MISS HARRIET HANBURY,
AT SIX YEARS OLD.
BY SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS.
WHY should I thus employ my time,
To paint those cheeks of rosy hue?
Why shou'd I search my brains for rhyme,
To sing those eyes of glossy blue?
The pow'r as yet is all in vain ;
Thy num'rous charms, and various graces :
They only serve to banish pain,
And light up joy in parent's faces.
But soon those eyes their strength shall feel ;
Those charms their pow'rful sway shall find:
Youth shall in crowds before you kneel,
And own your empire o'er mankind.
Then, when on Beauty's throne you sit,
And thousands court your wish'd-for arms,
My Muse shall stretch her utmost wit,
To sing the vict'ries of your charms ;-
Charms that in time shall ne'er be lost, At least while verse like mine endures; And future Hanbury's shall boast,
Of verse like mine, of charms like yours.
A little vain we both may be,
Since scarce another house can shew, A poet that can sing like me,
A beauty that can charm like you.
HIS DAUGHTER'S BIRTH-DAY.
THE twenty-second day of May
Is little Fanny's natal day;
Pretty warblers of the wood,
Quit awhile your callow brood,
Gaily prune each gaudy wing,
Each a merry carol bring,
To commemorate the morn,
When my little maid was born!
Come, Aurora! bring thy hours,
All array'd in May-morn flowers;
Ev'ry hour shall wear a smile,
Little troubles to beguile;
Airy phantoms, lightly tread
O'er the cowslip's glittering head,
O'er the cup of golden hue,
Fill'd this morn with silver dew,
By kind Nature fill'd for you;
Let each little fairy lip,
Of the pearly dew-drop sip,
Nature pours out all her wealth,
Drink to her's and Fanny's health;
She, I'm sure, will not refuse,
Gratefully those gifts to use.
O Innocence! protect her Youth,
Lead her down the paths of Truth,
Culling sweets from every flower,
Truth has twin'd round Virtue's bower,
There to dwell with sweet Content,
Virtue's constant resident.
Sweets too redolent will cloy;
Prudence mildly tempers joy ;
Thorns may grow, tho' sweets are near,
Pity oft will have a tear;
Tears will start, howe'er confin'd,
From a feeling gen'rous mind.
Idleness for ever meets
Bitter, in its cup of sweets!
Let her not recline her head,
Long on Pleasure's rosy bed:
Pleasure does itself destroy,
Be improvement then her toy,
Doing right her greatest joy.
Mindful of her parent's nod,
And her duty to her God;
Tell her " to the good and wise,
"Every place is paradise ;
"Every month to them is May, "And a birth-day every day."
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