Sayings fetch’d from sages old;
        Laws which Holy Writ unfold,
        Worthy to be graved in gold: 

        Lighter fancies not excluding;
        Blameless wit, with nothing rude in,
        Sometimes mildly interluding

        Amid strains of graver measure: 
        Virtue’s self hath oft her pleasure
        In sweet Muses’ groves of leisure.

        Riddles dark, perplexing sense;
        Darker meanings of offence;
        What but shades—­be banished hence.

Whitest thoughts in whitest dress,
Candid meanings, best express
Mind of quiet Quakeress.

IN THE ALBUM OF MISS ------

I

Such goodness in your face doth shine,
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 ALBUM 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
Rehearse a lesson to attentive minds. 
In louder tones “Deep unto Deep doth call;”
And there is Music in the Waterfall.

        IN THE ALBUM 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 ALBUM OF MISS DAUBENY

I