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　　APPENDIX

　　CONSISTING OF THE LONGER PASSAGES FROM BOOKS REFERRED TO BY LAMB IN HIS LETTERS

　　COLERIDGE'S "ODE ON THE DEPARTING YEAR"

　　TEXT OF THE QUARTO, 1796

　　(See Letter 19, page 75)

　　STROPHE I

　　Spirit, who sweepest the wild Harp of Time,

　　It is most hard with an untroubled Ear

　　Thy dark inwoven Harmonies to hear!

　　Yet, mine eye fixt on Heaven's unchanged clime,

　　Long had I listen'd, free from mortal fear,

　　With inward stillness and a bowed mind:

　　When lo! far onwards waving on the wind

　　I saw the skirts of the DEPARTING YEAR!

　　Starting from my silent sadness

　　Then with no unholy madness,

　　Ere yet the entered cloud forbade my sight,

　　I rais'd th' impetuous song, and solemnized his flight.

　　STROPHE II

　　Hither from the recent Tomb;

　　From the Prison's direr gloom;

　　From Poverty's heart-wasting languish:

　　From Distemper's midnight anguish;

　　Or where his two bright torches blending

　　Love illumines Manhood's maze;

　　Or where o'er cradled Infants bending

　　Hope has fix'd her wishful gaze:

　　Hither, in perplexed dance,

　　Ye WOES, and young-eyed JOYS, advance!

　　By Time's wild harp, and by the Hand

　　Whose indefatigable Sweep

　　Forbids its fateful strings to sleep,

　　I bid you haste, a mixt tumultuous band!

　　From every private bower,

　　And each domestic hearth,

　　Haste for one solemn hour;

　　And with a loud and yet a louder voice

　　O'er the sore travail of the common earth

　　Weep and rejoice!

　　Seiz'd in sore travail and portentous birth

　　(Her eye-balls flashing a pernicious glare)

　　Sick NATURE struggles! Hark—her pangs increase!

　　Her groans are horrible! But O! most fair

　　The promis'd Twins, she bears—EQUALITY and PEACE!

　　EPODE

　　I mark'd Ambition in his war-array:

　　I heard the mailed Monarch's troublous cry—

　　"Ah! whither [wherefore] does the Northern Conqueress stay?

　　Groans not her Chariot o'er its onward way?"

　　Fly, mailed Monarch, fly!

　　Stunn'd by Death's "twice mortal" mace

　　No more on MURDER'S lurid face

　　Th' insatiate Hag shall glote with drunken eye!

　　Manes of th' unnumbered Slain!

　　Ye that gasp'd on WARSAW'S plain!

　　Ye that erst at ISMAIL'S tower,

　　When human Ruin chok'd the streams,

　　Fell in Conquest's glutted hour

　　Mid Women's shrieks, and Infants' screams;

　　Whose shrieks, whose screams were vain to stir

　　Loud-laughing, red-eyed Massacre!

　　Spirits of th' uncoffin'd Slain,

　　Sudden blasts of Triumph swelling

　　Oft at night, in misty train

　　Rush around her narrow Dwelling!

　　Th' exterminating Fiend is fled—

　　(Foul her Life and dark her Doom!)

　　Mighty Army of the Dead,

　　Dance, like Death-fires, round her Tomb!

　　Then with prophetic song relate

　　Each some scepter'd Murderer's fate!

　　When shall scepter'd SLAUGHTER cease?

　　Awhile He crouch'd, O Victor France!

　　Beneath the light'ning of thy Lance,

　　With treacherous dalliance wooing PEACE.

　　But soon up-springing from his dastard trance

　　The boastful, bloody Son of Pride betray'd

　　His hatred of the blest and blessing Maid.

　　One cloud, O Freedom! cross'd thy orb of Light

　　And sure, he deem'd, that Orb was quench'd in night:

　　For still does MADNESS roam on GUILT'S bleak dizzy height!

