The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb
Chapter 163 : Smiling river, smiling river, On thy bosom sun-beams play; Though they're fleetin

Smiling river, smiling river, On thy bosom sun-beams play; Though they're fleeting and retreating, Thou hast more deceit than they.

In thy channel, in thy channel, Choak'd with ooze and grav'lly stones, Deep immersed and unhea.r.s.ed, Lies young Edward's corse: his bones

Ever whitening, ever whitening, As thy waves against them dash; What thy torrent, in the current, Swallow'd, now it helps to wash.

As if senseless, as if senseless Things had feeling in this case; What so blindly, and unkindly, It destroy'd, it now does grace.

THE FIRST OF APRIL

"Tell me what is the reason you hang down your head; From your blushes I plainly discern, You have done something wrong. Ere you go up to bed, I desire that the truth I may learn."

"O mamma, I have long'd to confess all the day What an ill-natured thing I have done; I persuaded myself it was only in play, But such play I in future will shun.

"The least of the ladies that live at the school, Her whose eyes are so pretty and blue, Ah! would you believe it? an April fool I have made her, and call'd her so too.

"Yet the words almost choak'd me; and, as I spoke low, I have hopes that she might them not hear.

I had wrapt up some rubbish in paper, and so, The instant the school-girls drew near,

"I presented it with a fine bow to the child, And much her acceptance I press'd; When she took it, and thank'd me, and gratefully smil'd, I never felt half so distress'd.

"No doubt she concluded some sweetmeats were there, For the paper was white and quite clean, And folded up neatly, as if with great care.

O what a rude boy I have been!

"Ever since I've been thinking how vex'd she will be, Ever since I've done nothing but grieve.

If a thousand young ladies a walking I see, I will never another deceive."

CLEANLINESS

Come my little Robert near-- Fie! what filthy hands are here-- Who that e'er could understand The rare structure of a hand, With its branching fingers fine, Work itself of hands divine, Strong, yet delicately knit, For ten thousand uses fit, Overlaid with so clear skin You may see the blood within, And the curious palm, disposed In such lines, some have supposed You may read the fortunes there By the figures that appear-- Who this hand would chuse to cover With a crust of dirt all over, Till it look'd in hue and shape Like the fore-foot of an Ape?

Man or boy that works or plays In the fields or the highways May, without offence or hurt, From the soil contract a dirt, Which the next clear spring or river Washes out and out for ever-- But to cherish stains impure, Soil deliberate to endure, On the skin to fix a stain Till it works into the grain, Argues a degenerate mind, Sordid, slothful, ill inclin'd, Wanting in that self-respect Which does virtue best protect.

All-endearing Cleanliness, Virtue next to G.o.dliness, Easiest, cheapest, needful'st duty, To the body health and beauty, Who that's human would refuse it, When a little water does it?

THE LAME BROTHER

My parents sleep both in one grave; My only friend's a brother.

The dearest things upon the earth We are to one another.

A fine stout boy I knew him once, With active form and limb; Whene'er he leap'd, or jump'd, or ran, O I was proud of him!

He leap'd too far, he got a hurt, He now does limping go.-- When I think on his active days, My heart is full of woe.

He leans on me, when we to school Do every morning walk; I cheer him on his weary way, He loves to hear my talk:

The theme of which is mostly this, What things he once could do.

He listens pleas'd--then sadly says, "Sister, I lean on you."

Then I reply, "Indeed you're not Scarce any weight at all.-- And let us now still younger years To memory recall.

"Led by your little elder hand, I learn'd to walk alone; Careful you us'd to be of me, My little brother John.

"How often, when my young feet tir'd, You've carried me a mile!-- And still together we can sit, And rest a little while.

"For our kind master never minds, If we're the very last; He bids us never tire ourselves With walking on too fast."

GOING INTO BREECHES

Joy to Philip, he this day Has his long coats cast away, And (the childish season gone) Puts the manly breeches on.

Officer on gay parade, Red-coat in his first c.o.c.kade, Bridegroom in his wedding trim, Birthday beau surpa.s.sing him, Never did with conscious gait Strut about in half the state, Or the pride (yet free from sin) Of my little MANIKIN: Never was there pride, or bliss, Half so rational as his.

Sashes, frocks, to those that need 'em-- Philip's limbs have got their freedom-- He can run, or he can ride, And do twenty things beside, Which his petticoats forbad: Is he not a happy lad?

Now he's under other banners, He must leave his former manners; Bid adieu to female games, And forget their very names, Puss in Corners, Hide and Seek, Sports for girls and punies weak!

Baste the Bear he now may play at, Leap-frog, Foot-ball, sport away at, Show his skill and strength at Cricket, Mark his distance, pitch his wicket, Run about in winter's snow Till his cheeks and fingers glow, Climb a tree, or scale a wall, Without any fear to fall.

If he get a hurt or bruise, To complain he must refuse, Though the anguish and the smart Go unto his little heart, He must have his courage ready, Keep his voice and visage steady, Brace his eye-b.a.l.l.s stiff as drum, That a tear may never come, And his grief must only speak From the colour in his cheek.

This and more he must endure, Hero he in miniature!

This and more must now be done Now the breeches are put on.

NURSING

O hush, my little baby brother; Sleep, my love, upon my knee.

What though, dear child, we've lost our mother; That can never trouble thee.

You are but ten weeks old to-morrow; What can you know of our loss?

The house is full enough of sorrow.

Little baby, don't be cross.

Peace, cry not so, my dearest love; Hush, my baby-bird, lie still.-- He's quiet now, he does not move, Fast asleep is little Will.

My only solace, only joy, Since the sad day I lost my mother, Is nursing her own w.i.l.l.y boy, My little orphan brother.

THE TEXT

One Sunday eve a grave old man, Who had not been at church, did say, "Eliza, tell me, if you can, What text our Doctor took to-day?"

She hung her head, she blush'd for shame, One single word she did not know, Nor verse nor chapter she could name, Her silent blushes told him so.

Again said he, "My little maid, What in the sermon did you hear; Come tell me that, for that may aid Me to find out the text, my dear."

A tear stole down each blus.h.i.+ng cheek, She wish'd she better had attended; She sobbing said, when she could speak, She heard not till 'twas almost ended.

"Ah! little heedless one, why what Could you be thinking on? 'tis clear Some foolish fancies must have got Possession of your head, my dear.

"What thoughts were they, Eliza, tell, Nor seek from me the truth to smother."-- "O I remember very well, I whisper'd something to my brother.