Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/163

 this album, bright-souled maiden, Be an emblem of thy life; Let not its fair leaves be laden With a single thought of strife.

Let no vain, unreal sorrow Blur the beauty of the page; No unknown, unborn "to-morrow" Lend to youth the hue of age.

Empty wishes—eager throngings Of vague hopes that cry for food;— Ever-anxious, restless longings After absent, distant good:

From all these, and all who bring them, Shut thy life, and seal thy book; From thy soul, like shadows, fling them; Banish them by one bright look.

Here all pleasant fancies hover— All that at once are bright and brief: The raptures of the happy lover, But not a jot of his fond grief.

The wit (if you can chance to find it) Where good-nature points the dart; The wisdom that, when bright thoughts bind it, Softens, but saddens not the heart.

Nay—let e'en nothings find a place, If they are prettily disguised ones; He who says nothings with a grace, Is worth a score of would-be-wise ones.

Nor let the pencil's magic art Be wanting to complete thy pages: That can more vivid thoughts impart Than all the pens of all the sages;—

That can lend forms to thy fair book The pen alone could compass never; That can arrest the fleeting look, And fix the fugitive for ever.