ON LAMB'S SPECIMENS OF DRAMATIC POETS

If all the flowers of all the fields on earth

By wonder-working summer were made one,

Its fragrance were not sweeter in the sun,

Its treasure-house of leaves were not more worth

Than those wherefrom thy light of musing mirth

Shone, till each leaf whereon thy pen would run

Breathed life, and all its breath was benison.

Beloved beyond all names of English birth,

More dear than mightier memories; gentlest name

That ever clothed itself with flower-sweet fame,

Or linked itself with loftiest names of old

By right and might of loving; I, that am

Less than the least of those within thy fold,

Give only thanks for them to thee, Charles Lamb.