Classic Poem

'T IS a Book kept by modern Young Ladies for show,
Of which their plain grandmothers nothing did know.
'Tis a medley of scraps, fine verse, and fine prose,
And some things not very like either, God knows.
The soft First Effusions of Beaux and of Belles,
Of future Lord B YRONS , and sweet L. E. L.'s;
Where wise folk and simple both equally shine,
And you write your nonsense, that I may write mine.
Stick in a fine landscape, to make a display,
A flower-piece, a foreground, all tinted so gay,
As N ATURE herself (could she see them) would strike
With envy, to think that she ne'er did the like:
And since some L AVATERS , with head-pieces comical,
Have pronounc'd people's hands to be physiognomical,
Be sure that you stuff it with A UTOGRAPHS plenty,
All framed to a pattern, so stiff, and so dainty.
They no more resemble folks' every-day writing,
Than lines penn'd with pains do extemp'rel enditing;
Or the natural countenance (pardon the stricture)
The faces we make when we sit for our picture.

Thus you have, dearest E MMA , an A LBUM complete —
Which may you live to finish, and I live to see it;
And since you began it for innocent ends,
May it swell, and grow bigger each day with new friends,
Who shall set down kind names, as a token and test,
As I my poor autograph sign with the rest.