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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=395926" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Borough. Letter XVII: The Hospital And</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Govenors<br>AN ardent spirit dwells with Christian love,<br>The eagle's vigour in the pitying dove;<br>'Tis not enough that we with sorrow sigh,<br>That we the wants of pleading man supply,<br>That we in sympathy with sufferers feel,<br>Nor hear a grief without a wish to heal;<br>Not these suffice--to sickness, pain, and woe,<br>The Christian spirit loves with aid to go;<br>Will not be sought, waits not for want to plead,<br>But seeks the duty--nay, prevents the need;<br>Her utmost aid to every ill applies,<br>And plans relief for coining miseries.<br>Hence yonder Building rose: on either side<br>Far stretch'd the wards, all airy, warm, and wide;<br>And every ward has beds by comfort spread,<br>And smooth'd for him who suffers on the bed:<br>There all have kindness, most relief,--for some<br>Is cure complete,--it is the sufferer's home:<br>Fevers and chronic ills, corroding pains,<br>Each accidental mischief man sustains;<br>Fractures and wounds, and wither'd limbs and lame,<br>With all that, slow or sudden, vex our frame,<br>Have here attendance--here the sufferers lie,<br>(Where love and science every aid apply,)<br>And heal'd with rapture live, or soothed by comfort </div><div style="margin:10px 0">die.<br>See! one relieved from anguish, and to-day<br>Allow'd to walk and look an hour away;<br>Two months confined by fever, frenzy, pain,<br>He comes abroad and is himself again:<br>'Twas in the spring, when carried to the place,<br>The snow fell down and melted in his face.<br>'Tis summer now; all objects gay and new,<br>Smiling alike the viewer and the view:<br>He stops as one unwilling to advance,<br>Without another and another glance;<br>With what a pure and simple joy he sees<br>Those sheep and cattle browsing at their ease;<br>Easy himself, there's nothing breathes or moves,<br>But he would cherish--all that lives he loves:<br>Observing every ward as round he goes,<br>He thinks what pain, what danger they inclose;<br>Warm in his wish for all who suffer there,<br>At every view he meditates a prayer:<br>No evil counsels in his breast abide,<br>There joy, and love, and gratitude reside.<br>The wish that Roman necks in one were found,<br>That he who form'd the wish might deal the wound,<br>This man had never heard; but of the kind,<br>Is that desire which rises in his mind;<br>He'd have all English hands (for further he<br>Cannot conceive extends our charity),<br>All but his own, in one right-hand to grow,<br>And then what hearty shake would he bestow.<br>'How rose the Building?'--Piety first laid<br>A strong foundation, but she wanted aid;<br>To Wealth unwieldy was her prayer address'd,<br>Who largely gave, and she the donor bless'd:<br>Unwieldy Wealth then to his couch withdrew,<br>And took the sweetest sleep he ever knew.<br>Then busy Vanity sustained her part,<br>'And much,' she said, 'it moved her tender heart;<br>To her all kinds of man's distress were known,<br>And all her heart adopted as its own.'<br>Then Science came--his talents he display'd,<br>And Charity with joy the dome survey'd;<br>Skill, Wealth, and Vanity, obtain the fame,<br>And Piety, the joy that makes no claim.<br>Patrons there are, and Governors, from, whom<br>The greater aid and guiding orders come;<br>Who voluntary cares and labours take,<br>The sufferers' servants for the service' sake;<br>Of these a, part I give you--but a part, -<br>Some hearts are hidden, some have not a heart.<br>First let me praise--for so I best shall paint<br>That pious moralist, that reasoning saint!<br>Can I of worth like thine, Eusebius, speak?<br>The man is willing, but the Muse is weak; -<br>'Tis thine to wait on woe! to soothe! to heal!<br>With learning social, and polite with zeal:<br>In thy pure breast although the passions dwell,<br>They're train'd by virtue, and no more rebel;<br>But have so long been active on her side,<br>That passion now might be itself the guide.<br>Law, conscience, honour, all obey'd; all give<br>Th' approving voice, and make it bliss to live;<br>While faith, when life can nothing more supply,<br>Shall strengthen hope, and make it bliss to die.<br>He preaches, speaks, and writes with manly </div><div style="margin:10px 0">sense,<br>No weak neglect, no labour'd eloquence;<br>Goodness and wisdom are in all his ways,<br>The rude revere him and the wicked praise.