Part 1

Produced by David Widger

THE POETICAL WORKS

OF

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

[Volume 2 of the 1893 three volume set]

POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29 (1851-1889)

BILL AND JOE A SONG OF "TWENTY-NINE" QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS AN IMPROMPTU THE OLD MAN DREAMS REMEMBER--FORGET OUR INDIAN SUMMER MARE RUBRUM THE Boys LINES A VOICE OF THE LOYAL NORTH J. D. R. VOYAGE OF THE GOOD SHIP UNION "CHOOSE YOU THIS DAY WHOM YE WILL SERVE" F. W. C. THE LAST CHARGE OUR OLDEST FRIEND SHERMAN 'S IN SAVANNAH MY ANNUAL ALL HERE ONCE MORE THE OLD CRUISER HYMN FOR THE CLASS-MEETING EVEN-SONG THE SMILING LISTENER OUR SWEET SINGER: J. A. H. C. M., H. S., J. K. W. WHAT I HAVE COME FOR OUR BANKER FOR CLASS-MEETING "AD AMICOS" HOW NOT TO SETTLE IT THE LAST SURVIVOR THE ARCHBISHOP AND GIL BLAS THE SHADOWS BENJAMIN PEIRCE IN THE TWILIGHT A LOVING-CUP SONG THE GIRDLE OF FRIENDSHIP THE LYRE OF ANACREON THE OLD TUNE THE BROKEN CIRCLE THE ANGEL-THIEF AFTER THE CURFEW

POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29

1851-1889

BILL AND JOE

COME, dear old comrade, you and I Will steal an hour from days gone by, The shining days when life was new, And all was bright with morning dew, The lusty days of long ago, When you were Bill and I was Joe.

Your name may flaunt a titled trail Proud as a cockerel's rainbow tail, And mine as brief appendix wear As Tam O'Shanter's luckless mare; To-day, old friend, remember still That I am Joe and you are Bill.

You've won the great world's envied prize, And grand you look in people's eyes, With H O N. and L L. D. In big brave letters, fair to see,-- Your fist, old fellow! off they go!-- How are you, Bill? How are you, Joe?

You've worn the judge's ermined robe; You 've taught your name to half the globe; You've sung mankind a deathless strain; You've made the dead past live again The world may call you what it will, But you and I are Joe and Bill.

The chaffing young folks stare and say "See those old buffers, bent and gray,-- They talk like fellows in their teens! Mad, poor old boys! That's what it means,"-- And shake their heads; they little know The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe!--

How Bill forgets his hour of pride, While Joe sits smiling at his side; How Joe, in spite of time's disguise, Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes,-- Those calm, stern eyes that melt and fill As Joe looks fondly up at Bill.

Ah, pensive scholar, what is fame? A fitful tongue of leaping flame; A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust, That lifts a pinch of mortal dust; A few swift years, and who can show Which dust was Bill and which was Joe?

The weary idol takes his stand, Holds out his bruised and aching hand, While gaping thousands come and go,-- How vain it seems, this empty show! Till all at once his pulses thrill;-- 'T is poor old Joe's "God bless you, Bill!"

And shall we breathe in happier spheres The names that pleased our mortal ears; In some sweet lull of harp and song For earth-born spirits none too long, Just whispering of the world below Where this was Bill and that was Joe?

No matter; while our home is here No sounding name is half so dear; When fades at length our lingering day, Who cares what pompous tombstones say? Read on the hearts that love us still, _Hic jacet_ Joe. _Hic jacet_ Bill.

A SONG OF "TWENTY-NINE"

1851

THE summer dawn is breaking On Auburn's tangled bowers, The golden light is waking On Harvard's ancient towers; The sun is in the sky That must see us do or die, Ere it shine on the line Of the CLASS OF '29.

At last the day is ended, The tutor screws no more, By doubt and fear attended Each hovers round the door, Till the good old Praeses cries, While the tears stand in his eyes, "You have passed, and are classed With the Boys of '29."

Not long are they in making The college halls their own, Instead of standing shaking, Too bashful to be known; But they kick the Seniors' shins Ere the second week begins, When they stray in the way Of the BOYS OF '29.

If a jolly set is trolling The last _Der Freischutz_ airs, Or a "cannon bullet" rolling Comes bouncing down the stairs, The tutors, looking out, Sigh, "Alas! there is no doubt, 'T is the noise of the Boys Of the CLASS OF '29."

