Classic Poem

Could e'er the genius sense, or skill
Of those by Phoebus lov'd avail,
To bid in spite of fate's firm will
The medicinal art prevail;

Then had Healths precious gifts been mine
On this auspicious natal day,
Nor should I languid thus repine
While life's sad hours consume away.

For, fav'rite of Apollo's care
And richly gifted as thou art,
The God his science bad thee share,
And Nature gave thee feeling heart.

Nor gave in vain — since tho' too oft
Sweet Health resists thy potent sway,
And her gay smiles, and slumbers soft
Refuse thy summons to obey —

Yet well thou knowst, with gentler spell,
To smooth the couch of pain and fear,
The darkest shades with hope dispel,
The oppress'd console, the languid cheer.

Nor did the partial God deny,
The soothing charm of Eloquence,
But bad its powers asswasive try
To lull the pang-awaken'd sense.

And Thee, with mildest manners blest
Enlightend skill, and polish'd mind
Our confidence secure to rest,
Propitious Fortune bad us find —

Whate'er thine art could do, is done,
With each attentive flattering care,
And pleas'd, I proudly wish to own,
A more than common interest there.

That grateful on some future day,
If skill at length have power to save,
Delighted Memory may say,
It was a friend these comforts gave!

Who on my natal day bestow'd
The bard thy faultless taste approv'd,
Whose lyre with sweetest numbers flow'd,
By thine own Phoebus most belov'd.

Dear valued gift! full many an hour
Of weary suffering thou shall cheat!
Thy mildly philosophic power
Shall charm dark Care from Reason's seat.
.
The fell usurper thence shall flee,
Contentment all my griefs beguiling,
And Hope thro' heaviest nights shall see
Tomorrow's Sun still brightly smiling.