To Vincent O'Sullivan, II

The airs, that best belong, Upon the strings devoutly playing, Your heart devoutly praying: Now sound your passion, full and strong, Past all her fond gainsaying.

First, strangely sweet and low, Slowly her careless ears entrancing: Then set the music dancing, And wild notes flying to and fro; Like spirited sunbeams glancing.

The melodies will stir Spirits of love, that still attend her: That able are to bend her, By subtile arts transforming her; And all their wisdom fend her.

Last, loud and resolute, Ring out a triumph and a greeting! No call for sad entreating, For she will grant you all your suit, Her song your music meeting.