Part 8
O darkling River! Through the night I hear Thy wavelets rippling on the pebbly beach; I hear thy current stir the rustling sedge That skirts thy bed; thou intermittest not Thine everlasting journey, drawing on A silvery train from many a woodland spring And mountain brook. The dweller by thy side, Who moored his little boat upon thy beach, Though all the waters that upbore it then Have slid away o’er night, shall find, at noon Thy channels filled with waters freshly drawn From distant cliffs and hollows, where the rill Comes up amid the water-flags. All night Thou givest moisture to the thirsty roots Of the lithe willow and overhanging plane, And cherishest the herbage of thy bank, Spotted with little flowers, and sendeth up Perpetually the vapors from thy face, To steep the hills with dew, or darken heaven With drifting clouds, that trail the shadowy shower.
THE HURRICANE.
Lord of the winds! I feel thee nigh, I know thy breath in the burning sky! And I wait, with a thrill in every vein, For the coming of the hurricane! And lo! on the wing of the heavy gales, Through the boundless arch of heaven he sails. Silent and slow, and terribly strong, The mighty shadow is borne along, Like the dark eternity to come; While the world below, dismayed and dumb, Through the calm of the thick, hot atmosphere Looks up at its gloomy folds with fear.
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He is come! he is come! Do ye not behold His ample robes on the wind unrolled? Giant of air! we bid thee hail!— How his gray skirts toss in the whirling gale! How his huge and writhing arms are bent To clasp the zone of the firmament, And fold, at length, in their dark embrace, From mountain to mountain the visible space!
Darker—still darker! the whirlwinds bear The dust of the plains to the middle air; And hark to the crashing, long and loud, Of the chariot of God in the thunder-cloud! You may trace its path by the flashes that start From the rapid wheels where’er they dart, As the fire-bolts leap to the world below, And flood the skies with a lurid glow.
GREEN RIVER.
Yet pure its waters—its shallows are bright With colored pebbles and sparkles of light, And clear the depth where its eddies play, And dimples deepen and whirl away, And the plane-tree’s speckled arms o’ershoot The swifter current that mines its root, Through whose shifting waves as you walk the hill, The quivering glimmer of sun and rill With a sudden flash on the eye is thrown, Like the ray that streams from the diamond stone! Oh, loveliest there the spring days come, With blossoms, and birds, and wild bees’ hum; The flowers of summer are fairest there, And freshest the breath of the summer air; And sweetest the golden autumn day In silence and sunshine glides away.
THE VIOLET.
When birchen buds begin to swell, And woods the bluebirds’ warble know, The little violet’s modest bell Peeps from the last year’s leaves below.
Oft in the sunless April day Thy early smile has stayed my walk; But midst the gorgeous blooms of May I passed thee on thy humble stalk.
So they who climb to wealth forget The friends in darker fortunes tried; I copied them, but I regret That I should ape the ways of pride.
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
Born May 25, 1803. Died April 27, 1882.
EMERSON.
MRS. E. C. KINNEY.
Dear Nature’s child, he nestled close to her! She to his heart had whispered deeper things Than science from the wells of learning brings. His still small voice the human soul could stir, For Nature made him her interpreter. And gave her favorite son far-reaching wings; He soared and sang as Heaven’s lark only sings, Devout in praise, Truth’s truest worshiper. With eyes anointed, in his upward flight He quick discerned what was divine in men, Reading the humblest spirit’s tongue aright. O Prophet, Poet, Leader! in thy light How many saw beyond their natural ken, Who follow now the star that led thee then!
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Emerson’s writings call for thought in the reader. They demand that one should stop and ask questions, should translate what one has read into one’s own ordinary speech, and inquire again if it is true. No one should read Emerson who is not willing to have his own weakness disclosed to him, and who is not prepared also to test what he finds by a standard which is above both writer and reader.—HORACE E. SCUDDER.
