Chapter 12 To a Young Friend On Her Twenty-First Birthday

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 have still remain a child, and at thy sovereign will Gambold 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, mayst thou grow old As we whom thou hast left! That wish was cold. O far more aged 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 have had about thee on this day Kind looks of Parents, to congratulate Their Pride grew up to womens grave estate. But they have died, and left thee, to advance Thy fortunes how thou mayst, and owe to chance The friends which nature grudged. 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."