The perfection of life does not depend on its length:

It is not growing like a tree

In bulk, doth make men better be;
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear.
A lily of a day

Is fairer far in May,

Although it fall and die that night: It was the plant and flower of light. In small proportions we just beauties see, And in short measures life may perfect be. BEN JONSON.

True, indeed, it is that

Youth is not rich in time: it may be, poor.
Part with it, as with money, sparing; pay
No moment, but in purchase of its worth.
And what it's worth ask death-beds: they can tell.
Part with it as with life, reluctant; big

With holy hope of nobler time to come.

And sound is that advice

Love and time with reverence use,
Treat them like a parting friend,
Nor the golden gifts refuse

Which in youth sincere they send;
For each year their price is more,
And they less simple than before.

YOUNG.

The earliest written birthday tribute in verse that we ever met with is by Mrs. Hemans. It was penned at the age of eight.

ON MY MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY.

Clad in all their brightest green,
This day the verdant fields are seen;
The tuneful birds begin their lay,
To celebrate thy natal day.

The breeze is still, the sea is calm;
And the whole scene combines to charm;
The flowers revive this charming May,
Because it is thy natal day.

The sky is blue, the day serene,
And only pleasure now is seen;
The rose, the pink, the tulip gay,
Combine to bless thy natal day.

Other tributes of a similar kind were written somewhat later by the same child-poetess : —

At thy approach, O sweet bewitching May,
Through every wood soft melodies resound;
On silken wings Favonian breezes play,

And scatter bloom and fragrance all around.
Yet not for these I hail thy gentle reign,

And rove enchanted through thy fairy bowers;
Not for thy warbled songs, thy zephyr train,
Nor all the incense of thy glowing flowers.
For this to thee I pour the artless lay,

O lovely May! thou goddess of the grove!
With thee returns the smiling natal day
Of her who claims my fond, my filial love.
Bright as thy sunbeams it still appear,
Calm as thy skies, unclouded with a tear.

may

F

ON MY MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY.-IN AFFLICTION,
Ah! withering sorrow, wilt thou come,
And steal the roses of to-day,

Nor leave one lovely sweet to bloom,
And cheer us in this mournful May?

Oh yes, one blossom yet shall smile,
And filial childhood shall expand,
Maternal anguish to beguile,

And crown the wish affection planned.

Then oh! though withering sorrow come,
And steal the early birthday rose,
Let hope reserve one sweet to bloom,
Though storms its dewy leaves enclose.

Very beautiful are these verses by Thomas Hood:

TO MY DAUGHTER, ON HER NINTH BIRTHDAY.

Dear Fanny! nine long years ago,
While yet the morning sun was low,
rosy with the eastern glow

And

The landscape smiled;

Whilst low'd the newly-waken'd herds-
Sweet as the early song of birds
I heard those first delightful words,
"Thou hast a child!"

Along with that uprising dew
Tears glisten'd in my eye, though few,
To hail a dawning quite as new
To me as time:

It was not sorrow-not annoy-
But like a happy maid, though coy,
With grief-like welcome, even joy
Forestalls its prime.

So may'st thou live, dear, many years,
In all the bliss that life endears,—
Not without smiles, nor yet from tears
Too strictly kept:

When first thy infant littleness
I folded in my fond caress,
The greatest proof of happiness
Was this I wept!

To the motherless, this poem, by Miss Landon, especially commends itself:

THE BIRTHDAY GIFT.

Thy birthday, my sweet sister!

What shall my offering be?

Here's the ripe grape from the vineyard,
And the roses from the tree.

But these are both too passing-
Fruits and flowers decay;
The gift must be more lasting
I offer thee to-day.

Thy birthday, my sweet sister,
A sunny morn in spring;
But thy sweet eyes will sadden
At the mournful gift I bring.

It is your mother's picture;
You are so like her now,
With eyes of tearful dimness
And grave and earnest brow.

Alas! my orphan sister,

You'll not recall the face,
Whose meek and lovely likeness
These treasured lines retrace.

May rather seem

To brood on air than on an earthly stream;
Suspended in a stream as clear as sky,
Where earth and heaven do make one imagery;
O blessèd vision! happy child!

Thou art so exquisitely wild,

I think of thee with many fears,

For what may be thy lot in future years.

I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest, Lord of thy house and hospitality;

And Grief, uneasy lover! never rest,

But when she sate within the touch of thee.

O too industrious folly!

O vain and causeless melancholy!

Nature will either end thee quite,

Or, lengthening out thy season of delight,
Preserve for thee, by individual right,

A young lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks.
What hast thou to do with sorrow,

Or the injuries of to-morrow?

Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn brings forth,

Ill fitted to sustain unkindly shocks,

Or to be trail'd along the sailing earth;

A gem that glitters while it lives,

And no forewarning gives,

But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife,

Slips in a moment out of life.

Of his intimate friend in boyhood and youth, afterwards Lord Chancellor Thurlow, Cowper writes thus:

Round Thurlow's head in early youth,
And in his sportive days,

Fair science pour'd the light of truth,
And genius shed its rays.