THE POETICAL WORKS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, VOL. 8 (Completed)

WRITTEN AFTER THE DEATH OF CHARLES LAMB

[Light will be thrown upon the tragic circumstance alluded to in this poem when, after the death of Charles Lamb's Sister, his biographer,Mr. Sergeant Talfourd, shall be at liberty to relate particulars which could not, at the time his Memoir was written, be given to the public. Mary Lamb was ten years older than her brother, and has survived him as long a time. Were I to give way to my own feelings, I should dwell not only on her genius and intellectual powers, but upon the delicacy and refinement of manner which she maintained inviolable under most trying circumstances. She was loved and honoured by all her brother's friends; and others, some of them strange characters, whom his philanthropic peculiarities induced him to countenance. The death of C. Lamb himself was doubtless hastened by his sorrow for that of Coleridge, to whom he had been attached from the time of their being school-fellows at Christ's Hospital. Lamb was a good Latin scholar, and probably would have gone to college upon one of the school foundations but for the impediment in his speech. Had such been his lot, he would most likely have been preserved from the indulgences of social humours and fancies which were often injurious to himself, and causes of severe regret to his friends, without really benefiting the object of his misapplied kindness.--I.F.]

In the edition of 1837, these lines had no title. They were printed privately,--before their first appearance in that edition,--as a small pamphlet of seven pages without title or heading. A copy will be found in the fifth volume of the collection of pamphlets, forming part of the library bequeathed by the late Mr. John Forster to the South Kensington Museum. There are several readings to be found only in this privately-printed edition. The poem was placed among the "Epitaphs and Elegiac Pieces."--ED.

Composed November 19, 1835.--Published 1837

To a good Man of most dear memory[22]

This Stone is sacred.[23] Here he lies apart

From the great city where he first drew breath,

Was reared and taught; and humbly earned his bread,

To the strict labours of the merchant's desk

By duty chained. Not seldom did those tasks

Tease, and the thought of time so spent depress,

His spirit, but the recompense was high;

Firm Independence, Bounty's rightful sire;

Affections, warm as sunshine, free as air;

And when the precious hours of leisure came,

Knowledge and wisdom, gained from converse sweet

With books, or while he ranged the crowded streets

With a keen eye, and overflowing heart:

So genius triumphed over seeming wrong,

And poured out truth in works by thoughtful love

Inspired--works potent over smiles and tears.

And as round mountain-tops the lightning plays,

Thus innocently sported, breaking forth

As from a cloud of some grave sympathy,

Humour and wild instinctive wit, and all

The vivid flashes of his spoken words.

From the most gentle creature nursed in fields[24]

Had been derived the name he bore--a name,