Music, from rapture sprung, thy strains impart, At once they charm the ear, and thrill the heart. In them no flower, no shady tree is placed Of barren words amidst a dreary waste. No weak effusions thine, no sleepy tale, Begot by LANGHORNE on his Burton-ale: In thee no languid epithets we find, No words, which never were combined: Happy their bard, to find some hackneyed scene, The crystal fountain, or the velvet green!
