Medical Poems | Page 3

was at,
To thump her and tumble
her ruffles so.
Now, when the stethoscope came out,
The flies began to buzz and
whiz
Oh ho I the matter is clear, no doubt;
An aneurism there
plainly is.
The bruit de rape and the bruit de scie
And the bruit de diable are all
combined;
How happy Bouillaud would be,
If he a case like this
could find!
Now, when the neighboring doctors found
A case so rare had been
descried,
They every day her ribs did pound
In squads of twenty; so
she died.
Then six young damsels, slight and frail,
Received this kind young

doctor's cares;
They all were getting slim and pale,
And short of
breath on mounting stairs.
They all made rhymes with "sighs" and "skies,"
And loathed their
puddings and buttered rolls,
And dieted, much to their friends'
surprise,
On pickles and pencils and chalk and coals.
So fast their little hearts did bound,
The frightened insects buzzed the
more;
So over all their chests he found
The rale sifflant and the rale
sonore.
He shook his head. There's grave disease,--
I greatly fear you all must
die;
A slight post-mortem, if you please,
Surviving friends would
gratify.
The six young damsels wept aloud,
Which so prevailed on six young
men
That each his honest love avowed,
Whereat they all got well
again.
This poor young man was all aghast;
The price of stethoscopes came
down;
And so he was reduced at last
To practise in a country town.
The doctors being very sore,
A stethoscope they did devise
That
had a rammer to clear the bore,
With a knob at the end to kill the
flies.
Now use your ears, all you that can,
But don't forget to mind your
eyes,
Or you may be cheated, like this young man,
By a couple of
silly, abnormal flies.
EXTRACTS FROM A MEDICAL POEM
THE STABILITY OF SCIENCE
THE feeble sea-birds, blinded in the storms,
On some tall lighthouse
dash their little forms,
And the rude granite scatters for their pains


Those small deposits that were meant for brains.
Yet the proud fabric
in the morning's sun
Stands all unconscious of the mischief done;

Still the red beacon pours its evening rays
For the lost pilot with as
full a blaze,--
Nay, shines, all radiance, o'er the scattered fleet
Of
gulls and boobies brainless at its feet.
I tell their fate, though courtesy disclaims
To call our kind by such
ungentle names;
Yet, if your rashness bid you vainly dare,
Think of
their doom, ye simple, and beware
See where aloft its hoary forehead rears
The towering pride of twice a
thousand years!
Far, far below the vast incumbent pile
Sleeps the
gray rock from art's AEgean isle
Its massive courses, circling as they
rise,
Swell from the waves to mingle with the skies;
There every
quarry lends its marble spoil,
And clustering ages blend their
common toil;
The Greek, the Roman, reared its ancient walls,
The
silent Arab arched its mystic halls;
In that fair niche, by countless
billows laved,
Trace the deep lines that Sydenham engraved;
On
yon broad front that breasts the changing swell,
Mark where the
ponderous sledge of Hunter fell;
By that square buttress look where
Louis stands,
The stone yet warm from his uplifted hands;
And say,
O Science, shall thy life-blood freeze,
When fluttering folly flaps on
walls like these?
A PORTRAIT
Thoughtful in youth, but not austere in age;
Calm, but not cold, and
cheerful though a sage;
Too true to flatter and too kind to sneer,

And only just when seemingly severe;
So gently blending courtesy
and art
That wisdom's lips seemed borrowing friendship's heart.
Taught by the sorrows that his age had known
In others' trials to
forget his own,
As hour by hour his lengthened day declined,
A
sweeter radiance lingered o'er his mind.
Cold were the lips that spoke

his early praise,
And hushed the voices of his morning days,
Yet the
same accents dwelt on every tongue,
And love renewing kept him
ever young.
A SENTIMENT
/O Bios Bpaxus/,--life is but a song;
/H rexvn
uakpn/,--art is wondrous long;
Yet to the wise her paths are ever fair,

And Patience smiles, though Genius may despair.
Give us but
knowledge, though by slow degrees,
And blend our toil with
moments bright as these;
Let Friendship's accents cheer our doubtful
way,
And Love's pure planet lend its guiding ray,--
Our tardy Art
shall wear an angel's wings,
And life shall lengthen with the joy it
brings I
A POEM
FOR THE MEETING OF THE AMERICAN MEDICAL
ASSOCIATION
AT NEW YORK, MAY 5, 1853
I HOLD a letter in my hand,--
A flattering letter, more's the pity,--

By some contriving junto planned,
And signed per order of
Committee.
It touches every tenderest spot,--
My patriotic
predilections,
My well-known-something-don't ask what,--
My poor
old songs, my kind affections.
They make a feast on Thursday next,
And hope to make the feasters
merry;
They own they're something more perplexed
For poets than
for port and sherry.
They want the men of--(word torn out);
Our
friends will come with anxious faces,
(To see our blankets off, no
doubt,
And trot us out and show our paces.)
They hint that papers by the score
Are rather musty kind of rations,--

They don't exactly mean a bore,
But only trying to the patience;

That such as--you know who