 | The complete poems of S. Weir Mitchell |  |
399
POEMS OF OCCASION
401
A DOCTOR'S CENTURY
READ AT THE CENTENNIAL DINNER OF THE COLLEGE OF PHYSICIANS OF PHILADELPHIA, 1887
A Doctor's century dead and gone!
Good-night to those one hundred years,
To all the memories they bear
Of honest help for pains or tears;
Good-night to those one hundred years,
To all the memories they bear
Of honest help for pains or tears;
To them that like St. Christopher,
When North and South were sad with graves,
Bore the true Christ of charity
Across the battles' crimson waves.
When North and South were sad with graves,
Bore the true Christ of charity
Across the battles' crimson waves.
Good-night to all the shining line,
Our peerage,—yes, our lords of thought;
Their blazonry, unspotted lives
Which all the ways of honor taught.
Our peerage,—yes, our lords of thought;
Their blazonry, unspotted lives
Which all the ways of honor taught.
402
A gentler word, as proud a thought,
For those who won no larger prize
Than humble days well lived can win
From thankful hearts and weeping eyes.
For those who won no larger prize
Than humble days well lived can win
From thankful hearts and weeping eyes.
Too grave my song; a lighter mood
Shall bid us scan our honored roll,
For jolly jesters gay and good,
Who healed the flesh and charmed the soul,
Shall bid us scan our honored roll,
For jolly jesters gay and good,
Who healed the flesh and charmed the soul,
And took their punch, and took the jokes
Would make our prudish conscience tingle,
Then bore their devious lanterns home,
And slept, or heard the night-bell jingle.
Would make our prudish conscience tingle,
Then bore their devious lanterns home,
And slept, or heard the night-bell jingle.
Our Century 's dead; God rest his soul!
Without a doctor or a nurse,
Without a “post,” without a dose,
He 's off on Time's old rattling hearse.
Without a doctor or a nurse,
Without a “post,” without a dose,
He 's off on Time's old rattling hearse.
What sad disorder laid him out
To all pathologists is dim;
An intercurrent malady,—
Bacterium chronos, finished him!
To all pathologists is dim;
An intercurrent malady,—
Bacterium chronos, finished him!
Our new-born century, pert and proud,
Like some young doctor fresh from college,
Disturbs our prudent age with doubts
And misty might of foggy knowledge.
Like some young doctor fresh from college,
Disturbs our prudent age with doubts
And misty might of foggy knowledge.
Ah, but to come again and share
The gains his calmer days shall store,
For them that in a hundred years
Shall see our “science grown to more,”
The gains his calmer days shall store,
For them that in a hundred years
Shall see our “science grown to more,”
403
Perchance as ghosts consultant we
May stand beside some fleshly fellow,
And marvel what on earth he means,
When this new century's old and mellow.
May stand beside some fleshly fellow,
And marvel what on earth he means,
When this new century's old and mellow.
Take then the thought that wisdom fades,
That knowledge dies of newer truth,
That only duty simply done
Walks always with the step of youth.
That knowledge dies of newer truth,
That only duty simply done
Walks always with the step of youth.
A grander morning floods our skies
With higher aims and larger light;
Give welcome to the century new,
And to the past a glad good-night.
With higher aims and larger light;
Give welcome to the century new,
And to the past a glad good-night.
MINERVA MEDICA
VERSES READ AT THE DINNER COMMEMORATIVE OF THE FIFTIETH YEAR OF THE DOCTORATE OF D. HAYES AGNEW, M. D., APRIL 6, 1888
Good Chairman, Brothers, Friends, and Guests,—all ye who come with praise
To honor for our ancient guild a life of blameless days,
If from the well-worn road of toil I step aside to find
A poet's roses for the wreath your kindly wishes bind,
Be certain that their fragrance types, amid your laurel leaves,
The gentle love a tender heart in duty's chaplet weaves.
I can't exactly set the date,—the Chairman he will know,—
But it was on a chilly night, some month or two ago.
Within, the back-log warmed my toes; without, the frozen rain,
Storm-driven by the angry wind, clashed on my window-pane.
I lit a pipe, stirred up the fire, and, dry with thirst for knowledge,
Plunged headlong in an essay by a Fellow of the College.
But, sir, I 've often seen of late that this especial thirst
Is not of all its varied forms the keenest or the worst.
At all events, that gentleman—that pleasant College Fellow—
He must have been of all of us the juiciest and most mellow.
You ask his name, degree, and fame; you want to know that rare man?
It was n't you,—nor you,—nor you,—no, sir, 't was not the Chairman!
For minutes ten I drank of him; quenched was my ardent thirst;
Another minute, and my veins with knowledge, sir, had burst;
A moment more, my head fell back, my lazy eyelids closed,
And on my lap that Fellow's book at equal peace reposed.
Then I remembered me the night that essay first was read,
And how we thought it could n't all have come from one man's head.
At nine the College heard a snore and saw the Chairman start,—
A snore as of an actor shy rehearsing for his part.
At ten, a shameless chorus around the hall had run,
The Chairman dreamed a feeble joke, and said the noes had won.
At twelve the Treasurer fell asleep, the wakeful Censors slumbered,
The Secretary's minutes grew to hours quite unnumbered.
At six A. M. that Fellow paused, perchance a page to turn,
And up I got, and cried, “I move the College do adjourn!”
They did n't, sir; they sat all day. It made my flesh to creep.
All night they sat;—that could n't be. Goodness! was I asleep?
Was I asleep? With less effect that Fellow might have tried
Codeia, Morphia, Urethan, Chloral, Paraldehyde.
In vain my servant called aloud, “Sir, here 's a solemn letter
To say they want a song from you, for lack of some one better.
The Chairman says his man will wait, while you sit down and write;
He says he's not in any haste,—and make it something light;
He says you need n't vex yourself to try to be effulgent,
Because, he says, champagne enough will keep them all indulgent.”
I slept—at least I think I slept—an hour by estimation,
But if I slept, I must have had unconscious cerebration,
For on my desk, the morrow morn, I found this ordered verse;
Pray take it as you take your wife,—“for better or for worse.”
To honor for our ancient guild a life of blameless days,
If from the well-worn road of toil I step aside to find
A poet's roses for the wreath your kindly wishes bind,
Be certain that their fragrance types, amid your laurel leaves,
The gentle love a tender heart in duty's chaplet weaves.
404
But it was on a chilly night, some month or two ago.
Within, the back-log warmed my toes; without, the frozen rain,
Storm-driven by the angry wind, clashed on my window-pane.
I lit a pipe, stirred up the fire, and, dry with thirst for knowledge,
Plunged headlong in an essay by a Fellow of the College.
But, sir, I 've often seen of late that this especial thirst
Is not of all its varied forms the keenest or the worst.
At all events, that gentleman—that pleasant College Fellow—
He must have been of all of us the juiciest and most mellow.
You ask his name, degree, and fame; you want to know that rare man?
It was n't you,—nor you,—nor you,—no, sir, 't was not the Chairman!
For minutes ten I drank of him; quenched was my ardent thirst;
Another minute, and my veins with knowledge, sir, had burst;
A moment more, my head fell back, my lazy eyelids closed,
And on my lap that Fellow's book at equal peace reposed.
Then I remembered me the night that essay first was read,
And how we thought it could n't all have come from one man's head.
