AVAUNT thee, soft Eloquence, exquisite harm!
Nor longer thy poison impart,
Nor longer endeavour, thou dangerous charm,
To lure Sensibility's heart.

Oh! first-born of Harmony! sister to Love!
Partaking its flow'rs and its thorn;
Now bidding the sad heart tumultuously move,
Then shewing its fond hopes as forlorn.

Thou canst soothe the pale mourner by sorrow opprest,
Bring comfort on Pity's fair wings;
Thou canst lull the poor penitent's struggles to rest,
And disarm even pain of its stings.

And Music, what rapture thy melody brings,
What thrillings the bosom inspire,
If the sweet hand of Sentiment sweep o'er the strings,
Or Love sound the tremulous lyre!

Though thy magic give ease to the agonis'd wounds
Of Love, by the canker of care;
And tho', lur'd by the wonderful skill of thy sounds,
Hope should rise from the tomb of Despair:—

Yet, Music, tho' none may thy powers deny,
In chasing Love's deep melancholy,
'Tis Eloquence bids thee despairing go die,
And shews us e'en Love is a Folly.