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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.

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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.

IN THE ALBUM OF CATHERINE ORKNEY.

IN THE ALBUM OF A CLERGYMAN'S

LADY.

CANADIA ! boast no more the toils Of hunters for the furry spoils ; Your whitest ermines are but foils

To brighter Catherine Orkney.

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 elsewhere, they here yet speak and live.
Such, and so tender, should an Album be;
And, Lady, such I wish this book to thee.

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.

IN THE ALBUM OF EDITH S

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 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 Luoy shines !
What air of fragrance ROSAMOND throws round !
How like a hymn doth sweet CECILIA sound !
Of MARTIIAS, and of ABIGAILS, few lines
Have bragg'd in verse. Of coarsest household stuff
Should homely Joan be fashion'd. 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 LUCY BARTON.

LITTLE Book, surnamed of white, Clean as yet, and fair to sight, Keep thy attribution right.

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 ;

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

be, Who call'd our Wordsworth friend. My thoughts

did frame
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.

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.

SS

11.

Riddles dark, perplexing sense;
Darker meanings of offence ;
What but shades-be banish'd hence.

Whitest thoughts in whitest dress, Candid meanings, best express Mind of quiet Quakeress.

But stop, rash verse I 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.

IN THE ALBUM OF MRS. JANE TOWERS.

IN MY OWN ALBUM.

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, 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.

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;

IN THE ALBUM OF MISS

And fruitless, late remorse doth traceLike Hebrew lore a backward paceHer irrecoverable race.

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!

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-blurr'd thing to look-
Go, shut the leaves, and clasp the book.

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