Sonnet, Written On My Birth Day

Again has Time his annual circle run,
And April ushers in my natal day:
Since first my infant eyes beheld the sun,
How many a year has swiftly roll'd away!
Full half my thread of life the Fates have spun;
What various colours does the web display!
Some dark, some brighter; ere the work be done
The sadder hues will overshade the gay.
Yet not to Melancholy will I yield;
Against Despondency and Discontent
Still Fortitude and Hope shall keep the field;
Swerving from thee, O Virtue! I repent;
Now! to repel Temptation I am steel'd;
To follow thee I'm resolutely bent.

Thomas Oldham

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Thomas Oldham

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Thomas Oldham, Simple Poetry

English

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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

Sonnet To A Young Lady On Her Birth-Day.

Deem not, sweet rose, that bloomst midst many a thorn,
Thy friend, though to a cloisters shade consignd,
Can eer forget the charms he left behind,
Or pass unheeded this auspicious morn!
In happier days to brighter prospects born,
O tell thy thoughtless sex, the virtuous mind,
Like thee, content in every state may find,
And look on Follys pageantry with scorn.
To steer with nicest art betwixt th extreme
Of idle mirth, and affectation coy;
To blend good sense with elegance and ease;
To bid Afflictions eye no longer stream;
Is thine; best gift, the unfailing source of joy,
The guide to pleasures which can never cease!

William Cowper

Sonnet. For The 14th Of February.

No popular respect will I omit
To do thee honor on this happy day,
When every loyal lover tasks his wit
His simple truth in studious rhymes to pay,
And to his mistress dear his hopes convey.
Rather thou knowest I would still outrun
All calendars with Love's, - whose date alway
Thy bright eyes govern better than the Sun, -
For with thy favor was my life begun;
And still I reckon on from smiles to smiles,
And not by summers, for I thrive on none
But those thy cheerful countenance complies:
Oh! if it be to choose and call thee mine,
Love, thou art every day my Valentine.

Thomas Hood

Sonnet. To Lydia, On Her Birth-Day.

Bless'd be the hour that gave my LYDIA birth,
The day be sacred 'mid each varying year;
How oft the name recals thy spotless worth,
And joys departed, still to memory dear!
If matchless friendship, constancy, and love,
Have power to charm, or one sad grief beguile,
'Tis thine the gloom of sorrow to remove,
And on the tearful cheek imprint a smile.
May every after-season to thee bring
New joys, to cheer life's dark eventful way,
Till time shall close thee in his pond'rous wing,
And angels waft thee to eternal day!
Loved friend, farewell! thy name this heart shall fill,
Till memory sinks, and all its griefs are still!

Thomas Gent

Sonnet, Written On The Twenty-Fifth Of January, 1793, The Birthday Of The Author, On Hearing A Thrush Sing In A Morning Walk.

    Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough,
        Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain:
        See, aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign,
    At thy blythe carol clears his furrow'd brow.

    So, in lone Poverty's dominion drear,
        Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart,
        Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part,
    Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear.

    I thank Thee, Author of this opening day!
        Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies!
        Riches denied, Thy boon was purer joys,
    What wealth could never give nor take away.

    Yet come, thou child of poverty and care,
    The mite high Heaven bestow'd, that mite with thee I'll share.

Robert Burns

Sonnet. To An Enthusiast.

Young ardent soul, graced with fair Nature's truth,
Spring warmth of heart, and fervency of mind,
And still a large late love of all thy kind.
Spite of the world's cold practice and Time's tooth, -
For all these gifts, I know not, in fair sooth,
Whether to give thee joy, or bid thee blind
Thine eyes with tears, - that thou hast not resign'd
The passionate fire and freshness of thy youth:
For as the current of thy life shall flow,
Gilded by shine of sun or shadow-stain'd,
Through flow'ry valley or unwholesome fen,
Thrice blessed in thy joy, or in thy woe
Thrice cursed of thy race, - thou art ordain'd
To share beyond the lot of common men.

Thomas Hood