Part 1

Transcriber’s Note: Italic text is enclosed in _underscores_.

_To the Gentle Reader_

_As often as I pass a little Blue-coat boy I gaze upon him lovingly: I reverence the quaint vision of a bygone age called up by the long blue gaberdine, the red leathern belt, the yellow stockings--a quaint monkish figure still to be seen in crowded London streets, still adding to their picturesqueness and ever-varying charm._

_You, too, dear Reader, have yourself probably asked the meaning of the strange sight, as you have passed one of these English lads so strangely attired. Perhaps you have been shown the famous old school, in the midst of the bustle of London, surrounded by ugly warehouses, offices, and shops; and you have seen the effigy of the Founder, “that godly and royal child, King Edward the Sixth, the flower of the Tudor name--the young flower that was untimely cropped as it began to fill our land with its early odours--the boy-patron of boys--the serious and holy child who walked with Cranmer and Ridley.”_

_Alas, London is no longer to be the home of these boys, and the cloisters of the Old Grey Friars will soon moulder away, when the merry noise of sports and revels cease to awaken them to life._

_As I looked through the bars the other day watching the boys at their games, a strange fancy came to me. I thought I saw a pale and studious “Grecian” (as they call the head boys of the school), and walking at his side, with glittering eyes full of wonderment, was a younger lad--a boy with crisply curling black hair, and with ruddy brown complexion, and in his look so much lovableness and trustfulness, that I felt myself envying the elder lad, whose hand rested so affectionately on the shoulder of his friend. I drew near to listen to their talk. The thoughtful Grecian was discoursing learnedly yet so sweetly about some deep matter of philosophy: it seemed somewhat beyond the younger boy, but he listened quietly, rapt in admiration. Suddenly the school-bell sounded. “Hurry on, Charles! ‘’Mid deepest meditation sounds the knell.’ That’s how your good old Elizabethans would put it. We’ll have another talk after supper.” “I--I’ve n--not h--h--had o--one t--t--talk y--yet, S ... T ... C,” stammered the other in reply: a painful contrast to the sublime eloquence that flowed from his companion._

_The noise of the bell and scampering of the boys soon made me realise that Fancy had led me back a hundred years and more, and had given me a glimpse of the boyhood of two famous Englishmen, who have added glory to their ancient school--Samuel Taylor Coleridge, poet and philosopher, and Charles Lamb, essayist and critic, the best beloved of all the good and great men whose writings are dear to us._

_Some day you will read the story of the lives of these two men, and you will love their books,--the weird and fairy poetry of Coleridge, recalling a dreamy youth reared amid the woodlands of Devon--the genial and sweet essays of Lamb, so full of gentle humour, and kindliness, and humanity, so rich in tender thoughts concerning all his fellow-creatures in the great city where he was born and bred, which he loved passionately. To London he had given “his heart and his love in childhood and in boyhood,” and throughout his life his heart was filled with “fulness of joy at the multitudinous scenes of life in the crowded streets of ever dear London.”_

_Charles Lamb’s Essays are among the greatest of our treasures, but even more beautiful than his writings is the record of his noble life--a life of saintly self-sacrifice, cheerfully devoted to the guardianship of a lonely sister, whose girlhood would have been spent in loveless solitude but for her brother’s love. Mary Lamb’s tragic story (too sad to be told here) was illumined by the light of this brotherly love which shone forth when the world was very dark and gloomy._

