The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes, Complete - Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.
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THE POETICAL WORKS
OF
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
[1893 three volume set]
CONTENTS:
TO MY READERS
EARLIER POEMS (1830-1836).
OLD IRONSIDES
THE LAST LEAF
THE CAMBRIDGE CHURCHYARD
TO AN INSECT
THE DILEMMA
MY AUNT
REFLECTIONS OF A PROUD PEDESTRIAN
DAILY TRIALS, BY A SENSITIVE MAN
EVENING, BY A TAILOR
THE DORCHESTER GIANT
TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A LADY"
THE COMET
THE Music-GRINDERS
THE TREADMILL SONG
THE SEPTEMBER GALE
THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS
THE LAST READER
POETRY: A METRICAL ESSAY
ADDITIONAL POEMS (1837-1848):
THE PILGRIM'S VISION
THE STEAMBOAT
LEXINGTON
ON LENDING A PUNCH BOWL
A SONG FOR THE CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION OF HARVARD COLLEGE,
THE ISLAND HUNTING-SONG
DEPARTED DAYS
THE ONLY DAUGHTER
SONG WRITTEN FOR THE DINNER GIVEN TO CHARLES
DICKENS, BY THE YOUNG MEN OF BOSTON, FEBRUARY 1, 1842
LINES RECITED AT THE BERKSHIRE JUBILEE
NUX POSTCOENATICA
VERSES FOR AFTER-DINNER
A MODEST REQUEST, COMPLIED WITH AFTER THE
DINNER AT PRESIDENT EVERETT'S INAUGURATION
THE PARTING WORD
A SONG OF OTHER DAYS
SONG FOR A TEMPERANCE DINNER TO WHICH LADIES WERE INVITED
(NEW YORK MERCANTILE LIBRARY ASSOCIATION, NOVEMBER, 1842)
A SENTIMENT
A RHYMED LESSON (URANIA)
AN AFTER-DINNER POEM (TERPSICHORE)
MEDICAL POEMS:
THE MORNING VISIT
THE TWO ARMIES
THE STETHOSCOPE SONG
EXTRACTS FROM A MEDICAL POEM
A POEM FOR THE MEETING OF THE AMERICAN MEDICAL ASSOCIATION
AT NEW YORK, MAY 5, 1853
A SENTIMENT
RIP VAN WINKLE, M. D.
SONGS IN MANY KEYS (1849-1861)
PROLOGUE
AGNES
THE PLOUGHMAN
SPRING
THE STUDY
THE BELLS
NON-RESISTANCE
THE MORAL BULLY
THE MIND'S DIET
OUR LIMITATIONS
THE OLD PLAYER
A POEM DEDICATION OF THE PITTSFIELD CEMETERY, SEPTEMBER 9,1850
TO GOVERNOR SWAIN
TO AN ENGLISH FRIEND
AFTER A LECTURE ON WORDSWORTH
AFTER A LECTURE ON MOORE
AFTER A LECTURE ON KEATS
AFTER A LECTURE ON SHELLEY
AT THE CLOSE OF A COURSE OF LECTURES
THE HUDSON
THE NEW EDEN
SEMI-CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION OF THE NEW ENGLAND SOCIETY,
NEW YORK, DECEMBER 22,1855
FAREWELL TO J. R. LOWELL
FOR THE MEETING OF THE BURNS CLUB, 1856
ODE FOR WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY
BIRTHDAY OF DANIEL WEBSTER
THE VOICELESS
THE TWO STREAMS
THE PROMISE
AVIS
THE LIVING TEMPLE
AT A BIRTHDAY FESTIVAL: TO J. R. LOWELL
A BIRTHDAY TRIBUTE TO J. F. CLARKE
THE GRAY CHIEF
THE LAST LOOK: W. W. SWAIN
IN MEMORY OF CHARLES WENTWORTH UPHAM, JR.
