There may the weeping morn its tribute bring,
And angels shield it with their golden wing,
Till the last trump shall burst the womb of night,
And the purg'd atoms to their soul unite !

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Occasioned by bearing him play on the HARMONICA.

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N grateful wonder loft, long had we view'd

Each gen'rous a¿t thy patriot-soul pursu'd ;
Our Little State resounds thy just applause,
And, pleas'd, from thee new fame and honour

draws ;

In thee those various virtues are combin'd,
That form the true pre-eminence of mind.

What wonder struck us when we did survey
The lambent lightnings innocently play,
And down thy * rods beheld the dreaded fire
In a swift Aame descend—and then expire ;
While the red thunders, roaring loud around,
Burst the black clouds, and harmless fmite the


* Alluding to his noble discovery of the use of Pointed Rods of metal for saving houses from damage by lightning.


Blest use of art! apply'd to serve mankind, The noble province of the sapient mind! For this the foul's best faculties were giv'n, To trace great nature's laws from earth to heav'n!

Yet not these themes alone thy thoughts com

1 mand, Each softer science owns thy fostering hand ; Aided by thee, Urania's heav'nly art, With finer raptures charms the feeling heart; ThHarmonica shall join the sacred choir, Fresh transports kindle, and new joys inspire-

Hark! the soft warblings, founding smooth and

Strike with celestial ravishment the ear,
Conveying inward, as they fweetly roll,
A tide of melting music to the soul ;
And sure if aught of mortal-moving strain,
Can touch with joy the high angelic train,
Tis this enchanting instrument of thine,
Which speaks in accents more than half divine !




WEET Zephyr leave th' enamel'd plain,

And hither wave thy gentle wing; Would'st thou out-rival Orpheus' strain,

O hafte and touch this trembling string.

The balmiy-breathing power obeys,-'Tis his

my slender harp to claim ; He comes, and o'er its bosom plays,

And rapture wakes the sender frame !

The tender, melting notes of love,

The foul in soothing murmurs steal Low as the languor-breathing dove,

That, lonesome, coos her plaintive tale.

Hark! what sounds of pleasing pain,

Deep as some bleeding lovers lay, Sad as the cygnet's moving strain,

When on the shore she dies away,

A nobler gale now sweeps the wire,

The hollow frame responsive rings, Loud as when angels strike the lyre,

Sweet as the heav'nly chorus sings.


And hark! the numbers roll along,

Majestically smooth and clear,
Like Philomel's enchanting song,

The notes mellifluous pierce the ear.

Thus as the varying accents flow,

Each passion feels th' accordant sound-
This lifts the soul, that sinks it low,

We seem to tread on fairy ground.

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