405
A snore as of an actor shy rehearsing for his part.
At ten, a shameless chorus around the hall had run,
The Chairman dreamed a feeble joke, and said the noes had won.
At twelve the Treasurer fell asleep, the wakeful Censors slumbered,
The Secretary's minutes grew to hours quite unnumbered.
At six A. M. that Fellow paused, perchance a page to turn,
And up I got, and cried, “I move the College do adjourn!”
They did n't, sir; they sat all day. It made my flesh to creep.
All night they sat;—that could n't be. Goodness! was I asleep?
Was I asleep? With less effect that Fellow might have tried
Codeia, Morphia, Urethan, Chloral, Paraldehyde.
In vain my servant called aloud, “Sir, here 's a solemn letter
To say they want a song from you, for lack of some one better.
The Chairman says his man will wait, while you sit down and write;
He says he's not in any haste,—and make it something light;
He says you need n't vex yourself to try to be effulgent,
Because, he says, champagne enough will keep them all indulgent.”
I slept—at least I think I slept—an hour by estimation,
But if I slept, I must have had unconscious cerebration,
406
Pray take it as you take your wife,—“for better or for worse.”
A golden wedding: fifty earnest years
This spring-tide day from that do sadly part,
When, 'mid a learned throng, one shy, grave lad,
Half conscious, won the Mistress of our Art.
This spring-tide day from that do sadly part,
When, 'mid a learned throng, one shy, grave lad,
Half conscious, won the Mistress of our Art.
Still at his side the tranquil goddess stood,
Unseen of men, and claimed the student boy;
Touched with her cool, sweet lips his ruddy cheek,
And bade him follow her through grief and joy.
Unseen of men, and claimed the student boy;
Touched with her cool, sweet lips his ruddy cheek,
And bade him follow her through grief and joy.
“Be mine,” she whispered in his startled ear,
“Be mine to-day, as Paré once was mine;
Like Hunter mine, and all who nobly won
The fadeless honors of that shining line.
“Be mine to-day, as Paré once was mine;
Like Hunter mine, and all who nobly won
The fadeless honors of that shining line.
“Be mine,” she said, “the calm of honest eyes,
The steadfast forehead, and the constant soul;
Mine the firm heart on simple duty bent,
And mine the manly gift of self-control.
The steadfast forehead, and the constant soul;
Mine the firm heart on simple duty bent,
And mine the manly gift of self-control.
“Not in my service is the harvest won
That gilds the child of barter and of trade;
That steady hand, that ever-pitying touch,
Not in my helping shall be thus repaid.
That gilds the child of barter and of trade;
That steady hand, that ever-pitying touch,
Not in my helping shall be thus repaid.
“But I will take you where the great have gone,
And I will set your feet in honor's ways;
Friends I will give, and length of crowded years,
And crown your manhood with a nation's praise.
And I will set your feet in honor's ways;
Friends I will give, and length of crowded years,
And crown your manhood with a nation's praise.
407
“These will I give, and more; the poor man's home,
The anguished sufferer in the clutch of pain,
The camp, the field, the long, sad, waiting ward,
Shall seek your kindly face, nor seek in vain;
The anguished sufferer in the clutch of pain,
The camp, the field, the long, sad, waiting ward,
Shall seek your kindly face, nor seek in vain;
“For, as the sculptor-years shall chisel deep
The lines of pity 'neath the brow of thought,
Below your whitening hair the hurt shall read
How well you learned what I my best have taught.”
The lines of pity 'neath the brow of thought,
Below your whitening hair the hurt shall read
How well you learned what I my best have taught.”
The busy footsteps of your toiling stand
Upon the noisy century's sharp divide,
And at your side, to-night, I see her still,
The gracious woman, strong and tender-eyed.
Upon the noisy century's sharp divide,
And at your side, to-night, I see her still,
The gracious woman, strong and tender-eyed.
O stately Mistress of our sacred Art,
Changeless and beautiful and wise and brave,
Full fifty years have gone since first your lips
To noblest uses pledged that forehead grave.
Changeless and beautiful and wise and brave,
Full fifty years have gone since first your lips
To noblest uses pledged that forehead grave.
As round the board our merry glasses rang,
His golden-wedding chimes I heard to-night;
We know its offspring; lo, from sea to sea
His pupil-children bless his living light.
His golden-wedding chimes I heard to-night;
We know its offspring; lo, from sea to sea
His pupil-children bless his living light.
What be the marriage-gifts that we can give?
What lacks he that on well-used years attends?
All that we have to give are his to-day,—
Love, honor, and obedience, troops of friends.
What lacks he that on well-used years attends?
All that we have to give are his to-day,—
Love, honor, and obedience, troops of friends.
408
VERSES
READ ON THE PRESENTATION BY S. WEIR MITCHELL TO THE PHILADELPHIA COLLEGE OF PHYSICIANS OF SARAH W. WHITMAN'S PORTRAIT OF OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, M. D.
We call them great who have the magic art
To summon tears and stir the human heart,
With fictive grief to bring the soul annoy,
And leave a dew-drop in the rose of joy.
A nobler purpose had the Masters wise
Who from your walls look down with kindly eyes.
Theirs the firm hand and theirs the ready brain
Strong for the battle with disease and pain.
Large were their lives: these scholars, gentle, brave,
Knew all of man from cradle unto grave.
What note of torment had they failed to hear?
All grief's stern gamut knew each pitying ear.
Nor theirs the useless sympathy that stands
Beside the suffering with defenceless hands;
Divinely wise, their pity had the art
To teach the brain the ardor of the heart.
These left a meaner for a nobler George;
These trod the red snows by the Valley Forge,
Saw the wild birth-throes of a nation's life,
The long-drawn misery and the doubtful strife:
Yea, and on darker fields they left their dead
Where grass-grown streets heard but the bearer's tread,
While the sad death-roll of those fatal days
Left small reward beyond the poor man's praise.
Lo! Shadowy greetings from each canvas come,
Lips seem to move now for a century dumb:
From tongues long hushed the sound of welcome falls,
“Place, place for Holmes upon these honored walls.”
The lights are out, the festal flowers fade,
Our guests are gone, the great hall wrapped in shade.
Lone in the midst this silent picture stands,
Ringed with the learning of a score of lands.
Fromy dusty tomes in many a tongue I hear
A gentle Babel,—“Welcome, Brother dear.
Yea, though Apollo won thy larger hours,
And stole our fruit, and only left us flowers,
The poet's rank thy title here completes—
Doctor and Poet,—so were Goldsmith,—Keats.”
The voices failing murmur to an end
With “Welcome, Doctor, Scholar, Poet, Friend.”
To summon tears and stir the human heart,
With fictive grief to bring the soul annoy,
And leave a dew-drop in the rose of joy.
A nobler purpose had the Masters wise
Who from your walls look down with kindly eyes.
Theirs the firm hand and theirs the ready brain
Strong for the battle with disease and pain.
Large were their lives: these scholars, gentle, brave,
Knew all of man from cradle unto grave.
What note of torment had they failed to hear?
All grief's stern gamut knew each pitying ear.
Nor theirs the useless sympathy that stands
Beside the suffering with defenceless hands;
Divinely wise, their pity had the art
To teach the brain the ardor of the heart.
