Classic Poem

So through the Chaos crept the first born ray,
That was not yet grown up to be a day,
And form'd the World; as do your powerfull rythmes
Through the thick darkness of these verseless times,
These antigenious dayes, this boystrous age,
Where there dwells nought of Poetry but rage:
Just so crept learning forth the rav'nous fire
Of the Schismatick Goths , and Vandals ire:
As do in these more barbarous dayes our times,
When what was meant for ruine, but refines
Why mayn't we hope for Restauration, when
As ancient Poets Townes, the new raise men,
The tales of Orpheus and Amphion be
Both solid truths with this Mythology?
For though you make not stones and trees to move,
Yet men more senceless you provoke to love
I can't but think, spite of the filth that's hurl'd
Over this small Ench'ridion of the World,
A day will break, when we again may see
Wits like themselves, club in an harmony.
Though Pulpiteers can't do it, yet 'tis fit
Poets have more success, because more wit.
Their Prose unhing'd the State; why mayn't your verse
Polish those souls, that were fil'd rough by theirs?
Go on, and prosper; though I want your skill,
In weighty matters 'tis enough to will
And now the Reader looks I should help rear
Your glories Trophy, else what make I here?
'Tis not to praise you; for one may as well
Go tell Committees that there is an hell,
Or tell the World there is a Sun, as praise
Your amorous fancy, which it self can't raise
'Bove Envies reach or flatteries; Ladies love
To kiss those accents; who dares disapprove
What they stile good? our lines, our lives, and all,
By their opinions either rise or fall:
Therefore the cause why these are fixed here,
Is livery-like to shew some great man's near;
Let them stand bare, and usher, not commend;
They are not for Encomiums, but t'attend.