Classic Poem

Proceed, our second Psalmist, bless us still
With more Effects of thy well-temper'd Quill;
Teach us, in Dorick Numbers, Things divine;
And perfect thy Design;
Thou, who alone canst make agree
Rough Wisdom, and smooth Harmony,
In charming Numbers do'st express
A philosophick Energy,
And we, in that soft pleasing Dress
Instructive Etbicks see.
Long had the sacred Muses captive been
To Mans imperious Sway,
Who rudely forc'd them from their Prince,
And made them Slaves, to Lust, and Spleen,
They silent mourn for Man's Offence,
And with Regret obey.
This the ingenious Cowley knew,
And was the Muses Champion too;
The Holy Banner he display'd,
A brisk Assault he made,
And had succeeded sure, but 'twas reserv'd for you.
Fetter'd, and pale they lay, worn out with Pain,
When pious Zeal did you inspire;
Victorious Norris broke the Chain,
And sav'd the Fainting Genii, ready to expire!
But not content alone to set them free,
Restor'd them to their Prince, and native Purity.