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 embody. 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 honored Friend, under whose auspices you are become a Publisher. May that fine-minded 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,

ENFIELD, 1st June, 1839

CHARLES LAMB.

ALBUM VERSES.

WITH A FEW OTHERS.

IN THE AUTOGRAPH BOOK OF MRS. SERGEANT W

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.

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.

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,

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

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 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.
Should homely JOAN be fashion'd. But can
You BARBARA resist, or MARIAN?

Of coarsest household staff

And is not CLARE for love excuse enough?

Yet, by my faith in numbers, I profess,
These all, than Saxon EDITH, please me less.

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.

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.

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.