Classic Poem

Votary to publick zeal,
Minister of England 's weal,
Have you leisure for a song,
Tripping lightly o'er the tongue,
Swift and sweet in every measure,
Tell me, Walpole , have you leisure?
Nothing lofty will I sing,
Nothing of the favourite king,
Something, rather, sung with ease,
Simply elegant to please.

Fairy virgin, British muse,
Some unhear'd of story chuse:
Chuse the Glory of the swain,
Gifted with a magick strain,
Swaging grief of every kind,
Healing, with a verse, the mind:
To him came a man of power,
To him, in a cheerless hour;
When the swain, by Druids taught,
Soon divin'd his irksom thought,
Soon the maple harp he strung,
Soon, with silver accent, sung.

" Steerer of a mighty realm,
" Pilot, waking o'er the helm,
" Blessing of thy native soil,
" Weary of a thankless toil,
" Cast repining thought behind,
" Give thy trouble to the wind.
" Mortal, destin'd to excell,
" Bear the blame of doing well,
" Like the Worthies great of old,
" In the list of Fame enroll'd.
" What, though titles thou decline?
" Still the more thy virtues shine.
" Envy, with her serpent eye,
" Marks each praise that soars on high.
" To thy lot resign thy will:
" Every good is mix'd with ill.
" See, the white unblemish'd rose
" On a thorny bramble blows:
" See, the torrent pouring rain
" Does the limpid fountain stain:
" See, the giver of the day
" Urgeth on, through clouds, his way:
" Nothing is, entirely, bless'd;
" Envy does thy worth attest.

" Pleasing visions, at command,
" Answer to my voice and hand;
" Quick, the blissful scene prepare,
" Sooth the patriot's heavy care:
" Visions, cheering to the fight,
" Give him earnest of delight.

" Wise disposer of affairs,
" View, the end of all thy cares!
" Forward cast thy ravish'd eyes,
" See the glad'ning harvest rise:
" Lo, the people reap thy pain!
" Thine the labour, their the gain.
" Yonder turn, a-while, thy view,
" Turn thee to yon spreading yew,
" Once the gloomy tree of fate,
" Once the plighted virgin's hate:
" Now, no longer, does it grow
" Parent of the warring bow:
" See, beneath the guiltless shade,
" Peasants shape the plow and spade,
" Rescued, ever, from the fear
" Of the whistling shaft and spear.
" Lo, where Plenty comes, with Peace!
" Hear the breath of murmur cease:
" See, at last, unclouded days;
" Hear, at last, unenvied praise
" Nothing shall thy soul molest;
" Labour is the price of rest.

" Mortal, destin'd to excell,
" Bless the toil of doing well!