TO A FRIEND.

O'ERWHELM'D with pleasure at the joyful news,
 I strung the chorded shell, and woke the Muse. 
Begin, O Servant of the Sacred Nine! 
And echo joy through ev'ry nervous line:
 Bring down th' etherial Choir to aid the Song;
 Let boundless raptures smoothly glide along. 
My Baker's well! — Oh words of sweet delight! 
Now! now! my Muse, soar up th' Olympic height. 
What wond'rous numbers can the Goddess find,
 To paint th' extatic raptures of my mind? 
I leave it to a Goddess more divine,
 The beauteous H—l—d shall employ my line.