To A Friend.

TO A FRIEND.

O'ERWHELM'D with pleasure at the joyful news, I strung the chorded shell, and woke the Muse. Begin, O Servant of the Sacred Nine! And echo joy through ev'ry nervous line: Bring down th' etherial Choir to aid the Song; Let boundless raptures smoothly glide along. My Baker's well! — Oh words of sweet delight! Now! now! my Muse, soar up th' Olympic height. What wond'rous numbers can the Goddess find, To paint th' extatic raptures of my mind? I leave it to a Goddess more divine, The beauteous H—l—d shall employ my line.