On Her Birth-day

Lives there a heart that never felt the pow'r
Of Beauty's eye, in love's exstatic hour,
Or, free alike from every passion's sway,
Wastes its dull span in apathy away?
Let such be silent. But th' obedient line,
When Beauty prompts, Parnassean pow'rs be mine!
Be mine to weep when sadness shrouds her tongue,
And when she's joyful—tune the ready song!

Then hail, fair Laura!—hail this happy hour,
When thou wert born, Australia's loveliest flow'r!
O, may such joys as graced thy natal morn,
With brighter glow this day's career adorn!
And haste, pervading Flora, haste and bring
The blended sweetness of thy kindred Spring,
And weave a wreath to grace th' angelic fair,
A garland fit for beauty's queen to wear!

Say, shall the Muse invoke the powers divine
To give thee virtue?—'Tis already thine.
Beauty and all her charms?—Alike 'twere vain,
Perfection clasps thee in her fairy chain!
Th' Idalian goddess, rich in every grace,
Beamed an imperfect emblem of thy face;
Like some fair shepherdess, whom fabled tales
Give to inhabit Aon's flow'ry vales,
Thine Innocence; or like the virgin snow
Whose flakes, on Parnass' top, for ever glow.

But, beauteous Laura! while the partial Heav'n
Gives thee what else to mortal can be giv'n,
This is denied;—O may it gracious prove,
And teach thee pity as THOU taught'st me love!