To the Reverend Dr. WATTS, on his Divine POEMS

Say, smiling Muse, what heav'nly Strain Forbids the Waves to roar; Comes gently gliding o'er the Main, And charms our list'ning Shore!

What Angel strikes the trembling Strings; And whence the golden Sound! Or is it WATTS—or GABRIEL sings From you celestial Ground?

'Tis Thou, Seraphick WATTS, thy Lyre Plays soft along the Floods; Thy Notes, the ans'wring Hills inspire, And bend the waving Woods.

The Meads, with dying Musick fill'd, Their smiling Honours show, While, whisp'ring o'er each fragrent Field, The tuneful Breezes blow.

The Rapture sounds in ev'ry Trace, Ev'n the rough Rocks regale, Fresh slow'ry Joys flame o'er the Face Of ev'ry laughing Vale.

And Thou, my Soul, the Transport own, Eir'd with immortal Heat; While dancing Pulses driving on, About thy Body beat.

Long as the Sun shall rear his Head, And chase the flying Glooms, As blushing from his nuptial Bed The gallant Bridegroom comes:

Long as the dusky Ev'ning flies And sheds a doubtful Light, While sudden rush along the Skies The sable Shades of Night:

O WATTS, thy sacred Lays so long Shall ev'ry Bosom fire; And ev'ry Muse, and ev'ry Tongue To speak thy Praise conspire.

When thy fair Soul shall on the Wings Of shouting Seraphs rise, And with superior Sweetness sings Amid thy native Skies;

Still shall thy lofty Numbers flow, Melodious and divine; And Choirs above, and Saints below, A deathless Chorus! join.

To our far Shores the Sound shall roll, (So Philomela sung) And East to West, and Pole to Pole Th' eternal Tune prolong.