And, if thou be The pure reverse of this, and I mistake-- Demure one, I will like thee for his sake.
* * * * * IN THE ALBUM OF MISS -- --.
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! II.
But stop, rash verse! 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 MY OWN ALBUM.
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; And fruitless, late remorse doth trace-- Like Hebrew lore a backward pace-- Her irrecoverable race.
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.
MISCELLANEOUS.
* * * * * ANGEL HELP[1] [Footnote 1: Suggested by a drawing in the possession of Charles Aders, Esq., in which is represented the legend of a poor female Saint; who, having spun past midnight, to maintain a bedrid mother, has fallen asleep from fatigue, and Angels are finishing her work.

In another part of the chamber, an angel is tending a lily, the emblem of purity.] This rare tablet doth include Poverty with sanctitude.
Past midnight this poor maid hath spun, And yet the work is not half done, Which must supply from earnings scant A feeble bedrid parent's want.
Her sleep-charged eyes exemption ask, And Holy hands take up the task; Unseen the rock and spindle ply, And do her earthly drudgery.
Sleep, saintly poor one! sleep, sleep on; And, waking, find thy labors done.
Perchance she knows it by her dreams; Her eye hath caught the golden gleams, Angelic presence testifying, That round her everywhere are flying; Ostents from which she may presume, That much of heaven is in the room.
Skirting her own bright hair they run, And to the sunny add more sun: Now on that aged face they fix, Streaming from the Crucifix; The flesh-clogg'd spirit disabusing, Death-disarming sleeps infusing, Prelibations, foretastes high, And equal thoughts to live or die.
Gardener bright from Eden's bower, Tend with care that lily flower; To its leaves and root infuse Heaven's sunshine, Heaven's dews.
'Tis a type, and 'tis a pledge, Of a crowning privilege.
Careful as that lily flower, This maid must keep her precious dower; Live a sainted maid, or die Martyr to virginity.
* * * * * ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN.
I saw where in the shroud did lurk A curious frame of Nature's work.
A flow'ret crushed in the bud, A nameless piece of Babyhood, Was in her cradle-coffin lying; Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying: So soon to exhange the imprisoning womb For darker closets of the tomb! She did but ope an eye, and put A clear beam forth, then straight up shut For the long dark: ne'er more to see Through glasses of mortality.
Riddle of destiny, who can show What thy short visit meant, or know What thy errand here below?
Shall we say, that Nature blind Check'd her hand, and changed her mind, Just when she had exactly wrought A finish'd pattern without fault?
Could she flag, or could she tire, Or lack'd she the Promethean fire (With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd) That should thy little limbs have quicken'd?
Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure Life of health and days mature: Woman's self in miniature! Limbs so fair, they might supply (Themselves now but cold imagery) The sculptor to make Beauty by.
Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry, That babe or mother, one must die; So in mercy left the stock, And cut the branch; to save the shock Of young years widow'd; and the pain, When Single State comes back again To the lone man who, 'reft of wife, Thenceforward drags a maimed life?
The economy of Heaven is dark; And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark, Why Human Buds, like this, should fall, More brief than fly ephemeral, That has his day; while shrivell'd crones Stiffen with age to stocks and stones; And crabbed use the conscience sears In sinners of an hundred years.
Mother's prattle, mother's kiss, Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss.
Rites, which custom does impose, Silver bells and baby clothes; Coral redder than those lips, Which pale death did late eclipse; Music framed for infants' glee, Whistle never tuned for thee; Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them, Loving hearts were they which gave them.
Let not one be missing; nurse, See them laid upon the hearse Of infant slain by doom perverse.
Why should kings and nobles have Pictured trophies to their grave; And we, churls, to thee deny Thy pretty toys with thee to lie, A more harmless vanity?
* * * * * THE CHRISTENING.
Array'd--a half-angelic sight-- In vests of pure Baptismal white, The mother to the Font doth bring The little helpless nameless thing, With hushes soft and mild caressing, At once to get--a name and blessing.
Close by the babe the Priest doth stand, The Cleansing Water at his hand, Which must assoil the soul within From every stain of Adam's sin.
The Infant eyes the mystic scenes, Nor knows what all this wonder means; And now he smiles, as if to say "I am a Christian made this day;" Now frighted clings to Nurse's hold, Shrinking from the water cold, Whose virtues, rightly understood, Are, as Bethesda's waters, good.
Strange words--The World, The Flesh, The Devil-- Poor Babe, what can it know of evil?
But we must silently adore Mysterious truths, and not explore.
Enough for him, in after-times, When he shall read these artless rhymes, If, looking back upon this day With quiet conscience, he can say-- "I have in part redeem'd the pledge Of my Baptismal privilege; And more and more will strive to flee All which my Sponsors kind did then renounce for me." * * * * * THE YOUNG CATECHIST[1] [Footnote 1: A picture by Henry Meyer, Esq.] While this tawny Ethiop prayeth, Painter, who is she that stayeth By, with skin of whitest lustre, Sunny locks, a shining cluster, Saint-like seeming to direct him To the Power that must protect him?
Is she of the Heaven-born Three, Meek Hope, strong Faith, sweet Charity; Or some Cherub ?-- They you mention Far transcend my weak invention.
'Tis a simple Christian child, Missionary young and mild, From her stock of Scriptural knowledge, Bible-taught without a college, Which by reading she could gather Teaches him to say OUR FATHER To the common Parent, who Color not respects, nor hue.
White and black in Him have part, Who looks not to the skin, but heart.
* * * * * TO A YOUNG FRIEND, ON HER TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY.
Crown me a cheerful goblet, while I pray A blessing on thy years, young Isola; Young, but no more a child.

How swift have flown To me thy girlish times, a woman grown Beneath my heedless eyes! in vain I rack My fancy to believe the almanac, That speaks thee Twenty-One.

Thou shouldst have still Remain'd a child, and at thy sovereign will Gambol'd about our house, as in times past.
Ungrateful Emma, to grow up so fast, Hastening to leave thy friends!--for which intent, Fond Runagate, be this thy punishment: After some thirty years, spent in such bliss As this earth can afford, where still we miss Something of joy entire, may'st thou grow old As we whom thou hast left! That wish was cold.
O far more aged and wrinkled, till folks say, Looking upon thee reverend in decay, "This Dame, for length of days, and virtues rare, With her respected Grandsire may compare." Grandchild of that respected Isola, Thou shouldst have had about thee on this day Kind looks of Parents, to congratulate Their Pride grown up to woman's grave estate.
But they have died, and left thee, to advance Thy fortunes how thou may'st, and owe to chance The friends which nature grudged.