Classic Poem

Who has found out a Method of reducing all Sorts of Distortions in the human Body; and of making strait, crooked Limbs; from the Infant State, to that of Maturity.
O! Meadows , by what Art divine,
Mak'st thou the Crooked strait?
Did thy great Faith, aid thy Design,
In Search of this Receipt?

Faith moveth Mountains, who denies,
Or doubts it, e'en in Thought;
Sure all must b'lieve, when 'fore their Eyes,
The Miracle is wrought.

Each Mortal is a little World,
In whose minute Compound;
A Part of each Material is,
With due Proportion found.

At first this Globe in Order stood,
Proportionate and fair;
The Lord beheld that it was Good,
And worthy of his Care.

The Sins of Man, Disorder brought,
The Deluge chang'd the Scene;
Huge Mountains 'rose, and truly nought
Was, as it first had been.

Confus'd, the beauteous Work appear'd,
Into Distortion thrown;
And emblematic of its Form,
See! Man, distorted grown.

But thou, O! Meadows , Friend to Health,
Reclaimer of this Ill;
Thy Praise be endless — vast thy Wealth,
Success attend thy Skill!