Of MARTHAS, and of ABIGAILS, few lines
  Have bragg’d in verse.  Of coarsest household stuff
  Should homely JOAN be fashion’d.  But can
  You BARBARA resist, or MARIAN? 
  And is not CLARE for love excuse enough? 
  Yet, by my faith in numbers, I profess,
  These all, than Saxon EDITH, please me less.

* * * * *

IN THE ALBUM OF ROTHA Q——.

  A passing glance was all I caught of thee,
  In my own Enfield haunts at random roving. 
  Old friends of ours were with thee, faces loving;
  Time short:  and salutations cursory,
  Though deep, and hearty.  The familiar Name
  Of you, yet unfamiliar, raised in me
  Thoughts—­what the daughter of that Man should be,
  Who call’d our Wordsworth friend.  My thoughts did frame
  A growing Maiden, who, from day to day
  Advancing still in stature, and in grace,
  Would all her lonely Father’s griefs efface,
  And his paternal cares with usury pay. 
  I still retain the phantom, as I can;
  And call the gentle image—­Quillinan.

* * * * *

IN THE ALBUM OF CATHERINE ORKNEY.

  CANADIA! boast no more the toils
  Of hunters for the furry spoils;
  Your whitest ermines are but foils
    To brighter Catherine Orkney.

  That such a flower should ever burst
  From climes with rigorous winter curst!—­
  We bless you, that so kindly nurst
    This flower, this Catherine Orkney.

  We envy not your proud display
  Of lake—­wood—­vast Niagara;
  Your greatest pride we’ve borne away. 
    How spared you Catherine Orkney?

  That Wolfe on Heights of Abraham fell,
  To your reproach no more we tell: 
  Canadia, you repaid us well
    With rearing Catherine Orkney.

  O Britain, guard with tenderest care
  The charge allotted to your share: 
  You’ve scarce a native maid so fair,
    So good, as Catherine Orkney.

* * * * *

IN THE ALBUM OF LUCY BARTON.

  Little Book, surnamed of white,
  Clean as yet, and fair to sight,
  Keep thy attribution right.

  Never disproportion’d scrawl;
  Ugly blot, that’s worse than all;
  On thy maiden clearness fall!

  In each letter, here design’d,
  Let the reader emblem’d find
  Neatness of the owner’s mind.

  Gilded margins count a sin,
  Let thy leaves attraction win
  By the golden rules within;

  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.