To a Friend, on the Birth of a Child

Come, friendship, tune the pleasing lyre,
For harmony is thine;
Philander's joys the song inspire,
Philander's joys are mine.

Our hearts, so late oppress'd with fear,
Forget the anxious sigh;
And dawning pleasures now appear
In ev'ry kindred eye.

Propitious heav'n that smil'd before,
To make Philander blest,
Indulgent sends this blessing more,
And sweetens all the rest.

The dear-lov'd blessing while we view.
And pleasing passions rise,
Be love and praise, so justly due,
Paid grateful to the skies.

With love supreme be heav'n ador'd
Still may our passions own
The bounteous giver as their Lore!,
Nor idolize the boon.