Classic Poem

The body sick, the cause we seek to find,
In head, or limb, or ever-beating heart;
Or in the secret workings of the mind,
Nor rest till we have found the suffering part.
Once found, we use our utmost power and skill
The cause itself of suffering to remove;
Nor do we bear a single pain, or ill,
Till every healing remedy we prove.
And why should Nations mighty ills endure,
War's horrid scourge, and Slavery's ancient wrong,
Nor seek to find their cause? or found, to cure?
But still from age to age their guilt prolong;
Till by some sudden shock, or slow decay,
Their greatness, like a shadow, pass away!