Wonderful tales had our fathers of old—­
  Wonderful tales of the herbs and the stars—­
The Sun was Lord of the Marigold,
  Basil and Rocket belonged to Mars. 
Pat as a sum in division it goes—­
  (Every plant had a star bespoke)—­
Who but Venus should govern the Rose? 
  Who but Jupiter own the Oak? 
    Simply and gravely the facts are told
    In the wonderful books of our fathers of old.

Wonderful little, when all is said,
  Wonderful little our fathers knew. 
Half their remedies cured you dead—­
  Most of their teaching was quite untrue—­
’Look at the stars when a patient is ill,
  (Dirt has nothing to do with disease,)
Bleed and blister as much as you will,
  Blister and bleed him as oft as you please.’ 
    Whence enormous and manifold
    Errors were made by our fathers of old.

Yet when the sickness was sore in the land,
  And neither planets nor herbs assuaged,
They took their lives in their lancet-hand
  And, oh, what a wonderful war they waged! 
Yes, when the crosses were chalked on the door—­
  (Yes, when the terrible dead-cart rolled,)
Excellent courage our fathers bore—­
  Excellent heart had our fathers of old. 
    None too learned, but nobly bold
    Into the fight went our fathers of old.

If it be certain, as Galen says,
  And sage Hippocrates holds as much—­
’That those afflicted by doubts and dismays
  Are mightily helped by a dead man’s touch’,
Then, be good to us, stars above! 
  Then, be good to us, herbs below! 
We are afflicted by what we can prove,
  We are distracted by what we know—­
      So—­ah, so! 
    Down from your heaven or up from your mould,
    Send us the hearts of our fathers of old!

THE HERITAGE

Our Fathers in a wondrous age,
  Ere yet the earth was small,
Ensured to us an heritage,
  And doubted not at all
That we, the children of their heart,
  Which then did beat so high,
In later time should play like part
  For our posterity.

A thousand years they steadfast built,
  To ’vantage us and ours,
The Walls that were a world’s despair,
  The sea-constraining Towers: 
Yet in their midmost pride they knew,
  And unto Kings made known,
Not all from these their strength they drew,
  Their faith from brass or stone.

Youth’s passion, manhood’s fierce intent. 
  With age’s judgment wise,
They spent, and counted not they spent. 
  At daily sacrifice. 
Not lambs alone nor purchased doves
  Or tithe of trader’s gold—­
Their lives most dear, their dearer loves,
  They offered up of old.

Refraining e’en from lawful things. 
  They bowed the neck to bear
The unadorned yoke that brings
  Stark toil and sternest care. 
Wherefore through them is Freedom sure;
  Wherefore through them we stand
From all but sloth and pride secure,
  In a delightsome land.