These left a meaner for a nobler George;
These trod the red snows by the Valley Forge,
Saw the wild birth-throes of a nation's life,
The long-drawn misery and the doubtful strife:
Yea, and on darker fields they left their dead
Where grass-grown streets heard but the bearer's tread,
While the sad death-roll of those fatal days
Left small reward beyond the poor man's praise.
409
Lips seem to move now for a century dumb:
From tongues long hushed the sound of welcome falls,
“Place, place for Holmes upon these honored walls.”
The lights are out, the festal flowers fade,
Our guests are gone, the great hall wrapped in shade.
Lone in the midst this silent picture stands,
Ringed with the learning of a score of lands.
Fromy dusty tomes in many a tongue I hear
A gentle Babel,—“Welcome, Brother dear.
Yea, though Apollo won thy larger hours,
And stole our fruit, and only left us flowers,
The poet's rank thy title here completes—
Doctor and Poet,—so were Goldsmith,—Keats.”
The voices failing murmur to an end
With “Welcome, Doctor, Scholar, Poet, Friend.”
In elder days of quiet wiser folks,
When the great Hub had not so many spokes,
Two wandering gods, upon the Common, found
A weary schoolboy sleeping on the ground.
Swift to his brain their eager message went,
Swift to his heart each ardent claim was sent:
“Be mine,” Minerva cried. “This tender hand
Skilled in the art of arts shall understand
With magic touch the demon pain to lay.
From skill to skill and on to clearer day
Far through the years shall fare that ample brain
To read the riddles of disease and pain.”
“Nay, mine the boy,” Apollo cried aloud,
“His the glad errand, beautiful and proud,
To wing the arrows of delightful mirth,
To slay with jests the sadder things of earth.
At his gay science melancholy dies,
At his clear laugh each morbid fancy flies.
Rich is the quiver I shall give his bow,
The eagle's pinion some bold shafts shall know;
Swift to its mark the angry arrow-song
Shall find the centre of a nation's wrong;
Or in a people's heart one tingling shot
Pleads not in vain against the war-ship's lot.
Yea, I will see that for a gentler flight
The dove's soft feathers send his darts aright
When smiles and pathos, kindly wedded, chant
The plaintive lay of that unmarried aunt;
Or sails his Nautilus the sea of time,
Blown by the breezes of immortal rhyme,
Or with a Godspeed from her poet's brain,
Sweet Clémence trips adown the Rue de Seine.
The humming-bird shall plume the quivering song,
Blithe, gay, and restless, never dull or long,
Where gaily passionate his soul is set
To sing the Katydid's supreme regret,
Or creaking jokes, through never-ending days,
Rolls the quaint story of the Deacon's chaise.
Away with tears! When this glad poet sings,
The angel Laughter spreads her broadest wings.
By land and sea where'er St. George's cross
And the starred banner in the breezes toss,
The merry music of his wholesome mirth
Sends rippling smiles around our English earth.”
When the great Hub had not so many spokes,
Two wandering gods, upon the Common, found
A weary schoolboy sleeping on the ground.
Swift to his brain their eager message went,
Swift to his heart each ardent claim was sent:
“Be mine,” Minerva cried. “This tender hand
Skilled in the art of arts shall understand
With magic touch the demon pain to lay.
From skill to skill and on to clearer day
Far through the years shall fare that ample brain
To read the riddles of disease and pain.”
“Nay, mine the boy,” Apollo cried aloud,
“His the glad errand, beautiful and proud,
To wing the arrows of delightful mirth,
To slay with jests the sadder things of earth.
410
At his clear laugh each morbid fancy flies.
Rich is the quiver I shall give his bow,
The eagle's pinion some bold shafts shall know;
Swift to its mark the angry arrow-song
Shall find the centre of a nation's wrong;
Or in a people's heart one tingling shot
Pleads not in vain against the war-ship's lot.
Yea, I will see that for a gentler flight
The dove's soft feathers send his darts aright
When smiles and pathos, kindly wedded, chant
The plaintive lay of that unmarried aunt;
Or sails his Nautilus the sea of time,
Blown by the breezes of immortal rhyme,
Or with a Godspeed from her poet's brain,
Sweet Clémence trips adown the Rue de Seine.
The humming-bird shall plume the quivering song,
Blithe, gay, and restless, never dull or long,
Where gaily passionate his soul is set
To sing the Katydid's supreme regret,
Or creaking jokes, through never-ending days,
Rolls the quaint story of the Deacon's chaise.
Away with tears! When this glad poet sings,
The angel Laughter spreads her broadest wings.
By land and sea where'er St. George's cross
And the starred banner in the breezes toss,
The merry music of his wholesome mirth
Sends rippling smiles around our English earth.”
“Not mine,” Minerva cried, “to spoil thy joy;
Divide the honors,—let us share the boy!”
Divide the honors,—let us share the boy!”
April 1892.
411
A DECANTER OF MADEIRA, AGED 86, TO GEORGE BANCROFT, AGED 86
GREETING:
I
Good master, you and I were bornIn “Teacup days” of hoop and hood,
And when the silver cue hung down,
And toasts were drunk, and wine was good;
II
When kin of mine (a jolly brood)From sideboards looked, and knew full well
What courage they had given the beau,
How generous made the blushing belle.
III
Ah, me! what gossip could I prateOf days when doors were locked at dinners!
Believe me, I have kissed the lips
Of many pretty saints—or sinners.
IV
Lip service have I done, alack!I don't repent, but come what may,
What ready lips, sir, I have kissed,
Be sure at least I shall not say.
412
V
Two honest gentlemen are we,—I Demi John, whole George are you;
When Nature grew us one in years
She meant to make a generous brew.
VI
She bade me store for festal hoursThe sun our south-side vineyard knew;
To sterner tasks she set your life,
As statesman, writer, scholar, grew.
VII
Years eighty-six have come and gone;At last we meet. Your health to-night.
Take from this board of friendly hearts
The memory of a proud delight.
VIII
The days that went have made you wise,There 's wisdom in my rare bouquet.
I'm rather paler than I was;
And, on my soul, you 're growing gray.
IX
I like to think, when Toper TimeHas drained the last of me and you,
Some here shall say, They both were good,—
The wine we drank, the man we knew.
October 3, 1886, Newport.
413
THE BIRTH AND DEATH OF PAIN
[_]
A POEM READ OCTOBER SIXTEENTH, MDCCCXCVI, AT THE COMMEMORATION OF THE FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF THE FIRST PUBLIC DEMONSTRATION OF SURGICAL ANÆSTHESIA IN THE MASSACHUSETTS GENERAL HOSPITAL, BOSTON.
Forgive a moment, if a friend's regret
Delay the task your honoring kindness set.
I miss one face to all men ever dear;
I miss one voice that all men loved to hear.
How glad were I to sit with you apart,
Could the dead master use his higher art
To lift on wings of ever-lightsome mirth
The burdened muse above the dust of earth,
To stamp with jests the heavy ore of thought,
To give a day with proud remembrance fraught,
The vital pathos of that Holmes-spun art
Which knew so well to reach the common heart!
Alas! for me, for you, that fatal hour!
Gone is the master! Ah! not mine the power
To gild with jests that almost win a tear
The thronging memories that are with us here.
Delay the task your honoring kindness set.
