Classic Poem

Shall this Day unheeded fly,
And like vulgar days pass by?
Dull as — — tho' I be,
Shall it pass unsung by Me?
No, when I this Day forget,
May I share that Poet's fate!
Singing what is daily said,
Rhyming what is never read.

Now for Blessings, such as case.
Health and joy, long life and peace.
Pray we next — for Poets may
Sure, as well as Prose-Folks, pray —
And as this Day rolls around,
May you still be perfect found:
Still, in Virtue's noble race,
Pressing for the foremost place;
Scorning all that's low, or lewd,
Daring to be great and good:
Till your race of life is done,
And the glorious meed your own;
Such as Angels now receive,
Such as Heav'n alone can give.