TO CHARLES LAMB
I T is a mild and lovely winter night,
The breeze without is scarcely heard to sigh;
The crescent moon and stars of twinkling light
Are shining calmly in a cloudless sky.
Within the fire burns clearly: in its rays
My old oak book-case wears a cheerful smile;
Its antique mouldings brighten'd by the blaze
Might vie with any of more modern style.
That rural sketch — that scene in Norway's land
Of rocks and pine trees by the torrent's foam —
That landscape traced by Gainsborough's youthful hand,
Which shows how lovely is a peasant's home —
That Virgin and her Child, with those sweet boys —
All of the fire-light own the genial gleam;
And lovelier far than in day's light and noise
At this still hour to me their beauties seem.
One picture more there is, which should not be
Unhonour'd or unsung, because it bears
In many a lonely hour my thoughts to thee,
Heightening to fancy every charm it wears —
A quaint familiar group — a mother mild
And young and fair, who fain would teach to read
That urchin, by her patience unbeguiled,
The volume open on her lap to heed.
With fingers thrust into his ears, he looks
As much he wish'd the weary task were done;
And more, far more, of pastime than of books
Lurks in that arch dark eye so full of fun.
Graver, or in the pouts, (I know not well
Which of the twain,) his elder sister plies
Her needle so, that it is hard to tell
What the full meaning of her downcast eyes
Dear Charles, if thou shouldst haply chance to know
Where such a picture hung in days of yore,
Its highest worth, its deepest charm, to show
I need not tax my rhymes or fancy more.
It is not womanhood in all its grace,
And lovely childhood plead to me alone;
Though these each stranger still delights to trace,
And with congratulating smile to own;
No — with all these my feelings fondly blend
A hidden charm unborrow'd from the eye;
That wakes the memory of my absent friend,
And chronicles the pleasant hours gone by.
I T is a mild and lovely winter night,
The breeze without is scarcely heard to sigh;
The crescent moon and stars of twinkling light
Are shining calmly in a cloudless sky.
Within the fire burns clearly: in its rays
My old oak book-case wears a cheerful smile;
Its antique mouldings brighten'd by the blaze
Might vie with any of more modern style.
That rural sketch — that scene in Norway's land
Of rocks and pine trees by the torrent's foam —
That landscape traced by Gainsborough's youthful hand,
Which shows how lovely is a peasant's home —
That Virgin and her Child, with those sweet boys —
All of the fire-light own the genial gleam;
And lovelier far than in day's light and noise
At this still hour to me their beauties seem.
One picture more there is, which should not be
Unhonour'd or unsung, because it bears
In many a lonely hour my thoughts to thee,
Heightening to fancy every charm it wears —
A quaint familiar group — a mother mild
And young and fair, who fain would teach to read
That urchin, by her patience unbeguiled,
The volume open on her lap to heed.
With fingers thrust into his ears, he looks
As much he wish'd the weary task were done;
And more, far more, of pastime than of books
Lurks in that arch dark eye so full of fun.
Graver, or in the pouts, (I know not well
Which of the twain,) his elder sister plies
Her needle so, that it is hard to tell
What the full meaning of her downcast eyes
Dear Charles, if thou shouldst haply chance to know
Where such a picture hung in days of yore,
Its highest worth, its deepest charm, to show
I need not tax my rhymes or fancy more.
It is not womanhood in all its grace,
And lovely childhood plead to me alone;
Though these each stranger still delights to trace,
And with congratulating smile to own;
No — with all these my feelings fondly blend
A hidden charm unborrow'd from the eye;
That wakes the memory of my absent friend,
And chronicles the pleasant hours gone by.
Reviews
No reviews yet.