The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb, vol 5 | Page 9

for Shakespeare, was, I think, to some extent involved in the _Original Letters, &c., of Sir John Falstaff and his Friends_, which appeared in 1796. The dedication--to Master Samuel Irelaunde, meaning William Henry Ireland (who sometimes took his father's name Samuel), the forger of the pretended Shakespearian play "Vortigern," produced at Drury Lane earlier in the year--is quite in Lamb's manner. White's immortality, however, rests not upon this book, but upon his portrait in the Elia essay on "Chimney-Sweepers."
The sonnet "To my Sister" was printed, with slight alterations, by Lamb in Coleridge's Poems, second edition, 1797, and again in Lamb's Works, 1818.
Coleridge's _Condones ad Populum; or, Addresses to the People_, had been published at Bristol in November, 1795.]

LETTER 2
CHARLES LAMB TO S. T. COLERIDGE
[Probably begun either on Tuesday, May 24, or Tuesday, May 31, 1796. Postmark? June 1.]
I am in such violent pain with the head ach that I am fit for nothing but transcribing, scarce for that. When I get your poems, and the Joan of Arc, I will exercise my presumption in giving you my opinion of 'em. The mail does not come in before tomorrow (Wednesday) morning. The following sonnet was composed during a walk down into Hertfordshire early in last Summer.
The lord of light shakes off his drowsyhed.[*] Fresh from his couch up springs the lusty Sun, And girds himself his mighty race to run. Meantime, by truant love of rambling led, I turn my back on thy detested walls, Proud City, and thy sons I leave behind, A selfish, sordid, money-getting kind, Who shut their ears when holy Freedom calls. I pass not thee so lightly, humble spire, That mindest me of many a pleasure gone, Of merriest days, of love and Islington, Kindling anew the flames of past desire; And I shall muse on thee, slow journeying on, To the green plains of pleasant Hertfordshire.
[Footnote: Drowsyhed I have met with I think in Spencer. Tis an old thing, but it rhymes with led & rhyming covers a multitude of licences.]
The last line is a copy of Bowles's, "to the green hamlet in the peaceful plain." Your ears are not so very fastidious--many people would not like words so prosaic and familiar in a sonnet as Islington and Hertfordshire. The next was written within a day or two of the last, on revisiting a spot where the scene was laid of my 1st sonnet that "mock'd my step with many a lonely glade."
When last I roved these winding wood-walks green, Green winding walks, and pathways shady-sweet, Oftimes would Anna seek the silent scene, Shrouding her beauties in the lone retreat. No more I hear her footsteps in the shade; Her image only in these pleasant ways Meets me self-wandring where in better days I held free converse with my fair-hair'd maid. I pass'd the little cottage, which she loved, The cottage which did once my all contain: it spake of days that ne'er must come again, Spake to my heart and much my heart was moved. "Now fair befall thee, gentle maid," said I, And from the cottage turn'd me, with a sigh.
The next retains a few lines from a sonnet of mine, which you once remarked had no "body of thought" in it. I agree with you, but have preserved a part of it, and it runs thus. I flatter myself you will like it.
A timid grace sits trembling in her Eye, As both to meet the rudeness of men's sight, Yet shedding a delicious lunar light, That steeps in kind oblivious extacy The care-craz'd mind, like some still melody; Speaking most plain the thoughts which do possess Her gentle sprite, peace and meek quietness, And innocent loves,[*] and maiden purity. A look whereof might heal the cruel smart Of changed friends, or fortune's wrongs unkind; Might to sweet deeds of mercy move the heart Of him, who hates his brethren of mankind. Turned are those beams from me, who fondly yet Past joys, vain loves, and buried hopes regret.
[Footnote: Cowley uses this phrase with a somewhat different meaning: I meant loves of relatives friends &c.]
The next and last I value most of all. 'Twas composed close upon the heels of the last in that very wood I had in mind when I wrote "Methinks how dainty sweet."
We were two pretty babes, the youngest she, The youngest and the loveliest far, I ween, And INNOCENCE her name. The time has been, We two did love each other's company; Time was, we two had wept to have been apart. But when, with shew of seeming good beguil'd, I left the garb and manners of a child, And my first love for man's society, Defiling with the world my virgin heart, My loved companion dropt a tear, and fled, And hid in deepest shades her awful