Angelic maid, again strike the wrapt wire,
Let music’s softest notes flow from thy lyre;
With sweet vibrations cut the liquid air,
And banish from our souls corroding care;
For when thy flowing numbers ride the gale,
The woe-struck heart forgets her tragic tale;
To black-rob’d melancholy bid adieu,
We catch the rapturous sound, and only think of you.
EMMA.
New-York, Sept. 24, 1796.