Bard of the pensive song, whose sweet-strung lyre Each melting softness joins to richest tones; Struck from the chords of true poetic fire, Thy sovereign melody each bosom owns. Clothing with inspir'd mantle every thought, To Grief's sad ear thou pour'st soft Pity's wail, Like yonder bird, with tenderest music fraught, Chauntress of Spring's green woods, the nightingale. To some lone wretch, who droops 'neath misery's wing, O Bowles! 'tis thine, whose notes ectstatic flow, A soothing requiem to his soul to sing, Planting Hope's rose-bud on the thorn of woe: Whilst to his heart thou giv'st, without alloy, Olive-crown'd peace, and lily-bosom'd joy. Little St. Thomas Apostles.