I miss one face to all men ever dear;
I miss one voice that all men loved to hear.
How glad were I to sit with you apart,
Could the dead master use his higher art
To lift on wings of ever-lightsome mirth
The burdened muse above the dust of earth,
To stamp with jests the heavy ore of thought,
To give a day with proud remembrance fraught,
The vital pathos of that Holmes-spun art
Which knew so well to reach the common heart!
Alas! for me, for you, that fatal hour!
Gone is the master! Ah! not mine the power
To gild with jests that almost win a tear
The thronging memories that are with us here.
The Birth of Pain! Let centuries roll away;
Come back with me to nature's primal day.
What mighty forces pledged the dust to life!
What awful will decreed its silent strife,
Till through vast ages rose on hill and plain
Life's saddest voice, the birthright wail of pain!
The keener sense and ever-growing mind
Served but to add a torment twice refined,
As life, more tender as it grew more sweet,
The cruel links of sorrow found complete
When yearning love, to conscious pity grown,
Felt the mad pain-thrills that were not its own.
Come back with me to nature's primal day.
What mighty forces pledged the dust to life!
What awful will decreed its silent strife,
Till through vast ages rose on hill and plain
Life's saddest voice, the birthright wail of pain!
414
Served but to add a torment twice refined,
As life, more tender as it grew more sweet,
The cruel links of sorrow found complete
When yearning love, to conscious pity grown,
Felt the mad pain-thrills that were not its own.
What will implacable, beyond our ken,
Set this stern fiat for the tribes of men?
This none shall 'scape who share our human fates:
One stern democracy of anguish waits
By poor men's cots, within the rich man's gates.
What purpose hath it? Nay, thy quest is vain:
Earth hath no answer. If the baffled brain
Cries, 'T is to warn, to punish!—ah, refrain.
When writhes the child beneath the surgeon's hand,
What soul shall hope that pain to understand?
Lo! Science falters o'er the hopeless task,
And Love and Faith in vain an answer ask,
When thrilling nerves demand what good is wrought
Where torture clogs the very source of thought.
Set this stern fiat for the tribes of men?
This none shall 'scape who share our human fates:
One stern democracy of anguish waits
By poor men's cots, within the rich man's gates.
What purpose hath it? Nay, thy quest is vain:
Earth hath no answer. If the baffled brain
Cries, 'T is to warn, to punish!—ah, refrain.
When writhes the child beneath the surgeon's hand,
What soul shall hope that pain to understand?
Lo! Science falters o'er the hopeless task,
And Love and Faith in vain an answer ask,
When thrilling nerves demand what good is wrought
Where torture clogs the very source of thought.
Lo! Mercy, ever broadening down the years,
Seeks but to count a lessening sum of tears.
The rack is gone; the torture-chamber lies
A sorry show for shuddering tourist eyes.
How useless pain both Church and State have learned
Since the last witch or patient martyr burned.
Yet still, forever, he who strove to gain
By swift despatch a shorter lease for pain
Saw the grim theatre, and 'neath his knife
Felt the keen torture in the quivering life.
A word for him who, silent, grave, serene,
The thought-stirred actor on that tragic scene,
Recorded pity through the hand of skill,
Heard not a cry, but, ever conscious, still
In mercy merciless, swift, bold, intent,
Felt the slow moment that in torture went
While 'neath his touch, as none to-day has seen,
In anguish shook life's agonized machine.
The task is o'er; the precious blood is stayed;
But double price the hour of tension paid.
A pitying hand is on the sufferer's brow—
“Thank God, 't is over!” Few who face me now
Recall this memory. Let the curtain fall;
Far gladder days shall know this storied hall!
Seeks but to count a lessening sum of tears.
The rack is gone; the torture-chamber lies
A sorry show for shuddering tourist eyes.
How useless pain both Church and State have learned
Since the last witch or patient martyr burned.
Yet still, forever, he who strove to gain
By swift despatch a shorter lease for pain
Saw the grim theatre, and 'neath his knife
Felt the keen torture in the quivering life.
A word for him who, silent, grave, serene,
415
Recorded pity through the hand of skill,
Heard not a cry, but, ever conscious, still
In mercy merciless, swift, bold, intent,
Felt the slow moment that in torture went
While 'neath his touch, as none to-day has seen,
In anguish shook life's agonized machine.
The task is o'er; the precious blood is stayed;
But double price the hour of tension paid.
A pitying hand is on the sufferer's brow—
“Thank God, 't is over!” Few who face me now
Recall this memory. Let the curtain fall;
Far gladder days shall know this storied hall!
Though Science, patient as the fruitful years,
Still taught our art to close some fount of tears,
Yet who that served this sacred home of pain
Could e'er have dreamed one scarce-imagined gain,
Or hoped a day would bring his feartful art
No need to steel the ever-kindly heart?
Still taught our art to close some fount of tears,
Yet who that served this sacred home of pain
Could e'er have dreamed one scarce-imagined gain,
Or hoped a day would bring his feartful art
No need to steel the ever-kindly heart?
So, fled the years! while haply here or there
Some trust delusive left the old despair;
Some comet thought flashed fitful through the night,
Prophetic promise of the coming light;
Then radiant morning broke, and ampler hope
To art and science gave illumined scope.
Some trust delusive left the old despair;
Some comet thought flashed fitful through the night,
Prophetic promise of the coming light;
Then radiant morning broke, and ampler hope
To art and science gave illumined scope.
What angel bore the Christlike gift inspired!
What love divine with noblest courage fired
One eager soul that paid in bitter tears
For the glad helping of unnumbered fears,
From the strange record of creation tore
What love divine with noblest courage fired
One eager soul that paid in bitter tears
For the glad helping of unnumbered fears,
From the strange record of creation tore
416
The sentence sad each sorrowing mother bore,
Struck from the roll of pangs one awful sum,
Made pain a dream, and suffering gently dumb!
Whatever triumphs still shall hold the mind,
Whatever gift shall yet enrich mankind,
Ah! here no hour shall strike through all the years,
No hour as sweet as when hope, doubt, and fears,
'Mid deeping stillness, watched one eager brain,
With Godlike will, decree the Death of Pain.
Struck from the roll of pangs one awful sum,
Made pain a dream, and suffering gently dumb!
Whatever triumphs still shall hold the mind,
Whatever gift shall yet enrich mankind,
Ah! here no hour shall strike through all the years,
No hour as sweet as when hope, doubt, and fears,
'Mid deeping stillness, watched one eager brain,
With Godlike will, decree the Death of Pain.
How did we thank him? Ah! no joy-bells rang,
No pæans greeted, and no poet sang;
No cannon thundered from the guarded strand
This mighty victory to a grateful land!
We took the gift so humbly, simply given,
And, coldly selfish—left our debt to Heaven.
How shall we thank him? Hush! A gladder hour
Has struck for him; a wiser, juster power
Shall know full well how fitly to reward
The generous soul that found the world so hard.
No pæans greeted, and no poet sang;
No cannon thundered from the guarded strand
This mighty victory to a grateful land!
We took the gift so humbly, simply given,
And, coldly selfish—left our debt to Heaven.
How shall we thank him? Hush! A gladder hour
Has struck for him; a wiser, juster power
Shall know full well how fitly to reward
The generous soul that found the world so hard.
