They only would have us dig on like themselves,
Yet be all observation to furnish their shelves;
Would only expect us (inordinate crew!)

To be just what they are, and delight them all too!
As well might they ask the explorers of oceans
To make their discoveries, as doctors do lotions;
Or shut up some bees in the till with the money,
And look, on the Sabbath, to breakfast on honey.

The secret, in fact, why most people condemn,
Is not that men differ, but differ with them.
And yet if the world were put under their keeping,
Our only resource from a pond would be sleeping.
I've thought of, sometimes when amused with these
cavils,

A passage I met with in somebody's travels,-
A merchant's,-who sailing from Greece to Triësté,
Grew vexed with the crew, and avowedly testy,
Because, as he said, being lazy and Greeks,

They were always for putting in harbours and creeks,

And instead of conveying him quick with his lading, (As any men would, who had due sense of trading) Could never come near a green isle with a spring, But smack they went to it, like birds on the wing; And taking their wine out, and strumming their lutes,

Fell drinking and dancing,-like so many brutes.

Ah, Will, there are some birds and beasts, I'm afraid,

Who if they could peep upon some of the trade, And see them pale, sneaking, proud, faithless of trust,

Midst their wainscotted twilight, and bundles, and

dust,

Would wonder what strange kind of nest and of blisses

The creatures had picked up from a world such as this is.

Imagine, for instance, a lark at the casement Stand glancing his head about, deep in amazement; Then turning it up to the cloud-silvered skies, Strikes off to the fields with the air in his eyes, And heaving and heaving,-thrilled, quivering, and even,

Goes mounting his steps of wild music to heaven.

I blame (you'll bear witness) these tricksters and

hiders

No more than I quarrel with bats or with spiders— All, all have their uses, though never so hideous— But bats shouldn't fancy their eyesight prodigious.

You see I can't mention the country again, But I'm off like a Harlequin, plump through the pane.

I forget I'm in town and have letters to write To my cousin' about it, and so, sir, Good-night. P.S. No news of the Bourbons. You've heard

of the blight?

1 This and the following poem are described as letters from Harry Brown to his friends, those to Thomas Moore are superscribed "to his cousin, Thomas Brown."-ED.

TO CHARLES LAMB.

["Examiner," Aug. 25th, 1816.

"Works," 1857, 1850.]

"Foliage," 1818.

THOU, whom old Homer would call, were he living,

Home-lover, thought-feeder, abundant

joke-giving;

Whose charity springs from deep knowledge, nor

swerves

Into mere self-reflections, or scornful reserves ;
In short, who were made for two centuries ago,
When Shakespeare drew men, and to write was to
know ;-

You'll not be surprised that I can't walk the streets,

Without thinking of you and your visiting feats, When you call to remembrance how you and one

more,

When I wanted it most, used to knock at my door. For when the sad winds told us rain would come

down,

Or snow upon snow fairly clogged up the town, And dun yellow fogs brooded over its white, So that scarcely a being was seen towards night, Then, then said the lady yclept near and dear, "Now mind what I tell you, the L[amb]s will be here."

So I poked up the flame, and she got out the tea, And down we both sat, as prepared as could be;

And there, sure as fate, came the knock of you two. Then the lantern, the laugh, and the "Well, how d'ye do?"

Then your palm tow'rds the fire, and your face. turned to me,

And shawls and great-coats being-where they should be,

And due "never saw's " being paid to the weather,
We cherished our knees, and sat sipping together,
And leaving the world to the fogs and the fighters,
Discussed the pretensions of all sorts of writers;
Of Shakespeare's coëvals, all spirits divine;
Of Chapman, whose Homer's a fine rough old wine;
Of Marvell, wit, patriot, and poet, who knew
How to give, both at once, Charles and Cromwell
their due.

Of Spenser, who wraps you, wherever you are,
In a bow'r of seclusion beneath a sweet star;
Of Richardson, too, who afflicts us so long,
We begin to suspect him of nerves over strong;
In short, of all those who give full-measured

page,

Not forgetting Sir Thomas,' my ancestor sage, Who delighted (so happy were all his digestions) In puzzling his head with impossible questions.

But now, Charles-you never (so blissful you deem me)

Come lounging, with twirl of umbrella to see me. In vain have we hoped to be set at our ease

By the rains which you know used to bring Lamb and pease;

1i.e. Sir Thomas Browne.

In vain we look out like the children in Thomson, And say, in our innocence, "Surely, he'll come soon."

'Tis true, I do live in a vale, at my will,

With sward to my gateway, and trees on the hill : My health too gets on: and now autumn is nigh, The sun has come back, and there's really blue sky;

But then, the late weather, I think, had its merits, And might have induced you to look at one's

spirits;

We hadn't much thunder and lightning, I own: But the rains might have led you to walk out of

town;

And what made us think your desertion still

stranger,

The roads were so bad, there was really some

danger;

At least where I live; for the nights were so

groping,

The rains made such wet, and the paths were so sloping,

That few, unemboldened by youth or by drinking, Came down without lanthorns,-nor then without shrinking.

And really, to see the bright spots come and go,
As the path rose or fell, was a fanciful shew.
Like fairies they seemed, pitching up from their
nooks,

And twinkling upon us their bright little looks;
Or if there appeared but a single slow light,
It seemed Polyphemus, descending by night