Classic Poem

Stay, prince of Fancy, stay, we are not fit
To welcome or admire thy raptures yet:
Such horrid ignorance benights the times,
That wit and honour are become our crimes.
But when those happy powers that guard thy dust,
To us and to thy memory shall be Just,
And by a flame from thy blest Genius lent,
Rescue us from our dull imprisonment,
Unsequester our fancys, and create
A worth that may upon thy glorys wait;
We then shall understand thee, and descry
The splendour of restored Poetry.
Till when let no bold hand profane thy shrine,
'Tis high wit — Treason to debase thy coyn.