Watertown republican. [volume] (Watertown, Wis.) 1860-1906, 1881-07-27
WEDNESDAY, JULY 81, 1881.
THE GOOD PHYSICIAN.
BY DIR. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

How blest is he who knows no meaner strife
Than arts long battle with the foes of feL
No doubt assails him. doing still his best,
And trusting kindly nature for the rest:
No hooking conscience tears the thin disguise
That wraps his breast, and tells him that he lies.
He comes: the languid sufferer lifts his head
And smiles welcome from his weary bed;
he speaks: what music like the tones that tell
Past is the hour of danger-all is well !"
How can lie fell the petty stngs of grief
Whose cheering presence always brings relief?
What ugly dreams trouble his repose
Who yields himself to sooth anothers woes?
Hour after hour the busy day has found
The good physician on his lonely round;
Mansion and hovel, low and lofty door,
He knows, his Journeys every path explore
Where the cold blast has struck with deadly chill
The sturdy dweller on the storm-swept hill,
Where by the stagnant marsh the sickening gale
Has blanched the poisoned tenants of the vale,
Where crushed and manned the bleeding victim
lies,
Where madness raves, where melancholy signs,
And where the solemn whisper tells too plain
That all his sciepee, all his art were vain.
How sweet bis ireside when the day is done,
And cares have vanished with the setting sun
Evening at last its hour of respite brings,
And on his couch his weary length he fings.
Soft be thy pillow, servant of mankind,
Lulled by an opiate art could never find;
Sweet be thy sumber-thou hast earned it we'll
Pleasant thy dreams 4! Clang! goes the midnight
bell
Darkness and storm! the home is far away
That waits his coming ere the break of day;
The snow-clad pines their wintry plumage toss
Deep lie the drifts, the santed heaps have shut
The hardy woodman in his mountain hut
Why should thy softer frame the tempest brave?
Hast thou no life, health, to lose save?
Look read the answer in his patients eyes
For him no other voice when suffering cries:
ID 3af to the gale that all around him blows,
feeble whisper calls him, and he goes.
Or seek the crowded city-summer's heat
Glares burning, binding, in the narrow street,
Still, noissome, deadly, sleeps the envenomed air,
Unstirred the yellow flag that says 'Bewa1eP'
Tempt not thy fate-one little moments breath
Bears on its yiewless wings the seeds of death
Thou at whose door the gilded chariots stand
Whose dear-bought skill unclasps the miscr's hand
Turn from thy fatal quest, cast away
That life precious; let meaner prey
Feed the destr oyer's hunger; live to bless
Those happier homes that need thy care no less
Smiling he listens; has he then charm
Whose magic virtues peril can disarm?
No safeguard this; no amulet he wears,
Too well he knows that nature never spares
Her truest servant, powerless to defend
From her own weapons her unshrinding frie nd.
he dares the fate the bravest well might shun,
Nor asks reward only Heavens 90 Well done !"
Such are the tolls the perils that he knows,
Days without rest and nights without repose,
Yet all unheeded for the love he bears
His art, his kind, whose every grief he shares.
Centennial Anniversary Poem.