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　　TO T.L.H.

　　A Child

　　(1814)

　　Model of thy parent dear,

　　Serious infant worth a fear:

　　In thy unfaultering visage well

　　Picturing forth the son of TELL,

　　When on his forehead, firm and good,

　　Motionless mark, the apple stood;

　　Guileless traitor, rebel mild,

　　Convict unconscious, culprit-child!

　　Gates that close with iron roar

　　Have been to thee thy nursery door;

　　Chains that chink in cheerless cells

　　Have been thy rattles and thy bells;

　　Walls contrived for giant sin

　　Have hemmed thy faultless weakness in;

　　Near thy sinless bed black Guilt

　　Her discordant house hath built,

　　And filled it with her monstrous brood—

　　Sights, by thee not understood—

　　Sights of fear, and of distress,

　　That pass a harmless infant's guess!

　　But the clouds, that overcast

　　Thy young morning, may not last.

　　Soon shall arrive the rescuing hour,

　　That yields thee up to Nature's power.

　　Nature, that so late doth greet thee,

　　Shall in o'er-flowing measure meet thee.

　　She shall recompense with cost

　　For every lesson thou hast lost.

　　Then wandering up thy sire's lov'd hill 注释标题 Hampstead. ,

　　Thou shall take thy airy fill

　　Of health and pastime. Birds shall sing

　　For thy delight each May morning.

　　'Mid new-yean'd lambkins thou shalt play,

　　Hardly less a lamb than they.

　　Then thy prison's lengthened bound

　　Shall be the horizon skirting round.

　　And, while thou fillest thy lap with flowers,

　　To make amends for wintery hours,

　　The breeze, the sunshine, and the place,

　　Shall from thy tender brow efface

　　Each vestige of untimely care,

　　That sour restraint had graven there;

　　And on thy every look impress

　　A more excelling childishness.

　　So shall be thy days beguil'd,

　　THORNTON HUNT, my favourite child.

　　_Here came "Ballad from the German." See page 29.

　　Here came "David in the Cave of Aditllam" by Mary

　　Lamb, from "Poetry for Children." See vol. iii. page 486._

　　SALOME

　　(By Mary Lamb. Probably 1808 or 1809)

　　Once on a charger there was laid,

　　And brought before a royal maid,

　　As price of attitude and grace,

　　A guiltless head, a holy face.

　　It was on Herod's natal day,

　　Who, o'er Judea's land held sway.

　　He married his own brother's wife,

　　Wicked Herodias. She the life

　　Of John the Baptist long had sought,

　　Because he openly had taught

　　That she a life unlawful led,

　　Having her husband's brother wed.

　　This was he, that saintly John,

　　Who in the wilderness alone

　　Abiding, did for clothing wear

　　A garment made of camel's hair;

　　Honey and locusts were his food,

　　And he was most severely good.

　　He preached penitence and tears,

　　And waking first the sinner's fears,

　　Prepared a path, made smooth a way,

　　For his diviner master's day.

　　Herod kept in princely state

　　His birth-day. On his throne he sate,

　　After the feast, beholding her

　　Who danced with grace peculiar;

　　Fair Salome, who did excel

　　All in that land for dancing well.

　　The feastful monarch's heart was fired,

　　And whatsoe'er thing she desired.

　　Though half his kingdom it should be,

　　He in his pleasure swore that he

　　Would give the graceful Salome.

　　The damsel was Herodias' daughter:

　　She to the queen hastes, and besought her

　　To teach her what great gift to name.

　　Instructed by Herodias, came

　　The damsel back; to Herod said,

　　"Give me John the Baptist's head;

　　And in a charger let it be

　　Hither straitway brought to me."

　　Herod her suit would fain deny,

　　But for his oath's sake must comply.

　　When painters would by art express

　　Beauty in unloveliness,

　　Thee, Herodias' daughter, thee,

　　They fittest subject take to be.

　　They give thy form and features grace;

　　But ever in thy beauteous face

　　They shew a steadfast cruel gaze,

　　An eye unpitying; and amaze

　　In all beholders deep they mark,

　　That thou betrayest not one spark

　　Of feeling for the ruthless deed,

　　That did thy praiseful dance succeed

　　For on the head they make you look,

　　As if a sullen joy you took,

　　A cruel triumph, wicked pride,

　　That for your sport a saint had died. The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb — Volume 4