Classic Poem

As in those Climes where Wood and Stone,
Made Gods, are serv'd with aweful State,
The senseless Worshippers alone
Do the more senseless Gods create;
So You, fair Nymph, whom I my Goddess name,
That Title can alone from my fond Worship claim.

That thou can'st speak, or look me dead,
Then, smiling, raise me to Desires,
Are all the Fictions of that Dread,
Which my too cred'lous Love inspires;
Whilst I, with blind Devotion, idolize
The Thunder of your Voice, and Lightning of your Eyes.

Not all the Wonders of your Face
Could give you half the Pow'r you boast;
Our Ign'rance does your Beauties raise,
And makes us Zealots to our Cost.
From our own Blindness, no your Brightness, so
Do our too flatt'ring Faith, and strain'd Devotion grow.

Vain were that Heav'n of Charms, and Pride
Of Youth, but for our Vows and Praise;
Which yet You scornfully deride,
Tho' they do your whole Empire raise:
All mighty States have to some meaner Things,
First own'd their Rise and Pow'r, as Subjects make their Kings.

But what proud Tyrants then, like You,
To Empire rais'd, were ever known
With Scorn and Rigour to pursue
Those Vassals, who first fix'd their Throne?
But you, stern Goddess, think all Praise your Due,
And damn Us with Neglect, for our Adoring You.