’Tis a Book kept by modern Young Ladies for show,
Of which their plain grandmothers nothing did know. 
’Tis a medley of scraps, fine verse, and fine prose,
And some things not very like either, God knows. 
The soft First Effusions of Beaux and of Belles,
Of future LORD BYRONS, and sweet L.E.L.’s;
Where wise folk and simple both equally shine,
And you write your nonsense, that I may write mine. 
Stick in a fine landscape, to make a display,
A flower-piece, a foreground, all tinted so gay,
As NATURE herself (could she see them) would strike
With envy, to think that she ne’er did the like: 
And since some LAVATERS, with head-pieces comical,
Have pronounc’d people’s hands to be physiognomical,
Be sure that you stuff it with AUTOGRAPHS plenty,
All framed to a pattern, so stiff, and so dainty. 
They no more resemble folks’ every-day writing,
Than lines penn’d with pains do extemp’rel enditing;
Or the natural countenance (pardon the stricture)
The faces we make when we sit for our picture.

        Thus you have, dearest EMMA, an ALBUM complete—­
        Which may you live to finish, and I live to see it;
        And since you began it for innocent ends,
        May it swell, and grow bigger each day with new friends,
        Who shall set down kind names, as a token and test,
        As I my poor autograph sign with the rest.

THE FIRST LEAF OF SPRING

      Written on the First Leaf of a Lady’s Album

        Thou fragile, filmy, gossamery thing,
        First leaf of spring! 
        At every lightest breath that quakest,
        And with a zephyr shakest;
        Scarce stout enough to hold thy slender form together,
        In calmest halcyon weather;
        Next sister to the web that spiders weave,
        Poor flutterers to deceive
        Into their treacherous silken bed: 
        O! how art thou sustained, how nourished! 
        All trivial as thou art,
        Without dispute,
        Thou play’st a mighty part;
        And art the herald to a throng
        Of buds, blooms, fruit,
        That shall thy cracking branches sway,
        While birds on every spray
        Shall pay the copious fruitage with a sylvan song. 
        So ’tis with thee, whoe’er on thee shall look,
        First leaf of this beginning modest book. 
        Slender thou art, God knowest,
        And little grace bestowest,
        But in thy train shall follow after,
        Wit, wisdom, seriousness, in hand with laughter;
        Provoking jests, restraining soberness,
        In their appropriate dress;
        And I shall joy to be outdone
        By those who brighter trophies won;
        Without a grief,
        That I thy slender promise have begun,
        First leaf.