MARTHA
MEETING OF THE ALUMNI OF HARVARD COLLEGE
THE PARTING SONG
FOR THE MEETING OF THE NATIONAL SANITARY ASSOCIATION
FOR THE BURNS CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION,
AT A MEETING OF FRIENDS
BOSTON COMMON: THREE PICTURES
THE OLD MAN OF THE SEA
INTERNATIONAL ODE
VIVE LA FRANCE
BROTHER JONATHAN'S LAMENT FOR SISTER CAROLINE
NOTES
[Volume 2 of the 1893 three volume set]
CONTENTS:
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 FROM THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST-TABLE (1857-1858)
THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS
SUN AND SHADOW
MUSA
A PARTING HEALTH: To J. L. MOTLEY
WHAT WE ALL THINK
SPRING HAS COME
PROLOGUE
LATTER-DAY WARNINGS
ALBUM VERSES
A GOOD TIME GOING!
THE LAST BLOSSOM
CONTENTMENT
AESTIVATION
THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE; OR, THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSE SHAY"
PARSON TURELL'S LEGACY; OR, THE PRESIDENT'S OLD ARM-CHAIR
ODE FOR A SOCIAL MEETING, WITH SLIGHT ALTERATIONS BY A TEETOTALER
POEMS FROM THE PROFESSOR AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE (1858-1859)
UNDER THE VIOLETS
HYMN OF TRUST
A SUN-DAY HYMN
THE CROOKED FOOTPATH
IRIS, HER BOOK
ROBINSON OF LEYDEN
ST ANTHONY THE REFORMER
THE OPENING OF THE PIANO
MIDSUMMER
DE SAUTY
POEMS FROM THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE (1871-1872)
HOMESICK IN HEAVEN
FANTASIA
AUNT TABITHA
WIND-CLOUDS AND STAR-DRIFTS
EPILOGUE TO THE BREAKFAST-TABLE SERIES
SONGS OF MANY SEASONS (1862-1874)
OPENING THE WINDOW
PROGRAMME
IN THE QUIET DAYS
AN OLD-YEAR SONG
DOROTHY Q: A FAMILY PORTRAIT
THE ORGAN-BLOWER
AT THE PANTOMIME
AFTER THE FIRE
A BALLAD OF THE BOSTON TEA-PARTY
NEARING THE SNOW-LINE
IN WAR TIME
TO CANAAN: A PURITAN WAR-SONG
"THUS SAITH THE LORD, I OFFER THEE THREE THINGS"
NEVER OR NOW
ONE COUNTRY
GOD SAVE THE FLAG!
HYMN AFTER THE EMANCIPATION PROCLAMATION
HYMN FOR THE FAIR AT CHICAGO
UNDER THE WASHINGTON ELM, CAMBRIDGE
FREEDOM, OUR QUEEN
ARMY HYMN
PARTING HYMN
THE FLOWER OF LIBERTY
THE SWEET LITTLE MAN
UNION AND LIBERTY
SONGS OF WELCOME AND FAREWELL
AMERICA TO RUSSIA
WELCOME TO THE GRAND DUKE ALEXIS
AT THE BANQUET TO THE GRAND DUKE ALEXIS
AT THE BANQUET TO THE CHINESE EMBASSY
AT THE BANQUET TO THE JAPANESE EMBASSY
BRYANT'S SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY
A FAREWELL TO AGASSIZ
AT A DINNER TO ADMIRAL FARRAGUT
AT A DINNER TO GENERAL GRANT
To H W LONGFELLOW
To CHRISTIAN GOTTFRIED EHRENBERG
A TOAST TO WILKIE COLLINS
MEMORIAL VERSES
FOR THE SERVICES IN MEMORY OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN, BOSTON, 1865
FOR THE COMMEMORATION SERVICES, CAMBRIDGE JULY 21, 1865
EDWARD EVERETT: JANUARY 30, 1865
SHAKESPEARE TERCENTENNIAL CELEBRATION, APRIL 23, 1864
IN MEMORY OF JOHN AND ROBERT WARE, MAY 25, 1864
HUMBOLDT'S BIRTHDAY: CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION, SEPTEMBER 14, 1869
POEM AT THE DEDICATION OF THE HALLECK MONUMENT, JULY 8, 1869
HYMN FOR THE CELEBRATION AT THE LAYING OF THE CORNER-STONE OF
HARVARD MEMORIAL HALL, CAMBRIDGE, OCTOBER 6, 1870
HYMN FOR THE DEDICATION OF MEMORIAL HALL AT CAMBRIDGE, 1874
HYMN AT THE FUNERAL SERVICES OF CHARLES SUMNER, APRIL 29, 1874
RHYMES OF AN HOUR
ADDRESS FOR THE OPENING OF THE FIFTH AVENUE THEATRE, N. Y. 1873
A SEA DIALOGUE
CHANSON WITHOUT MUSIC
FOR THE CENTENNIAL DINNER, PROPRIETORS OF BOSTON PIER, 1873
A POEM SERVED TO ORDER
THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH
No TIME LIKE THE OLD TIME
A HYMN OF PEACE, TO THE MUSIC OF KELLER'S "AMERICAN HYMN"
NOTES
[Volume 3 of the 1893 three volume set]
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
TO MY READERS
NAY, blame me not; I might have spared
Your patience many a trivial verse,
Yet these my earlier welcome shared,
So, let the better shield the worse.
