[Inserted by Desire]
Goddess of the tuneful string,
Fill my numbers as I sing,
With Harmony that erst of yore,
Used seraphic Saints to pore.
Teach me all thy power to prove,
And let my Verse full fraught with grateful measures move.
Death and all his meagre train,
Those horrid Ministers of pain,
Once more are fled to distant climes,
Have left my shattered Bark once more,
On Health’s sweet roseate blooming shore,
And lent me back to Time.
Now pleasing hopes and prospects rise,
And all is rapture round my Eyes,
My Heart has found its bourn;
Blest bourn how happy is thy mead,
Pleasure on Pleasures now succeed,
As opes each blushing morn.
Great God to thee my Soul ascends,
And in full gratitude attends,
To praise thy glorious Name;
Prostrate before thee bows her down,
For ’tis from thee and thee alone,
That all her blessings came.
Westcote’s Hall, March 3rd.J.G.