VERSES FOR AN ALBUM. By Charles Lamb, Esq. FRESH clad from heaven in robes of white, A young probationer of light, Thou wert, my soul, an Album bright. A spotless leaf; but thought, and care- And time, with heaviest hand of all, Like that fierce writing on the wall, Hath stamp'd sad dates-he can't recall. And error, gilding worst designs Like speckled snake that strays and shines-Betrays his path by crooked lines. And vice hath left his ugly blot And good resolves, a moment hot, And fruitless late remorse doth trace- Disjointed numbers-sense unknit— My scalded eyes no longer brook, Upon this ink-blurr'd thing to look. Go-shut the leaves-and clasp the book!- LINES WRITTEN IN THE VALE OF ZOAR, COAST OF ARABIA. A SCENE of Araby!-but not the blest ;- Of grandeur stern indeed, but beauty none; Or, coming, do but eye the drear domain, And haste, as from the vale of Death, away! AN AGED WIDOW'S OWN WORDS. Versified by James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd. O is he gane my good auld man? And am I left forlorn? And is that manly heart at rest, We've sojourned here through hope and fear For fifty years and three, Said he harsh word to me. And mony a braw and boardly son I dinna greet the day to see Left in a world alane. Wi' a poor worn and broken heart, And scarce has little opening left, My life nor death I winna crave, But a' my hope is in the grave FROM THE ITALIAN. MY Lilla gave me yester morn Then said I, full of tenderness, "Since this sweet rose I owe to you, "Dear girl, why may I not possess "The lovelier rose that gave it too?" WORK WITHOUT HOPE. LINES COMPOSED ON A DAY IN FEBRUARY. By S. T. Coleridge, Esq. ALL Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lairThe bees are stirring-birds are on the wingAnd WINTER slumbering in the open air, Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring! And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing, Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing. Yet well I ken the banks where Amaranths blow, |