And some might say, "Those ruder songs
Had freshness which the new have lost;
To spring the opening leaf belongs,
The chestnut-burs await the frost."
When those I wrote, my locks were brown,
When these I write--ah, well a-day!
The autumn thistle's silvery down
Is not the purple bloom of May.
Go, little book, whose pages hold
Those garnered years in loving trust;
How long before your blue and gold
Shall fade and whiten in the dust?
O sexton of the alcoved tomb,
Where souls in leathern cerements lie,
Tell me each living poet's doom!
How long before his book shall die?
It matters little, soon or late,
A day, a month, a year, an age,--
I read oblivion in its date,
And Finis on its title-page.
Before we sighed, our griefs were told;
Before we smiled, our joys were sung;
And all our passions shaped of old
In accents lost to mortal tongue.
In vain a fresher mould we seek,--
Can all the varied phrases tell
That Babel's wandering children speak
How thrushes sing or lilacs smell?
Caged in the poet's lonely heart,
Love wastes unheard its tenderest tone;
The soul that sings must dwell apart,
Its inward melodies unknown.
Deal gently with us, ye who read
Our largest hope is unfulfilled,--
The promise still outruns the deed,--
The tower, but not the spire, we build.
Our whitest pearl we never find;
Our ripest fruit we never reach;
The flowering moments of the mind
Drop half their petals in our speech.
These are my blossoms; if they wear
One streak of morn or evening's glow,
Accept them; but to me more fair
The buds of song that never blow.
April 8, 1862.
EARLIER POEMS
1830-1836 OLD IRONSIDES
This was the popular name by which the frigate Constitution
was known. The poem was first printed in the Boston Daily
Advertiser, at the time when it was proposed to break up the
old ship as unfit for service. I subjoin the paragraph which
led to the writing of the poem. It is from the Advertiser of
Tuesday, September 14, 1830:--
"Old Ironsides.--It has been affirmed upon good authority
that the Secretary of the Navy has recommended to the Board of
Navy Commissioners to dispose of the frigate Constitution. Since
it has been understood that such a step was in contemplation we
have heard but one opinion expressed, and that in decided
disapprobation of the measure. Such a national object of interest,
so endeared to our national pride as Old Ironsides is, should
never by any act of our government cease to belong to the Navy,
so long as our country is to be found upon the map of nations.
In England it was lately determined by the Admiralty to cut the
Victory, a one-hundred gun ship (which it will be recollected bore
the flag of Lord Nelson at the battle of Trafalgar,) down to a
seventy-four, but so loud were the lamentations of the people upon
the proposed measure that the intention was abandoned. We
confidently anticipate that the Secretary of the Navy will in like
manner consult the general wish in regard to the Constitution, and
either let her remain in ordinary or rebuild her whenever the
public service may require."--New York Journal of Commerce.
The poem was an impromptu outburst of feeling and was published
on the next day but one after reading the above paragraph.
AY, tear her tattered ensign down
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky;
Beneath it rung the battle shout,
And burst the cannon's roar;--
The meteor of the ocean air
Shall sweep the clouds no more.
Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,
Where knelt the vanquished foe,
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,
And waves were white below,
No more shall feel the victor's tread,
Or know the conquered knee;--
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea!
Oh better that her shattered hulk
Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave;
Nail to the mast her holy flag,
Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the god of storms,
The lightning and the gale!
