Ode Ii. To Sylvia Poem by Charles Tompson

On Her Birth-day.
Sweet breathe the gales. Apollo round him strews
Bright beams of gold, and melts-the vernal dews,
While not a cloud, through all th' etherial way,
Shrouds the blue heavens or dims the florid day.
Now wakes Vertumnus from his dull repose,
And breathes new life on every budding rose,
The blooms, obedient to his circling wand,
Burst their light bondage and at once expand.
O thou, whose eyes eclipse Apollo's fire,
Fair Sylvia! whisper rapture to my lyre,
Give these weak strains with pleasing charms to teem,
And thou, their sweet inspirer, be their theme!
Hail, happy morn! whose ruddy blushes bring
The natal rites of Sylvia and of Spring:
They, hand in hand, in every fragrant bow'r,
Tint the young leaf or paint the op'ning flow'r,
Graceful, o'er lawns and smiling valleys move,
Charm the bright year and wake all hearts to love,

O, could the Muse her glowing wishes pour,
For joys, fair nymph, to grace this envied hour;
Around thy brows, perennial wreathes should twine,
And beams of happiness unfading shine;
Here language fails:—for still my speaking heart
Mocks my faint lips and leaves untold a part.

'Twere vain t' invoke new charms the joy to crown;
Beauty and worth already are thine own:
Union divine! whose happy bonds include
All that is amiable, fair, and good.
Yet O, to heav'n, presiding spirit, bear
The wish of friendship and the Muse's pray'r!

Still may, meek Innocence! thy blushful grace,
With virgin crimson, paint that angel face;
Celestial truth those guileless lips controul,
And warm benevolence inspire her soul;
Still kindling virtues every charm impart
And form a brighter OEgis round her heart!
And Sylvia, while below, the flowing hours
All happy smile upon thy path of flow'rs,
For thee, may seraphs heav'nly garlands twine,
And bliss await thee in a brighter clime.