The Virginia Gazette

POETS CORNER.

An Address to an Ironmonger, on his Birthday.

H. Lockman! may thy angel true
Thy chain of life extend,
And add a thousand links thereto;
So brave thy merry friend,
And may'st thou neither rust nor stain
Nor canker ever feel
With heart as soft as silken rein,
Thy tribe be ribs of steel;
Loud as a cannon through the land
May thy good name resound
And the strong hammer of thy hand
Thy enemies confound.
Aided by thee, my verse shall flow
Their tipple owe to thee
As iron sharpeneth iron, so
Thy friendship sharpeneth me
Keen be thy sense, like sword that
Thy wit like point of prong
Thy judgment, like a saw, divide
The right side from the wrong
Firm as an anvil may'st thou be
The strokes of ev'ry clime
And, like a harden'd steel, still
The teeth of envy tire
Round in thyself, like ball,
Shine always more bright;
When on mon
Majou tand bon
ht.
And when his forge will
no more,
Fire gone, and metal cold,
Alchemist death, at touch, thy ore
Shall all transmute to gold.
While plough shall turn the fertile mould.
While needle seek the pole,
While fetters, locks, and bars shall hold,
Thy love shall nail my soul.