_Mary Lamb had something of her brother’s gift of writing; it was she indeed to whom you owe many of the Tales of Shakespeare you are so fond of. They loved children, and they loved Shakespeare, and their stories from Shakespeare have been and are still read by boys and girls all the world over. They wrote, too, a whole collection of Poetry for Children, and here also Mary’s share was much greater than her brother’s. “Mine,” wrote Charles, “are but one-third in quantity of the whole.” ... “Perhaps you will admire the number of subjects, all of children, picked out by an old bachelor and an old maid. Many parents would not have found so many.” This collection of “Poetry for Children” in two small volumes, was so much liked by the children that all the copies were soon bought up, and Charles Lamb himself could not get a copy, when later in life he sought one far and wide. So rare is the book now that only one or two copies are known to exist, and even the British Museum does not possess these precious little volumes. A small selection of the poems are now once again offered to boys and girls: if this prove welcome, more will follow. They are simple little poems such as children should care for, and even grown-up people, for whom they were never intended, cherish every word written by Mary and Charles Lamb, because they know how much goodness and humility dwelt in their souls. If there were any wish to be learned and to explain how they came to write these verses, one would have to tell you something about other writers who were then living and writing, more especially about Lamb’s friend “S. T. C.,” who, together with an even greater poet, William Wordsworth, had published ten years before, in 1798, a small volume of simple English poems, which was destined to have the greatest influence on English poetry for long years to come. In that volume Wordsworth first printed the sweet little poem I am sure you know, called_ We Are Seven, _and Coleridge, “the inspired charity boy,” as Charles Lamb called him, gave the world the magical ballad of_ The Ancient Mariner. _One verse from this ballad ought to be printed on the title-page of this little book of poems by Mary and Charles Lamb:--_

_“He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small; For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all.”_

_I. G._

PAGE

I. The First Tooth 11

II. The Boy and the Skylark--A Fable 14

III. The Rainbow 18

IV. Queen Oriana’s Dream 21

V. The Sister’s Expostulation on the Brother’s learning Latin 23

VI. The Brother’s Reply 26

VII. On the Lord’s Prayer 29

VIII. David in the Cave of Adullam 34

IX. Cleanliness 36

X. To a River in which a Child was drowned 39

XI. The Boy and Snake 40

XII. The Beasts in the Tower 43

XIII. Time spent in Dress 47

XIV. A Ballad: noting the difference of Rich and Poor, in the Ways of a Rich Noble’s Palace and a Poor Workhouse 50

XV. The Broken Doll 55

XVI. Going into Breeches 57

XVII. The Three Friends 61

XVIII. Memory 72

XIX. Salome 74

XX. The Peach 78

XXI. The Magpie’s Nest 81

XXII. Nursing 87

XXIII. The Rook and the Sparrows 88

XXIV. Feigned Courage 91

XXV. Hester 94

XXVI. Helen 97

XXVII. The Beggar Man 100

XXVIII. Breakfast 104

XXIX. The Coffee Slips 107

XXX. Written in the First Leaf of a Child’s Memorandum Book 110

XXXI. Envy 112

XXXII. Dialogue between Mother and Child 114

XXXIII. The First Sight of Green Fields 116

XXXIV. Lines suggested by a Picture of two Females by Leonardo da Vinci 119

XXXV. Lines on the same Picture being removed to make place for a Portrait of a Lady by Titian 121

XXXVI. Lines on the celebrated Picture by Leonardo da Vinci, called The Virgin of the Rocks 122

XXXVII. On the same 123

XXXVIII. A Vision of Repentance 124

I

SISTER

Through the house what busy joy Just because the infant boy Has a tiny tooth to show! I have got a double row, All as white and all as small; Yet no one cares for mine at all. He can say but half a word, Yet that single sound’s preferr’d To all the words that I can say In the longest summer day. He cannot walk; yet if he put With mimic motion out his foot, As if he thought he were advancing, It’s prized more than my best dancing.

BROTHER

Sister, I know you jesting are, Yet O! of jealousy beware.

If the smallest seed should be In your mind, of jealousy, It will spring and it will shoot Till it bear the baneful fruit. I remember you, my dear, Young as is this infant here. There was not a tooth of those Your pretty even ivory rows, But as anxiously was watch’d Till it burst its shell new-hatch’d As if it a phoenix were, Or some other wonder rare. So when you began to walk-- So when you began to talk-- As now, the same encomiums pass’d ’Tis not fitting this should last Longer than our infant days; A child is fed with milk and praise.

II

“A wicked action fear to do, When you are by yourself; for though You think you can conceal it, A little bird that’s in the air The hidden trespass shall declare And openly reveal it.”

Richard this saying oft had heard, Until the sight of any bird Would set his heart a-quaking; He saw a host of winged spies For ever o’er him in the skies, Note of his actions taking.

This pious precept, while it stood In his remembrance, kept him good When nobody was by him; For though no human eye was near, Yet Richard still did wisely fear The little bird should spy him.

