Anniversary, February 23, 1795

A plaintive Sonnet flow'd from Milton's pen,
When Time had stol'n his three and twentieth year:
Say, shall not I then shed one tuneful tear,
Robb'd by the thief of threescore years and ten?
No! for the foes of all life-lengthen'd men,
Trouble and toil, approach not yet too near;
Reason, meanwhile, and health, and memory dear
Hold unimpair'd their weak, yet wonted reign:
Still round my shelter'd lawn I pleas'd can stray;
Still trace my sylvan blessings to their spring:
Being of Beings! Yes, that silent lay,
Which musing Gratitude delights to sing,
Still to thy sapphire throne shall Faith convey,
And Hope, the Cherub of unwearied wing.