Servant.  Nothing immediate, but some two months after,
Young Philip Fairford suddenly fell sick,
And none could tell what ail’d him; for he lay,
And pined, and pined, till all his hair fell off,
And he, that was full-flesh’d, became as thin
As a two-months’ babe that has been starved in the nursing. 
And sure I think
He bore his death-wound like a little child;
With such rare sweetness of dumb melancholy
He strove to clothe his agony in smiles,
Which he would force up in his poor pale cheeks,
Like ill-timed guests that had no proper dwelling there;
And, when they ask’d him his complaint, he laid
His hand upon his heart to show the place,
Where Susan came to him a-nights, he said,
And prick’d him with a pin.—­
And thereupon Sir Francis call’d to mind
The beggar-witch that stood by the gateway
And begg’d an alms.

Stranger.  But did the witch confess?

Servant.  All this and more at her death.

Stranger.  I do not love to credit tales of magic. 
Heaven’s music, which is Order, seems unstrung,
And this brave world
(The mystery of God) unbeautified,
Disorder’d, marr’d, where such strange things are acted.

ALBUM VERSES,

WITH A FEW OTHERS.

DEDICATION.

* * * * *

TO THE PUBLISHER.

DEAR MOXON,

I do not know to whom a Dedication of these Trifles is more properly due than to yourself.  You suggested the printing of them.  You were desirous of exhibiting a specimen of the manner in which Publications, intrusted to your future care, would appear.  With more propriety, perhaps, the “Christmas,” or some other of your own simple, unpretending Compositions, might have served this purpose.  But I forget—­you have bid a long adieu to the Muses.  I had on my hands sundry Copies of Verses written for Albums—­

  Those books kept by modern young Ladies for show
  Of which their plain Grandmothers nothing did know—­

or otherwise floating about in Periodicals; which you have chosen in this manner to embody.  I feel little interest in their publication.  They are simply—­Advertisement Verses.

It is not for me, nor you, to allude in public to the kindness of our honored Friend, under whose auspices you are become a Publisher.  May that fine-minded Veteran in Verse enjoy life long enough to see his patronage justified?  I venture to predict that your habits of industry, and your cheerful spirit, will carry you through the world.

I am, Dear Moxon,

Your Friend and sincere Well-Wisher,

CHARLES LAMB.

ENFIELD, 1st June, 1839.

ALBUM VERSES

WITH A FEW OTHERS.