Classic Poem

WRITTEN IN JUNE , 1746.

Mysterious inmate of this breast,
Enkindled by thy flame;
By thee my being's best exprest,
For what thou art I am:

With thee I claim celestial birth,
A spark of Heaven's own ray;
Without thee sink to vilest earth,
Inanimated clay.

Now in this sad and dismal hour
Of multiply'd distress,
Has any former thought the pow'r
To make thy sorrows less?

When all around thee cruel snares
Threaten thy destin'd breath;
And every sharp reflection bears
Want, exile, chams, or death.

Can aught that past in Youth's fond reign
Thy pleasing vein restore,
Lives Beauty's gay and festive train
In Memory's soft store?

Or does the Muse? 'Tis said her art
Can fiercest pangs appease;
Can she to thy poor trembling heart
Now speak the words of peace?

Yet she was wont at early dawn
To whisper thy repose,
Nor was her friendly aid withdrawn
At grateful evening's close.

Friendship, 'tis true, its sacred might,
May mitigate thy doom;
As lightning shot across the night,
A moment gilds the gloom.

O God! thy Providence alone
Can work a wonder here,
Can change to gladness every moan,
And banish all my fear.

Thy arm, all-powerful to save,
May every doubt destroy;
And, from the horrors of the grave,
New raise to life and joy.

From this, as from a copious spring,
Pure consolation flows;
Makes the faint heart midst sufferings sing,
And midst despair repose.

Yet from its creature, gracious Heaven!
Most merciful and just,
Asks but, for life and safety given,
Our faith and humble trust.