The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes, Complete - Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.
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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?"
Poor old soul! my sides were shaking in the midst of all my quaking,
To hear her talk of Indians when the guns began to roar:
She had seen the burning village, and the slaughter and the pillage,
When the Mohawks killed her father with their bullets through his door.
Then I said, "Now, dear old granny, don't you fret and worry any,
For I'll soon come back and tell you whether this is work or play;
There can't be mischief in it, so I won't be gone a minute"--
For a minute then I started. I was gone the live-long day.
No time for bodice-lacing or for looking-glass grimacing;
Down my hair went as I hurried, tumbling half-way to my heels;
God forbid your ever knowing, when there's blood around her flowing,
How the lonely, helpless daughter of a quiet house-hold feels!
In the street I heard a thumping; and I knew it was the stumping
Of the Corporal, our old neighbor, on that wooden leg he wore,
With a knot of women round him,-it was lucky I had found him,
So I followed with the others, and the Corporal marched before.
They were making for the steeple,--the old soldier and his people;
The pigeons circled round us as we climbed the creaking stair.
Just across the narrow river--oh, so close it made me shiver!--
Stood a fortress on the hill-top that but yesterday was bare.
Not slow our eyes to find it; well we knew who stood behind it,
Though the earthwork hid them from us, and the stubborn walls were dumb
Here were sister, wife, and mother, looking wild upon each other,
And their lips were white with terror as they said, THE HOUR HAS COME!
The morning slowly wasted, not a morsel had we tasted,
And our heads were almost splitting with the cannons' deafening thrill,
When a figure tall and stately round the rampart strode sedately;
It was PRESCOTT, one since told me; he commanded on the hill.
Every woman's heart grew bigger when we saw his manly figure,
With the banyan buckled round it, standing up so straight and tall;
Like a gentleman of leisure who is strolling out for pleasure,
Through the storm of shells and cannon-shot he walked around the wall.
At eleven the streets were swarming, for the red-coats' ranks were
forming;
At noon in marching order they were moving to the piers;
How the bayonets gleamed and glistened, as we looked far down, and
listened
To the trampling and the drum-beat of the belted grenadiers!
At length the men have started, with a cheer (it seemed faint-hearted),
In their scarlet regimentals, with their knapsacks on their backs,
And the reddening, rippling water, as after a sea-fight's slaughter,
Round the barges gliding onward blushed like blood along their tracks.
So they crossed to the other border, and again they formed in order;
And the boats came back for soldiers, came for soldiers, soldiers still:
The time seemed everlasting to us women faint and fasting,--
At last they're moving, marching, marching proudly up the hill.
We can see the bright steel glancing all along the lines advancing,--
Now the front rank fires a volley,--they have thrown away their shot;
For behind their earthwork lying, all the balls above them flying,
Our people need not hurry; so they wait and answer not.
Then the Corporal, our old cripple (he would swear sometimes and tipple),
He had heard the bullets whistle (in the old French war) before,--
Calls out in words of jeering, just as if they all were hearing,--
And his wooden leg thumps fiercely on the dusty belfry floor:--
"Oh! fire away, ye villains, and earn King George's shillin's,
But ye 'll waste a ton of powder afore a 'rebel' falls;
You may bang the dirt and welcome, they're as safe as Dan'l Malcolm
Ten foot beneath the gravestone that you've splintered with your balls!"
In the hush of expectation, in the awe and trepidation
Of the dread approaching moment, we are well-nigh breathless all;
Though the rotten bars are failing on the rickety belfry railing,
We are crowding up against them like the waves against a wall.
Just a glimpse (the air is clearer), they are nearer,--nearer,--nearer,
When a flash--a curling smoke-wreath--then a crash--the steeple shakes--
The deadly truce is ended; the tempest's shroud is rended;
Like a morning mist it gathered, like a thunder-cloud it breaks!
Oh the sight our eyes discover as the blue-black smoke blows over!
The red-coats stretched in windrows as a mower rakes his hay;
Here a scarlet heap is lying, there a headlong crowd is flying
Like a billow that has broken and is shivered into spray.
Then we cried, "The troops are routed! they are beat--it can't be
doubted!