Oh, fruitful Mother, you whose thronging States
Shall deal not vainly with man's changing fates,
Of free-born thought or war's heroic deeds,
Much have your proud hands given, but naught exceeds
This heaven-sent answer to the cry of prayer,
This priceless gift which all mankind may share.
Shall deal not vainly with man's changing fates,
Of free-born thought or war's heroic deeds,
Much have your proud hands given, but naught exceeds
This heaven-sent answer to the cry of prayer,
This priceless gift which all mankind may share.
A solemn hour for such as gravely pause
To note the process of creation's laws!
Ah, surely, He whose dark, unfathomed mind
With prescient thought the scheme of life designed,
Who bade His highest creature slowly rise,
Spurred by sad needs and lured by many a prize,
Saw with a God's pure joy His ripening plan,
His highest mercy brought by man to man.
To note the process of creation's laws!
Ah, surely, He whose dark, unfathomed mind
With prescient thought the scheme of life designed,
Who bade His highest creature slowly rise,
417
Saw with a God's pure joy His ripening plan,
His highest mercy brought by man to man.
1896.
A PRAYER, AFTER SANTIAGO
“And in Thy majesty ride prosperously, because of truth and meekness and righteousness; and Thy right hand shall teach Thee terrible things.”—
Psalm xlv. 4.
Almighty God! eternal source
Of every arm we dare to wield,
Be Thine the thanks, as Thine the force,
On reeling deck or stricken field;
The thunder of the battle hour
Is but the whisper of Thy power.
Of every arm we dare to wield,
Be Thine the thanks, as Thine the force,
On reeling deck or stricken field;
The thunder of the battle hour
Is but the whisper of Thy power.
Thine is our wisdom, Thine our might;
Oh, give us, more than strength and skill,
The calmness born of sense of right,
The steadfast heart, the quiet will
To keep the awful tryst with death,
To know Thee in the cannon's breath.
Oh, give us, more than strength and skill,
The calmness born of sense of right,
The steadfast heart, the quiet will
To keep the awful tryst with death,
To know Thee in the cannon's breath.
By Thee was given the thought that bowed
All hearts upon the victor deck,
When, high above the battle-shroud,
The white flag fluttered o'er the wreck,
And Thine the hand that checked the cheer
In that wild hour of death and fear!
All hearts upon the victor deck,
When, high above the battle-shroud,
The white flag fluttered o'er the wreck,
And Thine the hand that checked the cheer
In that wild hour of death and fear!
418
O Lord of love! be Thine the grace
To teach, amid the wrath of war,
Sweet pity for a humbled race,
Some thought of those in lands afar
Where sad-eyed women vainly yearn
For them that never shall return.
To teach, amid the wrath of war,
Sweet pity for a humbled race,
Some thought of those in lands afar
Where sad-eyed women vainly yearn
For them that never shall return.
Great Master of earth's mighty school,
Whose children are of every land,
Inform with love our alien rule,
And stay us with Thy warning hand
If, tempted by imperial greed,
We, in Thy watchful eyes, exceed;
Whose children are of every land,
Inform with love our alien rule,
And stay us with Thy warning hand
If, tempted by imperial greed,
We, in Thy watchful eyes, exceed;
That in the days to come, O Lord,
When we ourselves have passed away,
And all are gone who drew the sword,
The children of our breed may say,
These were our sires, who, doubly great,
Could strike, yet spare the fallen state.
When we ourselves have passed away,
And all are gone who drew the sword,
The children of our breed may say,
These were our sires, who, doubly great,
Could strike, yet spare the fallen state.
1898.
BOOKS AND THE MAN
When the years gather round us like stern foes
That give no quarter, and the ranks of love
Break here and there, untouched there still abide
Friends whom no adverse fate can wound or move:
That give no quarter, and the ranks of love
Break here and there, untouched there still abide
Friends whom no adverse fate can wound or move:
419
A deathless heritage, for these are they
Who neither fail nor falter; we, alas!
Can hope no more of friendship than to fill
The mortal hour of earth and, mortal, pass.
Who neither fail nor falter; we, alas!
Can hope no more of friendship than to fill
The mortal hour of earth and, mortal, pass.
Steadfast and generous, they greet us still
Through every fortune with unchanging looks,
Unasked no counsel give, are silent folk;
The careless-minded lightly call them books.
Through every fortune with unchanging looks,
Unasked no counsel give, are silent folk;
The careless-minded lightly call them books.
Of the proud peerage of the mind are they,
Fair, courteous gentlemen who wait our will
When come the lonely hours the scholar loves,
And glows the hearth and all the house is still.
Fair, courteous gentlemen who wait our will
When come the lonely hours the scholar loves,
And glows the hearth and all the house is still.
Wilt choose for guest the good old doctor knight,
Quaint, learned and odd, or very wisely shrewd,
Or with Dan Chaucer win a quiet hour
Far from our noisy century's alien mood?
Quaint, learned and odd, or very wisely shrewd,
Or with Dan Chaucer win a quiet hour
Far from our noisy century's alien mood?
Wilt sail great seas on rhythmic lyrics borne,
In the high company of gallant souls,
Where, ringed with stately death, proud Grenville lies,
Or the far thunder of the Armada rolls?
In the high company of gallant souls,
Where, ringed with stately death, proud Grenville lies,
Or the far thunder of the Armada rolls?
Wilt call that English lad Fabricius taught
And Padua knew, and that heroic soul—
Our brave Vesalius? Long the list of friends,
Far through the ages runs that shining roll.
And Padua knew, and that heroic soul—
Our brave Vesalius? Long the list of friends,
Far through the ages runs that shining roll.
420
How happy he who, native to their tongue,
A mystic language reads between the lines:
Gay, gallant fancies, songs unheard before,
Ripe with the worldless wisdom love divines;
A mystic language reads between the lines:
Gay, gallant fancies, songs unheard before,
Ripe with the worldless wisdom love divines;
Rich with dumb records of long centuries past,
The viewless dreams of poet, scholar, sage;
What marginalia of unwritten thought
With glowing rubrics deck the splendid page!
The viewless dreams of poet, scholar, sage;
What marginalia of unwritten thought
With glowing rubrics deck the splendid page!
Some ghostly presence haunts the lucid phrase
Where Bacon pondered o'er the words we scan.
Here grave Montaigne with cynic wisdom played,
And lo, the book becomes for us a man!
Where Bacon pondered o'er the words we scan.
Here grave Montaigne with cynic wisdom played,
And lo, the book becomes for us a man!
Shall we not find more dear the happy page
Where Lamb, forgetting sorrow, loved to dwell,
Or that which won from Thackeray's face a smile,
Or lit the gloom of Raleigh's prison cell?
Where Lamb, forgetting sorrow, loved to dwell,
Or that which won from Thackeray's face a smile,
Or lit the gloom of Raleigh's prison cell?
And if this gentle company has made
The comrade heart to pain an easier prey,
They, too, were heirs of sorrow; well they know
With what brave thoughts to charm thy cares away.
The comrade heart to pain an easier prey,
They, too, were heirs of sorrow; well they know
With what brave thoughts to charm thy cares away.
And shouldst thou crave an hour's glad reprieve
From mortal cares that mock the mind's control,
For thee Cervantes laughs the world away!
What priest is wiser than our Shakespeare's soul?
