Chapter 29

The seasons pass; the roses come and go; Snows fall and melt; the waters freeze and flow; The boys are men; the girls, grown tall and fair, Have found their mates; a gravestone here and there Tells where the fathers lie; the silvered hair Of some bent patriarch yet recalls the time That saw his feet the northern hillside climb, A pilgrim from the pilgrims far away, The godly men, the dwellers by the bay. On many a hearthstone burns the cheerful fire; The schoolhouse porch, the heavenward pointing spire Proclaim in letters every eye can read, Knowledge and Faith, the new world's simple creed. Hush! 't is the Sabbath's silence-stricken morn No feet must wander through the tasselled corn; No merry children laugh around the door, No idle playthings strew the sanded floor; The law of Moses lays its awful ban On all that stirs; here comes the tithing-man At last the solemn hour of worship calls; Slowly they gather in the sacred walls; Man in his strength and age with knotted staff, And boyhood aching for its week-day laugh, The toil-worn mother with the child she leads, The maiden, lovely in her golden beads,-- The popish symbols round her neck she wears, But on them counts her lovers, not her prayers,-- Those youths in homespun suits and ribboned queues, Whose hearts are beating in the high-backed pews. The pastor rises; looks along the seats With searching eye; each wonted face he meets; Asks heavenly guidance; finds the chapter's place That tells some tale of Israel's stubborn race; Gives out the sacred song; all voices join, For no quartette extorts their scanty coin; Then while both hands their black-gloved palms display, Lifts his gray head, and murmurs, "Let us pray!" And pray he does! as one that never fears To plead unanswered by the God that hears; What if he dwells on many a fact as though Some things Heaven knew not which it ought to know,-- Thanks God for all his favors past, and yet, Tells Him there's something He must not forget; Such are the prayers his people love to hear,-- See how the Deacon slants his listening ear! What! look once more! Nay, surely there I trace The hinted outlines of a well-known face! Not those the lips for laughter to beguile, Yet round their corners lurks an embryo smile, The same on other lips my childhood knew That scarce the Sabbath's mastery could subdue. Him too my lineage gives me leave to claim,-- The good, grave man that bears the Psalmist's name.

And still in ceaseless round the seasons passed; Spring piped her carol; Autumn blew his blast; Babes waxed to manhood; manhood shrunk to age; Life's worn-out players tottered off the stage; The few are many; boys have grown to men Since Putnam dragged the wolf from Pomfret's den; Our new-old Woodstock is a thriving town; Brave are her children; faithful to the crown; Her soldiers' steel the savage redskin knows; Their blood has crimsoned his Canadian snows. And now once more along the quiet vale Rings the dread call that turns the mothers pale; Full well they know the valorous heat that runs In every pulse-beat of their loyal sons; Who would not bleed in good King George's cause When England's lion shows his teeth and claws? With glittering firelocks on the village green In proud array a martial band is seen; You know what names those ancient rosters hold,-- Whose belts were buckled when the drum-beat rolled,-- But mark their Captain! tell us, who is he? On his brown face that same old look I see Yes! from the homestead's still retreat he came, Whose peaceful owner bore the Psalmist's name; The same his own. Well, Israel's glorious king Who struck the harp could also whirl the sling,-- Breathe in his song a penitential sigh And smite the sons of Amalek hip and thigh: These shared their task; one deaconed out the psalm, One slashed the scalping hell-hounds of calm; The praying father's pious work is done, Now sword in hand steps forth the fighting son. On many a field he fought in wilds afar; See on his swarthy cheek the bullet's scar! There hangs a murderous tomahawk; beneath, Without its blade, a knife's embroidered sheath; Save for the stroke his trusty weapon dealt His scalp had dangled at their owner's belt; But not for him such fate; he lived to see The bloodier strife that made our nation free, To serve with willing toil, with skilful hand, The war-worn saviors of the bleeding land. His wasting life to others' needs he gave,-- Sought rest in home and found it in the grave. See where the stones life's brief memorials keep, The tablet telling where he "fell on sleep,"-- Watched by a winged cherub's rayless eye,-- A scroll above that says we all must die,-- Those saddening lines beneath, the "Night-Thoughts" lent: So stands the Soldier's, Surgeon's monument. Ah! at a glance my filial eye divines The scholar son in those remembered lines.

