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　　IN MY OWN ALBUM (1827)

　　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;

　　And Time with heaviest hand of all,

　　Like that fierce writing on the wall,

　　Hath stamp'd sad dates—he can't recal;

　　And error gilding worst designs—

　　Like speckled snake that strays and shines—

　　Betrays his path by crooked lines;

　　And vice hath left his ugly blot;

　　And good resolves, a moment hot,

　　Fairly began—but finish'd not;

　　And fruitless, late remorse doth trace—

　　Like Hebrew lore a backward pace—

　　Her irrecoverable race.

　　Disjointed numbers; sense unknit;

　　Huge reams of folly, shreds of wit;

　　Compose the mingled mass of it.

　　My scalded eyes no longer brook

　　Upon this ink-blurr'd thing to look—

　　Go, shut the leaves, and clasp the book. The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb — Volume 4