Poems on Several Occasions By Samuel Boyce |
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| I. |
| II. |
On attending the Lectures of Mr. HENRY WATSON, Surgeon. |
 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
101
On attending the Lectures of Mr. HENRY WATSON, Surgeon.
Come; Reflection, solemn pow'r,
From the grot, and from the bow'r;
From the philosophic cell,
Where devotion's wont to dwell,
And the pure up-lifted eye
Meditates its parent sky;
Here, where Science courts its ray,
From inanimated Clay,
O'er my soul thy influence shed;
Wake the Living, by the Dead.
From the grot, and from the bow'r;
From the philosophic cell,
Where devotion's wont to dwell,
And the pure up-lifted eye
Meditates its parent sky;
Here, where Science courts its ray,
From inanimated Clay,
O'er my soul thy influence shed;
Wake the Living, by the Dead.
What a scope for thought is here!
This is contemplation's sphere!
Lo, the Subject, pale and cold!
Nature sickens to behold:
There her workings all are o'er;
There the lamp of life's no more.
Life, what art thou?—fickle breath:
Is there nothing certain?—death.
Tho' with pride the bosom glow;
Tho' it melt at other's woe;
Tho' the passions all rebel;
Tho' in virtue they excel;
Tho' by learning's lore refin'd;
Tho' in ignorance the mind;
Tho' it pant for worldly toys;
Tho' it hope sublimer joys;
Still precarious is our state,
Open to impending fate;
Nought can tyrant death asswage;
Youth must fall as well as age.
Why, alas, then, all our cares,
All our wishes, all our fears,
When 'tis out of mortal pow'r
To insure the present hour?
Hush, oh, muse, suspend the strain!
All is just the skies ordain:
Sinks my heart at what I see?
'Tis but what myself must be!
Rise, ye thoughts, to nobler ends!
Melancholy, heav'n offends.
This is contemplation's sphere!
102
Nature sickens to behold:
There her workings all are o'er;
There the lamp of life's no more.
Life, what art thou?—fickle breath:
Is there nothing certain?—death.
Tho' with pride the bosom glow;
Tho' it melt at other's woe;
Tho' the passions all rebel;
Tho' in virtue they excel;
Tho' by learning's lore refin'd;
Tho' in ignorance the mind;
Tho' it pant for worldly toys;
Tho' it hope sublimer joys;
Still precarious is our state,
Open to impending fate;
103
Youth must fall as well as age.
Why, alas, then, all our cares,
All our wishes, all our fears,
When 'tis out of mortal pow'r
To insure the present hour?
Hush, oh, muse, suspend the strain!
All is just the skies ordain:
Sinks my heart at what I see?
'Tis but what myself must be!
Rise, ye thoughts, to nobler ends!
Melancholy, heav'n offends.
Waken'd now by Watson's voice,
Sense adopts a happier choice:
Tracing o'er the wond'rous plan;
All the great machine of Man.
Now I learn how parts combine;
How unnumber'd fibres join;
How distinct th'internal maze;
How the mechanism plays;
How the limbs their force improve;
How we see, and hear, and move;
How the pow'rs assistance call,
Each from each, and all from all:
How disease can health controul;
How the body waits the soul.
Oh eternal! all divine!
God! this glorious work is thine!
Atheist, if their live the name,
Rise, inspect the human frame!
Here thou'lt own th'Almighty's pow'r,
Wonder first, and then adore.
Sense adopts a happier choice:
104
All the great machine of Man.
Now I learn how parts combine;
How unnumber'd fibres join;
How distinct th'internal maze;
How the mechanism plays;
How the limbs their force improve;
How we see, and hear, and move;
How the pow'rs assistance call,
Each from each, and all from all:
How disease can health controul;
How the body waits the soul.
Oh eternal! all divine!
God! this glorious work is thine!
Atheist, if their live the name,
Rise, inspect the human frame!
105
Wonder first, and then adore.
Watson, oh, that thou had'st skill
To extirpate Mental ill!
To dissect the living breast,
And the soul's disease arrest;
Amputate the fraudful part,
And to virtue cleanse the heart;
Then indeed the world might know
Truth from cunning, friend from foe:
But, tho' genius in thee lives,
Bright with all that study gives;
Tho' thy fame expand abroad,
'Till the gen'ral voice applaud,
Yet thy art must be confin'd;—
Thine's the body;—heav'n's the mind.
To extirpate Mental ill!
To dissect the living breast,
And the soul's disease arrest;
Amputate the fraudful part,
And to virtue cleanse the heart;
Then indeed the world might know
Truth from cunning, friend from foe:
But, tho' genius in thee lives,
Bright with all that study gives;
Tho' thy fame expand abroad,
'Till the gen'ral voice applaud,
Yet thy art must be confin'd;—
Thine's the body;—heav'n's the mind.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |