A BIRTH-DAY OFFERING TO A YOUNG LADY . FROM HER LOVER . BY THE SAME . ERE this short winter's day be gone , My MARY ANNE is twenty one . Of days still shorter just a Lent , Patch'd up from different years , is spent , Since her Devoted fairly reckon'd The close of year the thirty-second . Bending beneath the weight of years , Full as infirm as he appears , What can a worn-out lover do , With twenty-one , at thirty-two ? For such a phrenzy no defence is — The girl has clearly lost her senses . Perhaps deceiv'd by some fond notion , Embrac'd in rapture of devotion , ( I quote such fancies to expose 'em ) She dreams of bliss in Abraham's bosom ; And chuses an Antique the rather , With better grace to call him father . Perhaps — but fiction be suppress'd , While real joy expands my breast — My faithful flame her heart approves ; And O ! transporting thought ! she loves . When Souls , by impulse sympathetick , By intuition most prophetick , By feelings , which they cannot smother , Leap at first glance to meet each other , When each itself in t'other traces , What matter for their different cases ? Of kin , perhaps , in pre-existence , Without dull Reason's slow assistance , They recollect the happy union , And long to recommence communion . I must confess that such attraction , For ease , convenience , satisfaction , Were best if , on deliberation , It met with Reason's approbation : Not as of absolute dominion , To rule by dint of dark opinion ; Not as a Lord of sovereign sway , Whom love must worship and obey ; But merely as the herd inferior May judge the acts of Powers superior ; As my poor intellect , or thine , May scan authority divine — In short , I'd have our simple love , Not against reason , but above . Two birds , suppose , of various feather , Hung in one room by chance together , To airs melodious tune their voices , While each the other's ear rejoices : If , without half a note erroneous , The song be perfectly harmonious , What matter for the forms or ages , Of bills , of feathers , and of cages ? DEAN SWIFT , whose talent lives no more , His Stella sung at forty-four ; And breath'd an idle wish to split In twain her beauty , years , and wit — Of half her charms he made a proffer For youth ; but Time disdain'd his offer . Far happier I , who well could spare , Of each accomplishment a share , Yet leave an ample store of charms , To bring Elysium to my arms , Am not reduc'd those charms to barter , And cry to heedless Time for quarter — Fly , Sluggard , on thy swiftest wing , My charmer yields not All till Spring ! Then , firm in Constancy's reliance , I bid thy cruel scythe defiance ; Deal when thou wilt the deadly blow , Thou canst but separate below , Thy first can but for moments sever , Thy second re-unites for ever . Perhaps , suspending mortal rage , By silent sap , and creeping age , By subtile , secret , slow approaches , As mildew on the blade incroaches , Thou hop'st , malignant fiend ! to tame The ardour of love's fiercest flame — Vain shalt thou find thy keenest blast , Bliss once possess'd , thy power is past . Can years , while sense remains , destroy The memory of transcendent joy ? Can years bright Innocence impair ? Can years make Virtue look less fair ? But Beauty , by thy influence curst , May sicken — Tyrant , do thy worst ! I know thy power , and am prepar'd To meet thy sharpest darts unscar'd . Though Body , Mind , thou canst controul , Own thy survivor in the Soul ; Whose perfect bliss is not enjoy'd , Till thou art utterly destroy'd . Ev'n here , as health and beauty fail , While lilies o'er the rose prevail , Long ere thy menac'd ills can harm , Though every hour should steal a charm — Long ere , by twenty stars a day , The spangled Heavens would wear away . Unconscious of the gradual wane , As years their empire slowly gain , While my Ideas , in the race , Observe a due-proportioned pace , And limbs grow cold , and senses faulter , I sha'nt perceive her Person alter . When Age her dimpled cheek beguiles , And wrinkles plants , instead of smiles , Though every Cupid he should smother , I'll think her handsome as their mother . When , steady to his barbarous plan , To spoil my lovely MARY ANNE , The savage unrelenting creature Has robb'd her face of every feature , And , to conceptions merely common , My charmer seems a plain old woman , Still in my heart she'll hold her throne , Still in my eyes be twenty-one .