English poem
To a Friend
by Anonymous
O'er WHELM'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.
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