Classic Poem

The Divine Blacksmith in th'Abyss of Light,
Yawning and lolling with a careless beat,
Struck out the mute Creation at a Heat.
But he work'd hard to Hammer out our Souls,
He blew the Bellows, and stir'd up the Coals;
Long time he thought, and could not on a sudden
Knead up with unskim' Milk this Reas'ning Pudding:
Tender and mild within its Bag it lay
Confessing still the softness of its Clay,
And kind as Milk-Maids on their Wedding-Day.
Till Pride of Empire, Lust, and hot Desire
Did over-boile him, like too great a Fire,
And understanding grown, misunderstood,
Burn'd Him to th'Pot, and sour'd his curdled Blood.