Classic Poem

Go , matchless Bard ! whose undiminish'd fame,
Not Faction's breath, pestiferous, could destroy:
Go, matchless Bard ! whose ever-during name
Thy Britain's pride, her wonder, and her joy;
Nor Time, nor Fate, nor adverse years annoy.

O, Heav'nly P OESY ! the pow'r is thine
When pure, like these, th' eternal numbers flow,
To bathe in bliss the drooping soul divine
From Sorrow's wound to steal her sense of woe;
To charm, in mute suspense, the gates of breath;
Or wake to Rapture's voice the ear of Death.

Here, touching light the soft Aonian Lyre,
M ILTON ! thy sacred hand its prelude plays:
Ere, wak'd by echoes of the Seraph Choir,
With nobler aim thy chord advent'rous strays,
Above the narrow bound of fabled days.
Then go, sweet Bard ! that valued praise receive,
Which only polish'd Taste, and kindred Arts, can give.