On My Birthday, July 21

I, My dear, was born to-day
So all my jolly comrades say:
They bring me music, wreaths, and mirth,
And ask to celebrate my birth:
Little, alas! my comrades know
That I was born to pain and woe;
To thy denial, to thy scorn,
Better I had ne'er been born:
I wish to die, even whilst I say
'I, my dear, was born to-day.'
I, my dear, was born to-day:
Shall I salute the rising ray,
Well-spring of all my joy and woe?
Clotilda, thou alone dost know.
Shall the wreath surround my hair?
Or shall the music please my ear?
Shall I my comrades' mirth receive,
And bless my birth, and wish to live?
Then let me see great Venus chase
Imperious anger from thy face;
Then let me hear thee smiling say
'Thou, my dear, wert born to-day.'

Matthew Prior

Matthew Prior was an English poet and diplomat. He is known for his extensive contributions to poetry during the late 17th and early 18th centuries. Prior's works often blend sharp wit, classical allusions, and a mastery of form. Apart from poetry, he was actively involved in politics and served as a diplomat for the English government. His poetry reflects his broad knowledge and varied experiences.

Matthew Prior

The Question To Lisetta

Matthew Prior, Simple Poetry

Songs Set To Music: 5. Set By Mr. De Fesch

Matthew Prior, Simple Poetry

The Female Phaeton

Matthew Prior, Simple Poetry

The Mice. A Tale - To Mr. Adrian Drift

Matthew Prior, Simple Poetry

English

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The Birthday

Sweetheart, where all the dancing joys compete
Take now your choice; the world is at your feet,
All turned into a gay and shining pleasance,
And every face has smiles to greet your presence.
    Treading on air,
    Yourself you look more fair;
And the dear Birthday-elves unseen conspire
To flush your cheeks and set your eyes on fire.

Mayhap they whisper what a birthday means
That sets you spinning through your pretty teens.
A slim-grown shape adorned with golden shimmers
Of tossing hair that streams and waves and glimmers,
    Lo, how you run
    In mere excess of fun,
Or change to silence as you stand and hear
Some kind old tale that moves you to a tear.

And, since this is your own bright day, my dear,
Of all the days that gem the sparkling ...

R. C. Lehmann

Odes From Horace. - To Phyllis. Inviting Her To Celebrate The Birthday Of MÆcenas. Book The Fourth, Ode The Eleventh.

Sweet Phyllis, leave thy quiet home,
For lo! the ides of April come!
    Then hasten to my bower;
A cask of rich Albanian wine,
In nine years mellowness, is mine,
    To glad the festal hour.

My garden-herbs, in fragrance warm,
Our various chaplets wait to form;
    My tender ivies grow,
That, twining in thy amber hair,
Add jocund spirit to thine air,
    And whiteness to thy brow.

My walls with silver vessels shine;
Chaste vervain decks the modest shrine,
    That longs with crimson stains
To see its foliage sprinkled o'er,
When the devoted Lamb shall pour
    The treasure of his veins.

The household Girls, and menial Boy,
From room to room assiduous fly,
    And busy hands extend;
Our numerous fires are quivering br...

Anna Seward

My Birth-Day.

"My birth-day"--what a different sound
    That word had in my youthful ears!
And how, each time the day comes round,
    Less and less white its mark appears!

"When first our scanty years are told,
It seems like pastime to grow old;
And as Youth counts the shining links
    That Time around him binds so fast,
Pleased with the task, he little thinks
    How hard that chain will press at last.
Vain was the man, and false as vain,
    Who said--"were he ordained to run
"His long career of life again,
    "He would do all that he had done."--
Ah, 'tis not thus the voice that dwells
    In sober birth-days speaks to me;
Far otherwise--of time it tells,
    Lavished unwisely, carelessly:
Of counsel mockt; of talents made
    Haply for hi...

Thomas Moore

My Birthday.

Who is this who gently slips
Through my door, and stands and sighs,
Hovering in a soft eclipse,
With a finger on her lips
And a meaning in her eyes?

Once she came to visit me
In white robes with festal airs,
Glad surprises, songs of glee;
Now in silence cometh she,
And a sombre garb she wears.

Once I waited and was tired,
Chid her visits as too few;
Crownless now and undesired,
She to seek me is inspired
Oftener than she used to do.

Grave her coming is and still,
Sober her appealing mien,
Tender thoughts her glances fill;
But I shudder, as one will
When an open grave is seen.

Wherefore, friend,--for friend thou art,--
Should I wrong thee thus and grieve?
Wherefore push thee from my heart?
Of my morning...

Susan Coolidge

For Jane's Birthday

        If fate had held a careless knife
            And clipped one line that drew,
        Of all the myriad lines of life,
            From Eden up to you;
        If, in the wars and wastes of time,
            One sire had met the sword,
        One mother died before her prime
            Or wed some other lord;

        Or had some other age been blest,
            Long past or yet to be,
        And you had been the world's sweet guest
            Before or after me:
        I wonder how this rose would seem,
            Or yonder hillside cot;
        For, dear, I cannot even dream
            A world where you are not!

        Thus heaven forfends that I shall drink
            The gall that might have been,
        If aught had...

John Charles McNeill

Verses Sent To A Lady On Her Birthday.

The joyous day illumes the sky
That bids each care and sorrow fly
To shades of endless night:
E'en frozen age, thawed in the fires
Of social mirth, feels young desires,
And tastes of fresh delight.

In thoughtful mood your parents dear,
Whilst joy smiles through the starting tear,
Give approbation due.
As each drinks deep in mirthful wine
Your rosy health, and looks benign
Are sent to heaven for you.

But let me whisper, lovely fair,
This joy may soon give place to care,
And sorrow cloud this day;
Full soon your eyes of sparkling blue,
And velvet lips of scarlet hue,
Discoloured, may decay.

As bloody drops on virgin snows,
So vies the lily with the rose
Full on your dimpled cheek;
But ah! the worm in lazy coil
May ...

Patrick Bronte