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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

LAMB by LIONEL PIGOT JOHNSON

Poem Explanation Poet Analysis

First Line: SAINT CHARLES! FOR THACKERAY CALLED THEE SO
Saint Charles! for Thackeray called thee so:
Saint Charles! for Thackeray called thee so:
Saint, at whose name our fond hearts glow:
Saint, at whose name our fond hearts glow:
See now, this age of tedious woe,
See now, this age of tedious woe,
That snaps and snarls!
That snaps and snarls!
Thine was a life of tragic shade;

A life, of care and sorrow made:

But nought could make thine heart afraid,
Thine was a life of tragic shade;
Gentle Saint Charles!
A life, of care and sorrow made:

But nought could make thine heart afraid,

Gentle Saint Charles!
Encumbered dearly with old books,

Thou, by the pleasant chimney nooks,

Didst laugh, with merry-meaning looks,
Encumbered dearly with old books,
Thy griefs away:
Thou, by the pleasant chimney nooks,
We, bred on modern magazines,
Didst laugh, with merry-meaning looks,
Point out, how much our sadness means;
Thy griefs away:
And some new woe our wisdom gleans,

Day by dull day.


We, bred on modern magazines,

Point out, how much our sadness means;
Lover of London! whilst thy feet
And some new woe our wisdom gleans,
Haunted each old familiar street,
Day by dull day.
Thy brave heart found life's turmoil sweet,

Despite life's pain.

We fume and fret and, when we can,
Lover of London! whilst thy feet
Cry up some new and noisy plan,
Haunted each old familiar street,
Big with the Rights and Wrongs of Man:
Thy brave heart found life's turmoil sweet,
And where's the gain?
Despite life's pain.
Gentle Saint Charles! I turn to thee,

Tender and true: thou teachest me


We fume and fret and, when we can,

Cry up some new and noisy plan,
To take with joy, what joys there be,
Big with the Rights and Wrongs of Man:
And bear the rest.
And where's the gain?
Walking thy London day by day,

The thought of thee makes bright my way,

And in thy faith I fain would stay,
Gentle Saint Charles! I turn to thee,
Doing my best.
Tender and true: thou teachest me

To take with joy, what joys there be,

And bear the rest.
Along the Mall, along the Strand,

Each turn I take, still thou dost stand,

A patron spirit, at mine hand:
Walking thy London day by day,
So, should my choice,
The thought of thee makes bright my way,
Beside the dear book-laden stall,
And in thy faith I fain would stay,
On books not books perversely fall:
Doing my best.
Nay! take the play, the pastoral!

Pleads thy wise voice.


Along the Mall, along the Strand,

Each turn I take, still thou dost stand,
So, though the world be full of noise;
A patron spirit, at mine hand:
And most new books, but foolish toys;
So, should my choice,
I share with thee thine ancient joys,

Marvell or Quarles:

So, tired with rambling through the Town,
Beside the dear book-laden stall,
I taste the rich delights of Browne;
On books not books perversely fall:
With Elia for the evening's crown,
Nay! take the play, the pastoral!
Gentle Saint Charles!
Pleads thy wise voice.




So, though the world be full of noise;
And most new books, but foolish toys;
I share with thee thine ancient joys,
Marvell or Quarles:




So, tired with rambling through the Town,
I taste the rich delights of Browne;
With Elia for the evening's crown,
Gentle Saint Charles!




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