Poor were the praise to paint the purling rill,
To make it music is the muses skill;
Without her voice the spring runs silent by,
Dumb are the waters, and the verse’s dry;
While chill’d with ice the cool waves creep along,
And all the fountain freezes in the song.
ANACREONTIC.
Found in an old Drawer in the Repositories of a Person deceased.
O God of Sleep! since we must be
Oblig’d to give some hours to thee;