Classic Poem

Thrice happy man! whose youthful feet
Touch not the path which sinners beat:
Or walk not in the fatal way,
Where unrepenting sinners stray
Till, oft alas! their impious tongue
Mimics the harden'd scoffing throng.

Thrice happy man! whose soul's desire
To honour God is all on fire:
Who on his holy volume feeds,
Warm'd with the love of virtuous deeds;
Revolving sweetly, on his bed,
The lessons which by day he read.

Like a fair tree, with foliage green
Long by the garden currents seen;
Whose lovely flow'rs in season blow,
And to a generous vintage grow,
He flourishes; in worth of mind,
Heav'n-bless'd, the joy of human kind.

Not so the wicked in their place,
A vile unprofitable race:
Out of the living they are cast;
Like chaff before the rising blast,
And in some future day shall fall
Convicts, before the judge of all.

In that high day, the righteous Band
Exulting at his bar shall stand:
His sentence will their way approve,
And list them to his seat above.
His sentence on the bad will frown,
And drive them to perdition down.