But I have none of these; nor can I send
The notes by Bullen to her tyrant penn'd
In her authentic hand; nor in soft hours
Lines writ by Rosamund in Clifford's bowers.
The lack of curious signatures I moan,
And want the courage to subscribe my own.
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 round!
How like a hymn doth sweet CECILIA Sound!
Of MARTHAS and of ABIGAILS few lines
Have bragg'd in verse.
Of coarsest household stuff
Should homely JOAN be fashion'd. 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.
ON BEING ASKED BY HER FATHER TO WRITE IN HER ALBUM.
AN album is a banquet: from the store,
In his intelligential orchard growing,
Your sire might heap your board to overflowing:
One shaking of the tree-'twould ask no more
To set a salad forth, more rich than that
Which Evelyn* in his princely cookery fancied;
Or that more rare, by Eve's neat hands enhanced,
Where a pleased guest, the angelic virtue sat.
Acetaria, a Discourse of Sallets, by J. E. 1706.
But like the all-grasping founder of the feast,
Whom Nathan to the sinning king did tax,
From his less wealthy neighbours he exacts;
Spares his own flocks, and takes the poor man's beast.
Obedient to his bidding, lo, I am
A zealous, meek, contributory
A PASSING glance was all I caught of thee,
In my own Enfield haunts at random roving.
Old friends of ours were with thee, faces loving;
Time short; and salutations cursory,
Though deep and hearty. The familiar name
Of you, yet unfamiliar, raised in me
Thoughts-what the daughter of that man should be Who call'd our Wordsworth friend. My thoughts did frame
A growing maiden, who, from day to day
Advancing still in stature and in grace,
Would all her lonely father's griefs efface,
And his paternal cares with usury pay.
I still retain the phantom, as I can;
And call the gentle image-Quillinan.
IN THE ALBUM OF CATHARINE ORKNEY.
CANADIA! boast no more the toils
Of hunters for the furry spoils;
Your whitest ermines are but foils
To brighter Catharine Orkney.
That such a flower should ever burst
From climes with rigorous winter cursed!—
We bless you, that so kindly nursed
This flower, this Catharine Orkney.
We envy not your proud display
Of lake-wood-vast Niagara:
Your greatest pride we've borne away,
How spared you Catharine Orkney?
That Wolfe on Heights of Abraham fell
To your reproach no more we tell :
Canadia, you repaid us well
With rearing Catharine Orkney.
Oh, Britain, guard with tenderest care
The charge allotted to your share :
You've scarce a native maid so fair,
So good, as Catharine Orkney.
IN THE ALBUM OF LUCY BARTON.
LITTLE book, surnamed of white,
Clean as yet, and fair to sight,
Keep thy attribution right.
Never disproportion'd scrawl,
Ugly blot, that's worse than all,
On thy maiden clearness fall!
In each letter, here design'd,
Let the reader emblem'd find
Neatness of the owner's mind.
Gilded margins count a sin,
Let thy leaves attraction win
By the golden rules within;
Sayings fetch'd from sages old;
Laws which Holy Writ unfold,
Worthy to be graved in gold;
Lighter fancies not excluding;
Blameless wit, with nothing rude in,
Sometimes mildly interluding
Amid strains of graver measure;
Virtue's self hath oft her pleasure
In sweet muses' groves of leisure.
Riddles dark, perplexing sense;
Darker meanings of offence;
What but shades-be banish'd hence.
Whitest thoughts in whitest dress,
Candid meanings, best express
Mind of quiet Quakeress.
SUCH goodness in your face doth shine,
With modest look, without design,
That I despair poor pen of mine
Can e'er express it.
To give it words I feebly try;
My spirits fail me to supply
Befitting language for't, and I
Can only bless it!
But stop, rash verse! and don't abuse
A bashful maiden's ear with news
Of her own virtues. She'll refuse
Praise sung so loudly.
Of that same goodness you admire,
The best part is, she don't aspire
To praise-nor of herself desire
To think too proudly.
IN THE ALBUM OF MRS. JANE TOWERS.
LADY unknown, who crav'st from me unknown
The trifle of a verse these leaves to grace,
How shail I find fit matter? with what face
Address a face that ne'er to me was shown?
Thy looks, tones, gesture, manners, and what not,
Conjecturing, I wander in the dark.
I know thee only sister to Charles Clarke !
But at that name my cold muse waxes hot,
And swears that thou art such a one as he,
Warm, laughter loving, with a touch of madness
Wild, glee-provoking, pouring oil of gladness
From frank heart without guile. And if thou be
The pure reverse of this, and I mistake—
Demure one, I will like thee for his sake.
FRESH clad from heaven in robes of white,
A young probationer of light,
Thou wert, my soul, an album bright.
A spotless leaf; but thought and care,
And friend and foe, in foul or fair,
Have" written strange defeatures" there;
And time, with heaviest hand of all,
Like that fierce writing on the wall,
Hath stamp'd sad dates-he can't recall;
And error gilding worst designs-
Like speckled snake that strays and shines-
Betrays his path by crooked lines;
And vice hath left his ugly blot;
And good resolves, a moment hot,
Fairly began-but finish'd not;
And fruitless, late remorse doth trace—
Like Hebrew lore a backward pace-
Her irrecoverable race.
Disjointed numbers; sense unknit ;
Huge reams of folly, shreds of wit;
Compose the mingled mass of it.
My scalded eyes no longer brook
Upon this ink-blurr'd thing to look--
Go, shut the leaves, and clasp the book.
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