« PreviousContinue »
Your little heretic nun. How timid-bashful
John. Now Margaret weeps herself.
With unwash'd hands, and lips unused to the 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,
Marg. I know it.
John. St. Mary Ottery, my native village In the sweet shire of Devon.
Those are the bells.
Marg. Wilt go to church, John? John. I have been there already. Marg. How canst say thou hast been there already? The bells are only now ringing for morning service, and hast thou been at church | already?
John. I left my bed betimes, I could not sleep, And when I rose, I look'd (as my custom is) From my chamber window, where I can see the sun rise;
And the first object I discern'd
Was the glistering spire of St. Mary Ottery.
John. Then I remember'd 'twas the sabbath-day.
Thou would'st but discompose their pious thoughts,
And do thyself no good: for how could'st thou
(Not having been at church in all that time,)
"Doubtless (said I) one might find comfort in it."
Or was about to act unlawful business
I flew to the church, and found the doors wide
(Whether by negligence I knew not,
Or some peculiar grace to me vouchsafed,
John. So entering in, not without fear,
And covering up my eyes for shame,
A docile infant by Sir Walter's side;
But afterwards was greatly comforted.
It seem'd, the guilt of blood was passing from me
A DRAMATIC SKETCH OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.
OLD SERVANT in the Family of SIR FRANCIS FAIRFORD.
Was pacing to and fro in the avenue
That westward fronts our house,
Servant. ONE summer night Sir Francis, as it So saying, she departed,
And begg'd an alms.
Some say he shoved her rudely from the gate
For she was one who practised the black arts,
A mischief, mischief, mischief, And a nine-times killing curse,
Among those aged oaks, said to have been planted
Three hundred years ago,
By a neighb'ring prior of the Fairford name.
Young Philip Fairford suddenly fell sick,
And pined, and pined, till all his hair fell off,
By day and by night, to the caitiff wight,
And still she cried
Leaving Sir Francis like a man, beneath
Whose feet a scaffolding was suddenly falling;
And a nine-fold withering curse :
For that shall come to thee that will undo thee,
Stranger. A terrible curse! What follow'd? Servant. Nothing immediate, but some two months after,
And, when they ask'd him his complaint, he laid
Where Susan came to him a-nights, he said,
('Twas partly like a woman's voice,
And partly like the hissing of a snake,)
And thereupon Sir Francis call'd to mind
(Sir Francis told the words):
He bore his death-wound like a little child;
(The mystery of God) unbeautified,
WITH A FEW OTHERS.
ENFIELD, 1st June, 1839.
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, 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,
or otherwise floating about interest in their publication.
in Periodicals; which you have chosen in this manner to embody. I feel little 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 Moxon, your Friend and sincere Well-Wisher,
IN THE AUTOGRAPH BOOK OF
HAD I a power, Lady, to my will,
The hands of famous Lawyers-a grave band-
TO DORA W—,
ON BEING ASKED BY HER FATHER TO WRITE IN HER
AN Album is a Banquet: from the store,
Obedient to his bidding, lo, I am,
• Acetaria, a Discourse of Sallets, by J. E. 1706,
IN THE ALBUM OF A CLERGYMAN'S LADY.
AN Album is a Garden, not for show
A Cabinet of curious porcelain, where
No fancy enters, but what's rich or rare.
A Chapel, where mere ornamental things
IN THE ALBUM OF EDITH S.
And is not CLARE for love excuse enough?
IN THE ALBUM OF ROTHA QA 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
Who call'd our Wordsworth friend. My thoughts did frame
A growing Maiden, who, from day to day
IN THE ALBUM OF CATHERINE ORKNEY.
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
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 THE ALBUM OF LUCY BARTON.
LITTLE Book, surnamed of white,
Never disproportion'd scrawl; Ugly blot, that's worse than all; On thy maiden clearness fall!
In each letter, here design'd, Let the reader emblem'd find Neatness of the owner's mind.
Gilded margins count a sin, Let thy leaves attraction win By the golden rules within;
Sayings fetch'd from sages old; Laws which Holy Writ unfold, Worthy to be graved in gold:
Lighter fancies not excluding: Blameless wit, with nothing rude in, Sometimes mildly interluding
Amid strains of graver measure : Virtue's self hath oft her pleasure In sweet Muses' groves of leisure.