Classic Poem

By Harmony together brought,
Apollo 's Sons behold,
By Music charm'd their ev'ry Thought,
As Magi were of Old.

Such sweet, enchanting, heav'nly Sounds,
Beneath their Fingers rise,
Imagination has no Bounds,
But soars above the Skies.

The list'ning Ear, at first receives
The animated Air,
Distilling thence the Soul relieves,
And banishes our Care.

It gives the inward Man new Form,
Sings Lul — a — by to Pain;
Lays Anger's fierce impending Storm;
Smooth'd Nature smiles again.

The Nerves relax'd, inactive lie,
Blood does in Cadence move;
The Senses charm'd, with Pleasure die,
And to Elizium rove.

How happy they, who thus can pass
The tedious Hours away;
Between a healthful, sober Glass,
And such extatic Play?

Ye Sons of Science, Phaebus smiles,
And bids your Union last;
The Muses, too, will use their Wiles
To dignify your Taste.

The Graces, also, bear a Hand
To decorate your Fame,
Behold! the dimpl'd Sisters stand
Responsors for your Name.