Joy to thee, Lady! many years of joy
To thee-and thine-that springtide of the heart,
The bliss of virtuous love, without alloy.
And all that health and gladsome life impart.
How gracefully hast thou thy task perform'd,
The watchful tender mother, matchless wife;
All woman boasts-thou hast indeed adorn'd-
Thine the high merit of an useful life.
For ever cheerful, though the Tragic Muse
May call thee Sister, both in form and mind;
Thou do'st to all those envied charms transfuse,
Which shine so highly temper'd and refined.
Lady revered-the sunbeam and the rose
Are poor in beauty to sweet woman's smiles:
'Tis the bright sunset of life's awful close,
The Poet's deathless wreath! a spell all grief beguiles!