Classic Poem

Come heavenly Muse my voice inspire
Teach me to tune the poet's lyre
In feeble notes that I may sing
And let Religion guide the string.
The works of God demand a song
From spirits and the angelic throng
O then let mortals also raise
In humbler strains their songs of praise
My soul O look around and see
How many things are made for thee
For thee the fields are cover'd o'er,
For thee the harvest yields its store,
Speech, reason, sight, and every sense
Is given thee by Providence
God's praise is sung by every rill
O then let not my tongue be still
Let morn, and noon, and shady night
Hear praise to him who made the light
And to his Son who willing came
To save mankind from death and shame.