Four happy years together, By storm and sunshine tried, In changing wind and weather, They rough it side by side, Till they hear their Mother cry, "You are fledged, and you must fly," And the bell tolls the knell Of the days of '29.

Since then, in peace or trouble, Full many a year has rolled, And life has counted double The days that then we told; Yet we'll end as we've begun, For though scattered, we are one, While each year sees us here, Round the board of '29.

Though fate may throw between us The mountains or the sea, No time shall ever wean us, No distance set us free; But around the yearly board, When the flaming pledge is poured, It shall claim every name On the roll of '29.

To yonder peaceful ocean That glows with sunset fires, Shall reach the warm emotion This welcome day inspires, Beyond the ridges cold Where a brother toils for gold, Till it shine through the mine Round the Boy of '29.

If one whom fate has broken Shall lift a moistened eye, We'll say, before he 's spoken-- "Old Classmate, don't you cry! Here, take the purse I hold, There 's a tear upon the gold-- It was mine-it is thine-- A'n't we BOYS OF '29?"

As nearer still and nearer The fatal stars appear, The living shall be dearer With each encircling year, Till a few old men shall say, "We remember 't is the day-- Let it pass with a glass For the CLASS OF '29."

As one by one is falling Beneath the leaves or snows, Each memory still recalling, The broken ring shall close, Till the nightwinds softly pass O'er the green and growing grass, Where it waves on the graves Of the BOYS OF '29!

QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS

1852

WHERE, oh where are the visions of morning, Fresh as the dews of our prime? Gone, like tenants that quit without warning, Down the back entry of time.

Where, oh where are life's lilies and roses, Nursed in the golden dawn's smile? Dead as the bulrushes round little Moses, On the old banks of the Nile.

Where are the Marys, and Anns, and Elizas, Loving and lovely of yore? Look in the columns of old Advertisers,-- Married and dead by the score.

Where the gray colts and the ten-year-old fillies, Saturday's triumph and joy? Gone, like our friend πόδας ωκύς Achilles, Homer's ferocious old boy.

Die-away dreams of ecstatic emotion, Hopes like young eagles at play, Vows of unheard-of and endless devotion, How ye have faded away!

Yet, through the ebbing of Time's mighty river Leave our young blossoms to die, Let him roll smooth in his current forever, Till the last pebble is dry.

AN IMPROMPTU

Not premeditated

1853

THE clock has struck noon; ere it thrice tell the hours We shall meet round the table that blushes with flowers, And I shall blush deeper with shame-driven blood That I came to the banquet and brought not a bud.

Who cares that his verse is a beggar in art If you see through its rags the full throb of his heart? Who asks if his comrade is battered and tanned When he feels his warm soul in the clasp of his hand?

No! be it an epic, or be it a line, The Boys will all love it because it is mine; I sung their last song on the morn of the day That tore from their lives the last blossom of May.

It is not the sunset that glows in the wine, But the smile that beams over it, makes it divine; I scatter these drops, and behold, as they fall, The day-star of memory shines through them all!

And these are the last; they are drops that I stole From a wine-press that crushes the life from the soul, But they ran through my heart and they sprang to my brain Till our twentieth sweet summer was smiling again!

THE OLD MAN DREAMS

1854

OH for one hour of youthful joy! Give back my twentieth spring! I'd rather laugh, a bright-haired boy, Than reign, a gray-beard king.

Off with the spoils of wrinkled age! Away with Learning's crown! Tear out life's Wisdom-written page, And dash its trophies down!

One moment let my life-blood stream From boyhood's fount of flame! Give me one giddy, reeling dream Of life all love and fame.

My listening angel heard the prayer, And, calmly smiling, said, "If I but touch thy silvered hair Thy hasty wish hath sped.

"But is there nothing in thy track, To bid thee fondly stay, While the swift seasons hurry back To find the wished-for day?"

"Ah, truest soul of womankind! Without thee what were life? One bliss I cannot leave behind: I'll take--my--precious--wife!"

The angel took a sapphire pen And wrote in rainbow dew, _The man would be a boy again, And be a husband too!_

"And is there nothing yet unsaid, Before the change appears? Remember, all their gifts have fled With those dissolving years."

"Why, yes;" for memory would recall My fond paternal joys; "I could not bear to leave them all I'll take--my--girl--and--boys."

