Classic Poem

Lord, thou who Beauty canst return,
To them that mourn;
And the disguis'd pretext of Art,
To Truth convert;
Oh let us not by shews beguil'd,
Seem pure without, within defil'd.

Within, where most deform'd we are,
Be our first care,
Then with clear eyes the Church we may
And State survey.
Our Hearts, our Spirits, Lord, renew,
That we thy Dictates may pursue.

Upon our foul disorders, bred
By them, who (led
With rage) to purge us undertook,
With pity look.
Quench thou the fire that Factions raise,
From Reformations specious Blaze.

As their Division, Lord, proclaims
Their weak, bad Aims!
So let us (in those fires refin'd)
In love be joyn'd;
From Passions freed: blest with increase
Of inward Vertue, outward Peace.