Classic Poem

Ye who with scent so keen smell out a throng
Of secret leagues kept up by dang'rous foes,
Forgive me if I now one league disclose
That hath not vexed you yet with fancied wrong.
I know what makes you grieve your whole lives long —
The plague — the dreadful crime that spreads and grows;
'Tis this: the fervent wish our country shews
To be well-governed, free, united, strong!
I know yet more, which if ye bid me tell,
A mighty, secret league I gladly shew,
That hath been woven close in silent nights;
'Tis the great league of stars innumerable;
And — as keen spies have lately made me know —
The sunbeams vie not with their myriad lights.