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There is perhaps too much of terrible and gloomy painting, yet it enchains the attention of the reader, and impresses the imagination with something like dramatic force. Mr Atherstone's second subject is of the same elevated cast: the downfall of an Asiatic empire afforded ample room for his love of strong and magnificent description, and he has availed himself of this license so fully, as to border in many passages on extravagance and bombast. His battle scenes, his banquets, flowering groves, and other descriptions of art and nature, are all executed with oriental splendour and voluptuousness-often with dazzling vividness and beauty and true poetical feeling. The failure of the author to sustain the interest of the reader is owing, as a contemporary critic pointed out, to the very palpable excess in which he employs all those elements of pleasing, and to the disproportion which those ornaments of the scene bear to its actual business-to the slowness with which the story moves forward, and the difficulty we have in catching a distinct view of the characters that are presented to us, through the glare of imagery and eloquence with which they are surrounded.' This is the fault of genius-especially young genius-and if Mr Atherstone could subdue his oriental imagination and gorgeousness of style, and undertake a theme of more ordinary life, and of simple natural passion and description, he might give himself a name of some importance in the literature of his age.

The following passages, descriptive of the splendour of Sardanapalus's state, have been cited as happy specimens of Mr Atherstone's style :


The moon is clear-the stars are coming forthThe evening breeze fans pleasantly. Retired Within his gorgeous hall, Assyria's king Sits at the banquet, and in love and wine Revels delighted. On the gilded roof A thousand golden lamps their lustre fling, And on the marble walls, and on the throne Gem-bossed, that high on jasper-steps upraised, Like to one solid diamond quivering stands, Sun-splendours flashing round. In woman's garb The sensual king is clad, and with him sit A crowd of beauteous concubines. They sing, And roll the wanton eye, and laugh, and sigh, And feed his ear with honeyed flatteries, And laud him as a god.

Like a mountain stream, Amid the silence of the dewy eve Heard by the lonely traveller through the vale, With dream-like murmuring melodious, In diamond showers a crystal fountain falls. Sylph-like girls, and blooming boys, Flower-crowned, and in apparel bright as spring, Attend upon their bidding. At the sign, From bands unseen, voluptuous music breathes, Harp, dulcimer, and, sweetest far of all, Woman's mellifluous voice.


Through all the city sounds the voice of joy And tipsy merriment. On the spacious walls, That, like huge sea-cliffs, gird the city in, Myriads of wanton feet go to and fro: Gay garments rustle in the scented breeze, Crimson, and azure, purple, green, and gold; Laugh, jest, and passing whisper are heard there; Timbrel, and lute, and dulcimer, and song; And many feet that tread the dance are seen, And arms upflung, and swaying heads plume-crowned. So is that city steeped in revelry.


Then went the king, Flushed with the wine, and in his pride of power Glorying; and with his own strong arm upraised From out its rest the Assyrian banner broad,


Purple and edged with gold; and, standing then
Upon the utmost summit of the mount-
Round, and yet round-for two strong men a task
Sufficient deemed—he waved the splendid flag,
Bright as a meteor streaming.
At that sight
The plain was in a stir: the helms of brass
Were lifted up, and glittering spear-points waved,
And banners shaken, and wide trumpet mouths
Upturned; and myriads of bright-harnessed steeds
Were seen uprearing, shaking their proud heads;
And brazen chariots in a moment sprang,
And clashed together. In a moment more
Up came the monstrous universal shout,
Like a volcano's burst. Up, up to heaven
The multitudinous tempest tore its way,
Rocking the clouds: from all the swarming plain
And from the city rose the mingled cry,
Long live Sardanapalus, king of kings!
May the king live for ever!' Thrice the flag
The monarch waved; and thrice the shouts arose
Enormous, that the solid walls were shook,
And the firm ground made tremble.
Amid the far-off hills,
With eye of fire, and shaggy mane upreared,
The sleeping lion in his den sprang up;
Listened awhile-then laid his monstrous mouth
Close to the floor, and breathed hot roarings out
In fierce reply.

