Classic Poem

I.

Take, O Celia! muse divine!
Take again the tragic tale:
Wit , so light, if weigh'd with thine ,
Mounts, like feathers , from thy scale.

II.

Yet, 'twere wise O soul of verse!
Soft, to smile , upon his flight:
Blazing tapers , scarce, wou'd pierce ,
Were there no such thing, as night .

III.

Di'monds wou'd be less admir'd,
Were not brittle christal known;
And by Poets poorly fir'd ,
Our rich Celia's wealth is shown.

IV.

But alass! I strive, in vain,
Worth, above me, to display:
Sunk , beneath thy streamy strain;
Like a Glow-worn , lost in day .