Some poets by poetic law
Have Beauties praised, they never saw;
And sung of Kittys, and of Nancys,
Whose charms but lived in their own fancies. 
So I, to keep my Muse a going,
That willingly would still be doing,
A Canzonet or two must try
In praise of—­pretty Daubeny.

II

But whether she indeed be comely,
Or only very good and homely,
Of my own eyes I cannot say;
I trust to Emma Isola. 
But sure I think her voice is tuneful,
As smoothest birds that sing in June full;
For else would strangely disagree
The flowing name of—­Daubeny.

III

I hear that she a Book hath got—­
As what young Damsel now hath not,
In which they scribble favorite fancies,
Copied from poems or romances? 
And prettiest draughts, of her design,
About the curious Album shine;
And therefore she shall have for me
The style of—­tasteful Daubeny.

IV

Thus far I have taken on believing;
But well I know without deceiving,
That in her heart she keeps alive still
Old school-day likings, which survive still
In spite of absence—­worldly coldness—­
And thereon can my Muse take boldness
To crown her other praises three
With praise of—­friendly Daubeny.

       IN THE ALBUM OF MRS. JANE TOWERS (1828)

      Lady Unknown, who crav’st from me Unknown
      The trifle of a verse these leaves to grace,
      How shall I find fit matter? with what face
      Address a face that ne’er to me was shown? 
      Thy looks, tones, gesture, manners, and what not,
      Conjecturing, I wander in the dark. 
      I know thee only Sister to Charles Clarke! 
      But at that name my cold Muse waxes hot,
      And swears that thou art such a one as he,
      Warm, laughter-loving, with a touch of madness,
      Wild, glee-provoking, pouring oil of gladness
      From frank heart without guile.  And, if thou be
      The pure reverse of this, and I mistake—­
      Demure one, I will like thee for his sake.

IN MY OWN ALBUM (1827)

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 friend and foe, in foul or fair,
Have “written strange defeatures” there;

And Time with heaviest hand of all,
Like that fierce writing on the wall,
Hath stamp’d sad dates—­he can’t recal;

        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.