BIRTH-DAY. Shall this Day unheeded fly, And like vulgar days pass by? Dull as — tho' I be, Shall it pass unsung by Me? No, when I this Day forget, May I share that Poet's fate! Singing what is daily said, Rhyming what is never read. Now for Blessings, such as ease, Health and joy, long life and peace. Pray we next — for Poets may Sure, as well as Prose-Folks, pray — And as this Day rolls around, May you still be perfect found: Still, in Virtue's noble race, Pressing for the foremost place; Scorning all that's low, or lewd, Daring to be great and good: Till your race of life is done, And the glorious meed your own; Such as Angels now receive, Such as Heav'n alone can give.