THE LAST LEAF
This poem was suggested by the appearance in one of our
streets of a venerable relic of the Revolution, said to be one
of the party who threw the tea overboard in Boston Harbor. He
was a fine monumental specimen in his cocked hat and knee
breeches, with his buckled shoes and his sturdy cane. The smile
with which I, as a young man, greeted him, meant no disrespect to
an honored fellow-citizen whose costume was out of date, but whose
patriotism never changed with years. I do not recall any earlier
example of this form of verse, which was commended by the fastidious
Edgar Allan Poe, who made a copy of the whole poem which I have
in his own handwriting. Good Abraham Lincoln had a great liking
for the poem, and repeated it from memory to Governor Andrew,
as the governor himself told me.
I SAW him once before,
As he passed by the door,
And again
The pavement stones resound,
As he totters o'er the ground
With his cane.
They say that in his prime,
Ere the pruning-knife of Time
Cut him down,
Not a better man was found
By the Crier on his round
Through the town.
But now he walks the streets,
And he looks at all he meets
Sad and wan,
And he shakes his feeble head,
That it seems as if he said,
"They are gone."
The mossy marbles rest
On the lips that he has prest
In their bloom,
And the names he loved to hear
Have been carved for many a year
On the tomb.
My grandmamma has said--
Poor old lady, she is dead
Long ago--
That he had a Roman nose,
And his cheek was like a rose
In the snow.
But now his nose is thin,
And it rests upon his chin
Like a staff,
And a crook is in his back,
And a melancholy crack
In his laugh.
I know it is a sin
For me to sit and grin
At him here;
But the old three-cornered hat,
And the breeches, and all that,
Are so queer!
And if I should live to be
The last leaf upon the tree
In the spring,
Let them smile, as I do now,
At the old forsaken bough
Where I cling.
THE CAMBRIDGE CHURCHYARD
OUR ancient church! its lowly tower,
Beneath the loftier spire,
Is shadowed when the sunset hour
Clothes the tall shaft in fire;
It sinks beyond the distant eye
Long ere the glittering vane,
High wheeling in the western sky,
Has faded o'er the plain.
Like Sentinel and Nun, they keep
Their vigil on the green;
One seems to guard, and one to weep,
The dead that lie between;
And both roll out, so full and near,
Their music's mingling waves,
They shake the grass, whose pennoned spear
Leans on the narrow graves.
The stranger parts the flaunting weeds,
Whose seeds the winds have strown
So thick, beneath the line he reads,
They shade the sculptured stone;
The child unveils his clustered brow,
And ponders for a while
The graven willow's pendent bough,
Or rudest cherub's smile.
But what to them the dirge, the knell?
These were the mourner's share,--
The sullen clang, whose heavy swell
Throbbed through the beating air;
The rattling cord, the rolling stone,
The shelving sand that slid,
And, far beneath, with hollow tone
Rung on the coffin's lid.
The slumberer's mound grows fresh and green,
Then slowly disappears;
The mosses creep, the gray stones lean,
Earth hides his date and years;
But, long before the once-loved name
Is sunk or worn away,
No lip the silent dust may claim,
That pressed the breathing clay.
Go where the ancient pathway guides,
See where our sires laid down
Their smiling babes, their cherished brides,
The patriarchs of the town;
Hast thou a tear for buried love?
A sigh for transient power?
All that a century left above,
Go, read it in an hour!
The Indian's shaft, the Briton's ball,
The sabre's thirsting edge,
The hot shell, shattering in its fall,
The bayonet's rending wedge,--
Here scattered death; yet, seek the spot,
No trace thine eye can see,
No altar,--and they need it not
Who leave their children free!
Look where the turbid rain-drops stand
In many a chiselled square;
The knightly crest, the shield, the brand
Of honored names were there;--
Alas! for every tear is dried
Those blazoned tablets knew,
Save when the icy marble's side
Drips with the evening dew.
Or gaze upon yon pillared stone,
The empty urn of pride;
There stand the Goblet and the Sun,--
What need of more beside?
Where lives the memory of the dead,
Who made their tomb a toy?
Whose ashes press that nameless bed?
Go, ask the village boy!
Lean o'er the slender western wall,
Ye ever-roaming girls;
The breath that bids the blossom fall
May lift your floating curls,
To sweep the simple lines that tell
An exile's date and doom;
And sigh, for where his daughters dwell,
They wreathe the stranger's tomb.
And one amid these shades was born,
Beneath this turf who lies,
Once beaming as the summer's morn,
That closed her gentle eyes;
If sinless angels love as we,
Who stood thy grave beside,
Three seraph welcomes waited thee,
The daughter, sister, bride.
