Classic Poem

W ILL'T ne'er be morning? Will that promis'd light
Ne'er break, and clear those clouds of night?
Sweet Phosphor, bring the day,
Whose conqu'ring ray
May chase these fogs; sweet Phosphor, bring the day.

How long! How long shall these benighted eyes
Languish in shades, like feeble flies
Expecting spring? How long shall darkness soil
The face of earth, and thus beguile
The souls of sprightful action? When, when will day
Begin to dawn, whose new-born ray
May gild the weather-cocks of our devotion,
And give our unsoul'd souls new motion?
Sweet Phosphor, bring the day,
Thy light will fray
These horrid mists; sweet Phosphor, bring the day.

Alas! my light in vain expecting eyes
Can find no objects, but what rise
From this poore mortal blaze, a dying spark
Of Vulcan's forge, whose flames are dark,
A dang'rous, a dull blue-burning light,
As melancholy as the night:
Here's all the sunnes that glister in the sphere
Of earth: ah me! what comfort's here?
Sweet Phosphor, bring the day;
Haste, haste away,
Heav'n's loit'ring lamp; sweet Phosphor, bring the day.