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Charles Lamb - My Birthday
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A dozen years since in this house what commotion,
  What bustle, what stir, and what joyful ado;
Every soul in the family at my devotion,
  When into the world I came twelve years ago.


I`ve been told by my friends (if they do not belie me)
  My promise was such as no parent would scorn;
The wise and the aged who prophesied by me
  Augured nothing but good of me when I was born.


But vain are the hopes which are formed by a parent,
  Fallacious the marks which in infancy shine;
My frail constitution soon made it apparent,
  I nourished within me the seeds of decline.


On a sick bed I lay, through the flesh my bones started,
  My grief-wasted frame to a skeleton fell;
My physicians foreboding took leave and departed,
  And they wished me dead now, who wishëd me well.


Life and soul were kept in by a mother`s assistance,
  Who struggled with faith, and prevailed `gainst despair;
Like an angel she watched o`er the lamp of existence,
  And never would leave while a glimmer was there.


By her care I`m alive now—but what retribution
  Can I for a life twice bestowed thus confer?
Were I to be silent, each year`s revolution
  Proclaims—each new birthday is owing to her.


The chance-rooted tree that by waysides is planted,
  Where no friendly hand will watch o`er its young shoots,
Has less blame if in autumn, when produce is wanted,
  Enriched by small culture it put forth small fruits.


But that which with labour in hot-beds is reared,
  Secured by nice art from the dews and the rains,
Unsound at the root may with justice be feared,
  If it pay not with interest the tiller`s hard pains.
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