On Her Singing in Public,--January 1789

In human form should powers divine appear, And seraph choirings touch the mortal ear, Some harsh and darken’d bosoms would be found Cold and fastidious to the charming sound; Too loud,—too soft,—too spirited,—too tame, Form their vain jargon of unmeaning blame. That something wrong they know not to express, Which sense can ne’er explain, nor science guess. Too proud to praise, and much too fine to feel, Their censure strange should souls like these reveal, O fear them not—they are not worth thy fear, Yet whence, too modest! whence that starting tear? Friendship, thou sayst, is partial; yet rely On pleasure’s tear, swift springing to the eye; Trust thou the sweetness of thy melting song, When loud encores thy silver tones prolong. Trust them, at least from stranger-lips, who ne’er Knew thy mild virtues, or thy fate severe.

Instructed still on thy melodious course By him at once thy voice, and virtue’s source, Who guides thee every coarser sound to shun, Swell the soft note, the brilliant descant run; And gives the soul of poetry to dwell In thy sweet tones, that sweetest flutes excell, Be thou assured ELIZA, thou wilt find Thy power establish’d o’er each feeling mind; Then safely resting on thy filial claim, Win the bright honours of harmonic fame. And would’st thou a resembling music hear And learn how meet thy notes the general ear, Come to the wild wood, and the glen with me, When leafy June has curtain’d every tree; There, in the still noon of the lunar night, Shall sounds congenial thrill thee with delight, When, hid beneath long grass, a liquid tune The bubbling runnel warbles to the moon.