The Works of Charles Lamb. A new edition

Front matter

THE WORKS OP CHARLES LAMB. r yy D ii k. \ 1 CHARLES LAMB. \ Ik va. * ■ H I O EDWAltl> XOXOK, DOVBK STREET. I, , THE WORKS OF CHARLES LAMB. A NEW EDITION. LONDON: EDWARD MOXON, DOVER STREET. MOCCCXL. BRADBURY A^Vj^A]KpftfNf -fjRS, WHITEFRIARS. CONTENTS. POEMS. ROSAMUND GRAY, &c. ELIA. FIRST SERIES. ELIA. SECOND SERIES. TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. POEMS DEDICATION ». TO S. T. COLERIDGE, ESQ. My drah Coleridge, You will smile to see the slender labours of your friend designated by the title of Works ; but such was the wish of the gentlemen who have kindly undertaken the trouble of collecting them, and from their judgment could be no appeal- It would be a kind of disloyalty to offer to any one but yourself a volume containing the early pieces, which were first published among your poems, and were fairly derivatives from you and them.

My friend Lloyd and myself came into our first battle (authorship is a sort of warfare) under cover of the greater Ajax. How this association, which shall always be a dear and proud recollection to me, came to be broken, — who snapped the three-fold cord, — whether yourself (hut I know that was not the case) grew ashamed of your foniier companions, — or whether (which is by much the more probable) some ungracious bookseller was author of the separation, — I cannot tell ; — but wanting the support of your friendly elm, (I speak for myself,) my vine has, since that time, put forth few or no fruits ; the sap (if ever it had any) has become, in a manner, dried up and extinct ; and you will find vour old associate, in his second volume, dwindled into prose and criticism. Am I right in assuming this as the cause ? or is it that, as years come upon us, (except with some more healthy-happy spirits,) Life itself lose6 much of its Poetry for us? we transcribe but what we read in thc great volume of Nature; and, as thc characters grow dim, we turn off, and look another way.

You yourself write no Christabels, nor Ancient Mariners, now. Some of the Sonnets, which shall be carelessly turned over by the general reader, may happily awaken in you remembrances, which I should be sorry should be ever totally extinct — the memory Of summer days and of delightful years— * Prefixed to the Author's works published in 1-18. DEDICATION. vi even so far back as to those old suppers at our old ********** Inn.-when life wr I fresh and topics exhaustless,— and you first kindled in me, if not the power, yet the love of poe-y, and beauty, and kindliness.- What words have I heard Spoke at the Mermaid ! The world has given you many a shrewd nip and gird since that time, hut either my eyes are grown dimmer, or my old friend is the same who stood before me three-and-twenty years ago— his hair a little confessing the hand of Time, but still shrouding the same capacious brain,— his heart not altered, scarcely where it " alteration finds."

Preface

. BY A FRIEND OF THE LATE ELIA. This poor gentleman, who for some months past had been in a declining way, hath at length paid his final tribute to nature. To say truth, it is time he were gone. The humour of the thing, if there ever was much in it, was pretty well exhausted ; and a two years' and a half existence has been a tolerable duration for a phantom. I am now at liberty to confess, that much which I have heard objected to my late friend's writings was well-founded. Crude they are, I grant you — a sort of unlicked, incondite things — villanously pranked in an affected array of antique modes and phrases. They had not been his, if they had been other than such ; and better it is, that a writer should be natural in a self-pleasing quaintness, than to affect a naturalness (so called) that should be strange to him.

Egotistical they have been pronounced by some who did not know, that what he tells us, as of himself, was often true only (historically) of another ; as in a former Essay (to save many instances) — where under the first person (his favourite figure) he shadows forth the forlorn estate of a country-boy placed at a London school, far from his friends and con nections — in direct opposition to his own early history. If it be egotism to imply and twine with his own identity the griefs and affections of another — making himself many, or reducing many unto himself — then is the skilful novelist, who all along brings in his hero or heroine, speaking of themselves, the greatest egotist of all ; who yet has never, therefore, been accused of that narrowness. And how shall the intenser dramatist escape being faulty, who doubtless, under cover of passion uttered by another, oftentimes gives blameless vent to his most inward feelings, and expresses his own story modestly ?