The smiling angel dropped his pen,-- "Why, this will never do; The man would be a boy again, And be a father too!"

And so I laughed,--my laughter woke The household with its noise,-- And wrote my dream, when morning broke, To please the gray-haired boys.

REMEMBER--FORGET

1855

AND what shall be the song to-night, If song there needs must be? If every year that brings us here Must steal an hour from me? Say, shall it ring a merry peal, Or heave a mourning sigh O'er shadows cast, by years long past, On moments flitting by?

Nay, take the first unbidden line The idle hour may send, No studied grace can mend the face That smiles as friend on friend; The balsam oozes from the pine, The sweetness from the rose, And so, unsought, a kindly thought Finds language as it flows.

The years rush by in sounding flight, I hear their ceaseless wings; Their songs I hear, some far, some near, And thus the burden rings "The morn has fled, the noon has past, The sun will soon be set, The twilight fade to midnight shade; Remember-and Forget!"

Remember all that time has brought-- The starry hope on high, The strength attained, the courage gained, The love that cannot die. Forget the bitter, brooding thought,-- The word too harshly said, The living blame love hates to name, The frailties of the dead!

We have been younger, so they say, But let the seasons roll, He doth not lack an almanac Whose youth is in his soul. The snows may clog life's iron track, But does the axle tire, While bearing swift through bank and drift The engine's heart of fire?

I lift a goblet in my hand; If good old wine it hold, An ancient skin to keep it in Is just the thing, we 're told. We 're grayer than the dusty flask,-- We 're older than our wine; Our corks reveal the "white top" seal, The stamp of '29.

Ah, Boys! we clustered in the dawn, To sever in the dark; A merry crew, with loud halloo, We climbed our painted bark; We sailed her through the four years' cruise, We 'll sail her to the last, Our dear old flag, though but a rag, Still flying on her mast.

So gliding on, each winter's gale Shall pipe us all on deck, Till, faint and few, the gathering crew Creep o'er the parting wreck, Her sails and streamers spread aloft To fortune's rain or shine, Till storm or sun shall all be one, And down goes TWENTY-NINE!

OUR INDIAN SUMMER

1856

You 'll believe me, dear boys, 't is a pleasure to rise, With a welcome like this in your darling old eyes; To meet the same smiles and to hear the same tone Which have greeted me oft in the years that have flown.

Were I gray as the grayest old rat in the wall, My locks would turn brown at the sight of you all; If my heart were as dry as the shell on the sand, It would fill like the goblet I hold in my hand.

There are noontides of autumn when summer returns. Though the leaves are all garnered and sealed in their urns, And the bird on his perch, that was silent so long, Believes the sweet sunshine and breaks into song.

We have caged the young birds of our beautiful June; Their plumes are still bright and their voices in tune; One moment of sunshine from faces like these And they sing as they sung in the green-growing trees.

The voices of morning! how sweet is their thrill When the shadows have turned, and the evening grows still! The text of our lives may get wiser with age, But the print was so fair on its twentieth page!

Look off from your goblet and up from your plate, Come, take the last journal, and glance at its date: Then think what we fellows should say and should do, If the 6 were a 9 and the 5 were a 2.

Ah, no! for the shapes that would meet with as here, From the far land of shadows, are ever too dear! Though youth flung around us its pride and its charms, We should see but the comrades we clasped in our arms.

A health to our future--a sigh for our past, We love, we remember, we hope to the last; And for all the base lies that the almanacs hold, While we've youth in our hearts we can never grow old!

MARE RUBRUM

1858

FLASH out a stream of blood-red wine, For I would drink to other days, And brighter shall their memory shine, Seen flaming through its crimson blaze! The roses die, the summers fade, But every ghost of boyhood's dream By nature's magic power is laid To sleep beneath this blood-red stream!

It filled the purple grapes that lay, And drank the splendors of the sun, Where the long summer's cloudless day Is mirrored in the broad Garonne; It pictures still the bacchant shapes That saw their hoarded sunlight shed,-- The maidens dancing on the grapes,-- Their milk-white ankles splashed with red.

Beneath these waves of crimson lie, In rosy fetters prisoned fast, Those flitting shapes that never die,-- The swift-winged visions of the past. Kiss but the crystal's mystic rim, Each shadow rends its flowery chain, Springs in a bubble from its brim, And walks the chambers of the brain.

