Classic Poem

Preserver of the church, thy spouse,
From sacrilege and wrong,
To whom the myriads pay their vows,
Give ear, and in my heart arouse
The spirit of a nobler song.

When Hiero built, from David's plan,
The house of godlike style,
And Solomon, the prosp'rous man,
Whose reign with wealth and fame began,
O'erlaid with gold the glorious pile;

Great was the concourse of mankind
The structure to review;
Such bulk with sweet proportion join'd
The labours of a vaster mind,
In all directions grand and true.

And yet it was not true and grand
The Godhead to contain;
By whom immensity is spann'd,
Which has eternal in his hand
The globe of his supreme domain.

Tho' there the congregation knelt
The daily debt to pay,
Tho' there superior glories dwelt,
Tho' there the host their blessings dealt,
The highest GRACE was far away.

At length another fane arose,
The fabrick of the poor;
And built by hardship midst her foes,
One hand for work and one for blows,
Made this stupendous blessing sure.

That God should in the world appear
Incarnate—as a child—
That he should be presented here,
At once our utmost doubts to clear,
And make our hearts with wonder wild.

Present ye therefore, on your knees,
Hearts, hands resign'd and clean;
Ye poor and mean of all degrees,
If he will condescend and please
To take at least what orphans glean—

I speak for all—for them that fly,
And for the race that swim;
For all that dwell in moist and dry,
Beasts, reptiles, flow'rs and gems to vie
When gratitude begins her hymn.

Praise him ye doves, and ye that pipe
Ere buds begin to stir;
Ev'n every finch of every stripe,
And thou of filial love the type,
O stork! that sit'st upon the fir.

Praise him thou sea, to whom he gave
The shoal of active mutes;
(Fit tenants of thy roaring wave)
Who comes to still the fiends, that rave
In oracles and school disputes.

By Jesus number'd all and priz'd,
Praise him in dale and hill;
Ye beasts for use and peace devis'd,
And thou which patient and despis'd,
Yet shalt a prophecy fulfill.

Praise him ye family that weave
The crimson to be spread
There, where communicants receive,
And ye, that form'd the eye to grieve,
Hid in green bush or wat'ry bed.

Praise him ye flow'rs that serve the swarm
With honey for their cells;
Ere yet the vernal day is warm,
To call out millions to perform
Their gambols on your cups and bells.

Praise him ye gems of lively spark,
And thou the pearl of price;
In that great depth or caverns dark,
Nor yet are wrested from the mark,
To serve the turns of pride and vice.

Praise him ye cherubs of his breast,
The mercies of his love,
Ere yet from guile and hate profest,
The phenix makes his fragrant nest
In his own paradise above.