He comes at length

The thickening thunder of the wheels is heard :
Upon their hinges roaring, open fly

The brazen gates: sounds then the tramp of hoofs-
And lo! the gorgeous pageant, like the sun,
Flares on their startled eyes. Four snow-white steeds,
In golden trappings, barbed all in gold,
Spring through the gate; the lofty chariot then,
Of ebony, with gold and gems thick strewn,
Even like the starry night. The spokes were gold,
With felloes of strong brass; the naves were brass,
With burnished gold o'erlaid, and diamond rimmed;
Steel were the axles, in bright silver case;
The pole was cased in silver: high aloft,
Like a rich throne the gorgeous seat was framed;
Of ivory part, part silver, and part gold:
On either side a golden statue stood:
Upon the right-and on a throne of gold-
Great Belus, of the Assyrian empire first,
And worshipped as a god; but, on the left,
In a resplendent car by lions drawn,
A goddess.


Behind the car, Full in the centre, on the ebon ground, Flamed forth a diamond sun; on either side, A horned moon of diamond; and beyond The planets, each one blazing diamond. Such was the chariot of the king of kings.

[The Bower of Nehushta.] 'Twas a spot Herself had chosen, from the palace walls Farthest removed, and by no sound disturbed, And by no eye o'erlooked; for in the midst Of loftiest trees, umbrageous, was it hidYet to the sunshine open, and the airs That from the deep shades all around it breathed, Cool and sweet-scented. Myrtles, jessamineRoses of varied hues-all climbing shrubs, Green-leaved and fragrant, had she planted there, And trees of slender body, fruit, and flower; At early morn had watered, and at eve, From a bright fountain nigh, that ceaselessly Gushed with a gentle coil from out the earth, Its liquid diamonds flinging to the sun

With a soft whisper. To a graceful arch
The pliant branches, intertwined, were bent;
Flowers some, and some rich fruits of gorgeous hues,
Down hanging lavishly, the taste to please,
Or, with rich scent, the smell-or that fine sense
Of beauty that in forms and colours rare
Doth take delight. With fragrant moss the floor
Was planted, to the foot a carpet rich,
Or, for the languid limbs, a downy couch,
Inviting slumber. At the noon-tide hour,
Here, with some chosen maidens would she come,
Stories of love to listen, or the deeds
Of heroes of old days: the harp, sometimes,
Herself would touch, and with her own sweet voice
Fill all the air with loveliness. But, chief,
When to his green-wave bed the wearied sun
Had parted, and heaven's glorious arch yet shone,
A last gleam catching from his closing eye-
The palace, with her maidens, quitting then,
Through vistas dim of tall trees would she pass-
Cedar, or waving pine, or giant palm-
Through orange groves, and citron, myrtle walks,
Alleys of roses, beds of sweetest flowers,
Their richest incense to the dewy breeze
Breathing profusely all-and having reached
The spot beloved, with sport, or dance awhile
On the small lawn to sound of dulcimer,
The pleasant time would pass; or to the lute
Give ear delighted, and the plaintive voice
That sang of hapless love: or, arm in arm,
Amid the twilight saunter, listing oft
The fountain's murmur, or the evening's sigh,
Or whisperings in the leaves-or, in his pride
Of minstrelsy, the sleepless nightingale
Flooding the air with beauty of sweet sounds:
And, ever as the silence came again,
The distant and unceasing hum could hear
Of that magnificent city, on all sides
Surrounding them.

In 1833 appeared two cantos of a descriptive poem, The Heliotrope, or Pilgrim in Pursuit of Health, being the record of a poetical wanderer in Liguria, Hetruria, Campania, and Calabria. The style and versification of Byron's Childe Harold are evidently copied by the author; but he has a native taste and elegance, and a purer system of philosophy than the noble poet. Many of the stanzas are musical and picturesque, presenting Claude-like landscapes of the glorious classic scenes through which the pilgrim passed. We subjoin the description of Pompeiithat interesting city of the dead :


Pompeia! disentombed Pompeia! Here
Before me in her pall of ashes spread-
Wrenched from the gulf of ages--she whose bier
Was the unbowelled mountain, lifts her head
Sad but not silent! Thrilling in my ear
She tells her tale of horror, till the dread
And sudden drama mustering through the air,
Seems to rehearse the day of her despair!