The Scholar Son. His hand my footsteps led. No more the dim unreal past I tread. O thou whose breathing form was once so dear, Whose cheering voice was music to my ear, Art thou not with me as my feet pursue The village paths so well thy boyhood knew, Along the tangled margin of the stream Whose murmurs blended with thine infant dream, Or climb the hill, or thread the wooded vale, Or seek the wave where gleams yon distant sail, Or the old homestead's narrowed bounds explore, Where sloped the roof that sheds the rains no more, Where one last relic still remains to tell Here stood thy home,--the memory-haunted well, Whose waters quench a deeper thirst than thine, Changed at my lips to sacramental wine,-- Art thou not with me, as I fondly trace The scanty records of thine honored race, Call up the forms that earlier years have known, And spell the legend of each slanted stone? With thoughts of thee my loving verse began, Not for the critic's curious eye to scan, Not for the many listeners, but the few Whose fathers trod the paths my fathers knew; Still in my heart thy loved remembrance burns; Still to my lips thy cherished name returns; Could I but feel thy gracious presence near Amid the groves that once to thee were dear Could but my trembling lips with mortal speech Thy listening ear for one brief moment reach! How vain the dream! The pallid voyager's track No sign betrays; he sends no message back. No word from thee since evening's shadow fell On thy cold forehead with my long farewell,-- Now from the margin of the silent sea, Take my last offering ere I cross to thee!

THE IRON GATE

AND OTHER POEMS

1877-1881

THE IRON GATE

Read at the Breakfast given in honor of Dr. Holmes's Seventieth Birthday by the publishers of the "Atlantic Monthly," Boston, December 3, 1879.

WHERE is this patriarch you are kindly greeting? Not unfamiliar to my ear his name, Nor yet unknown to many a joyous meeting In days long vanished,--is he still the same,

Or changed by years, forgotten and forgetting, Dull-eared, dim-sighted, slow of speech and thought, Still o'er the sad, degenerate present fretting, Where all goes wrong, and nothing as it ought?

Old age, the graybeard! Well, indeed, I know him,-- Shrunk, tottering, bent, of aches and ills the prey; In sermon, story, fable, picture, poem, Oft have I met him from my earliest day.

In my old AEsop, toiling with his bundle,-- His load of sticks,--politely asking Death, Who comes when called for,--would he lug or trundle His fagot for him?--he was scant of breath.

And sad "Ecclesiastes, or the Preacher,"-- Has he not stamped the image on my soul, In that last chapter, where the worn-out Teacher Sighs o'er the loosened cord, the broken bowl?

Yes, long, indeed, I've known him at a distance, And now my lifted door-latch shows him here; I take his shrivelled hand without resistance, And find him smiling as his step draws near.

What though of gilded baubles he bereaves us, Dear to the heart of youth, to manhood's prime; Think of the calm he brings, the wealth he leaves us, The hoarded spoils, the legacies of time!

Altars once flaming, still with incense fragrant, Passion's uneasy nurslings rocked asleep, Hope's anchor faster, wild desire less vagrant, Life's flow less noisy, but the stream how deep!

Still as the silver cord gets worn and slender, Its lightened task-work tugs with lessening strain, Hands get more helpful, voices, grown more tender, Soothe with their softened tones the slumberous brain.

Youth longs and manhood strives, but age remembers, Sits by the raked-up ashes of the past, Spreads its thin hands above the whitening embers That warm its creeping life-blood till the last.

Dear to its heart is every loving token That comes unbidden ere its pulse grows cold, Ere the last lingering ties of life are broken, Its labors ended and its story told.

Ah, while around us rosy youth rejoices, For us the sorrow-laden breezes sigh, And through the chorus of its jocund voices Throbs the sharp note of misery's hopeless cry.

As on the gauzy wings of fancy flying From some far orb I track our watery sphere, Home of the struggling, suffering, doubting, dying, The silvered globule seems a glistening tear.

But Nature lends her mirror of illusion To win from saddening scenes our age-dimmed eyes, And misty day-dreams blend in sweet confusion The wintry landscape and the summer skies.

So when the iron portal shuts behind us, And life forgets us in its noise and whirl, Visions that shunned the glaring noonday find us, And glimmering starlight shows the gates of pearl.

I come not here your morning hour to sadden, A limping pilgrim, leaning on his staff,-- I, who have never deemed it sin to gladden This vale of sorrows with a wholesome laugh.

If word of mine another's gloom has brightened, Through my dumb lips the heaven-sent message came; If hand of mine another's task has lightened, It felt the guidance that it dares not claim.

