[A PRACTITIONER, HIS PILGRIMAGE]
PART ONE.
INVOCATION.
Hail, great Hygeïa! Healing Goddess, hail![14]
And lend one moment to a touching tale;
One moment stay thy pestle-driving hand,
And let thy half-compounded physic stand:
That tale is this: I have a subject here,
Not anatomical—but very near;
A starving vot'ry of the 'healing art,'
Who shows its wond'rous power in every part:
But cannot find the language to describe,
In proper guise, a member of thy tribe.
Oh! then vouchsafe me a 'composing draught,'
Potent as ever willing patient quaff'd!
*****
I thank thee, for I feel it working now,
And composition flows, no matter how.
THE PILGRIMAGE.
'FELIX QUI POTUIT RERUM COGNOSCERE CAUSAS.'
The doctor sate sole in his easy chair,
And his visage was stamped with the marks of care,
And his vacant eye said, as plain as eye could,
That his mind was digesting but meagre food.
At all events, it were safe to say,
That his own wise thoughts were its food that day.
What ails thee, doctor?[15] Are patients thin?
Nay, I know what you mean by that ready grin:
Don't suppose I thought physic would make a man thrive,
When he's specially blessed, if it leaves him alive:
No; I knew that the veriest wretch that lies
On street-pick'd straw, and with wistful eyes
Covets the steam of the baker's bread,
With which he could never afford to be fed,
If he puts in his stomach one nauseous pill,
Will make himself only more retchéd still:
All this I can fathom; but now I mean,
Are your 'visits,' like angels', far between?
The Angel of Death, that is, of course,
That rides the pale steed, alias 'Pallida Mors?'
Pray have you not 'cases' enough, to pay
For your coat of black and your breeches of gray?
Your perpetual mourning for visiting-friends,
Who, (alas for your purse!) met untimely ends?