Classic Poem

A grateful ODE,

I.

What glorious verse from love has sprung?
How well has indignation sung?
And can the gentle muse,
Whilst in her once belov'd abode
I stray, and suppliant kneel, an ode
To gratitude refuse.

II.

Garnier, my friend, accept this verse,
And thou receive, well natur'd Pearce,
All I can give of fame.
Let others, other subjects sing,
Some murd'rous chief, some tyrant king,
Humanity's my theme.

III.

Whilst arts like yours, employ'd by you,
Make verse in such a theme your due,
To whom indulgent heav'n
Its fav'rite pow'r of doing good,
By you so rightly understood,
Judiciously has giv'n.

IV.

Behold, obedient to your pow'r,
Consuming fevers rage no more,
Nor chilling agues freeze;
The cripple dances void of pain,
The deaf in raptures hear again,
The blind transported sees.

V.

Health at your call extends her wing,
Each healing plant, each friendly spring,
Its various pow'r discloses,
O'er death's aproaches you prevail,
See Chloe's cheek, of late so pale,
Blooms with returning roses.

VI.

These gifts, my friends, which shine in you;
Are rare, yet to some chosen few
Heav'n has the same assign'd,
Health waits on Mead's prescription still,
And Hawkins' hand, and Ranby's skill,
Are blessings to mankind.

VII.

But hearts like yours are rare indeed,
Which for another's wounds can bleed,
Another's grief can feel;
The lover's fear, the parent's groan,
Your nature's catch, and make your own
And share the pains you heal.

VIII.

But why to them, Hygeia, why
Dost thou thy cordial drop deny
Who but for others live;
Oh, goddess, hear my pray'r, and grant
That these that health may never want,
Which they to others give.