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 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, gestures, manners, and what not,
Conjecturing, I wonder 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 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.

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 realms 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.

TO BERNARD BARTON,

with a coloured print.1

WHEN last you left your Woodbridge pretty,
To stare at sights, and see the City,
If I your meaning understood,

You wish'd a Picture, cheap, but good;
The colouring? decent; clear, not muddy;
To suit a Poet's quiet study,

Where Books and Prints for delectation
Hang, rather than vain ostentation.
The subject? what I pleased, if comely;
But something scriptural and homely:
A sober Piece, not gay or wanton,
For winter fire-sides to descant on;
The theme so scrupulously handled,
A Quaker might look on unscandal'd ;
Such as might satisfy Ann Knight,
And classic Mitford just not fright.
Just such a one I've found, and send it;
If liked, I give—if not, but lend it.
The moral? nothing can be sounder.
The fable? 'tis its own expounder—
A Mother teaching to her Chit
Some good book, and explaining it.
He, silly urchin, tired of lesson,
His learning lays no mighty stress on,
But seems to hear not what he hears;
Thrusting his fingers in his ears,

Like Obstinate, that perverse funny one,
In honest parable of Bunyan.

1 From the venerable and ancient Manufactory of Carrington Bowles; some of my readers may recognise it.

His working Sister, more sedate,
Listens; but in a kind of state,
The painter meant for steadiness,
But has a tinge of sullenness;

And, at first sight, she seems to brook
As ill her needle, as he his book.
This is the Picture. For the Frame-
"Tis not ill suited to the same;
Oak-carved, nor gilt, for fear of falling;
Old-fashion'd; plain, yet not appalling;
And sober, as the Owner's Calling.

SHE IS GOING.

FOR their elder sister's hair
Martha does a wreath prepare
Of bridal rose, ornate and gay :
To-morrow is the wedding day :
She is going.

Mary, youngest of the three,
Laughing idler, full of glee,

Arm in arm does fondly chain her,
Thinking, poor trifler, to detain her-
But she's going.

Vex not, maidens, nor regret

Thus to part with Margaret.

Charms like yours can never stay

Long within doors; and one day
You'll be going.

TO A YOUNG FRIEND.

ON HER TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY.

CROWN me a cheerful goblet, while I

A blessing on thy years, young Isola;

pray

Young, but no more a child. How swift have flown To me thy girlish times, a woman grown

Or lack'd she the Promethean fire

(With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd) That should thy little limbs have quicken'd? Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure

Life of health, and days mature :
Woman's self in miniature!
Limbs so fair, they might supply
(Themselves now but cold imagery)
The sculptor to make Beauty by.
Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry,
That babe, or mother, one must die;
So in mercy left the stock,

And cut the branch; to save the shock
Of young years widow'd; and the pain,
When Single State comes back again
To the lone man who, 'reft of wife,
Thenceforward drags a maimèd life ?
The economy of Heaven is dark :
And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark,
Why Human Buds, like this, should fall,
More brief than fly ephemeral,
That has his day; while shrivell'd crones
Stiffen with age to stocks and stones;
And crabbed use the conscience sears
In sinners of an hundred years.
Mother's prattle, mother's kiss,
Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss.
Rites, which custom does impose,
Silver bells and baby clothes,
Coral redder than those lips,

Which pale death did late eclipse;

Music framed for infant's glee,

Whistle never tuned for thee;

Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them, Loving hearts were they which gave them.

Let not one be missing; nurse,

See them laid upon the hearse
Of infant slain by doom perverse