It soweth here with toil and care,

But the harvest-time of Love is there. Oh! when a mother meets on high The babe she lost in infancy,

Hath she not then, for pains and fears,

The day of woe, the anxious night,
For all her sorrows, all her tears,

An overpayment of delight?

the most sincerely beloved of all English writers, was born in London in 1775. In 1796 his sister in a fit of madness killed her mother. Lamb's own reason had been unsettled, but, recovering, he renounced a youthful affection, and nobly devoted his life to the care of his sister. In the whole range of biography there is not an incident more deeply pathetic. Mary identified herself with some of her brother's work, notably Tales from Shakespeare. Lamb died in 1834, from the results of a slight fall.

To Hester Savory

WHEN maidens such as Hester die,
Their place we may not well supply,
Though we among a thousand try
With vain endeavour.

A month or more hath she been dead,
Yet cannot I by force be led

To think upon the wormy bed
And her together.

A springy motion in her gait,
A rising step, did indicate

Of pride and joy no common rate
That flushed her spirit:

I know not by what name beside
I shall it call; if 'twas not pride,
It was a joy to that allied

She did inherit.

Her parents held the Quaker rule
Which doth the human feeling cool;

But she was train'd in Nature's school,
Nature had blest her.

A waking eye, a prying mind,

A heart that stirs, is hard to bind ;
A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind,
Ye could not Hester.

My sprightly neighbour ! gone before
To that unknown and silent shore,
Shall we not meet, as heretofore,
Some summer morning-

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
Hath struck a bliss upon the day,
A bliss that would not go away,
A sweet fore-warning?

A Sonnet on Christian Names: Written in the Album of Miss Edith Southey

IN Christian world Mary the garland wears!
Rebecca sweetens on a Hebrew's ear;
Quakers for pure Priscilla are more clear;
And the light Gaul by amorous Ninon swears.
Among the lesser lights how Lucy shines!
What air of fragrance Rosamond throws around!
How like a hymn doth sweet Cecilia sound!
Of Marthas, and of Abigails, few lines

Charles Lamb

Have bragged in verse. Of coarsest household stuff Should homely Joan be fashioned. But can

You Barbara resist, or Marian?

And is not Clare for love excuse enough?

Yet, by my faith in numbers, I profess,
These all, than Saxon Edith, please me less.

Walter Savage Landor

belonged to a Warwickshire family, and was born in 1775. He devoted his literary talent first to poetry, and addressed a lady under the name of 'Ianthe.' He wrote one or two plays, but his Imaginary Conversations first assured his position as a man of genius. Landor had no popular sympathies, but this knowledge did not weigh with him, for he declared, 'Ten accomplished men are esteemed by me a sufficient audience.' He was self-willed and impetuous. Meeting a young lady at a ball in 1811, on the instant he determined to marry her, and he did it. He had leisure to repent and write, 'Death itself to the reflective mind is less serious than marriage.' He died in 1864.

Dreams

IT often comes into my head

That we may dream when we are dead,
But I am far from sure we do.

O that it were so! then my rest
Would be indeed among the blest;
I should for ever dream of you.

Her Lips

OFTEN I have heard it said
That her lips are ruby-red.
Little heed I what they say,
I have seen as red as they.
Ere she smiled on other men,
Real rubies were they then.