Music resembles poetry, in eachAre nameless graces which no methods teach,And which a master hand alone can reach.

In a sadly pleasing strain, let the warbling lute complain.

Light quirks of music, broken and uneven,Make the soul dance upon a jig to Heav'n.

As some to church repair, Not for the doctrine, but the music there. These equal syllables alone require, Though oft the ear the open vowels tire While expletives their feeble aid do join, And ten low words oft creep in one dull line.

By music minds an equal temper know, Nor swell too high, nor sink too low. . . . . Warriors she fires with animated sounds. Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds.

Music the fiercest grief can charm, And fate's severest rage disarm. Music can soften pain to ease, And make despair and madness please; Our joys below it can improve, And antedate the bliss above.