In sinners of an hundred years. --Mother's prattle, mother's kiss, Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss: Rites, which custom does impose, Silver bells, and baby clothes; Coral redder than those lips Which pale death did late eclipse; Music framed for infants' glee, Whistle never tuned for thee; Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them, Loving hearts were they which gave them. Let not one be missing; nurse, See them laid upon the hearse Of infant slain by doom perverse. Why should kings and nobles have Pictured trophies to their grave, And we, churls, to thee deny Thy pretty toys with thee to lie-- A more harmless vanity? _C. Lamb_ CCLXXXIII _IN MEMORIAM_ A child's a plaything for an hour; Its pretty tricks we try For that or for a longer space,-- Then tire, and lay it by. But I knew one that to itself All seasons could control; That would have mock'd the sense of pain Out of a grievéd soul. Thou straggler into loving arms, Young climber up of knees, When I forget thy thousand ways Then life and all shall cease! _M. Lamb_ CCLXXXIV _THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET_ Where art thou, my beloved Son, Where art thou, worse to me than dead? Oh find me, prosperous or undone! Or if the grave be now thy bed, Why am I ignorant of the same That I may rest; and neither blame Nor sorrow may attend thy name? Seven years, alas! to have received No tidings of an only child-- To have despair'd, have hoped, believed, And been for evermore beguiled,-- Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss! I catch at them, and then I miss; Was ever darkness like to this? He was among the prime in worth, An object beauteous to behold; Well born, well bred; I sent him forth Ingenuous, innocent, and bold: If things ensued that wanted grace As hath been said, they were not base; And never blush was on my face. Ah! little doth the young-one dream When full of play and childish cares, What power is in his wildest scream Heard by his mother unawares! He knows it not, he cannot guess; Years to a mother bring distress; But do not make her love the less. Neglect me! no, I suffer'd long From that ill thought; and being blind Said 'Pride shall help me in my wrong: Kind mother have I been, as kind As ever breathed:' and that is true; I've wet my path with tears like dew, Weeping for him when no one knew. My Son, if thou be humbled, poor, Hopeless of honour and of gain, Oh! do not dread thy mother's door; Think not of me with grief and pain: I now can see with better eyes; And worldly grandeur I despise And fortune with her gifts and lies.