Classic Poem

 W HY beats the heart on this enchanting road!
Is it the Sylvan Beauty's lov'd abode?
Is it that here equipp'd the Navy's pride
In Thought's prophetic view can be descry'd?
Is it that here no more a Tyrant's chace
Deforms Plantagenet's enlighten'd race?
That Freedom sits upon a Monarch's throne,
And that a King has made the heart his own?
Or is it that lone house upon the hill,
Whose prouder subject can the bosom fill?
 From thence emerg'd the Heaven-directed mind,
Born to shed blessings on all human kind;
There stood the feet which travers'd half the East,
Not for the Architect's or Painter's feast;
Not for the pedant Antiquary's pride;
Not for State Letters , the Historian's guide;
Not for extent of Empire and of Trade,
The Saint his voyage of discovery made.
 No!—'twas in depth of Penal Cells to dive,
And plunge into the scenes that few survive;
Polluted Hospitals—Infection's reign—
The living death, and slow-consuming pain;
To mark and visit the forsaken lot—
Cheer the despis'd—remember the forgot—
The pangs of all that suffer to collate—
And lighten through the earth Oppression's weight.
 His plan was bright, original, and bold;
It was a page for Genius to unfold:
It was no common skill to measure pain,
To analyse despair , and probe disdain;
To rescue terror from its own excess,
And regulate the charter of distress.
 Injurious Time, though careless flies its wheel,
Such Virtue with no “ Robber's haste ” can steal.
'Tis Howard still that opens Mercy's door;
For at his name Oppression is no more.