"Oh, woman!" Sir Walter observes, "when the brow 's wrung with pain, what a minist'ring Angel art thou!" Thou'rt a "minist'ring Angel" in no less degree, I can boldly assert, when the pain's in the knee; And medical friction Is, past contradiction, Much better performed by a She than a He. A fact which, indeed, comes within my own knowledge, For I well recollect, when a youngster at College, And, therefore, can quote A surgeon of note, Mr. Grosvenor of Oxford, who not only wrote On the subject a very fine treatise, but, still as his Patients came in, certain soft-handed Phyllises Were at once set to work on their legs, arms, and backs, And rubbed out their complaints in a couple of cracks.-- Now, they say, To this day, When sick people can't pay On the Continent, many of this kind of nurses Attend, without any demand on their purses; And these females, some old, others still in their teens, Some call "Sisters of Charity," others "Beguines." They don't take the vows; but, half-Nun and half-Lay, Attend you; and when you've got better, they say, "You're exceedingly welcome! There's nothing to pay. Our task is now done. You are able to run. We never take money; we cure you for fun!" Then they drop you a court'sy, and wish you good day, And go off to cure somebody else the same way. --A great many of these, at the date of my tale, In Namur walked the hospitals, workhouse, and jail. Among them was one, A most sweet Demi-nun. Her cheek pensive and pale; tresses bright as the Sun,-- Not carroty--no; though you'd fancy you saw burn Such locks as the Greeks lov'd, which moderns call auburn. These were partially seen through the veil which they wore all; Her teeth were of pearl, and her lips were of coral; Her eyelashes silken; her eyes, fine large blue ones, Were sapphires (I don't call these similes new ones; But, in metaphors, freely confess I've a leaning To such, new or old, as convey best one's meaning).-- Then, for figure? In faith it was downright barbarity To muffle a form Might an anchorite warm In the fusty stuff gown of a _Sœur de la Charité_; And no poet could fancy, no painter could draw One more perfect in all points, more free from a flaw, Than her's who now sits by the couch of St. Foix, Chafing there, With such care, And so dove-like an air, His leg, till her delicate fingers are charr'd With the Steer's opodeldoc, joint-oil, and goulard; --Their Dutch appellations are really too hard To be brought into verse by a transmarine Bard.--