My late friend was in many respects a singular character. Those who did not like him, hated him ; and some, who once liked him, afterwards became his bitterest haters. The truth is, he gave himself too little concern what he uttered, and in whose presence. He observed neither time nor place, and would e'en out with what came uppermost. With the severe religionist he would pass for a free-thinker ; while the other faction set him down for a bigot, or persuaded themselves that he belied his sentiments. Few understood him ; and I am not certain that at all times he quite understood himself. He too much affected that dangerous figure — irony. He sowed doubtful speeches, and reaped plain, unequivocal hatred.— He would interrupt the gravest discussion with some light jest ; and yet, perhaps, not quite irrelevant in ears that could understand it.

Your long and much talkers hated him. The informal habit of his mind, joined to an inveterate impediment of speech, forbade him to be an orator ; and he seemed determined that no one else should play that part when he was present. He was petit and ordinary in his person and appearance. I have seen him some-

PREFACE.

. vi times in what is called good company, but where he has been a stranger, sit silent, and be suspected for an odd fellow ; till some unlucky occasion provoking it, he would stutter out some senseless pun (not altogether senseless perhaps, if rightly taken), which has stamped his character for the evening. It was hit or miss with him ; but nine times out of ten, he contrived by this device to send away a whole company his enemies. His conceptions rose kindlier than his utterance, and his happiest impromptus had the appearance of effort. He has been accused of trying to be witty, when in truth he was but struggling to give his poor thoughts articulation. He chose his companions for some individuality of character which they manifested. — Hence, not many persons of science, and few professed literati, were of his councils.

They were, for the most part, persons of an uncertain fortune ; and, as to such people commonly nothing is more obnoxious than a gentleman of settled (though moderate) income, he passed with most of them for a great miser. To my knowledge this was a mistake. His intimados, to confess a truth, were in the world's eye a ragged regiment. He found them floating on the surface of society ; and the colour, or something else, in the weed pleased him. The burrs stuck to him — but they were good and loving burrs for all that. He never greatly cared for the society of what are called good people. If any of these were scandalised (and offences were sure to arise), he could not help it. When he has been remonstrated with for not making more concessions to the feelings of good people, he would retort by asking, what one point did these good people ever concede to him ?

He was temperate in his meals and diversions, but always kept a little on this side of abstemiousness. Only in the use of the Indian weed he might be thought a little excessive. He took it, he would say, as a solvent of speech. Marry — as the friendly vapour ascended, how his prattle would curl up sometimes with it ! the ligaments which tongue-tied him, were loosened, and the stammerer proceeded a statist ! I do not know whether I ought to bemoan or rejoice that my old friend is departed. His jests were beginning to grow obsolete, and his stories to be found out. He felt the approaches of age ; and while 1 e pretended to cling to life, you saw how slender were the ties left to bind him. Discoursing with him latterly on this subject, he expressed himself with a pettishness, which I thought unworthy of him.

In our walks about his suburban retreat (as he called it) at Shaeklewell, some children belonging to a school of industry had met us, and bowed and curtseyed, as he thought, in an especial manner to him. " They take me for a visiting governor," he muttered earnestly. He had a horror, which he carried to a foible, of looking like anything important and parochial. He thought that he approached nearer to that stamp daily. He had a general aversion from being treated like a grave or respectable character, and kept a wary eye upon the advances of age that should so entitle him. He herded always, while it was possible, with people younger than himself. He did not conform to the march of time, but was dragged along in the procession. His manners lagged behind his years. He was too much of the boy-man.

The toga virilis never sate gracefully on his shoulders. The impressions of infancy had burnt into him, and he resented the impertinence of manhood. These were weaknesses ; but such as they were, they are a key to explicate some of his writings. CONTENTS. PAOE BLAKESMOOR IN H SHIRE I POOR RELATIONS 3 DETACHED THOUGHTS ON BOOKS AND READING 7 STAGE ILLUSION 10 TO THE SHADE OF ELLISTON - 12 ELLISTONIANA '3 THE OLD MARGATE HOY »6 THE CONVALESCENT . ... 20 SANITY OF TRUE GENIUS 22 CAPTAIN JACKSON ' 24 THE SUPERANNUATED MAN • .... 26 THE GENTEEL STYLE IN WRITING 30 BARBARA S ' THE TOMBS IN THE ABBEY • 35 3g AMICUS REDIVIVUS SOME SONNETS OF SIR PHILIP SYDNEY *> NEWSPAPERS THIRTY-FIVE YEARS AGO w BABRENNESS OF THE IMAGINATIVE FACULTY IN THE PRODUCTIONS OF MODERN . . 46 ART 52 THE WEDDING REJOICINGS UPON THE NEW YEAR'S COMING OF AGE ....... 55 CONFESSIONS OF A DRUNKARD S7 61 OLD CHINA THE CHILD ANGEL; A DREAM CONTENTS. viii POPULAR FALLACIES— TMB . . 66 I. THAT A BULLY IS ALWAYS A COWARD . ib.

