The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb Volume IV Part 7

A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO (1805)

May the Babylonish curse Strait confound my stammering verse, If I can a pa.s.sage see In this word-perplexity, Or a fit expression find, Or a language to my mind, (Still the phrase is wide or scant) To take leave of thee, GREAT PLANT!

Or in any terms relate Half my love, or half my hate: For I hate, yet love, thee so, That, whichever thing I shew, The plain truth will seem to be A constrain'd hyperbole, And the pa.s.sion to proceed More from a mistress than a weed.

Sooty retainer to the vine, Bacchus' black servant, negro fine; Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote upon Thy begrimed complexion, And, for thy pernicious sake, More and greater oaths to break Than reclaimed lovers take 'Gainst women: thou thy siege dost lay Much too in the female way, While thou suck'st the lab'ring breath Faster than kisses or than death.

Thou in such a cloud dost bind us, That our worst foes cannot find us, And ill fortune, that would thwart us, Shoots at rovers, shooting at us; While each man, thro' thy height'ning steam, Does like a smoking Etna seem, And all about us does express (Fancy and wit in richest dress) A Sicilian fruitfulness.

Thou through such a mist dost shew us, That our best friends do not know us, And, for those allowed features, Due to reasonable creatures, Liken'st us to fell Chimeras, Monsters that, who see us, fear us; Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, Or, who first lov'd a cloud, Ixion.

Bacchus we know, and we allow His tipsy rites. But what art thou, That but by reflex can'st shew What his deity can do, As the false Egyptian spell Aped the true Hebrew miracle?

Some few vapours thou may'st raise, The weak brain may serve to amaze, But to the reigns and n.o.bler heart Can'st nor life nor heat impart.

Brother of Bacchus, later born, The old world was sure forlorn, Wanting thee, that aidest more The G.o.d's victories than before All his panthers, and the brawls Of his piping Baccha.n.a.ls.

These, as stale, we disallow, Or judge of _thee_ meant; only thou His true Indian conquest art; And, for ivy round his dart, The reformed G.o.d now weaves A finer thyrsus of thy leaves.

Scent to match thy rich perfume Chemic art did ne'er presume Through her quaint alembic strain, None so sov'reign to the brain.

Nature, that did in thee excel, Fram'd again no second smell.

Roses, violets, but toys For the smaller sort of boys, Or for greener damsels meant; Thou art the only manly scent.

Stinking'st of the stinking kind, Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind, Africa, that brags her foyson, Breeds no such prodigious poison, Henbane, nightshade, both together, Hemlock, aconite------

Nay, rather, Plant divine, of rarest virtue; Blisters on the tongue would hurt you.

'Twas but in a sort I blam'd thee; None e'er prosper'd who defam'd thee; Irony all, and feign'd abuse, Such as perplext lovers use, At a need, when, in despair To paint forth their fairest fair, Or in part but to express That exceeding comeliness Which their fancies doth so strike, They borrow language of dislike; And, instead of Dearest Miss, Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss, And those forms of old admiring, Call her c.o.c.katrice and Siren, Basilisk, and all that's evil, Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil,

Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor, Monkey, Ape, and twenty more; Friendly Trait'ress, loving Foe,-- Not that she is truly so, But no other way they know A contentment to express, Borders so upon excess, That they do not rightly wot Whether it be pain or not.

Or, as men, constrain'd to part With what's nearest to their heart, While their sorrow's at the height, Lose discrimination quite, And their hasty wrath let fall, To appease their frantic gall, On the darling thing whatever Whence they feel it death to sever, Though it be, as they, perforce, Guiltless of the sad divorce.

For I must (nor let it grieve thee, Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee.

For thy sake, TOBACCO, I Would do any thing but die, And but seek to extend my days Long enough to sing thy praise.