I wandered to thy buried mound
When earth was hid below
The level of the glaring ground,
Choked to its gates with snow,
And when with summer's flowery waves
The lake of verdure rolled,
As if a Sultan's white-robed slaves
Had scattered pearls and gold.
Nay, the soft pinions of the air,
That lift this trembling tone,
Its breath of love may almost bear
To kiss thy funeral stone;
And, now thy smiles have passed away,
For all the joy they gave,
May sweetest dews and warmest ray
Lie on thine early grave!
When damps beneath and storms above
Have bowed these fragile towers,
Still o'er the graves yon locust grove
Shall swing its Orient flowers;
And I would ask no mouldering bust,
If e'er this humble line,
Which breathed a sigh o'er other's dust,
Might call a tear on mine.
TO AN INSECT
The Katydid is "a species of grasshopper found in the United
States, so called from the sound which it makes."--Worcester.
I used to hear this insect in Providence, Rhode Island, but I
do not remember hearing it in Cambridge, Massachusetts, where
I passed my boyhood. It is well known in other towns in the
neighborhood of Boston.
I LOVE to hear thine earnest voice,
Wherever thou art hid,
Thou testy little dogmatist,
Thou pretty Katydid
Thou mindest me of gentlefolks,--
Old gentlefolks are they,--
Thou say'st an undisputed thing
In such a solemn way.
Thou art a female, Katydid
I know it by the trill
That quivers through thy piercing notes,
So petulant and shrill;
I think there is a knot of you
Beneath the hollow tree,--
A knot of spinster Katydids,---
Do Katydids drink tea?
Oh tell me where did Katy live,
And what did Katy do?
And was she very fair and young,
And yet so wicked, too?
Did Katy love a naughty man,
Or kiss more cheeks than one?
I warrant Katy did no more
Than many a Kate has done.
Dear me! I'll tell you all about
My fuss with little Jane,
And Ann, with whom I used to walk
So often down the lane,
And all that tore their locks of black,
Or wet their eyes of blue,--
Pray tell me, sweetest Katydid,
What did poor Katy do?
Ah no! the living oak shall crash,
That stood for ages still,
The rock shall rend its mossy base
And thunder down the hill,
Before the little Katydid
Shall add one word, to tell
The mystic story of the maid
Whose name she knows so well.
Peace to the ever-murmuring race!
And when the latest one
Shall fold in death her feeble wings
Beneath the autumn sun,
Then shall she raise her fainting voice,
And lift her drooping lid,
And then the child of future years
Shall hear what Katy did.
THE DILEMMA
Now, by the blessed Paphian queen,
Who heaves the breast of sweet sixteen;
By every name I cut on bark
Before my morning star grew dark;
By Hymen's torch, by Cupid's dart,
By all that thrills the beating heart;
The bright black eye, the melting blue,--
I cannot choose between the two.
I had a vision in my dreams;--
I saw a row of twenty beams;
From every beam a rope was hung,
In every rope a lover swung;
I asked the hue of every eye
That bade each luckless lover die;
Ten shadowy lips said, heavenly blue,
And ten accused the darker hue.
I asked a matron which she deemed
With fairest light of beauty beamed;
She answered, some thought both were fair,--
Give her blue eyes and golden hair.
I might have liked her judgment well,
But, as she spoke, she rung the bell,
And all her girls, nor small nor few,
Came marching in,--their eyes were blue.
I asked a maiden; back she flung
The locks that round her forehead hung,
And turned her eye, a glorious one,
Bright as a diamond in the sun,
On me, until beneath its rays
I felt as if my hair would blaze;
She liked all eyes but eyes of green;
She looked at me; what could she mean?
Ah! many lids Love lurks between,
Nor heeds the coloring of his screen;
And when his random arrows fly,
The victim falls, but knows not why.
Gaze not upon his shield of jet,
The shaft upon the string is set;
Look not beneath his azure veil,
Though every limb were cased in mail.
Well, both might make a martyr break
The chain that bound him to the stake;
And both, with but a single ray,
Can melt our very hearts away;
And both, when balanced, hardly seem
To stir the scales, or rock the beam;
But that is dearest, all the while,
That wears for us the sweetest smile.