The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb, Volume 2

Author: : Charles Lamb

Genre: Literature

The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb - Volume 2 Elia and The Last Essays of Elia by Charles Lamb Reader, in thy passage from the Bank where thou hast been receiving thy half-yearly dividends (supposing thou art a lean annuitant like myself) to the Flower Pot, to secure a place for Dalston, or Shacklewell, or some other thy suburban retreat northerly, didst thou never observe a melancholy looking, handsome, brick and stone edifice, to the left where Threadneedle-street abuts upon Bishopsgate? I dare say thou hast often admired its magnificent portals ever gaping wide, and disclosing to view a grave court, with cloisters and pillars, with few or no traces of goers-in or comers-outa desolation something like Balclutha's.

Chapter 1 No.1

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies;

How silently; and with how wan a face!

What! may it be, that even in heavenly place

That busy Archer his sharp arrows tries?

Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes

Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case;

I read it in thy looks; thy languish! grace

To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.

Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,

Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit?

Are beauties there as proud as here they be?

Do they above love to be loved, and yet

Those lovers scorn, whom that love doth possess?

Do they call virtue there-ungratefulness!

The last line of this poem is a little obscured by transposition. He means, Do they call ungratefulness there a virtue?

Chapter 2 No.2

Come, Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace,

The baiting place of wit, the balm of woe,

The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,

The indifferent judge between the high and low;

With shield of proof shield me from out the prease[1]

Of those fierce darts despair at me doth throw;

O make in me those civil wars to cease:

I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.

Take thou of me sweet pillows, sweetest bed;

A chamber deaf to noise, and blind to light;

A rosy garland, and a weary head.

And if these things, as being thine by right,

Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,

Livelier than elsewhere, STELLA'S image see.

Chapter 3 No.3

The curious wits, seeing dull pensiveness

Bewray itself in my long-settled eyes,

Whence those same fumes of melancholy rise,

With idle pains, and missing aim, do guess.

Some, that know how my spring I did address,

Deem that my Muse some fruit of knowledge plies;

Others, because the Prince my service tries,

Think, that I think state errors to redress;

But harder judges judge, ambition's rage,

Scourge of itself, still climbing slippery place,

Holds my young brain captiv'd in golden cage.

O fools, or over-wise! alas, the race

Of all my thoughts hath neither stop nor start,

But only STELLA'S eyes, and STELLA'S heart.

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