How timid-bashful Your little heretic nun. And praised it in a youth. John. Now Margaret weeps herself. (A noise of bells heard). Marg. Hark the bells, John. Thou would'st but discompose their pious thoughts, And do thyself no good: for how could'st thou pray, With unwash'd hands, and lips unused to the offices?" 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. 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. Immediately a wish arose in my mind, To go to church and pray with Christian people. And then I check'd myself, and said to myself, "Thou hast been a heathen, John, these two years past, (Not having been at church in all that time,) And is it fit, that now for the first time Thou should'st offend the eyes of Christian people With a murderer's presence in the house of prayer? Having such cause of grief! I wept outright; And I began to pray, and found I could pray; church. "Doubtless (said I) one might find comfort in it." So stealing down the stairs, like one that fear'd detection, Or was about to act unlawful business I flew to the church, and found the doors wide open. (Whether by negligence I knew not, Or some peculiar grace to me vouchsafed, Marg. Yes. 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 THE WITCH. A DRAMATIC SKETCH OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. CHARACTERS. OLD SERVANT in the Family of SIR FRANCIS FAIRFORD. STRANGER. Servant. ONE summer night Sir Francis, as it So saying, she departed, chanced, Was pacing to and fro in the avenue That westward fronts our house, Among those aged oaks, said to have been planted Three hundred years ago, By a neighb'ring prior of the Fairford name. Being o'ertask'd in thought, he heeded not Leaving Sir Francis like a man, beneath Stranger. A terrible curse! What follow'd? Servant. Nothing immediate, but some twe months after, 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 begg'd an alms. Some say he shoved her rudely from the gate For she was one who practised the black arts, And served the devil, being since burnt for witchcraft. And pined, and pined, till all his hair fell off, As a two-month's babe that has been starved in the nursing. And sure I think He bore his death-wound like a little child; there; 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, ALBUM VERSES. WITH A FEW OTHERS. DEAR MOXON, DEDICATION. 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 AlbumsThose 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 Moxon, your Friend and sincere Well-Wisher, ENFIELD, 1st June, 1839. CHARLES LAMB. 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 ALBUM. AN Album is a Banquet: from the store, Obedient to his bidding, lo, I am, A zealous, meek, contributory LAMB. • 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 grow. A Cabinet of curious porcelain, where No fancy enters, but what's rich or rare. IN THE ALBUM OF EDITH S IN Christian world MARY the garland wears! IN THE ALBUM OF ROTHA Q—. A PASSING glance was all I caught of thee, Who call'd our Wordsworth friend. My thoughts did frame A growing Maiden, who, from day to day IN THE ALBUM OF 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 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; 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. S S Riddles dark, perplexing sense; Whitest thoughts in whitest dress, Candid meanings, best express Mind of quiet Quakeress. II. But stop, rash verse! and don't abuse Of that same goodness you admire, IN THE ALBUM OF MRS. JANE TOWERS. Conjecturing, I wander in the dark. I know thee only Sister to Charles Clarke ! thou be The pure reverse of this, and I mistake— IN THE ALBUM OF MISS I. And, if SUCH goodness in your face doth shine, IN MY OWN ALBUM. FRESH clad from heaven in robes of white, A spotless leaf; but thought, and care, And Time with heaviest hand of all, And error gilding worst designs- And vice hath left his ugly blot; And fruitless, late remorse doth trace- Disjointed numbers; sense unknit; My scalded eyes no longer brook |