Hark, each Tree its silence breaks,
The Box and Fir to talk begin.
This is the sprightly Violin,
That in the Flute distinctly speaks.
‘Twas Sympathy their list'ning Brethren drew
When to the Thracian Lyre with leafy Wings they flew.
1694 • Come, ye Sons of Art
1694 • Come, ye Sons of Art
1694 • Come, ye Sons of Art
1694 • Come, ye Sons of Art
1694 • Come, ye Sons of Art
1694 • Come, ye Sons of Art
1694 • Come, ye Sons of Art
1695 • Birthday Ode for the Duke of Gloucester
1695 • Birthday Ode for the Duke of Gloucester