Classic Poem

No. VIII.

A H ! what avail these warm poetic Strains,
These feigned Raptures of the fawning Muse
If cold and languid still my Heart remains,
And my soft Passions to concur refuse?

 O! if I love Thee not, I'm self-condemned,
This Hand the Sentence has transcrib'd and feal'd;
Thee Greatest, Loveliest, Best, I've oft proclaim'd,
And Thy unrivall'd Glories oft reveal'd.

 And am I still a Stranger to Thy Face?
Are these extatic Flights affected Zeal?
Forbid it Heav'n! or mine's the direst Case
Of any perjur'd Wretch on this Side Hell.

 O! let the Flame of pure Devotion rise
Above the Muse's most exalted Flight;
And mingle with the Ardors of the Skies;
While my poor Lays in vain attempt the Height.