Classic Poem

BLEST relick of primaeval days,
And sacred charter of the poor!
The pile those heads can firmly raise,
That no fictitious pains endure.

I love the Reaper's generous art,
Conniving at his want of care:
The gifts that share what they impart,
And stores that Avarice can spare.

With infant zeal the children strive
Whose little hands can grasp the most;
No bees were ever more alive,
Each in the rustic spoil engross'd.

Let others court the dance and song
That joy to giddy heads convey:
Be mine the animated throng
That in such triumphs close the day!