Classic Poem

Pull up the bell-flow'rs of the spring,
And let the budding greenwood ring
With many a chearful song;
All blessing on the human race,
From CHRIST, evangelist of grace,
To whom these strains belong.

To whom belong the tribe that vie
In what is musick to the eye,
Whose voice is ‘stoop to pray’—
While many colour'd tints attire
His fav'rites, like the golden wire,
The beams on wind flow'rs play.

To whom belong the dress and airs
Of nature in her warbling pairs,
And in her bloomy pride;
By whom the man of pray'r computes
His year, and estimates the fruits
Of every time and tide.

To whom the sacred penman cries,
And as he heav'nwards lifts his eyes,
With meekness kneels him down;
Then what inspiring truth indites,
His strengthen'd memory recites,
The tale of God's renown.

O holy Mark! ordain'd in youth
To be historian of the truth
From heav'ns first fountain brought;
And Christ his hand was on thy head,
To bless thee that thou shouldst be read,
And in his churches taught.

And tho', as Peter's scribe and son,
Thou mightst a charity have done
To cover his disgrace;
Yet strictly charg'd thou wouldst not spare
At large the treason to declare,
And in its order place.

Thus in the church, to cleanse our sin,
By fair confession we begin,
And in thanksgiving end;
And they that have the Lord deny'd,
Must not come there the crime to hide,
But promise to amend.

Then let us not this day refuse,
With joy to give the Christian dues
To Lazars at the door;
‘O for the name and love of Christ
‘Spare one poor dole from all your grist,
‘One mite from all your store!’

And those that in by-places lurk,
Invite with overpay to work,
Thy garner'd hay to fill;
And worship on the new mown sod,
And active to the Lord thy God,
Keep lust and conscience still.