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
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
mid 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
THIS rare tablet doth include
Poverty with sanctitude.
Past midnight this poor maid hath spun,
And yet the work is not half done,
Which must supply, from earnings scant,
A feeble bed-rid parent's want.
Her sleep-charged eyes exemption ask,
And holy hands take up the task;
Unseen the rock and spindle ply,
And do her earthly drudgery.
Sleep, saintly poor one, sleep, sleep on ;
And, waking, find thy labours done.
Perchance she knows it by her dreams;
Her eye hath caught the golden gleams,
Angelic presence testifying,
That round her everywhere are flying;
Ostents from which she may presume,
That much of Heaven is in the room.
Skirting her own bright hair they run,
And to the sunny add more sun:
Now on that aged face they fix,
Streaming from the crucifix;
The flesh-clogg'd spirit disabusing,
Death-disarming sleeps infusing,
Prelibations, foretastes high,
And equal thoughts to live or die.
Gardener from bright Eden's bower,
Tend with care that lily flower;
To its leaves and root infuse
Heaven's sunshine, heaven's dews.
"Tis a type, and 'tis a pledge
Of a crowning privilege.
Careful as that lily flower,
This maid must keep her precious dower;
Live a sainted maid, or die
* Suggested by a drawing in the possession of Charles Aders, Esq., in which is represented the legend of a poor female saint, who, having spun past midnight, to maintain a bed-rid mother, has fallen asleep from fatigue, and angels are finishing her work. In another part of the chamber an angel is tending a lily, the emblem of purity.
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