<br>Upon humility his virtues grow,<br>And tower so high because so fix'd below;<br>As wider spreads the oak his boughs around,<br>When deeper with his roots he digs the solid </div><div style="margin:10px 0">ground.<br>By him, from ward to ward, is every aid<br>The sufferer needs, with every care convey'd:<br>Like the good tree he brings his treasure forth,<br>And, like the tree, unconscious of his worth:<br>Meek as the poorest Publican is he,<br>And strict as lives the straitest Pharisee;<br>Of both, in him unite the better part,<br>The blameless conduct and the humble heart.<br>Yet he escapes not; he, with some, is wise<br>In carnal things, and loves to moralize:<br>Others can doubt if all that Christian care<br>Has not its price--there's something he may share:<br>But this and ill severer he sustains,<br>As gold the fire, and as unhurt remains;<br>When most reviled, although he feels the smart,<br>It wakes to nobler deeds the wounded heart,<br>As the rich olive, beaten for its fruit,<br>Puts forth at every bruise a bearing shoot.<br>A second friend we have, whose care and zeal<br>But few can equal--few indeed can feel;<br>He lived a life obscure, and profits made<br>In the coarse habits of a vulgar trade.<br>His brother, master of a hoy, he loved<br>So well, that he the calling disapproved:<br>'Alas! poor Tom!' the landman oft would sigh<br>When the gale freshen'd and the waves ran high;<br>And when they parted, with a tear he'd say,<br>'No more adventure!--here in safety stay.'<br>Nor did he feign; with more than half he had<br>He would have kept the seaman, and been glad.<br>Alas! how few resist, when strongly tried -<br>A rich relation's nearer kinsman died;<br>He sicken'd, and to him the landman went,<br>And all his hours with cousin Ephraim spent.<br>This Thomas heard, and cared not: 'I,' quoth he,<br>'Have one in port upon the watch for me.'<br>So Ephraim died, and when the will was shown,<br>Isaac, the landman, had the whole his own:<br>Who to his brother sent a moderate purse,<br>Which he return'd in anger, with his curse;<br>Then went to sea, and made his grog so strong,<br>He died before he could forgive the wrong.<br>The rich man built a house, both large and high,<br>He enter'd in and set him down to sigh;<br>He planted ample woods and gardens fair,<br>And walk'd with anguish and compunction there:<br>The rich man's pines, to every friend a treat,<br>He saw with pain, and he refused to eat;<br>His daintiest food, his richest wines, were all<br>Turn'd by remorse to vinegar and gall:<br>The softest down by living body press'd,<br>The rich man bought, and tried to take his rest;<br>But care had thorns upon his pillow spread,<br>And scatter'd sand and nettles in his bed:<br>Nervous he grew,--would often sigh and groan,<br>He talk'd but little, and he walk'd alone;<br>Till by his priest convinced, that from one deed<br>Of genuine love would joy and health proceed,<br>He from that time with care and zeal began<br>To seek and soothe the grievous ills of man;<br>And as his hands their aid to grief apply,<br>He learns to smile and he forgets to sigh.<br>Now he can drink his wine and taste his food,<br>And feel the blessings Heav'n has dealt are good;<br>And, since the suffering seek the rich man's door,<br>He sleeps as soundly as when young and poor.<br>Here much he gives--is urgent more to gain;<br>He begs--rich beggars seldom sue in vain:<br>Preachers most famed he moves, the crowd to move,<br>And never wearies in the work of love:<br>He rules all business, settles all affairs;<br>He makes collections, he directs repairs;<br>And if he wrong'd one brother,--Heav'n forgive<br>The man by whom so many brethren live.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">-----------------------</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then, 'mid our Signatures, a name appears,<br>Of one for wisdom famed above his years;<br>And these were forty: he was from his youth<br>A patient searcher after useful truth:<br>To language little of his time he gave,<br>To science less, nor was the Muse's slave;<br>Sober and grave, his college sent him down,<br>A fair example for his native town.<br>Slowly he speaks, and with such solemn air,<br>You'd thing a Socrates or Solon there;<br>For though a Christian, he's disposed to draw<br>His rules from reason's and from nature's law.<br>'Know,' he exclaims, 'my fellow mortals, know,<br>Virtue alone is happiness below;<br>And what is virtue? prudence first to choose<br>Life's real good,--the evil to refuse;<br>Add justice then, the eager hand to hold,<br>To curb the lust of power and thirst of gold;<br>Join temp'rance next, that cheerful health ensures.