the Doctor of the Poor.3
Did'st thou not hear how skilfully he did my mother cure?
Behold this silver in
my hand, these violets so sweet,
The guerdon of his loving care--I'll lay them at his feet.
"Now, dost
thou not remember, my darling Marianne,
How in our lonely hut the typhus fever ran?
And we were
poor, without a friend, or e'en our daily bread,
And sadly then, and sorrowful, dear mother bowed her
head.
"One day, the sun was shining low in lurid western sky,
All ,all, our little wealth was gone, and
mother yearned to die,
When sudden, at the open door, a shadow crossed the way,
And cheerfully a
manly voice did words of comfort say:
"'Take courage, friends, your ills I know, your life I hope to save.'
'Too
late!' dear mother cried; 'too late! My home is in the grave;
Our things are pledged, our med'cine gone,
e'en bread we cannot buy.'
The doctor shudder'd, then grew pale, but sadly still drew nigh.
"No curtains
had we on our bed: I marked his pallid face;
Five silver crowns now forth he drew with melancholy grace--
'Poor woman, take these worthless coins, suppress your bitter grief!
Don't blush; repay them when you
can--these drops will give relief.'
"He left the hut, and went away; soon sleep's refreshing calm
Relieved
the patient he had helped--a wonder-working balm;
The world now seemed to smile again, like springtide
flowers so gay,
While mother, brothers, and myself, incessant worked away.
"Thus, like the swallows
which return with spring unto our shore,
The doctor brought rejoicing back unto our vine-wreathed door;
And
we are happy, Isabel, and money too we've made;
But why dost weep, when I can laugh?" the gentle
maiden said.
"Alas! alas! dear Marianne, I weep and mourn to-day,
From your house to our cottage-
home the fever made its way;
My father lies with ghastly face, and many a raving cry--
Oh, would that
Durand too might come, before the sick man die!"
"Dear Isabel, haste on, haste on--we'll seek his house
this hour!
Come, let us run, and hasten on with all our utmost power.
He'll leave the richest palace for
the poor man's humble roof--
He's far from rich, except in love, of that we've had full proof!"
The good
God bless the noble heart that careth for the poor;
Then forth the panting children speed to seek the
sick man's cure;
And as beneath our giant elms they pass with rapid tread,
They scarcely dare to look
around, or lift their weary head.
The town at last is reached, by the Pont-Long they enter,
Close by the
Hue des Jacobins, near Durand's house they venture.
Around the portals of the door there throngs a
mournful crowd;
They see the Cross, they hear the priests the Requiem chaunt aloud.
The girls were
troubled in their souls, their minds were rent with grief;
One above all, young Marianne, was trembling
like a leaf:
Another death--oh, cruel thought! then of her father dying,
She quickly ran to Durand's door,
and asked a neighbour, crying:
"Where's the good doctor, sir, I pray? I seek him for my father!"
He soft
replied, "The gracious God into His fold doth gather
The best of poor folks' doctors now, to his eternal
rest;
They bear the body forth, 'tis true: his spirit's with the blest."
Bright on his corpse the candles shine
around his narrow bier,
Escorted by the crowds of poor with many a bitter tear;
No more, alas! can he
the sad and anguished-laden cure--
Oh, wail! For Durand is no more--the Doctor of the Poor!

To MADAME LOUIS VEILL, Paris.
Dear lady, it is true, that last month I
have signed
A little scrap of parchment; now myself I find
The master of a piece of ground
Within the
smallest bound--
Not, as you heard, a spacious English garden
Covered with flowers and trees, to shrine
your bard in--
But of a tiny little vineyard,
Which I have christened "Papilhoto"!
Where, for a chamber,
I have but a grotto.
The vine-stocks hang about their boughs,
At other end a screen of hedgerows,
So
small they do not half unroll;
A hundred would not make a mile,
Six sheets would cover the whole pile.
Well! as it is, of this I've dreamt for twenty years--
You laugh, Madame, at my great happiness,
Perhaps
you'll laugh still more, when it appears,
That when I bought the place, I must confess
There were no
fruits,
Though rich in roots;
Nine cherry trees--behold my wood!
Ten rows of vines--my promenade!
A
few peach trees; the hazels too;
Of elms and fountains there are two.
How rich I am! My muse is grateful
very;
Oh! might I paint? while I the pencil try,
Our country loves the Heavens so bright and cheery.
Here,
verdure starts up as we scratch the ground,
Who owns it, strips it into pieces round;
Beneath our sun
there's nought but gayest sound.
You tell me, true, that in your Paris hot-house,
You ripen two months
sooner 'neath your glass, of course.
What is your fruit? Mostly of water clear,
The heat may redden
what your tendrils bear.
But, lady dear, you cannot live on fruits alone while here!
Now slip away your
glossy glove
And pluck that ripened peach above,
Then place it in your pearly mouth
And suck it--how it
'lays your drouth--
Melts in your lips like honey of the South!
Dear Madame, in the North you have great
sights--
Of churches, castles, theatres of greatest heights;
Your works of art are greater far than here.
But come and see, quite near
The banks of the Garonne, on a sweet summer's day,
All works of God!
and then you'll say
No place more beautiful and gay!
You see the rocks in all their velvet greenery;
The