II. THAT ILL-GOTTEN GAIN NEVER PROSPERS ..■•■' HI. THAT A MAN MUST NOT LAUGH AT HIS OWN JEST . IV. THAT SUCH A ONE SHOWS HIS BREEDING.-THAT IT IS EASY TO PERCEIVE HE IS NO GENTLEMAN ..■...••••• V. THAT THE POOR COPY THE VICES OF THE RICH lb- VI. THAT ENOUGH IS AS GOOD AS A FEAST . - W VII. OF TWO DISPUTANTS THE WARMEST IS GENERALLY IN THE WRONG . . ib. VIH. THAT VERBAL ALLUSIONS ARE NOT WIT. BECAUSE THEY WILL NOT BEAR TRANSLATION . m IX. THAT THE WORST PUNS ARE THE BEST ib- X. THAT HANDSOME IS THAT HANDSOME DOES . . , 70 XL THAT WE MUST NOT LOOK A GIFT-HORSE IN THE MOUTH . . . .ib. XJI. THAT HOME IS HOME THOUGH IT IS NEVER SO HOMELY 72 Xin. THAT YOU MUST LOVE ME, AND LOVE MY DOG 74 XIV. THAT WE SHOULD RISE WITH THE LARK 76 XV. THAT WE SHOULD LIE DOWN WITH THE LAMB 77 XVI. THAT A SULKY TEMPER IS A MISFORTUNE .... . -78 CONTENTS.

POEMS. PAGB {Those marked with an asterisk are by the Author'* V 11 Sister.'] PAGE VI. The Family Name . . . 12 Ilester ........ 1 VII ib. To Charles Lloyd, an unexpected Visitor . . . ib. vni ib. The Three Friends 2 IX. To John Lamb, Esq., of the South -Sea-House, ib. To a River in which a Child was drowned . . . 4 X ib. The Old Familiar Faces ib. XI ib. •Helen ib. A Vision of Repentance . . . . ib » Dialogue between a Mother and Child . . . 5 BLANK VERSE. Queen Oriana's Dream _ . . . .ib. Childhood . 13 A Ballad noting the difference of Rich and Poor, in the ways of a rich Noble's Palace and a Poor Workhouse ..... 6 The Grandame . . . . . . . ib. The Sabbath Bells ib. Fancy employed on Divine Subjects . . . . ib. Hypochondriacus . . . • - . . ib. Composed at Midnight . . . . .14 A Farewell to Tobacco ..... 7 John Woodvil, a Tragedy 15 ToT.L. H., a Child 8 The Witch, a Dramatic Sketch of the Seventeenth Ballad, from the German 9 Century ....... 31 * David in the Cave of Adullam . . . . ib. ♦Salome ib- * Lines on the celebrated Picture by Leonardo da Vinci, called the Virgin of the Rocks . • 10 ALBUM VERSES, WITH A FEW OTHERS. * On the same . . . . . . . ib. * Lines suggested by a Picture of two Females, by Leonardo da Vinci . . . . .ib.

In the Autograph Book of Mrs. Sergeant W— . . 32 To Dora W — , on being asked by her Father to write in her Album ...... ib. * Lines on the same Picture being removed to make place for a Portrait of a Lady by Titian . ib. In the Album of a Clergyman's Lady . . . 33 In the Album of Edith S— ib. In the Album of Rotha Q— ib. In the Album of Catherine Orkney . . .ib. SONNETS. In the Album of Lucy Barton ib. I. To Mitis Kelly ...... 11 In thc Album of Mrs. Jane Towers . . . -M II. On the sight of Swans in Kensington Garden, ib. Ill ib. In the Album of Miss . .ib. IV ib. In my own Album ib. CONTENTS. viii FAOJS To T. Stothard, Esq., on his Illustrations of the Poems of Mr. Rogers • 40 MISCELLANEOUS. PAGE To a Friend on his Marriage lb- Angel Help . . • • • • . . 35 The Self -Enchanted lb' On an Infant dying as soon as born . - .ib.

