A Fourteenth Century Doctor

W

ITH us ther was a Doctor of Phisike,

In all this world ne was ther non him like

To spek of phisike, and of surgerie :

For he was grounded in astronomie.

He kept his patient a ful gret del

In hourès by his magike naturel.
Wel could he fortunen the ascendent

Of his images for his patient.

He knew the cause of every maladie,
Were it of cold, or hote, or moist, or drie,
And wher engendred, and of what humour,
He was a veray prafite practisour.

The cause yknowe, and of his harm the rote,
Anon he gave to the sikè man his bote.
Ful redy hadde he his apothecaries
To send his draggès, and his lettuaries,
For eche of hem made other for to winne;
Hir friendship na 's not newè to beginne.
Wel knew he the old Esculapius,

And Dioscorides, and eke Rufùs;
Old Hippocras, Hali, and Gallien,
Serapion, Rasis, and Avicen;

Averrois, Damascene, and Constantin;
Bernard, and Gatisden, and Gilbertin.
Of his diete mesurable was he,
For he was of no superfluitee,
But of gret nourishing, and digestible.
His studie was but little on the Bible.
In sanguin and in perse he clad was alle
Linned with taffata, and with sendalle.
And yet he was but esy of dispence :
He kepte that he wan in the pestilence.
For golde in phisike is a cordial;
Therfore he loved gold in special.

-GEOFFREY CHAUCER.

The Woman Healer

TEADFAST she comes to cast her rose of youth
Beneath the feet of pain,—a rose whose breath,
Eternal-sweet with woman's tender ruth,

Softens the shadows leading down to death.

New figure in the centuries, she stands,
Guiding the cruel mercy of the knife;
With thought-engraven brows and skillful hands,
And yearning heart to save the house of life.

Bless her, O women, for it was your call,
It was the myraid cry of your distress,
That urged her outward from the cloistered hall
To make the burden of your anguish less.

Shine on her, stars, while forth she goes alone
Beneath the night, on gracious errand sped ;
And lend such lustre as your rays have thrown
Round bridal steps that chime with lover's tread.

Her pathway scent, O flowers that fleck the field,
As from her hurrying feet the dews are driven,
With no less fragrance than your clusters yield
By dimpled hands to happy mothers given.

And brothers, you who watch her toilsome days,
With doubtful lip in half derision curled,
Scant not her meed of courtesies and praise,
The bloom and starlight of the spirit world.

For with a sense of loss too fine to own,

The nestward longing of the carrier dove, She turneth from her first, entitled throne,

And all the household walks that women love;

The gracious ministries of little deeds

And service for the few, by love made sweetFrom these she turneth unto wider needs,

And pours her ointment on the stranger's feet.

Perchance, amid the clash of striving days,

She may lay by a trick or two of charms, May miss of those caressing, dainty ways

That women learn from babies in their arms;

But even while the battle leaves its trace,
The vanward battle ill to be withstood,
She but refines her best, peculiar grace,
And proves her self-forgetful womanhood.

-KATHARINE LEE BATES.

The Doctor and I

HE Doctor stands in his doorway,

And marks how the rain descends,
And the thunder that follows the lightning,
And the wind that the maple bends.

The Doctor's a man of science,

And knows why the rain comes down,

And why the lightning flashes

From the clouds that above us frown.

He knows, I suppose, why the thunder
From lightning will not divorce;

And why the tall maples are bending,

And where the wind comes from,-of course.

I'm only a simple farmer,

My brain is not learned like his;

I but know that the storm a glory,

And the rain a blessing is.

Perhaps, as he watches the tempest,
He enjoys far more than I;

He deems it a "triumph of science,"
But to me "God passeth by."

But I must not envy the Doctor,
Though more than this he knows,
And I'm but a prairie farmer,

In tattered, homespun clothes.

He knows, by his patent rain-guage,
Just how much rain was given,
And I by the smile on my corn-fields,—
But I hope that we both thank Heaven.

-WILLIAM OSBORN STODDARD.

B

The City Dead-House

Y the city dead-house by the gate,

As idly sauntering, wending my way from the clangor, I curious pause, for lo, an outcast form, a poor dead prostitute brought,

Her corpse they deposit unclaimed, it lies on the damp brick pavement,

The divine woman, her body, I see the body. I look on it alone, That house once full of passion and beauty, all else I notice not, Nor stillness so cold, nor running water from the faucet, nor odors morbific impress me,

But the house alone that wondrous house-that delicate fair house-that ruin!

That immortal house more than all the rows of dwellings ever built!

Or white-domed capitol with majestic figure surmounted, or all

the old high-spired cathedrals,

That little house alone more than them all-poor, desperate

house!

Fair, fearful wreck-tenament of a soul-itself a soul. Unclaimed, avoided house-take one breath from my tremulous lips,

Take one tear dropt aside as I go for thought of you,

Dead house of love-house of madness and sin, crumbled, crushed,

House of life, erewhile talking and laughing-but ah, poor house, dead even then,

Months, years, an echoing, garnished house-but dead, dead,

dead.

WALT WHITMAN.

The Doctor's Message

Y little patient, gone so soon before,
To that mysterious, much desired shore;
When you come there, where yet I hope to be,
What will you tell the blessed Lord for me?
Will you remember I was kind to you?
And tell Him all the good I sought to do?

Or will you tell Him I am bruised and sore ?
And that my heart is tender to the core ?
Or will you ask Him to remove my pain,
And give my darlings back to me again?
Nay, tell Him this—that I was kind to you,
And how I wrought my best to bring you through.

And then, amid the grief I cannot tell

To any man, but which he knows so well,
He may, perhaps, bestow a peaceful heart,
Until, like you, He calls me to depart.
Remember me to Him, whate 'er you do,
And tell Him, dear, that I was kind to you.

-ABRAHAM PERRY MILLER.