God be thanked, the fight is over!"--Ah! the grim old soldier's smile!
"Tell us, tell us why you look so?" (we could hardly speak, we shook so),
"Are they beaten? Are they beaten? ARE they beaten?"--"Wait a while."
Oh the trembling and the terror! for too soon we saw our error:
They are baffled, not defeated; we have driven them back in vain;
And the columns that were scattered, round the colors that were tattered,
Toward the sullen, silent fortress turn their belted breasts again.
All at once, as we are gazing, lo the roofs of Charlestown blazing!
They have fired the harmless village; in an hour it will be down!
The Lord in heaven confound them, rain his fire and brimstone round them,
The robbing, murdering red-coats, that would burn a peaceful town!
They are marching, stern and solemn; we can see each massive column
As they near the naked earth-mound with the slanting walls so steep.
Have our soldiers got faint-hearted, and in noiseless haste departed?
Are they panic-struck and helpless? Are they palsied or asleep?
Now! the walls they're almost under! scarce a rod the foes asunder!
Not a firelock flashed against them! up the earth-work they will swarm!
But the words have scarce been spoken, when the ominous calm is broken,
And a bellowing crash has emptied all the vengeance of the storm!
So again, with murderous slaughter, pelted backwards to the water,
Fly Pigot's running heroes and the frightened braves of Howe;
And we shout, "At last they're done for, it's their barges they have run
for:
They are beaten, beaten, beaten; and the battle 's over now!"
And we looked, poor timid creatures, on the rough old soldier's features,
Our lips afraid to question, but he knew what we would ask:
"Not sure," he said; "keep quiet,--once more, I guess, they 'll try it--
Here's damnation to the cut-throats!"--then he handed me his flask,
Saying, "Gal, you're looking shaky; have a drop of old Jamaiky;
I 'm afeard there 'll be more trouble afore the job is done";
So I took one scorching swallow; dreadful faint I felt and hollow,
Standing there from early morning when the firing was begun.
All through those hours of trial I had watched a calm clock dial,
As the hands kept creeping, creeping,--they were creeping round to four,
When the old man said, "They're forming with their bagonets fixed for
storming:
It 's the death-grip that's a coming,--they will try the works once
more."
With brazen trumpets blaring, the flames behind them glaring,
The deadly wall before them, in close array they come;
Still onward, upward toiling, like a dragon's fold uncoiling,--
Like the rattlesnake's shrill warning the reverberating drum.
Over heaps all torn and gory--shall I tell the fearful story,
How they surged above the breastwork, as a sea breaks over a deck;
How, driven, yet scarce defeated, our worn-out men retreated,
With their powder-horns all emptied, like the swimmers from a wreck?
It has all been told and painted; as for me, they say I fainted,
And the wooden-legged old Corporal stumped with me down the stair:
When I woke from dreams affrighted the evening lamps were lighted,--
On the floor a youth was lying; his bleeding breast was bare.
And I heard through all the flurry, "Send for WARREN! hurry! hurry!
Tell him here's a soldier bleeding, and he 'll come and dress his
wound!"
Ah, we knew not till the morrow told its tale of death and sorrow,
How the starlight found him stiffened on the dark and bloody ground.
Who the youth was, what his name was, where the place from which he came
was,
Who had brought him from the battle, and had left him at our door,
He could not speak to tell us; but 't was one of our brave fellows,
As the homespun plainly showed us which the dying soldier wore.
For they all thought he was dying, as they gathered round him crying,--
And they said, "Oh, how they'll miss him!" and, "What will his mother
do?"
Then, his eyelids just unclosing like a child's that has been dozing,
He faintly murmured, "Mother!"--and--I saw his eyes were blue.
"Why, grandma, how you 're winking!" Ah, my child, it sets me thinking
Of a story not like this one. Well, he somehow lived along;
So we came to know each other, and I nursed him like a--mother,
Till at last he stood before me, tall, and rosy-checked, and strong.
And we sometimes walked together in the pleasant summer weather,--
"Please to tell us what his name was?" Just your own, my little dear,--
There's his picture Copley painted: we became so well acquainted,
That--in short, that's why I 'm grandma, and you children all are here!