To a Young Friend On Her Twenty-First Birthday

Crown me a cheerful goblet, while I pray

A blessing on thy years, young Isola;

Young, but no more a child. How swift have flown

To me thy girlish times, a woman grown

Beneath my heedless eyes! in vain I rack

My fancy to believe the almanac,

That speaks thee Twenty-One. Thou shouldst have still

remaind a child, and at thy sovereign will

Gambold about our house, as in times past.

Ungrateful Emma, to grow up so fast,

Hastening to leave thy friends!--for which intent,

Fond Runagate, be this thy punishment:

After some thirty years, spent in such bliss

As this earth can afford, where still we miss

Something of joy entire, mayst thou grow old

As we whom thou hast left! That wish was cold.

O far more aged and wrinkled, till folks say,

Looking upon thee reverend in decay,

"This Dame, for length of days, and virtues rare,

With her respected Grandsire may compare."

Grandchild of that respected Isola,

Thou shouldst have had about thee on this day

Kind looks of Parents, to congratulate

Their Pride grown up to womans grave estate.

But they have died, and left thee, to advance

Thy fortunes how thou mayst, and owe to chance

The friends which nature grudged. And thou wilt find,

Or make such, Emma, if I am not blind

To thee and thy deservings. That last strain

Had too much sorrow in it. fill again

Another cheerful goblet, while I say

"Health, and twice health, to our lost Isola."