Classic Poem

Of Fields with dead bestrew'd around,
And Cities smoaking on the ground
Let vulgar Poets sing,
Let them prolong their turgid lays
With some victorious Heroe's praise
Or weep some falling King.

While I to nobler themes aspire,
To nobler subjects tune my lyre;
Those Saints my numbers grace
Who to their Lord were ever dear,
To whom the church each rolling year
Her solemn honours pays.

In vain proud tyrants strove to shake
Their faith, or force them to forsake
The Steps their Saviour trod;
With breasts resolv'd, they follow'd still
Obsequious to his heav'nly will
Their master and their God

When Christ had conquer'd Hell and fate
And rais'd us from our wretched state,
O prodigy of Love!
Ascending to the skies he shone
Refulgent on his starry throne
Among the Saints above.

Th'Apostles round the world were sent
Dispensing blessings as they went,
Thro' all the spacious ball;
Far from their happy native home
They, pleas'd, thro' barb'rous nations roam
To raise them from their fall.

Where Atlas was believ'd to bear
The weight of ev'ry rolling sphere,
Where sev'nmouth'd Nilus roars,
Where the Darkvisag'd Natives fry
And scarce can breath th'infected sky,
But bless the Northern shoars,

Simon by gen'rous Zeal inspir'd,
With ardent love of virtue fir'd,
There trod the Lybian sands,
Though fierce Barbarians threatend death
And Serpents with their poys'nous breath
Infest the barren Lands.

Nor there confin'd his active Soul;
But where the Realms beneath the Pole
In clouds of Ign'rance mourn,
Thither with eager hast he runs
And visits Britain's hardy Sons
Ah! never to return!

Nor whilst she Simons acts persues
Art thou forgotten by the Muse,
Most venerable Jude!
Where Tigris beats his sounding shore
The haughty Persian in thy gore
His wrathfull sword imbru'd.

Thrice happy Saints — where do I rove?
Where doth extatick fury move
My rude unpolish'd song;
Mine unharmonious verse profanes
Those names which in immortal strains
Angelick choirs have sung.