Classic Poem

Seraphic virgins of the tuneful choir,
Assist me to prepare the sounding lyre!
Like her I sing, soft, sensible, and fair;
Let the smooth numbers warble in the air.
Ye prudes, coquets, and all the misled throng,
Can Beauty, Virtue, Sense, demand the song?
Look then on Clarke, and see them all unite:
A beauteous pattern to the always-right.
Rest here, my Muse, nor soar above thy sphere —
Kings might pay adoration to the fair,
Enchanting, full of joy, peerless in face and air.