On His Seventieth Birthday

Here's to the Prince of Wits!
Here's to his Seventy Years!
Time, the fugacious, flits
Over this vale of tears,
Yet never a mark leaves in its train
To dimmer the loyal love for Twain
In the warp and woof of the hearts of those
Whose sorrows and woes,
Whose trials and pain,
Have vanished like smoke into thinnest air
'Neath the magic touch of his genius rare!
God give him power
For every hour
Of peace he has brought where storm-clouds lower!
God give him a day
For every ray
Of light he has shed on sorrow's way!
God give him a year
For every fear
His blithesome spirit has turned to cheer,
And his Seventy Years will straightway be
But the end of a promising infancy!