　　ANTISTROPHE I

　　DEPARTING YEAR! 'twas on no earthly shore

　　My Soul beheld thy Vision. Where, alone,

　　Voiceless and stern, before the Cloudy Throne

　　Aye MEMORY sits; there, garmented with gore,

　　With many an unimaginable groan

　　Thou storiedst thy sad Hours! Silence ensued:

　　Deep Silence o'er th' etherial Multitude,

　　Whose purple Locks with snow-white Glories shone.

　　Then, his eye wild ardors glancing,

　　From the choired Gods advancing,

　　the SPIRIT of the EARTH made reverence meet

　　And stood up beautiful before the Cloudy Seat!

　　ANTISTROPHE II

　　On every Harp, on every Tongue

　　While the mute Enchantment hung;

　　Like Midnight from a thundercloud,

　　Spake the sudden SPIRIT loud—

　　"Thou in stormy blackness throning

　　"Love and uncreated Light,

　　"By the Earth's unsolac'd groaning

　　"Seize thy terrors, Arm of Might!

　　"By Belgium's corse-impeded flood!

　　"By Vendee steaming Brother's blood!

　　"By PEACE with proffer'd insult scar'd,

　　"Masked hate, and envying scorn!

　　"By Tears of Havoc yet unborn;

　　"And Hunger's bosom to the frost-winds bar'd!

　　"But chief by Afric's wrongs

　　"Strange, horrible, and foul!

　　"By what deep Guilt belongs

　　"To the deaf Synod, 'full of gifts and lies!'

　　"By Wealth's insensate Laugh! By Torture's Howl!

　　"Avenger, rise!

　　"For ever shall the bloody Island scowl?

　　"For aye unbroken, shall her cruel Bow

　　"Shoot Famine's arrows o'er thy ravag'd World?

　　"Hark! how wide NATURE joins her groans below—

　　"Rise, God of Nature, rise! Why sleep thy Bolts unhurl'd?"

　　EPODE II

　　The Voice had ceas'd, the Phantoms fled,

　　Yet still I gasp'd and reel'd with dread.

　　And even when the dream of night

　　Renews the vision to my sight,

　　Cold sweat-damps gather on my limbs,

　　My Ears throb hot, my eye-balls start,

　　My Brain with horrid tumult swims,

　　Wild is the Tempest of my Heart;

　　And my thick and struggling breath

　　Imitates the toil of Death!

　　No uglier agony confounds

　　The Soldier on the war-field spread,

　　When all foredone with toil and wounds

　　Death-like he dozes among heaps of Dead!

　　(The strife is o'er, the day-light fled,

　　And the Night-wind clamours hoarse;

　　See! the startful Wretch's head

　　Lies pillow'd on a Brother's Corse!)

　　O doom'd to fall, enslav'd and vile,

　　O ALBION! O my mother Isle!

　　Thy valleys, fair as Eden's bowers,

　　Glitter green with sunny showers;

　　Thy grassy Upland's gentle Swells

　　Echo to the Bleat of Flocks;

　　(Those grassy Hills, those glitt'ring Dells

　　Proudly ramparted with rocks)

　　And Ocean 'mid his uproar wild

　　Speaks safely to his Island-child.

　　Hence for many a fearless age

　　Has social Quiet lov'd thy shore;

　　Nor ever sworded Foeman's rage

　　Or sack'd thy towers, or stain'd thy fields with gore.

　　Disclaim'd of Heaven! mad Av'rice at thy side,

　　At coward distance, yet with kindling pride—

　　Safe 'mid thy herds and corn-fields thou hast stood,

　　And join'd the yell of Famine and of Blood.

　　All nations curse thee: and with eager wond'ring

　　Shall hear DESTRUCTION like a vulture, scream!

　　Strange-eyed DESTRUCTION, who with many a dream

　　Of central flames thro' nether seas upthund'ring

　　Soothes her fierce solitude, yet (as she lies

　　Stretch'd on the marge of some fire-flashing fount

　　In the black chamber of a sulphur'd mount,)

　　If ever to her lidless dragon eyes,

　　O ALBION! thy predestin'd ruins rise,

　　The Fiend-hag on her perilous couch doth leap,

　　Mutt'ring distemper'd triumph in her charmed sleep.