Joyful she feasted 'neath her olive tree,
Then rose to dance and play' and if a cloud
O'ershadowed her thronged circus, who could see
The impending deluge brooding in its shroud?
On went the games! mirth and festivity
Increased-prevailed: till rendingly and loud
The earth and sky with consentaneous roar
Denounced her doom-that time should be no more.

Shook to its centre, the convulsive soil
Closed round the flying: Sarno's tortured tide
O'erleapt its channel-eager for its spoil!
Thick darkness fell, and, wasting fast and wide,
Wrath opened her dread floodgates! Brief the toil
And terror of resistance: art supplied

No subterfuge! The pillared crypt, and cave That proffered shelter, proved a living grave!

Within the circus, tribunal, and shrine,
Shrieking they perished: there the usurer sank
Grasping his gold; the bacchant at his wine;
The gambler at his dice! age, grade, nor rank,
Nor all they loved, revered, or deemed divine,
Found help or rescue; unredeemed they drank
Their cup of horror to the dregs, and fell
With Heaven's avenging thunders for their knell.

Their city a vast sepulchre-their hearth
A charnel-house! The beautiful and brave,
Whose high achievements or whose charms gave birth
To songs and civic wreath, unheeded crave
A pause 'twixt life and death: no hand on earth,
No voice from heaven, replied to close the grave
Yawning around them. Still the burning shower
Rained down upon them with unslackening power.

'Tis an old tale! Yet gazing thus, it seems
But yesterday the circling wine-cup went
Its joyous round! Here still the pilgrim deems
New guests arrive-the reveller sits intent
At his carousal, quaffing to the themes
Of Thracian Orpheus: lo, the cups indent
The conscious marble, and the amphoræ still
Seem redolent of old Falerno's hill!

It seems but yesterday! Half sculptured there,
On the paved Forum wedged, the marble shaft
Waits but the workman to resume his care,
And reed it by the cunning of his craft.
The chips, struck from his chisel, fresh and fair,
Lie scattered round; the acanthus leaves ingraft
The half-wrought capital; and Isis' shrine
Retains untouched her implements divine.

The streets are hollowed by the rolling car
In sinuous furrows; there the lava stone
Retains, deep grooved, the frequent axle's scar.
Here oft the pageant passed, and triumph shone;
Here warriors bore the glittering spoils of war,
And met the full fair city, smiling on
With wreath and pean!-gay as those who drink
The draught of pleasure on destruction's brink.
The frescoed wall, the rich mosaic floor,
Elaborate, fresh, and garlanded with flowers
Writ with the name of their last tenant-towers
Of ancient fable:-crypt, and lintelled door
That still in strength aspire, as when they bore
Their Roman standard-from the whelming showers
That formed their grave-return, like spectres risen,
To solve the mysteries of their fearful prison!

The author of the Heliotrope' is DR W. BEATTIE, a London physician of worth, talent, and benevolence, who is also author of Scotland Illustrated, Switzerland Illustrated, Residence in the Court of Ger many, &c.


CHARLES LAMB, a poet, and a delightful essayist, of quaint peculiar humour and fancy, was born in London on the 18th February 1775. His father was in humble circumstances, servant and friend to one of the benchers of the Inner Temple; but Charles was presented to the school of Christ's hospital, and from his seventh to his fifteenth year he was an inmate of that ancient and munificent asylum. Lamb was a nervous, timid, and thoughtful boy: 'while others were all fire and play, he stole along with all the self-concentration of a monk.' He would have obtained an exhibition at school, admitting him

to college, but these exhibitions were given under
the implied if not expressed condition of entering
into the church, and Lamb had an impediment in
his speech, which in this case proved an insuperable
obstacle. In 1792 he obtained an appointment in
the accountant's office of the East India Company,
residing with his parents; and 'on their death,'
says Sergeant Talfourd, he felt himself called
upon by duty to repay to his sister the solicitude
with which she had watched over his infancy, and
well, indeed, he performed it. To her, from the age
of twenty-one, he devoted his existence, seeking
thenceforth no connexion which could interfere with
her supremacy in his affections, or impair his ability
to sustain and to comfort her.' The first composi-
tions of Lamb were in verse, prompted, probably,
by the poetry of his friend Coleridge. A warm ad-
miration of the Elizabethan dramatists led him to
imitate their style and manner in a tragedy named
John Woodvil, which was published in 1801, and
mercilessly ridiculed in the Edinburgh Review as a
specimen of the rudest state of the drama. There
is much that is exquisite both in sentiment and ex-
pression in Lamb's play, but the plot is certainly
meagre, and the style had then an appearance of
affectation. The following description of the sports
in the forest has a truly antique air, like a passage
in Heywood or Shirley:

