Classic Poem

It will seem an odd whim
For a Spirit so grim
As the Devil to take a delight in;
But by common renown
He has come up to town,
With an Album for people to write in!

On a handsomer book
Mortal never did look,
Of a flame-colour silk is the binding,
With a border superb,
Where through flow'ret and herb,
The old Serpent goes brilliantly winding!
By gilded grotesques,
And embossed arabesques,
The whole cover, in fact, is pervaded;
But, alas! in a taste
That betrays they were traced
At the will of a Spirit degraded!

As for paper—the best,
But extremely hot-pressed,
Courts the pen to luxuriate upon it,
And against every blank
There's a note on the Bank,
As a bribe for a sketch or a sonnet.

Who will care to appear
In the Fiend's Souvenir,
Is a question to morals most vital;
But the very first leaf,
It's the public belief,
Will be filled by a Lady of Title!