　　Away, my soul, away!

　　In vain, in vain, the birds of warning sing—

　　And hark! I hear the famin'd brood of prey

　　Flap their lank pennons on the groaning wind!

　　Away, my Soul, away!

　　I unpartaking of the evil thing,

　　With daily prayer, and daily toil

　　Soliciting my scant and blameless soil,

　　Have wail'd my country with a loud lament.

　　Now I recenter my immortal mind

　　In the long sabbath of high self-content;

　　Cleans'd from the fleshly Passions that bedim

　　God's Image, Sister of the Seraphim.

　　WITHER'S "SUPERSEDEAS TO ALL THEM, WHOSE CUSTOME IT IS, WITHOUT ANY DESERVING, TO IMPORTUNE AUTHORS TO GIVE UNTO THEM THEIR BOOKES"

　　FROM A COLLECTION OP EMBLEMS, 1635

　　(See Letter 35, page 123)

　　It merits not your Anger, nor my Blame,

　　That, thus I have inscrib'd this Epigram:

　　For, they who know me, know, that, Bookes thus large,

　　And, fraught with Emblems, do augment the Charge

　　Too much above my Fortunes, to afford

　　A Gift so costly, for an Aierie-word:

　　And, I have prov'd, your Begging-Qualitie,

　　So forward, to oppresse my Modestie;

　　That, for my future ease, it seemeth fit,

　　To take some Order, for preventing it.

　　And, peradventure, other Authors may,

　　Find Cause to thanke me for't, another day.

　　These many years, it hath your Custom bin,

　　That, when in my possession, you have seene

　　A Volume, of mine owne, you did no more,

　　But, Aske and Take; As if you thought my store

　　Encreast, without my Cost; And, that, by Giving,

　　(Both Paines and Charges too) I got my living;

　　Or, that, I find the Paper and the Printing,

　　As easie to me, as the Bookes Inventing.

　　If, of my Studies, no esteeme you have,

　　You, then abuse the Courtesies you crave;

　　And, are Unthankfull. If you prize them ought,

　　Why should my Labour, not enough be thought,

　　Unlesse, I adde Expences to my paines?

　　The Stationer, affoords for little Gaines,

　　The Bookes you crave: And, He, as well as I

　　Might give away, what you repine to buy:

　　For, what hee Gives, doth onely Mony Cost,

　　In mine, both Mony, Time, and Wit is lost.

　　What I shall Give, and what I have bestow'd

　　On Friends, to whom, I Love, or Service ow'd,

　　I grudge not; And, I thinke it is from them,

　　Sufficient, that such Gifts they do esteeme:

　　Yea, and, it is a Favour too, when they

　　Will take these Trifles, my large Dues to pay;

　　(Or, Aske them at my hands, when I forget,

　　That, I am to their Love, so much in debt.)

　　But, this inferres not, that, I should bestow

　　The like on all men, who my Name do know;

　　Or, have the Face to aske: For, then, I might,

　　Of Wit and Mony, soone be begger'd, quite.

　　So much, already, hath beene Beg'd away,

　　(For which, I neither had, nor looke for pay)

　　As being valu'd at the common Rate,

　　Had rais'd, Five hundred Crownes, in my Estate.

　　Which, (if I may confesse it) signifies,

　　That, I was farre more Liberall, than Wise.

　　But, for the time to come, resolv'd I am,

　　That, till without denyall (or just blame)

　　I may of those, who Cloth and Clothes do make,

　　(As oft as I shall need them) Aske, and Take;

　　You shall no more befoole me. Therfore, Pray

　　Be Answer'd; And, henceforward, keepe away.

　　PASSAGE FROM GEORGE DYER'S "POETIC SYMPATHIES"

　　FROM POEMS, 1800

　　(See Letter 83, page 218)

　　Yet, Muse of Shakspeare【1】, whither wouldst thou fly,

　　【1】It is not meant to say, that even Shakspeare followed invariably a correct and chastized taste, or that he never purchased public applause by offering incense at the shrine of public taste. Voltaire, in his Essays on Dramatic Poetry, has carried the matter too far; but in many respects his reflections are unquestionably just. In delineating human characters and passions, and in the display of the sublimer excellencies of poetry, Shakspeare was unrivalled. There he our fancy of itself bereaving, Did make us marble with too much conceiving. MILTON'S SONNET TO SHAKSPEARE.

