1920] on Science and Poetry 221 



Indian Fevers. 



In this, Nature, yield I pray to me. 

 I pace and pace, and think and think and take 

 The fever'd hands, and note down all I see, 

 That some dim distant light may hapl}- break. 



The painful faces ask, Can we not cure ? 

 We answer, No, not yet ; we seek the laws. 

 O God, reveal thro' all this thing obscure 

 The unseen, small, but million-murdering cause. 



But I did not know at the time that seeking the laws in this case 

 would mean heavy toil for some seven years at least ; and, still less, 

 that success was to be obtained only by the most extraordinary good 

 luck, without which we should, I think, have been still seeking in 

 vain. Success was also due, I think, to the fact that the scientific 

 work was first carefully designed, just as a work of art ought to be. 



My own personal feelings during this long investigation — a series 

 of disheartening failures until success was finally reached — have been 

 set forth in my suite of verses called "In Exile," a part of my 

 " Philosophies." It is a unique poem, I believe, in one respect, that it 

 was written pari passu with a laborious scientific investigation, but 

 it was not intended to be a scientific poem. On the contrary I 

 proposed merely to give expression to my own sammaries of things 

 in India, as I experienced them one after the other. What happened 

 was this, that most of the stanzas not connected with my malaria work 

 were left unfinished, and that when these fragments were cast out 

 the remainder took the form of an intense scientific drama, certainly 

 not originally designed by me — a drama concerned with the life and 

 death, not of a hero and heroine, but of millions of people. I think 

 I should tell you this because it is connected with the subject of this 

 lecture ; but you would not thank me for attempting to declaim the 

 drama to-night, and I will repeat only a few lines of it which bear 

 especially upon our theme. The following describe the scientific 

 spirit : — 



In Exile. 



I hold with them who see 



Nor only idly stand 

 The deed of thought to be 



Worth many deeds of hand. 



Ever as we journey sink 



The old behind the new, 

 And Heav'n commands we think 



As justly as we do. 



One golden virtue more 



Than virtue we must prize, 

 One iron duty more 



Than duty, to be wise. 



