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 ROTHA Q----.
A 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.
* * * * * IN THE ALBUM OF CATHERINE ORKNEY.
CANADIA! boast no more the toils Of hunters for the furry spoils; Your whitest ermines are but foils 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 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.
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_, 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; 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.
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.
* * * * * IN THE ALBUM OF MRS.

JANE TOWERS.
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.