The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb
Chapter 485 : When such a time cometh, I do retire Into an old room, Beside a bright fire; Oh! pile

When such a time cometh, I do retire Into an old room, Beside a bright fire; Oh! pile a bright fire!

And there I sit Reading old things Of knights and ladies, While the wind sings: Oh! drearily sings!

I never look out, Nor attend to the blast; For, all to be seen, Is the leaves falling fast: Falling, falling!

But, close at the hearth, Like a cricket, sit I; Reading of summer And chivalry: Gallant chivalry!

Then, with an old friend, I talk of our youth; How 'twas gladsome, but often Foolish, forsooth, But gladsome, gladsome.

Or, to get merry, We sing an old rhyme That made the wood ring again In summer time: Sweet summer time!

Then take we to smoking, Silent and snug: Naught pa.s.ses between us, Save a brown jug; Sometimes! sometimes!

And sometimes a tear Will rise in each eye, Seeing the two old friends, So merrily; So merrily!

And ere to bed Go we, go we, Down by the ashes We kneel on the knee; Praying, praying!

Thus then live I, Till, breaking the gloom Of winter, the bold sun Is with me in the room!

s.h.i.+ning, s.h.i.+ning!

Then the clouds part, Swallows soaring between: The spring is awake, And the meadows are green,--

I jump up like mad; Break the old pipe in twain; And away to the meadows, The meadows again!

EPSILON.

JAMES MONTGOMERY'S "THE COMMON LOT"

(_See Letter_ 535, _page_ 938)

A Birth-day Meditation, during a solitary winter walk of seven miles, between a village in Derbys.h.i.+re and Sheffield, when the ground was covered with snow, the sky serene, and the morning air intensely pure.

Once in the flight of ages past, There lived a man:--and WHO was HE?

--Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast, That man resembled Thee.

Unknown the region of his birth, The land in which he died unknown: His name has perish'd from the earth; This truth survives alone:--

That joy and grief, and hope and fear, Alternate triumph'd in his breast; His bliss and woe,--a smile, a tear!-- Oblivion hides the rest.

The bounding pulse, the languid limb, The changing spirits' rise and fall; We know that these were felt by him, For these are felt by all.

He suffer'd,--but his pangs are o'er; Enjoy'd,--but his delights are fled; Had friends,--his friends are now no more; And foes,--his foes are dead.

He loved,--but whom he loved, the grave Hath lost in its unconscious womb: O. she was fair!--but nought could save Her beauty from the tomb.

He saw whatever thou hast seen; Encounter'd all that troubles thee: He was--whatever thou hast been; He is--what thou shalt be.

The rolling seasons, day and night, Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main, Erewhile his portion, life and light, To him exist in vain.

The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye That once their shades and glory threw, Have left in yonder silent sky No vestige where they flew.

The annals of the human race, Their ruins, since the world began, Of HIM afford no other trace Than this,--THERE LIVED A MAN!

November 4, 1805. BARRY CORNWALL'S "EPISTLE TO CHARLES LAMB;

ON HIS EMANc.i.p.aTION FROM CLERKs.h.i.+P"

(WRITTEN OVER A FLASK OF SHERRIS)

FROM _ENGLISH SONGS_

(_See Letter_ 551, _page_ 952)

Dear Lamb! I drink to thee,--to _thee_ Married to sweet Liberty!

What, old friend, and art thou freed From the bondage of the pen?

Free from care and toil indeed?

Free to wander amongst men When and howsoe'er thou wilt?

_All_ thy drops of labour spilt, On those huge and figured pages, Which will sleep unclasp'd for ages, Little knowing who did wield The quill that traversed their white field?

Come,--another mighty health!

Thou hast earn'd thy sum of wealth,-- Countless ease,--immortal leisure,-- Days and nights of boundless pleasure, Checquer'd by no dreams of pain, Such as hangs on clerk-like brain Like a night-mare, and doth press The happy soul from happiness.

Oh! happy thou,--whose all of time (Day and eve, and morning prime) Is fill'd with talk on pleasant themes,-- Or visions quaint, which come in dreams Such as panther'd Bacchus rules, When his rod is on "the schools,"

Mixing wisdom with their wine;-- Or, perhaps, thy wit so fine Strayeth in some elder book, Whereon our modern Solons look With severe ungifted eyes, Wondering what thou seest to prize.

Happy thou, whose skill can take Pleasure at each turn, and slake Thy thirst by every fountain's brink, Where less wise men would pause to shrink: Sometimes, 'mid stately avenues With Cowley thou, or Marvel's muse, Dost walk; or Gray, by Eton's towers; Or Pope, in Hampton's chesnut bowers; Or Walton, by his loved Lea stream: Or dost thou with our Milton dream, Of Eden and the Apocalypse, And hear the words from his great lips?

Speak,--in what grove or hazel shade, For "musing meditation made,"

Dost wander?--or on Penshurst Lawn, Where Sidney's fame had time to dawn And die, ere yet the hate of Men Could envy at his perfect pen?

Or, dost thou, in some London street, (With voices fill'd and thronging feet,) Loiter, with mien 'twixt grave and gay?-- Or take along some pathway sweet, Thy calm suburban way?

Happy beyond that man of Ross, Whom mere content could ne'er engross, Art thou,--with hope, health, "learned leisure;"

Friends, books, thy thoughts, an endless pleasure!

--Yet--yet,--(for when was pleasure made Suns.h.i.+ne all without a shade?) Thou, perhaps, as now thou rovest Through the busy scenes thou lovest, With an Idler's careless look, Turning some moth-pierced book, Feel'st a sharp and sudden woe For visions vanished long ago!

And then thou think'st how time has fled Over thy unsilvered head, s.n.a.t.c.hing many a fellow mind Away, and leaving--what?--behind!

Nought, alas! save joy and pain Mingled ever, like a strain Of music where the discords vie With the truer harmony.

So, perhaps, with thee the vein Is sullied ever,--so the chain Of habits and affections old, Like a weight of solid gold, Presseth on thy gentle breast, Till sorrow rob thee of thy rest.

Ay: so't must be!--Ev'n I, (whose lot The fairy Love so long forgot,) Seated beside this Sherris wine, And near to books and shapes divine, Which poets, and the painters past Have wrought in lines that aye shall last,-- Ev'n I, with Shakspeare's self beside me, And one whose tender talk can guide me Through fears, and pains, and troublous themes, Whose smile doth fall upon my dreams Like suns.h.i.+ne on a stormy sea,-- Want _something_--when I think of thee!