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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 friends, and foes, in foul or fair,
Have "written strange defeature" there.

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,
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 mass of it.

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 ;-
Behold a multitude of mountains wild
And bare and cloudless to the skies up-piled
In forky peaks, and shapes uncouth, possest

Of grandeur stern indeed, but beauty none;
Their sterile sides, by herb, or blade undrest,
Burning and whitening in the ardent sun.
Amid the crags-her undisputed reign-
Pale Desolation sits, and sadly smiles,
And half the horror of her state beguiles,
To see her empire spreading to the plain;
For there even wandering Arabs seldom stray,

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,
The kindest e'er was born?

We've sojourned here through hope and fear

For fifty years and three,
And ne'er in all that happy time,

Said he harsh word to me.

And mony a braw and boardly son
And daughters in their prime,
His trembling hand laid in the grave,
Lang, lang afore the time.

I dinna greet the day to see
That he to them has gane,
But O 'tis fearfu' thus to be

Left in a world alane.

Wi' a poor worn and broken heart,
Whose race of joy is run,

And scarce has little opening left,
For aught aneath the sun.

My life nor death I winna crave,
Nor fret nor yet despond,

But a' my hope is in the grave
And the dear hame beyond.

FROM THE ITALIAN.

MY Lilla gave me yester morn
A rose methinks in Eden born,
And as she gave it, little elf,
Blushed like another rose herself.

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,
Have traced the forest whence streams of nectar flow.
Bloom, O ye Amaranths! bloom for whom ye may—
For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away!
With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll :
And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul?
WORK WITHOUT HOPE draws nectar in a sieve,
And HOPE without an OBJECT cannot live.

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