Classic Poem

Joy! to Maecenas ; The rough Sound of War,
And every martial Care, is banish'd far;
No Fleets at Sea, no standing Force at Land,
The Subjects Prowess, or their Wealth demand:
Rebellion's hideous Voice is calmly hush'd,
Church Quarrels ended, Civil Faction crush'd:
No Naval Power disturbs our Trade at Sea,
Our Merchants, safely, to our Isle convey
The precious Products of benigner Skies,
And each rare Growth, which this cool Clime denies.

The loaded Thames , with spicy Wealth o'erflows,
Which on fair Indus Banks and Ganges grows;
In Threads, the Country Nymph, soft, silky, shines
Which the bright Insect near th' Horizon twines;
And Eastern Treasures Town and Court display,
The solemn Ruby and the Atlas gay;
Not to omit the lov'd Nicotian Weed,
Nor Spirits drawn from Rice, and th' Indian Reed.

Thus whilst no Cares or Fears our Minds oppress
But Wealth and Peace, and Joy the Nations bless
Whilst George the Fust does o'er the State preside
And faithful Ministers his Councils guide:
Great Sir, relax your Thoughts and condescend,
Humbly, the Muses humble Lyre t' attend.

On Ida Jove , on Thracian Mountains Mars ,
The Care of Peace reliev'd, and Toil of Wars;
Augustus thus, and Scipio thus, we find,
With Wit and Verse amus'd a State-sick Mind.

You're our Maecenas . Freely, Sir, converse
With the lov'd Votaries of the God of Verse.
Raise a Lyceum , a Palatian Dome,
Like the fam'd Patron of the Wits of Rome ;
Which to Apollo's Temple join'd, did stand,
And there do you the learned Tribe command.
When her Maecenas Britain 's Isle shall boast,
The Mantuan Swans will sing along her Coast;
And whene'er Pollio does a Muse require,
Some Flaccus will arise to touch the Lyre.