A fair PEN-feather from his wing,
TIME's anniversary to sing.
Now, tho' no sage traditions say
That Adam on his natal day,
From Angel-Friend, or Mother Earth,
Had Verses sent upon his Birth,
Yet, as he was a well-bred man,
And Gallantry with him began,
It is but just we should believe
He sung the Birth-day of his Eve!
Thrice bless'd the She whom Heav'n did crib
So charmingly from off his rib:
At any rate, as Love was born
Upon that memorable morn,
The Muses hail'd the nuptial hour,
And tun'd a lyre in Adam's bower;
Spontaneous harps all ready strung
Connubial gratulations rung;
Soft airs on every flow'r and bough
Embalın'd a Song, or breath'd a Vow;
And each revolving year, I ween,
Those airs were heard, those flow'rets seen..
Since then you know, my charming Maid,
An annual Verse is always paid,
Once every year, each being woos,
Or buys, or hires a Natal Muse;
A little tiny Godling She,
A sort of store-room Deity,
Who upon small occasions strings
Her household harp, and softly sings,
Mingling with every line a kiss-
The Birth of Master or of Miss-
So sweetly gentle, that I trow,
Scarce hear we if she sings or no,
Blown like her kisses-yet from Love
They both proceed, and we approve.
Amidst the joys, then, that environ
The natal Morn of lovely Byron,
Oh, shall the faithful Friend refuse
To court for thee, dear Maid, a Muse?
Methinks he sees, in fair array
The Virtues dress thee for the day;
Dress thee in robes of modest bloom,
All wrought in a celestial loom;
Sky-dipt the colours, wove in heav'n,
A mantle by its cherubs giv'n
Just eighteen spotless years ago,
To grace their Sister here below.
Oh, may the pure materials last *
Till eighteen years thrice told are past:
Unchang'd the hues of innocence,
The blameless thought, th' unsullied sense!
And, to complete the Muse's prayer,
The heavenly present mayst thou wear
Uninjured to its latest thread,
And mark the place where thou art laid:
Then thy pure Spirit, yet more white,
Shall be array'd in-robes of light!
This interesting Being, alas! did not live to reach her second Birthday from the penning of this prayer.....
HAIL to the morn that gave Sophia birth!
Than morn more fair when Spring revisits earth!
Sweet child since first thy beauties bless'd the day,
Three years have flown on downy wings away:
Three years of sunshine bath'd sometimes with showers,
But showers of April when they fall on flowers.
Say, dearest, what can friendship wish thee more,
Than that such suns and dews may ne'er be o'er?
May sports as innocent, as easy joys,
As airy spirits, and as harmless toys,
Sorrows as gentle, happiness as gay,
Remain to greet thy sixtieth natal day!
Had I that wondrous cap so famed of yore,
Which on the head such mighty magic bore;
Would Fortunatus his vast treasure send,
And I to thee, dear maid, that treasure lend,-
Or as a birth-day present bid thee take
The envied gift, and wear it for my sake;
That ev'ry wish thy little heart could form,
In life's mixt element of calm and storm,
With wishing might be had,—a purer bliss
That cap could never give, sweet babe, than this!
WITH COWPER'S POEMS ELEGANTLY BOUND.
LOVELY without-still lovelier within,
Rich hues of Heart, that to the polish'd skin
Lend the soft tints of Beauty and of Grace,
And Feeling's rose and lily to the face;
High-pictur'd Thoughts that from bright Fancy roll,
And radiant Genius beaming o'er the whole:-
Such is the fair, congenial Gift I send,
And such the Mind and Genius of Friend.
THOUGH Poets deal in black and white,
And often draw a Bill at sight,
And mark their Drafts on paper;
And though they're drawn upon a God,
What may to money'd Men seem odd,
They're little more than vapour.
Nay, should Apollo undersign,
And the Bill,-back'd by all the Nine,-
Gain credit in Parnass,
Good Men would spurn it at the Bank;
And Newland, thinking it but blank,
Protest it must not pass.
Yet currency it sure may gain,
Not only where the Muses reign,
But on a richer spot;
When thus to Worth it would impart.
The warmest wishes of the Heart
In the good Shepherd's cot.
ON MR. PHILLIPS'S LENDING HIS TOWN-HOUSE
THIS is indeed, my Friend, an age of changes!
And who can say that miracles have ceas'd?
When at his Publisher's the Poet ranges
O'er a fair mansion-surely they've increas'd!
A mansion too, so goodly and so fine,
And large enough, though there were poets twenty; And then so bravely furnished, all the Nine,
And Graces Three, to boot, would find room plenty!
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