Chapter 26

What were our life, with all its rents and seams, Stripped of its purple robes, our waking dreams? The poet's song, the bright romancer's page, The tinselled shows that cheat us on the stage Lead all our fancies captive at their will; Three years or threescore, we are children still. The little listener on his father's knee, With wandering Sindbad ploughs the stormy sea, With Gotham's sages hears the billows roll (Illustrious trio of the venturous bowl, Too early shipwrecked, for they died too soon To see their offspring launch the great balloon); Tracks the dark brigand to his mountain lair, Slays the grim giant, saves the lady fair, Fights all his country's battles o'er again From Bunker's blazing height to Lundy's Lane; Floats with the mighty captains as they sailed, Before whose flag the flaming red-cross paled, And claims the oft-told story of the scars Scarce yet grown white, that saved the stripes and stars!

Children of later growth, we love the PLAY, We love its heroes, be they grave or gay, From squeaking, peppery, devil-defying Punch To roaring Richard with his camel-hunch; Adore its heroines, those immortal dames, Time's only rivals, whom he never tames, Whose youth, unchanging, lives while thrones decay (Age spares the Pyramids-and Dejazet); The saucy-aproned, razor-tongued soubrette, The blond-haired beauty with the eyes of jet, The gorgeous Beings whom the viewless wires Lift to the skies in strontian-crimsoned fires, And all the wealth of splendor that awaits The throng that enters those Elysian gates.

See where the hurrying crowd impatient pours, With noise of trampling feet and flapping doors, Streams to the numbered seat each pasteboard fits And smooths its caudal plumage as it sits; Waits while the slow musicians saunter in, Till the bald leader taps his violin; Till the old overture we know so well, Zampa or Magic Flute or William Tell, Has done its worst-then hark! the tinkling bell! The crash is o'er--the crinkling curtain furled, And to! the glories of that brighter world!

Behold the offspring of the Thespian cart, This full-grown temple of the magic art, Where all the conjurers of illusion meet, And please us all the more, the more they cheat. These are the wizards and the witches too Who win their honest bread by cheating you With cheeks that drown in artificial tears And lying skull-caps white with seventy years, Sweet-tempered matrons changed to scolding Kates, Maids mild as moonbeams crazed with murderous hates, Kind, simple souls that stab and slash and slay And stick at nothing, if it 's in the play!

Would all the world told half as harmless lies! Would all its real fools were half as wise As he who blinks through dull Dundreary's eyes I Would all the unhanged bandits of the age Were like the peaceful ruffians of the stage! Would all the cankers wasting town and state, The mob of rascals, little thieves and great, Dealers in watered milk and watered stocks, Who lead us lambs to pasture on the rocks,-- Shepherds--Jack Sheppards--of their city flocks,-- The rings of rogues that rob the luckless town, Those evil angels creeping up and down The Jacob's ladder of the treasury stairs,-- Not stage, but real Turpins and Macaires,-- Could doff, like us, their knavery with their clothes, And find it easy as forgetting oaths!

Welcome, thrice welcome to our virgin dome, The Muses' shrine, the Drama's new-found home Here shall the Statesman rest his weary brain, The worn-out Artist find his wits again; Here Trade forget his ledger and his cares, And sweet communion mingle Bulls and Bears; Here shall the youthful Lover, nestling near The shrinking maiden, her he holds most dear, Gaze on the mimic moonlight as it falls On painted groves, on sliding canvas walls, And sigh, "My angel! What a life of bliss We two could live in such a world as this!" Here shall the timid pedants of the schools, The gilded boors, the labor-scorning fools, The grass-green rustic and the smoke-dried cit, Feel each in turn the stinging lash of wit, And as it tingles on some tender part Each find a balsam in his neighbor's smart; So every folly prove a fresh delight As in the picture of our play to-night.

Farewell! The Players wait the Prompter's call; Friends, lovers, listeners! Welcome one and all!

A SEA DIALOGUE

Cabin Passenger. Man at Wheel.

