The poetical works of Leigh Hunt :: :: University of Virginia Library

An Album! This! Why, 'tis for aught I see,
Sheer wit, and verse, and downright poetry;
A priceless book incipient; a treasure
Of growing pearl; a hoard for pride and pleasure;
A golden begging-box, which pretty Miss
Goes round with, like a gipsy as she is,
From bard to bard, to stock her father's shelf,
Perhaps for cunning dowry to herself.

Albums are records, kept by gentle dames,
To show us that their friends can write their names;
That Miss can draw, or brother John can write
“Sweet lines,” or that they know a Mr. White.
The lady comes, with lowly grace upon her,
“'Twill be so kind,” and “do her book such honour;”
We bow, smile, deprecate, protest, read o'er
The names to see what has been done before,
Wish to say something wonderful, but can't,
And write, with modest glory, “William Grant.”
Johnson succeeds, and Thomson, Jones, and Clarke,
And Cox with an original remark
Out of the Speaker;—then come John's “sweet lines,”
Fanny's “sweet airs,” and Jenny's “sweet designs:”
Then Hobbs, Cobbs, Dobbs, Lord Strut, and Lady Brisk,
And, with a flourish underneath him, Fisk.

Alas! why sit I here, committing jokes
On social pleasures and good-humour'd folks,
That see far better with their trusting eyes,
Than all the blinkings of the would-be wise?
Albums are, after all, pleasant inventions,
Make friends more friendly, grace one's good intentions,
Brighten dull names, give great ones kinder looks,
Nay, now and then produce right curious books,
And make the scoffer (as it now does me)
Blush to look round on deathless company.