Here is one leaf reserved for me,
From all thy sweet memorials free;
And here my simple song might tell
The feelings thou must guess so well.
But could I thus, within thy mind,
One little vacant corner find,
Where no impression yet is seen,
Where no memorial yet has been,
O, it should be my sweetest care
To write my name...
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[A farmer’s daughter, during the rage for albums, handed to the author an old account-book ruled for pounds, shillings, and pence, and requested a contribution.]
THIS WORLD ’s a scene as dark as Styx, £ s. d.
Where hope is scarce worth 2 6
Our joys are borne so fleeting hence
That they are dear at 18
And yet to stay here most are...