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　　HELEN

　　By Mary Lamb

　　(Summer, 1800. Text of 1818)

　　High-born Helen, round your dwelling

　　These twenty years I've paced in vain:

　　Haughty beauty, thy lover's duty

　　Hath been to glory in his pain.

　　High-born Helen, plainly telling

　　Stories of thy cold disdain;

　　I starve, I die, now you comply,

　　And I no longer can complain.

　　These twenty years I've lived on tears.

　　Dwelling for ever on a frown;

　　On sighs I've fed, your scorn my bread;

　　I perish now you kind are grown.

　　Can I, who loved my beloved

　　But for the scorn "was in her eye,"

　　Can I be moved for my beloved,

　　When she "returns me sigh for sigh?"

　　In stately pride, by my bed-side,

　　High-born Helen's portrait's hung;

　　Deaf to my praise, my mournful lays

　　Are nightly to the portrait sung.

　　To that I weep, nor ever sleep,

　　Complaining all night long to her—

　　Helen, grown old, no longer cold,

　　Said, "you to all men I prefer." The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb — Volume 4