Say, human Seraph! whence that charming force,
That fiame, that foul, which animates each line,
And how it runs with such a graceful cale,
Loaded with pond'rous ienie:We are here told,
When life its narrow round of years hath rollid,
What 't is employs the bless'd, what makes their bliss;
Songs such as WATTS's are, and love like his.
Sov'reign of Sacred Verse! accept the lays
of a young bard that dares attempi thy praise.
No vulgar themes thy pious Murcengage,
No scenes of luft pollute thy facred page:
You in majestick numbers mount the skies,
And mect descending angels as you aise,
Whore just applauses charm the crowded groves,
And Addison thy tuncful fong appi, veš.
Soft harınony and manly virpur join
To form the beauties of each prightly line,
For ev'ry grace of ev'ry Mure is thine.
AT THE Apolio Press, BY TUE MARTINS.