From mortal cares that mock the mind's control,
For thee Cervantes laughs the world away!
What priest is wiser than our Shakespeare's soul?
421
Show me his friends and I the man shall know;
This wiser turn a larger wisdom lends:
Show me the books he loves and I shall know
The man far better than through mortal friends.
This wiser turn a larger wisdom lends:
Show me the books he loves and I shall know
The man far better than through mortal friends.
Do you perchance recall when first we met,
And gaily winged with thought the flying night,
And won with ease the friendship of the mind?—
I like to call it friendship at first sight.
And gaily winged with thought the flying night,
And won with ease the friendship of the mind?—
I like to call it friendship at first sight.
And then you found with us a second home,
And, in the practice of life's happiest art,
You little guessed how readily you won
The added friendship of the open heart.
And, in the practice of life's happiest art,
You little guessed how readily you won
The added friendship of the open heart.
And now a score of years has fled away
In noble service of life's highest ends,
And my glad capture of a London night
Disputes with me a continent of friends.
In noble service of life's highest ends,
And my glad capture of a London night
Disputes with me a continent of friends.
But you and I may claim an older date,
The fruitful amity of forty years,—
A score for me, a score for you, and so
How simple that arithmetic appears!
The fruitful amity of forty years,—
A score for me, a score for you, and so
How simple that arithmetic appears!
But are old friends the best? What age, I ask,
Must friendships own to earn the title old?
Shall none seem old save he who won or lost
When fists were up or ill-kept wickets bowled?
Must friendships own to earn the title old?
Shall none seem old save he who won or lost
When fists were up or ill-kept wickets bowled?
422
Are none old friends who never blacked your eyes?
Or with a shinny whacked the youthful shin?
Or knew the misery of the pliant birch?
Or, apple-tempted, shared in Adam's sin?
Or with a shinny whacked the youthful shin?
Or knew the misery of the pliant birch?
Or, apple-tempted, shared in Adam's sin?
Grave Selden saith, and quotes the pedant King,
Old friends are best, and, like to well-worn shoes,
The oldest are the easiest. Not for me!
The easy friend is not the friend I choose.
Old friends are best, and, like to well-worn shoes,
The oldest are the easiest. Not for me!
The easy friend is not the friend I choose.
But if the oldest friends are best indeed,
I 'd have the proverb otherwise expressed—
Friends are not best because they're merely old,
But only old because they proved the best.
I 'd have the proverb otherwise expressed—
Friends are not best because they're merely old,
But only old because they proved the best.
ON THE RETURN OF THE CONFEDERATE FLAGS BY CONGRESS
We loved the wild clamor of battle,
The crash of the musketry's rattle,
The bugle and drum.
We have drooped in the dust, long and lonely;
The blades that flashed joy are rust only,
The far-rolling war-music dumb.
The crash of the musketry's rattle,
The bugle and drum.
We have drooped in the dust, long and lonely;
The blades that flashed joy are rust only,
The far-rolling war-music dumb.
God rest the true souls in death lying,
For whom overhead proudly flying
We challenged the foe.
The storm of the charge we have breasted,
On the hearts of our dead we have rested,
In the pride of a day, long ago.
For whom overhead proudly flying
We challenged the foe.
The storm of the charge we have breasted,
423
In the pride of a day, long ago.
Ah, surely the good of God's making
Shall answer both those past awaking
And life's cry of pain;
But we never more shall be tossing
On surges of battle where crossing
The swift-flying death-bearers rain.
Shall answer both those past awaking
And life's cry of pain;
But we never more shall be tossing
On surges of battle where crossing
The swift-flying death-bearers rain.
Again in the wind we are streaming,
Again with the war-lust are dreaming
The call of the shell.
What gray heads look up at us sadly?
Are these the stern troopers who madly
Rod straight at the battery's hell?
Again with the war-lust are dreaming
The call of the shell.
What gray heads look up at us sadly?
Are these the stern troopers who madly
Rod straight at the battery's hell?
Nay, more than the living have found us,
Pale spectres of battle surround us;
The gray line is dressed.
Ye hear not, but they who are bringing
Your symbols of honor are singing
The song of death's bivouac rest.
Pale spectres of battle surround us;
The gray line is dressed.
Ye hear not, but they who are bringing
Your symbols of honor are singing
The song of death's bivouac rest.
Blow forth on the south wind to greet us,
O star flag! once eager to meet us
When war-lines were set.
Go carry to far fields of glory
The soul-stirring thrill of the story,
Of days when in anger we met.
O star flag! once eager to meet us
When war-lines were set.
Go carry to far fields of glory
The soul-stirring thrill of the story,
Of days when in anger we met.
Ah, well that we hung in the churches
In quiet, where God the heart searches,
That under us met
Men heard through the murmur of praying
The voice of the torn banners saying,
“Forgive, but ah, never forget.”
In quiet, where God the heart searches,
That under us met
424
The voice of the torn banners saying,
“Forgive, but ah, never forget.”
April 1906
REMARKS OF DR. S. WEIR MITCHELL AT THE DINNER IN HONOR OF WILLIAM H. WELCH, 2 APRIL, 1910.
Dr. Mitchell: Mr. Chairman, Gentlemen, and You, my Friend, the Sacrificial Victim of the After-Dinner Hour: Travel in strange lands is the more pleasant for knowledge of the language spoken, and it was the fact of my lack of tongues which made me doubt how fit I was to appear on this occasion, where, as I learned somewhat appalled, everybody was expected to talk Welch. To stumble bewildered, an intellectual tenderfoot, in the learned land of Johns Hopkins, might certainly give any man pause, but in the court of wisdom there must be of necessity a fool, and so I accept the position of the provider of sentimental folly and make my little venture.
'T is said that hovering near your infant couchThe fairy forms of Art and Science flew
In generous counsel o'er the golden gifts
They bade a joyous future pledge to you.
And if, they said, your life shall fail to give
What Bacon called the “hostages to fate,”
Unnumbered friends shall challenge love with love,
And ever through your happy hours elate.
425
Reluctant mysteries from their lovers dear,
Shall on victorious quests divinely smile
And tell her secrets to your listening ear.
Not yours shall be, companioned by the stars,
To soar through space on thought's ambitious wings
To worlds unseen; nay, yours shall be to roam
That wondrous other realm of little things.
There, half unread, the ever less and less
Lost in the lessening less, eludes our sight
In space as sunless and more dark with fate
Than are the baleful planets of the night.
There shall you stand upon the twilight verge,
Where fades the sight of each material thing,
And baffled, wonder, what an hundred years
To other eyes than ours may haply bring.
A lilliputian world to you we give,
Where deadly swarm the grim bacterial blights,
With amboceptors, strange malignant priests,
For demon marriage with satanic rites.
Here stegomyia and anopheles
Are huge behemoths of this lesser sphere
Where gay spirilla wriggle lively tails,
And vexed erythrocytes grow pale with fear.
“Be these your friends,” the flitting fairies cried,
“But who is this that leads a pirate crew?
“Bacterium chronos! Get you gone from hence,
“Or hungry leucocytes we'll set on you!”
426
Has rung the fatal hour of Osler's jest:
Still young, the merry smile, the glowing mind,
No least sad failure ever yet confessed.
