WOUNDED and weary of my life, I to my fair one sent my knife; The point had pierced my hand as far As foe would foe in open war. Cruel, but yet compassionate, she Spread plasters for my enemy; She hugg'd the wretch had done me harm, And in her bosom kept it warm, When suddenly I found the cure was done, The pain and all the anguish gone, Those nerves which stiff and tender were Now very free and active are: Not help'd by any power above, But a true miracle of Love. Henceforth, physicians, burn your bills, Prescribe no more uncertain pills: She can at distance vanquish pain, She makes the grave to gape in vain: 'Mongst all the arts that saving be None so sublime as sympathy. Oh could it help a wounded breast, I'd send my soul to have it dress'd. Yet, rather, let herself apply The sovereign med'cine to her eye: There lurks the weapon wounds me deep, There, that which stabs me in my sleep; For still I feel, within, a mortall smart, The salve that heal'd my hand can't cure my heart. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WHITE MAN'S BURDEN by RUDYARD KIPLING THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE by CAROLINE ELIZABETH SARAH SHERIDAN NORTON THE PROFESSION OF FLATTERY by ANTIPHANES VERSES WRITTEN IN THE LEAVES OF AN IVORY POCKET-BOOK by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD FIRST CYCLE OF LOVE POEMS: 5 by GEORGE BARKER STANZAS SELECTED FROM THE PAINS OR MEMORY; A FRAGMENT by BERNARD BARTON |