Classic Poem

O THOU whose penetrating mind,
Whose heart, benevolent and kind,
Is ever present in distress,
Glad to preserve, and proud to bless;
Oh! leave not Arden's faithful grove,
On Caledonian hills to rove;
But hear our fond united pray'r,
Nor force a country to despair.
Let homicides in Warwick Lane,
With hecatombs of victims slain,
Butcher for knighthood and for gain,
While thou pursu'st a nobler aim,
Declining interest for fame.
Where'er thy Maker's image dwells,
In gilded roofs or smoky cells,
The same thy zeal; o'erjoy'd to save
Thy fellow-creature from the grave;
For well thy soul can understand
The poor man's call is God's command;
No frail, no transient good, his fee,
But Heav'n and bless'd Eternity!
Nor are thy labours here in vain,
The pleasure overpays the pain.
True happiness (if understood)
Consists alone in doing good;
Speak, all ye wise! can God bestow,
Or man a greater pleasure know?
See, where the grateful father bows!
His tears confess how much he owes:
His son, the darling of his heart,
Restor'd by your prevailing art;
His house, his name, redeem'd by you,
His ancient honours bloom anew.
But, oh! what idioms can express
The vast transcendent happiness
The faithful husband feels, his wife,
His better half, recall'd to life?
See with what rapture! see him view
The shatter'd frame rebuilt by you!
See health rekindling in her eyes!
See baffled death give up his prize!
Tell me, my friend, can'st thou forbear
In this gay scene to claim a share?
Does not thy blood more swiftly flow?
Thy heart with secret transports glow?
Health, life, by Heaven's indulgence sent,
And thou the glorious instrument!
Safe in thy art, no ills we fear,
Thy hand shall plant Elysrum here:
Pale Sickness shall thy triumphs own,
And ruddy Health exalt her throne.
The Fair, renew'd in all her charms,
Shall fly to thy protecting arms,
With gracious smiles repay thy care,
And leave her lovers in despair.
While multitudes applaud and bless
Their great asylum in distress,
My humble muse, among the crowd,
Her joyful pæans sings aloud.
Could I but with Mæonian flight
Sublimely soar through fields of light,
Above the stars thy name should shine,
Nor great Machaon's rival thine!
But father Phœbus, who has done
So much for thee, his favourite son,
His other gifts on me bestows
With partial hands, nor hears my vows:
Oh! let a grateful heart supply
What the penurious pow'rs deny!