Classic Poem

Go, reason's off'ring , reason's guardian find,
Bow to the saint , for works , not faith , enshrin'd.
As near heav'n's height, as climbing nature can,
Comes virtue's god-giv'n force , effus'd on man ,
Why, then, to rights , beyond ev'n virtue's claim,
Bore man's paid worship, profanation's name.
Worth, that transcends respect, new sense will raise,
And skirts idolatry , or cripples praise:
When thanks, found faint, bid sacrifice ensue,
The grateful error robb'd not heav'n its due:
The claim-full image sanctify'd the sin,
Since God 's sure likeness takes the godhead in.
'Tis the lie makes the idol . — He, who knelt
To heav'n, least distant, heav'n's near influence felt.

Here, then — could rev'rence custom's fog disperse,
Had risen an Altar — now, receive a V ERSE .
All, that the muse (or muse's God ) makes mine,
All, but ador'd , O C HESTERFIELD ! be thine .

How has this venal age deserv'd thy care!
Thy hand, thy head, thy heart, thy heav'n-heard pray'r!
What pangs have three deaf kingdoms cost thy soul,
'Till we , by wrongs oppress'd, engag'd it whole .
For realms so frail, so faultlesly to act!
The sun , thro' midnight , scarce could more attract.
Joy weds amazement, hope's high dawn to see!
And every friend to fame , is sworn to thee .

O, pard'ning , view the private P EN 's address,
Where will 's warm impulse long'd to fire a P RESS :
'Till apter subject dares thy smile invite,
Where foeless truth shall need no shadow'd light;
Screen'd, I, behind my temple's pillar , kneel,
And, like the gospel whisp'rer , hint my zeal.
Prudently patient, curb a struggling flame,
To no fool's comments , trust thy sacred name .
Wait a theme's call , that asks no cov'ring cloud ;
Then , my pray'r claims thee — and my wish grows proud.