Classic Poem

Awake, sweet Babe! the sun's emerging ray
That gave you, birth renews the happy day:
Calmly serene, and glorious to the view,
He marches forth, and strives to look like you.
Fair beauty's bud! when time shall stretch thy span,
Confirm thy charms, and ripen thee to man,
What plenteous fruits thy blossoms shall produce,
And yield not barren ornament, but use!
E'en now thy spring a rich increase prepares
To crown thy riper growth and manly years.
Thus in the kernels intricate disguise,
In miniature a little orchard lies;
The fibrous labyrinth by just degrees
Stretch their swol'n cells, replete with future trees;
By time evolv'd the spreading branches rise,
Yield their rich fruits, and shoot into the skies.
O lovely babe! what lustre shall adorn
Thy noon of beauty when so bright thy morn?
Shine forth advancing with a brighter ray,
And may no vice o'ercloud thy future day!
With nobler aims instruct thy soul to glow
Than those gay trifles, titles, wealth, and show.
May valour, wisdom, learning crown thy days!
Those fool, admire — these heav'n and angels praise.
With riches blest, to heav'n those riches lend,
The poor man's guardian, and the good man's friend:
Bid virtuous Sorrow smile, scorn'd Merit cheer,
And o'er Affliction pour the gen'rous tear.
Some, wildly lib'ral, squander, not bestow,
And give unprais'd, because they give for show,
To sanctify thy wealth, on worth employ
Thy gold, and to a blessing turn the toy.
Thus off'rings from th' unjust pollute the skies;
The good turn smoke into a sacrifice.
As when an artist plans a fav'rite draught,
The structures rise responsive to the thought,
A palace grows beneath his forming hands,
Or worthy of a god a temple stands:
Such is thy rising frame, by heav'n design'd
A temple worthy of a godlike mind;
Nobly adorn'd, and finish'd to display
A fuller beam of heaven's ethereal ray.
May all thy charms increase, O lovely boy!
Spare them, ye Pains! and age alone destroy
So fair thou art, that if great Cupid be
A child, the god might boast to look like thee!
When young Iülus' form he deign'd to wear,
Such were his smiles, and such his winning air.
E'en Venus might mistake thee for her own,
Did not thy eyes proclaim thee not her son;
Thence all the lightning of thy mother's flies,
A Cupid grac'd with Cytherea's eyes!
Yet ah! how short a date the Pow'rs decree
To that bright frame of beauties and to thee!
Pass a few days, and all thy beauties fly!
Pass a few years, and thou, alas! shalt die;
Then all thy kindred, all thy friends shall see,
With tears, what now thou art, and they must be;
A pale, cold, lifeless; lump of earth deplore:
Such shalt thou be, and kings shall be no more!
But oh! when ripe for death, Fate calls thee hence,
Sure lot of ev'ry mortal excellence;
When, pregnant as the womb, the teeming earth
Resigns thee quicken'd to thy second birth,
Rise cloath'd with beauties that shall never die,
A saint on earth, an angel in the sky!