{LOU MEDICI DES PAURES.}
Dedicated to M. CANY, Physician of Toulouse.
With the permission of the Rev. Dr. J. Duncan Craig, of Glenagary, Kingston, Dublin, I adopt, with some alterations, his free translation of Jasmin's poem.
Sweet comes this April morning, its faint perfumes exhaling;
Brilliant shines the sun, so crisp, so bright, so freshening;
Pearl-like gleam and sparkle the dew-drops on the rose,
While grey and gnarled olives droop like giants in repose.
Soundeth low, solemnly, the mid-day bell in th' air,
Glideth on sadly a maiden sick with care;
Her head is bent, and sobbing words she sheds with many a tear,
But 'tween the chapel and the windmill another doth appear.
She laughs and plucks the lovely flowers with many a joyous
bound,
The other, pale and spiritless, looks upward from the ground;
"Where goest thou, sweet Marianne, this lovely April day?"
"Beneath the elms of Agen—there lies my destined way.
"I go to seek this very day the Doctor of the Poor.{1}
Did'st thou not hear how skilfully he did my mother cure?
Behold this silver in my hand, these violets so sweet,
The guerdon of his loving care—I'll lay them at his feet.
"Now, dost thou not remember, my darling Marianne,
How in our lonely hut the typhus fever ran?
And we were poor, without a friend, or e'en our daily bread,
And sadly then, and sorrowful, dear mother bowed her head.
"One day, the sun was shining low in lurid western sky,
All, all, our little wealth was gone, and mother yearned to die,
When sudden, at the open door, a shadow crossed the way,
And cheerfully a manly voice did words of comfort say:
"'Take courage, friends, your ills I know, your life I hope to
save.'
'Too late!' dear mother cried; 'too late! My home is in the
grave;
Our things are pledged, our med'cine gone, e'en bread we cannot
buy.'
The doctor shudder'd, then grew pale, but sadly still drew nigh.
"No curtains had we on our bed: I marked his pallid face;
Five silver crowns now forth he drew with melancholy grace—
'Poor woman, take these worthless coins, suppress your bitter
grief!
Don't blush; repay them when you can—these drops will give
relief.'
"He left the hut, and went away; soon sleep's refreshing calm
Relieved the patient he had helped—a wonder-working balm;
The world now seemed to smile again, like springtide flowers so
gay,
While mother, brothers, and myself, incessant worked away.
"Thus, like the swallows which return with spring unto our shore,
The doctor brought rejoicing back unto our vine-wreathed door;
And we are happy, Isabel, and money too we've made;
But why dost weep, when I can laugh?" the gentle maiden said.
"Alas! alas! dear Marianne, I weep and mourn to-day,
From your house to our cottage-home the fever made its way;
My father lies with ghastly face, and many a raving cry—
Oh, would that Durand too might come, before the sick man die!"
"Dear Isabel, haste on, haste on—we'll seek his house this hour!
Come, let us run, and hasten on with all our utmost power.
He'll leave the richest palace for the poor man's humble roof—
He's far from rich, except in love, of that we've had full
proof!"
The good God bless the noble heart that careth for the poor;
Then forth the panting children speed to seek the sick man's
cure;
And as beneath our giant elms they pass with rapid tread,
They scarcely dare to look around, or lift their weary head.
The town at last is reached, by the Pont-Long they enter,
Close by the Hue des Jacobins, near Durand's house they venture.
Around the portals of the door there throngs a mournful crowd;
They see the Cross, they hear the priests the Requiem chaunt
aloud.
The girls were troubled in their souls, their minds were rent
with grief;
One above all, young Marianne, was trembling like a leaf:
Another death—oh, cruel thought! then of her father dying,
She quickly ran to Durand's door, and asked a neighbour, crying:
"Where's the good doctor, sir, I pray? I seek him for my
father!"
He soft replied, "The gracious God into His fold doth gather
The best of poor folks' doctors now, to his eternal rest;
They bear the body forth, 'tis true: his spirit's with the
blest."
Bright on his corpse the candles shine around his narrow bier,
Escorted by the crowds of poor with many a bitter tear;
No more, alas! can he the sad and anguished-laden cure—
Oh, wail! For Durand is no more—the Doctor of the Poor!
Endnotes to THE POOR MAN'S DOCTOR.
{1} In the last edition of Jasmin's poems (4 vols. 8vo, edited by Buyer d'Agen) it is stated (p. 40, 1st vol.) that "M. Durand, physician, was one of those rare men whom Providence seems to have provided to assuage the lot of the poorest classes. His career was full of noble acts of devotion towards the sick whom he was called upon to cure. He died at the early age of thirty-five, of a stroke of apoplexy. His remains were accompanied to the grave by nearly all the poor of Agen and the neighbourhood."