To find that Tree of Life, whose Fruits did feed, And Leaves did heale, all sick of humane seed: To finde Bethesda, and an Angel there, Stirring the waters, I am come; and here, At last, I find, (after my much to doe) The Tree, Bethesda, and the Angel too: And all in Your Blest Hand, which has the powers Of all those suppling-healing herbs and flowers. To that soft Charm, that Spell, that Magick Bough, That high Enchantment I betake me now: And to that Hand, (the Branch of Heavens faire Tree) I kneele for help; O! lay that hand on me, Adored Cesar! and my Faith is such, I shall be heal'd, if that my King but touch. The Evill is not Yours: my sorrow sings, Mine is the Evill, but the Cure, the KINGS. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE by THOMAS GRAY SWITZERLAND by JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES BROOKLYN BRIDGE by CHARLES GEORGE DOUGLAS ROBERTS THE BLACKBIRD by ALFRED TENNYSON P. C., X, 36 by HENRY MAXIMILIAN BEERBOHM TO THE OBELISK DURING THE GREAT FROST, 1881 by MATHILDE BLIND ON THE FUNERAL OF CHARLES I; AT NIGHT, IN ST. GEORGE'S CHAPEL, WINDSOR by WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES |