Classic Poem

WHY leaps my heart with nimbler bound?
And why does Nature smile around?
Why are my spirits on the wing?
And why am I inclin'd to sing?
Ah, simple maid! the Muses say,
Can you forget this happy day?

This day is twenty-one,
And now his first career is run;
Let then his name your verse inspire,
Let soft Affection tune the lyre;
Haste! haste! the pledge of love prepare,
Tho' he refuse his annual share.

And are the moments come at last?
And are the years of child-hood past?
Are the soft feelings of his mind
With manly sense and reason join'd?
And is it then indeed the day
That most of all demands the lay?

And can the lyre or sonnet tell
The wishes that my bosom swell?
The fears Affection bids to live,
The hopes that shining talents give;
Or how, with mingled smiles and tears,
I think upon his future years?

Ah! no; in vain I strive to sing,
In vain I tune my humble string.
To me the Muse denies to give
The art that bids the feelings live;
And all the passions glide along,
Display'd in animating song.

Yet not in vain, while in his breast,
Affection holds the rein confest;
These simple lines devoid of art,
That flow from a fond Sister's heart;
Which criticks justly would despise,
Shall please a Brother's partial eyes.

Then haste, and tell him little scrowl
The hopes which animate my soul;
And whisper to him I excuse
The yearly tribute of his Muse;
Let the fair truant hither skim
And Law's bright genius wait on him.