But, as she, who once hath been A king's consort, is a queen Ever after, nor will bate Any t.i.ttle of her state, Though a widow, or divorced, So I, from thy converse forced, The old name and style retain, A right Katherine of Spain; And a seat, too,'mongst the joys Of the blest Tobacco Boys; Where, though I, by sour physician, Am debarr'd the full fruition Of thy favours, I may catch Some collateral sweets, and s.n.a.t.c.h Sidelong odours, that give life Like glances from a neighbour's wife; And still live in the by-places And the suburbs of thy graces; And in thy borders take delight, An unconquer'd Canaanite.

TO T.L.H.

_A Child_

(1814)

Model of thy parent dear, Serious infant worth a fear: In thy unfaultering visage well Picturing forth the son of TELL, When on his forehead, firm and good, Motionless mark, the apple stood; Guileless traitor, rebel mild, Convict unconscious, culprit-child!

Gates that close with iron roar Have been to thee thy nursery door; Chains that c.h.i.n.k in cheerless cells Have been thy rattles and thy bells; Walls contrived for giant sin Have hemmed thy faultless weakness in; Near thy sinless bed black Guilt Her discordant house hath built, And filled it with her monstrous brood-- Sights, by thee not understood-- Sights of fear, and of distress, That pa.s.s a harmless infant's guess!

But the clouds, that overcast Thy young morning, may not last.

Soon shall arrive the rescuing hour, That yields thee up to Nature's power.

Nature, that so late doth greet thee, Shall in o'er-flowing measure meet thee.

She shall recompense with cost For every lesson thou hast lost.

Then wandering up thy sire's lov'd hill[4], Thou shall take thy airy fill Of health and pastime. _Birds shall sing For thy delight each May morning._ 'Mid new-yean'd lambkins thou shalt play, Hardly less a lamb than they.

Then thy prison's lengthened bound Shall be the horizon skirting round.

And, while thou fillest thy lap with flowers, To make amends for wintery hours, The breeze, the suns.h.i.+ne, and the place, Shall from thy tender brow efface Each vestige of untimely care, That sour restraint had graven there; And on thy every look impress A more excelling childishness.

So shall be thy days beguil'd, THORNTON HUNT, my favourite child.

[Footnote 4: Hampstead.]

_Here came "Ballad from the German." See page 29.

Here came "David in the Cave of Aditllam" by Mary

Lamb, from "Poetry for Children." See vol. iii. page 486._

SALOME

(_By Mary Lamb. Probably_ 1808 _or_ 1809)

Once on a charger there was laid, And brought before a royal maid, As price of att.i.tude and grace, A guiltless head, a holy face.

It was on Herod's natal day, Who, o'er Judea's land held sway.

He married his own brother's wife, Wicked Herodias. She the life Of John the Baptist long had sought, Because he openly had taught That she a life unlawful led, Having her husband's brother wed.

This was he, that saintly John, Who in the wilderness alone Abiding, did for clothing wear A garment made of camel's hair;

Honey and locusts were his food, And he was most severely good.

He preached penitence and tears, And waking first the sinner's fears, Prepared a path, made smooth a way, For his diviner master's day.

Herod kept in princely state His birth-day. On his throne he sate, After the feast, beholding her Who danced with grace peculiar; Fair Salome, who did excel All in that land for dancing well.

The feastful monarch's heart was fired, And whatsoe'er thing she desired.

Though half his kingdom it should be, He in his pleasure swore that he Would give the graceful Salome.

The damsel was Herodias' daughter: She to the queen hastes, and besought her To teach her what great gift to name.

Instructed by Herodias, came The damsel back; to Herod said, "Give me John the Baptist's head; And in a charger let it be Hither straitway brought to me."

Herod her suit would fain deny, But for his oath's sake must comply.

When painters would by art express Beauty in unloveliness, Thee, Herodias' daughter, thee, They fittest subject take to be.

They give thy form and features grace; But ever in thy beauteous face They shew a steadfast cruel gaze, An eye unpitying; and amaze In all beholders deep they mark, That thou betrayest not one spark Of feeling for the ruthless deed, That did thy praiseful dance succeed For on the head they make you look, As if a sullen joy you took, A cruel triumph, wicked pride, That for your sport a saint had died.