Album Verses

WITH A FEW OTHERS.

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IN THE AUTOGRAPH BOOK OF MRS. SERGEANT W----.

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Had I a power, Lady, to my will, You should not want Hand Writings. I would fill Your leaves with Autographs--resplendent names Of Knights and Squires of old, and courtly Dames, Kings, Emperors, Popes. Next under these should stand The hands of famous Lawyers--a grave band-- Who in their Courts of Law or Equity Have best upheld Freedom and Property. These should moot cases in your book, and vie To show their reading and their Sergeantry. 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.

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TO DORA W----.

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. But like the all-grasping Founder of the Feast, Whom Nathan to the sinning king did tax, From his less wealthy neighbors he exacts; Spares his own flocks, and takes the poor man's beast. Obedient to his bidding, lo, I am, A zealous, meek, contributory LAMB.

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IN THE ALBUM OF A CLERGYMAN'S LADY.

An Album is a Garden, not for show Planted, but use; where wholesome herbs should grow. A Cabinet of curious porcelain, where No fancy enters, but what's rich or rare. A Chapel, where mere ornamental things Are pure as crowns of saints, or angels' wings. A List of living friends; a holier Room For names of some since mouldering in the tomb, Whose blooming memories life's cold laws survive; And, dead elsewhere, they here yet speak and live. Such, and so tender, should an Album be; And, Lady, such I wish this book to thee.

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IN THE ALBUM OF EDITH S----.

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.

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IN THE ALBUM OF ROTHA Q----.

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.

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IN THE ALBUM OF CATHERINE ORKNEY.

CANADIA! boast no more the toils Of hunters for the furry spoils; Your whitest ermines are but foils To brighter Catherine Orkney.

That such a flower should ever burst From climes with rigorous winter curst!-- We bless you, that so kindly nurst This flower, this Catherine Orkney.

We envy not your proud display Of lake--wood--vast Niagara; Your greatest pride we've borne away. How spared you Catherine Orkney?

That Wolfe on Heights of Abraham fell, To your reproach no more we tell: Canadia, you repaid us well With rearing Catherine Orkney.

O Britain, guard with tenderest care The charge allotted to your share: You've scarce a native maid so fair, So good, as Catherine Orkney.

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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.

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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 shall 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.

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IN THE ALBUM OF MISS ----.

I.

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!

II.

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.

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IN MY OWN ALBUM.

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.

MISCELLANEOUS.

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