Medical Poems | Page 4

I mean--
Distinguished for their--what
d' ye call 'em--
Should bring the dews of Hippocrene
To sprinkle on
the faces solemn.

--The same old story: that's the chaff
To catch the birds that sing the
ditties;
Upon my soul, it makes me laugh
To read these letters from
Committees!
They're all so loving and so fair,--
All for your sake
such kind compunction;
'T would save your carriage half its wear

To touch its wheels with such an unction!
Why, who am I, to lift me here
And beg such learned folk to listen,

To ask a smile, or coax a tear
Beneath these stoic lids to glisten?
As
well might some arterial thread
Ask the whole frame to feel it
gushing,
While throbbing fierce from heel to head
The vast aortic
tide was rushing.
As well some hair-like nerve might strain
To set its special streamlet
going,
While through the myriad-channelled brain
The burning
flood of thought was flowing;
Or trembling fibre strive to keep
The
springing haunches gathered shorter,
While the scourged racer, leap
on leap,
Was stretching through the last hot quarter!
Ah me! you take the bud that came
Self-sown in your poor garden's
borders,
And hand it to the stately dame
That florists breed for, all
she orders.
She thanks you,--it was kindly meant,--
(A pale afair,
not worth the keeping,)--
Good morning; and your bud is sent
To
join the tea-leaves used for sweeping.
Not always so, kind hearts and true,--
For such I know are round me
beating;
Is not the bud I offer you,
Fresh gathered for the hour of
meeting,
Pale though its outer leaves may be,
Rose-red in all its
inner petals?--
Where the warm life we cannot see--
The life of love
that gave it--settles.
We meet from regions far away,
Like rills from distant mountains
streaming;
The sun is on Francisco's bay,
O'er Chesapeake the
lighthouse gleaming;
While summer girds the still bayou
In chains
of bloom, her bridal token,
Monadnock sees the sky grow blue,
His

crystal bracelet yet unbroken.
Yet Nature bears the selfsame heart
Beneath her russet-mantled
bosom
As where, with burning lips apart,
She breathes and white
magnolias blossom;
The selfsame founts her chalice fill
With
showery sunlight running over,
On fiery plain and frozen hill,
On
myrtle-beds and fields of clover.
I give you Home! its crossing lines
United in one golden suture,

And showing every day that shines
The present growing to the
future,--
A flag that bears a hundred stars
In one bright ring, with
love for centre,
Fenced round with white and crimson bars
No
prowling treason dares to enter!
O brothers, home may be a word
To make affection's living treasure,

The wave an angel might have stirred,
A stagnant pool of selfish
pleasure;
HOME! It is where the day-star springs
And where the
evening sun reposes,
Where'er the eagle spreads his wings,
From
northern pines to southern roses!
A SENTIMENT
A TRIPLE health to Friendship, Science, Art,
From heads and hands
that own a common heart!
Each in its turn the others' willing slave,

Each in its season strong to heal and save.
Friendship's blind service, in the hour of need,
Wipes the pale face,
and lets the victim bleed.
Science must stop to reason and explain;

ART claps his finger on the streaming vein.
But Art's brief memory fails the hand at last;
Then SCIENCE lifts the
flambeau of the past.
When both their equal impotence deplore,

When Learning sighs, and Skill can do no more,
The tear of
FRIENDSHIP pours its heavenly balm,
And soothes the pang no
anodyne may calm
May 1, 1855.

RIP VAN WINKLE, M. D.
AN AFTER-DINNER PRESCRIPTION TAKEN BY THE
MASSACHUSETTS
MEDICAL SOCIETY, AT THEIR
MEETING HELD MAY 25, 1870
CANTO FIRST
OLD Rip Van Winkle had a grandson, Rip,
Of the paternal block a
genuine chip,--
A lazy, sleepy, curious kind of chap;
He, like his
grandsire, took a mighty nap,
Whereof the story I propose to tell
In
two brief cantos, if you listen well.
The times were hard when Rip to manhood grew;
They always will
be when there's work to do.
He tried at farming,--found it rather
slow,--
And then at teaching--what he did n't know;
Then took to
hanging round the tavern bars,
To frequent toddies and long-nine
cigars,
Till Dame Van Winkle, out of patience, vexed
With
preaching homilies, having for their text
A mop, a broomstick, aught
that might avail
To point a moral or adorn a tale,
Exclaimed, "I
have it! Now, then, Mr. V.
He's good for something,--make him an M.
D.!"
The die was cast; the youngster was content;
They packed his shirts
and stockings, and he went.
How hard he studied it were vain to tell;

He drowsed through Wistar, nodded over Bell,
Slept sound with
Cooper, snored aloud on Good;
Heard heaps of lectures,--doubtless
understood,--
A constant listener, for he did not fail
To carve his
name on every bench and rail.
Months grew to years; at last he counted three,
And Rip Van Winkle
found himself M. D.
Illustrious title! in a gilded frame
He set the
sheepskin with his Latin name,
RIPUM VAN WINKLUM, QUEM
we--SCIMUS--know
IDONEUM ESSE--to do so and so.
He hired
an office; soon its walls displayed
His new diploma and his stock in

trade,
A mighty arsenal to subdue disease,
Of various names,
whereof I mention these
Lancets and bougies, great and little squirt,

Rhubarb and Senna, Snakeroot, Thoroughwort,
Ant. Tart.,