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Poem	WHOE'ER thou art, whose soul-enchanting song Steals on the sullen ear of pensive woe; To whom the sounds of melody belong, Sounds, that can more than human bliss bestow; Like the wak'd God of day, whose rays pervade The spangled veil of night, and fling their fires O'er the cold bosom of the em'rald glade, While bath'd in tears, the virgin orb retires. Thy glowing verse illumes my path of care, And warms each torpid fibre of my heart, And tho' my MUSE exults thy smiles to share, She feels the force of thy superior art; YET, shall she proudly own her timid lays, The cherish'd darlings of thy ENVIED PRAISE.
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