<br>And fortitude unmoved, that conquers or endures.'<br>He speaks, and lo!--the very man you see,<br>Prudent and temperate, just and patient he,<br>By prudence taught his worldly wealth to keep,<br>No folly wastes, no avarice swells the heap:<br>He no man's debtor, no man's patron lives;<br>Save sound advice, he neither asks nor gives;<br>By no vain thoughts or erring fancy sway'd,<br>His words are weighty, or at least are weigh'd;<br>Temp'rate in every place--abroad, at home,<br>Thence will applause, and hence will profit come<br>And health from either--he in time prepares<br>For sickness, age, and their attendant cares,<br>But not for fancy's ills;--he never grieves<br>For love that wounds or friendship that deceives.<br>His patient soul endures what Heav'n ordains,<br>But neither feels nor fears ideal pains.<br>'Is aught then wanted in a man so wise?' -<br>Alas!--I think he wants infirmities;<br>He wants the ties that knit us to our kind -<br>The cheerful, tender, soft, complacent mind.<br>That would the feelings, which he dreads, excite,<br>And make the virtues he approves delight;<br>What dying martyrs, saints, and patriots feel,<br>The strength of action and the warmth of zeal.<br>Again attend!--and see a man whose cares<br>Are nicely placed on either world's affairs, -<br>Merchant and saint; 'tis doubtful if he knows<br>To which account he most regard bestows;<br>Of both he keeps his ledger: --there he reads<br>Of gainful ventures and of godly deeds;<br>There all he gets or loses find a place,<br>A lucky bargain and a lack of grace.<br>The joys above this prudent man invite<br>To pay his tax--devotion!--day and night;<br>The pains of hell his timid bosom awe,<br>And force obedience to the church's law:<br>Hence that continual thought,--that solemn air,<br>Those sad good works, and that laborious prayer.<br>All these (when conscience, waken'd and afraid,<br>To think how avarice calls and is obey'd)<br>He in his journal finds, and for his grief<br>Obtains the transient opium of relief.<br>'Sink not, my soul!--my spirit, rise and look<br>O'er the fair entries of this precious book:<br>Here are the sins, our debts;--this fairer side<br>Has what to carnal wish our strenetb denied;<br>Has those religious duties every day<br>Paid,--which so few upon the Sabbath pay;<br>Here too are conquests over frail desires,<br>Attendance due on all the church requires;<br>Then alms I give--for I believe the word<br>Of holy writ, and lend unto the Lord,<br>And if not all th' importunate demand,<br>The fear of want restrains my ready hand:<br>- Behold! what sums I to the poor resign,<br>Sums placed in Heaven's own book, as well as mine:<br>Rest then, my spirit!--fastings, prayers, and alms,<br>Will soon suppress these idly-raised alarms,<br>And weigh'd against our frailties, set in view<br>A noble balance in our favour due:<br>Add that I yearly here affix my name,<br>Pledge for large payment--not from love of fame,<br>But to make peace within;--that peace to make,<br>'What sums I lavish! and what gains forsake!<br>Cheer up, my heart! let's cast off every doubt,<br>Pray without dread, and place our money out.'<br>Such the religion of a mind that steers<br>Its way to bliss, between its hopes and fears;<br>Whose passions in due bounds each other keep,<br>And thus subdued, they murmur till they sleep;<br>Whose virtues all their certain limits know,<br>Like well-dried herbs that neither fade nor grow;<br>Who for success and safety ever tries,<br>And with both worlds alternately complies.<br>Such are the Guardians of this bless'd estate,<br>Whate'er without, they're praised within the gate;<br>That they are men, and have their faults, is true;<br>But here their worth alone appears in view:<br>The Muse indeed, who reads the very breast,<br>Has something of the secrets there express'd,<br>But yet in charity;--and when she sees<br>Such means for joy or comfort, health or ease,<br>And knows how much united minds effect,<br>She almost dreads their failings to detect;<br>But Truth commands: --in man's erroneous kind,<br>Virtues and frailties mingle in the mind,<br>Happy!--when fears to public spirit move,<br>And even vices do the work of love.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=George+Crabbe">George Crabbe</a><div class=q>
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AN ardent spirit dwells with Christian love,
The eagle's vigour in the pitying dove;
'Tis not enough that we with sorrow sigh,
That we the wants of pleading man supply,
That we in sympathy with sufferers feel,
Nor hear a grief without a w..."></div>
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