LIBRARY ANNEX 2 6 The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022150209 THE BIRTH AND DEATH OF PAIN: A POEM READ OCTOBER SIXTEENTH, MDCCCXCVI, AT THE COM- MEMORATION OF THE FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF THE FIRST PUBLIC DEMONSTRATION OF SUR- GICAL AN/ESTHESIA. BY S/ WEIR MITCHELL, M. D. Cornell University Library PS 2414.B5 The birth and death of pain :a Hi! >oem read 3 1924 022 150 209 *„.» A'2-H^5"15" THE BIRTH AND DEATH OF PAIN. FORGIVE a moment, if a friend's regret, Delay the task your honouring kindness set. I miss one face to all men ever dear; I miss one voice that all men loved to hear. How glad were I to sit with you apart Could the dead master use his higher art To lift on wings of ever lightsome mirth The burdened muse above the dust of earth, To stamp with jests the heavy ore of thought, To give a day, with proud remembrance fraught The vital pathos of that Holmes-spun art Which knew so well to reach the common heart Alas! for me, for you, that fatal hour! Gone is the master! Ah! not mine the power To gild with jests, that almost win a tear, The thronging memories that are with us here. The Birth of Pain! Let centuries roll away; Come back with me to nature's primal day. What mighty forces pledged the dust to life ! What awful will decreed its silent strife! Till through vast ages rose on hill and plain, Life's saddest voice, the birthright wail of pain. The keener sense, and ever growing mind, Served but to add a torment twice refined, As life, more tender, as it grew more sweet, The cruel links of sorrow found complete When yearning love to conscious pity grown Felt the mad pain thrills, that were not its own. What will implacable, beyond our ken, Set this stern fiat for the tribes of men ! This none shall 'scape, who share our human fates: One stern democracy of anguish waits By poor men's cots — within the rich man's gates. What purpose hath it? Nay, thy quest is vain: Earth hath no answer: If the baffled brain Cries, 'tis to warn, to punish — Ah, refrain! When writhes the child beneath the surgeon's hand, What soul shall hope that pain to understand? Lo! Science falters o'er the hopeless task, And Love and Faith in vain an answer ask, When thrilling nerves demand what good is wrought Where torture clogs the very source of thought. Lo! Mercy ever broadening down the years Seeks but to count a lessening sum of tears. The rack is gone — the torture chamber lies A sorry show for shuddering tourist eyes. How useless pain, both church and state have learned, Since the last witch, or patient martyr burned. Yet still, forever, he who strove to gain By swift despatch a shorter lease for pain Saw the grim theatre, and 'neath his knife Felt the keen torture, in the quivering life. A word for him who, silent, grave, serene, The thought-stirred master of that tragic scene, Recorded pity through the hand of skill, Heard not a cry, but, ever conscious, still In mercy merciless, swift, bold, intent, Felt the slow moments that in torture went While 'neath his touch, as none to-day has seen, In anguish shook life's agonized machine. The task is o'er; the precious blood is stayed; But double price the hour of tension paid. A pitying hand is on the sufferer's brow — "Thank God 'tis over." Few who face me now Recall this memory. Let the curtain fall, Far gladder days shall know this storied hall! Though Science patient as the fruitful years, Still taught our art to close some fount of tears, Yet who that served this sacred home of pain Could e'er have dreamed one scarce-imagined gain Or hoped a day would bring his fearful art No need to steel the ever kindly heart. So fled the years! while haply here or there Some trust delusive left the old despair; Some comet thought — flashed fitful through the night No lasting record, and no constant light. Then radiant morning broke, and ampler hope To art and science gave illumined scope. What Angel bore the Christ-like gift inspired! What love divine with noblest courage fired One eager soul that paid in bitter tears For the glad helping of unnumbered fears, From the strange record of creation tore The sentence sad, each sorrowing mother bore, Struck from the roll of pangs one awful sum, Made pain a dream, and suffering gently dumb! Whatever triumphs still shall hold the mind, Whatever gift shall yet enrich mankind, Ah! here, no hour shall strike through all the years, No hour as sweet, as when hope, doubt and fears, 1 Mid deepening stillness, watched one eager brain, With God-like will, decree the Death of Pain. How did we thank him? Ah! no joy-bells rang, No paeans greeted, and no poet sang, No cannon thundered, from the guarded strand This mighty victory to a grateful land! We took the gift, so humbly, simply given, And coldly selfish — left our debt to Heaven. How shall we thank him? Hush! A gladder hour Has struck for him, a wiser, juster power Shall know full well how fitly to reward The generous soul, that found the world so hard. Oh! fruitful Mother — you, whose thronging states, Shall deal not vainly with man's changing fates, Of freeborn thought, or war's heroic deeds Much have your proud hands given, but nought exceeds This heaven-sent answer to the cry of prayer, This priceless gift which all mankind miy share. A solemn hour for such as gravely pause To note the process of creation's laws ! Ah, surely, He, whose dark, unfathomed Mind With prescient thought, the scheme of life designed, Who bade His highest creature slowly rise Spurred by sad needs, and lured by many a prize Saw, with a God's pure joy, His ripening plan His highest mercy brought by man to man VREELAND ADVERTISING PRESS H7 West 31st Street, New York