Classic Poem

With heat divine inspir'd, I sing
A panegyric to the King:
High raptures in a num'rous style
I with a ready pen compile.
Much fairer than our human race;
Whose lips like fountains flow with grace;
For this the Lord thy soul shall bless
With everlasting happiness.
Gird, O most Mighty, on Thy thigh
Thy sword of awe and majesty:
In triumph, arm'd with truth, ride on;
By clemency and justice drawn.
No mortal vigour shall withstand.
The fury of Thy dreadful Hand.
Thy piercing arrows in the kings
Opposers' hearts shall dye their wings.
Thy throne no waste of time decays;
Thy sceptre sacred justice sways.
Thou virtue lov'st; but hast abhorr'd
Deformed vice: for this the Lord
Hath thee alone preferr'd, and shed
The oil of joy upon thy head.
Thy garments, which in grace excell,
Of aloes, myrrh, and cassia smell,
Brought from the ivory palaces,
Which more than other odours please.
Kings daughters to augment Thy state,
Among Thy noble damsels wait;
The queen enthron'd on Thy right hand,
Adorn'd with Ophir's golden sand.

Part II.

Hark, daughter! and by me be taught;
Thy country banish from thy thought,
Thy house and family forget,
His joy upon thy beauty set.
He is thy Lord; O bow before,
And Him eternally adore!
The daughters of sea-circled Tyre
Shall bring their purple, and desire
(Ev'n they whom wealth and honour grace)
To see the sweetness of thy face.
Her mind all beauties doth enfold;
Her fair limbs clad in purfled gold,
She shall unto the king be brought,
In robes with Phrygian needle wrought:
While virgins on her train attend,
Whose faith and friendship know no end:
Whom they with joy shall lead along,
Eterniz'd in a nuptial song,
And with renew'd applauses bring
Unto the palace of the king.
Thou in thy royal father's place,
Of sons shalt see a num'rous race,
Who over all the earth shall sway,
While the clear sun directs the day.
My song shall celebrate Thy name,
And to the world divulge Thy fame.