Poetry for
Children

BY
Charles and
Mary Lamb

ILLUSTRATED BY
WINIFRED GREEN
With a prefatory note by
ISRAEL GOLLANCZ

PUBLISHED BY J M DENT & C^o

To the
Gentle Reader

As often as I pass a little Blue-coat boy Igaze upon him lovingly: I reverence thequaint vision of a bygone age called up by thelong blue gaberdine, the red leathern belt, theyellow stockings—a quaint monkish figure stillto be seen in crowded London streets, stilladding to their picturesqueness and ever-varyingcharm.

You, too, dear Reader, have yourself probablyasked the meaning of the strange sight, as youhave passed one of these English lads so strangelyattired. Perhaps you have been shown thefamous old school, in the midst of the bustle ofLondon, surrounded by ugly warehouses, offices,and shops; and you have seen the effigy of theFounder, “that godly and royal child, KingEdward the Sixth, the flower of the Tudorname—the young flower that was untimelycropped as it began to fill our land with its2early odours—the boy-patron of boys—the seriousand holy child who walked with Cranmer andRidley.”

Alas, London is no longer to be the home ofthese boys, and the cloisters of the Old Grey Friarswill soon moulder away, when the merry noiseof sports and revels cease to awaken them to life.

As I looked through the bars the other daywatching the boys at their games, a strangefancy came to me. I thought I saw a paleand studious “Grecian” (as they call the headboys of the school), and walking at his side,with glittering eyes full of wonderment, was ayounger lad—a boy with crisply curling blackhair, and with ruddy brown complexion, and inhis look so much lovableness and trustfulness, thatI felt myself envying the elder lad, whose handrested so affectionately on the shoulder of hisfriend. I drew near to listen to their talk. Thethoughtful Grecian was discoursing learnedly yetso sweetly about some deep matter of philosophy:it seemed somewhat beyond the younger boy, buthe listened quietly, rapt in admiration. Suddenlythe school-bell sounded. “Hurry on, Charles!‘’Mid deepest meditation sounds the knell.’ That’s3how your good old Elizabethans would put it.We’ll have another talk after supper.” “I—I’ven—not h—h—had o—one t—t—talk y—yet,S ... T ... C,” stammered the other in reply: apainful contrast to the sublime eloquence thatflowed from his companion.

The noise of the bell and scampering of theboys soon made me realise that Fancy had ledme back a hundred years and more, and hadgiven me a glimpse of the boyhood of twofamous Englishmen, who have added glory totheir ancient school—Samuel Taylor Coleridge,poet and philosop