Mary, never on these pages
Let there be a single line,
Be it beau's, or bard's, or sage's,
That shall aught unholy speak,
Or blot the paper's virgin cheek,
Or bring a blush o'er thine.
Let no hand,-or friend's or lover's,-
Ever, from wit's sparkling mine
Call, and leave between these covers,
Any gem, however bright,
That in jealous Virtue's sight
Shall be unfit for thine.
With the pearls from shallow waters,
Such as brainless flatterers twine
Round the brow of Folly's daughters,
Let the pedlers of those pearls
Grace the albums of their girls,
But never trick out thine.
Gems of truth and genius, rather,
That, from heights or depths divine,
Wisdom's sons and daughters gather,-
Gems of thought and holy feeling,
To thyself revealing,-
Shall fill this book of thine.
Flowers, by kindred spirits painted,
Taste shall here so intertwine,
That thy brother's spirit sainted,-
Could the finished volume lie
Open to his watchful eye,-
Would give it back to thine.
Mary, now thy cheek is blowing;
But its bloom wilt thou resign,
With the locks that now are flowing
Down the shoulders of thy youth;
But thy purity and truth
O keep for ever!-Thine,