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There are living organisms so transparent that we can see their hearts beating and their blood flowing through their glassy tissues. So transparent was the life of Emerson; so clearly did the true nature of the man show through it. What he taught others to be he was himself. His deep and sweet humanity won him love and reverence everywhere among those whose natures were capable of responding to the highest manifestations of character.—OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
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Though Emerson had reached a great age, we were not ready to part with him. He was an important friend, companion, kinsman, fellow-citizen, to the last; a wayfarer everybody was glad to meet; one whose enemy none could continue to be; a charmer whose spell was not to be escaped. With his imagination for an eye, Emerson was a perceiver, and he respected perception in himself and others, being as quick and glad to quote their perceptions as to announce his own. He notes, cites, and lauds every scrap of insight, or ripple of tidings over the ocean that heaves from the unknown shore towards which he sails.—REV. C. A. BARTOL.
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Emerson’s faith in America is justified whether we trust in the capacities of the individual soul, or whether our expectation grows from the promises of a new civilization. America brings together the races of the world as no nation or time ever did before, and Emerson’s hope for America may yet be justified by a literature in harmony with the new time.—GEORGE WILLIS COOKE.
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Long, long had we heard in India of his name and reputation. We wondered what manner of man he was. When at last I landed on your continent, how glad I should have been to sit at his feet and unfold before him the tale of our woe and degradation! But he had gone to his rest, and instead of touching his warm hand which had blessed so many pilgrims, I could but kiss the cold dust of his nameless grave at the Concord cemetery.—PROTAP CHUNDER MOZOOMDAR.
AN EMERSON ALPHABET.
All right activity is amiable. I never feel that any man occupies my place, but that the reason why I do not have what I wish is, that I want the faculty which entitles. All spiritual or real power makes its own place.—_Aristocracy._
By right or wrong, Lands and goods go to the strong, Property will brutely draw Still to the proprietor; Silver to silver creep and wind, And kind to kind.
_The Celestial Love._
Come see the northwind’s masonry: Out of an unseen quarry evermore Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Curves his white bastions with projected roof.
_The Snow-storm._
Do not spare to put novels into the hands of young people as an occasional holiday and experiment; but, above all, good poetry in all kinds, epic, tragedy, lyric.—_Education._
Europe has always owed to Oriental genius its divine impulses. What those holy bards said, all sane men found agreeable and true.—_Address to Divinity Students._
For Nature ever faithful is To such as trust her faithfulness.
_Woodnotes._
Gentle pilgrim, if thou know The gamut old of Pan, And how the hills began, The frank blessings of the hill Fall on thee, as fall they will.
_Monadnoc._
He is great who confers the most benefits. He is base—and that is the one base thing in the universe—to receive favors and render none.—_Compensation._
Insect lover of the sun, Joy of thy dominion; Sailor of the atmosphere, Swimmer through the waves of air.
_The Humble-bee._
Jesus astonishes and overpowers sensual people. They cannot unite Him to history, or reconcile Him with themselves.—_History._
Knowest thou that wove yon wood-bird’s nest Of leaves, and feathers from her breast? Or how the fish outbuilt her shell, Painting with morn each annual shell?
_The Problem._
Let a man control the habit of expense. Let him see that as much wisdom may be expended on a private economy as on an empire, and as much wisdom be drawn from it.—_Prudence._
Man was made of solid earth, Child and brother from his birth; Tethered by a liquid cord Of blood through veins of kindred poured.
_The Celestial Love._
No man can learn what he has not preparation for learning, however near to his eyes is the object. A chemist may tell his most precious secrets to a carpenter, and he shall never be the wiser.—_Spiritual Laws._
One harvest from thy field Homeward brought the oxen strong; A second crop thine acres yield Which I gather in a song.
_The Apology._
People say sometimes, “See what I have overcome; see how cheerful I am; see how completely I have triumphed over these black events.” Not if they still remind me of the black event.—_Circles._
Queen of things! I dare not die In Being’s deeps past ear and eye; Lest there I find the same deceiver And be the sport of Fate forever.
_Ode to Beauty._
River and rose and crag and bird, Frost and sun and eldest night, To me their aid preferred, To me their comfort plight.
