Hail to the Light of this revolving Morn,
On which such Beauty to the World was born,
Or rather made--for thus Traditions say,
That on this happy, this auspicious Day,
Salmon, the female Artist, whose Renown,
Draws to her Shop the Country and the Town,
A curious Piece, compleat in every Part,
The utmost Trial of her Plastick Art,
Resolv'd to make; the mighty Work design'd,
And thrice, with Art, the costly Wax refin'd;
Then kneaded into Form the pliant Mold,
Which glitter'd in her Hands, like burnish'd Gold;
Graceful and tall she plans the rising Dame,
And with exact Proportion builds the Frame;
Upon her Lips the lively Coral glows,
And her Teeth shine between in Ivory Rows;
The mimick Lustre brightens in her Eyes,
And on her Breast the Snowy Circles rise;
She turns her Shape, with Tresses decks her Head,
And mixes on her Cheeks the White and Red;
O'er her fair Limbs she draws the azure Veins,
Which seem like Rills that wind thro' flow'ry Plains;
Branches her Fingers out in beauteous Length,
And adds to every Feature, Grace and Strength;
The finish'd Piece, with utmost Skill compos'd,
The various Charms of all the Sex disclos'd.

To view this unexampled Work of Art,
Crouds flock'd of old and young from every Part;
All saw, and all the matchless Form admir'd,
But chiefly One, with stronger Raptures fir'd,
Who with a Lover's Eye each Charm survey'd,
And thus to Heaven, in bitter Anguish, pray'd.

Thou Power Supreme, at whose commanding Name,
From one poor Rib the first fair Woman came,
If Miracles for ever do not cease,
O! work one now; inform this lifeless Piece;
Let not those sparkling Eyes, which charm my Sight,
Shine to charm only, void of real Light;
Nor let those Limbs, so lovely to behold,
Feel to the Touch all languid, stiff and cold;
Give her a Soul, and as her Lips I kiss,
Let them pout forth and soften with the Bliss;
And those fair, Virgin Globes, at thy Command,
Let them heave gently up and tempt the Hand;
With Life and Warmth invigorate her Charms,
And let me feel her struggling in my Arms;
Be now thy Power, great Heav'n, be now display'd,
And give her to my Wish a living Maid.

Heav'n saw the artless Tumult in his Breast,
Heard his ascending Prayer and made him blest;
Just as he wish'd, behold! it comes to pass,
The lifeless, Mute, is made a living Lass;
Her Limbs grow warm, her nimble Eye--balls roll,
And in her Bosom beats the human Soul;
Her soften'd Lips blush like the Morning Rose,
And her loos'd Tongue its proper Office knows;
On either Side her heaving Bosom charms,
And, streak'd with blue, she waves her Milk--white Arms;
She quickens all, and quicken'd she appears,
Just as she did in Wax; a Maid of fifteen Years.

Thrice glorious Morn! distinguish'd may'st thou rise,
With double Lustre gild our Wintry Skies;
And Thou, for this great Work, amongst the Blest,
May'st thou, O! Salmon, may'st thou ever rest;
In Heav'n the happiest Mansion may'st thou find,
For leaving such an Angel--form behind.