Classic Poem

The Clods, as if Inform'd with some new Soul,
Forthwith take motion, and begin to rowl;
First tops of Lances pierce the teeming Ground,
Whose very Birth tells they are made to Wound:
Then rising Casks their painted Crests display
Whose Form at once shews terrible and gay:
Next may he Shoulders, Breasts, and Arms descry,
Whose brandish'd Spears proclaim some Battle nigh:
Untill at length in perfect view appears
A growing Harvest of young Cuirassiers.
Thus we in Theaters, the Scenes withdrew,
When some more solemn Spectacle they shew,
See Images in slow Machines arise,
Still mounting by insensible degrees;
New-peeping Heads our longing View first greet,
And humble Faces levell with our Feet:
Next gliding Trunks are in soft order shown,
And neather Limbs heave upper gently on;
So still their Motion, their Ascent so slow,
You'd justly think they did not move, but grow:
At last their sluggish Feet advanc'd in sight,
Present us Statues in full Bulk and Height:
Mean while we struck with fix'd Amazement stare,
And mar'l what strange Conveyance brought 'em there,
Made by Surprize more Statues then they are:
No less astonished doubtfull Cadmus gaz'd,
Doubly, by Wonder, and by Fear amaz'd: