THE INVITATION. 



Addressed to Mr. Chari^s Orr 



How blest is he who crowns in shades like these 

 A youth of labour with an age of ease; 

 Who quits a world where strong temptations try, 

 And since he cannot conquer, learns to fly. — Goldsmith. 



From Schuylkill's rural banks overlooking wide 

 The glitt'ring pomp of Philadelphia's pride, 

 From laurel groves that bloom forever here, 

 I hail my dearest friend with heart sincere, 

 And fondly ask, nay ardently implore. 

 One kind excursion to my cot once more. 



The fairest scenes that ever blest the year 

 Now o'er our vales and yellow plains appear; 

 The richest harvest choke each loaded field, 

 The ruddiest fruit our glowing orchards yield. 

 In green, and gold, and purple plumes array'd, 

 The gayest songsters chant in ev'ry shade. 



O could the muse but faithfully portray 



The various pipes that hymn our rising day, 



Whose thrilling melody can banish care, 



Cheer the lone heart, and almost soothe despair. 



My grateful verse should with their praises glow. 



And distant shores our charming warblers know ; 



And you, dear sir, their harmony to hear, 



Would bless the strain that led your footsteps here. 



