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I should be sorry to think that my friend had any serious I find, by a note in the manuscript, that he met with this intentions of frightening the nursery by this story : I rather story in a German author, Fromman upon Fascination, hope – though the manner of it leads me to doubt – that his book iii. part vi. ch. 18. On consulting the work, I perceive design was to ridicule that distempered taste which prefers that Fromman quotes it from Beluacensis, among many other those monsters of the fancy to the "speciosa miracula" of stories equally diabolical and interesting. E. true poetic imagination.
Here is one leaf reserv'd for me,
In vain now, touch'd with shame, he tried
To wash those fatal stains away ; Deep, deep had sunk the sullying tide,
The leaves grew darker every day.
MRS. BLWRITTEN IN HER ALBUM.
They say that Love had once a book
(The urchin likes to copy you), Where, all who came, the pencil took,
And wrote, like us, a line or two.
And Fancy's sketches lost their hue,
And Hope's sweet lines were all effac'd, And Love himself now scarcely knew
What Love himself so lately trac'd. At length the urchin Pleasure fled,
(For how, alas ! could Pleasure stay ?) And Love, while many a tear he shed,
Reluctant Aung the book away. The index now alone remains,
Of all the pages spoild by Pleasure, And though it bears some earthy stains,
Yet Memory counts the leaf a treasure. And oft, they say, she scans it o'er,
And oft, by this memorial aided, Brings back the pages now no more,
And thinks of lines that long have faded.
'Twas Innocence, the maid divine,
Who kept this volume bright and fair, And saw that no unhallow'd line
Or thought profane should enter there ;
And daily did the pages fill
With fond device and loving lore, And every leaf she turn'd was still
More bright than that she turn'd before.
I know not if this tale be true,
But thus the simple facts are stated ; And I refer their truth to you,
Since Love and you are near related.
I thought, — and, oh! forgive the thought,
For none was e'er by love inspir'd Whom fancy had not also taught
To hope the bliss his soul desir'd.
Yes, I did think, in Cara's mind,
Though yet to that sweet mind unknown, I left one infant wish behind,
One feeling, which I call’d my own.
Oh blest ! though but in fancy blest,
How did I ask of Pity's care, To shield and strengthen, in thy breast,
The nursling I had cradled there.
To be the theme of every hour
And, many an hour, beguild by pleasure,
And many an hour of sorrow numb'ring, I ne'er forgot the new-born treasure,
I left within thy bosom slumb’ring.
Perhaps, indifference has not chill'd it,
Haply, it yet a throb may give – Yet, no — – perhaps, a doubt has kill'd it ;
Say, dearest - does the feeling live ?