In Christian world MARY the garland wears! REBECCA sweetens on a Hebrew's ear; Quakers for pure PRISCILLA are more clear; And the light Gaul by amorous NINON swears. Among the lesser lights how LUCY shines! What air of fragrance ROSAMOND throws round! How like a hymn doth sweet CECILIA sound! Of MARTHAS, and of ABIGAILS, few lines Have bragg'd in verse. Of coarsest household stuff Should homely JOAN be fashioned. But can You BARBARA resist, or MARIAN? And is not CLARE for love excuse enough? Yet, by my faith in numbers, I profess, These all, than Saxon EDITH, please me less. TO DORA W[ORDSWORTH], _On Being Asked by Her Father to Write in Her Album_ An Album is a Banquet: from the store, In his intelligential Orchard growing, Your Sire might heap your board to overflowing; One shaking of the Tree--'twould ask no more To set a Salad forth, more rich than that Which Evelyn[12] in his princely cookery fancied: Or that more rare, by Eve's neat hands enhanced, Where, a pleased guest, the angelic Virtue sat. But like the all-grasping Founder of the Feast, Whom Nathan to the sinning king did tax, From his less wealthy neighbours he exacts; Spares his own flocks, and takes the poor man's beast. Obedient to his bidding, lo, I am, A zealous, meek, _contributory_ LAMB. [Footnote 12: Acetaria, a Discourse of Sallets, by J.E., 1706.] IN THE ALBUM OF ROTHA Q[UILLINAN] A passing glance was all I caught of thee, In my own Enfield haunts at random roving. Old friends of ours were with thee, faces loving; Time short: and salutations cursory, Though deep, and hearty. The familiar Name Of you, yet unfamiliar, raised in me Thoughts--what the daughter of that Man should be, Who call'd our Wordsworth friend. My thoughts did frame A growing Maiden, who, from day to day Advancing still in stature, and in grace, Would all her lonely Father's griefs efface, And his paternal cares with usury pay. I still retain the phantom, as I can; And call the gentle image--Quillinan. IN THE ALBUM OF CATHERINE ORKNEY Canadia! boast no more the toils Of hunters for the furry spoils; Your whitest ermines are but foils To brighter Catherine Orkney. That such a flower should ever burst From climes with rigorous winter curst!-- We bless you, that so kindly nurst This flower, this Catherine Orkney. We envy not your proud display Of lake--wood--vast Niagara: Your greatest pride we've borne away. How spared you Catherine Orkney?