The poetical works of James Montgomery collected by himself |
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AN INFANT'S ALBUM. |
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 | The poetical works of James Montgomery |  |
AN INFANT'S ALBUM.
[_]
A. H. R. to her friends and contributors: written to accompany her portrait at the beginning of the book.
Now look upon my face, and say
If you can turn your eyes away,
Nor grant the little boon I ask,
As if it were some mighty task.
If you can turn your eyes away,
Nor grant the little boon I ask,
As if it were some mighty task.
What is it?—Only take your pen,
Look wise, and think a moment,—then
Write anything, to which, for shame,
You need not fear to put your name;
Or, with a pencil's curious skill,
Draw flowers, birds, figures,—what you will;
I, like my elders and my betters,
Love pictures quite as well as letters.
Thus, page by page, my album store,
Till it an album be no more,
But, richly fill'd, from end to end,
On every leaf present a Friend.
Look wise, and think a moment,—then
348
You need not fear to put your name;
Or, with a pencil's curious skill,
Draw flowers, birds, figures,—what you will;
I, like my elders and my betters,
Love pictures quite as well as letters.
Thus, page by page, my album store,
Till it an album be no more,
But, richly fill'd, from end to end,
On every leaf present a Friend.
Now look upon my face, and see
Yourself, your very self, in me;
Were you not once as mild and meek,
With lip demure, and plump round cheek?
Did you not sometimes, too, look sly
Out of the corner of your eye,
As if you held an infant's jest,
Like a bird fluttering, to your breast,
Which wanted but an inch of wing,
Up through the air to soar and sing?
So I can feign to hide a joke,
And be as arch as graver folk.
Yourself, your very self, in me;
Were you not once as mild and meek,
With lip demure, and plump round cheek?
Did you not sometimes, too, look sly
Out of the corner of your eye,
As if you held an infant's jest,
Like a bird fluttering, to your breast,
Which wanted but an inch of wing,
Up through the air to soar and sing?
So I can feign to hide a joke,
And be as arch as graver folk.
Well, time runs on, and I, you know,
As tall and stout as you may grow,
Nay, more unlike my portrait here,
Than you just now like me appear.
Ah! then, if I must change so fast,
What will become of me at last?
—A poor old woman of fourscore!
That's a long way to look before,
So I would learn of you, meanwhile,
How best the journey to beguile.
Look in my face again, you'll find
The album of an infant's mind,
Unsoil'd by care, unworn by grief,
Like new-fall'n snow each maiden-leaf,
On which, if not in black and white,
In lines eternal you may write
All that is lovely, pure, and good,
To be possess'd or understood.
As tall and stout as you may grow,
Nay, more unlike my portrait here,
Than you just now like me appear.
Ah! then, if I must change so fast,
What will become of me at last?
—A poor old woman of fourscore!
That's a long way to look before,
So I would learn of you, meanwhile,
How best the journey to beguile.
Look in my face again, you'll find
The album of an infant's mind,
Unsoil'd by care, unworn by grief,
Like new-fall'n snow each maiden-leaf,
On which, if not in black and white,
In lines eternal you may write
All that is lovely, pure, and good,
To be possess'd or understood.
Then, in this volume, as it lies,
Trace words and pictures to my eyes,
Which, thence, their mystic way may find
Into that album of my mind,
And there impress each opening page
With thoughts for childhood, youth, and age;
Breathe a sweet spirit through the whole,
That, like a soul within my soul,
Shall, by the early impulse given,
Guide me on earth, and bring to heaven.
Let every leaf unfold a text,
Either for this world or the next;
To learn of each, I'm nothing loth,
They tell me I was born for both.
Let mirth with innocence combine,
And human knowledge aid divine.
Trace words and pictures to my eyes,
Which, thence, their mystic way may find
Into that album of my mind,
And there impress each opening page
With thoughts for childhood, youth, and age;
Breathe a sweet spirit through the whole,
That, like a soul within my soul,
Shall, by the early impulse given,
Guide me on earth, and bring to heaven.
Let every leaf unfold a text,
Either for this world or the next;
To learn of each, I'm nothing loth,
They tell me I was born for both.
Let mirth with innocence combine,
And human knowledge aid divine.
Thus form'd by it, and it by you,
This Book shall render each their due;
For whoso peeps therein may start,
As though he look'd into my heart;
And if he did, you must beware,
That he would see your image there;
Then grant the boon with such a grace,
That you may have a good warm place:
—Walk in, walk in; my heart, though small,
Is large enough to hold you all.
This Book shall render each their due;
For whoso peeps therein may start,
As though he look'd into my heart;
And if he did, you must beware,
That he would see your image there;
Then grant the boon with such a grace,
That you may have a good warm place:
—Walk in, walk in; my heart, though small,
Is large enough to hold you all.
1828.
| The poetical works of James Montgomery | |