　　With hurried step, and dove-like trembling eye?

　　Thou, as from heav'n, that couldst each grace dispense,

　　Fancy's rich stream, and all the stores of sense;

　　Give to each virtue face and form divine,

　　Make dulness feel, and vulgar souls refine,

　　Wake all the passions into restless life,

　　Now calm to softness, and now rouze to strife?

　　Sick of misjudging, that no sense can hit,

　　Scar'd by the jargon of unmeaning wit,

　　The senseless splendour of the tawdry stage 注释标题 Pomp and splendour a poor substitute for genius. ,

　　The loud long plaudits of a trifling age,

　　Where dost thou wander? Exil'd in disgrace,

　　Find'st thou in foreign realms some happier place【2】?

　　【2】The dramatic muse seems of late years to have taken her residence in Germany. Schiller, Kotzebue, and Goethé, possess great merit both for passion and sentiment, and the English nation have done them justice. One or two principles which the French and English critics had too implicitly followed from Aristotle, are indeed not adopted, but have been, I hope, successfully, counteracted by these writers; yet are these dramatists characterised by a wildness bordering on extravagance, attendant on a state of half-civilization. Schiller and Kotzebue, amid some faults, possess great excellencies.

　　With respect to England, it has long been noticed by very intelligent observers, that the dramatic taste of the present age is vitiated. Pope, who directed very powerful satire against the stage in his time, makes Dulness say in general terms,

　　Contending theatres our empire raise,

　　Alike their censure, and alike their praise.

　　It would be the highest arrogance in me to make such an assertion, with my slender knowledge in these matters; ready too, as I am, to admire some excellent pieces that have fallen in my way; and to affirm, that there is by no means a deficiency of poetic talent in England.

　　Aristotle observes, that all the parts of the Epic poet are to be found in tragedy, and, consequently, that this species of writing is, of all others, most interesting to men of talents. [Greek: Peri ooiaetikaes] And baron Kotzebue thinks the theatre the best school of instruction, both in morals and taste, even for children; and that better effects are produced by a play, than by a sermon. See his life, written by himself, just translated by Anne Plumptre.

　　How much then is it to be wished, that so admirable a mean of amusement and instruction might be advanced to its true point of excellence! But the principles laid down by Bishop HURD, though calculated to advance the love of splendour, will not, I suspect, advance the TRUE PROVINCE OF THE DRAMA.

　　Or dost thou still though banish'd from the town,

　　In Britain love to linger, though unknown?

　　Light Hymen's torch through ev'ry blooming grove, 注释标题 Loves of the Plants, by Dr. Darwin.

　　And tinge each flow'ret with the blush of love?

　　Sing winter, summer-sweets, the vernal air,

　　Or the soft Sofa, to delight the fair 注释标题 The Task, by Cowper; written at the request of a lady. The introductory poem is entitled, The Sofa. ?

　　Laugh, e'en at kings, and mock each prudish rule,

　　The merry motley priest of ridicule 注释标题 Dr. Walcot [Wolcot: Peter Pindar], whose poetry is of a farcical and humorous character. ?

　　With modest pencil paint the vernal scene,

　　The rustic lovers, and the village green?

　　Bid Mem'ry, magic child, resume his toy,

　　And Hope's fond vot'ry seize the distant joy 注释标题 The Pleasures of Memory, by Rogers; and the Pleasures of Hope, by Campbell. ?

　　Or dost thou soar, in youthful ardour strong,

　　And bid some female hero live in song 注释标题 Joan of Arc, by Southey;—a volume of poems with an introductory sonnet to Mary Wolstonecraft, and a poem, on the praise of woman, breathes the same spirit. ?

