Classic Poem

The Bell doth toll:
Lord help thy servant whose perplexed Soul
Doth wishly look
On either hand
And sometimes offers, sometimes makes a stand
Struggling on th' hook.

Now is the season,
Now the great combat of our flesh and reason!
O help, my God!
See, they break in
Disbanded humours, sorrows, troops of Sin,
Each with his rod.

Lord make thy Blood
Convert and colour all the other flood
And streams of grief
That they may be
Juleps and cordials when we call on thee
For some relief.