Already by kind Heaven so far

Beyond my wishes bless'd,

I would not, with presumptuous prayer,

Petition for the best.

While thou art wise, and good, and fair, Thou art that best to me;

Nor would I, might I choose, prefer

A lovelier still to thee.

STANZAS.

(WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM).

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Shewing why the proprietor's face is so little altered from what it was a short time ago.

ONE day, as perch'd by Fanny's chair
I listen'd to her chat so blithe,

I turn'd my head, and who was there
But gruff old Time, with glass and scythe!

He, when he saw me, nodded low

His single lock;-full well knows he

That poets are his lords below,

And therefore pays them courtesy.

And prithee," said I with a bow,

"Old Haymaker, what dost thou here?

Art come to furrow o'er a brow

Thou hast not touch'd for many a-year?

Beware! if to my cousin's eyes

Or cheeks thou dar'st do aught of wrong, I'll disappoint thee of thy prize,

And shrine them in immortal song."

The greybeard answer'd,-""Tis, indeed,
A task I've oft in vain essay'd;

For they, who are my friends at need,
In this distress refuse their aid.

Sickness, who wins me many breasts,
Assails this active nymph in vain;
And Care, my pioneer, protests

He can't find entrance to her brain.

And yet I've often ventured near,
Attempting, in my stealthy way,
With my slow-working razor here,
To pilfer charm by charm away.

But when I view the simple grace

That crowns the dear provoking charmer,

Her cheerful smiles, and merry face,

I can't find in my heart to harm her!"

SONNET.

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I know thee not, sweet Lady, but I know
(At least they know who say so) that thou art
Lovely of form, and innocent of heart,

A creature of meek thoughts, and tears that flow
From quiet love, and happy smiles, that throw
A moonlight round them. And thou art the bride
Of one by faith and goodness sanctified,
High-hearted, gentle, wise, and firm in woe.
Ah! wherefore such transcendent gifts bestow'd
On one, so rich already? Why not given

To one, whose soul more needed such sweet stay;
Some hapless wight, like me, at random driven,
Lonely and sad, along life's rugged road,

Without a breeze of love to cheer me on the way?

SONNET.

THE SILK HANDKERCHIEF.

"It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul!"

My heart leapt in me, as with swimming eye
I gazed upon that glossy kerchief white,
And the fair neck it shaded-'twas a sight
To steep a poet in fine phantasy

Of some Elysian world, or wake soft sigh
In the chill breast of woe lorn Anchorite.
Sweet maid! should it hereafter be

my plight To wander in some desert dull and dry,

Far from the haunts of men-alone to rove,

With my sad thoughts for partners, neither book,

Nor music, nor green field, nor woman's love,
To cheer my hopeless solitude-I'll look

To memory for my solace and delight,

And think of that fair neck, and glossy kerchief white!