THE FAMILY NAME

What reason first imposed thee, gentle name, Name that my father bore, and his sire's sire, Without reproach? we trace our stream no higher; And I, a childless man, may end the same.

Perchance some shepherd on Lincolnian plains, In manners guileless as his own sweet flocks, Received the first amid the merry mocks And arch allusions of his fellow swains.

Perchance from Salem's holier fields returned, With glory gotten on the heads abhorr'd Of faithless Saracens, some martial lord Took HIS meek t.i.tle, in whose zeal he burn'd.

Whate'er the fount whence thy beginnings came, No deed of mine shall shame thee, gentle name.

TO JOHN LAMB, ESQ.

_Of the South-Sea House_

John, you were figuring in the gay career Of blooming manhood with a young man's joy, When I was yet a little peevish boy-- Though time has made the difference disappear Betwixt our ages, which _then_ seemed so great-- And still by rightful custom you retain Much of the old authoritative strain, And keep the elder brother up in state.

O! you do well in this. 'Tis man's worst deed To let the "things that have been" run to waste, And in the unmeaning present sink the past: In whose dim gla.s.s even now I faintly read Old buried forms, and faces long ago, Which you, and I, and one more, only know.

_Here came "O! I could laugh." See page_ 5.

_Here came "We were two pretty babes." See page_ 9.

_Here came, under the heading "Blank Verse," "Childhood," see page 9; "The Grandame," see page 6; "The Sabbath Bells," see page 10, "Fancy employed on Divine Subjects," see page 10; and "Composed at Midnight,"

see page 26._

TO MARTIN CHARLES BURNEY, ESQ.

(The Dedication to Vol. II. of Lamb's _Works_, 1818)

Forgive me, BURNEY, if to thee these late And hasty products of a critic pen, Thyself no common judge of books and men, In feeling of thy worth I dedicate.

My _verse_ was offered to an older friend; The humbler _prose_ has fallen to thy share: Nor could I miss the occasion to declare, What spoken in thy presence must offend-- That, set aside some few caprices wild, Those humorous clouds that flit o'er brightest days, In all my threadings of this worldly maze, (And I have watched thee almost from a child), Free from self-seeking, envy, low design, I have not found a whiter soul than thine.

ALb.u.m VERSES

IN THE ALb.u.m OF A CLERGYMAN'S LADY

(? 1830)

An Alb.u.m is a Garden, not for show Planted, but use; where wholesome herbs should grow.

A Cabinet of curious porcelain, where No fancy enters, but what's rich or rare.

A Chapel, where mere ornamental things Are pure as crowns of saints, or angels' wings.

A List of living friends; a holier Room For names of some since mouldering in the tomb, Whose blooming memories life's cold laws survive; And, dead elsewhere, they here yet speak, and live.

Such, and so tender, should an Alb.u.m be; And, Lady, such I wish this book to thee.

IN THE AUTOGRAPH BOOK OF MRS. SERGEANT W------

Had I a power, Lady, to my will, You should not want Hand Writings. I would fill Your leaves with Autographs--resplendent names Of Knights and Squires of old, and courtly Dames, Kings, Emperors, Popes. Next under these should stand The hands of famous Lawyers--a grave band-- Who in their Courts of Law or Equity Have best upheld Freedom and Property.

These should moot cases in your book, and vie To show their reading and their Serjeantry.

But I have none of these; nor can I send The notes by Bullen to her Tyrant penn'd In her authentic hand; nor in soft hours Lines writ by Rosamund in Clifford's bowers.

The lack of curious Signatures I moan, And want the courage to subscribe my own.

IN THE ALb.u.m OF LUCY BARTON

(1824)

Little Book, surnamed of _white_, Clean as yet, and fair to sight, Keep thy attribution right.

Never disproportion'd scrawl; Ugly blot, that's worse than all; On thy maiden clearness fall!

In each letter, here design'd, Let the reader emblem'd find Neatness of the owner's mind.

Gilded margins count a sin, Let thy leaves attraction win By the golden rules within;

Sayings fetch'd from sages old; Laws which Holy Writ unfold, Worthy to be graved in gold:

Lighter fancies not excluding; Blameless wit, with nothing rude in, Sometimes mildly interluding

Amid strains of graver measure: Virtue's self hath oft her pleasure In sweet Muses' groves of leisure.

Riddles dark, perplexing sense; Darker meanings of offence; What but _shades_--be banished hence.

Whitest thoughts in whitest dress, Candid meanings, best express Mind of quiet Quakeress.