PREFACE TO A LADY'S ALBUM.
An Album?—'Tis a pretty book I wis,
Bound up in cow-skin—or sometimes in calf,
All tool'd and gilt—where every pert-eyed miss,
Her pretty pouting lips (too ripe by half),
Hangs o'er the snow-white page—then steals a laugh,
Something between a simper and a smile;—
"Law, I can't write!—Ridiculous, to spoil
I have no notion——Will an extract do
From Moore or Byron?" "No, write something new."
An Album?—'Tis a wide waste blank—a page
All bright and glorious, like the morn of life,
Not darken'd with rude blots;—no dim presage
Scrawl'd o'er the bliss-like future,—where no knife,
Like eating care, obliterates.—The strife,
The agony, those hours shall know, nor trace,
Nor track, steals o'er their smooth, unruffled face.
If joy or woe those opening leaves shall bring,
Who shall unfold their dim foretokening?
And would'st thou have me in that mirror look,
Shadowing the first page in thy destiny,
Or weave a frontlet to Fate's Album-book?
It should be joyous were mine Fate's decree.
Like opera-overtures, the melody
I know the story should foretoken, telling
Of love, hope, joy, and all that sort of thing;
Or, like the pictures on a raree-show,
Blazon the matchless wonders hid below.
But I'm no prophet!—what these pages may
Or may not gather, hard to say methinks.
'Tis somewhat strange, e'en for this marvellous day,
Writing a preface to blank leaves,—a sphynx
'Twould puzzle to undo, like Hymen's links!
The paper's pretty, and a pretty book:
So far seems certain. What may next be shook
From Fate's grim bag, n'importe—umquhile, I trow,
Time flits, hopes bud, and wither ere they blow.
When closed the last page of this history,
If joy or sorrow on that morn shall rise,
What I may then, or thou shalt surely be
I dare not mutter with articulate voice!
And yet I'll try a word or so (no lies,
I hate them); 'tis irrevocable fate
I now unfold. Listen, as though there sate
The wizard seer thy destiny revealing;
Bright hopes, grim horror, o'er thy vision stealing!
"Oft shall wearied hope expire,
Bliss none other bosom knows,
Love shall scorch thee with its fire,
Maiden, ere these pages close.
"Oft shall visions warm and bright,
Glimmer on thine aching brain,
Swifter fading from thy sight,
Ne'er shall dawn those dreams again.
"Oft shall throb that wearied breast,
Pulse on pulse in anguish beating,
Oft shall sink that storm to rest,
Hope and love those wild waves meeting.
"Love and hate, and joy and fear,
Shall thy bosom oft o'erflow,
All that woman's heart may bear,
All that woman's breast may know.
"Oft shall friends thy bosom cherish'd,
Change to deeper, deadlier foes.
Love shall die and hope have perish'd,
Maiden, ere these pages close!"