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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 Agassiz; 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, noblest, wisest, kindest, best.

      1849.

THE TWO ARMIES

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      As Life's unending column pours,

       Two marshalled hosts are seen—

       Two armies on the trampled shores

       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

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      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

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