Mary Lamb

I saw a boy with eager eye Open a book upon a stall, And read as he’d devour it all; Which when the stall-man did espy, Soon to the boy I heard him call, ‘You, Sir, you never buy a book, Therefore in one you shall not look.’ The boy passed slowly on, and with a sigh He wished he never had been taught to read, Then of the old churl’s books he should have had no need. Of sufferings the poor have many, Which never can the rich annoy. I soon perceived another boy Who looked as if he’d not had any Food for that day at least, enjoy The sight of cold meat in a tavern larder. This boy’s case, thought I, is surely harder, Thus hungry longing, thus without a penny, Beholding choice of dainty dressed meat; No wonder if he wish he ne’er had learned to eat.

This rose-tree is not made to bear The violet blue, nor lily fair, Nor the sweet mignionet: And if this tree were discontent, Or wished to change its natural bent, It all in vain would fret. And should it fret, you would suppose It ne’er had seen its own red rose, Nor after gentle shower Had ever smelled its rose’s scent, Or it could ne’er be discontent With its own pretty flower. Like such a blind and senseless tree As I’ve imagined this to be, All envious persons are: With care and culture all may find Some pretty flower in their own mind, Some talent that is rare.

A Creole boy from the West Indies brought, To be in European learning taught, Some years before to Westminster he went, To a Preparatory school was sent. When from his artless tale the mistress found The child had not one friend on English ground, She ev’n as if she his own mother were, Made the dark Indian her particular care. Oft on her favourite’s future lot she thought; To know the bent of his young mind she sought, For much the kind preceptress wished to find To what profession he was most inclined, That where his genius led they might him train; For nature’s kindly bent she held not vain. But vain her efforts to explore his will; The frequent question he evaded still; Till on a day at length he to her came, Joy sparkling in his eyes; and said, the same Trade he would be those boys of colour were, Who danced so happy in the open air. It was a troop of chimney-sweeping boys, With wooden music and obstreperous noise, In tarnish’d finery and grotesque array, Were dancing in the streets the first of May.

A dinner party, coffee, tea, Sandwich, or supper, all may be In their way pleasant. But to me Not one of these deserves the praise That welcomer of new-born days, A breakfast, merits; ever giving Cheerful notice we are living Another day refreshed by sleep, When its festival we keep. Now although I would not slight Those kindly words we use ‘Good night’, Yet parting words are words of sorrow, And may not vie with sweet ‘Good Morrow’, With which again our friends we greet, When in the breakfast-room we meet, At the social table round, Listening to the lively sound Of those notes which never tire, Of urn, or kettle on the fire. Sleepy Robert never hears Or urn, or kettle; he appears When all have finished, one by one Dropping off, and breakfast done. Yet has he too his own pleasure, His breakfast hour’s his hour of leisure; And, left alone, he reads or muses, Or else in idle mood he uses To sit and watch the venturous fly, Where the sugar’s piled high, Clambering o’er the lumps so white, Rocky cliffs of sweet delight.