Life's summer overflow reserves for you
The golden days of lingering life's September,
October loitering waits for you, my friend,
And summer haunted glories of November.
Perhaps Johns Hopkins has some secret charm
That lets professors very neatly swindle
The robber time and feel enfeebling days
Toward youthful vigor quite reversely dwindle!
Alas, a most appalling doom awaits!—
A pedriatic clinic at the end—
Pertussis, measles, teeth to cut, and then
The bottle,—but which bottle? Ah! my friend,
We'll ask of Kelly, he will surely know
When comes at last your latest, earliest year,
With all of physiology at fault
How shall you ever gently disappear?
Far be the day for you. One grief I own;
What science won my art has something cost
Since the clear mind and ever-ready smile
Were to the bedside visit sadly lost.
Ave et vale! O magister, take
Greeting and blessing from our greatest soul!
The rippling sweetness of his echoing verse
I seem to hear from that far century roll.
427
The stately splendor of the Latin line;
Ah! happy he to whom this greeting went—
Thy spirit-kinsman, Harvey—makes it thine!
“Vir doctissime!
Humanissime!
Vale mi' Amantissime!
Tuus ex anima.”
TO ABRAHAM JACOBI, M.D.
At the dinner given to celebrate his seventieth birthday.
No honors hath the State for you whose life
From youth to age has known one single end.
Take from our lips two well-won titles now,
Magister et Amicus—Master, Friend.
From youth to age has known one single end.
Take from our lips two well-won titles now,
Magister et Amicus—Master, Friend.
Here on the summit of attainment's peak,
Far from the rugged path you knew to climb,
Take, with our thanks for high example set,
The palm of honor in this festal time.
Far from the rugged path you knew to climb,
Take, with our thanks for high example set,
The palm of honor in this festal time.
Constant and brave, in no ignoble cause
The hopes of freedom armed your sturdy youth;
As true and brave in these maturer years
Your ardent struggle in the cause of truth.
The hopes of freedom armed your sturdy youth;
As true and brave in these maturer years
Your ardent struggle in the cause of truth.
Nor prison bars, nor yet the lonely cell,
Could break your vigor of unconquered will;
And the gray years which build as cruel walls
Have found and left you ever victor still.
Could break your vigor of unconquered will;
And the gray years which build as cruel walls
Have found and left you ever victor still.
428
Ave Magister! Take from us to-night
The well-earned praise of all who love our art
For this long season of unending work,
For strength of brain, and precious wealth of heart.
The well-earned praise of all who love our art
For this long season of unending work,
For strength of brain, and precious wealth of heart.
Much gave your busy hand; but, ah, far more,
The gallant life that taught men how to meet
Unfriended exile, sorrow, want, and all
That crush the weak with failure and defeat.
The gallant life that taught men how to meet
Unfriended exile, sorrow, want, and all
That crush the weak with failure and defeat.
We gave you here a home; you well have paid
With many gifts proud freedom's generous hand
That bade you largely breathe a freer air,
And made you welcome to a freer land.
With many gifts proud freedom's generous hand
That bade you largely breathe a freer air,
And made you welcome to a freer land.
Ave Amice! If around this board
Are they who watched you thro' laborious years,
Beyond these walls, in many a grateful home,
Your step dismissed a thousand pallid fears.
Are they who watched you thro' laborious years,
Beyond these walls, in many a grateful home,
Your step dismissed a thousand pallid fears.
That kindly face, that gravely tender look,
Thro' darkened hours how many a mother knew!
And in that look won sweet reprieve of hope,
Sure that all earth could give was there with you.
Thro' darkened hours how many a mother knew!
And in that look won sweet reprieve of hope,
Sure that all earth could give was there with you.
Ave Magister! Many be the years
That lie before you, thronged with busy hours!
Ave Amice! Take our earnest prayer
That all their ways fair fortune strew with flowers.
That lie before you, thronged with busy hours!
Ave Amice! Take our earnest prayer
That all their ways fair fortune strew with flowers.
429
IN MEMORY OF WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND
THE CANADIAN POET
Peace to his poet soul. Full well he knew
To sing for those who know not how to praise
The woodsman's life, the farmer's patient toil,
The peaceful drama of laborious days.
To sing for those who know not how to praise
The woodsman's life, the farmer's patient toil,
The peaceful drama of laborious days.
He made his own the thoughts of simple men,
And with the touch that makes the world akin,
A welcome guest of lonely cabin-homes,
Found, too, no heart he could not enter in.
And with the touch that makes the world akin,
A welcome guest of lonely cabin-homes,
Found, too, no heart he could not enter in.
The toil-worn doctor, women, children, men,
The humble heroes of the lumber drives,
Love, laugh, or weep along his peopled verse,
Blithe 'mid the pathos of their meagre lives.
The humble heroes of the lumber drives,
Love, laugh, or weep along his peopled verse,
Blithe 'mid the pathos of their meagre lives.
While thus the poet-love interpreted,
He left us pictures no one may forget—
Courteau, Baptiste, Camille mon frère, and, best,
The good, brave curé, he of Calumette.
He left us pictures no one may forget—
Courteau, Baptiste, Camille mon frère, and, best,
The good, brave curé, he of Calumette.
With nature as with man at home, he loved
The silent forest and the birches' flight
Down the white peril of the rapids' rush,
And the cold glamor of the Northern night.
The silent forest and the birches' flight
Down the white peril of the rapids' rush,
And the cold glamor of the Northern night.
Some mystery of genius haunts his page,
Some wonder-secret of the poet's spell
Died with this master of the peasant thought.
Peace to this Northland singer, and farewell!
Some wonder-secret of the poet's spell
Died with this master of the peasant thought.
Peace to this Northland singer, and farewell!
435
ODE ON A LYCIAN TOMB
[_]
On this famous monument, known as Les Pleureuses, and now in the museum at Constantinople, one and the same mourning woman is carved in many attitudes of grief. These eighteen figures stand niched between Doric columns. Above and below are funeral scenes—battle and the chase.
I
What gracious nunnery of grief is here!
One woman garbed in sorrow's every mood;
Each sad presentment celled apart, in fear
Lest that herself upon herself intrude
And break some tender dream of sorrow's day,
Here cloistered lonely, set in marble gray.
One woman garbed in sorrow's every mood;
Each sad presentment celled apart, in fear
Lest that herself upon herself intrude
And break some tender dream of sorrow's day,
Here cloistered lonely, set in marble gray.
Oh, pale procession of immortal love
Forever married to immortal grief!
All life's high-passioned sorrow far above,
Past help of time's compassionate relief:
These changeless stones are treasuries of regret
And mock the term by time for sorrow set.
Forever married to immortal grief!
All life's high-passioned sorrow far above,
Past help of time's compassionate relief:
These changeless stones are treasuries of regret
And mock the term by time for sorrow set.
Ah me! What tired hearts have hither come
To weep with thee, and give thy grief a voice;
And such as have not added to life's sum
The count of loss, they who do still rejoice
In love which time yet leaveth unassailed,
Here tremble, by prophetic sadness paled.
To weep with thee, and give thy grief a voice;
And such as have not added to life's sum
The count of loss, they who do still rejoice
In love which time yet leaveth unassailed,
Here tremble, by prophetic sadness paled.
