The perfection of life does not depend on its length : It is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make men better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night: It was the plant and flower of light. In small proportions we just beauties see, And in short measures life may perfect be. BEN JONSON. True, indeed, it is that Youth is not rich in time: it may be, poor. And sound is that advice Love and time with reverence use, Which in youth sincere they send; YOUNG. The earliest written birthday tribute in verse that we ever met with is by Mrs. Hemans. It was penned at the age of eight. ON MY MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY. Clad in all their brightest green, The breeze is still, the sea is calm; The sky is blue, the day serene, Other tributes of a similar kind were written somewhat later by the same child-poetess : — At thy approach, O sweet bewitching May, And scatter bloom and fragrance all around. And rove enchanted through thy fairy bowers; Not for thy warbled songs, thy zephyr train, Nor all the incense of thy glowing flowers. For this to thee I pour the artless lay, O lovely May! thou goddess of the grove! With thee returns the smiling natal day Of her who claims my fond, my filial love. Bright as thy sunbeams may it still appear, Calm as thy skies, unclouded with a tear. F ON MY MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY.-IN AFFLICTION, Nor leave one lovely sweet to bloom, Oh yes, one blossom yet shall smile, And crown the wish affection planned. Then oh! though withering sorrow come, Very beautiful are these verses by Thomas Hood: TO MY DAUGHTER, ON HER NINTH BIRTHDAY. While yet the morning sun was low, Whilst low'd the newly-waken'd herds- Along with that uprising dew It was not sorrow-not annoy— So may'st thou live, dear, many years, To the motherless, this poem, by Miss Landon, especially commends itself:— THE BIRTHDAY GIFT. Thy birthday, my sweet sister! What shall my offering be? Here's the ripe grape from the vineyard, But these are both too passing- Thy birthday, my sweet sister, It is your mother's picture; And grave Alas! my orphan sister, You'll not recall the face, Whose meek and lovely likeness These treasured lines retrace. Be like her, my sweet sister, And keep this gentle monitor, I believe that she rejoices In her darling child to-day; This is another anniversary poem by Miss Landon, addressed to a native of India : ΤΟ ON HER THIRTEENTH BIRTHDAY. Oh, yet in the happiest season! Oh, yet in thine hour of spring, Fair child of the East, may thy future May the storms which sweep there in darkness, Nor cause to lament that we wish'd thee |