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LORD HAY'S BIRTH DAY,
13TH MAY 1767.
A MUSE, unskilled in venal praise,
For, not on beds of gaudy flowers
Thine ancestors reclined,
Where sloth dissolves, and spleen devours,
All energy of mind;
To hurl the dart, to ride the car,
To stem the deluges of war,
And snatch from Fate a sinking land;
And from his grasp the dagger wrest,
'Twas this that raised the illustrious line
To match the first in fame;
A thousand years have seen it shine
Have seen thy mighty sires appear
They triumphed but to save.
The Muse with joy attends their way
There, to its Lord the village gay
Yon castle's glittering towers contain
The unfriended hail their calm recess, And gladness smiles around.
There, to the sympathetic heart,
To mitigate the mourner's smart,
O yet, ere Pleasure plant her snare
Ere Flattery her song prepare
O may his country's guardian power
Swift to reward a parent's fears,
Roll on in peace, ye blooming years,
That rear him to renown;
When, in his finished form and face,
Each patrimonial charm combined;
Yet, though thou draw a nation's eyes,
And win a nation's love,
Let not thy towering mind despise
The village and the grove.
No slander there shall wound thy fame,
When winds the mountain oak assail,
And lay its glories waste,
Content may slumber in the vale,
Unconscious of the blast.
Through scenes of tumult while we roam,
The heart, alas! is ne'er at home;
It hopes in time to roam no more :
The mariner, not vainly brave,
Combats the storm, and rides the wave, To rest, at last, on shore.