To Sarah, Countess of Jersey, on Her Birthday

Of all the subjects poetry commands
Praise is the hardest nicely to bestow;
'Tis like the streams in Afric's burning sands,
Exhausted now, and now they overflow.
As heaping fuel on a kindling fire,
So deals a thoughtless poet with his praise;
For, when he would the cheerful warmth inspire,
He chokes the very thing he hopes to raise.

How shall I, then, the happy medium hit,
And give the just proportion to my song?
How speak of beauty, elegance, and wit,
Yet fear at once t'offend thee and to wrong?
Sure to offend, if far the Muse should soar,
And sure to wrong thee if her strength I spare:
Still, in my doubts, this comfort I explore--
That all confess what I must not declare.

Yet on this day, in every passing year,
Poets the tribute of their praise may bring;
Nor should thy virtues then be so severe,
As to forbid us of thy worth to sing.
Still I forbear; for why should I portray
Those looks that seize--that mind that wins the heart--
Since all the world, on this propitious day,
Will tell how lovely and how good thou art?