Classic Poem

Scarce was the heavenly Virgin higher blest,
When visited by a coelestial Guest;
Hail'd by the glorious Messenger of Grace,
And honour'd high above the human Race,
Scarce stronger Rapture cou'd his Words impart,
Than those which lately extasy'd my Heart,
When You, God's noblest Image here below,
Your honour'd Presence promis'd to bestow:
My Hope revived, I wak'd the silent String,
The Muse once more attun'd her Voice to sing,
Pleas'd that tho' long deprest by adverse Fate,
She yet found Favour with the Good and Great,
And that her melancholy flowing Strain
To Gen'rous Mead was not addrest in Vain.
Oh, Thou, the Muses Judge, the muses Friend!
Say, must those Hopes in Disappointment end;
Must ev'ry beauteous, bright Idea fade,
And Death enwrap me in his silent Shade?
Death, the poor suff'ring Wretch's last Relief,
Led in by pale-ey'd Want, and pining Grief.
Would Heav'n but one assisting Friend supply!
How quickly might he bid those Sorrows fly?
Whose Wisdom cou'd my Industry direct,
And as that merited his Aid, protect;
Not thus with endless Application griev'd,
And tho' so oft supported, ne'er relieved.
Pardon the bold Presumption of my Pray'r,
Courage is oft extracted from Despair;
The drowning Wretch struggles for Life awhile,
Nor God, nor Man condemns his anxious Toil;
But if tempestuous Billows round him rise,
And Heav'n all Pity, all Relief denies,
Lost in the Ocean, he forgotten dies.