Your little heretic nun. How timid-bashful Thou would'st but discompose their pious Did John salute his love, being newly seen !

thoughts, Sir Rowland term'd it a rare modesty,

And do thyself no good : for how could'st thou And praised it in a youth.

pray, John. Now Margaret weeps herself.

With unwash'd hands, and lips unused to the (A noise of bells heard).

offices?” Marg. Hark the bells, John.

And then I at my own presumption smiled; John. Those are the church bells of St. Mary And then I wept that I should smile at all, Ottery.

Having such cause of grief ! I wept outright; Marg. I know it.

Tears like a river flooded all my face, John. St. Mary Ottery, my native village

And I began to pray, and found I could pray; In the sweet shire of Devon.

And still I yearn'd to say my prayers in the Those are the bells.

church. Marg.

Wilt go to church, John? “Doubtless (said I) one might find comfort in it." John. I have been there already.

So stealing down the stairs, like one that fear'd Marg. How canst say thou hast been there detection, already? The bells are only now ringing for Or was about to act unlawful business morning service, and hast thou been at church At that dead time of dawn, already?

I flew to the church, and found the doors wide John. I left my bed betimes, I could not sleep, open. And when I rose, I look'd (as my custom is) (Whether by negligence I knew not, From my chamber window, where I can see the or some peculiar grace to me vouchsafed, sun rise;

For all things felt like mystery).
And the first object I discern'd

Marg. Yes.
Was the glistering spire of St. Mary Ottery. John. So entering in, not without fear,
Marg. Well, John.

I past into the family pew,
John. Then I remember'd 'twas the sabbath-day. And covering up my eyes for shame,
Immediately a wish arose in my mind,

And deep perception of unworthiness,
To go to church and pray with Christian people. Upon the little hassock knelt me down,
And then I check'd myself, and said to myself, Where I so oft had kneelid,
“Thou hast been a heathen, John, these two years A docile infant by Sir Walter's side;
past,

And, thinking so, I wept a second flood (Not having been at church in all that time,) More poignant than the first And is it fit, that now for the first time

But afterwards was greatly comforted. Thou should'st offend the eyes of Christian people It seem'd, the guilt of blood was passing from me With a murderer's presence in the house of Even in the act and agony of tears, prayer ?

And all my sins forgiven.

Servant. One summer night Sir Francis, as it | So saying, she departed, chanced,

Leaving Sir Francis like a man, beneath Was pacing to and fro in the avenue

Whose feet a scaffolding was suddenly falling; That westward fronts our house,

So he described it. Among those aged oaks, said to have been planted Stranger. A terrible curse! What follow'd ? Three hundred years ago,

Servant. Nothing immediate, but some two By a neighb’ring prior of the Fairford name.

months after, Being o'ertask'd in thought, he heeded not Young Philip Fairford suddenly fell sick, The importunate suit of one who stood by the And none could tell what ail'd him ; for he lay, gate,

And pined, and pined, till all his hair fell off, And begg'd an alms.

And he, that was full-flesh'd, became as thin Some say he shoved her rudely from the gate As a two-month's babe that has been starved in With angry chiding; but I can never think

the nursing. (Our master's nature hath a sweetness in it) And sure I think That he could use a woman, an old woman, He bore his death-wound like a little child; With such discourtesy ; but he refused her With such rare sweetness of dumb melancholy And better had he met a lion in his path

He strove to clothe his agony in smiles, Than that old woman that night;

Which he would force up in his poor pale cheeks, For she was one who practised the black arts, Like ill-timed guests that had no proper dwelling And served the devil, being since burnt for witch

there; craft.

And, when they ask'd him his complaint, he laid She look'd at him as one that meant to blast him, His hand upon his heart to show the place, And with a frightful noise,

Where Susan came to him a-nights, he said, ('Twas partly like a woman's voice,

And prick'd him with a pin.And partly like the hissing of a snake,)

And thereupon Sir Francis call’d to mind She nothing said but this

The beggar-witch that stood by the gateway (Sir Francis told the words) :

And begg’d an alms.
Stranger.

But did the witch confess?
A mischief, mischief, mischief,
And a nine-times killing curse,

Servant. All this and more at her death. By day and by night, to the caitiff wight,

Stranger. I do not love to credit tales of magic. Who shakes the poor like snakes from his door,

Heaven's music, which is Order, seems unstrung, And shuts up the womb of his purse.

And this brave world And still she cried

(The mystery of God) unbeautified, A mischief,

Disorder'd, marr'd, where such strange things are And a nine-fold withering curse :

acted. For that shall come to thee that will undo thee,

Both all that thou fearest and worse.

ALBUM VERSES.

WITH A FEW OTHERS.

DEDICATION.

TO THE PUBLISHER. DRAR Moxon,

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, entrusted 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 honoured 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 Moxor, your Friend and sincere Well-wisher, ENFIELD, 1st June, 1839.

CHARLES LAMB.

ON BEING ASKED BY HER FATHER TO WRITE IS HER

ALBUM

IN THE AUTOGRAPH BOOK OF

TO DORA W-, MRS. SERGEANT WHad I a power, Lady, to my will, You should not want Hand Writings. I would fill An Album is a Banquet : from the store, Your leaves with Autographs—resplendent names In his intelligential Orchard growing, Of Knights and Squires of old, and courtly Dames, Your Sire might heap your board to overdowing: Kings, Emperors, Popes. Next under these One shaking of the Tree-'twould ask no inore should stand

To set a Salad forth, more rich than that The hands of famous Lawyers--a grave band Which Evelyn * in his princely cookery fancied: Who in their Courts of Law or Equity

Or that more rare, by Eve's neat hands enhanced, Have hest upheld Freedom and Property. Where, a pleased guest, the Angelic Virtue sat. These should moot cases in your book, and vie But like the all-grasping Founder of the Feast, To show their reading and their Sergeantry. Whom Nathan to the sinning king did tas, But I have none of these ; nor can I send From his less wealthy neighbours he exacts ; The notes by Bullen to her Tyrant penn'd Spares his own flocks, and takes the poor man's In her authentic hand ; nor in soft hours

beast. Lines writ by Rosamund in Clifford's bowers. Obedient to his bidding, lo, I am, The lack of curious Signatures I moan,

A zealous, meek, contributory

LAMR And want the courage to subscribe my own.

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