Thou who hast wept for many, weep for me,
For surely I, who deepest grief have known,
Share thy stilled sadness, which must ever be
Too changeless, and unending like my own,
Since thine is woe that knows not time's release,
And sorrow that can never compass peace.
For surely I, who deepest grief have known,
Share thy stilled sadness, which must ever be
Too changeless, and unending like my own,
436
And sorrow that can never compass peace.
He too who wrought this antique poetry,
Which wakes sad rhythms in the human heart,
Must oft with thee have wondered silently,
Touched by the strange revealments of his art,
When at his side you watched the chisel's grace
Foretell what time would carve upon thy face.
Which wakes sad rhythms in the human heart,
Must oft with thee have wondered silently,
Touched by the strange revealments of his art,
When at his side you watched the chisel's grace
Foretell what time would carve upon thy face.
If to thy yearning silence, which in vain
Suggests its speechless plea in marbles old,
We add the anguish of an equal pain,
Shall not the sorrow of these statues cold
Inherit memories of our tears, and keep
Record of grief long time in death asleep?
Suggests its speechless plea in marbles old,
We add the anguish of an equal pain,
Shall not the sorrow of these statues cold
Inherit memories of our tears, and keep
Record of grief long time in death asleep?
Ah me! In death asleep; how pitiful,
If, in that timeless time the soul should wake
To wander heart-blind where no years may dull
Remembrance, with a heart forbid to break.
—Dove of my home, that fled life's stranded ark,
The sea of death is shelterless and dark.—
If, in that timeless time the soul should wake
To wander heart-blind where no years may dull
Remembrance, with a heart forbid to break.
—Dove of my home, that fled life's stranded ark,
The sea of death is shelterless and dark.—
Cold mourner set in stone so long ago,
Too much my thoughts have dwelt with thee apart;
Again my grief is young: full well I know
The pang re-born, that mocked my feeble art
With that too human wail in pain expressed,
The parent cry above the empty nest!
Too much my thoughts have dwelt with thee apart;
Again my grief is young: full well I know
The pang re-born, that mocked my feeble art
With that too human wail in pain expressed,
The parent cry above the empty nest!
Come back, I cried, “I may not come again.
Not islandless is this uncharted sea;
Here is no death, nor any creature's pain,
Nor any terror of what is to be.
'T is but to trust one pilot; soon are seen
The sunlit peaks of thought and peace serene.”
Not islandless is this uncharted sea;
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Nor any terror of what is to be.
'T is but to trust one pilot; soon are seen
The sunlit peaks of thought and peace serene.”
II
Fair worshipper of many gods, whom I
In one God worship, very surely He
Will for thy tears and mine have some reply,
When death assumes the trust of life, and we
Hear once again the voices of our dead,
And on a newer earth contented tread.
In one God worship, very surely He
Will for thy tears and mine have some reply,
When death assumes the trust of life, and we
Hear once again the voices of our dead,
And on a newer earth contented tread.
Doubtless for thee thy Lycian fields were sweet,
Thy dream of heaven no wiser than my own;
Nature and love, the sound of children's feet,
Home, husbands, friends; what better hast thou known?
What of the gods could ask thy longing prayer
Except again this earth and love to share?
Thy dream of heaven no wiser than my own;
Nature and love, the sound of children's feet,
Home, husbands, friends; what better hast thou known?
What of the gods could ask thy longing prayer
Except again this earth and love to share?
For all in vain with vexed imaginings,
We build of dreams another earth than ours,
And high in thought's thinned atmosphere, with wings
That helpless beat, and mock our futile powers,
Falter and flutter, seeing naught above,
And naught below except the earth we love.
We build of dreams another earth than ours,
And high in thought's thinned atmosphere, with wings
That helpless beat, and mock our futile powers,
Falter and flutter, seeing naught above,
And naught below except the earth we love.
Enough it were to find our own old earth
With death's dark riddle answered, and unspoiled
By fear, or sin, or pain; where joy and mirth
Have no sad shadows, and love is not foiled,
And where, companioned by the mighty dead,
The dateless books of time and fate are read.
With death's dark riddle answered, and unspoiled
By fear, or sin, or pain; where joy and mirth
Have no sad shadows, and love is not foiled,
And where, companioned by the mighty dead,
The dateless books of time and fate are read.
438
III
What stately melancholy doth possess
This innocent marble with eternal doom!
What most imperious grief doth here oppress
The one sad soul which haunts this peopled tomb
In many forms that all these years have worn
One thought, for time's long comment more forlorn!
This innocent marble with eternal doom!
What most imperious grief doth here oppress
The one sad soul which haunts this peopled tomb
In many forms that all these years have worn
One thought, for time's long comment more forlorn!
Lo grief, through love instinct with silentness,
Reluctant, in these marbles eloquent,
The ancient tale of loss doth here confess
The first confusing, mad bewilderment,
Life's unbelief in death, in love fore-spent,
Thought without issue, child-like discontent.
Reluctant, in these marbles eloquent,
The ancient tale of loss doth here confess
The first confusing, mad bewilderment,
Life's unbelief in death, in love fore-spent,
Thought without issue, child-like discontent.
Time, that for thee awhile did moveless seem,
Again his glass hath turned: I see thee stand
Thought-netted, or, like one who in a dream
Self-wildered, in some alien forest land
Lone-wandering, in endless mazes lost,
Wearily stumbles over tracks re-crossed.
Again his glass hath turned: I see thee stand
Thought-netted, or, like one who in a dream
Self-wildered, in some alien forest land
Lone-wandering, in endless mazes lost,
Wearily stumbles over tracks re-crossed.
Oft didst thou come in after days to leave
Roses and laurel on thy warrior's grave,
And with thy marble self again to grieve,
Glad of what genius unto sorrow gave,
Interpreting what had been and would be,
Love, tears, despair, attained serenity.
Roses and laurel on thy warrior's grave,
And with thy marble self again to grieve,
Glad of what genius unto sorrow gave,
Interpreting what had been and would be,
Love, tears, despair, attained serenity.
There are whom sorrow leaves full-wrecked. The great
Grow in the urgent anguish of defeat,
And with mysterious confidence await
The silent coming of the bearer's feet;
Wherefore this quiet face so proudly set
To front life's duties, but naught to forget.
Grow in the urgent anguish of defeat,
And with mysterious confidence await
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Wherefore this quiet face so proudly set
To front life's duties, but naught to forget.
For life is but a tender instrument
Whereon the master hand of grief doth fall,
Leaving love's vibrant tissue resonant
With echoes, ever waking at the call
Of every kindred tone: so grief doth change
The instrument o'er which his fateful fingers range.
Whereon the master hand of grief doth fall,
Leaving love's vibrant tissue resonant
With echoes, ever waking at the call
Of every kindred tone: so grief doth change
The instrument o'er which his fateful fingers range.
1899.
VESPERAL
I know the night is near at hand.
The mists lie low on hill and bay,
The autumn sheaves are dewless, dry;
But I have had the day.
The mists lie low on hill and bay,
The autumn sheaves are dewless, dry;
But I have had the day.
Yes, I have had, dear Lord, the day;
When at Thy call I have the night,
Brief be the twilight as I pass
From light to dark, from dark to light.
When at Thy call I have the night,
Brief be the twilight as I pass
From light to dark, from dark to light.
October 1899.
| The complete poems of S. Weir Mitchell | |