_Hermione._
Spartans, stoics, heroes, saints, and gods use a short and positive speech. They are never off their centers. As soon as they swell and paint and find truth not enough for them, softening of the brain has already begun.—_The Superlative._
Teach me your mood, O patient stars! Who climb each night the ancient sky, Leaving on space no shade, no scars, No trace of age, no fear to die.
_The Poet._
Upborne and surrounded as we are by this all-creating nature, soft and fluid as a cloud or the air, why should we be such hard pedants and magnify a few forms?—_History._
Virtue runs before the Muse, And defies her skill; She is rapt, and doth refuse To wait a painters will.
_Loss and Gain._
Wise, cultivated, genial conversation is the last flower of civilization, and the best result which life has to offer us,—a cup for gods, which has no repentance. Conversation is our account of ourselves.—_Woman._
EXTRACT FROM “COMPENSATION.”
The history of persecution is a history of endeavors to cheat nature, to make water run up-hill, to twist a rope of sand. It makes no difference whether the actors be many or one, a tyrant or a mob. The martyr cannot be dishonored. Every lash inflicted is a tongue of flame; every prison, a more illustrious abode; every burned book or house enlightens the world; every suppressed or expunged word reverberates through the earth from side to side. Hours of sanity and consideration are always arriving to communities as to individuals, when the truth is seen, and the martyrs are justified.
THE CONCORD FIGHT.
By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled. Here once the embattled farmers stood And fired the shot heard round the world.
The foe has long in silence slept: Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; And time the ruined bridge has swept Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
On this green bank, by this soft stream, We set to-day a votive stone, That memory may their deed redeem, When like our sires our sons are gone.
EXTRACT FROM “WORKS AND DAYS.”
’Tis a fine fable for the advantage of character over talent, the Greek legend of the strife of Jove and Phœbus. Phœbus challenged the gods and said, “Who will outshoot the far-darting Apollo?” Zeus said, “I will.” Mars shook the lots in his helmet, and that of Apollo leaped out first. Apollo stretched his bow and shot his arrow into the extreme west. Then Zeus arose, and with one stride cleared the whole distance, and said, “Where shall I shoot? There is no space left.” So the bowman’s prize was adjudged to him who drew no bow.
ART.
Give to barrows, trays, and pans Grace and glimmer of romance; Bring the moonlight into noon Hid in gleaming piles of stone; On the city’s pavèd street Plant gardens lined with lilac sweet, Let spouting fountains cool the air, Singing in the sun-baked square; Let statue, picture, park, and hall, Ballad, flag, and festival, The past restore, the day adorn, And make each morrow a new morn. ’Tis the privilege of Art Thus to play its cheerful part.
THE RHODORA.
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing Then beauty is its own excuse for being.
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose! I never thought to ask; I never knew, But in my simple ignorance suppose The self-same Power that brought me here, brought you.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
Born Aug. 29, 1809.
OUR AUTOCRAT.
JOHN G. WHITTIER.
His laurels fresh from song and lay, Romance and art, so young withal At heart, we scarcely dare to say We keep his seventieth festival.
His still the keen analysis Of men and moods, electric wit, Free play of mirth, and tenderness To heal the slightest wound from it.
And his the pathos touching all Life’s sins and sorrows and regrets, Its hopes and fears, its final call And rest beneath the violets.
His sparkling surface scarce betrays The thoughtful tide beneath it rolled; The wisdom of the latter days And tender memories of the old.
Though now unnumbered guests surround The table that he rules at will, Its autocrat, however crowned, Is but our friend and comrade still.
Long may he live to sing for us The songs that stay the flight of time, And like his Chambered Nautilus, To holier heights of beauty climb.
Dec. 3, 1879.
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I think that none of us can understand the meaning and scope of Dr. Holmes’s writings unless we have observed that the main work of his life has been to study and teach an exact science, the noble science of anatomy. And let us honor him to-day, not forgetting, as they can never be forgotten, his poems, his essays, as a noble representative of the profession of the scientific student and teacher.—CHARLES W. ELIOT.
