Classic Poem

Forgive, great pleader of the poor man's cause!
Thou just asserter of thy saviour's laws!
Forgive the erring fondness of my lays,
What muse , untir'd, can climb so steep a praise!
Verse ; for my own sake, not for thine , I chose,
For he, who, with his own, would praise thy prose ,
Has, when his too officious task is done,
But held a taper to the blazing sun .

Could failing fancy reach my rising will ,
Or word's weak wind the sails of meaning fill;
I wou'd — but thy reward would bankrupt man ,
And heav'n must pay it — for heav'n only can .

If wealthy misers , who, by starts, bestow
Some wind-rais'd drops, which, in their fortune's flow,
Their breezy charities about them blow;
If these stand blest, by heav'n's too kind decree,
What nobler blessings are reserv'd for thee!
What, tho' the thrilling pain wounds thro', and thro',
Sharp as it is, 'tis pleasing too!
Now proud, imperial reason , boast thy pow'r!
Glorious, in high defyance , rise,
And, while the charmer all her forces tries,
While all her graces mix, in one bright show'r,
And, round my dazzled senses, scatt'ring, fall;
E'en while her smile-dress'd beauty fills my eyes,
And life itself pierc'd by the musick, dies ,
To shew proud joys , that reason rules 'em all;
At one strong effort ; struggle thro' the charm ,
And, e'en amidst the transport , wisely warm,
In cool description, gather force to tell,
What varying passions thy hot bosom swell .

III.

'Tis well! disdainful beauty! — smile again!
I'll do it, though with pain .
Each piercing stroke , your flying fingers give,
Softens, dilates, and undulates my mind!
I swell immense, beyond myself! and leave
All taste of frail mortality behind.
My beating heart, of heav'nly force possest,
Knocks, with impatience at my earthy breast.

Fain would it go , but knows not where!
'Tis gone, at once, and all dissolv'd in air!
Again, 'tis here! — what wou'd the wond'rer say!
It could not longer absent stay,
But lost the heav'nly sound above , which summon'd it away!
See! all impatient of delay,
The raptur'd fugitive is downward sung ,
Clings to your dancing wires , tho' loosely strung,
And hangs about the musick of your tongue .

IV.

Still you complain, still Love inspire!
So, men, on Zembla 's wint'ry coast,
The pole's proud treasury of frost ,
When they, to their cold caves retire,
Can sit, and freeze , amidst surrounding fire!
What shall I do? — 'tis certain death — to stay,
And worse than death , to go away!
Like men, who live in an infected air,
I gape for breath , but every where,
Admit the plague despair!
Each tuneful accent arm'd with pointed pain ,
Drives thro' my blood , strong tides of new desire;
My fev'rish soul is all on fire!
Thee! who not only dost men's wants relieve,
But teachest , backward thousands, how to give!

S TAND firm, great pillar of the church, you bless!
May all your labours meet a like success!
Though vulgar natures are to pity blind ,
Well-guided sight they, in your doctrine , find.
Gross , as they are, and chill'd , by low desires,
When warm they feel your heart-dissolving fires ,
Their souls, new-dipp'd, discharge the stains of sense ,
And take the creamy dye of innocence .

W ITH rev'rend joy , my charm'd attention hung,
To catch the musick of your truth-blest tongue .
Spread, and dissolv'd, by mercy's moral heat,
My heart, in sighs, exhal'd to seek your feet!
'Twas far too mean a bliss, to look you thro',
I wou'd have turn'd to air , and enter'd too!
Still to have dwelt within you, — pure , like you !

B UT why, thus weakly, should I praise your aim?
The crowds, you sav'd from want , shall bless your name!
The soul-shook widow's cries, and scalding tears,
Whose speaking force has reach'd our sov'reign's ears,
Shall climb the heights of heav'n's high palace, too,
And, when they pray for Anna , plead for you :
The groans of orphans , and the virgin's pray'rs,
The mother's aided hopes, and father's cares,
With moving rhet'rick shall invade the sky ,
And, as you bless'd them, here , bless you , on high .