Classic Poem

My Lord
When I your unsought Glories view'd,
And pres't (a meane Spectator in the Croud;)
Where every Ey, with sparkling Joy did gaze,
All hearts brimmfull of Blessing, and of Praise;
Extatick with the mighty Theme I went,
And something, some great thing to Write, I meant:
This, sure, said I, must set me all on fire,
This must my dull, unhallow'd Muse inspire:
I try'd in wary words my Verse to dress,
And throng'd my thoughts with awfull Images;
For the bold Work, Materialls I desseign'd
High as your Station, humble as your Minde:
Alas! in vaine! my owne Confusion
Strait tumbled th' ill-attempted Babel downe.
Much I desir'd to tell in artfull Rhymes,
Your Magnanimity through the worst of Times
How like a Rock, amidst the Sea, you stood,
Surrounded with a foaming Popular-Floud;
In that black Night, how you still kept your way,
When all despair'd the Dawning of This Day:
With what true Christian Stoicisme, You durst Owne
The slighted Miter, and abandon'd Crowne;
As Cato for the baffled Side declared,
Tho' all the Gods the Conquering Cause preferr'd.
Next; I would have describ'd the Happy Place
Of your soft minutes in a sweet Recess;
Where all things were in your Possession,
All you need Wish, for you were all your Owne
Here Emperours, and Kings receiv'd at last
The noblest Guerdon for their Labours past.
Less splendid were those daies but more secure,
Their last and best were gloriously Obscure.
O those gay Vallies! O those Lofty Hills!
Those silent Rivers! and those Murmuring Rills!
The melancholy Grove! and peacefull Shade!
For Ease, and Angells-Conversation made!
The Morning's Breath! the sight o'th' rising Sun,
When he starts forth, his Giant-Race to runn!
Faine wou'd I have said, what cannot be express't
But in the sentiments of a well pleas'd Breast.
And now (my lord!) on your triumphant Day,
What can your poor unlettred Beadsman say?
Who knows that Praise, at the Poetique rate,
Swells to a Vice, and must deserve your hate,
When Heav'n vouchsafes a Miracle to mankinde,
Silence, and Wonder best express our minde.

Durst I Presume, or could Despair (my Lord!)
I would add Here for my owne self; one word,
That I might be (whome the World frown's uppon)
An Atome in the beams of your bright Sun,
Almost Invisible; but still shin'd-uppon.
My Lord
Your Grace's most obedient
Servant, and poore Kinsman