Classic Poem

Gracious and blest! O how shall I aspire,
Feeble and tuneless, to attempt the Lyre,
Or in apt Strains thy boundless Goodness sing,
Fit for the Ear of a Cœlestial King!
If from the Grave redeem'd, I once more view
The World as from its Chaos form'd a-new,
And my sick Eyes restor'd, again survey,
As from my Tomb , the half-forgotten Day;
What grateful Praise should I continual give,
Who thus am rais'd by Miracle to live!

 Almighty Sire! whose Mercy boundless flows,
And like Eternity no Period knows;
Prostrate I fall and at thy Feet adore,
Had I an Angel's Voice I'd praise thee more:
Yet thou my humble Gift wilt not contemn,
Or from a Bankrupt 's Hand expect a Gem;
Tho' mean the Giver , and his Present small,
He best aspires to please, who offers all.
Greatly my Thoughts thy Majesty revere,
And my Soul trembles with religious Fear;
On the rais'd Theme my Muse would gladly dwell,
And to the World Jehovah's Wonders tell;
At whose Command consuming Lightnings fly,
He rolls the Thunder thro' the troubled Sky.
On him blue Plagues and Hosts of Death attend,
And to his Sov'reign Charge obsequious bend:
Yet Man, presumptuous Rebel to his Laws,
Dares impiously oppose his sacred Cause;
By Vice enslav'd, and to himself severe,
Rashly he braves the Doom he ought to fear;
Blind to his Good, he slights Religoni 's Call,
And chuses, rather obstinate, to fall.

 Blest Nymph , the pious Soul's cœlestial Bride,
Be evermore my Refuge and my Guide ;
On thy firm Summits I may safely stand,
And take a Prospect of the Holy Land;
Like Moses far the blissful Scene pursue,
But with this Difference: I its Sweets may view;
And, thro' thy Paths convey'd, possess 'em too:
When dire Diseases over Life prevail,
And my weak Pow'rs in their last Struggle fail,
My Soul shall thither soar with upward Wing,
And her Creator's Praise in happier Numbers sing.