Nathaniel Evans: Verses Addressed to Benjamin Franklin
Printed in The London Chronicle, August 31-September 3, 1765; also printed (with modifications) in Nathaniel Evans, Poems on Several Occasions, with Some Other Compositions (Philadelphia, 1772), pp. 108-9.
To Benjamin Franklin, esq; ll.d. f.r.s. Occasioned by hearing him play on the Armonica. Written in Philadelphia, 1763.

Long had we, lost in grateful wonder, view’d

Each gen’rous act thy patriot soul pursu’d;

Our little State resounds thy just applause,

And pleas’d from thee new fame and honour draws.

Envy is now, by merit overthrown,

Oblig’d in thee superior worth to own.

The Muse to sacred virtue ever bound,

Beams the bright ray her glorious sons around;

And sure in thee those virtues are combin’d,

That form the true pre-eminence of mind.

How were we fixt with rapture and surprize,

When first you told the wonders of the skies!

By simple laws deducing truths sublime,

Before, deep-bosom’d in the womb of time.

With admiration struck, we did survey

The lambent lightnings innocently play,

And the red thunder from th’ ethereal round

Burst the black clouds and harmless smite the ground,

As down thy Rod was seen the dreaded fire,

In a swift flame to vanish and expire:

Blest use of art! apply’d to serve mankind,

The noble province of the sapient mind!

This, this be wisdom’s, this the sage’s claim,

To trace the godhead thro’ this wondrous frame;

For this the soul’s grand faculties were giv’n,

To search the chain connecting man with heav’n.

But not alone those weightier thoughts controul

Thy comprehensive far-pervading soul;

The softer studies thy regard command,

And rise with fair refinement from thy hand.

Aided by thee, Urania’s heavenly art

With finer raptures charms th’ extatic heart;

Th’ Armonica shall join the sacred choir,

Fresh transports kindle, and new joys inspire.

Hark! the soft warblings, rolling smooth and clear,

Strike with celestial ravishment the ear,

Conveying inward, as they sweetly roll,

A tide of melting music to the soul.

And sure if aught of mortal-moving strain,

Can touch with joy the high angelic train,

’Tis such a pure transcendent sound divine

As breathes this heart-enchanting frame of thine.

Shall not the Muse her slender tribute pay?

Her’s is no venal, but the grateful lay;

Apollo bids it, where such virtues shine,

And pours a graceful sweetness thro’ each line;

Her country too, responsive to the sound,

Swells the full note, and tells it all around.

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