For M'Lady On Her Birthday

From far-off vista in the East
There comes a glorious roundelay
Of chitterah, lyre, and reeded flute.
And such sweet music do they play
That all in nature doth stop and list'
In wonder, at its musiked bliss.

And then there comes sweet voic-ed songs
Which gladsome notes the peaks prolong,
By sending back the echoes sweet.
And so the wondrous sounds repeat.

With gladsome roister and fulsome mirth
The glorious troupe with hyms rejoice.
With cymbal crash and tabor beat
With joyous and exalting voice,
In rapturous joy they carol their song,
As their bright procession moves along.

With merry notes and bleating call
First come the Satyrs - one and all.
With bright ribbons and silver bells bedecked
And ivy wreaths round furry necks.

Next there comes two score and twenty
Nymphs and Dryads tripping fair.
Their voices raised in silvery song,
And flowers woven in their hair.
And with bird-like voices, sweetly croon
Exquisite harmonies of melodious tune.

Now comes Centaurs - four abreast
All in gleaming barding dressed.
Drawing behind a wheeled plateau
Where-upon rests a wondrous tableau.

And placed upon this moving stage
A gift by Hephaestus himself bestowed
A recamier most exquisitely wrought,
Beset with jewels and made all of gold.
With feet of finest ebony
Inset wih platinum tracery.

Above it- on an ivory arch
Hera's peacocks take their perch,
And spread wide their resplendent fans
To shade she who rests on that divan.

And there, crouching at her feet,
Sits Orpheus, with magiked lyre.
And voices a lay so fair and sweet
The very stones cry with desire.
But sings he not of Eurydice - his lost love,
But of she who reclines above.

And behind the couch Dionysius stands,
And with his own empurpled hands,
Squeezes sweet nectars from the grape
Into a golden cup - her thirst to slake.

And on either side of that fair bed
A mighty goddess incarnate stands.
And both do bear a precious gift
That each bestows with her own hands.
Aphrodite her magic girdle offers up,
Athena offers wisdom's cup.

From on high does Phoebus bright
Send sunbeams down for her delight.
And Poseidon the sea turns to glass,
So her beauty is reflected as they pass.

Why do all so dance and sweetly sing
Who make up this gladsome thong?
To what bright being do they offer up
Their joyous tumult of praiseful song?
Riding high upon that resplendent car
Reclines the lovely Morning Star.

The gracious lady of my heart
To whom I bend my pen and art.
Though both too humble in attempt
To capture her true embodiment.

So, as your procession passes by
I fall upon my humble knees,
And offer to you these feeble rhymes
And hope that somehow they might please.
And though poor it is, that you think no worse
Of your poet, or this your birthday verse.