CABIN PASSENGER. FRIEND, you seem thoughtful. I not wonder much That he who sails the ocean should be sad. I am myself reflective. When I think Of all this wallowing beast, the Sea, has sucked Between his sharp, thin lips, the wedgy waves, What heaps of diamonds, rubies, emeralds, pearls; What piles of shekels, talents, ducats, crowns, What bales of Tyrian mantles, Indian shawls, Of laces that have blanked the weavers' eyes, Of silken tissues, wrought by worm and man, The half-starved workman, and the well-fed worm; What marbles, bronzes, pictures, parchments, books; What many-lobuled, thought-engendering brains; Lie with the gaping sea-shells in his maw,-- I, too, am silent; for all language seems A mockery, and the speech of man is vain. O mariner, we look upon the waves And they rebuke our babbling. "Peace!" they say,-- "Mortal, be still!" My noisy tongue is hushed, And with my trembling finger on my lips My soul exclaims in ecstasy--

MAN AT WHEEL. Belay!

CABIN PASSENGER. Ah yes! "Delay,"--it calls, "nor haste to break The charm of stillness with an idle word!" O mariner, I love thee, for thy thought Strides even with my own, nay, flies before. Thou art a brother to the wind and wave; Have they not music for thine ear as mine, When the wild tempest makes thy ship his lyre, Smiting a cavernous basso from the shrouds And climbing up his gamut through the stays, Through buntlines, bowlines, ratlines, till it shrills An alto keener than the locust sings, And all the great Aeolian orchestra Storms out its mad sonata in the gale? Is not the scene a wondrous and--

MAN AT WHEEL. A vast!

CABIN PASSENGER. Ah yes, a vast, a vast and wondrous scene! I see thy soul is open as the day That holds the sunshine in its azure bowl To all the solemn glories of the deep. Tell me, O mariner, dost thou never feel The grandeur of thine office,--to control The keel that cuts the ocean like a knife And leaves a wake behind it like a seam In the great shining garment of the world?

MAN AT WHEEL. Belay y'r jaw, y' swab! y' hoss-marine! (To the Captain.) Ay, ay, Sir! Stiddy, Sir! Sou'wes' b' sou'!

November 10, 1864.

CHANSON WITHOUT MUSIC

BY THE PROFESSOR EMERITUS OF DEAD AND LIVE LANGUAGES

PHI BETA KAPPA.--CAMBRIDGE, 1867

You bid me sing,--can I forget The classic ode of days gone by,-- How belle Fifine and jeune Lisette Exclaimed, "Anacreon, geron ei"? "Regardez done," those ladies said,-- "You're getting bald and wrinkled too When summer's roses all are shed, Love 's nullum ite, voyez-vous!"

In vain ce brave Anacreon's cry, "Of Love alone my banjo sings" (Erota mounon). "Etiam si,-- Eh b'en?" replied the saucy things,-- "Go find a maid whose hair is gray, And strike your lyre,--we sha'n't complain; But parce nobis, s'il vous plait,-- Voila Adolphe! Voila Eugene!"

Ah, jeune Lisette! Ah, belle Fifine! Anacreon's lesson all must learn; O kairos oxiis; Spring is green, But Acer Hyems waits his turn I hear you whispering from the dust, "Tiens, mon cher, c'est toujours so,-- The brightest blade grows dim with rust, The fairest meadow white with snow!"

You do not mean it! _Not_ encore? Another string of playday rhymes? You 've heard me--nonne est?-before, Multoties,-more than twenty times; Non possum,--vraiment,--pas du tout, I cannot! I am loath to shirk; But who will listen if I do, My memory makes such shocking work?

Ginosko. Scio. Yes, I 'm told Some ancients like my rusty lay, As Grandpa Noah loved the old Red-sandstone march of Jubal's day. I used to carol like the birds, But time my wits has quite unfixed, Et quoad verba,--for my words,-- Ciel! Eheu! Whe-ew!--how they're mixed!

Mehercle! Zeu! Diable! how My thoughts were dressed when I was young, But tempus fugit! see them now Half clad in rags of every tongue! O philoi, fratres, chers amis I dare not court the youthful Muse, For fear her sharp response should be, "Papa Anacreon, please excuse!"

