To W. W.: On his Seventy-Fifth Birthday

Happy the year, the month, that finds alive
A worthy man in health at seventy-five.
Were he a man no further known than loved.
And but for unremember'd deeds approved,
A gracious boon it were from God to earth
To leave that good man by his humble hearth.
But if the man be one whose virtuous youth,
Loving all Nature, was in love with truth ;
And with the fervour of religious duty
Sought in all shapes the very form of beauty ; —
Feeling the current of the tuneful strain,
Joy in his heart, and light upon his brain,
Knew that the gift was given, and not in vain ;
Whose careful manhood never spared to prune
What the rash growth of youth put forth too soon ;
Too wise to be ashamed to grow more wise ;
Culling the truth from specious fallacies : —
Then may the world rejoice to find alive
So good, so great a man, at seventy-five.