Classic Poem

Such was the awful dignity of song,
When bless'd Urania struck her lyre of yore,
Such maxims Pallas gave th' attentive throng,
When Athens listen'd to her sacred lore.

Away — ye fables! In such gentle tone
Religion speaks, when, with persuasive art,
She makes the awaken'd passions all her own,
And stamps conviction on the yielding heart.

Boast, happy Britain! thy Eliza's strain,
By genius fraught with energy divine,
Avoiding objects perishing and vain,
Gives its full pomp of verse to virtue's shrine.

Boast, that the hand, which elegantly dress'd
Sage Epictetus in thy chaste attire,
Thy classic stores with richer precepts bless'd,
Than ever Pagan wisdom could inspire.

Oh! boast, that Attic sweetness, in her lays,
With Revelation's awful theme conspires,
And give the noblest guerdon of thy praise
To strains adapted to seraphic lyres.