" O Lift with Reverent Hand " . . . . • ib. The Christening .... . . 36 To Louisa M— , whom I used to call " Monkey " . 41 The Young Catechist .... .ib. She is going i0- To a young Friend on her Twenty-first Birthday . 37 TRANSLATIONS FROM THE LATIN OF VINCENT BOURNE. The Ballad-Singers . . . . ■ . . 41 On a Sepulchral Statue of an Infant Sleeping . . 42 SONNETS. To David Cook, of the Parish of Saint Margaret's, Westminster, Watchman . . . . ib. Harmony in Unlikeness . - • - .37 Written at Cambridge ib- Epitaph on a Dog ib. To a celebrated Female Performer in the " Blind Boy" ib- Tbe Rival Bells 42 Newton's Principia ...... 43 Work 38 The Housekeeper . . ■ . . . . ib. Leisure . • • , ■ ■ • • • ib. The Female Orators ib. To Samuel Rogers, Esq. . - • • . . ib. On a Deaf and Dumb Artist ib. The Gipsy's Malison ib- Pindaric Ode to the Tread-Mill . . . .43 Going or Gone 44 COMMENDATORY VERSES, _c. Free Thoughts on several Eminent Composers . 45 To the Author of Poems, published under the name of Barry Cornwall . . . . . . 39 To J. S. Knowles, Esq., on his Tragedy of Virginius ib.

The Wife's Trial ; or, the Intruding Widow. A Dramatic Poem . . . . . . 46 To the Editor of the " Every-Day Book " . . . ib. POEMS HESTER. TO CHARLES LLOYD, AN UNEXPECTED VISITEK. When maidens such as Hester die, Their place ye may not well supply, Though ye among a thousand try, Alone, obscure, without a friend, A cheerless, solitary thing, With vain endeavour. Why seeks, my Lloyd, the stranger out ? What offering can the stranger bring A month or more hath she been dead, Yet cannot I by force be led Of social scenes, home-bred delights, That him in aught compensate may To think upon the wormy bed, And her together. For Stowey's pleasant winter nights, For loves and friendships far away ? A springy motion in her gait, A rising step, did indicate Of pride and joy no common rate, In brief oblivion to forego Friends, such as thine, so justly dear, And be awhile with me content That flush'd her spirit.

To stay, a kindly loiterer, here : I know not by what name beside I shall it call : — if 'twas not pride, It was a joy to that allied, For this a gleam of random joy Hath flush'd my unaceustoin'd cheek ; And, with an o'ercharged bursting heart, She did inherit. I feel the thanks I cannot speak. Her parents held the Quaker rule, Which doth the human feeling cool, But she was train'd in Nature's school, Oh ! sweet are all the Muses' lays, And sweet the charm of matin bird ; 'Twas long since these estranged ears The sweeter voice of friend had heard. Nature had blest her. A waking eye, a prying mind, A heart that stirs, is hard to bind, A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind, The voice hath spoke : the pleasant sounds In memory's ear in after time Shall live, to sometimes rouse a tear, And sometimes prompt an honest rhyme.

Ye could not Hester. My sprightly neighbour ! gone before To that unknown and silent shore, Shall we not meet, as heretofore, For, when the transient charm is fled, And when the little week is o'er, To cheerless, friendless, solitude When I return, as heretofore, Some summer morning, Long, long, within my aching heart The grateful sense shall cherish'd be ; When from thy cheerful eyes a ray Hath struck a bliss upon the day, A bliss that would not go away, I'll think less meanly of myself, That Lloyd will sometimes think on me. A sweet fore-warning ? B MISCELLANEOUS. She, whose love was not less dear, Nor affection less sincere THE THREE FRIENDS. To her friend, was, by occasion Of more distant habitation, Fewer visits forced to pay her ; When no other cause did stay her ; And her Mary living nearer, Three young maids in friendship met ; Mary, Martha, Margaret.

