The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb Volume IV Part 18

O lift with reverent hand that tarnish'd flower, That 'shrines beneath her modest canopy Memorials dear to Romish piety; Dim specks, rude shapes, of Saints! in fervent hour The work perchance of some meek devotee, Who, poor in worldly treasures to set forth The sanct.i.ties she wors.h.i.+pped to their worth, In this imperfect tracery might see Hints, that all Heaven did to her sense reveal.

Cheap gifts best fit poor givers. We are told Of the lone mite, the cup of water cold, That in their way approved the offerer's zeal.

True love shows costliest, where the means are scant; And, in her reckoning, they _abound_, who _want_.

FREE THOUGHTS ON SEVERAL EMINENT COMPOSERS

(1830)

Some cry up Haydn, some Mozart, Just as the whim bites; for my part, I do not care a farthing candle For either of them, or for Handel.-- Cannot a man live free and easy, Without admiring Pergolesi?

Or thro' the world with comfort go, That never heard of Doctor Blow?

So help me heaven, I hardly have; And yet I eat, and drink, and shave, Like other people, if you watch it, And know no more of stave or crotchet, Than did the primitive Peruvians; Or those old ante-queer-diluvians That lived in the unwash'd world with Jubal, Before that dirty blacksmith Tubal By stroke on anvil, or by summ'at, Found out, to his great surprise, the gamut.

I care no more for Cimarosa, Than he did for Salvator Rosa, Being no painter; and bad luck Be mine, if I can bear that Gluck!

Old Tycho Brahe, and modern Herschel, Had something in them; but who's Purcel?

The devil, with his foot so cloven, For aught I care, may take Beethoven; And, if the bargain does not suit, I'll throw him Weber in to boot.

There's not the splitting of a splinter To chuse 'twixt him last named, and Winter.

Of Doctor Pepusch old queen Dido Knew just as much, G.o.d knows, as I do.

I would not go four miles to visit Sebastian Bach (or Batch, which is it?); No more I would for Bononcini.

As for Novello, or Rossini, I shall not say a word to grieve 'em, Because they're living; so I leave 'em.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, NOT COLLECTED BY LAMB

DRAMATIC FRAGMENT

(1798)

Fie upon't.

All men are false, I think. The date of love Is out, expired, its stories all grown stale, O'er past, forgotten, like an antique tale Of Hero and Leander.

JOHN WOODVIL.

All are not false. I knew a youth who died For grief, because his Love proved so, And married with another.

I saw him on the wedding-day, For he was present in the church that day, In festive bravery deck'd, As one that came to grace the ceremony.

I mark'd him when the ring was given, His countenance never changed; And when the priest p.r.o.nounced the marriage blessing, He put a silent prayer up for the bride, For so his moving lip interpreted.

He came invited to the marriage feast With the bride's friends, And was the merriest of them all that day: But they, who knew him best, called it feign'd mirth; And others said, He wore a smile like death upon his face.

His presence dash'd all the beholders' mirth, And he went away in tears.

_What followed then?_

Oh! then He did not, as neglected suitors use, Affect a life of solitude in shades, But lived, In free discourse and sweet society, Among his friends who knew his gentle nature best.

Yet ever when he smiled, There was a mystery legible in his face, That whoso saw him said he was a man Not long for this world.---- And true it was, for even then The silent love was feeding at his heart Of which he died: Nor ever spake word of reproach, Only, he wish'd in death that his remains Might find a poor grave in some spot, not far From his mistress' family vault, "being the place Where one day Anna should herself be laid."

d.i.c.k STRYPE; OR, THE FORCE OF HABIT

_A Tale--By Timothy Bramble_

(1801)

Habits _are stubborn things:_ And by the time a man is turn'd of _forty_, His _ruling pa.s.sion's_ grown so haughty There is no clipping of its wings.

The amorous roots have taken earth, and fix And never shall P--TT leave his juggling tricks, Till H----Y quits his metre with his pride, Till W----M learns to flatter regicide, Till hypocrite-enthusiasts cease to vant And _Mister_ W----E leaves off to cant.

The truth will best be shewn, By a familiar instance of our own.

d.i.c.k Strype Was a dear friend and lover of the PIPE; He us'd to say, _one pipe of Kirkman's best_ Gave life a _zest_.

To him 'twas meat, and drink, and physic, To see the friendly vapour Curl round his midnight taper, And the black fume Clothe all the room, In clouds as dark as _science metaphysic_.

So still he smok'd, and drank, and crack'd his joke; And, had he _single_ tarried He might have smok'd, and still grown old in smoke: But RICHARD _married_.

His wife was one, who carried The _cleanly virtues_ almost to a vice, She was so _nice:_ And thrice a week, above, below, The house was scour'd from top to toe, And all the floors were rubb'd so bright, You dar'd not walk upright For fear of sliding: But that she took a pride in.

Of all things else REBECCA STRYPE Could least endure a _pipe_.

She rail'd upon the filthy herb tobacco, Protested that the noisome vapour Had spoilt the best chintz curtains and the paper And cost her many a pound in stucco: And then she quoted our _King James_, who saith "Tobacco is the Devil's breath."

When wives _will_ govern, husbands _must_ obey; For many a day d.i.c.k mourn'd and miss'd his favourite tobacco, And curs'd REBECCA.

At length the day approach'd, his wife must die: Imagine now the doleful cry Of female friends, old aunts and cousins, Who to the fun'ral came by dozens-- The undertaker's men and mutes Stood at the gate in sable suits With doleful looks, Just like so many melancholy _rooks_.

Now cakes and wine are handed round, Folks sigh, and drink, and drink, and sigh, For Grief makes people dry: But d.i.c.k is _missing_, nowhere to be found Above, below, about They searched the house throughout, Each hole and secret entry, Quite from the garret to the pantry, In every corner, cupboard, nook and shelf, And all concluded he had _hang'd_ himself.

At last they found him--reader, guess you where-- 'Twill make you stare-- Perch'd on REBECCA'S _Coffin_, at his rest, SMOKING A PIPE OF KIRKMAN'S BEST.

TWO EPITAPHS ON A YOUNG LADY WHO LIVED NEGLECTED AND DIED OBSCURE

(1801 _or_ 1802)

I

Under this cold marble stone Lie the sad remains of one Who, when alive, by few or none Was lov'd, as lov'd she might have been, If she prosp'rous days had seen, Or had thriving been, I ween.

Only this cold funeral stone Tells, she was beloved by one, Who on the marble graves his moan.

II

A Heart which felt unkindness, yet complained not, A Tongue which spake the simple Truth, and feigned not: A Soul as white as the pure marble skin (The beauteous Mansion it was lodged in) Which, unrespected, could itself respect, On Earth was all the Portion of a Maid Who in this common Sanctuary laid, Sleeps unoffended by the World's neglect.

THE APE

(1806)