Adieu! I 've trod my annual track How long!--let others count the miles,-- And peddled out my rhyming pack To friends who always paid in smiles. So, laissez-moi! some youthful wit No doubt has wares he wants to show; And I am asking, "Let me sit," Dum ille clamat, "Dos pou sto!"

FOR THE CENTENNIAL DINNER

OF THE PROPRIETORS OF BOSTON PIER, OR THE LONG WHARF, APRIL 16, 1873

DEAR friends, we are strangers; we never before Have suspected what love to each other we bore; But each of us all to his neighbor is dear, Whose heart has a throb for our time-honored pier.

As I look on each brother proprietor's face, I could open my arms in a loving embrace; What wonder that feelings, undreamed of so long, Should burst all at once in a blossom of song!

While I turn my fond glance on the monarch of piers, Whose throne has stood firm through his eightscore of years, My thought travels backward and reaches the day When they drove the first pile on the edge of the bay.

See! The joiner, the shipwright, the smith from his forge, The redcoat, who shoulders his gun for King George, The shopman, the 'prentice, the boys from the lane, The parson, the doctor with gold-headed cane,

Come trooping down King Street, where now may be seen The pulleys and ropes of a mighty machine; The weight rises slowly; it drops with a thud; And, to! the great timber sinks deep in the mud!

They are gone, the stout craftsmen that hammered the piles, And the square-toed old boys in the three-cornered tiles; The breeches, the buckles, have faded from view, And the parson's white wig and the ribbon-tied queue.

The redcoats have vanished; the last grenadier Stepped into the boat from the end of our pier; They found that our hills were not easy to climb, And the order came, "Countermarch, double-quick time!"

They are gone, friend and foe,--anchored fast at the pier, Whence no vessel brings back its pale passengers here; But our wharf, like a lily, still floats on the flood, Its breast in the sunshine, its roots in the mud.

Who--who that has loved it so long and so well-- The flower of his birthright would barter or sell? No: pride of the bay, while its ripples shall run, You shall pass, as an heirloom, from father to son!

Let me part with the acres my grandfather bought, With the bonds that my uncle's kind legacy brought, With my bank-shares,--old "Union," whose ten per cent stock Stands stiff through the storms as the Eddystone rock;

With my rights (or my wrongs) in the "Erie,"--alas! With my claims on the mournful and "Mutual Mass.;" With my "Phil. Wil. and Balt.," with my "C. B. and Q.;" But I never, no never, will sell out of you.

We drink to thy past and thy future to-day, Strong right arm of Boston, stretched out o'er the bay. May the winds waft the wealth of all nations to thee, And thy dividends flow like the waves of the sea!

A POEM SERVED TO ORDER

PHI BETA KAPPA, JUNE 26, 1873

THE Caliph ordered up his cook, And, scowling with a fearful look That meant,--We stand no gammon,-- "To-morrow, just at two," he said, "Hassan, our cook, will lose his head, Or serve us up a salmon."

"Great sire," the trembling chef replied, "Lord of the Earth and all beside, Sun, Moon, and Stars, and so on (Look in Eothen,-there you'll find A list of titles. Never mind; I have n't time to go on:)

"Great sire," and so forth, thus he spoke, "Your Highness must intend a joke; It doesn't stand to reason For one to order salmon brought, Unless that fish is sometimes caught, And also is in season.

"Our luck of late is shocking bad, In fact, the latest catch we had (We kept the matter shady), But, hauling in our nets,--alack! We found no salmon, but a sack That held your honored Lady!"

"Allah is great!" the Caliph said, "My poor Zuleika, you are dead, I once took interest in you." "Perhaps, my Lord, you'd like to know We cut the lines and let her go." "Allah be praised! Continue."

"It is n't hard one's hook to bait, And, squatting down, to watch and wait, To see the cork go under; At last suppose you've got your bite, You twitch away with all your might,-- You've hooked an eel, by thunder!"

