ΤΟ

ON SEEING HER WITH A WHITE VEIL AND A RICH GIRDLE.

Μαργαρίται δηλουσι δακρύων ῥρον.

Ap. NICEPHOR. in Oneirocritico.

PUT off the vestal veil, nor, oh! Let weeping angels view it; Your cheeks belie its virgin snow, And blush repenting through it.

Put off the fatal zone you wear;

The shining pearls around it Are tears, that fell from Virtue there, The hour when Love unbound it.

WRITTEN IN THE BLANK LEAF

OF

A LADY'S COMMONPLACE BOOK. HERE is one leaf reserv'd for me, From all thy sweet memorials free; And here my simple song might tell The feelings thou must guess so well. But could I thus, within thy mind, One little vacant corner find, Where no impression yet is seen, Where no memorial yet hath been, Oh! it should be my sweetest care To write my name for ever there!

ΤΟ

MRS. BL

WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM.

THEY say that Love had once a book (The urchin likes to copy you), Where, all who came, the pencil took, And wrote, like us, a line or two.

'Twas Innocence, the maid divine,

Who kept this volume bright and fair, And saw that no unhallow'd line

Or thought profane should enter there;

And daily did the pages fill

With fond device and loving lore, And every leaf she turn'd was still

More bright than that she turn'd before.

Beneath the touch of Hope, how soft,
How light the magic pencil ran!
Till Fear would come, alas, as oft,

And trembling close what Hope began.

A tear or two had dropp'd from Grief,
And Jealousy would, now and then,
Ruffle in haste some snow-white leaf,
Which Love had still to smooth again.

But, ah! there came a blooming boy,
Who often turn'd the pages o'er,
And wrote therein such words of joy,
That all who read them sigh'd for more.

And Pleasure was this spirit's name,

And though so soft his voice and look, Yet Innocence, whene'er he came, Would tremble for her spotless book. For, oft a Bacchant cup he bore,

With earth's sweet nectar sparkling bright; And much she fear'd lest, mantling o'er,

Some drops should on the pages light.

And so it chanc'd, one luckless night,
The urchin let that goblet fall
O'er the fair book, so pure, so white,

And sullied lines and marge and all!

In vain now, touch'd with shame, he tried
To wash those fatal stains away;
Deep, deep had sunk the sullying tide,

The leaves grew darker every day.

And Fancy's sketches lost their hue,

And Hope's sweet lines were all effac'd, And Love himself now scarcely knew What Love himself so lately trac'd.

At length the urchin Pleasure fled,

(For how, alas! could Pleasure stay?) And Love, while many a tear he shed, Reluctant flung the book away.

The index now alone remains,

Of all the pages spoil'd by Pleasure, And though it bears some earthy stains,

Yet Memory counts the leaf a treasure.

And oft, they say, she scans it o'er,

And oft, by this memorial aided, Brings back the pages now no more, And thinks of lines that long have faded.

I know not if this tale be true,

But thus the simple facts are stated; And I refer their truth to you,

Since Love and you are near related.