Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE VILLAGE DOCTOR, by SAMUEL SLAYTON LUCE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE VILLAGE DOCTOR, by                    
First Line: I see him still, as erst of yore
Last Line: "their names shall grace the ""book of life."
Subject(s): Physicians; Doctors


I see him still, as erst of yore,
With furrowed cheek, and whitened brow;
Though he's been dead of years a score,
I see him stand before me now.

I seem to see his withered form
Bestride his faithful white-faced mare,
With old brown saddle-bags behind,
Whose odor 't was a grief to bear.

With chronic cough I hear him pass—
He digs his steed with vigorous heel,
Whose callous sides, from daily thumps,
Had long since lost the power to feel.

The constant grin upon his face—
His light "te he!" at human pain,
As oft he wrenched the offending tooth,
Our memory ever will retain.

But deeply down within his breast,
Beneath a mail like Milan steel,
'T was said by those who knew him best,
"The doctor has a heart to feel."

'T was in the old Green Mountain State,
'Mid deep, dread winter's drifting snow,
The evening hour was waxing late,
Some forty years or more ago.

We sat around the ample hearth,
Where maple logs were blazing bright;
Glad songs arose, and social mirth,
Upon that dismal winter night.

The storm-cloud hung on Mansfield's brow—
The wind blew piercingly and chill;
Fierce through the leafless branches shrieked,
And roared along the fir-clad hill.

The deep'ning snow, that all day long
Had fallen silently and fast,
Now densely filled the frosty air,
And piled in drifts before the blast.

And still we sat—the hours sped—
The storm increased with fearful might;—
"I hope," our tender mother said,
"No one's abroad this dreadful night."

Our mother's voice had hardly ceased,
When sudden through the opening door,
O'er drifts, the quaint old doctor sprung,
And forward fell upon the floor.

His brow was crusted o'er with ice,
And crisp and frozen was his cheek;
His limbs were paralyzed with cold;
For once, the doctor could not speak.

With genial warmth, and tender care,
He soon revived, and said: "Come Bill,
Be kind enough to get my mare,—
I must reach Martin's, on the hill."

Then on again, o'er trackless snow,
Against the biting winter blast,
Without the hope of wordly gain,
Through mountain drifts, the doctor passed.

Far up the winding mountain road,
Through forest dark and blinding snow,
He reached the desolate abode
Of sickness, poverty and woe.

Long years have past; yet oft I ask,
As howls the tempest in its might,
While sitting by the evening fire,
"What faithful doctor rides to-night?"

Yes, faithful; though full well I know
The world is sparing of its praise;
And these self-sacrificing men
But seldom tempt the poet's lays.

And yet, I trust, when at the last,
They leave the world of human strife,
Like him "who loved his fellow men,"
Their names shall grace the "Book of Life."





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