By day and by night, to the caitiff wight,
Who shakes the poor like snakes from his door,
And shuts up the womb of his purse."

And still she cried,

"A mischief,

And a nine-fold-withering curse:

For that shall come to thee that will undo thee,
Both all that thou fearest and worse."

So saying, she departed,

Leaving Sir Francis like a man beneath
Whose feet a scaffolding was suddenly falling;
So he described it.

Stranger.-A terrible curse! What followed?
Servant.-Nothing immediate; but some two months after
Young Philip Fairford suddenly fell sick,

And none could tell what ailed him; for he lay,

And pined, and pined, till all his hair fell off,

And he, that was full-fleshed, became as thin

As a two-months' babe that has been starved in the nursing. And sure, I think

He bore his death-wound like a little child;

With such rare sweetness of dumb melancholy,

He strove to clothe his agony in smiles,

Which he would force up in his poor pale cheeks,

Like ill-timed guests that had no proper dwelling there;
And when they asked him his complaint, he laid

His hand upon his heart, to show the place
Where Susan came to him a-nights, he said,

And prick'd him with a pin

And thereupon Sir Francis called to mind
The beggar-witch that stood by the gateway
And begged an alms.

Stranger. But did the witch confess?

Servant.-All this and more at her death.

Stranger. I do not love to credit tales of magic. Heaven's music, which is order, seems unstrung, And this brave world

(The mystery of God,) unbeautified,

Disorder'd, marr'd, where such strange things are acted.

DEDICATION.

DEAR MOXON,

TO THE PUBLISHER.

I do not know to whom a dedication of these trifles is more properly due than to yourself. You suggested the printing of them. You were desirous of exhibiting a specimen of the manner in which publications intrusted to your future care would appear. With more propriety, perhaps, the " Christmas," or some other of your own simple, unpretending compositions, might have served this purpose. But I forget-you have bid a long adieu to the muses. I had on my hands sundry copies of verses written for albums

"Those books kept by modern young ladies for show,

Of which their plain grandmothers nothing did know”—

or otherwise floating about in periodicals; which you have chosen in this manner to imbody. I feel little interest in their publication. They are simply-Advertisement Verses.

It is not for me nor you to allude in public to the kindness of our honoured friend, under whose auspices you are become a bookseller. May that fineminded veteran in verse enjoy life long enough to see his patronage justified! I venture to predict that your habits of industry and your cheerful spirit will carry you through the world.

I am, dear Moxon,

Your friend and sincere well-wisher,
CHARLES LAMB.

Enfield, 1st June, 1830.

ALBUM VERSES,

WITH A FEW OTHERS

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.

IN THE AUTOGRAPH BOOK OF MRS. SER-
GEANT W-

HAD I a power, lady, to my will,

You should not want handwritings. 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.

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.

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.

* Acetaria, a Discourse of Sallets, by J. E. 1706.