Classic Poem

Imperial reason, hold thy throne.
Conscience, to censure and approve
To thee belongs. Ye passions, own
Subjection, and in order move.

Inchanting order! peace how sweet!
Delicious harmony within!
Blest self-command, thy pow'r I greet.
Ah! when shall I such empire win?

The hero's laurel fades, the fame
For boundless science is but wind,
And Sampson's strength a brutal name,
Without dominion of the mind.

Sampson behold, a harlot's slave!
The warlike David fell by love.
Vast knowledge fail'd his son to save
From bowing in Astarte's grove.

The beauty and the pow'rful arms
Of self-command, in juvenile fire,
See; when the mistress spreads her charms
And tempts in vain her slave's desire.

But, of all patterns most sublime,
Jesus, on thee I love to gaze.
O self-command, to wond'ring time
Unknown in old and modern days!

Thy holy mind in reason strong,
With passions regular and pure,
Pity'd the mighty and the throng,
In native dignity secure.

Not offer of imperial pow'r,
Nor flattery's praise, nor foul disgrace,
Nor cruel death's advancing hour,
Alter'd one feature in thy face.

Serene as heav'n, thy stedfast zeal
Duty with dazzling lustre crown'd:
Till thy great work, to teach and heal,
Had measur'd its appointed bound.

With trembling feet, at distance I
Thy glorious footsteps would pursue.
Grant, that in me the marking eye
A sketch of self-command may view.