Classic Poem

THE TEMPLE

Lord ! yet how dull am I?
When I would flye!
Up to the Region, of thy Glories where
Onlie true formes appeare;
My long brail'd Pineons, (clumsye, and unapt)
I cannot Spread;
I am all dullnes; I was Shap't
Only to flutter, in the lower Shrubbs
Of Earth-borne-follies. Out alas!
When I would treade
A higher Step, ten thousand, thousand Rubbs
Prevent my Pace.
This Glorious Larke; with humble Honour, I
Admire and praise;
But when I raise
My Selfe, I fall asham'd, to see him flye:
The Royall Prophet, in his Extasie,
First trod this path;
Hee followes neare; (I will not Say, how nigh)
In flight, as well as faith.
Let me asham'd creepe backe into my Shell;
And humbly Listen to his Layes:
Tis prejudice, what I intended Praise;
As where they fall soe Lowe, all Words are Still.
Our Untun'd Liricks, onlie fitt
To Sing, our Selfe-borne-Cares,
Dare not, of Him. Or had wee Witt,
Where might wee find out Ears
Worthy his Character? if wee may bring
Our Accent to his Name?
This Stand, of Lirick's, Hee the utmost Fame
Has gain'd; and now they vaile, to heare Him Sing
Horace in voice; and Casimire in winge.