A tempest o’erclouds the orb of sight:
The Owl’s a bird peculiar to the night.
New-York’s the City where such worth doth shine!
Whose Laws are fram’d on principles divine.
Blanchard’s the Æronaut, of skill and fame;
And Rome once mistress of the world did reign.
Ovid did sing the various arts of love;
And through their orbs the planets yearly move:
Kissing, a mutual pleasure does impart,
And sympathy does warm each feeling heart.