Classic Poem

Hail, holy Sage! whose comprehensive Mind,
Not to this narrow Spot of Earth confin'd,
Thro' num'rous Worlds can Nature's Laws explore,
Where none but Newton ever trod before;
And, guided by Philosophy divine,
See thro' his Works th' Almighty Maker shine:
Whether you trace him thro' yon rolling Spheres,
Where, crowned with boundless Glory, he appears;
Or in the Orient Sun's resplendent Rays,
His setting Lustre, or his Noontide Blaze,
New Wonders still thy curious Search attend,
Begun on Earth, in highest Heav'n to end.
O! while thou dost those God-like works pursue,
What Thanks, from Humankind, to Thee are due!
Whose Error, Doubt, and Darkness, You remove,
And charm down Knowledge from her Throne above.
Nature to Thee, her choicest Secrets yields,
Unlocks her Springs, and open all her Fields;
Shews the rich Treasure that her Breast contains,
In azure Fountains, or enamell'd Plains;
Each healing Stream, each Plant of virtuous Use,
To thee their Medicinal Pow'rs produce:
Pining Disease and Anguish wing their Flight,
And rosy Health renews us to delight.

When You, with Art, the Animal dissect,
And, with the microscopic Aid, inspect
Where, from the Heart, unnumber'd Rivers glide,
And faithful back return their purple Tide;
How fine the Mechanism, by thee display'd!
How wonderful is ev'ry Creature made!
Vessels, too small for Sight, the Fluids strain,
Concoct, digest, assimilate sustain:
In deep Attention and Surprize we gaze,
And, to Life's Author, raptur'd, pour our Praise.

What Beauties dost Thou open to the Sight,
Untwisting all the Golden Threads of Light!
Each Parent Colour tracing to its Source,
Distinct they live, obedient to Thy Force!
Nought from Thy Penetration is conceal'd,
And LIGHT, Himself, shines to Thy Soul revealed.

So when the Sacred Writings You display,
And on the mental Eye shed purer Day;
In radiant Colours Truth array'd we see,
Confess her Charms, and guided up by Thee;
Soaring sublime, on Contemplation's Wings,
The Fountain seek, whence Truth eternal springs.
Fain would I wake the consecrated Lyre,
And sing the Sentiments Thou didst inspire!
But find my Strength unequal to a Theme,
Which asks a Milton's or a Seraph's Flame!
If, thro' weak Words, one Ray of Reason shine,
Thine was the Thought, the Errors only mine.
Yet may these Numbers to thy Soul impart
The humble Incense of a grateful Heart.
Trifles, with God himself, Acceptance find,
If offer'd with Sincerity of Mind;
Then, like the Deity, Indulgence shew,
Thou, most like Him , of all his Works below.