But best resolves will sometimes sleep; Poor frailty will not always keep From that which is forbidden; And Richard one day, left alone, Laid hands on something not his own, And hoped the theft was hidden.

His conscience slept a day or two, As it is very apt to do, When we with pain suppress it; And though at times a slight remorse Would raise a pang, it had not force To make him yet confess it.

When on a day, as he abroad Walk’d by his mother, in their road He heard a skylark singing; Smit with the sound, a flood of tears Proclaim’d the superstitious fears His inmost bosom wringing.

His mother, wondering, saw him cry, And fondly ask’d the reason why? Then Richard made confession, And said, he fear’d the little bird He singing in the air had heard Was telling his transgression.

The words which Richard spoke below, As sounds by nature upwards go, Were to the skylark carried: The airy traveller with surprise, To hear his sayings, in the skies On his mid-journey tarried.

His anger then the bird express’d: “Sure, since the day I left the nest, I ne’er heard folly utter’d So fit to move a skylark’s mirth, As what this little son of earth Hath in his grossness mutter’d.

“Dull fool! to think we sons of air On man’s low actions waste a care, His virtues or his vices; Or soaring on the summer gales That we should stoop to carry tales Of him or his devices!

“Mistaken fool! man needs not us His secret merits to discuss, Or spy out his transgression; When once he feels his conscience stirr’d, That voice within him is the _bird_ That moves him to confession.”

III

After the tempest in the sky, How sweet yon rainbow to the eye! Come, my Matilda, now while some Few drops of rain are yet to come, In this honeysuckle bower Safely shelter’d from the shower, We may count the colours o’er. Seven there are, there are no more; Each in each so finely blended, Where they begin, or where are ended, The finest eye can scarcely see. A fixed thing it seems to be; But, while we speak, see how it glides Away, and now observe it hides Half of its perfect arch; now we Scarce any part of it can see. What is colour? If I were A natural philosopher, I would tell you what does make This meteor every colour take;

But an unlearned eye may view Nature’s rare sights, and love them too. Whenever I a rainbow see, Each precious tint is dear to me; For every colour find I there Which flowers, which fields, which ladies wear; My favourite green, the grass’s hue, And the fine deep violet-blue, And the pretty pale blue-bell, And the rose I love so well; All the wondrous variations Of the tulip, pinks, carnations; This woodbine here, both flower and leaf; ’Tis a truth that’s past belief, That every flower and every tree And every living thing we see, Every face which we espy, Every cheek and every eye, In all their tints, in every shade, Are from the rainbow’s colours made.

IV

On a bank with roses shaded, Whose sweet scent the violets aided Violets whose breath alone Yields but feeble smell or none, (Sweeter bed Jove ne’er reposed on When his eyes Olympus closed on,) While o’erhead six slaves did hold Canopy of cloth o’ gold, And two more did music keep Which might Juno lull to sleep, Oriana who was queen To the mighty Tamerlane, That was lord of all the land Between Thrace and Samarcand, While the noon-tide fervour beam’d, Mus’d herself to sleep, and _dream’d_.

Thus far, in magnific strain, A young poet soothed his vein, But he had nor prose nor numbers To express a princess’ slumbers.-- Youthful Richard had strange fancies, Was deep versed in old romances, And could talk whole hours upon The great Cham and Prester John,-- Tell the field in which the Sophi From the Tartar won a trophy-- What he read with such delight of Thought he could as easily write of; But his over-young invention Kept not pace with brave intention. Twenty suns did rise and set, And he could no further get; But, unable to proceed, Made a virtue out of need; And his labours wiselier deem’d of, Did omit _what the queen dream’d of_.

V

Shut these odious books up, brother; They have made you quite another Thing from what you used to be: Once you liked to play with me, Now you leave me all alone, And are so conceited grown With your Latin, you’ll scarce look Upon any English book. We had used on winter eves To con over Shakespeare’s leaves, Or on Milton’s harder sense Exercise our diligence, And you would explain with ease The obscurer passages; Find me out the prettiest places, The poetic turns and graces, Which, alas! now you are gone, I must puzzle out alone;

And oft miss the meaning quite, Wanting you to set me right. All this comes since you’ve been under Your new master. I much wonder What great charm it is you see In those words, _musa, musæ_; Or in what do they excel Our word _song_. It sounds as well To my fancy as the other. Now believe me, dearest brother, I would give my finest frock And my cabinet and stock Of new playthings, every toy, I would give them all with joy, Could I you returning see Back to English and to me.

