HAIL, great Hygeïa! Healing Goddess, hail![14] And lend one moment to a touching tale; One moment stay thy pestle-driving hand, And let thy half-compounded physic stand: That tale is this: I have a subject here, Not anatomical--but very near; A starving vot'ry of the 'healing art,' Who shows its wond'rous power in every part: But cannot find the language to describe, In proper guise, a member of thy tribe. Oh! then vouchsafe me a '_composing_ draught,' Potent as ever willing patient quaff'd! * * * * * I thank thee, for I feel it working now, And _composition_ flows, no matter how. THE PILGRIMAGE. 'FELIX QUI POTUIT RERUM COGNOSCERE CAUSAS.' THE doctor sate sole in his easy chair, And his visage was stamped with the marks of care, And his vacant eye said, as plain as eye could, That his mind was digesting but meagre food. At all events, it were safe to say, That his own wise thoughts were its food that day. What ails thee, doctor?[15] Are patients thin? Nay, I know what you mean by that ready grin: Don't suppose I thought physic would make a man thrive, When he's specially blessed, if it leaves him alive: No; I knew that the veriest wretch that lies On street-pick'd straw, and with wistful eyes Covets the _steam_ of the baker's bread, With which he could never afford to be fed, If he puts in his stomach one nauseous pill, Will make himself only more _retchéd_ still: All this I can fathom; but now I mean, Are your '_visits_,' like angels', far between? The _Angel of Death_, that is, of course, That rides the pale steed, alias '_Pallida Mors_?' Pray have you not 'cases' enough, to pay For your coat of black and your breeches of gray? Your perpetual mourning for visiting-friends, Who, (alas for your purse!) met untimely ends? Or art sad, that the dose, 'hora _somni_ sumendum,' Which was meant to soothe suff'rings, should very soon end 'em? And lamentest, with tears such as doctors weep, That the patient, in consequence, slept his _long sleep_? Or art thinking, if longer you could not have kept him, If your dose had been '_pilulæ, numero septem_?' Now don't be down-hearted; for people enough Still live who will patronize medical stuff; And to whom do you think that a man would come quicker To find out his ailment--in short, be 'made sicker?'[16]