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There may the weeping morn its tribute bring,
And angels fhield it with their golden wing,
Till the last trump shall burst the womb of night,
And the purg'd atoms to their foul unite!
October 1, 1763.

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то

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, Esq; L. L. D.

Occafioned by bearing him play on the HARMONICA.

IN

N grateful wonder loft, long had we view'd
Each gen'rous at thy patriot-foul pursu'd ;
Our Little State refounds thy juft 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 ftruck us when we did furvey The lambent lightnings innocently play, And down thy * rods beheld the dreaded fire In a swift flame descend—and then expire ; While the red thunders, roaring loud around, Burft the black clouds, and harmless fmite the ground.

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

Bleft

Bleft ufe of art! apply'd to ferve mankind,
The noble province of the fapient mind!

For this the foul's beft faculties were giv❜n,
To trace great nature's laws from earth to heav'n!

Yet not these themes alone thy thoughts com

mand,

Each fofter fcience owns thy foftering hand;
Aided by thee, Urania's heav'nly art,
With finer raptures charms the feeling heart;
Th' Harmonica fhall join the facred choir,
Fresh transports kindle, and new joys inspire-

Hark! the foft warblings, founding smooth and

clear,

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

ΟΝ

ON THE EOLIAN HARP.

Sw

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 ftring.

The balmy-breathing power obeys,

'Tis his

my flender harp to claim; He comes, and o'er its bofom plays, And rapture wakes the slender frame!

The tender, melting notes of love,
The foul in foothing murmurs steal;
Low as the languor-breathing dove,
That, lonesome, coos her plaintive tale.

Hark! what founds of pleafing pain,
Deep as fome bleeding lovers lay,
Sad as the cygnet's moving strain,
When on the shore fhe dies away.

A nobler gale now fweeps the wire,

The hollow frame refponfive rings, Loud as when angels ftrike the lyre, Sweet as the heav'nly chorus fings.

And

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

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