Poetry for children

by Charles Lamb; Mary Lamb

CLEANLINESS

IX

Come, my little Robert, near—

Fie! what filthy hands are here!

Who, that e’er could understand

The rare structure of a hand,

With its branching fingers fine,

Work itself of hands divine,

Strong, yet delicately knit,

For ten thousand uses fit,

Overlaid with so clear skin

You may see the blood within,—

Who this hand would choose to cover

With a crust of dirt all over,

Till it look’d in hue and shape

Like the forefoot of an ape!

Man or boy that works or plays

In the fields or the highways,

May, without offence or hurt,

From the soil contract a dirt

Which the next clear spring or river

Washes out and out for ever—

But to cherish stains impure,

Soil deliberate to endure,

On the skin to fix a stain

Till it works into the grain,

Argues a degenerate mind,

Sordid, slothful, ill-inclined,

Wanting in that self-respect

Which does virtue best protect.

All-endearing cleanliness,

Virtue next to godliness,

Easiest, cheapest, needfull’st duty,

To the body health and beauty;

Who that’s human would refuse it,

When a little water does it?

TO A RIVER
IN WHICH A CHILD
WAS DROWNED

X

Smiling river, smiling river,

On thy bosom sunbeams play;

Though they’re fleeting, and retreating,

Thou hast more deceit than they.

In thy channel, in thy channel,

Choked with ooze and gravelly stones,

Deep immersed, and unhearsed,

Lies young Edward’s corse; his bones

Ever whitening, ever whitening,

As thy waves against them dash;

What thy torrent, in the current,

Swallow’d, now it helps to wash.

As if senseless, as if senseless

Things had feeling in this case;

What so blindly and unkindly

It destroy’d, it now does grace.

THE BOY AND
SNAKE

XI

Henry was every morning fed

With a full mess of milk and bread.

One day the boy his breakfast took,

And ate it by a purling brook.

His mother lets him have his way.

With free leave Henry every day

Thither repairs, until she heard

Him talking of a fine grey bird.

This pretty bird, he said, indeed,

Came every day with him to feed;

And it loved him and loved his milk,

And it was smooth and soft like silk.

On the next morn she follows Harry,

And carefully she sees him carry

Through the long grass his heap’d-up mess.

What was her terror and distress

When she saw the infant take

His bread and milk close to a snake!

Upon the grass he spreads his feast

And sits down by his frightful guest.

Who had waited for the treat;

And now they both began to eat.

Fond mother! shriek not, O beware

The least small noise, O have a care—

The least small noise that may be made

The wily snake will be afraid—

If he hear the slightest sound,

He will inflict th’ envenom’d wound.

—She speaks not, moves not, scarce does breathe,

As she stands the trees beneath.

No sound she utters; and she soon

Sees the child lift up his spoon,

And tap the snake upon the head,

Fearless of harm; and then he said,

As speaking to familiar mate,

“Keep on your own side, do, Grey Pate;”

The snake then to the other side,

As one rebuked, seems to glide;

And now again advancing nigh,

Again she hears the infant cry,

Tapping the snake, “Keep further, do;

Mind, Grey Pate, what I say to you.”

The danger’s o’er! she sees the boy

(O what a change from fear to joy!)

Rise and bid the snake “good-bye;”

Says he, “Our breakfast’s done, and I

Will come again to-morrow day;”

Then lightly tripping, ran away.

THE BEASTS IN
THE TOWER

XII

Within the precincts of this yard,

Each in his narrow confines barr’d,

Dwells every beast that can be found

On Afric or on Indian ground;

How different was the life they led

In those wild haunts where they were bred,

To this tame servitude and fear,

Enslaved by man, they suffer here!

In that uneasy close recess

Couches a sleeping lioness;

That next den holds a bear; the next

A wolf, by hunger ever vext:

There, fiercer from the keeper’s lashes,

His teeth the fell hyena gnashes;

That creature on whose back abound

Black spots upon a yellow ground,

A panther is—the fairest beast

That haunteth in the spacious East:

He underneath a fair outside

Does cruelty and treachery hide.

That catlike beast that to and fro

Restless as fire does ever go,

As if his courage did resent

His limbs in such confinement pent,

That should their prey in forest take,

And make the Indian jungles quake,

A tiger is. Observe how sleek

And glossy smooth his coat; no streak

On satin ever match’d the pride

Of that which marks his furry hide.