Poor beauty! Time and fortune's wrong No shape nor feature may withstand; Thy wrecks are scattered all along, Like emptied sea-shells on the sand; Yet, sprinkled with this blushing rain, The dust restores each blooming girl, As if the sea-shells moved again Their glistening lips of pink and pearl.

Here lies the home of school-boy life, With creaking stair and wind-swept hall, And, scarred by many a truant knife, Our old initials on the wall; Here rest, their keen vibrations mute, The shout of voices known so well, The ringing laugh, the wailing flute, The chiding of the sharp-tongued bell.

Here, clad in burning robes, are laid Life's blossomed joys, untimely shed, And here those cherished forms have strayed We miss awhile, and call them dead. What wizard fills the wondrous glass? What soil the enchanted clusters grew? That buried passions wake and pass In beaded drops of fiery dew?

Nay, take the cup of blood-red wine,-- Our hearts can boast a warmer glow, Filled from a vintage more divine, Calmed, but not chilled, by winter's snow! To-night the palest wave we sip Rich as the priceless draught shall be That wet the bride of Cana's lip,-- The wedding wine of Galilee!

THE BOYS

1859

HAS there any old fellow got mixed with the boys? If there has, take him out, without making a noise. Hang the Almanac's cheat and the Catalogue's spite! Old Time is a liar! We're twenty to-night!

We're twenty! We're twenty! Who says we are more? He's tipsy,--young jackanapes!--show him the door! "Gray temples at twenty?"--Yes! white if we please; Where the snow-flakes fall thickest there's nothing can freeze!

Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake! Look close,--you will see not a sign of a flake! We want some new garlands for those we have shed,-- And these are white roses in place of the red.

We've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told, Of talking (in public) as if we were old:-- That boy we call "Doctor," and this we call "Judge;" It 's a neat little fiction,--of course it 's all fudge.

That fellow's the "Speaker,"--the one on the right; "Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night? That's our "Member of Congress," we say when we chaff; There's the "Reverend" What's his name?--don't make me laugh.

That boy with the grave mathematical look Made believe he had written a wonderful book, And the ROYAL SOCIETY thought it was _true_! So they chose him right in; a good joke it was, too!

There's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain, That could harness a team with a logical chain; When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire, We called him "The Justice," but now he's "The Squire."

And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith,-- Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith; But he shouted a song for the brave and the free,-- Just read on his medal, "My country," "of thee!"

You hear that boy laughing?--You think he's all fun; But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done; The children laugh loud as they troop to his call, And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all!

Yes, we 're boys,--always playing with tongue or with pen,-- And I sometimes have asked,--Shall we ever be men? Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, and gay, Till the last dear companion drops smiling away?

Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray! The stars of its winter, the dews of its May! And when we have done with our life-lasting toys, Dear Father, take care of thy children, THE BOYS!

LINES

1860

I 'm ashamed,--that 's the fact,--it 's a pitiful case,-- Won't any kind classmate get up in my place? Just remember how often I've risen before,-- I blush as I straighten my legs on the floor!

There are stories, once pleasing, too many times told,-- There are beauties once charming, too fearfully old,-- There are voices we've heard till we know them so well, Though they talked for an hour they'd have nothing to tell.

Yet, Classmates! Friends! Brothers! Dear blessed old boys! Made one by a lifetime of sorrows and joys, What lips have such sounds as the poorest of these, Though honeyed, like Plato's, by musical bees?

What voice is so sweet and what greeting so dear As the simple, warm welcome that waits for us here? The love of our boyhood still breathes in its tone, And our hearts throb the answer, "He's one of our own!"

Nay! count not our numbers; some sixty we know, But these are above, and those under the snow; And thoughts are still mingled wherever we meet For those we remember with those that we greet.

We have rolled on life's journey,--how fast and how far! One round of humanity's many-wheeled car, But up-hill and down-hill, through rattle and rub, Old, true Twenty-niners! we've stuck to our hub!

While a brain lives to think, or a bosom to feel, We will cling to it still like the spokes of a wheel! And age, as it chills us, shall fasten the tire That youth fitted round in his circle of fire!

A VOICE OF THE LOYAL NORTH

1861

JANUARY THIRD

WE sing "Our Country's" song to-night With saddened voice and eye; Her banner droops in clouded light Beneath the wintry sky. We'll pledge her once in golden wine Before her stars have set Though dim one reddening orb may shine, We have a Country yet.