thorough appreciation of the spirit of the old dramatists, and a fine critical taste in analysing their genius. Some of his poetical pieces were also composed about this time; but in these efforts Lamb barely indicated his powers, which were not fully displayed till the publication of his essays signed Elia, originally printed in the London Magazine. In these his curious reading, nice observation, and poetical conceptions, found a genial and befitting field. They are all,' says his biographer, Sergeant Talfourd, carefully elaborated; yet never were works written in a higher defiance to the conventional pomp of style. A sly hit, a happy pun, a humorous combination, lets the light into the intricacies of the subject, and supplies the place of ponderous sentences. Seeking his materials for the most part in the common paths of life-often in the humblest-he gives an importance to everything, and sheds a grace over all.' In 1825 Lamb was emancipated from the drudgery of his situation as clerk in the India House, retiring with a handsome pension, which enabled him to enjoy the comforts, and many of the luxuries of life. In a letter to Wordsworth, he thus describes his sensations after his release :-'I came home FOR EVER on Tuesday week. The incomprehensibleness of my condition overwhelmed me. It was like passing from life into eternity. Every year to be as long as three; that is, to have three times as much real timetime that is my own-in it! I wandered about thinking I was happy, but feeling I was not. But that tumultuousness is passing off, and I begin to understand the nature of the gift. Holidays, even the annual month, were always uneasy joys, with their conscious fugitiveness, the craving after making the most of them. Now, when all is holiday, there are no holidays. I can sit at home, in rain or shine, without a restless impulse for walkings. I am daily steadying, and shall soon find it as natural to me to be my own master, as it has been irksome to have had a master.' He removed to a cottage near Islington, and in the following summer, went with his faithful sister and companion on a long visit to Enfield, which ultimately led to his giving up his cottage, and becoming a constant resident at that place. There he lived for about five years, delighting his friends with his correspondence and occasional visits to London, displaying his social racy humour and active benevolence. In 1830 he committed to the press a small volume of poems, entitled Album Verses, the gleanings of several years, and he occasionally sent a contribution to some

In 1802 Lamb paid a visit to Coleridge at Keswick, and clambered up to the top of Skiddaw. Notwith-literary periodical. In September 1835, whilst standing his partiality for a London life, he was taking his daily walk on the London road, he deeply struck with the solitary grandeur and beauty stumbled against a stone, fell, and slightly injured of the lakes. Fleet Street and the Strand,' he says, his face. The accident appeared trifling, but erysiare better places to live in for good and all than pelas in the face came on, and in a few days proved amidst Skiddaw. Still, I turn back to those great fatal. He was buried in the churchyard at Edmonplaces where I wandered about participating in their ton, amidst the tears and regrets of a circle of warmly greatness. I could spend a year, two, three years attached friends, and his memory was consecrated among them, but I must have a prospect of seeing by a tribute from the muse of Wordsworth. A Fleet Street at the end of that time, or I should complete edition of Lamb's works has been published mope and pine away.' A second dramatic attempt by his friend Mr Moxon, and his reputation is still was made by Lamb in 1804. This was a farce en- on the increase. For this he is mainly indebted to titled Mr H., which was accepted by the proprietors his essays. We cannot class him among the favoured of Drury Lane theatre, and acted for one night; but sons of Apollo, though in heart and feeling he might 80 indifferently received, that it was never brought sit with the proudest. The peculiarities of his style forward afterwards. Lamb saw that the case was were doubtless grafted upon him by his constant hopeless, and consoled his friends with a century of study and life-long admiration of the old English puns for the wreck of his dramatic hopes.' In 1807 writers. Beaumont and Fletcher, Massinger, Jeremy he published a series of tales founded on the plays Taylor, Browne, Fuller, and others of the elder of Shakspeare, which he had written in conjunction worthies (down to Margaret, Duchess of Newcastle), with his sister, and in the following year appeared were his chosen companions. He knew all their his Specimens of English Dramatic Poets who lived fine sayings and noble thoughts; and, consulting about the time of Shakspeare, a work evincing a his own heart after his hard day's plodding at the