Margaret was tall and fair, Martha shorter by a hair ; If the first excell'd in feature, Margaret began to fear her, Lest her visits day by day Th' other's grace and ease were greater; Mary, though to rival loth, Martha's heart should steal away. That whole heart she ill could spare her, Where till now she'd been a sharer. From this cause with grief she pined, Till at length her health declined. In their best gifts equall'd both. They a due proportion kept ; Martha mourn'd if Margaret wept ; Margaret joy'd when any good All her cheerful spirits flew, Fast as Martha gather'd new ; And her sickness waxed sore, Just when Martha felt no more. She of Martha understood ; And in sympathy for either Mary was outdone by neither. Thus far, for a happy space, All three ran an equal race, Mary, who had quick suspicion Of her alter'd friend's condition, Seeing Martha's convalescence Less demanded now her presence, With a goodness, built on reason, Changed her measures with the season ; Turn'd her steps from Martha's door, Went where she was wanted more ; All her eare and thoughts were set Now to tend on Margaret.

A most constant friendship proving, Equally beloved and loving ; All their wishes, joys, the same ; Sisters only not in name. Fortune upon each one smiled, As upon a fav'rite child ; Well to do and well to see Were the parents of all three ; Till on Martha's father crosses Brought a flood of worldly losses, And his fortunes rich and great Changed at once to low estate ; Under which o'erwhelming blow Martha's mother was laid low ; She a hapless orphan left, Mary living 'twixt the two, From her home could oft'ner go, Either of her friends to see, Than they could together be. Truth explain 'd is to suspicion Evermore the best physician. Soon her visits had the effect ; All that Margaret did suspect, From her fancy vanish 'd clean ; She was soon what she had been, And the colour she did lack To her faded cheek came back.

Wounds which love had made her feel, Love alone had power to heal. Of maternal care bereft, Trouble following trouble fast, Lay in a sick bed at last. In the depth of her affliction Martha now receiv'd conviction, That a true and faithful friend Can the surest comfort lend. Night and day, with friendship tried, Ever constant by her side Martha, who the frequent visit Now had lost, and sore did miss it, With impatience waxed cross, Counted Margaret's gain her loss : All that Mary did confer On her friend, thought due to her. In her girlish bosom rise Was her gentle Mary found, With a love that knew no bound ; And the solace she imparted Saved her dying broken-hearted. In this scene of earthly things Not one good unmixed springs. That which had to Martha proved A sweet consolation, moved Little foolish jealousies, Which into such rancour wrought, She one day for Margaret sought : Finding her by chance alone, She began, with reasons shown, Din-rent feelings of regret In the mind of Margaret.

MISCELLANEOUS. 3 To insinuate a fear Or, by letter, any word Whether Mary was sincere ; Of their old companion heard, — When, upon a day, once walking, Of indifferent matters talking, They a female figure met ; Wish'd that Margaret would take heed Whence her actions did proceed. For herself, she'd long been minded Not with outsides to be blinded ; Martha said to Margaret, All that pity and compassion, She believed was affectation ; In her heart she doubted whether Mary cared a pin for either. She could keep whole weeks at distance, And not know of their existence, While all things remaln'd the same ; But, when some misfortune came, " That young maid in face docs carry A resemblance strong of Mary." Margaret, at nearer sight, Own'd her observation right ; But they did not far proceed Ere they knew 'twas she indeed.

She — but, ah ! how changed they view her From that person which they knew her ! Her fine face disease had scarr'd, Then she made a great parade Of her sympathy and aid, — Not that she did really grieve, It was only make-believe, And she cared for nothing, so She might her fine feelings show, And get credit, on her part, For a soft and tender heart. And its matchless beauty marr'd : — But enough was left to trace Mary's sweetness — Mary's grace. When her eye did first behold them, How they blush'd ! — but, when she told them, How on a sick bed she lay Months, while they had kept away, And had no inquiries made With such speeches, smoothly made, She found methods to persuade If she were alive or dead ; — How, for want of a true friend, She was brought near to her end, And was like so to have died, With no friend at her bed-side ; — How the constant irritation, Caused by fruitless expectation Of their coming, had extended Margaret (who being sore From the doubts she'd felt before, Was prepared for mistrust) To believe her reasons just ; Quite destroy'd that comfort glad, Which in Mary late she had ; Made her, in experience' spite, Think her friend a hypocrite, And resolve, with cruel scoff, To renounce and cast her off.

