Written in the blank leaf of a small Pocket Edition of Thomson’s Seasons

The gilded volume, where to actual sight
The sculptor’s powers the poet’s scenes array,
And rival praise by rival grace excite,
Proves not to me a source of that delight,
These small unornamented leaves convey.

Since they present, in an unburden’d hand,
As my lone step o’er hill and valley strays,
To fancy’s eye, each trace of fair, or grand,
Of bright, or fading, solemn, wild, or bland,
The waxing, or the waning year displays.

Yes, little book! like Elfin sprites of old,
Thou to thy mistress shalt auspicious prove,
And while thy leaves exhaustless charms unfold,
More shall they please, since thee her eyes behold
A welcome present from a friend they love.