O Britain, guard with tenderest care The charge allotted to your share: You've scarce a native maid so fair, So good, as Catherine Orkney.
Little Book, surnamed of _white_, Clean as yet, and fair to sight, Keep thy attribution right.
Never disproportion'd scrawl; Ugly blot, that's worse than all; On thy maiden clearness fall!
In each letter, here design'd, Let the reader emblem'd find Neatness of the owner's mind.
Gilded margins count a sin, Let thy leaves attraction win By the golden rules within;
Sayings fetch'd from sages old; Laws which Holy Writ unfold, Worthy to be graved in gold:
Lighter fancies not excluding: Blameless wit, with nothing rude in, Sometimes mildly interluding
Amid strains of graver measure: Virtue's self hath oft her pleasure In sweet Muses' groves of leisure.
Riddles dark, perplexing sense; Darker meanings of offence; What but _shades_--be banish'd hence.
Whitest thoughts in whitest dress, Candid meanings, best express Mind of quiet Quakeress.
Lady Unknown, who crav'st from me Unknown The trifle of a verse these leaves to grace, How shall I find fit matter? with what face Address a face that ne'er to me was shown? Thy looks, tones, gesture, manners, and what not, Conjecturing, I wander in the dark. I know thee only Sister to Charles Clarke! But at that name my cold muse waxes hot, And swears that thou art such a one as he, Warm, laughter-loving, with a touch of madness, Wild, glee-provoking, pouring oil of gladness From frank heart without guile. And, if thou be The pure reverse of this, and I mistake-- Demure one, I will like thee for his sake.
Such goodness in your face doth shine, With modest look without design, That I despair, poor pen of mine Can e'er express it. To give it words I feebly try; My spirits fail me to supply Befitting language for't, and I Can only bless it!
But stop, rash verse! and don't abuse A bashful Maiden's ear with news Of her own virtues. She'll refuse Praise sung so loudly. Of that same goodness you admire, The best part is, she don't aspire To praise--nor of herself desire To think too proudly.
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;