BY CHARLES LAMB
ALONE, obscure, without a friend
A cheerless, solitary thing,
Why seeks my Lloyd the stranger out?
What offering can the stranger bring.
Of social scenes, home-bred delights,
That him in ought compensate may
For Storvey's pleasant winter nights,
For loves and friendships far away?
In brief oblivion to forego
Friends, such as thine, so justly dear,
And be awhile with me content
To stay, a kindly loiterer, here.
For this a gleam of random joy
Hath flush'd my unaccustomed cheek;
And with an o'ercharged, bursting heart,
I feel the thanks I cannot speak.
Oh! sweet are all the Muses' lays,
And sweet the charm of matin bird; 'Twas long since these estranged ears The sweeter voice of friend had heard. The voice hath spoke: the pleasant sounds In memory's ear in after time Shall live, to sometimes rouse a tear,
And sometimes prompt an honest rhyme. For, when the transient charm is fled,
And when the little week is o'er, To cheerless, friendless, solitude, When I return as heretofore, Long, long, within my aching heart
The grateful sense shall cherish'd be;
I'll think less meanly of myself,
That Lloyd will sometimes think on me.
CONRADE'S REFUSAL TO ASSASINATE SEYD.
GULNARE-Gulnare-I never felt till now
My abject fortune, wither'd fame so low:
Seyd is my enemy: hath swept my band
From earth with ruthless but with open hand,
And therefore came I, in my bark of war,
To smite the smiter with the scimitar;
Such is my weapon-not the secret knife;
Who spares a woman's seeks not slumber's life.
Thine saved I gladly, lady, not for this-
Let me not deem that mercy shown amiss.
Now fare thee well-more peace be with thy
Night wears apace-my last of earthly rest!
SHE gazed in wonder, "Can he calmly sleep,
While other eyes his fall or ravage weep!
And mine in restlessness are wandering here-
What sudden spell hath made this man so dear!
True-'tis to him my life, and more, I owe,
And me and mine he spared from worse than woe?
'Tis late to think-but soft-his slumber breaks→→
How heavily he sighs!-he starts-awakes!"
He raised his head-and dazzled with the light, His eye seemed dubious if it saw aright; He moved his hand-the grating of his chain Too harshly told him that he lived again. "What is that form? if not a shape of air, Methinks my jailor's face shows wondrous fair!'' "Pirate! thou know'st me not-but I am one, Grateful for deeds thou hast too rarely done; Look on me and remember her, thy hand Snatch'd from the flames, and thy more fearful band.
I come through darkness-and I scarce know why
Yet not to hurt-I would not see thee die. "Corsair thy doom is named-but I have power To soothe the Pacha in his weaker hour.
Thee I would spare-nay more-would save thee
But this time-hope-nor even thy strength
But all I can, I will: at least, delay
The sentence that remits thee scarce a day.
More now were ruin-even thyself were loath
The vain attempt should bring but doom on both."
I find a pious gratitude disperse
Within my soul; and every thought of him
Ingenders a warm sigh within me, which,
Like curls of holy incense, overtake
Each other in my bosom, and enlarge
With their embrace his sweet remembrance.
What can I pay thee for this noble usage,
But grateful praise? so heav'n itself is paid!
Rowe.
When gratitude o'erflows the swelling heart,
And breathes in free and uncorrupted praise
For benefits received: propitious heaven
Takes such acknowledgment as fragrant incense,
And doubles all its blessings.
AN OLD SERVANT'S GRATITUDE.
BY SHAKSPEARE.
I HAVE five hundred crowns,
The thrifty hire I saved under your father,
Which I did store to be my foster-nurse,
When service should in my old limbs lie lame,
And unregarded age in corners thrown;
Take that: and he that doth the ravens feed
Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,
Be comfort to my age! here is the gold;
All this I give you: Let me be your servant;
Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty:
For in my youth I never did apply
Hot and rebellious liquors to my blood;
Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo
The means of weakness and debility;
Therefore my age is as a lusty winter,
Frosty, but kindly let me go with you ;`
I'll do the service of a younger man
In all your business and necessities-
Master, go on, and I will follow thee,
To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty,—
From seventeen years till now almost fourscore
Here lived I, but now live here no more.
At seventeen years many their fortunes seek,
But at fourscore, it is too late a week;
Yet fortune cannot recompense me better,
Than to die well, and not my master's debtor.
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