Classic Poem

Coy Nature, (which remain'd, thô aged grown,
A beauteous Virgin still, injoy'd by none,
Nor seen unveil'd by any one,)
When Harvey's violent passion she did see,
Began to tremble and to flee,
Took Sanctuary, like Daphne, in a Tree:
There Daphne's Lover stopt, and thought it much
The very Leaves of her to touch:
But Harvey, our Apollo, stopt not so,
Into the Bark and Root he after he did go:
No smallest Fibres of a Plant,
For which the Eye-beams point doth sharpness want,
His passage after her withstood;
What should she do? through all the moving Wood
Of Lives endow'd with sense she took her flight,
Harvey persues, and keeps her still in sight.
But as the Deer, long hunted, takes a Flood,
She leap'd at last into the Winding-streams of Blood;
Of Mans Meander all the Purple reaches made,
Till at the Heart she stay'd,
Where turning Head, and at a Bay,
Thus by well-purged Ears she was o're-heard to say.

Here sure shall I be safe (said she,)
None will be able sure to see
This my Retreat, but only He
Who made both it and me.
The heart of Man, what Art can e're reveal?
A Wall impervious between
Divides the very Parts within,
And doth the very Heart of Man ev'n from itself conceal.
She spoke, but e're she was aware,
Harvey was with her there,
And held this slippery Proteus in a chain,
Till all her mighty Mysteries she descry'd,
Which from his Wit th' attempt before to hide
Was the first Thing that Nature did in vain.

He the young Practice of New Life did see,
Whil'st, to conceal it's toilsome poverty,
It for a Living wrought, both hard, and privately.
Before the Liver understood
The noble Scarlet Dye of Blood,
Before one drop was by it made,
Or brought into it to set up the Trade;
Before the untaught Heart began to beat
The tuneful March to vital heat,
From all the Souls that living Buildings rear,
Whether imploy'd for Earth, or Sea, or Air,
Whether it in the Womb or Egg be wrought,
A strict account to him is hourly brought,
How the great Fabrick does proceed,
What Time, and what Materials it does need.
He so exactly does the Work survey,
As if he hir'd the Workers by the day.

Thus Harvey sought for Truth in Truth's own Book,
The Creatures, which by God himself was writ;
And wisely thought 'twas fit,
Not to read Comments only upon it,
But on th' Original itself to look.
Methinks in Arts great Circle others stand
Lock'd up together hand in hand,
Every one leads as he is led,
The same bare Path they tread.
A Dance like Fairies, a Fantastick round,
But neither change their Motion, nor their Ground.
Had Harvey to this Road confin'd his Wit,
His noble Circle of the Blood had been untroden yet:
Great Doctor, th' art of Curing's cur'd by thee,
We now thy Patient Physick see
From all inveterate Diseases free,
Purg'd of old Errors by thy Care,
New Dieted, put forth to clearer Air,
It now will strong and healthful prove,
Itself before Lethargick lay, and could not move.

These useful Secrets to his Pen we owe,
And thousands more 'twas ready to bestow;
Of which a barbarous War's unlearned Rage
Has robb'd the ruin'd age;
Oh cruel loss! as if the Golden Fleece,
With so much cost and labour wrought,
And from afar by a great Heroe brought,
Had sunk even in the Ports of Greece.
Of cursed War! who can forgive thee this?
Houses and Towns may rise again,
And ten times easier tis
To rebuild Pauls, than any work of his.
The mighty Task none but himself can do,
Nay, scarce himself too now,
For tho' his Wit the force of Age withstand,
His body Alas! and Time it must command.
And Nature now, so long by him surpast,
Will sure have her revenge on him at last.