Classic Poem

When Musidora strikes the Lyre,
Such Heav'nly Charms deseend,
As more than humane Joys inspire,
And all our Cares unbend.

II.

Ye Pow'rs! what constant Time she keeps:
What Graces does Improve?
Yet with such Ease, She seems to sleep,
The Strings by Instinct move.

III.

Each Touch of hers, each thrilling Shake
Our Passions doth subdue,
The Fierce are calm'd, the Gen'rous wake,
And pleasing Thoughts renew.

IV.

Not Orpheus self with all his Art,
Nor great Apollo's Lays,
Could with such Pow'r invade the Heart,
Or such Emotions raise.

V.

But Ah! so britle is our Frame,
We must with Haste away,
Lest, as the Flies that sport with Flame,
We perish by our Stay.

VI.

For Oh! such Harmony as this,
What Mortal can sustain?
Like Lightning, piercing is the Bliss,
And melts the Vital Chain.

VII.

Cease! cease those speaking Strings to guide,
Our Souls are wound so high,
Unless you lay the Lyre aside,
We shall with Rapture die.