O'ERWHELM'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.