But, O my gentle sisters, O my brothers, These thick-sown snow-flakes hint of toil's release; These feebler pulses bid me leave to others The tasks once welcome; evening asks for peace.

Time claims his tribute; silence now is golden; Let me not vex the too long suffering lyre; Though to your love untiring still beholden, The curfew tells me--cover up the fire.

And now with grateful smile and accents cheerful, And warmer heart than look or word can tell, In simplest phrase--these traitorous eyes are tearful-- Thanks, Brothers, Sisters,--Children,--and farewell!

VESTIGIA QUINQUE RETRORSUM

AN ACADEMIC POEM

1829-1879

Read at the Commencement Dinner of the Alumni of Harvard University, June 25, 1879.

WHILE fond, sad memories all around us throng, Silence were sweeter than the sweetest song; Yet when the leaves are green and heaven is blue, The choral tribute of the grove is due, And when the lengthening nights have chilled the skies, We fain would hear the song-bird ere be flies, And greet with kindly welcome, even as now, The lonely minstrel on his leafless bough.

This is our golden year,--its golden day; Its bridal memories soon must pass away; Soon shall its dying music cease to ring, And every year must loose some silver string, Till the last trembling chords no longer thrill,-- Hands all at rest and hearts forever still.

A few gray heads have joined the forming line; We hear our summons,--"Class of 'Twenty-Nine!" Close on the foremost, and, alas, how few! Are these "The Boys" our dear old Mother knew? Sixty brave swimmers. Twenty--something more-- Have passed the stream and reached this frosty shore!

How near the banks these fifty years divide When memory crosses with a single stride! 'T is the first year of stern "Old Hickory" 's rule When our good Mother lets us out of school, Half glad, half sorrowing, it must be confessed, To leave her quiet lap, her bounteous breast, Armed with our dainty, ribbon-tied degrees, Pleased and yet pensive, exiles and A. B.'s.

Look back, O comrades, with your faded eyes, And see the phantoms as I bid them rise. Whose smile is that? Its pattern Nature gave, A sunbeam dancing in a dimpled wave; KIRKLAND alone such grace from Heaven could win, His features radiant as the soul within; That smile would let him through Saint Peter's gate While sad-eyed martyrs had to stand and wait. Here flits mercurial _Farrar_; standing there, See mild, benignant, cautious, learned _Ware_, And sturdy, patient, faithful, honest _Hedge_, Whose grinding logic gave our wits their edge; _Ticknor_, with honeyed voice and courtly grace; And _Willard_, larynxed like a double bass; And _Channing_, with his bland, superior look, Cool as a moonbeam on a frozen brook,

While the pale student, shivering in his shoes, Sees from his theme the turgid rhetoric ooze; And the born soldier, fate decreed to wreak His martial manhood on a class in Greek, _Popkin_! How that explosive name recalls The grand old Busby of our ancient halls Such faces looked from Skippon's grim platoons, Such figures rode with Ireton's stout dragoons: He gave his strength to learning's gentle charms, But every accent sounded "Shoulder arms!"

Names,--empty names! Save only here and there Some white-haired listener, dozing in his chair, Starts at the sound he often used to hear, And upward slants his Sunday-sermon ear. And we--our blooming manhood we regain; Smiling we join the long Commencement train, One point first battled in discussion hot,-- Shall we wear gowns? and settled: We will not. How strange the scene,--that noisy boy-debate Where embryo-speakers learn to rule the State! This broad-browed youth, sedate and sober-eyed, Shall wear the ermined robe at Taney's side; And he, the stripling, smooth of face and slight, Whose slender form scarce intercepts the light, Shall rule the Bench where Parsons gave the law, And sphinx-like sat uncouth, majestic Shaw Ah, many a star has shed its fatal ray On names we loved--our brothers--where are they?

Nor these alone; our hearts in silence claim Names not less dear, unsyllabled by fame.

How brief the space! and yet it sweeps us back Far, far along our new-born history's track Five strides like this;--the sachem rules the land; The Indian wigwams cluster where we stand.

The second. Lo! a scene of deadly strife-- A nation struggling into infant life; Not yet the fatal game at Yorktown won Where failing Empire fired its sunset gun. LANGDON sits restless in the ancient chair,-- Harvard's grave Head,--these echoes heard his prayer When from yon mansion, dear to memory still, The banded yeomen marched for Bunker's Hill. Count on the grave triennial's thick-starred roll What names were numbered on the lengthening scroll,-- Not unfamiliar in our ears they ring,-- Winthrop, Hale, Eliot, Everett, Dexter, Tyng.