How strong his muscles! he with ease

Upon the tallest man could seize;

In his large mouth away could bear him,

And into thousand pieces tear him:

Yet cabin’d so securely here,

The smallest infant need not fear.

That lordly creature next to him

A lion is. Survey each limb;

Observe the texture of his claws,

The massy thickness of those jaws;

His mane that sweeps the ground in length,

Like Samson’s locks, betokening strength.

In force and swiftness he excels

Each beast that in the forest dwells;

The savage tribes him king confess

Throughout the howling wilderness.

Woe to the hapless neighbourhood

When he is press’d by want of food!

Of man, or child, or bull, or horse

He makes his prey, such is his force.

A waste behind him he creates,

Whole villages depopulates;

Yet here within appointed lines

How small a grate his rage confines!

This place, methinks, resembleth well

The world itself in which we dwell.

Perils and snares on every ground

Like these wild beasts beset us round.

But Providence their rage restrains,

Our heavenly Keeper sets them chains;

His goodness saveth every hour

His darlings from the lion’s power.

TIME SPENT IN
DRESS

XIII

In many a lecture, many a book,

You all have heard, you all have read,

That time is precious. Of its use

Much has been written, much been said.

There’s not a more productive source

Of waste of time to the young mind

Than dress; as it regards our hours,

My view of it is now confined.

Without some calculation, youth

May live to age, and never guess

That no one study they pursue

Takes half the time they give to dress.

Write in your memorandum book

The time you at your toilette spend;

Then, every moment which you pass

Talking of dress with a young friend;

And ever when your silent thoughts

Have on this subject been intent,

Set down as nearly as you can,

How long on dress your thoughts were bent.

If faithfully you should perform

This task, ’twould teach you to repair

Lost hours, by giving unto dress

Not more of time than its due share.

A BALLAD:
NOTING THE DIFFERENCE OF RICH
AND POOR, IN THE WAYS OF A RICH
NOBLE’S PALACE AND A POOR
WORKHOUSE
To the tune of the
“Old and Young Courtier.”

XIV

In a costly palace Youth goes clad in gold;

In a wretched workhouse Age’s limbs are cold:

There they sit, the old men by a shivering fire,

Still close and closer cowering, warmth is their desire.

In a costly palace, when the brave gallants dine,

They have store of good venison, with old canary wine,

With singing and music to heighten the cheer;

Coarse bits, with grudging, are the pauper’s best fare.

In a costly palace Youth is still caress’d

By a train of attendants which laugh at my young Lord’s jest;

In a wretched workhouse the contrary prevails,

Does age begin to prattle?—no man hearkeneth to his tales.

In a costly palace if the child with a pin

Do but chance to prick a finger, straight the doctor is call’d in;

In a wretched workhouse men are left to perish,

For want of proper cordials, which their old age might cherish.

In a costly palace Youth enjoys his lust;

In a wretched workhouse Age, in corners thrust,

Thinks upon the former days, when he was well to do,

Had children to stand by him, both friends and kinsmen too.

In a costly palace Youth his temples hides

With a new devised peruke that reaches to his sides;

In a wretched workhouse Age’s crown is bare,

With a few thin locks just to fence out the cold air.

In peace, as in war, ’tis our young gallants’ pride

To walk, each one i’ the streets, with a rapier by his side,

That none to do them injury may have pretence;

Wretched Age, in poverty, must brook offence.

THE
BROKEN DOLL

XV

An infant is a selfish sprite:

But what of that? the sweet delight

Which from participation springs,

Is quite unknown to these young things.

We elder children then will smile

At our dear little John awhile,

And bear with him, until he see

There is a sweet felicity

In pleasing more than only one,

Dear little, craving, selfish John.

He laughs, and thinks it a fine joke

That he our new wax doll has broke.

Anger will never teach him better:

We will the spirit and the letter

Of courtesy to him display

By taking in a friendly way

These baby frolics; till he learn

True sport from mischief to discern.

Reproof a parent’s province is;

A sister’s discipline is this;

By studied kindness to effect

A little brother’s young respect.

What is a doll? a fragile toy.

