DEAR Miss
Wordsworth, the task of letter-writing in my family falls to me;
you are the organ of correspondence in yours, so I address you rather than your
brother. We are all
| 1804 | WORDSWORTH’S COMMISSIONS | 289 |
| sh. | ||
| Thread and needles | 17 . 0 | |
| Magnesia | 8 . 0 | |
| Oil | 9 . 8 | |
| 8 . 8 | ||
| ————— | ||
| packing case | 2. 3. 4 | |
| 2 . 6 | ||
| ————— | ||
| 2 . 5 . 10 | ||
| deduct a guinea I owe you, which
C. was to pay, but did not | 1 . 1 .— | |
| ————— | ||
| leaves you indebted | 1 . 4 . 10 |
I conclude with our kindest remembrances to your brother and Mrs. W.
We hear, the young John is a Giant.
And should you see Charles Lloyd, pray forget to give my love to him.
| 290 | LETTERS OF C. AND M. LAMB | June |
I send you two little copies of verses by Mary L—b:—
|
Child. “O Lady, lay your costly robes
aside,
(Sings) No longer may you glory in your
pride.”
Mother. Wherefore to day art singing in mine
ear
Sad songs were made so long ago, my dear?
This day I am to be a bride, you know.
Why sing sad songs were made so long ago?
Child. “O Mother lay your costly robes
aside,”
For you may never be another’s bride:
That line I learnt not in the old sad song.
Mother. I pray thee, pretty one, now hold
thy tongue;
Play with the bride maids, and be glad, my boy,
For thou shalt be a second father’s joy.
Child. One father fondled me upon his knee:
One father is enough alone for me.
|
Suggested by a print of 2 females after Leo[nardo da] Vinci, called Prudence & Beauty, which hangs up in our ro[om]. O! that you could see the print!!
|
The Lady Blanch, regardless of all her
lovers’ fears,
To the Urseline Convent hastens, and long the Abbess hears:
“O Blanch, my child, repent thee of the courtly life ye
lead.”
Blanch looked on a rose-bud, and little
seem’d to heed;
She looked on the rose-bud, she looked round, and thought
On all her heart had whisper’d, and all the Nun had taught.
“I am worshipped by lovers, and brightly shines my fame,
All Christendom resoundeth the noble
Blanch’s name;
Nor shall I quickly wither like the rose-bud from the tree,
My Queen-like graces shining when my beauty’s gone from me.
But when the sculptur’d marble is raised o’er my head,
And the matchless Blanch lies lifeless among
the noble dead,
This saintly Lady Abbess has made me justly fear.
It nothing will avail me that I were worshipt here.”
|
I wish they may please you: we in these parts are not a little proud of them.