　　Teach fancy how through nature's walks to stray,

　　And wake, to simpler theme, the lyric lay 注释标题 Alludes to the character of a volume of poems, entitled Lyrical Ballads. Under this head also should be mentioned Smythe's English Lyrics. ?

　　Or steal from beauty's lip th' ambrosial kiss,

　　Paint the domestic grief, or social bliss 注释标题 Characteristic of a volume of poems, the joint production of Coleridge, Lloyd, and Lamb. ?

　　With patient step now tread o'er rock and hill,

　　Gaze on rough ocean, track the babbling rill 注释标题 Descriptive Poems, such as Leusden hill, by Thomas Crowe; and the Malvern hills, by Joseph Cottle. ,

　　Then rapt in thought, with strong poetic eye,

　　Read the great movement of the mighty sky?

　　Or wilt thou spread the light of Leo's age,

　　And smooth, as woman's guide, Tansillo's page 注释标题 Roscoe's Reign of Leo de Medici is interspersed with poetry. Roscoe has also translated, THE NURSE, a poem, from the Italian of Luigi Tansillo. ?

　　Till pleas'd, you make in fair translated song,

　　Odin descend, and rouse the fairy throng 注释标题 Icelandic poetry, or the Edda of Sæmund, translated by Amos Cottle; and the Oberon of Wieland, by Sotheby. ?

　　Recall, employment sweet, thy youthful day,

　　Then wake, at Mithra's call, the mystic lay 注释标题 Thomas Maurice, the author of the Indian Antiquities, is republishing his poems; the Song to Mithra is in the third volume of Indian Antiquities. ?

　　Unfold the Paradise of ancient lore 注释标题 The Paradise of Taste, and Pictures of Poetry, by Alexander Thomson. ,

　　Or mark the shipwreck from the sounding shore?

　　Now love to linger in the daisied vale,

　　Then rise sublime in legendary tale 注释标题 There is a tale of this character by Dr. Aikin, and the Hermit of Warkworth, by Bishop Percy. It will please the friends of taste to hear, that Cartwright's Armine and Elvira, which has been long out of print, is now republishing. ?

　　Or, faithful still to nature's sober joy,

　　Smile on the labours of some Farmer's Boy 注释标题 The Farmer's Boy, a poem just published, on THE SEASONS, by Robert Bloomfield. ?

　　Or e'en regardless of the poet's praise,

　　Deck the fair magazine with blooming lays 注释标题 Many of the anonymous poetical pieces thrown into magazines, possess poetical merit. Those of a young lady in the Monthly Magazine, will, I hope, in time be more generally known. Those of Rushton, of Liverpool, will also, I hope, be published by some judicious friend:—this worthy man is a bookseller, who has been afflicted with blindness from his youth. ?

　　Oh! sweetest muse, oh, haste thy wish'd return,

　　See genius droop, and bright-ey'd fancy mourn,

　　Recall to nature's charms an English stage,

　　The guard and glory of a nobler age.

　　HAYDON'S PARTY FROM THE LIFE OF BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON, BY TOM TAYLOR

　　(See Letter 241, page 537)

　　On December 28th the immortal dinner came off in my painting-room, with Jerusalem towering up behind us as a background. Wordsworth was in fine cue, and we had a glorious set-to,—on Homer, Shakespeare, Milton and Virgil. Lamb got exceedingly merry and exquisitely witty; and his fun in the midst of Wordsworth's solemn intonations of oratory was like the sarcasm and wit of the fool in the intervals of Lear's passion. He made a speech and voted me absent, and made them drink my health. "Now," said Lamb, "you old lake poet, you rascally poet, why do you call Voltaire dull?" We all defended Wordsworth, and affirmed there was a state of mind when Voltaire would be dull. "Well," said Lamb, "here's Voltaire—the Messiah of the French nation, and a very proper one too."

　　He then, in a strain of humour beyond description, abused me for putting Newton's head into my picture,—"a fellow," said he, "who believed nothing unless it was as clear as the three sides of a triangle." And then he and Keats agreed he had destroyed all the poetry of the rainbow by reducing it to the prismatic colours. It was impossible to resist him, and we all drank "Newton's health, and confusion to mathematics." It was delightful to see the good-humour of Wordsworth in giving in to all our frolics without affectation and laughing as heartily as the best of us.

