Classic Poem

To tell the world my proper name,
Is both my glory and my shame;
For like my black and comely face,
My name is sin, my name is grace.

Most fitly I'm assimilate
To various things inanimate,
A standing lake, a running flood,
A fixed star, a passing cloud.

A cake unturned, nor cold, nor hot;
A vessel sound, a broken pot;
A rising sun, a drooping wing:
A flinty rock, a flowing spring.

A rotten beam, a virid stem;
A menstr'ous cloth, a royal gem:
A garden barr'd, an open field:
A gliding stream, a fountain seal'd.

Of various vegetables see
A fair and lively map in me.
A fragrant rose, a noisome weed;
A rotting, yet immortal seed.

I'm with'ring grass, and growing corn;
A pleasant plant, an irksome thorn;
An empty vine, a fruitful tree;
An humble shrub, a cedar high.

A noxious brier, a harmless pine;
A sapless twig, a bleeding vine:
A stable fir, a pliant bush;
A noble oak, a naughty rush.

With sensitives I may compare,
While I their various natures share:
Their distinct names may justly suit
A strange, a reasonable brute.

The sacred page my state describes
From volatile and reptile tribes;
From ugly vipers, beauteous birds;
From soaring hosts, and swinish herds.

I'm rank'd with beasts of different kinds,
With spiteful tygers, loving hynds;
And creatures of distinguish'd forms,
With mounting eagles, creeping worms.

A mixture of each sort I am;
A hurtful snake, a harmless lamb;
A tardy ass, a speedy roe;
A lion bold, a tim'rous doe.

A slothful owl, a busy ant;
A dove to mourn, a lark to chant;
And with less equals to compare,
An ugly toad, an angel fair.