Then LAMB, with whose endearing name
Our boy we proudly graced,
Shrank from the warmth of sweeter fame
Than mightier Bards embraced.

Still ’twas a mournful joy to think
Our darling might supply
For years to us, a living link,
To name that cannot die.

And though such fancy gleam no more
On earthly sorrow’s night,
Truth’s nobler torch unveils the shore
Which lends to both its light.

The nurseling there that hand may take,
None ever grasp’d in vain,
And smiles of well-known sweetness wake,
Without their tinge of pain.

Though,’twixt the Child and child-like Bard,
Late seemed distinction wide. 
They now may trace in Heaven’s regard,
How near they were allied.

Within the infant’s ample brow
Blythe fancies lay unfurl’d,
Which, all uncrush’d, may open now,
To charm a sinless world.

Though the soft spirit of those eyes
Might ne’er with LAMB’S compete—­
Ne’er sparkle with a wit as wise,
Or melt in tears, as sweet;

That calm and unforgotten look
A kindred love reveals,
With his who never friend forsook,
Or hurt a thing that feels.

In thought profound, in wildest glee,
In sorrows dark and strange,
The soul of Lamb’s bright infancy
Endured no spot or change.

From traits of each our love receives
For comfort, nobler scope;
While light, which child-like genius leaves. 
Confirms the infant’s hope;

And in that hope with sweetness fraught
Be aching hearts beguiled,
To blend in one delightful thought
The POET and the CHILD!

EDWARD FITZGERALD’S “THE MEADOWS IN SPRING”

FROM HONE’S YEAR BOOK

(See Letter 535, page 938)

’Tis a sad sight
To see the year dying;
When autumn’s last wind
Sets the yellow wood sighing;
Sighing, oh sighing!

When such a time cometh,
I do retire
Into an old room,
Beside a bright fire;
Oh! pile a bright fire!

And there I sit
Reading old things
Of knights and ladies,
While the wind sings: 
Oh! drearily sings!

I never look out,
Nor attend to the blast;
For, all to be seen,
Is the leaves falling fast: 
Falling, falling!

But, close at the hearth,
Like a cricket, sit I;
Reading of summer
And chivalry: 
Gallant chivalry!

Then, with an old friend,
I talk of our youth;
How ’twas gladsome, but often
Foolish, forsooth,
But gladsome, gladsome.

Or, to get merry,
We sing an old rhyme
That made the wood ring again
In summer time: 
Sweet summer time!

Then take we to smoking,
Silent and snug: 
Naught passes between us,
Save a brown jug;
Sometimes! sometimes!

And sometimes a tear
Will rise in each eye,
Seeing the two old friends,
So merrily;
So merrily!