STANZAS ON A YOUNG LADY's BIRTH-DAY. In the Month of November

Since all to Beauty's rip'ning bloom Their cheerful homage pay, Be not displeas'd, that I presume To hail thy natal day.

Tho' careless joke, and empty mirth, My thoughtless hours employ, I'll greet the day which gave thee birth, With undissembl'd joy.

And while the Muse's softest strains In artless numbers flow; That smiles may recompense her pains The fervent wish shall glow.

Henceforward now shall disappear Dull Winter's cheerless gloom; November's month shall charm the year, And wear an annual bloom;

Fresh flow'rets shall unfading blow, Fresh verdure deck the green; The meads their choicest beauties shew, To honour Beauty's Queen.

But should the season now refuse To act the change I sing; Sould Winter scorn to aid the Muse, Declar'd the foe to Spring;

The roses that thy cheeks adorn, Shall hast'ning youth prolong; Shall yearly grace thy birth-day morn, And witness to my song:

Or if by Time's all conqu'ring-hand, Their bloom must wear away; The roses of thy mind shall stand, And never know decay.