 | A collection of letters and state papers |  |
711
An ODE, to Master Stone, not a Day old.
Happy Infant of a Day,
Safe from ev'ry flatt'ring Lay,
'E're thou yet hast seen the Sky,
Where thy latest Glorys lye,
'E're thou hast arriv'd at Noon,
Take the Muse's early Boon.
Safe from ev'ry flatt'ring Lay,
'E're thou yet hast seen the Sky,
Where thy latest Glorys lye,
'E're thou hast arriv'd at Noon,
Take the Muse's early Boon.
Millions unregarded pass,
As beneath the Scythe the Grass,
For of Millions, from their Birth,
Few are little more than Earth.
As thy future Days encrease,
'E're thou know'st the Stores of Greece,
Or hast hear'd the Roman Lyre,
All familiar to thy Sire,
May'st thou lisp this faithful Lay,
Which to thee and Truth I pay.
As beneath the Scythe the Grass,
For of Millions, from their Birth,
Few are little more than Earth.
As thy future Days encrease,
'E're thou know'st the Stores of Greece,
Or hast hear'd the Roman Lyre,
All familiar to thy Sire,
May'st thou lisp this faithful Lay,
Which to thee and Truth I pay.
Thro' thy young and sportive Hours,
May'st thou bloom like vernal Flow'rs,
Which no sudden Blights, or Storm,
Ever shrivel or deform:
Never may thy spritely Years,
Fill thy Mother's Eyes with Tears;
But may all thy joyful Days
Win thy Father's Love and Praise:
Then a Bard, as yet unborn,
May thy Name and Worth adorn,
While the Poet of thy Spring,
Form'd by Nature now to sing,
Sleeps with Worms beneath the Ground,
And with Kings whom Death uncrown'd.
May'st thou bloom like vernal Flow'rs,
Which no sudden Blights, or Storm,
Ever shrivel or deform:
Never may thy spritely Years,
Fill thy Mother's Eyes with Tears;
But may all thy joyful Days
Win thy Father's Love and Praise:
Then a Bard, as yet unborn,
May thy Name and Worth adorn,
While the Poet of thy Spring,
Form'd by Nature now to sing,
Sleeps with Worms beneath the Ground,
And with Kings whom Death uncrown'd.
| A collection of letters and state papers | |