The Caliph patted Hassan's head "Slave, thou hast spoken well," he said, "And won thy master's favor. Yes; since what happened t' other morn The salmon of the Golden Horn Might have a doubtful flavor.

"That last remark about the eel Has also justice that we feel Quite to our satisfaction. To-morrow we dispense with fish, And, for the present, if you wish, You'll keep your bulbous fraction."

"Thanks! thanks!" the grateful chef replied, His nutrient feature showing wide The gleam of arches dental: "To cut my head off wouldn't pay, I find it useful every day, As well as ornamental."

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

Brothers, I hope you will not fail To see the moral of my tale And kindly to receive it. You know your anniversary pie Must have its crust, though hard and dry, And some prefer to leave it.

How oft before these youths were born I've fished in Fancy's Golden Horn For what the Muse might send me! How gayly then I cast the line, When all the morning sky was mine, And Hope her flies would lend me!

And now I hear our despot's call, And come, like Hassan, to the hall,-- If there's a slave, I am one,-- My bait no longer flies, but worms! I 've caught--Lord bless me! how he squirms! An eel, and not a salmon!

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH

READ AT THE MEETING OF THE HARVARD ALUMNI ASSOCIATION, JUNE 25, 1873

THE fount the Spaniard sought in vain Through all the land of flowers Leaps glittering from the sandy plain Our classic grove embowers; Here youth, unchanging, blooms and smiles, Here dwells eternal spring, And warm from Hope's elysian isles The winds their perfume bring.

Here every leaf is in the bud, Each singing throat in tune, And bright o'er evening's silver flood Shines the young crescent moon. What wonder Age forgets his staff And lays his glasses down, And gray-haired grandsires look and laugh As when their locks were brown!

With ears grown dull and eyes grown dim They greet the joyous day That calls them to the fountain's brim To wash their years away. What change has clothed the ancient sire In sudden youth? For, to! The Judge, the Doctor, and the Squire Are Jack and Bill and Joe!

And be his titles what they will, In spite of manhood's claim The graybeard is a school-boy still And loves his school-boy name; It calms the ruler's stormy breast Whom hurrying care pursues, And brings a sense of peace and rest, Like slippers after shoes.--

And what are all the prizes won To youth's enchanted view? And what is all the man has done To what the boy may do? O blessed fount, whose waters flow Alike for sire and son, That melts our winter's frost and snow And makes all ages one!

I pledge the sparkling fountain's tide, That flings its golden shower With age to fill and youth to guide, Still fresh in morning flower Flow on with ever-widening stream, In ever-brightening morn,-- Our story's pride, our future's dream, The hope of times unborn!

NO TIME LIKE THE OLD TIME

THERE is no time like the old time, when you and I were young, When the buds of April blossomed, and the birds of spring-time sung! The garden's brightest glories by summer suns are nursed, But oh, the sweet, sweet violets, the flowers that opened first!

There is no place like the old place, where you and I were born, Where we lifted first our eyelids on the splendors of the morn From the milk-white breast that warmed us, from the clinging arms that bore, Where the dear eyes glistened o'er us that will look on us no more!

There is no friend like the old friend, who has shared our morning days, No greeting like his welcome, no homage like his praise Fame is the scentless sunflower, with gaudy crown of gold; But friendship is the breathing rose, with sweets in every fold.

There is no love like the old love, that we courted in our pride; Though our leaves are falling, falling, and we're fading side by side, There are blossoms all around us with the colors of our dawn, And we live in borrowed sunshine when the day-star is withdrawn.

There are no times like the old times,--they shall never be forgot! There is no place like the old place,--keep green the dear old spot! There are no friends like our old friends,--may Heaven prolong their lives There are no loves like our old loves,--God bless our loving wives!

1865.

A HYMN OF PEACE

SUNG AT THE "JUBILEE," JUNE 15, 1869, TO THE MUSIC OF SELLER'S "AMERICAN HYMN"

ANGEL of Peace, thou hast wandered too long! Spread thy white wings to the sunshine of love! Come while our voices are blended in song,-- Fly to our ark like the storm-beaten dove! Fly to our ark on the wings of the dove,-- Speed o'er the far-sounding billows of song, Crowned with thine olive-leaf garland of love,-- Angel of Peace, thou hast waited too long!