Another stride. Once more at 'twenty-nine,-- GOD SAVE KING GEORGE, the Second of his line! And is Sir Isaac living? Nay, not so,-- He followed Flainsteed two short years ago,-- And what about the little hump-backed man Who pleased the bygone days of good Queen Anne? What, Pope? another book he's just put out,-- "The Dunciad,"--witty, but profane, no doubt.

Where's Cotton Mather? he was always here. And so he would be, but he died last year. Who is this preacher our Northampton claims, Whose rhetoric blazes with sulphureous flames And torches stolen from Tartarean mines? Edwards, the salamander of divines. A deep, strong nature, pure and undefiled; Faith, firm as his who stabbed his sleeping child; Alas for him who blindly strays apart, And seeking God has lost his human heart! Fall where they might, no flying cinders caught These sober halls where WADSWORTH ruled and taught.

One footstep more; the fourth receding stride Leaves the round century on the nearer side. GOD SAVE KING CHARLES! God knows that pleasant knave His grace will find it hard enough to save. Ten years and more, and now the Plague, the Fire, Talk of all tongues, at last begin to tire; One fear prevails, all other frights forgot,-- White lips are whispering,--hark! The Popish Plot! Happy New England, from such troubles free In health and peace beyond the stormy sea! No Romish daggers threat her children's throats, No gibbering nightmare mutters "Titus Oates;" Philip is slain, the Quaker graves are green, Not yet the witch has entered on the scene; Happy our Harvard; pleased her graduates four; URIAN OAKES the name their parchments bore.

Two centuries past, our hurried feet arrive At the last footprint of the scanty five; Take the fifth stride; our wandering eyes explore A tangled forest on a trackless shore; Here, where we stand, the savage sorcerer howls, The wild cat snarls, the stealthy gray wolf prowls, The slouching bear, perchance the trampling moose Starts the brown squaw and scares her red pappoose; At every step the lurking foe is near; His Demons reign; God has no temple here!

Lift up your eyes! behold these pictured walls; Look where the flood of western glory falls Through the great sunflower disk of blazing panes In ruby, saffron, azure, emerald stains; With reverent step the marble pavement tread Where our proud Mother's martyr-roll is read; See the great halls that cluster, gathering round This lofty shrine with holiest memories crowned; See the fair Matron in her summer bower, Fresh as a rose in bright perennial flower; Read on her standard, always in the van, "TRUTH,"--the one word that makes a slave a man; Think whose the hands that fed her altar-fires, Then count the debt we owe our scholar-sires!

Brothers, farewell! the fast declining ray Fades to the twilight of our golden day; Some lesson yet our wearied brains may learn, Some leaves, perhaps, in life's thin volume turn. How few they seem as in our waning age We count them backwards to the title-page! Oh let us trust with holy men of old Not all the story here begun is told; So the tired spirit, waiting to be freed, On life's last leaf with tranquil eye shall read By the pale glimmer of the torch reversed, Not Finis, but _The End of Volume First_!

MY AVIARY

Through my north window, in the wintry weather,-- My airy oriel on the river shore,-- I watch the sea-fowl as they flock together Where late the boatman flashed his dripping oar.

The gull, high floating, like a sloop unladen, Lets the loose water waft him as it will; The duck, round-breasted as a rustic maiden, Paddles and plunges, busy, busy still.

I see the solemn gulls in council sitting On some broad ice-floe pondering long and late, While overhead the home-bound ducks are flitting, And leave the tardy conclave in debate,

Those weighty questions in their breasts revolving Whose deeper meaning science never learns, Till at some reverend elder's look dissolving, The speechless senate silently adjourns.

But when along the waves the shrill north-easter Shrieks through the laboring coaster's shrouds "Beware!" The pale bird, kindling like a Christmas feaster When some wild chorus shakes the vinous air,

Flaps from the leaden wave in fierce rejoicing, Feels heaven's dumb lightning thrill his torpid nerves, Now on the blast his whistling plumage poising, Now wheeling, whirling in fantastic curves.

Such is our gull; a gentleman of leisure, Less fleshed than feathered; bagged you'll find him such; His virtue silence; his employment pleasure; Not bad to look at, and not good for much.

