From this dark den of crime-this horrid lair
Of men, that savager than monsters are ;
And scorning longer, in this tangled mesh
Of ills, to wait on perishable flesh,

Did with their desperate hands anticipate
The too, too slow relief of lingering fate.
And if religion did not stay thine hand,
And God, and Plato's wise behests, withstand,
I would in like case counsel thee to throw
This senseless burden off, of cares below.
Not wine, as wine, men choose, but as it came
From such or such a vintage: 'tis the same
With life, which simply must be understood
A black negation, if it be not good.
But if 'tis wretched all-as men decline
And loath the sour lees of corrupted wine-
'Tis so to be contemn'd. Merely TO BE
Is not a boon to seek, nor ill to flee,
Seeing that every vilest little Thing

Has it in common, from a gnat's small wing,
A creeping worm, down to the moveless stone,
And crumbling bark from trees. Unless TO BE,
And TO BE BLEST, be one, I do not see
In bare existence, as existence, aught
That's worthy to be loved, or to be sought.

TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ.

On the New Edition of his "Pleasures of Memory”
(1833)

When thy gay book hath paid its proud devoirs,
Poetic friend, and fed with luxury

The eye of pampered aristocracy

In glittering drawing-rooms and gilt boudoirs,
O'erlaid with comments of pictorial art,
However rich and rare, yet nothing leaving
Of healthful action to the soul-conceiving
Of the true reader-yet a nobler part
Awaits thy work, already classic styled.
Cheap-clad, accessible, in homeliest show

The modest beauty through the land shall go
From year to year, and render life inore mild;
Refinement to the poor man's hearth shall give,
And in the moral heart of England live.

TO CLARA N[OVELLO]

(1834)

The Gods have made me most unmusical,
With feelings that respond not to the call
Of stringed harp, or voice-obtuse and mute
To hautboy, sackbut, dulcimer, and flute ;
King David's lyre, that made the madness flee
From Saul, had been but a jew's-harp to me:
Theorbos, violins, French horns, guitars,
Leave in my wounded ears inflicted scars;

I hate those trills, and shakes, and sounds that float
Upon the captive air; I know no note,

Nor ever shall, whatever folks may say,
Of the strange mysteries of Sol and Fa;
I sit at oratorios like a fish,

Incapable of sound, and only wish
The thing was over. Yet do I admire,
O tuneful daughter of a tuneful sire,
Thy painful labours in a science, which
To your deserts I pray may make you rich
As much as you are loved, and add a grace
To the most musical Novello race.

Women lead men by the nose, some cynics say;
You draw them by the ear-a delicater way.

THE SISTERS

On Emma's honest brow we read display'd
The constant virtues of the Nut Brown Maid;
Mellifluous sounds on Clara's tongue we hear,
Notes that once lured a Seraph from his sphere;
Cecilia's eyes such winning beauties crown
As without song might draw her Angel down.

1

LOVE WILL COME

Tune-The Tartar Drum

I

Guard thy feelings, pretty Vestal,
From the smooth Intruder free ;
Cage thy heart in bars of chrystal,
Lock it with a golden key :
Thro' the bars demurely stealing,

Noiseless footstep, accent dumb,

His approach to none revealing—

Watch, or watch not, LOVE WILL COME.

His approach to none revealing

Watch, or watch not, Love will come- Love,
Watch, or watch not, Love will come.

II

Scornful Beauty may deny him-

He hath spells to charm disdain ;
Homely Features may defy him—

Both at length must wear the chain.
Haughty Youth in Courts of Princes-
Hermit poor with age o'er come
His soft plea at last convinces ;

Sooner, later, LOVE WILL COME.

His soft plea at length convinces ;
Sooner, later, Love will come—Love,
Sooner, later, Love will come.

TO MARGARET W

Margaret, in happy hour

Christen'd from that humble flower

Which we a daisy 1 call!
May thy pretty name-sake be

In all things a type of thee,

And image thee in all.

Marguerite, in French, signifies a daisy. [Note in Athenæum.]

Like it you show a modest face,
An unpretending native grace ;-
The tulip, and the pink,

The china and the damask rose,

And every flaunting flower that blows,
In the comparing shrink.

Of lowly fields you think no scorn;
Yet gayest gardens would adorn,
And grace, wherever set.
Home-seated in your lonely bower,
Or wedded-a transplanted flower-
I bless you, Margaret !

EDMONTON, 8th October, 1834.

ADDITIONAL ALBUM VERSES AND

ACROSTICS

WHAT IS AN ALBUM?

'TIS a Book

IS a Book kept by modern Young Ladies for show, Of which their plain grandmothers nothing did know. 'Tis a medley of scraps, fine verse, and fine prose, And some things not very like either, God knows. The soft First Effusions of Beaux and of Belles, Of future LORD BYRONS, and sweet L. E. L.'s ; Where wise folk and simple both equally shine, And you write your nonsense, that I may write mine. Stick in a fine landscape, to make a display, A flower-piece, a foreground, all tinted so gay, As NATURE herself (could she see them) would strike With envy, to think that she ne'er did the like: And since some LAVATERS, with head-pieces comical, Have pronounc'd people's hands to be physiognomical, Be sure that you stuff it with AUTOGRAPHS plenty, All framed to a pattern, so stiff, and so dainty. They no more resemble folks' every-day writing, Than lines penn'd with pains do extemp'rel enditing; Or the natural countenance (pardon the stricture) The faces we make when we sit for our picture.

Thus you have, dearest EMMA, an ALBUM complete-
Which may you live to finish, and I live to see it;
And since you began it for innocent ends,

May it swell, and grow bigger each day with new friends,
Who shall set down kind names, as a token and test,
As I my poor autograph sign with the rest.