Classic Poem

Luke , physician of the wound,
Where the troubl'd conscience stings,
Far beyond the skill profound
Of the graduates here renown'd,
Or the costly springs.

Thy conversion soon is wrought,
When thou seest thy Saviour's cures,
So surpassing human thought,
What thy books from Greece have taught,
Or thy hope assures.

Henceforth, without scrip or purse,
Go on embassage divine,
Med'cines of the soul disperse
To the wicked and perverse
Thou wert wont to join.

Thee thy Saviour shall allot
His great actions to relate,
And thy brethren's sins to blot;
Greater blessing there is not
In a mortal state.

Thou shalt also tell the deeds
Of that apostolic band,
While the happy convert reads
How in Christ the pris'ner pleads
By a master's hand.

Sure thy skill in picture came
To th' assistance of thy pen,
If she was of heav'nly flame,
That is now a sin and shame,
By the frauds of men.

Her the hypocrites adore
In the fane of modern Rome,
And from shadows aid implore,
That they may blaspheme the more,
And the more presume.

Christ from such detested arts
Guard thy church with watchful eyes,
Keep from Satan's snares and darts,
Innocent as doves our hearts,
But as serpents wise.