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.

Disjointed numbers; sense unknit; Huge reams of folly, shreds of wit; Compose the mingled mass of it.

My scalded eyes no longer brook Upon this ink-blurr'd thing to look— Go, shut the leaves, and clasp the book.