Classic Poem

The Muse, Celestial Dome, in thee,
Lasting blessings pil'd can see;
While from the grateful offerings rise,
An incense sweet, to earth and skies.

Mortals come, of every rank,
'Tis Charity's unfailing Bank;
All ye that wish a stock of bliss,
She only honours drafts on this.

Draw near, ye good—ye void of art,
She weighs no gifts—but eyes the heart;
She greets alike, the poor—the peer,
The humblest mite bears interesThere .

And here, the Muse can truly teach,
No artful forgery can reach,
No cheat, howe'er than others bolder,
Can here affect the genuine holder .

'Tis heaven, when in the hour of need,
She brings the hallow'd transfer deed ,
The omnium valued by the wise,
A blest reversion in the skies.

For here, the Muse delighted tells,
The best securities she sells;
To buy—with heart and hand—endeavour,
A lease, renewable for ever.

Ye Spendthrifts, here a treasure taste,
A wealth that dares e'en you to waste;
A moment think—one stake insure ,
One cheap annuity secure.

Ye Sons of Frolic's fleeting day,
Youth, wealth, have wings and fly away;
All, all, of earth, is vague and hollow,
Her notes alone are those that follow.

Busy Sons of worldly Care,
One mite entail —one moment spare,
For once from mundane trifles rise,
To draw a mortgage on the skies.

Here , Misers, bring your hoarded gold,
Hither come to have and hold;
The title's good—no flaw—expence,
No simple fee , but that of sense .

For here , believe th' unerring word,
You hold in chief , of Chiefs—the Lord;
The tenure , heaven's eternal day,
And not a pepper-corn to pay.

Ye, too, that doat on transient coin,
Here's that which cunning can't purloin,
Nor power itself prevent to save,
'Tis current e'en beyond the grave .

Ye Sons of Earth—where'er you toil,
Whate'er you seek—whome'er you spoil,
Howe'er for baser coin you plod,
This only bears the stamp of God .