Written For An Album

See to your book, young lady; let it be An index to your life — each page be pure, By vanity uncolored, and by vice Unspotted. Cheerful be each modest leaf, Not rude; and pious be each written page, Without hypocrisy, be it devout; Without moroseness, be it serious; If sportive, innocent: and if a tear Blot its white margin, let it drop for those Whose wickedness needs pity more than hate. Hate no one — hate their vices, not themselves. Spare many leaves for charity — that flower That better than the rose's first white bud Becomes a woman's bosom. There we seek And there we find it first. Such be your book, And such, young lady, always may you be.