To see the sun to bed, and to arise,

Like some hot amourist with glowing eyes,
Bursting the lazy bonds of sleep that bound him,
With all his fires and travelling glories round him.
Sometimes the moon on soft night-clouds to rest,
Like beauty nestling in a young man's breast,
And all the winking stars, her handmaids, keep
Admiring silence while these lovers sleep.
Sometimes outstretched, in very idleness,
Nought doing, saying little, thinking less,
To view the leaves, thin dancers upon air,
Go eddying round; and small birds how they fare,
When mother Autumn fills their beaks with corn,
Filched from the careless Amalthea's horn;
And how the woods berries and worms provide,
Without their pains, when earth has nought beside
To answer their small wants.

To view the graceful deer come tripping by,


stop and gaze, then turn, they know not why, Like bashful younkers in society.

To mark the structure of a plant or tree,
And all fair things of earth, how fair they be.

India House, at his quiet fireside (ere his reputation was established, and he came to be over-companied' by social visitors), he invested his original thoughts and fancies, and drew up his curious analogies and speculations in a garb similar to that which his favourites wore. Then Lamb was essentially a town-man-a true Londoner-fond as Johnson of Fleet Street and the Strand-a frequenter

of the theatre, and attached to social habits, courtesies, and observances. His acute powers of observation were constantly called into play, and his warm sympathies excited by the shifting scenes around him. His kindliness of nature, his whims, puns, and prejudices, give a strong individuality to his writings; while in playful humour, critical taste, and choice expression, Charles Lamb may be considered among English essayists a genuine and original master.

To Hester.

When maidens such as Hester die, Their place ye may not well supply, Though ye among a thousand try, With vain endeavour.

A month or more she hath been dead,
Yet cannot I by force be led
To think upon the wormy bed,
And her together.

A springy motion in her gait,
A rising step, did indicate
Of pride and joy no common rate,
That flushed her spirit.

I know not by what name beside
I shall it call:-if 'twas not pride,
It was a joy to that allied,
She did inherit.

Her parents held the Quaker rule, Which doth the human feeling cool; But she was trained in Nature's school; Nature had blest her.

A waking eye, a prying mind,

A heart that stirs, is hard to bind,
A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind,
Ye could not Hester.

My sprightly neighbour! gone before To that unknown and silent shore, Shall we not meet, as heretofore, Some summer morning,

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
Hath struck a bliss upon the day,
A bliss that would not go away,
A sweet fore-warning?

The Old Familiar Faces.

I have had playmates, I have had companions,
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I loved a love once, fairest among women; Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man; Like an ingrate I left my friend abruptly; Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood; Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

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Thou through such a mist dost show us,
That our best friends do not know us,
And, for those allowed features,
Due to reasonable creatures,
Liken'st us to fell Chimeras,
Monsters that, who see us, fear us;
Worse than Cerberus or Geryon,
Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion.

Bacchus we know, and we allow
His tipsy rites. But what art thou,
That but by reflex canst show
What his deity can do,
As the false Egyptian spell
Aped the true Hebrew miracle?
Some few vapours thou mayst raise,
The weak brain may serve to amaze,
But to the reins and nobler heart,
Canst nor life nor heat impart.

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His true Indian conquest art;
And, for ivy round his dart,
The reformed god now weaves
A finer thyrsus of thy leaves.

Scent to match thy rich perfume
Chemic art did ne'er presume;
Through her quaint alembic strain,
None so sov'reign to the brain:
Nature, that did in thee excel,
Framed again no second smell.
Roses, violets, but toys
For the smaller sort of boys,
Or for greener damsels meant ;
Thou art the only manly scent.

