Why should kings and nobles have
Pictured trophies to their grave;
And we, churls, to thee deny
Thy pretty toys with thee to lie,
A more harmless vanity?

1828.

THE CHRISTENING.

ARRAY'D-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;"

Now frighted clings to Nurse's hold,
Shrinking from the water cold,
Whose virtues, rightly understood,

Are, as Bethesda's waters, good.

Strange words-the World, the Flesh, the Devil

Poor Babe, what can it know of Evil?

But we must silently adore

Mysterious truths, and not explore.

Enough for him, in after-times,

When he shall read these artless rhymes,

If, looking back upon this day
With quiet conscience, he can say
I have in part redeem'd the pledge
Of my Baptismal privilege;

And more and more will strive to flee

All which my Sponsors kind did then renounce for me."

IN THE ALBUM OF MISS

I.

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!

II.

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.

1829.

THE GIPSY'S MALISON.

"SUCK, baby, suck, mother's love grows by giving, Drain the sweet founts that only thrive by wasting; Black manhood comes, when riotous guilty living Hands thee the cup that shall be death in tasting.

"Kiss, baby, kiss, mother's lips shine by kisses,
Choke the warm breath that else would fall in blessings;
Black manhood comes, when turbulent guilty blisses
Tend thee the kiss that poisons 'mid caressings.

። Hang, baby, hang, mother's love loves such forces, Strain the fond neck that bends still to thy clinging;

Black manhood comes, when violent lawless courses
Leave thee a spectacle in rude air swinging."

So sang a wither'd Beldam energetical,

And bann'd the ungiving door with lips prophetical.

1829.

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 eisewhere, 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.
SERJEANT 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 Serjeantry.
But I have none of these; nor can I send
The notes by Bullen to her Tyrant penn'd

H

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 A VERY YOUNG LADY.
Joy to unknown Josepha who, I hear,

Of all good gifts, to Music most is given ;
Science divine, which through the enraptured ear
Enchants the soul, and lifts it nearer Heaven.
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,

All 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 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-renown'd 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

I.

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 a-going,

That willingly would still be doing,

A Canzonet or two must try

In praise of pretty Daubeny.

II.

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.

III.

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.

IV.

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