Classic Poem

Sound forth, cælestiall Organs, lett heavens quire
Ravish the dancing orbes, make them mount higher
With nimble capers, and force Atlas tread
Upon his tiptoes, e're his silver head
Shall kisse his golden burthen. Thou, glad Isle,
That swim'st as deepe in joy, as Seas, now smile;
Lett not thy weighty glories, this full tide
Of blisse, debase thee; but with a just pride
Swell: swell to such an height, that thou maist vye
With heaven itselfe for stately Majesty.
Doe not deceive mee, Eyes: doe I not see
In this blest earth heavens bright Epitome,
Circled with pure refined glory? heere
I veiw a rising sunne in this our sphære,
Whose blazing beames, maugre the blackest night,
And mists of greife, dare force a joyfull light.
The gold, in which he flames, does well præsage
A precious season, and a golden age.
Doe I not see joy keepe his revels now,
And sitt triumphing in each cheerfull brow?
Unmixt felicity with silver wings
Broodeth this sacred place. hither peace brings
The choicest of her olive-crownes, and praies
To have them guilded with his courteous raies.
Doe I not see a Cynthia, who may
Abash the purest beauties of the Day?
To whom heavens lampes often in silent night
Steale from their stations to repaire their light.
Doe I not see a constellation,
Each little beame of which would make a sunne?
I meane those three great starres, who well may scorne
Acquaintance with the Usher of the morne.
To gaze upon such starres each humble eye
Would be ambitious of Astronomie.
Who would not be a Phænix, and aspire
To sacrifice himselfe in such sweet fire?
Shine forth, ye flaming sparkes of Deity,
Yee perfect Emblemes of Divinity.
Fixt in your sphæres of glory, shed from thence
The treasures of our lives, your influence.
For if you sett, who may not justly feare,
The world will be one Ocean, one great teare.