University of Virginia Library

The Lady's Album

Write in that Album?...Lady, Nay!—
I pray you, do not press me to it;
So rich within, without so gay,
Indeed, I know not how to do it.
Here, too, are drawings neat and fine,
All subjects for the muse affording,
That all with equal grace may shine,
The Work and the appropriate wording.
And can I join in Works like these
With any decent hope to please?
Indeed, my timid Muse, I doubt it:
But let us through the volume run,
And when we read what has been done,
We fairly may decide about it—
First comes a Sonnet—Ah! I fear
I cannot be a Sonneteer;
I cannot let a single thought
In just so many lines be wrought,
All to the Subject fairly due,
I cannot draw, as men a wire,
What the strict Sonnet-rules require,
In measure and in meaning, too.
Pass then the Sonnet—next we see
A most pathetic Elegy;
On Celia's Bullfinch; how it died
And Celia then like Lesbia cried,
When her dear bird, that used to sip,
The nectar from her balmy lip,
By Fate demanded, left the lass,
Th' irrevocable Way to pass,
In the dim World of Ghosts to go,
Where now he skips among the Shades
Of Birds in melancholy Glades,
And chirps faint notes of Woe—
But this is grief, and I have not a sigh,
Not one soft line for Birds who pine and die,
When Men and Maids are dying every day;
But here's a song, and that would seem a thing,
Within our power—it is not hard to sing,
For Poets all a love of Song betray.

Song—

When Jacob served in Rachel's sight,
Herself his promised pay,
Seven years were past in such delight,
Each seemd a single day:
Swiftly the moments seemed to glide,
While they, no change discerning,
Considered not the turning tide,
Nor thought that Tide had turning:
But when the youth had gained his prize,
And slept, no Fear possessing,
No sooner had he oped his Eyes
Than lo! a view distressing.
“O! this is not the maid divine,
“To whom I made my vow;
“'Twas Rachel when I made her mine,
“But O! 'tis Leah now!”
So bright their view in Lovers' Eyes,
No stormy cloud appearing,
How fixed to them the changing skies,
And every sound how cheering,
They smile to hear of Ills to come,
From which, what pair are free?
“It may be so”, They cry, “with some;
“With us it will not be.”
But Fortune the affairs of Life
In other Mode arranges,
And Lo! how Rachel, made a wife,
To Leah quickly changes—
Alas! I fear we now are wrong,
This looks like Satire, not like Song,
A Song should be on Chloe's cheeks,
Her air that breathes—Her eye that speaks,
Her tongue that Wisdom's self confounds,
Her shape that gives unnumbered wounds;
With all the hundred thousand graces,
That truth or the true lover traces;
But Songs like these, if duly written,
Require an heart completely smitten—
Again we change—this Page contains
A cottage with its happy Swains,
About it Meadows, Groves and Springs,
With all the beauties Summer brings,
And here are Verses meant to prove
That such are the retreats of Love—
I cannot tell—to me it seems
These are a kind of pleasant dreams,
For love had rather take his lot
Within a parlour than a cot;
He dwells beside the cheerful blaze,
And on the splendid carpet plays—
He takes a large well furnished room,
And loves a comfortable home—
Love no objection makes to dine
On Savory food with generous Wine.
He sometimes has his pensive hours
In shady walks and silent bowers,
But oftener he desires to be
With gay and pleasant Company.
Soft music he no doubt approves
From birds, who warbling fill their groves,
But he prefers a lively air
From Ladies sitting in his chair.
Love is, in short, though free and wild,
A taught and an observing child.
He sometimes speaks with scorn enough
Of wealth—but put him to the proof—
And you shall find he lives to eat—
No Patriarch better—savoury Meat,
And would sigh deeply to be fed
On skim-milk cheese and barley bread.
To sing of Love I then decline,
The rural Cupid is not mine,
But left to them who better know
Where he delights to bend his bow.
Then turn we to another page,
And see what there our mind engage.
Say then what comes—a Riddle, the delight
Of infant Bards when they begin to write,
And shall I now resume that early task,
Or teach my sober Muse to wear a mask?
Come! let us try, but we shall ill succeed,
The mask will drop as you begin to read—

