What tho' with feeble hand I strike the lyre,
I will not sigh to gain the poet's bays;
Or soar with Genius on the wing of fire,
If gentle bosoms prize my artless lays.
For still, inspir'd by soft affection's glow,
Or true to melting gratitude sincere,
"Warm from the heart," my native measures flow,
Unknown to fame, yet still to friendship dear.
Fair patroness of my untutor'd strain,
Oh! if the numbers please thy feeling breast,
These wild effusions are not pour'd in vain,
My song is honor'd, and my muse is blest.
When early led by nature's charms divine,
My youthful vows to Poesy I paid;
And bending low at fancy's rural shrine,
Of opening buds a fragrant offering made;
Thy hand with laurel crown'd my infant head,
Thy cheering kindness fann'd my rising flame,
And oh! whate'er the future path I tread,
My grateful heart shall ever love thy name.
May pleasure wing thy lightly fleeting hours,
And health attend thee on thy smiling way!
May hope and joy unite, congenial pow'rs,
To gild thy prospect with propitious ray!
The muse for thee a votive wreath shall twine,
Sweeter than vernal roses bath'd in dews;
For there the flowers of gratitude combine,
Of simple beauty, but of lasting hues.
F. D. B. aged 13.