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What one does easily is apt to be his forte, though years may pass before he finds this out. Holmes’s early pieces, mostly college-verse, were better of their kind than those of a better kind written in youth by some of his contemporaries. The humbler the type, the sooner the development. The young poet had the aid of a suitable habitat; life at Harvard was the precise thing to bring out his talent. There was nothing of the hermit-thrush in him; his temper was not of the withdrawing and reflective kind, nor moodily introspective,—it throve on fellowship, and he looked to his mates for an audience as readily as they to him for a toast-master.—FRANCES H. UNDERWOOD.
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One finds nowhere in Holmes’s volumes crude and unformed thoughts. He writes as clearly as he thinks. His sentences come from his pen clean-cut. The language of his prose is pure classical English. His style is simple, direct, forcible; affluent, in the sense that it apparently never fails to come spontaneously at need, and in the fittest form; but not exuberant to the obscuring of the thought. Whether he be discussing a medical thesis or reading a lyric to classmates and literary friends at an anniversary dinner, or sketching character in the romance, or playing the autocrat at the breakfast-table, it is sure to be found acting effectively on those who hear or read them.—REV. RAY PALMER.
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It is as a writer of humorous poetry that Holmes excels. His non-humorous poems are full of beautiful passages, as we shall see, but they have not the same unique flavor of originality. In one of the great London papers it was editorially stated, not long since, that no contemporary American writer had so amused and instructed the insular mind as Holmes had done. The one most charming feature of his printed and spoken conversation is that he establishes a relation of sympathy between himself and his listeners, by expressing for them those common, every-day thoughts that we all think but rarely say.—WM. SLOANE KENNEDY.
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The grace and gayety, the pathos and melody, the wit, the earnestness and shrewd sense of his writings, have given Holmes a place, and a sunny place, in the popular heart. On his happy birthday it was not Boston that sat at table, but the whole country. It was not a town meeting, but a national congress. The Autocrat is not a mayor, but an emperor, and the toast of the day was the toast of appreciative hearts and generous souls far beyond the sound of the Atlantic. “The Autocrat of the Breakfast-table; O king, live forever!”—GEO. WM. CURTIS.
A HOLMES ALPHABET.
Along its front no sabers shine, No blood-red pennons wave; Its banner bears the single line, “Our duty is to save.”
_The Two Armies._
Bring bellows for the panting winds, Hang up a lantern by the moon; And give the nightingale a fife, And lend the eagle a balloon.
_The Meeting of the Dryads._
Child of the plowshare, smile; Boy of the counter, grieve not, Though muses round thy trundle-bed Their broidered tissue weave not.
_The Poet’s Lot._
Dear friends, who are listening so sweetly the while With your lips double-reefed in a snug little smile, I leave you two fables, both drawn from the deep,— The shells you can drop, but the pearls you may keep.
_Verses for After-dinner._
Each moment fainter wave the fields And wider rolls the sea; The mist grows dark,—the sun goes down,— Day breaks,—and where are we?
_Departed Days._
Flowers will bloom over and over again in poems as in the summer fields, to the end of time, always old and always new. Why should we be more shy of repeating ourselves than the spring be tired of blossoms or the night of stars?—_The Autocrat of the Breakfast-table._
God of all nations! Sovereign Lord! In Thy dread name we draw the sword, We lift the starry flag on high That fills with light our stormy sky.
_Army Hymn._
How patient Nature smiles at Fame! The weeds that strewed the victor’s way, Feed on his dust to shroud his name, Green where his proudest towers decay.
_A Roman Aqueduct._
It is likely that the language will shape itself by larger forces than phonography and dictionary-making. You may spade up the ocean as much as you like, and harrow it afterward if you can, but the moon will still lead the tides, and the winds will form their surface.—_The Professor at the Breakfast-table._
Joy smiles in the fountain, Health flows in the rills, As their ribbons of silver Unwind from the hills.
_Song for a Temperance Dinner._
Know old Cambridge? Hope you do. Born there? Don’t say so! I was too.
_Parson Turrell’s Legacy._
Let each unhallowed cause that brings The stern destroyer cease, Thy flaming angel fold his wings And seraphs whisper Peace!
