Classic Poem

A ROUND the smoaking Urn we meet,
Thy Natal Morn, with pleasure, greet;
And ask, with hope's uplifted eyes,
That fifty more for thee may rise;
Nor only hope to aid this prayer,
Thy faithful friends employ their care;
To guard thee from invading colds,
They wrap thy feet in fleecy folds;
That Health may tune thy every note,
In wreaths of silk — secure thy throat;
So Mirth, who loves thee, loves the dance,
Shall long behold thy Bow advance
To lead the maze, or song — the choice,
That Havren, charm'd, may hear thy voice;
Havren, that vales Powisian laves,
And wafts a moral on her waves.

O! Palmer, could the Muse attend,
To hear thy grateful suit ascend;
To hear thee beg at Bounty's throne,
The blessings thou wilt wish their own;
Inspir'd, she knows them, joins thee, prays
For health, peace, plenty, length of days!