　　By this time other friends joined, amongst them poor Ritchie who was going to penetrate by Fezzan to Timbuctoo. I introduced him to all as "a gentleman going to Africa." Lamb seemed to take no notice; but all of a sudden he roared out, "Which is the gentleman we are going to lose?" We than drank the victim's health, in which Ritchie joined.

　　In the morning of this delightful day, a gentleman, a perfect stranger, had called on me. He said he knew my friends, had an enthusiasm for Wordsworth and begged I would procure him the happiness of an introduction. He told me he was a comptroller of stamps, and often had correspondence with the poet. I thought it a liberty; but still, as he seemed a gentleman, I told him he might come.

　　When we retired to tea we found the comptroller. In introducing him to Wordsworth I forgot to say who he was. After a little time the comptroller looked down, looked up and said to Wordsworth, "Don't you think, sir, Milton was a great genius?" Keats looked at me, Wordsworth looked at the comptroller. Lamb who was dozing by the fire turned round and said, "Pray, sir, did you say Milton was a great genius?" "No, sir; I asked Mr. Wordsworth if he were not." "Oh," said Lamb, "then you are a silly fellow." "Charles! my dear Charles!" said Wordsworth; but Lamb, perfectly innocent of the confusion he had created, was off again by the fire.

　　After an awful pause the comptroller said, "Don't you think Newton a great genius?" I could not stand it any longer. Keats put his head into my books. Ritchie squeezed in a laugh. Wordsworth seemed asking himself, "Who is this?" Lamb got up, and taking a candle, said, "Sir, will you allow me to look at your phrenological development?" He then turned his back on the poor man, and at every question of the comptroller he chaunted—

　　"Diddle diddle dumpling, my son John

　　Went to bed with his breeches on."

　　The man in office, finding Wordsworth did not know who he was, said in a spasmodic and half-chuckling anticipation of assured victory, "I have had the honour of some correspondence with you, Mr. Wordsworth." "With me, sir?" said Wordsworth, "not that I remember." "Don't you, sir? I am a comptroller of stamps." There was a dead silence;—the comptroller evidently thinking that was enough. While we were waiting for Wordsworth's reply, Lamb sung out

　　"Hey diddle diddle,

　　The cat and the fiddle."

　　"My dear Charles!" said Wordsworth,—

　　"Diddle diddle dumpling, my son John,"

　　chaunted Lamb, and then rising, exclaimed, "Do let me have another look at that gentleman's organs." Keats and I hurried Lamb into the painting-room, shut the door and gave way to inextinguishable laughter. Monkhouse followed and tried to get Lamb away. We went back, but the comptroller was irreconcilable. We soothed and smiled and asked him to supper. He stayed though his dignity was sorely affected. However, being a good-natured man, we parted all in good-humour, and no ill effects followed.

　　All the while, until Monkhouse succeeded, we could hear Lamb struggling in the painting-room and calling at intervals, "Who is that fellow? Allow me to see his organs once more."

　　It was indeed an immortal evening. Wordsworth's fine intonation as he "ed Milton and Virgil, Keats' eager inspired look, Lamb's quaint sparkle of lambent humour, so speeded the stream of conversation, that in my life I never passed a more delightful time. All our fun was within bounds. Not a word passed that an 'tle might not have listened to. It was a night worthy of the Elizabethan age, and my solemn Jerusalem flashing up by the flame of the fire, with Christ hanging over us like a vision, all made up a picture which will long glow upon—

　　"that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude."

　　Keats made Ritchie promise he would carry his Endymion to the great desert of Sahara and fling it in the midst.

　　Poor Ritchie went to Africa, and died, as Lamb foresaw, in 1819. Keats died in 1821, at Rome. C. Lamb is gone, joking to the last. Monkhouse is dead, and Wordsworth and I are the only two now living (1841) of that glorious party. The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb — Volume 5