_Parting Hymn._
Many ideas grow better when transplanted into another mind than in the one where they sprang up. That which was a weed in one intelligence becomes a flower in the other. A flower, on the other hand, may dwindle down to a mere weed by the same change.—_The Poet at the Breakfast-table._
None wept,—none pitied;—they who knelt At morning by the despot’s throne At evening dashed the laureled bust And spurned the wreaths themselves had strewn.
_The Dying Seneca._
Over the hill-sides the wild knell is tolling, From their far hamlets the yeomanry come; As through the storm-clouds the thunder-burst rolling, Circles the beat of the mustering drum.
_Lexington._
Poor conquered monarch! though that haughty glance Still speaks thy courage unsubdued by time, And in the grandeur of thy sullen tread Lives the proud spirit of thy burning clime.
_To a Caged Lion._
Questioning all things: Why her Lord had sent her? What were these torturing gifts, and wherefore lent her? Scornful as spirit fallen, its own tormentor.
_Iris, Her Book._
Rain me sweet odors on the air And wheel me up my Indian chair, And spread some book not overwise Flat out before my sleepy eyes.
_Midsummer._
Scenes of my youth! awake, its slumbering fire! Ye winds of Memory, sweep the silent lyre! Ray of the past, if yet thou canst appear, Break through the clouds of Fancy’s waning year.
_A Metrical Essay._
Trees as we see them, love them, adore them in the fields, where they are alive, holding their green sunshades over our heads, talking to us with their hundred thousand whispering tongues, looking down on us with that sweet meekness which belongs to huge but limited organisms.—_The Autocrat of the Breakfast-table._
Unscathed, she treads the wreck-piled street Whose narrow gaps afford A pathway for her bleeding feet, To seek her absent lord.
_Agnes._
Virtue—the guide that men and nations own; And Law—the bulwark that protects her throne; And Health—to all its happiest charm that lends,— These and their servants, man’s untiring friends.
_A Modest Request._
Wan-visaged thing! thy virgin leaf To me looks more than deadly pale, Unknowing what may stain thee yet,— A poem or a tale.
_To a Blank Sheet of Paper._
“It ain’t jest the thing to grease your ex with ile o’ vitrul,” said the Member.—_The Poet at the Breakfast-table._
Ye know not,—but the hour is nigh; Ye will not heed the warning breath; No vision strikes your clouded eye, To break the sleep that wakes in death.
_The Last Prophecy of Cassandra._
“By Zhorzhe!” as friend Sales is accustomed to cry, You tell me they’re dead, but I know it’s a lie; Is Jackson not President? What was’t you said? It can’t be; you’re joking; what,—all of ’em dead?
_Once More._
UNDER THE WASHINGTON ELM, CAMBRIDGE.
April 27, 1861.
Eighty years have passed, and more, Since under the brave old tree Our fathers gathered in arms, and swore They would follow the sign their banners bore, And fight till the land was free.
Half of their work was done, Half is left to do,— Cambridge, and Concord, and Lexington! When the battle is fought and won, What shall be told of you?
Hark!—’tis the south-wind moans,— Who are the martyrs down? Ah, the marrow was true in your children’s bones That sprinkled with blood the cursèd stones Of the murder-haunted town!
What if the storm-clouds blow? What if the green leaves fall? Better the crashing tempest’s throe Than the army of worms that gnawed below; Trample them one and all!
Then, when the battle is won, And the land from traitors free, Our children shall tell of the strife begun When Liberty’s second April sun Was bright on our brave old tree!
THE TWO STREAMS.
Behold the rocky wall That down its sloping sides Pours the swift rain-drops, blending, as they fall In rushing river-tides!
Yon stream, whose sources run Turned by a pebbled edge, Is Athabasca, rolling toward the sun Through the cleft mountain-ledge.
The slender rill had strayed, But for the slanting stone, To evening’s ocean, with the tangled braid Of foam-flecked Oregon.
So from the heights of Will Life’s parting stream descends, And, as a moment turns its slender rill, Each widening torrent bends,—