LINES,

FOR MY MOTHER'S BIRTH-DAY.

THIS day let pleasure smile on every face,
And beam in every eye with sprightly grace;
Let artless joy the flowing lay inspire,
And sweet affection consecrate the lyre

And see! all nature smiles around;
And hark! the "wood notes wild" resound;
In sunny robe the May appears,
The presage fair of golden years.

Let hope with soft propitious ray,
Our bosoms fondly cheer;
Ne'er may the sunshine of this day
Be clouded with a tear.

LINES,

INSCRIBED TO MRS. WYNNE,

ON THE BIRTH OF HER SON AND HEIR.

OH! let me wake the carol gay,
And strike the lyre of pleasure;
For mirth inspires the genuine lay,
And animates the measure.

Blest was the hour, sweet infant boy,
That gave thee to maternal arms;
Propitious hope and smiling joy,

With rapture view'd thy blooming charms.

For thee, sweet babe, the artless muse,

A simple wreath composes;

And see, a genial tear bedews

Her garland form'd of roses.

And oh! in all thy future days,

May virtue o'er thy breast preside; Illume thy mind with sacred rays,

And ever be thy heavenly guide.

For thee I breathe an artless prayer,
To Heaven that prayer addressing,
May all thy life be free from care,
Enrich'd with every blessing.

SONG.

THE RETURN OF MAY.

HAIL! fairy queen, adorn'd with flowers,
Attended by the smiling hours,
'Tis thine to dress the rosy bowers
In colours gay;

We love to wander in thy train,
To meet thee on the fertile plain,
To bless thy soft propitious reign,
Oh! lovely May.

'Tis thine to dress the vale anew,
In fairest verdure bright with dew;
And harebells of the mildest blue,
Smile in thy way;

Then let us welcome pleasant spring,
And still the flowery tribute bring,
And still to thee our carol sing,

Oh! lovely May

Now by the genial zephyr fann'd,
The blossoms of the rose expand;
And rear'd by thee with gentle hand,
Their charms display;

The air is balmy and serene,
And all the sweet luxuriant scene
By thee is clad in tender green
Oh! lovely May.

THE FAREWELL.

WHEN the sad parting word we hear,
That seems of past delights to tell;
Who then, without a sacred tear,

Can say farewell?

And are we ever doom'd to mourn,

That e'en our joys may lead to pain? Alas! the rose without a thorn

We seek in vain.

When friends endear'd by absence meet,

Their hours are crown'd with every treasure;

Too soon the happy moments fleet

On wings of pleasure.

But when the parting hour is nigh,

What feeling breast their woes can tell? With many a prayer and tender sigh

They bid farewell.

Yet Hope may charm their grief away,
And pour her sweet enchanting strain,
That friends belov'd-some future day,
Shall meet again.

Her aid the fair deceiver lends,
To dry the tears which sadly fell;
And calm the sorrow which attends

The last farewell.

PART OF

THE HUNDRED AND FOURTH PSALM,

PARAPHRASED.

My fervent soul shall bless the Lord,
And sing Jehovah's name ador'd,

Oh God! how great are all thy ways,
Demanding gratitude and praise;
Honour and majesty are thine,

And beams of light around thee shine: