I do not love to credit tales of magic.
Heaven's music, which is Order, seems unstrung, And this brave world (The mystery of God) unbeautified, Disorder'd, marr'd, where such strange things are acted.
ALBUM VERSES, WITH A FEW OTHERS.
DEDICATION.
* * * * * TO THE PUBLISHER.
DEAR 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, intrusted 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.