power, Each moment seems a lengthened hour; But when bright joy illumes the mind, Time pa.s.ses as the fleetest wind.-- How to a wicked soul must be Whole ages of eternity?

FROM THE LATIN

As swallows shrink before the wintry blast, And gladly seek a more congenial soil, So flatterers halt when fortune's lure is past, And basely court some richer lordling's smile.

SATAN IN SEARCH OF A WIFE

_With the Whole Process of his Courts.h.i.+p and Marriage, and who Danced at the Wedding

By an Eye Witness_

(1831)

DEDICATION

To delicate bosoms, that have sighed over the _Loves of the Angels_, this Poem is with tenderest regard consecrated. It can be no offence to you, dear Ladies, that the author has endeavoured to extend the dominion of your darling pa.s.sion; to shew Love triumphant in places, to which his advent has been never yet suspected. If one Cecilia drew an Angel down, another may have leave to attract a Spirit upwards; which, I am sure, was the most desperate adventure of the two. Wonder not at the inferior condition of the agent; for, if King Cophetua wooed a Beggar Maid, a greater king need not scorn to confess the attractions of a fair Tailor's daughter. The more disproportionate the rank, the more signal is the glory of your s.e.x.

Like that of Hecate, a triple empire is now confessed your own. Nor Heaven, nor Earth, nor deepest tracts of Erebus, as Milton hath it, have power to resist your sway. I congratulate your last victory.

You have fairly made an Honest Man of the Old One; and, if your conquest is late, the success must be salutary. The new Benedict has employment enough on his hands to desist from dabbling with the affairs of poor mortals; he may fairly leave human nature to herself; and we may sleep for one while at least secure from the attacks of this. .h.i.therto restless Old Bachelor. It remains to be seen, whether the world will be much benefited by the change in his condition.

PART THE FIRST

I

The Devil was sick and queasy of late, And his sleep and his appet.i.te fail'd him; His ears they hung down, and his tail it was clapp'd Between his poor hoofs, like a dog that's been rapp'd-- None knew what the devil ail'd him.

II

He tumbled and toss'd on his mattress o' nights, That was fit for a fiend's disportal; For 'twas made of the finest of thistles and thorn, Which Alecto herself had gather'd in scorn Of the best down beds that are mortal.

III

His giantly chest in earthquakes heaved, With groanings corresponding; And mincing and few were the words he spoke, While a sigh, like some delicate whirlwind, broke From a heart that seem'd desponding.

IV

Now the Devil an Old Wife had for his Dam, I think none e'er was older: Her years--old Parr's were nothing to them; And a chicken to her was Methusalem, You'd say, could you behold her.

V

She remember'd Chaos a little child, Strumming upon hand organs; At the birth of Old Night a gossip she sat, The ancientest there, and was G.o.dmother at The christening of the Gorgons.