And hark! the numbers roll along,
Majestically smooth and clear,
Like Philomel's enchanting fong,
The notes mellifluous pierce the ear.

Thus as the varying accents flow,

Each paffion feels th' accordant found-
This lifts the foul, that finks it low,
We seem to tread on fairy ground.

AN

AN EPISTLE TO MIRA.

OW flow to him who feels the smart of love

Time's leaden hours to sweet poffeffion move! His wing'd defires aut-ftrip each tardy morn; Eager he cries- long-wifh'd for day be born, When to my heart soft vows fhall Mira tie, And love's own laws the priest shall fanctify! Dull lingering days revolve, and nights fucceed, And still on love's fond dreams I hapless feed. The throbs of paffion, and the heart-felt pain, The hope far diftant, and the longing vain ; The figh unfeigned, the bofom's troublous fwellAh! what are thefe ?- fay lovers, ye can tell!

What fhall divide the pair whom love hath join'd, And heaven hath form'd with fympathy of mind? Shall grov❜ling fortune bafely interpofe,

Το

part those hearts where mutual paffion glows? Forbid it love! For raiment, house and food, These brows fhall be with honest sweat bedew'd. Early each morn I'll wake the cherub health, And cheerful industry's best prize is wealth;

We'll

We'll bound our wishes in a temp'rate round,
Yet fhall our table be with plenty crown'd;
No friend, nor ftranger, will we fend away
Without a meal, and glass, discreetly gay ;
Neat elegance fhall deck our little ftore,
And fair œconomy fhall keep the door;
How fhall the proud with wonder then behold
Our blissful lives without a hoard of gold!

Oh then my Mira, love-infpiring fair,
Who with thy swain should then in bliss compare?
Not only that thy beauty's pleafing charms

Shall fire my panting foul with love's alarms;
Nor that thy cheek which fhames the peach's bloom,
And ruby lips that breathe divine perfume,
Enchant me all; nor yet thy spotless breast,
Which gently heaves, can make me wholly bleft.
'Tis that thy manners, void of guile and art,
Speak the internal goodness of thy heart;
'Tis that thy sweetness heightens ev'ry grace,
And dove-like innocence adorns thy face.
'Tis that thy foul is warm'd with virtue's fire,
Merit can love, and real worth admire !
Can view a coxcomb's tipfel and despise,
And sense, without a * figure, truly prize.

* But to the world no bugbear is fo great,
As want of figure and a small eftate.

POPE.

Can with thy lover feel unfeign'd defire,
And own that paffion which thy charms infpire.
Nor blush at thefe, thou deareft, lovely maid;
These fhall attract, when beauty's bloom fhall fade ;
When all the radiance of thy form fhall die,
These, with fresh luftre, fhall thy age fupply;
Enhance our love when fprightly youth is past,
Improve with years, and all our lives fhall laft.

AN

A N

ORATION

ON

SCIE

N C E.

Spoken at a Performance of SOLEMN MUSIC and

ORATORY, in the Hall of the College of PHILA

DELPHIA.

N Wifdom's lore the tender mind to frame,

The youthful breaft to fire with virtue's flame, The thoughts to raife, the paffions to control, And plant each godlike purpofe in the foul; To SCIENCE this illuftrious field's affign'd, To beam the rays of knowledge o'er mankind; For this were plan'd the noble laws of art, T' unfold the embrio powers of the heart; To guide each movement to its native goal, And fean the fyftems of this mighty whole !