Stinking'st of the stinking kind,
Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind,
Africa, that brags her foison,
Breeds no such prodigious poison;
Henbane, nightshade, both together,
Hemlock, aconite-

Nay, rather,
Plant divine, of rarest virtue;
Blisters on the tongue would hurt you.
'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee;
None e'er prospered who defamed thee;
Irony all, and feigned abuse,
Such as perplexed lovers use
At a need, when, in despair
To paint forth their fairest fair,
Or in part but to express
That exceeding comeliness
Which their fancies doth so strike,
They borrow language of dislike;
And, instead of Dearest Miss,
Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss,
And those forms of old admiring,
Call her Cockatrice and Siren,
Basilisk, and all that's evil,
Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil,
Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor,
Monkey, Ape, and twenty more ;
Friendly Trait'ress, loving Foe--
Not that she is truly so,
But no other way they know
A contentment to express,
Borders so upon excess,
That they do not rightly wot
Whether it be pain or not.

Dream-Children-A Reverie.

Children love to listen to stories about their elders, when they were children; to stretch their imagination to the conception of a traditionary great-uncle, or grandame, whom they never saw. It was in this spirit that my little ones crept about me the other evening to hear about their great-grandmother Field, who lived in a great house in Norfolk (a hundred times bigger than that in which they and papa lived), which had been the scene-so at least it was generally believed in that part of the country-of the tragic incidents which they had lately become familiar with from the ballad of the Children in the Wood. Certain it is that the whole story of the children and their cruel uncle was to be seen fairly carved out in wood upon the chimney-piece of the great hall, the whole story down to the Robin Redbreasts, till a foolish rich person pulled it down to set up a marble one of modern invention in its stead, with no story upon it. Here Alice put out one of her dear mother's looks, too tender to be called upbraiding. Then I went on to say how religious and how good their greatgrandmother Field was, how beloved and respected by everybody, though she was not indeed the mistress of this great house, but had only the charge of it (and yet in some respects she might be said to be the mistress of it too) committed to her by the owner, who preferred living in a newer and more fashionable mansion which he had purchased somewhere in the adjoining county; but still she lived in it in a manner as if it had been her own, and kept up the dignity of the great house in a sort while she lived, which afterwards came to decay, and was nearly pulled down, and all its old ornaments stripped and carried away to the owner's other house, where they were set up, and looked as awkward as if some one were to carry away the old tombs they had seen lately at the abbey, and stick them up in Lady C.'s tawdry gilt drawing-room. Here John smiled, as much as to say, 'that would be foolish indeed.' And then I told how, when she came to die, her funeral was attended by a concourse of all the poor, and some of the gentry too, of the neighbourhood for many miles round, to show their respect for her memory, because she had been such a good and religious woman; so good, indeed, that she knew all the Psalter by heart, ay, and a

For I must (nor let it grieve thee,
Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee; great part of the Testament besides. Here little Alice

For thy sake, Tobacco, I
Would do anything but die,
And but seek to extend my days
Long enough to sing thy praise.
But as she, who once hath been
A king's consort, is a queen
Ever after, nor will bate
Any tittle of her state,
Though a widow, or divorced,
So I, from thy converse forced,
The old name and style retain,
A right Katherine of Spain;
And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys
Of the blest Tobacco Boys;

spread her hands. Then I told what a tall, upright,
graceful person their great-grandmother Field once
was; and how in her youth she was esteemed the
best dancer. Here Alice's little right foot played an
involuntary movement, till, upon my looking grave,
it desisted-the best dancer, I was saying, in the
county, till a cruel disease, called a cancer, came,
and bowed her down with pain; but it could never
bend her good spirits, or make them stoop, but
they were still upright, because she was so good and
religious. Then I told how she was used to sleep
by herself in a lone chamber of the great lone house;
and how she believed that an apparition of two in-
fants was to be seen at midnight gliding up and down

Or, as men, constrained to part
With what's nearest to their heart,
While their sorrow's at the height,
Lose discrimination quite,
And their hasty wrath let fall,
To appease their frantic gall,
On the darling thing whatever,
Whence they feel it death to sever,
Though it be, as they, perforce,
Guiltless of the sad divorce.

Where, though I, by sour physician,
Am debarred the full fruition
Of thy favours, I may catch
Some collateral sweets, and snatch
Sidelong odours, that give life
Like glances from a neighbour's wife;
And still live in the by-places
And the suburbs of thy graces;

And in thy borders take delight,
An unconquered Canaanite.

The following are selections from Lamb's Essays, which contain more of the exquisite materials of poetry than his short occasional verses.

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