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　　TO R.[J.]S. KNOWLES, ESQ.

　　On his Tragedy of Virginius

　　(1820)

　　Twelve years ago I knew thee, Knowles, and then

　　Esteemed you a perfect specimen

　　Of those fine spirits warm-soul'd Ireland sends,

　　To teach us colder English how a friend's

　　Quick pulse should beat. I knew you brave, and plain,

　　Strong-sensed, rough-witted above fear or gain;

　　But nothing further had the gift to espy.

　　Sudden you re-appear. With wonder I

　　Hear my old friend (turn'd Shakspeare) read a scene

　　Only to his inferior in the clean

　　Passes of pathos: with such fence-like art—

　　Ere we can see the steel, 'tis in our heart.

　　Almost without the aid language affords,

　　Your piece seems wrought. That huffing medium, words,

　　(Which in the modern Tamburlaines quite sway

　　Our shamed souls from their bias) in your play

　　We scarce attend to. Hastier passion draws

　　Our tears on credit: and we find the cause

　　Some two hours after, spelling o'er again

　　Those strange few words at ease, that wrought the pain.

　　Proceed, old friend; and, as the year returns,

　　Still snatch some new old story from the urns

　　Of long-dead virtue. We, that knew before

　　Your worth, may admire, we cannot love you more. The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb — Volume 4