Classic Poem

We are compleat; and faith hath now
No greater blessing to bestow:
Nay, the dull World must now confess.
We have all worth, all happiness
Annalls of State are triffles to our fame,
Now 'tis made sacred by Lucasia's name.

But as though through a burning glasse
The sun more vigorous doth passe,
It still with generall freedom shines;
For that contracts, but not confines:
So though by this her beams are fixed here,
Yet she diffuses glorys every where.

Her mind is so entirely bright,
The splendour would but wound our sight,
And must to some disguise submit,
Or we could never worship it
And we by this relation are allow'd
Lustre enough to be Lucasia's cloud.

Nations will own us now to be
A Temple of divinity;
And Pilgrims shall Ten ages hence
Approach our Tombs with reverence.
May then that time, which did such blisse convey,
Be kept with us perpetuall Holy day!