Did e'er the human bosom throb with pain Th' enchanting Muse has sought to sooth in vain? She, who can still with Harmony its sighs, And wake the sound at which Affliction dies! Can bid the stormy Passions backward roll, And o'er their low-hung Tempests lift the soul; With magic touch paint Nature's various Scene, Dark on the Mountain, in the Vale serene; Can tinge the breathing Rose with brighter bloom, Or hang the sombrous Rock in deeper gloom; Explore the Gem whose pure, reflected ray Throws o'er the central Cave a paler Day; Or soaring view the Comet's fiery frame Rush o'er the sky, and fold the sphere in flame; While the charm'd Spirit, as her accents move, Is wrapt in Wonder, or dissolv'd in Love. |