Joyous we meet, on this altar of thine Mingling the gifts we have gathered for thee, Sweet with the odors of myrtle and pine, Breeze of the prairie and breath of the sea,-- Meadow and mountain and forest and sea! Sweet is the fragrance of myrtle and pine, Sweeter the incense we offer to thee, Brothers once more round this altar of thine!

Angels of Bethlehem, answer the strain! Hark! a new birth-song is filling the sky!-- Loud as the storm-wind that tumbles the main Bid the full breath of the organ reply,-- Let the loud tempest of voices reply,-- Roll its long surge like the-earth-shaking main! Swell the vast song till it mounts to the sky! Angels of Bethlehem, echo the strain!

NOTES.

THE BOYS. The members of the Harvard College class of 1829 referred to in this poem are: "Doctor," Francis Thomas; "Judge," G. T. Bigelow, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of Massachusetts; "O Speaker," Hon. Francis B. Crowninshield, Speaker of the Massachusetts House of Representatives; "Mr. Mayor," G. W. Richardson, of Worcester,Mass.; "Member of Congress," Hon. George T. Davis; "Reverend," James Freeman Clarke; "boy with the grave mathematical look," Benjamin Peirce; "boy with a three-decker brain," Judge Benjamin R. Curtis, of the Supreme Court of the United States; "nice youngster of excellent pith," S. F. Smith, author of "My Country, 't is of Thee."

"That lovely, bright-eyed boy." William Sturgis.

"Who faced the storm so long." Francis B. Crowninshield.

"Our many featured friend." George T. Davis.

"The close-clinging dulcamara." The "bitter-sweet" of New England is the _Celastrus scandens_, "bourreau des arbres" of the Canadian French.

"All armed with picks and spades." The captured slaves were at this time organized as pioneers.

THE POETICAL WORKS

OF

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

VOL. III

CONTENTS

BUNKER-HILL BATTLE AND OTHER POEMS GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER-HILL BATTLE AT THE "ATLANTIC" DINNER, DECEMBER 15, 1874 "LUCY." FOR HER GOLDEN WEDDING, OCTOBER 18, 1875 HYMN FOR THE INAUGURATION OF THE STATUE OF GOVERNOR ANDREW, HINGHAM, OCTOBER 7, 1875 A MEMORIAL TRIBUTE TO DR. SAMUEL G. HOWE JOSEPH WARREN, M. D. OLD CAMBRIDGE, JULY 3, 1875 WELCOME TO THE NATIONS, PHILADELPHIA, JULY 4, 1876 A FAMILIAR LETTER UNSATISFIED HOW THE OLD HORSE WON THE BET AN APPEAL FOR "THE OLD SOUTH" THE FIRST FAN To R. B. H. THE SHIP OF STATE A FAMILY RECORD

THE IRON GATE AND OTHER POEMS. THE IRON GATE VESTIGIA QUINQUE RETRORSUM MY AVIARY ON THE THRESHOLD TO GEORGE PEABODY AT THE PAPYRUS CLUB FOR WHITTIER'S SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY TWO SONNETS: HARVARD THE COMING ERA IN RESPONSE FOR THE MOORE CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION TO JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE WELCOME TO THE CHICAGO COMMERCIAL CLUB AMERICAN ACADEMY CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION THE SCHOOL-BOY THE SILENT MELODY OUR HOME--OUR COUNTRY POEM AT THE CENTENNIAL ANNIVERSARY DINNER OF THE MASSACHUSETTS MEDICAL SOCIETY RHYMES OF A LIFE-TIME

