Classic Poem

Time seems not now beneath his years to stoop,
Nor doe his wings with sickly feathers droop:
Soft western winds waft o'er the gaudy spring,
And open'd Scenes of flow'rs and blossoms bring
To grace this happy day, while you appear
Not King of us alone but of the year.
All eyes you draw, and with the eyes the heart,
Of your own pomp your self the greatest part:
Loud shouts the Nations happiness proclaim,
And Heav'n this day is feasted with your Name.
…

As flames do on the wings of Incense fly:
Musique herself is lost, in vain she brings
Her choisest notes to praise the best of Kings:
Her melting strains in you a tombe have found
And lye like Bees in their own sweetnesse drowned.
He that brought peace and discord could attone,
His Name is Musick of itself alone.
Now while the sacred oyl anoints your head,
And fragrant scents, begun from you, are spread
Through the large Dome, the peoples joyful Sound
Sent back, is still preserv'd in hallow'd ground:
Which in one blessing mixt descends on you,
As heightned spirits fall in richer dew.
Not that our wishes do increase your store,
Full of your self, you can admit no more:
We add not to your glory, but employ
Our time like Angels in expressing Joy
Nor is it duty or our hopes alone
Create that joy, but full fruition:
We know those blessings which we must possesse
And judge of future by past happinesse.