Envy not the wretched Poet
Doomed to pen these teasing strains,
Wit so cramped, ah, who can show it,
Are the trifles worth the pains. 
Rhyme compared with this were easy,
Double Rhymes may not displease ye.

Homer, Horace sly and caustic,
Owed no fame to vile acrostic. 
G’s, I am sure, the Readers choked with,
Good men’s names must not be joked with.

ON BEING ASKED TO WRITE IN MISS WESTWOOD’S ALBUM

My feeble Muse, that fain her best wou’d
Write, at command of Frances Westwood,
But feels her wits not in their best mood,
Fell lately on some idle fancies,
As she’s much given to romances,
About this self-same style as Frances;
Which seems to be a name in common
Attributed to man or woman. 
She thence contrived this flattering moral,
With which she hopes no soul will quarrel,
That she, whom this twin title decks,
Combines what’s good in either sex;
Unites—­how very rare the case is!—­
Masculine sense to female graces;
And, quitting not her proper rank,
Is both in one—­Fanny, and frank.

12_th October_, 1827.

[IN MISS WESTWOOD’S ALBUM]

By Mary Lamb

Small beauty to your Book my lines can lend,
Yet you shall have the best I can, sweet friend,
To serve for poor memorials ’gainst the day
That calls you from your Parent-roof away,
From the mild offices of Filial life
To the more serious duties of a Wife. 
The World is opening to you—­may you rest
With all your prospects realised, and blest!—­
I, with the Elder Couple left behind,
On evenings chatting, oft shall call to mind
Those spirits of Youth, which Age so ill can miss,
And, wanting you, half grudge your S—­n’s bliss;
Till mirthful malice tempts us to exclaim
’Gainst the dear Thief, who robb’d you of your Name.

ENFIELD CHASE, 17_th May_, 1828.

UN SOLITAIRE

A Drawing by E.I. [Emma Isola]

[To Sarah Lachlan]

Solitary man, around thee
Are the mountains:  Peace hath found thee
Resting by that rippling tide;
All vain toys of life expelling,
Hermit-like, thou find’st a dwelling,
Lost ’mid foliage stretching wide. 
Angels here alone may find thee,
Contemplation fast may bind thee. 
Holier spot, or more fantastic,
Livelier scene of deep seclusion,
Armed by Nature ’gainst intrusion,
Never graced a seat Monastic.

TO S[ARAH] T[HOMAS]

An Acrostic

Sarah, blest wife of “Terah’s faithful Son,”
After a race of years with goodness run,
Regardless heard the promised miracle,
And mocked the blessing as impossible. 
How weak is Faith!—­even He, the most sincere,

Thomas, to his meek Master not least dear,
Holy, and blameless, yet refused assent
Of full belief, until he could content
Mere human senses.  In your piety,
As you are one in name, industriously
So copy them:  but shun their weak part—­Incredulity.