Classic Poem

What Glory's this, my Lord? Should one small Point
Of one small Ray of't touch my Heart 'twould spring
Such joy as would an Adamant unjoynt
If in't, and tare it, to get out and sing.
T'run on Heroick golden Feet, and raise
Heart Ravishing Tunes, Curld with Celestiall praise.

Oh! Bright! Bright thing! I fain would something say:
Lest Silence should indict me. Yet I feare
To say a Syllable lest at thy day
I be presented for my Tattling here.
Course Phancy, Ragged Faculties, alas!
And Blunted Tongue don't Suit: Sighs Soile the Glass.

Yet shall my mouth stand ope, and Lips let run
Out gliding Eloquence on each light thing?
And shall I gag my mouth, and ty my Tongue,
When such bright Glory glorifies within?
That makes my Heart leape, dancing to thy Lute?
And shall my tell tale tongue become a Mute?

Lord spare I pray, though my attempts let fall
A slippery Verse upon thy Royall Glory.
I'le bring unto thine Altar th'best of all
My Flock affords. I have no better Story.
I'le at thy Glory my dark Candle light:
Not to descry the Sun, but use by night.

A Golden Throne whose Banisters are Pearles,
And Pomills Choicest Gems: Carbuncle-Stayes
Studded with Pretious Stones, Carv'd with rich Curles
Of Polisht Art, sending out flashing Rayes,
Would him surround with Glory, thron'de therein.
Yet this is to thy Throne a dirty thing.

Oh! Glorious Sight! Loe, How Bright Angells stand
Waiting with Hat in hand on Him alone
That is Enthron'de, indeed at Gods right hand:
Gods Heart itselfe being his Happy Throne.
The Glory that doth from this Person fall,
Fills Heaven with Glory, else there's none at all.