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, written strange defeatures" there; And Time with heaviest hand of all, Hath stamped sad dates—he can't recall; And error gilding worst designs Like speckled snake that strays and shinesBetrays his path by crooked lines; And vice hath left his ugly blot; And fruitless, late remorse doth trace- Disjointed numbers; sense unknit; My scalded eyes no longer brook COMMENDATORY VERSES, ETC. TO J. S. KNOWLES, ESQ. ON HIS TRAGEDY OF VIRGINIUS. TWELVE years ago I knew thee, Knowles, and then Esteemed you a perfect specimen Of those fine spirits warm-souled Ireland sends, To teach us colder English how a friend's Quick pulse should beat. I knew you brave, and plain, Strong-sensed, rough-witted, above fear or gain; But nothing further had the gift to espy. Sudden you re-appear. you re-appear. With wonder 1 Hear my old friend (turned Shakspeare) read a scene Only to his inferior in the clean Passes of pathos; with such fence-like art Ere we can see the steel, 'tis in our heart. Almost without the aid language affords, Your piece seems wrought. That huffing medium, words, (Which in the modern Tamburlaines quite sway Those strange few words at ease, that wrought the pain. Proceed, old friend; and, as the year returns, Still snatch some new old story from the urns TO THE AUTHOR OF POEMS, PUBLISHED UNDER THE NAME OF BARRY CORNWALL. LET hate, or grosser heats, their foulness mask. Let things eschew the light deserving blame : And thy "Sicilian Tale" may boldly pass; No longer then, as "lowly substitute, TO THE EDITOR OF THE "EVERY-DAY BOOK." I LIKE you, and your book, ingenuous Hone! In whose capacious all-embracing leaves The very narrow of tradition's shown; And all that history-much that fiction-weaves. By every sort of taste your work is graced. Rome's lie-fraught legends you so truly paint- And cannot curse the candid heretic. |