The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb IV.

by Charles and Mary Lamb.

INTRODUCTION

The earliest poem in this volume bears the date 1794, when Lamb was nineteen, the latest 1834, the year of his death; so that it covers an even longer period of his life than Vol. I.--the "Miscellaneous Prose."

The chronological order which was strictly observed in that volume has been only partly observed in the following pages--since it seemed better to keep the plays together and to make a separate section of Lamb's epigrams. These, therefore, will be found to be outside the general scheme. Such of Lamb's later poems as he did not himself collect in volume form will also be found to be out of their chronological position, partly because it has seemed to me best to give prominence to those verses which Lamb himself reprinted, and partly because there is often no indication of the year in which the poem was written.

Another difficulty has been the frequency with which Lamb reprinted some of his earlier poetry. The text of many of his earliest and best poems was not fixed until 1818, twenty years or so after their composition. It had to be decided whether to print these poems in their true order as they were first published--in Coleridge's _Poems on Various Subjects_, 1796; in Charles Lloyd's _ems on the Death of Priscilla Farmer_, 1796; in Coleridge's _Poems_, second edition, 1797; in _Blank Verse_ by Charles Lloyd and Charles Lamb, 1798; and in John Woodvil, 1802--with all their early readings; or whether to disregard chronological sequence, and wait until the time of the _Works_--1818--had come, and print them all together then. I decided, in the interests of their biographical value, to print them in the order as they first appeared, particularly as Crabb Robinson tells us that Lamb once said of the arrangement of a poet's works: "There is only one good order--and that is the order in which they were written--that is a history of the poet's mind." It then had to be decided whether to print them in their first shape, which, unless I repeated them later, would mean the relegation of Lamb's final text to the Notes, or to print them, at the expense of a slight infringement upon the chronological scheme, in their final 1818 state, and relegate all earlier readings to the Notes. After much deliberation I decided that to print them in their final 1818 state was best, and this therefore I did in the large edition of 1903, to which the student is referred for all variorum readings, fuller notes and many ill.u.s.trations, and have repeated here. In order, however, that the scheme of Lamb's 1818 edition of his _Works_ might be preserved, I have indicated in the text the position in the _Works_ occupied by all the poems that in the present volume have been printed earlier.

The chronological order, in so far as it has been followed, emphasises the dividing line between Lamb's poetry and his verse. As he grew older his poetry, for the most part, pa.s.sed into his prose. His best and truest poems, with few exceptions, belong to the years before, say, 1805, when he was thirty. After this, following a long interval of silence, came the brief satirical outburst of 1812, in _The Examiner_, and the longer one, in 1820, in _The Champion_; then, after another interval, during which he was busy as Elia, came the period of alb.u.m verses, which lasted to the end. The impulse to write personal prose, which was quickened in Lamb by the _London Magazine_ in 1820, seems to have taken the place of his old ambition to be a poet. In his later and more mechanical period there were, however, occasional inspirations, as when he wrote the sonnet on "Work," in 1819; on "Leisure," in 1821; the lines in his own Alb.u.m, in 1827, and, pre-eminently, the poem "On an Infant Dying as Soon as Born," in 1827.

This volume contains, with the exception of the verse for children, which will be found in Vol. III. of this edition, all the accessible poetical work of Charles and Mary Lamb that is known to exist and several poems not to be found in the large edition. There are probably still many copies of alb.u.m verses which have not yet seen the light. In the _London Magazine_, April, 1824, is a story ent.i.tled "The Bride of Modern Italy," which has for motto the following couplet:--

My heart is fixt: This is the sixt.--_Elia_.

but the rest of what seems to be a pleasant catalogue is missing. In a letter to Coleridge, December 2, 1796, Lamb refers to a poem which has apparently perished, beginning, "Laugh, all that weep." I have left in the correspondence the rhyming letters to Ayrton and Dibdin, and an epigram on "Coelebs in Search of a Wife." I have placed the dedication to Coleridge at the beginning of this volume, although it belongs properly only to those poems that are reprinted from the _Works_ of 1818, the prose of which Lamb offered to Martin Burney. But it is too fine to be put among the Notes, and it may easily, by a pardonable stretch, be made to refer to the whole body of Lamb's poetical and dramatic work, although _Alb.u.m Verses_, 1830, was dedicated separately to Edward Moxon.

