To hail thy natal day, fair maid,|
Once more I wake the lyre;
Once more invoke each favoring muse
My accents to inspire.
But frown not if my humble strain
No soothing homage pay
To all the charms that grace thy mind,
Or round thy features play.
Alas! the brightest charms but yield
A taper's trembling light;
When fann'd by praise, awhile they glare,
Then vanish from the sight;
Or, like the soft unsullied snows
That fall in graceful play,
They shrink beneath the gentlest touch,
And, silent, melt away.
Nor shall the Muse thy foibles mark
With keen relentless eye,
That seem like clouds of lightest wing
That speck the vernal sky.
O! may young life's empurpled morn,|
Still mantling round thy head,
Its balmly airs of youthful hope,
with kindest influence, shed.
May every cloud of darker hue,
Ere evening shades advance,
Dissolve away, or just be seen
To skirt the blue expanse.
And may soft tints of rosy light,
With gold of purest ray,
Their mild effulgence widely throw
Around thy closing day.
One canít quite see this inside a Hallmark card.
"Happy Birthday, Hortense, dear. May you always remember that
the charms for which you're praised will disappear with each succeeding birthday, and may the day of your death
be the most beautiful day of your life."
Maybe we should just send flowers.