Parental smiles approvingly attend
Her pliant conduct of the trembling keys,
And listening strangers their glad suffrage lend.
Most musical is Nature. Birds-and bees
At their sweet labour-sing. The moaning winds
Rehearse a lesson to attentive minds.
In louder tones "Deep unto deep doth call;"
And there is music in the waterfall.
IN THE ALBUM OF ROTHA QUILLINAN].
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 called our Wordsworth friend.
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.
TO DORA W[ORDSWORTH], 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 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-Lamb
IN THE ALBUM OF MRS. JANE TOWERS.
LADY unknown, who cravest 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.
IN THE ALBUM OF EDITH S[OUTHEY]. (THE “ATHENÆUM," 1833.)
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 around!
How like a hymn doth sweet CECILIA Sound!
Of MARTHAS, and of ABIGAILS, few lines
Have bragged in verse.
Of coarsest household stuff
Should homely JOAN be fashionèd. 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,
IN THE ALBUM OF A FRENCH TEACHER.
IMPLORED for verse, I send you what I can;
But you are so exact a Frenchwoman,
As I am told, Jemima, that I fear
To wound with English your Parisian ear,
And think I do your choice collection wrong
With lines not written in the Frenchman's tongue.
Had I a knowledge equal to my will,
With airy Chansons I your leaves would fill ;
With Fabliaux that should emulate the vein
Of sprightly Gresset or of La Fontaine ;
Or Scènes Comiques, that should approach the air
Of your own favourite-renowned Molière.
But at my suit the Muse of France looks sour,
And strikes me dumb! Yet, what is in my power
To testify respect for you, I pray,
Take in plain English-our rough Enfield way.
IN THE ALBUM OF MISS DAUBENY.
SOME poets by poetic law
Have beauties praised they never saw ;
And sung of Kittys and of Nancys,
Whose charms but lived in their own fancies.
So I, to keep my Muse agoing,
That willingly would still be doing,
A Canzonet or two must try
In praise of pretty Daubeny.
But whether she indeed be comely,
Or only very good and homely,
Of my own eyes I cannot say ;
I trust to Emma Isola,
But sure I think her voice is tuneful,
As smoothest birds that sing in June full;
For else would strangely disagree
The flowing name of-Daubeny.
I hear that she a Book hath got-
As what young damsel now hath not,
In which they scribble favourite fancies,
Copied from poems or romances?
And prettiest draughts, of her design,
About the curious Album shine;
And therefore she shall have for me
The style of tasteful Daubeny.
Thus far I have taken on believing;
But well I know without deceiving,
That in her heart she keeps alive still
Old school-day likings, which survive still
In spite of absence-worldly coldness-
And thereon can my Muse take boldness
To crown her other praises three
With praise of-friendly Daubeny
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 stamped 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 finished 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-blurred thing to look-
Go, shut the leaves, and clasp the book.
["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 bedridden 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."]
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 bedrid 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-clogged spirit disabusing,
Death-disarming sleeps infusing,
Prelibations, foretastes high,
And equal thoughts to live or die.
Gardener bright from 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
Martyr to virginity.
Virtuous poor ones, sleep, sleep on,
And waking find your labours done.
THE CHRISTENING.
ARRAYED a half-angelic sight-
In vests of pure baptismal white,
The Mother to the Font doth bring
The little helpless nameless thing,
With hushes soft and mild caressing,
At once to get-a name and blessing.
Close by the Babe the Priest doth stand,
The Cleansing Water at his hand,
Which must assoil the soul within
From every stain of Adam's sin.
The Infant eyes the mystic scenes,
Nor knows what all this wonder means;
And now he smiles, as if to say,
"I am a Christian made this day;"
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