to damn,
Nor wouldst have set thine heel on this dead snake. 
Let worms consume its memory with its tongue,
The fang that stabbed fair Truth, the lip that stung
  Men’s memories uncorroded with its breath. 
Forgive me, that with bitter words like his
I mix the gentlest English name that is,
  The tenderest held of all that know not death.

A LAST LOOK

Sick of self-love, Malvolio, like an owl
  That hoots the sun rerisen where starlight sank,
  With German garters crossed athwart thy frank
Stout Scottish legs, men watched thee snarl and scowl,
And boys responsive with reverberate howl
  Shrilled, hearing how to thee the springtime stank
  And as thine own soul all the world smelt rank
And as thine own thoughts Liberty seemed foul. 
Now, for all ill thoughts nursed and ill words given
Not all condemned, not utterly forgiven,
  Son of the storm and darkness, pass in peace. 
Peace upon earth thou knewest not:  now, being dead,
Rest, with nor curse nor blessing on thine head,
  Where high-strung hate and strenuous envy cease.

DICKENS

Chief in thy generation born of men
  Whom English praise acclaimed as English-born,
  With eyes that matched the worldwide eyes of morn
For gleam of tears or laughter, tenderest then
When thoughts of children warmed their light, or when
  Reverence of age with love and labour worn,
  Or godlike pity fired with godlike scorn,
Shot through them flame that winged thy swift live pen: 
Where stars and suns that we behold not burn,
  Higher even than here, though highest was here thy place,
    Love sees thy spirit laugh and speak and shine
With Shakespeare and the soft bright soul of Sterne
  And Fielding’s kindliest might and Goldsmith’s grace;
    Scarce one more loved or worthier love than thine.

ON LAMB’S SPECIMENS OF DRAMATIC POETS

I

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.

II