Riddle—

I am—nay, that you cannot show.
I have been—that, I grant, may be.
I may be—That we do not know,
Nor on the question can agree.
I have a Master, such my lot,
For I am poor, and yet 'tis true
I have a Servant—doubt me not—
My servant is my master, too.
My power is not to mortals known,
My nature is not understood,
Yet kindred with the dust, I own
The Wants and Pains of flesh and blood.
Learn what unearthly things I do,
And wonder at the things you learn,
My Dwelling and my person view,
And wonder will to pity turn.
Yet am I proud as well as poor,
Kings of the Earth have Honour done me,
One came my Knowledge to explore,
Another wrote a treatise on me.
Here next some Lines on Freedom may be seen,
When the fair writer counted years fifteen.
Did the sweet girl of school day fetters dream,
And made the love of Liberty her theme?
All should be free, the young Enthusiast sings,
For Freedom makes us of ourselves the kings.
But if the blessing should to all extend,
Then let it not with human beings end;
There are a race of beings whom their pains
And place unite, their scourges and their chains.
Hear how their Keepers Men's attention win:
“The first Collection in the World—walk in.
“The King of Beasts—he rules o'er great & small,
“The Queen, his Wife—a Tygar from Bengal,
“Leopards and Panthers, and a noble Tribe
“That you may see, and therefore to describe
“Is of no use—Walk in—on English Ground,
“Nor on the Earth, is such Collection found.”
I enter. Lo, the Creatures—there they be;
Each in his den, with anguish in his Eye,
And roused by blows that some vile spirit gives,
Shows fearful tokens of the life he lives.
I saw the imprisoned Tribes, their sufferings felt,
And their hard Tale upon my memory dwelt;
Nay, in my Dreams upon my fancy rose
The king of beasts, exprest his Royal Woes,
His nobler Subjects heard with woe profound,
The distant Birds were silent at the Sound,
And all the smaller Tribes stood listening all around:
An ode to thee, Contentment, next ensues;
Thou art a favourite subject for a muse.
It would be doubtless pleasant, could we find
Where dwells content and with what happy mind,
For many seem like her, and for a while
They speak her Language and assume her smile.
First there is Mirth, mere Gaity of heart,
She can some tokens of content display,
But acts with too much spirit in her part,
And that performed, she vanishes away.
Her name the Idol Affectation takes,
Puts on a smile and talks of rural ease,
Her speech of many a borrowed sentence makes
And boasts how “Quiet and a cottage please.”
Hope, lively being, will the air assume,
And many by her cheerful looks deceive,
But Hope will vanish in an hour of gloom,
And disappointment with her victims leave—
I knew her well, and oft have been misled
By her seduction, and have wondered on
Where I have slept on Folly's easy bed,
And, waking, found my fickle flatterer gone—
In these you cannot true contentment find,
But one there is whom some affect to know,
Who stiles herself the pilot of the mind,
A grave, majestic being, solemn, slow—
—Wise and dispensing wisdom—we must own
That some thing in her like content we see,
But she disputes on Words and things unknown,
And is no more than vain philosophy.
Fancy, who takes all shapes, Content appears,
A lively actress with a changing face,
But Fancy dies, opposed by grief or Fears—
And then contentment comes not in her place.
Hard is the dwelling of the nymph to find,
And yet we ought not in our search to cease;
It's said she dwells with being Good and kind,
The just, the humble, and the fond of peace.
What Tale succeeds? a Fable, not a Tale,
“The Lark, the Linnet and the Nightingale”.
Sweet Birds, whose notes sweet nymphs delight to hear—
Ah, why have some the Adder's leaden ear?
Deaf to the charming songsters—Fable, too,
To me is not inviting, but is New.
Say then what moral shall by ours be taught?
“Suspect the favours that were never sought—
“The show of love that care and Trouble speaks,
“And Cost displayed that no repayment seeks.”—

Fable—The Duck and the Widgeon

A Duck and Widgeon, who had flown
Far from the sea and weary grown,
Beneath them saw a lovely lake,
Where they their night's repose might take.
Upon its bosom clear and still
The Feathered people swam at Will,
Where Ducks of every kind were seen,
And Divers undisturbed of men,
And dusky Coots of Raven hue,
And Teal with wing of Azure blue.
All these the stranger Birds invite
By friendly signs to stop their flight—
The weary Widgeon judged it best
To take th' advice and seek for rest—
For they had flown for many a league,
And hunger added to fatigue.
So fell the Widgeon, “Duck”, said she,
“A fairer pool you'll seldom see,
“Good company, a silent shore,
“No boys to shout, no gun to roar;
“In such a place we may be sure
“Of food, and shall our rest secure.”
The Duck, who in a former year
Had left the north and wintered here,
Knew more than simple widgeons know,
And as she calmly looked below
On all the witless swimmers there,
Said to her Neighbour: “Have a care,
“Look at that netted, reeded fence,
“And tell me what proceeds from thence.
“'Tis wide, you see, at first, & tall,
“Then smaller grows, then very small,
“And be you sure that nature makes
“No such appendages to Lakes.
“Man is a creature who contrives
“Unnumbered arts, to take our lives,
“And this, the scene of so much Joy
“To foolish birds, is a Decoy.
“For so my Ancestor of old,
“A grey and Reverend Mallard, told.
“‘Be sure’, he said, ‘no man would make
“‘What we behold on yonder lake,
“‘Were he not sure the care & cost
“‘Would be repaid, and nothing lost.’
“Therefore, altho' we weary feel,
“And fain would sleep, & want a meal,
“Yet, cautious, let us further go,
“Nor trust the kindness of a Foe,
“For we, who thus are kindly prest,
“When strangers, to be fed as guests,
“Should think, e'er we consent to stay,
“What kind of reckoning we must pay.”