Epistle The Ninth Poem by Robert Anderson

TO MISS B---Y, ON HER BIRTH--DAY.
Sweet maid! thy birth a loftier verse doth claim,
Than I, weak vot'ry of the Muse, can give;
Tuneless my harp. Had I been known to fame,
With such a theme, I'd hope my lays would live.
All nature smiles around; enchanting sight!
The feather'd throng their homage seem to pay;
Ev'n Sol, with rays more glorious, shines more bright,
As if rejoicing on thy natal day:
For while he lights our earth, ne'er will he smile
On one more worthy of a mortal's praise;
On one more virtuous, or more free from guile,
Unknown 'midst folly's throng, or fashion's blaze:
And O, when many chearful years have flown,
And thou to conq'ring time, like all, must bow;
May calm reflection dwell on pleasures known,
Nor sorrow till that hour e'er cloud thy brow!