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POETRY.

POEMS BY CHARLES LAMB.

*The following little Pieces, by Charles Lamb, printed in the Athenæum of January 10, 1846, are stated to have been extracted from Albums or Scrap-Books, and to have been theretofore unpublished.

ON BEING ASKED TO WRITE IN MISS WESTWOOD's album.

My feeble Muse, that fain her best would
Write, at command of Frances Westwood,
But feels her wits not in their best mood,
Fell lately on some idle fancies,
As she 's much given to romances,
About this selfsame style of Frances;
Which seems to be a name in common
Attributed to man or woman.

She thence contrived this flattering moral,
With which she hopes no soul will quarrel,
That she whom this twin title decks,
Combines what 's good in either sex;
Unites-how very rare the case is !-
Masculine sense to female graces:
And quitting not her proper rank,
Is both in one—.
-Fanny and Frank.

Oct. 12, 1827.

CHARLES LAMB.

THE FIRST LEAF OF SPRING.

WRITTEN ON THE FIRST LEAF OF A LADY'S ALBUM.

THOU fragile, filmy, gossamery thing,

First leaf of spring!

At every lightest breath that quakest,

And with a zephyr shakest;

Scarce stout enough to hold thy slender form together

In calmest halcyon weather;

Next sister to the web that spiders weave
Poor flutterers to deceive

Into their treacherous silken bed}:

O how art thou sustain'd, how nourished?
All trivial as thou art,
Without dispute,

Thou playest a mighty part,
And art the herald to a throng
Of buds, blooms, fruit,

That shall thy cracking branches sway,
While birds on every spray

Shall pay the copious fruitage with a sylvan song.
So 'tis with thee, whoe'er on thee shall look,

First leaf of this beginning modest book.

Slender thou art, God knowest,

And little grace bestowest,

But in thy train shall follow after

Wit, wisdom, seriousness in hand with laughter ;
Provoking jests, restraining soberness,

In their appropriate dress;

And I shall joy to be outdone

By those who brighter trophies won;
Without a grief

That I thy slender promise have begun,

First leaf.

THE midnight hour has passed away, and yet
The Queen of Night still holds her starry court;
The tangled clouds sail swiftly by,—and now
She bathes the city in a flood of light!
Far other than the proud and garish day,
Like Charity, her mild and gentle beams
Soften, or hide, each rude and broken line;
Prisons and Palaces! And stately domes,
And hovels mean!

The dreaming poet loves
To muse 'mid shady groves, and by the side
Of clear and murmuring streams; but rather here
May Contemplation find its food, and dwell
On man-God's latest and most wondrous work.

And thou, proud River, I can scarcely heed
That on thy shores where thou dost wander 'mid
The green and smiling fields,-the shepherd lays
His crook and slumbers in the noonday heat:
For from the stream which flows like molten lead
Beneath the moonbeams, I behold a grove
Of masts against the starry sky. The wealth,
The argosies of princely merchants here,
That to the ear of fancy whispers tales
Of far off climes, and England's power and pride.
Yon stately vessel only waits the dawn
To raise aloft her snowy sails that then
Shall bear her "like a thing of life" away,
Though now she rests like a fond child upon
A doting mother's breast. And all is still,
Save the soft ripple of the rising tide.
Thou gorgeous city of our pride and love!
But yonder Abbey wakens other thoughts-

The hearts of kings, and statesmen, warriors, bards,
Lie there entomb'd-the Mighty of the Earth,
The dust for rolling centuries revered,
And they the honoured of a recent age.
He of the rude, untaught, unletter'd mind,
Innately great, beside the darling child
Of arts advanced, and years more wonderful!
In this alike the lesson which they teach
That death shall level all. And yet methinks,
It is a soul-inspiring thought to lure
The adventurous spirit on to noble deeds,
The thought that all which ever did belong
To earth, perchance, shall rest beside the good
And great; while faithful records shall enshrine
The subtler part within the grateful hearts
Of future unborn ages.

Turn we now
To yon large gloomy pile-the abode of guilt
And wretchedness. Yet virtue stays to weep;
For she is all too wise and pure to fear
That tears, e'en for the guilty, e'er can stain
One dazzling fold in which herself is wrapt.
Oh! virtue stern and cold were liker far

A statue, than the warm and breathing form
Which mortals long to clasp! Alas she knows
The tempter's power which comes in equal strength,
Though varied guise, unto the silken couch
And pallet rude, and though she dares not touch
The scale of Justice, turns aside to weep!

Mark you the faint and glimmering light which falls From yonder casement dim? Is it the watch

Untiring love still keeps beside the bed
Of death or sickness? or doth there the young
Aspiring student seek to hive the store,

The golden priceless store, from wisdom's page ?-
Or doth an aching heart forbid the eye
To close? Imagination quickly weaves
A thousand unsubstantial webs,-and now
The sleeping city in its hush'd repose,
Looks like the phantom of its waking self!

There is a burst of revelry that breaks
Upon the solemn stillness of the hour,

But near the boisterous crew which homeward wends
Gaunt famine stalks, and holds the shrivelled hand.
Ah, yes! they turn, the homeless wretch relieve.—

I cannot hear her low and broken words,

But they, the young and gay, are silent now,-
The chord of sympathy by pity waked

Has dull'd their selfish mirth.

I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and He,

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all Three;

"Good speed!" cried the watch as the gate-bolts undrewSpeed" echoed the wall to us galloping through;

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Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,

And into the midnight e galloped abreast.