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				Title:     To A Young Friend [on Her 21st Birth-Day] 
			    
Author: Charles Lamb [
More Titles by Lamb]		                
			    
Crown me a cheerful goblet, while I pray
        A blessing on thy years, young Isola;
        Young, but no more a child. How swift have flown
        To me thy girlish times, a woman grown
        Beneath my heedless eyes! in vain I rack
        My fancy to believe the almanac,
        That speaks thee Twenty-One. Thou should'st have still
        Remain'd a child, and at thy sovereign will
        Gambol'd about our house, as in times past.
        Ungrateful Emma, to grow up so fast,
        Hastening to leave thy friends!--for which intent,
        Fond Runagate, be this thy punishment.
        After some thirty years, spent in such bliss
        As this earth can afford, where still we miss
        Something of joy entire, may'st thou grow old
        As we whom thou hast left! That wish was cold.
        O far more ag'd and wrinkled, till folks say,
        Looking upon thee reverend in decay,
        "This Dame for length of days, and virtues rare,
        With her respected Grandsire may compare."--
        Grandchild of that respected Isola,
        Thou should'st have had about thee on this day
        Kind looks of Parents, to congratulate
        Their Pride grown up to woman's grave estate.
        But they have died, and left thee, to advance
        Thy fortunes how thou may'st, and owe to chance
        The friends which Nature grudg'd. And thou wilt find,
        Or make such, Emma, if I am not blind
        To thee and thy deservings. That last strain
        Had too much sorrow in it. Fill again
        Another cheerful goblet, while I say
        "Health, and twice health, to our lost Isola."
 
To the Same
External gifts of fortune, or of face,
        Maiden, in truth, thou hast not much to show;
        Much fairer damsels have I known, and know,
        And richer may be found in every place.
        In thy _mind_ seek thy beauty, and thy wealth.
        Sincereness lodgeth there, the soul's best health.
        O guard that treasure above gold or pearl,
        Laid up secure from moths and worldly stealth--
        And take my benison, plain-hearted girl.
[The end]
Charles Lamb's poem: To A Young Friend [on Her 21st Birth-Day]
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