VI

Sister, fie for shame, no more! Give this ignorant babble o’er, Nor, with little female pride, Things above your sense deride. Why this foolish underrating Of my first attempts at Latin? Know you not each thing we prize Does from small beginnings rise? ’Twas the same thing with your writing Which you now take such delight in. First you learnt the down-stroke line, Then the hairstroke thin and fine, Then a curve and then a better, Till you came to form a letter; Then a new task was begun, How to join them two in one; Till you got (these first steps pass’d) To your fine text-hand at last. So, though I at first commence With the humble accidence, And my study’s course affords Little else as yet but words, I shall venture in a while At construction, grammar, style, Learn my syntax, and proceed Classic authors next to read, Such as wiser, better, make us, Sallust, Phædrus, Ovid, Flaccus: All the poets with their wit, All the grave historians writ, Who the lives and actions show Of men famous long ago; Even their very sayings giving In the tongue they used when living.

Think not I shall do that wrong Either to my native tongue, English authors to despise, Or those books which you so prize; Though from them awhile I stray, By new studies call’d away, Them when next I take in hand, I shall better understand; For I’ve heard wise men declare Many words in English are From the Latin tongue derived, Of whose sense girls are deprived ’Cause they do not Latin know. But if all your anger grow From this cause, that you suspect, By proceedings indirect, I would keep (as miser’s pelf) All this learning to myself; Sister, to remove this doubt, Rather than we will fall out, (If our parents will agree) You shall Latin learn with me.

VII

I have taught your young lips the good words to say over, Which form the petition we call The Lord’s Prayer, And now let me help my dear child to discover The meaning of all the good words that are there.

“Our Father,” the same appellation is given To a parent on earth, and a Parent of all, O gracious permission! the God that’s in heaven Allows His poor creatures Him Father to call.

To “hallow His name” is to think with devotion Of it, and with reverence mention the same; Though you are so young, you should strive for some notion Of the awe we should feel at the Holy One’s name.

His “will done on earth, as it is done in heaven,” Is a wish and a hope we are suffer’d to breathe, That such grace and favour to us may be given, Like good angels on high we may live here beneath.

“Our daily bread give us,” your young apprehension May well understand, is to pray for our food; Although we ask bread, and no other thing mention, God’s bounty gives all things sufficient and good.

You pray that your “trespasses may be forgiven, As you forgive those that are done unto you.” Before this you say to the God that’s in heaven, Consider the words which you speak--are they true?

If any one has in the past time offended Us angry creatures, who soon take offence, These words in the prayer are surely intended To soften our minds, and expel wrath from thence.

We pray that “temptations may never assail us,” And “deliverance beg from all evil,” we find: But we never can hope that our prayer will avail us, If we strive not to banish ill thoughts from our mind.

“For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, For ever and ever,” these titles are meant To express God’s dominion and majesty o’er ye; And “Amen” to the sense of the whole gives assent.

VIII

David and his three captains bold Kept ambush once within a hold. It was in Adullam’s cave Nigh which no water they could have. Nor spring, nor running brook, was near To quench the thirst that parch’d them there. Then David, King of Israel, Straight bethought him of a well Which stood beside the city gate At Bethlem; where, before his state Of kingly dignity, he had Oft drunk his fill, a shepherd lad; But now his fierce Philistine foe Encamp’d before it he does know. Yet ne’ertheless, with heat oppress’d, Those three bold captains he address’d, And wish’d that one to him would bring Some water from his native spring. His valiant captains instantly To execute his will did fly. Those three brave men the ranks broke through Of armed foes, and water drew For David, their beloved king, At his own sweet native spring. Back through their enemies they haste, With the hard-earn’d treasure graced. What with such danger they had sought With joy unto their king they brought. But when the good king David found What they had done, he on the ground The water pour’d, “Because,” said he, “That it was at the jeopardy Of your three lives this thing ye did, That I should drink it God forbid!”

IX