In Mr. Bedford's design for the cover of this edition certain Elian symbolism will be found. The upper coat of arms is that of Christ's Hospital, where Lamb was at school; the lower is that of the Inner Temple, where he was born and spent many years. The figures at the bells are those which once stood out from the facade of St. Dunstan's Church in Fleet Street, and are now in Lord Londesborough's garden in Regent's Park. Lamb shed tears when they were removed. The tricksy sprite and the candles (brought by Betty) need no explanatory words of mine.

E.V.L.

FRONTISPIECE

CHARLES LAMB (AGE 23)

From the Drawing by Robert Hanc.o.c.k, now in the National Portrait Gallery.

DEDICATION (1818) TO S.T. COLERIDGE, ESQ.

My Dear Coleridge,

You will smile to see the slender labors of your friend designated by the t.i.tle 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 a.s.sociation, which shall always be a dear and proud recollection to me, came to be broken, --who snapped the three-fold cord,--whether yourself (but I know that was not the case) grew ashamed of your former 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 your old a.s.sociate, in his second volume, dwindled into prose and _criticism_.

Am I right in a.s.suming this as the cause? or is it that, as years come upon us, (except with some more healthy-happy spirits,) Life itself loses much of its Poetry for us? we transcribe but what we read in the great volume of Nature; and, as the 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--

even so far back as to those old suppers at our old ****** Inn,--when life was fresh, and topics exhaustless,--and you first kindled in me, if not the power, yet the love of poetry, 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, but 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."

One piece, Coleridge, I have ventured to publish in its original form, though I have heard you complain of a certain over-imitation of the antique in the style. If I could see any way of getting rid of the objection, without re-writing it entirely, I would make some sacrifices.

But when I wrote John Woodvil, I never proposed to myself any distinct deviation from common English. I had been newly initiated in the writings of our elder dramatists; Beaumont and Fletcher, and Ma.s.singer, were then a _first love_; and from what I was so freshly conversant in, what wonder if my language imperceptibly took a tinge? The very _time_, which I have chosen for my story, that which immediately followed the Restoration, seemed to require, in an English play, that the English should be of rather an older cast, than that of the precise year in which it happened to be written. I wish it had not some faults, which I can less vindicate than the language.

I remain, My dear Coleridge, Your's, With unabated esteem, C. LAMB.

LAMB'S EARLIEST POEM

MILLE VIAE MORTIS

(1789)

What time in bands of slumber all were laid, To Death's dark court, methought I was convey'd; In realms it lay far hid from mortal sight, And gloomy tapers scarce kept out the night.

On ebon throne the King of Terrors sate; Around him stood the ministers of Fate; On fell destruction bent, the murth'rous band Waited attentively his high command.

Here pallid Fear & dark Despair were seen.

And Fever here with looks forever lean, Swoln Dropsy, halting Gout, profuse of woes, And Madness fierce & hopeless of repose,

Wide-wasting Plague; but chief in honour stood More-wasting War, insatiable of blood; With starting eye-b.a.l.l.s, eager for the word; Already brandish'd was the glitt'ring sword.

Wonder and fear alike had fill'd my breast, And thus the grisly Monarch I addrest--

"Of earth-born Heroes why should Poets sing, And thee neglect, neglect the greatest King?

To thee ev'n Caesar's self was forc'd to yield The glories of Pharsalia's well-fought field."

When, with a frown, "Vile caitiff, come not here,"

Abrupt cried Death; "shall flatt'ry soothe my ear?"

"Hence, or thou feel'st my dart!" the Monarch said.

Wild terror seiz'd me, & the vision fled.

POEMS IN COLERIDGE'S POEMS ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS, 1796

(_Written late in 1794. Text of 1797_)

As when a child on some long winter's night Affrighted clinging to its Grandam's knees With eager wond'ring and perturb'd delight Listens strange tales of fearful dark decrees Mutter'd to wretch by necromantic spell; Or of those hags, who at the witching time Of murky midnight ride the air sublime, And mingle foul embrace with fiends of h.e.l.l: Cold Horror drinks its blood! Anon the tear More gentle starts, to hear the Beldame tell Of pretty babes, that lov'd each other dear, Murder'd by cruel Uncle's mandate fell: Ev'n such the shiv'ring joys thy tones impart, Ev'n so thou, SIDDONS! meltest my sad heart!