Yea, on films more finely spun,
All things hang, beneath the sun.
Rapt through a wildering dream,
Awake in sleep I seem;
Sorrow wrings my soul with anguish,
Joy expands my throbbing breast;
Now, o'erwhelm'd with care, I languish,
Now serene and tranquil rest;
-Morning comes, and all between
Is as though it ne'er had been.
But Time has daylight hours,
And man, immortal powers;
Waking joy and sleepless sorrow,
Worldly care and heavenly peace;
Life, renew'd with every morrow,
Not in death itself shall cease;
Man, through all eternity,
What he here hath been shall be.
May she, whose skilful hand
-This fairy net-work plann'd,
Still, in innocent employment,
Far from vanity and vice,
Seek the Pearl of pure enjoyment,
On her path to Paradise ;
Time, for earth or heaven, employ'd,
(Both have claims) is time enjoy'd. Each day to her, in flight,
Bequeath a gem at night;
Some sweet hope, some hallow'd pleasure,
From remembrance ne'er to part:
Hourly blessings swell the treasure
Hidden in her grateful heart,
And may every moment past
Leave a ray to gild her last.
A. H. R. to her Friends and Contributors, written to accompany her Portrait, at the beginning of the Book.
Now look upon my face, and
If you can turn your eyes away,
Nor grant the little boon I ask,
As if it were some mighty task.
What is it?-Only take your pen,
Look wise, and think a moment,--then
Write any thing, to which, for shame,
You need not fear to put your name;
Or, with the pencil's curious skill,
Draw flowers, birds, figures,-what you will;
I, like my elders and my betters,
Love pictures quite as well as letters.
Thus, page by page, my album store,
Till it an album be no more,
But, richly fill'd, from end to end,
On every leaf present a Friend.
Now look upon my face, and see
Yourself, your very self, in me;
Were you not once as mild and meek,
With lip demure, and plump round cheek?
Did you not sometimes, too, look sly
Out of the corner of your eye,
As if you held an infant's jest,
Like a bird fluttering, to your breast,
Which wanted but an inch of wing,
Up through the air to soar and sing?
So I can feign to hide a joke,
And be as arch as graver folk.
Well, time runs on, and I, you know,
As tall and stout as you may grow,
Nay, more unlike my portrait here,
Than you just now like me appear.
Ah! then, if I must change so fast,
What will become of me at last?
-A poor, old woman of fourscore !
That's a long way to look before,
So I would learn of you, meanwhile,
How best the journey to beguile.
Look in my face again, you'll find
The album of an infant's mind,
Unsoil'd by care, unworn by grief,
Like new-fall'n snow each maiden-leaf,
On which, if not in black and white,
In lines eternal, you may write
All that is lovely, pure, and good,
To be possessed or understood.
Then, in this volume, as it lies,
Trace words and pictures to my eyes,
Which, thence, their mystic way may find,
Into that album of my mind,
And there impress each opening page,
With thoughts for childhood, youth, and age;
Breathe a sweet spirit through the whole,
That, like a soul within my soul,
Shall, by the early impulse given,
Guide me on earth, and bring to heaven.
Let every leaf unfold a text,
Either for this world or the next;
To learn of each, I'm nothing loth,
They tell me I was born for both.
Let mirth with innocence combine,
And human knowledge aid divine.
Thus form'd by it, and it by you,
This Book shall render each their due;
For whoso peeps therein may start,
As though he look'd into my heart:
And if he did, you must beware,
That he would see your image there;
Then grant the boon with such a grace,
That you may have a good, warm place:
-Walk in, walk in; my heart, though small,
Is large enough to hold you all.
A little girl, who begged to have some verses from the author, at Scarborough,
MARGARET! we never met before,
And, Margaret! we may meet no more;
What shall I say at parting?
Scarce half a moon has run her race,
Since first I saw your fairy-face,
Around this gay and giddy place,
Sweet smiles and blushes darting;
Yet from my soul, I frankly tell,
I cannot help but wish you well.
I dare not wish you stores of wealth,
A troop of friends, unfailing health,
And freedom from affliction;
I dare not wish you beauty's prize,
Carnation lips, and bright blue eyes,
These look through tears, those breathe in sighs ;-
Hear then my benediction;
Of these good gifts be you possest
Just in the measure God sees best.
But, little Margaret, may you be
All that His eye delights to see,
All that He loves and blesses;
The Lord in darkness be your light,
Your help in need, your shield in fight,
Your comfort in distresses;
Your hope through every future breath,
And
your eternal joy in death!
FAIR page ! the eye that looks on thee
Ere long shall slumber in the dust,
And wake no more, until it see
The resurrection of the just:
-May He, to whom that eye belongs,
Join their assembly and their songs.
Whose is that eye ?-Just now 'tis mine,
But, reader! when thou look'st 'tis thine.
Written with pencil round an insect of that kind, which had been accidentally crushed, and remained fixed on a blank page of a Lady's Album.
LIE here embalm'd, from age to age;
This is the album's noblest page,
Though every glowing leaf be fraught
With painting, poetry, and thought;
Where tracks of mortal hands are seen,
A hand invisible hath been,
And left this autograph behind,
This image from th' eternal Mind;
A work of skill, surpassing sense,
A labour of Omnipotence;
Though frail as dust it meet thine eye,
He form'd this gnat who built the sky.
Stop-lest it vanish at thy breath,
This speck had life, and suffer'd death.
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