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.