Wild Flowers - Or, Pastoral and Local Poetry by Robert Bloomfield
page 66 of 76 (86%)
page 66 of 76 (86%)
![]() | ![]() |
|
When the plain truth tradition seem'd to know,
By simply pointing to the harmless Cow, Though wise distrust to reason might appeal; What, when hope triumph'd, what did JENNER feel! Where even hope itself could scarcely rise To scan the vast, inestimable prize? Perhaps supreme, alone, triumphant stood The great, the conscious power of doing good, The power to will, and wishes to embrace Th' emancipation of the human race; A joy that must all mortal praise outlive, A wealth that grateful nations cannot give. Forth sped the truth immediate from his hand, And confirmations sprung in ev'ry land; In ev'ry land, on beauty's lily arm, On infant softness, like a magic charm, Appear'd the gift that conquers as it goes; The dairy's boast, the simple, saving Rose! Momentous triumph--fiend! thy reign is o'er; Thou, whose blind rage hath ravag'd ev'ry shore, Whose name denotes destruction, whose foul breath For ever hov'ring round the dart of death, Fells, mercilessly fells, the brave and base, Through all the kindreds of the human race. Who has not heard, in warm, poetic tales, Of eastern fragrance and Arabian gales? Bowers of delight, of languor, and repose, Where beauty triumph'd as the song arose? Fancy may revel, fiction boldly dare, |
|