Poems (Lewis)/To Georgina
TO GEORGINA,
ON HER BIRTH-DAY.
Nor Love's complaint, nor Passion's prayer,Nor Harp that's strung with Cupid's hairSalutes thine ear, and bids the airSpread round thy charms and worth:'Tis Friendship, pure, serene, and mild,Esteem's and Admiration's child,Whose voice now hails the morn, which smiledOn fair Georgina's birth.
But gentle Sylphids, to her earMore tender should my strains appear,Than Friend should use, or Friend should hear,While thus my lyre I strike,Tell her, when poured in Beauty's praiseNature so soft makes Friendship's lays,Though 'tis not Love each line pourtrays,'Tis something very like.
When manly worth claims Friendship's song,His brazen Harp, firm, clear, and strong,He strikes, and roves those chords amongWhich sense and honour suit:But when he sings for woman's sake,More melting tones He joys to make,And strives with gentlest touch to wakeAffection's silver Lute.
Georgina, I'll not call thee fair,Nor praise thy radiant eyes, nor swear,That Beauty's crown with splendour rareShines glorious round thy brows;For why should I misuse my time,[On stilts poetic raised sublime]To tell the world in maudlin rhyme,What all the world allows.
I will not wish, no time nor changeFrom thee thy Friends may e'er estrange;For sure no heart can ever range,The worth of thine which knows:I will not wish, thy form divineBy each fresh year improved may shine;For sure to add new charms to thineWould be to scent a rose[1].
I'll rather wish [and could'st thou seeMy heart, thou would'st perforce agree,No mortal Wight, who-e'er He be,Could breathe a kinder vow]I'll wish [with all that Heaven's best willCan give of good two lines to fill]—"May Heaven, sweet Girl, preserve thee still,"Just what I think thee now!"—