Classic Poem

Great Father of the bright-ey'd morn,
(O! hear thy suppliant's voice)
Whose radiant beams our world adorn,
And smiling day rejoice;
When thy feet-winged coursers fly,
And roseate wheels display,
As rapid o'er the convex sky
They speed their liquid way,
Adorn'd with locks of radiant hue;
Whose splendors bounteous spread
Around the vast expanse, and shew
The shining tracks they tread,

Of fire. Immortal streams, from thee,
The genial hours produce;
The potent healing herb we see,
And seeds of various use.
To thee the Stars, a chorus train,
Incessant hymns resound,
While pleas'd Olympus hears thy strain,
And wafts thy honours round.
From thee not far, the silver Moon
Her kind affection proves;
She bids the seasons ripen soon,
She guards the vales, the groves;
By Heifers spotless white she's drawn,
Her robe the aether sweeps,
She pearls with dew the verdant lawn,
She swells the ebbing deeps.