BEFORE THE CURFEW AT MY FIRESIDE AT THE SATURDAY CLUB OUR DEAD SINGER. H. W. L. TWO POEMS TO HARRIET BEECHER STOWE ON HER SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY. I. AT THE SUMMIT II. THE WORLD'S HOMAGE A WELCOME TO DR. BENJAMIN APTHORP GOULD TO FREDERICK HENRY HEDGE ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY TO JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL TO JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY PRELUDE TO A VOLUME PRINTED IN RAISED LETTERS FOR THE BLIND BOSTON TO FLORENCE AT THE UNITARIAN FESTIVAL, MARCH 8, 1882 POEM FOR THE TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF THE FOUNDING OF HARVARD COLLEGE POST-PRANDIAL: PHI BETA KAPPA, 1881 THE FLANEUR: DURING THE TRANSIT OF VENUS, 1882 AVE KING'S CHAPEL READ AT THE TWO HUNDREDTH ANNIVERSARY HYMN FOR THE SAME OCCASION HYMN.--THE WORD OF PROMISE HYMN READ AT THE DEDICATION OF THE OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES HOSPITAL AT HUDSON, WISCONSIN, JUNE 7, 1887 ON THE DEATH OF PRESIDENT GARFIELD THE GOLDEN FLOWER HAIL, COLUMBIA! POEM FOR THE DEDICATION OF THE FOUNTAIN AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON, PRESENTED BY GEORGE CHILDS, OF PHILADELPHIA TO THE POETS WHO ONLY READ AND LISTEN FOR THE DEDICATION OF THE NEW CITY LIBRARY FOR THE WINDOW IN ST. MARGARET'S JAMES RUSSELL LO WELL: 1819-1891

POEMS FROM OVER THE TEACUPS. TO THE ELEVEN LADIES WHO PRESENTED ME WITH A SILVER LOVING CUP THE PEAU DE CHAGRIN OF STATE STREET CACOETHES SCRIBENDI THE ROSE AND THE FERN I LIKE YOU AND I LOVE YOU LA MAISON D'OR BAR HARBOR TOO YOUNG FOR LOVE THE BROOMSTICK TRAIN; OR, THE RETURN OF THE WITCHES TARTARUS AT THE TURN OF THE ROAD INVITA MINERVA

READINGS OVER THE TEACUPS TO MY OLD READERS THE BANKER'S SECRET THE EXILE'S SECRET THE LOVER'S SECRET THE STATESMAN'S SECRET THE MOTHER'S SECRET THE SECRET OF THE STARS

VERSES FROM THE OLDEST PORTFOLIO FIRST VERSES: TRANSLATION FROM THE THE MEETING OF THE DRYADS THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR THE TOADSTOOL THE SPECTRE PIG TO A CAGED LION THE STAR AND THE WATER-LILY ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE: "A SPANISH GIRL REVERIE" A ROMAN AQUEDUCT FROM A BACHELOR'S PRIVATE JOURNAL LA GRISETTE OUR YANKEE GIRLS L'INCONNUE STANZAS LINES BY A CLERK THE PHILOSOPHER TO HIS LOVE THE POET'S LOT TO A BLANK SHEET OF PAPER TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A GENTLEMAN" IN THE ATHENAEUM GALLERY THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN A NOONTIDE LYRIC THE HOT SEASON A PORTRAIT AN EVENING THOUGHT. WRITTEN AT SEA THE WASP AND THE HORNET "QUI VIVE?"

NOTES

BUNKER-HILL BATTLE

AND OTHER POEMS

1874-1877

GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER-HILL BATTLE

AS SHE SAW IT FROM THE BELFRY

'T is like stirring living embers when, at eighty, one remembers All the achings and the quakings of "the times that tried men's souls"; When I talk of Whig and Tory, when I tell the Rebel story, To you the words are ashes, but to me they're burning coals.

I had heard the muskets' rattle of the April running battle; Lord Percy's hunted soldiers, I can see their red-coats still; But a deadly chill comes o'er me, as the day looms up before me, When a thousand men lay bleeding on the slopes of Bunker's Hill.

'T was a peaceful summer's morning, when the first thing gave us warning Was the booming of the cannon from the river and the shore: "Child," says grandma, "what 's the matter, what is all this noise and clatter? Have those scalping Indian devils come to murder us once more?"