Classic Poem

Madam, your lovely muse's late employ
Was read, with wonder, and a pride-mix'd joy:
Fortune, in vain, her batt'ring engines bends,
'Gainst souls, which such a wit-rais'd strength defends!
Secure, within, you outward storms defy,
And look, serenely, on a ruffled sky:
So Philomel , by night, disdaining rest,
Sings, o'er the pointed thorn, which galls her breast.

The busy ghosts, your fancy seems to hear,
Have no design to fright your list'ning ear:
Nor springs their restlessness, from Rome 's old pride,
Nor vain regret, that, so long since, they dy'd;
A purer race these bustling spirits are,
And a more noble aim inspires their care!
Some beauteous band of Nuns they seem to be:
Stript to the naked soul, and so set free.
Thro' death's dark shade your shining form they spy,
And trace your virtues, with a ravish'd eye!
Hence, ev'ry night, allur'd, by fresh desire,
They press to view the charms, they so admire.