 | A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes |  |
MALVERN SPA, 1757.
Inscribed to Dr. WALL. By the Rev. Mr. Perry.
With bounteous hand the gracious King of heavenHis choicest blessings to mankind hath given,
Whilst thoughtless they ungratefully despise
The rich profusion that salutes their eyes.
But wise was he who study'd every use
Of common weeds which common fields produce.
The dock, the nettle, in each swelling vein,
A healing balm for many an ill contain:
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At length is found a salutary draught.
The same creative power that first display'd
His wond'rous works for our delight and aid;
His love to mortal man still gracious shows,
In ev'ry stream that glides, and herb that grows.
At his command, Malvern, thy mountains rise,
And catch their dewy nectar from the skies;
At his command gush out thy crystal rills,
To cure the direful train of human ills.
On all alike their influence freely shed,
As the bright orb that gilds thy mountain's head.
The wealthy squire, whose gouty limbs are laid
On beds of down, almost of down afraid,
At this balsamic spring may soon regain
His lavish'd health, and o'er the spacious plain
Pursue the hare, or chace the miscreant fox
With winged speed o'er hills or craggy rocks.
Here to his comfort the poor helpless swain,
Rack'd with the torture of rheumatic pain,
Obtains relief without the nauseous pill,
Or that more shocking sight the doctor's bill.
When cloudy mists obscure the visual ray,
And turn to dismal night the gladsome day;
The mournful wretch with pleasure here may find
A stream that heals the lame, and cures the blind.
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With acrimonious poison loads his blood,
Here polishes once more his scaly skin,
And purifies the vital stream within.
Amazing truth! his wretched leprous heir,
Who undeserv'd his father's spots must wear,
Emerges clean if in this fount he lave,
As the white Syrian rose from Jordan's wave.
The latent ulcer, and the cancer dire,
That waste our flesh with slow consuming fire,
Whose subtle flames still spread from part to part,
And still elude the skilful surgeon's art;
Here check'd submit, their raging fury laid,
By streams from Nature's mystic engine play'd.
The stubborn evil, for whose flux impure
Blind bigotry at first devis'd a cure,
Heal'd by these waters needs no more demand
The foolish witchcraft of a Stuart's hand;
And Brunswick's line may trust their royal cause
To reason, justice, liberty, and laws.
Should all the virtues of this spa be told,
Its praises might be wrote in lines of gold.
No more would poets their Pierian spring,
But Malvern spa in loftier numbers sing;
No more Parnassus, but the Malvern climb,
To make their diction pure, their thoughts sublime.
Ev'n I at these fair fountains eas'd of pain,
To you, my friend, address one votive strain:
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Reveals the wonders of her secret cell:
To you transfers the lay, whose active mind,
Like her own stream from earthly dregs refin'd,
Explores a panacea for mankind.
| A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes | |