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TO GEORGIANA BYRON,
ON HER BIRTH-DAY, FEB. 9, 1799.
Verses on Birth-days have been sent,
In way of yearly compliment,
E'er since—in truth, so long ago
Their origin I do not know;
Most likely from the birth of Rhime,
Which follow'd fast the birth of Time:
In way of yearly compliment,
E'er since—in truth, so long ago
Their origin I do not know;
Most likely from the birth of Rhime,
Which follow'd fast the birth of Time:
They certainly were of a feather,
And, tho' not twins, were young together.
And, haply, as Time's pinions grew,
The first gay Bard a feather drew,
A fair Pen-feather from his wing,
Time's anniversary to sing.
And, tho' not twins, were young together.
And, haply, as Time's pinions grew,
The first gay Bard a feather drew,
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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
Embalm'd a Song, or breath'd a Vow;
And each revolving year, I ween,
Those airs were heard, those flow'rets seen.
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
Embalm'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.
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,
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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!
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!
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