Than reclaimèd lovers take 'Gainst women: thou thy siege uost lay Much too in the female way, While thou suck'st the labouring breath Faster than kisses or than death. Thou in such a cloud dost bind us, Does like a smoking Etna seem, Thou through such a mist dost That our best friends do not know us, Bacchus we know, and we allow Brother of Bacchus, later born, Scent to match thy rich perfume Nature that did in thee excel, Framed 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, Nay, rather, Plant divine, of rarest virtue; Irony all, and feign'd abuse, 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 anything 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 title 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 snatch 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. [Leigh Hunt's eldest son, Thornton Hunt, who was born 10th September 1810, and died 25th June, 1873.] MODEL of thy parent dear, Serious infant worth a fear: In thy unfaltering 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 chink in cheerless cells Have been thy rattles and thy bells; Walls contrived for giant sin Have hemm'd thy faultless weakness in; Near thy sinless bed black Guilt Her discordant house hath built, And fill'd it with her monstrous brood Sights, by thee not understood Sights of fear, and of distress, But the clouds, that overcast She shall recompense with cost Thou shalt take thy airy fill Of health and pastime. Birds shall sing For thy delight each May morning. Hardly less a lamb than they. To make amends for wintry hours, The breeze, the sunshine, and the place, Shall from thy tender brow efface That sour restraint had graven there; So shall be thy days beguiled, HUNT, my favourite THE TRIUMPH OF THE (The Examiner, 15 March, 1812.) [Written by Charles Lamb as a lampoon on the Prince of Wales. "I'll l-lamb-pun him, Sir!" he once stammered out in a contest cf wits, one of whom for the moment had threatened to eclipse him as a punster. Mr. John Forster has referred to these verses in his charming In Memoriam paper on Lamb, in the New Monthly Magazine of February, 1835, as "a sort of poetical, political libel."] Io! Paan! Io! sing * Hampstead. Not a mightier whale than this No good thing can ever stay, To have swallow'd that old prophet, dwell'd, But in one have been expell'd. Hapless mariners are they, have Who beguiled (as seamen say) Sudden plumb he sinks beneath them; With his wondrous attributes This (or else my eyesight fails) A BIRTHDAY THOUGHT. [Identified by Mr. Carew Hazlitt, as among Charles Lamb's contributions to Poetry for Children," from which collection it was reprinted in 1828, in "The First Book of Poetry."] CAN I, all-gracious Providence, Have I not been defended still From dangers and from death; Been safe preserved from every ill E'er since Thou gavest me breath? I live once more to see the day Tho' dazzling splendour, pomp, and show My fortune has denied; I envy no one's birth or fame, I ask and wish not to appear More beauteous, rich, or gay: Lord, make me wiser every year, And better every day. Album Verses, WITH A FEW OTHERS. [These drawing-room effusions were originally published as a collection, in the form of a beautiful little duodecimo, of 150 pages, printed by Bradbury and Evans. Upon the title-page of the volume, as a dainty vignette, was the effigy of a Cupid writing. The work was issued from the press as a miniature edition de luxe, by Edward Moxon, that "bookseller of the poets, and poet among booksellers," as Leigh Hunt once called him in kindly antithesis. To him, indeed, in his double capacity as friend and publisher, the author inscribed these fugitive pieces in the subjoined dedicatory epistie, which is chiefly interesting from its explanation as to how it was this diminutive tome came at all into existence.] DEDICATION TO THE PUBLISHER. DEAR MOXON,-I do not know to whom a Dedication of these Trifles is Those books kept by modern young ladies for show, or otherwise floating about in periodicals; which you have chosen in this manner to embody. I feel little interest in their publication. They are simply Advertisement Verses. It is not for me, nor you, to allude in public to the kindness of our honoured friend, under whose auspices you are become a Bookseller. May that fineminded Veteran in Verse enjoy life long enough to see his patronage justified! I venture to predict that your habits of industry, and your cheerful spirit, will carry you through the world. I am, Dear Moxon, Your Friend and sincere Well-wisher, A List of living friends: a holier For names of some since mouldering Whose blooming memories life's cold laws survive; And, dead elsewhere, they here yet speak, and live. Such, and so tender, should an Album Of Knights and Squires of old, and courtly Dames, Kings, Emperors, Popes. Next under these should stand The hands of famous lawyers-a grave band Who in their Courts of Law or Equity Have best upheld Freedom and Property. These should moot cases in your book, and vie To show their reading and their Serjeantry. But I have none of these; nor can I send The notes by Bullen to her Tyrant penn'd In her authentic hand; nor in soft hours Lines writ by Rosamund in Clifford's bowers. The lack of curious Signatures I moan, And want the courage to subscribe my own. IN THE ALBUM OF LUCY LITTLE Book, surnamed of white, |