A Venus temple, graves and greenery;
He pens a lyre . . . and then a dove,
Adds colour lightly and with love;
And on the leaves of recollection,
Beneath the lines from other hands,
He plants a tender verse that stands
Mute monument to fond reflection:
A moment's thought whose trace shall last
Unchanged when even years have passed.
28
I'm sure you've known provincial misses;
Their albums too you must have seen,
Where girlfriends scribble hopes and blisses
From frontside, backside, in between.
With spellings awesome in abusage,
Unmetred lines of hallowed usage
Are entered by each would-be friend
Diminished, lengthened, turned on end.
Upon the first page you'll discover:
And 'neath it:
While on the last one you'll uncover:
'Who loves you more than I must sign
And fill the page that follows mine.'
29
You're sure to find there decorations:
Rosettes, a torch, a pair of hearts;
You'll read, no doubt, fond protestations:
Some army scribbler will have written
A roguish rhyme to tease the smitten.
In just such albums, friends, I too
Am quite as glad to write as you,
For there, at heart, I feel persuaded
That any zealous vulgar phrase
Will earn me an indulgent gaze,
And won't then be evaluated
With wicked grin or solemn eye
To judge the wit with which I lie.
30
But you, odd tomes of haughty ladies,
You gorgeous albums stamped with gilt,
You libraries of darkest Hades
And racks where modish rhymesters wilt,
You volumes nimbly ornamented
By Tolstoy's* magic brush, and scented
By Baratynsky's penI vow:
Let God's own lightning strike you now!
Whenever dazzling ladies proffer