What is its loss? If the dear boy,

Who half perceives he’s done amiss,

Retain impression of the kiss

That follow’d instant on his cheek;

If the kind loving words we speak

Of “Never mind it:” “We forgive;”

If these in his short memory live

Only perchance for half-a-day—

Who minds a doll—if that should lay

The first impression in his mind

That sisters are to brothers kind?

For thus the broken doll may prove

Foundation to fraternal love.

GOING INTO
BREECHES

XVI

Joy to Philip! he this day

Has his long coats cast away,

And (the childish season gone)

Put the manly breeches on.

Officer on gay parade,

Red-coat in his first cockade,

Bridegroom in his wedding trim,

Birthday beau surpassing him,

Never did with conscious gait

Strut about in half the state

Or the pride (yet free from sin)

Of my little Manikin:

Never was there pride or bliss

Half so rational as his.

Sashes, frocks, to those that need ’em,

Philip’s limbs have got their freedom—

He can run, or he can ride,

And do twenty things beside,

Which his petticoats forbad;

Is he not a happy lad?

Now he’s under other banners

He must leave his former manners;

Bid adieu to female games

And forget their very names;

Puss-in-corners, hide-and-seek,

Sports for girls and punies weak!

Baste-the-bear he now may play at,

Leap-frog, football sport away at;

Show his skill and strength at cricket,

Mark his distance, pitch his wicket;

Run about in winter’s snow

Till his cheeks and fingers glow;

Climb a tree or scale a wall

Without any fear to fall.

If he get a hurt or bruise,

To complain he must refuse,

Though the anguish and the smart

Go unto his little heart;

He must have his courage ready,

Keep his voice and visage steady;

Brace his eyeballs stiff as drum,

That a tear may never come;

And his grief must only speak

From the colour in his cheek.

This and more he must endure,

Hero he in miniature.

This and more must now be done,

Now the breeches are put on.

THE
THREE FRIENDS

XVII

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,

The other’s grace and ease were greater;

Mary, though to rival loth,

In their best gifts equall’d both.

They a due proportion kept;

Martha mourn’d if Margaret wept;

Margaret joy’d when any good

She of Martha understood;

And in sympathy for either

Mary was outdone by neither.

Thus far, for a happy space,

All three ran an even race,

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 favourite 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,

Of maternal care bereft,

Trouble following trouble fast,

Lay in a sick bed at last.

In the depth of her affliction

Martha now received conviction

That a true and faithful friend

Can the surest comfort lend.

Night and day, with friendship tried,

Ever constant by her side

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

Different feelings of regret

In the mind of Margaret.

She, whose love was not less dear,

Nor affection less sincere,

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,

Margaret began to fear her

Lest her visits day by day

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.

All her cheerful spirits flew,

Fast as Martha gather’d new;

And her sickness waxed sore,

Just when Martha felt no more.

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 care and thoughts were set

Now to tend on Margaret.

Mary living ’twixt the two,

From her home could oftener 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.

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

Little foolish jealousies,

Which into such rancour wrought,

She one day for Margaret sought;

Finding her by chance alone,

She began, with reasons shown,

To insinuate a fear

Whether Mary was sincere;

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;

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 remain’d the same;

But when some misfortune came,

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.

With such speeches, smoothly made,

She found methods to persuade

Margaret (who, being sore

From the doubts she’d felt before,

Was prepared for mistrust)

To believe her reasons just;

Quite destroyed 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.

See how good turns are rewarded!

She of both is now discarded,

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 cherished,

Losing its best prop, soon perished;

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,

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 expelled.

Two long years did intervene

Since they’d either of them seen,

Or by letter, any word

Of their old companion heard,—

When, upon a day once walking,

Of indifferent matters talking,

They a female figure met;—

Martha said to Margaret,

“That young maid in face does carry

A resemblance strong of Mary,”

Margaret, at nearer sight,

Own’d her observation right;

But they did not far proceed

Ere they found ’twas she indeed.

She—but, ah! I how changed they view her

From that person which they knew her!

Her fine face disease had scarr’d,

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

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 bedside;—

How the constant irritation

Caused by fruitless expectation

Of their coming, had extended

The illness, when she might have mended,—

Then, O then, how did reflection

Come on them with recollection!

All that she had done for them,

How it did their fault condemn!

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.

Martha now and Margaret

Strove who most should pay the debt

Which they owed her, nor did vary

Ever after from their Mary.