Oft I’ve implor’d, but all in vain!
No Muse descends to guide my pen;
Else would I hail thy natal hour
In lofty verse, with all my power;
Poetic flowers I would entwine
A birthday wreath to make
The lily pure, the rose divine
The sweet briar and eglantine
And all for Ellen’s sake.
The Rose I’d fancy was her lip,
The bright-brown musk flower her hair,
Then from dear truth I’d take a trip,
And say her skin’s the lily fair.
At this I blush, and fret, and pine,
And throw my idle pen away;
Vowing no flatter of mine,
(Unworthy of the tuneful Nine)
Shall taint her on her natal day.
Be this fair day still set apart,
To love & friendship given;
With virtuous thoughts, to fill her heart,
And point her way to Heaven.
“Beauty, like flowers, will soon decay,
Wisdom can never perish;
Some graces time will steal away,
But some t’will nobly cherish;
Tho’ time wills steal the rose of youth
The mind may still be vernal;
Increase of years but strengthen truth
And virtue is eternal”