The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb
Chapter 194 : IN THE ALb.u.m OF MISS ------ I Such goodness in your face doth s.h.i.+ne, With modest

IN THE ALb.u.m OF MISS ------

I

Such goodness in your face doth s.h.i.+ne, 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 THE ALb.u.m OF A VERY YOUNG LADY

(? 1830)

Joy to unknown Josepha who, I hear, Of all good gifts, to Music most is given; Science divine, which through the enraptured ear Enchants the Soul, and lifts it nearer Heaven.

Parental smiles approvingly attend Her pliant conduct of the trembling keys, And listening strangers their glad suffrage lend.

Most musical is Nature. Birds--and Bees At their sweet labour--sing. The moaning winds Rehea.r.s.e a _lesson_ to attentive minds.

In louder tones "Deep unto Deep doth call;"

And there is Music in the Waterfall.

IN THE ALb.u.m OF A FRENCH TEACHER (? 1829)

Implored for verse, I send you what I can; But you are so exact a Frenchwoman, As I am told, Jemima, that I fear To wound with English your Parisian ear, And think I do your choice collection wrong With lines not written in the Frenchman's tongue.

Had I a knowledge equal to my will, With airy _Chansons_ I your leaves would fill; With _Fabliaux_, that should emulate the vein Of sprightly Cresset, or of La Fontaine; Or _Scenes Comiques_, that should approach the air Of your own favourite--renowned Moliere.

But at my suit the Muse of France looks sour, And strikes me dumb! Yet, what is in my power To testify respect for you, I pray, Take in plain English--our rough Enfield way.

IN THE ALb.u.m OF MISS DAUBENY

I

Some poets by poetic law Have Beauties praised, they never saw; And sung of Kittys, and of Nancys, Whose charms but lived in their own fancies.

So I, to keep my Muse a going, That willingly would still be doing, A Canzonet or two must try In praise of--_pretty_ Daubeny.

II

But whether she indeed be comely, Or only very good and homely, Of my own eyes I cannot say; I trust to Emma Isola.

But sure I think her voice is tuneful, As smoothest birds that sing in June full; For else would strangely disagree The _flowing_ name of--Daubeny.

III

I hear that she a Book hath got-- As what young Damsel now hath not, In which they scribble favorite fancies, Copied from poems or romances?

And prettiest draughts, of her design, About the curious Alb.u.m s.h.i.+ne; And therefore she shall have for me The style of--_tasteful_ Daubeny.

IV

Thus far I have taken on believing; But well I know without deceiving, That in her heart she keeps alive still Old school-day likings, which survive still In spite of absence--worldly coldness-- And thereon can my Muse take boldness To crown her other praises three With praise of--_friendly_ Daubeny.

IN THE ALb.u.m OF MRS. JANE TOWERS (1828)

Lady Unknown, who crav'st from me Unknown The trifle of a verse these leaves to grace, How shall I find fit matter? with what face Address a face that ne'er to me was shown?

Thy looks, tones, gesture, manners, and what not, Conjecturing, I wander in the dark.

I know thee only Sister to Charles Clarke!

But at that name my cold Muse waxes hot, And swears that thou art such a one as he, Warm, laughter-loving, with a touch of madness, Wild, glee-provoking, pouring oil of gladness From frank heart without guile. And, if thou be The pure reverse of this, and I mistake-- Demure one, I will like thee for his sake.

IN MY OWN ALb.u.m (1827)

Fresh clad from heaven in robes of white.

A young probationer of light, Thou wert my soul, an Alb.u.m 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 recal;

And error gilding worst designs-- Like speckled snake that strays and s.h.i.+nes-- 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 ma.s.s 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