219
THE BIRTH DAY OF A YOUNG LADY, WHO HAD RECENTLY LOST HER MOTHER.
THIS op'ning year, this rising day,
Of pensive thought, and grateful joy,
Might well for you awake the lay,
And still a better lay employ.
Could I but pour the strain of praise,
That sighs so soft on beauty's ear,
The tribute due to wit, and grace,
How justly were they offer'd here.
But no, a rude, unpolish'd strain,
Presumes the mental charm to trace,
And mark how virtue's youthful train
May fill a parent's vacant place.
Mark how around that urn they glide,
With beams like morning radiance clear:
That urn which drank the recent tide
Of sad affection's filial tear.
To you, those younger plants shall spread.
As round their fair maternal stem.