What of our duck? He has some high-bred cousins,-- His Grace the Canvas-back, My Lord the Brant,-- Anas and Anser,--both served up by dozens, At Boston's Rocher, half-way to Nahant.

As for himself, he seems alert and thriving,-- Grubs up a living somehow--what, who knows? Crabs? mussels? weeds?--Look quick! there 's one just diving! Flop! Splash! his white breast glistens--down he goes!

And while he 's under--just about a minute-- I take advantage of the fact to say His fishy carcase has no virtue in it The gunning idiot's worthless hire to pay.

Shrewd is our bird; not easy to outwit him! Sharp is the outlook of those pin-head eyes; Still, he is mortal and a shot may hit him, One cannot always miss him if he tries.

He knows you! "sportsmen" from suburban alleys, Stretched under seaweed in the treacherous punt; Knows every lazy, shiftless lout that sallies Forth to waste powder--as he says, to "hunt."

I watch you with a patient satisfaction, Well pleased to discount your predestined luck; The float that figures in your sly transaction Will carry back a goose, but not a duck.

Look! there's a young one, dreaming not of danger; Sees a flat log come floating down the stream; Stares undismayed upon the harmless stranger; Ah! were all strangers harmless as they seem!

_Habet_! a leaden shower his breast has shattered; Vainly he flutters, not again to rise; His soft white plumes along the waves are scattered; Helpless the wing that braved the tempest lies.

He sees his comrades high above him flying To seek their nests among the island reeds; Strong is their flight; all lonely he is lying Washed by the crimsoned water as he bleeds.

O Thou who carest for the falling sparrow, Canst Thou the sinless sufferer's pang forget? Or is thy dread account-book's page so narrow Its one long column scores thy creatures' debt?

Poor gentle guest, by nature kindly cherished, A world grows dark with thee in blinding death; One little gasp--thy universe has perished, Wrecked by the idle thief who stole thy breath!

Is this the whole sad story of creation, Lived by its breathing myriads o'er and o'er,-- One glimpse of day, then black annihilation,-- A sunlit passage to a sunless shore?

Give back our faith, ye mystery-solving lynxes! Robe us once more in heaven-aspiring creeds Happier was dreaming Egypt with her sphinxes, The stony convent with its cross and beads!

How often gazing where a bird reposes, Rocked on the wavelets, drifting with the tide, I lose myself in strange metempsychosis And float a sea-fowl at a sea-fowl's side;

From rain, hail, snow in feathery mantle muffled, Clear-eyed, strong-limbed, with keenest sense to hear My mate soft murmuring, who, with plumes unruffled, Where'er I wander still is nestling near;

The great blue hollow like a garment o'er me; Space all unmeasured, unrecorded time; While seen with inward eye moves on before me Thought's pictured train in wordless pantomime.

A voice recalls me.--From my window turning I find myself a plumeless biped still; No beak, no claws, no sign of wings discerning,-- In fact with nothing bird-like but my quill.

ON THE THRESHOLD

INTRODUCTION TO A COLLECTION OF POEMS BYDIFFERENT AUTHORS

AN usher standing at the door I show my white rosette; A smile of welcome, nothing more, Will pay my trifling debt; Why should I bid you idly wait Like lovers at the swinging gate?

Can I forget the wedding guest? The veteran of the sea? In vain the listener smites his breast,-- "There was a ship," cries he! Poor fasting victim, stunned and pale, He needs must listen to the tale.

He sees the gilded throng within, The sparkling goblets gleam, The music and the merry din Through every window stream, But there he shivers in the cold Till all the crazy dream is told.

Not mine the graybeard's glittering eye That held his captive still To hold my silent prisoners by And let me have my will; Nay, I were like the three-years' child, To think you could be so beguiled!

My verse is but the curtain's fold That hides the painted scene, The mist by morning's ray unrolled That veils the meadow's green, The cloud that needs must drift away To show the rose of opening day.

See, from the tinkling rill you hear In hollowed palm I bring These scanty drops, but ah, how near The founts that heavenward spring! Thus, open wide the gates are thrown And founts and flowers are all your own!

TO GEORGE PEABODY

DANVERS, 1866

BANKRUPT! our pockets inside out! Empty of words to speak his praises! Worcester and Webster up the spout! Dead broke of laudatory phrases! Yet why with flowery speeches tease, With vain superlatives distress him? Has language better words than these? THE FRIEND OF ALL HIS RACE, GOD BLESS HIM!