Classic Poem

Wisdom has rais'd a pile with art divine;
A stately palace, where she keeps her court:
Seven polish'd columns in bright order shine,
And beautify the fabrick they support.

To make a splendid banquet she designs:
For which her flocks and herds have freely bled.
She has prepar'd and mix'd the richest wines:
Thus nobly is her sacred table spread.

The maids of honour who attend her throne,
On generous errands round the streets she sends:
To their repeated calls she adds her own;
T' invite her guests her charming voice extends.

" To you, O men, I give the solemn call;
" To you, O sons of men, my grace proclaim.
" Come to my banquet: come, and welcome all,
" Whose folly has deserv'd eternal shame.

" Come, prodigals, who long on husks have fed,
" Why should your dying souls with famine " pine?
" My table is with royal dainties spred;
" My table's crown'd with bowls of generous " wine.

" Forsake the company of fools; and tread
" The happy path that to my palace tends.
" Their ways lead to the chambers of the " dead;
" But mine conducts to life that never ends.

" Who take my counsel, shall have endless " joy:
" Who hug their folly, and my calls despise,
" With barbarous hands their precious souls " destroy;
" And rather will be ruin'd than be wise.