'T were vain to sigh o'er errors past, The fault of sires or sons; Our soldier heard the threatening blast, And spiked his useless guns; He saw the star-wreathed ensign fall, By mad invaders torn; But saw it from the bastioned wall That laughed their rage to scorn!

What though their angry cry is flung Across the howling wave,-- They smite the air with idle tongue The gathering storm who brave; Enough of speech! the trumpet rings; Be silent, patient, calm,-- God help them if the tempest swings The pine against the palm!

Our toilsome years have made us tame; Our strength has slept unfelt; The furnace-fire is slow to flame That bids our ploughshares melt; 'T is hard to lose the bread they win In spite of Nature's frowns,-- To drop the iron threads we spin That weave our web of towns,

To see the rusting turbines stand Before the emptied flumes, To fold the arms that flood the land With rivers from their looms,-- But harder still for those who learn The truth forgot so long; When once their slumbering passions burn, The peaceful are the strong!

The Lord have mercy on the weak, And calm their frenzied ire, And save our brothers ere they shriek, "We played with Northern fire!" The eagle hold his mountain height,-- The tiger pace his den Give all their country, each his right! God keep us all! Amen!

J. D. R.

1862

THE friends that are, and friends that were, What shallow waves divide! I miss the form for many a year Still seated at my side.

I miss him, yet I feel him still Amidst our faithful band, As if not death itself could chill The warmth of friendship's hand.

His story other lips may tell,-- For me the veil is drawn; I only knew he loved me well, He loved me--and is gone!

VOYAGE OF THE GOOD SHIP UNION

1862

'T is midnight: through my troubled dream Loud wails the tempest's cry; Before the gale, with tattered sail, A ship goes plunging by. What name? Where bound?--The rocks around Repeat the loud halloo. --The good ship Union, Southward bound: God help her and her crew!

And is the old flag flying still That o'er your fathers flew, With bands of white and rosy light, And field of starry blue? --Ay! look aloft! its folds full oft Have braved the roaring blast, And still shall fly when from the sky This black typhoon has past!

Speak, pilot of the storm-tost bark! May I thy peril share? --O landsman, there are fearful seas The brave alone may dare! --Nay, ruler of the rebel deep, What matters wind or wave? The rocks that wreck your reeling deck Will leave me naught to save!

O landsman, art thou false or true? What sign hast thou to show? --The crimson stains from loyal veins That hold my heart-blood's flow --Enough! what more shall honor claim? I know the sacred sign; Above thy head our flag shall spread, Our ocean path be thine!

The bark sails on; the Pilgrim's Cape Lies low along her lee, Whose headland crooks its anchor-flukes To lock the shore and sea. No treason here! it cost too dear To win this barren realm And true and free the hands must be That hold the whaler's helm!

Still on! Manhattan's narrowing bay No rebel cruiser scars; Her waters feel no pirate's keel That flaunts the fallen stars! --But watch the light on yonder height,-- Ay, pilot, have a care! Some lingering cloud in mist may shroud The capes of Delaware!

Say, pilot, what this fort may be, Whose sentinels look down From moated walls that show the sea Their deep embrasures' frown? The Rebel host claims all the coast, But these are friends, we know, Whose footprints spoil the "sacred soil," And this is?--Fort Monroe!

The breakers roar,--how bears the shore? --The traitorous wreckers' hands Have quenched the blaze that poured its rays Along the Hatteras sands. --Ha! say not so! I see its glow! Again the shoals display The beacon light that shines by night, The Union Stars by day!

The good ship flies to milder skies, The wave more gently flows, The softening breeze wafts o'er the seas The breath of Beaufort's rose. What fold is this the sweet winds kiss, Fair-striped and many-starred, Whose shadow palls these orphaned walls, The twins of Beauregard?

What! heard you not Port Royal's doom? How the black war-ships came And turned the Beaufort roses' bloom To redder wreaths of flame? How from Rebellion's broken reed We saw his emblem fall, As soon his cursed poison-weed Shall drop from Sumter's wall?

On! on! Pulaski's iron hail Falls harmless on Tybee! The good ship feels the freshening gales, She strikes the open sea; She rounds the point, she threads the keys That guard the Land of Flowers, And rides at last where firm and fast Her own Gibraltar towers!