The illness, when she might have mended, — Then, 0 then, how did reflection Come on them with recollection ! All that she had done for them, How it did their fault condemn ! See how good turns are rewarded ! She of both is now discarded, But sweet Mary, still the same, Kindly eased them of their shame ; Spoke to them with accents bland, Took them friendly by the hand ; Bound them both with promise fast, Not to speak of troubles past ; Made them on the spot declare A new league of friendship there ; Which, without a word of strife, Lasted thenceforth long as life. Who to both had been so late Their support in low estate, All their comfort, and their stay- Now of both is cast away. But the league her presence cherish'd, Losing its best prop, soon perish'd ; She, that was a link to either, To keep them and it together, Being gone, the two (no wonder) That were left, soon fell asunder ; — Some civilities were kept, Martha now and Margaret Strove who most should pay the debt Which they owed her, nor did vary Ever after from tlieir Mary.

But the heart of friendship slept ; Love with hollow forms was fed, But the life of love lay dead : — A cold intercourse they held, After Mary was expell'd. Two long years did intervene Since they'd either of them seen, 11 _• MISCELLANEOUS. 4 HELEN. TO A RIVER IN WHICH A CHILD WAS DROWNED. High-born Helen, round your dwelling These twenty years I've paced in vain : Smiling river, smiling river, On thy bosom sun-beams play ; Haughty beauty, thy lover's duty Hath been to glory in his pain. Though they're fleeting, and retreating, Thou hast more deceit than they. High-born Helen, proudly telling Stories of thy cold disdain : In thy channel, in thy channel, I starve, I die, now you comply, And I no longer can complain. Choked with ooze and grav'lly stones, Deep immersed, and unhearsed, Lies young Edward's corse : his bones These twenty years I've lived on tears, Dwelling for ever on a frown ; Ever whitening, ever whitening, On sighs I've fed, your scorn my bread ; I perish now you kind are grown.

As thy waves against them dash ; What thy torrent, in the current, Swallow'd, now it helps to wash. Can I, who loved my beloved But for the scorn " was in her eye," Can I be moved for my beloved, As if senseless, as if senseless Things had feeling in this case ; When she " returns me sigh for sigh ? " What so blindly, and unkindly, It destroy'd, it now does grace. In stately pride, by my bed-side, High-born Helen's portrait 's hung ; Deaf to my praise, my mournful lays Are nightly to the portrait sung. THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES. To that I weep, nor ever sleep, Complaining all night long to her — I have had playmates, I have had companions, In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days, All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. Helen, grown old, no longer cold, Said, " You to all men 1 prefer."

I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies, All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. A VISION OF REPENTANCE. I loved a love once, fairest among women ; Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her — All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I saw a famous fountain, in my dream, Where shady path-ways to a valley led ; A weeping willow lay upon that stream, And all around the fountain brink were spread I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man ; Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly ; Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. Wide-branching trees, with dark green leaf rich clad, Forming a doubtful twilight — desolate and sad. The place was such, that whoso enter'd in, Disrobed was of every earthly thought, Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood.

And straight became as one that knew not sin, Or to the world's first innocence was brought ; Enseem'd it now, he stood on holy ground, In sweet and tender melancholy wrapt around. Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, Seeking to find the old familiar faces. Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling ? So might we talk of the old familiar faces — A most strange calm stole o'er my soothed sprite; Long time I stood, and longer had I staid, How some they bave died, and some they have When, lo ! I saw, saw by the sweet moon-light, Which came in silence o'er that silent shade, left me, And some are taken from me ; all are departed ; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. Where, near the fountain, something like despair Made, of that weeping willow, garlands for her hair.

MISCELLANEOUS. 5 And eke with painful fingers she inwove Soon to these murky shades I came, To hide from the sun's light my shame. And still I haunt this woody dell, And bathe me in that healing well, Whose waters clear have influence From sin's foul stains the soul to cleanse ; And, night and day, I them augment, With tears, like a true penitent, Many an uncouth stem of savage thorn — " The willow garland, that was for her love, And these her bleeding temples would adorn." With sighs her heart nigh burst, salt tears fast fell, As mournfully she bended o'er that sacred well. To whom when I addrest myself to speak, She lifted up her eyes, and nothing said ; Until, due expiation made, And fit atonement fully paid, The delicate red came mantling o'er her cheek, And, gath'ring up her loose attire, she fled The Lord and Bridegroom me present, Where in sweet strains of high consent, God's throne before the Seraphim Shall chant the ecstatic marriage hymn."