The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes Part 15

THE MORNING VISIT

A sick man's chamber, though it often boast The grateful presence of a literal toast, Can hardly claim, amidst its various wealth, The right unchallenged to propose a health; Yet though its tenant is denied the feast, Friendship must launch his sentiment at least, As prisoned damsels, locked from lovers' lips, Toss them a kiss from off their fingers' tips.

The morning visit,--not till sickness falls In the charmed circles of your own safe walls; Till fever's throb and pain's relentless rack Stretch you all helpless on your aching back; Not till you play the patient in your turn, The morning visit's mystery shall you learn.

'T is a small matter in your neighbor's case, To charge your fee for showing him your face; You skip up-stairs, inquire, inspect, and touch, Prescribe, take leave, and off to twenty such.

But when at length, by fate's transferred decree, The visitor becomes the visitee, Oh, then, indeed, it pulls another string; Your ox is gored, and that's a different thing!

Your friend is sick: phlegmatic as a Turk, You write your recipe and let it work; Not yours to stand the shiver and the frown, And sometimes worse, with which your draught goes down.

Calm as a clock your knowing hand directs, _Rhei, jalapae ana grana s.e.x_, Or traces on some tender missive's back, _Scrupulos duos pulveris ipecac_; And leaves your patient to his qualms and gripes, Cool as a sportsman banging at his snipes.

But change the time, the person, and the place, And be yourself "the interesting case,"

You'll gain some knowledge which it's well to learn; In future practice it may serve your turn.

Leeches, for instance,--pleasing creatures quite; Try them,--and bless you,--don't you find they bite?

You raise a blister for the smallest cause, But be yourself the sitter whom it draws, And trust my statement, you will not deny The worst of draughtsmen is your Spanish fly!

It's mighty easy ordering when you please, _Infusi sennae capiat uncias tres_; It's mighty different when you quackle down Your own three ounces of the liquid brown.

_Pilula, pulvis_,--pleasant words enough, When other throats receive the shocking stuff; But oh, what flattery can disguise the groan That meets the gulp which sends it through your own!

Be gentle, then, though Art's unsparing rules Give you the handling of her sharpest tools; Use them not rashly,--sickness is enough; Be always "ready," but be never "rough."

Of all the ills that suffering man endures, The largest fraction liberal Nature cures; Of those remaining, 't is the smallest part Yields to the efforts of judicious Art; But simple _Kindness_, kneeling by the bed To shift the pillow for the sick man's head, Give the fresh draught to cool the lips that burn, Fan the hot brow, the weary frame to turn,-- Kindness, untutored by our grave M. D.'s, But Nature's graduate, when she schools to please, Wins back more sufferers with her voice and smile Than all the trumpery in the druggist's pile.

Once more, be quiet: coming up the stair, Don't be a plantigrade, a human bear, But, stealing softly on the silent toe, Reach the sick chamber ere you're heard below.

Whatever changes there may greet your eyes, Let not your looks proclaim the least surprise; It's not your business by your face to show All that your patient does not want to know; Nay, use your optics with considerate care, And don't abuse your privilege to stare.

But if your eyes may probe him overmuch, Beware still further how you rudely touch; Don't clutch his carpus in your icy fist, But warm your fingers ere you take the wrist.

If the poor victim needs must be percussed, Don't make an anvil of his aching bust; (Doctors exist within a hundred miles Who thump a thorax as they'd hammer piles;) If you must listen to his doubtful chest, Catch the essentials, and ignore the rest.

Spare him; the sufferer wants of you and art A track to steer by, not a finished chart.

So of your questions: don't in mercy try To pump your patient absolutely dry; He's not a mollusk squirming in a dish, You're not Aga.s.siz; and he's not a fish.

And last, not least, in each perplexing case, Learn the sweet magic of a cheerful face; Not always smiling, but at least serene, When grief and anguish cloud the anxious scene.

Each look, each movement, every word and tone, Should tell your patient you are all his own; Not the mere artist, purchased to attend, But the warm, ready, self-forgetting friend, Whose genial visit in itself combines The best of cordials, tonics, anodynes.

Such is the _visit_ that from day to day Sheds o'er my chamber its benignant ray.

I give his health, who never cared to claim Her babbling homage from the tongue of Fame; Unmoved by praise, he stands by all confest, The truest, n.o.blest, wisest, kindest, best.

1849.

THE TWO ARMIES

As Life's unending column pours, Two marshalled hosts are seen,-- Two armies on the trampled sh.o.r.es That Death flows black between.

One marches to the drum-beat's roll, The wide-mouthed clarion's bray, And bears upon a crimson scroll, "Our glory is to slay."

One moves in silence by the stream, With sad, yet watchful eyes, Calm as the patient planet's gleam That walks the clouded skies.

Along its front no sabres shine, No blood-red pennons wave; Its banner bears the single line, "Our duty is to save."

For those no death-bed's lingering shade; At Honor's trumpet-call, With knitted brow and lifted blade In Glory's arms they fall.

For these no clashing falchions bright, No stirring battle-cry; The bloodless stabber calls by night,-- Each answers, "Here am I!"

For those the sculptor's laurelled bust, The builder's marble piles, The anthems pealing o'er their dust Through long cathedral aisles.

For these the blossom-sprinkled turf That floods the lonely graves When Spring rolls in her sea-green surf In flowery-foaming waves.

Two paths lead upward from below, And angels wait above, Who count each burning life-drop's flow, Each falling tear of Love.

Though from the Hero's bleeding breast Her pulses Freedom drew, Though the white lilies in her crest Sprang from that scarlet dew,--

While Valor's haughty champions wait Till all their scars are shown, Love walks unchallenged through the gate, To sit beside the Throne.

THE STETHOSCOPE SONG

A PROFESSIONAL BALLAD

THERE was a young man in Boston town, He bought him a stethoscope nice and new, All mounted and finished and polished down, With an ivory cap and a stopper too.

It happened a spider within did crawl, And spun him a web of ample size, Wherein there chanced one day to fall A couple of very imprudent flies.

The first was a bottle-fly, big and blue, The second was smaller, and thin and long; So there was a concert between the two, Like an octave flute and a tavern gong.

Now being from Paris but recently, This fine young man would show his skill; And so they gave him, his hand to try, A hospital patient extremely ill.

Some said that his liver was short of bile, And some that his heart was over size, While some kept arguing, all the while, He was crammed with tubercles up to his eyes.

This fine young man then up stepped he, And all the doctors made a pause; Said he, The man must die, you see, By the fifty-seventh of Louis's laws.

But since the case is a desperate one, To explore his chest it may be well; For if he should die and it were not done, You know the autopsy would not tell.

Then out his stethoscope he took, And on it placed his curious ear; Mon Dieu! said he, with a knowing look, Why, here is a sound that 's mighty queer.

The bourdonnement is very clear,-- Amphoric buzzing, as I'm alive Five doctors took their turn to hear; Amphoric buzzing, said all the five.

There's empyema beyond a doubt; We'll plunge a trocar in his side.

The diagnosis was made out,-- They tapped the patient; so he died.

Now such as hate new-fashioned toys Began to look extremely glum; They said that rattles were made for boys, And vowed that his buzzing was all a hum.

There was an old lady had long been sick, And what was the matter none did know Her pulse was slow, though her tongue was quick; To her this knowing youth must go.

So there the nice old lady sat, With phials and boxes all in a row; She asked the young doctor what he 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! the matter is clear, no doubt; An aneurism there plainly is.