For every fibre of the heart, now touched by the finger of God, wakes in
harmony, and vibrates with the richest music of which earth or heaven
can boast. It is the very same which animates the spirits of just men
made perfect, and none but blood washed sinners can ever learn the song.

No music, borne from Eden's bowers,
On heaven's own balmy wings,
No song, that angels ever sang.
Could roach these lofty strings;

For Gabriel with his golden harp,
Tuned by the heavenly dove,
Could never touch the thrilling notes
Of God's redeeming love.




APPENDIX.

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The Pastoral was published in one of the papers of the day. As it gave
rise to a little mirth, we insert it with the poems annexed.

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