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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/7398.txt b/7398.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e0713dc --- /dev/null +++ b/7398.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1938 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell +Holmes, Vol. 11, by Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes, Vol. 11 + Poems From Over The Teacups + +Author: Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. + +Release Date: September 30, 2004 [EBook #7398] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POETRY OF HOLMES, VOL. 11 *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + + THE POETICAL WORKS + + OF + + OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES + + [Volume 3 of the 1893 three volume set] + + + + + POEMS FROM OVER THE TEACUPS + + + +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 + + + + +TO THE ELEVEN LADIES + +WHO PRESENTED ME WITH A SILVER LOVING CUP +ON THE TWENTY-NINTH OF AUGUST, M DCCC LXXXIX + +"WHO gave this cup?" The secret thou wouldst steal +Its brimming flood forbids it to reveal: +No mortal's eye shall read it till he first +Cool the red throat of thirst. + +If on the golden floor one draught remain, +Trust me, thy careful search will be in vain; +Not till the bowl is emptied shalt thou know +The names enrolled below. + +Deeper than Truth lies buried in her well +Those modest names the graven letters spell +Hide from the sight; but wait, and thou shalt see +Who the good angels be. + +Whose bounty glistens in the beauteous gift +That friendly hands to loving lips shall lift +Turn the fair goblet when its floor is dry,-- +Their names shall meet thine eye. + +Count thou their number on the beads of Heaven +Alas! the clustered Pleiads are but seven; +Nay, the nine sister Muses are too few,-- +The Graces must add two. + +"For whom this gift?" For one who all too long +Clings to his bough among the groves of song; +Autumn's last leaf, that spreads its faded wing +To greet a second spring. + +Dear friends, kind friends, whate'er the cup may hold, +Bathing its burnished depths, will change to gold +Its last bright drop let thirsty Maenads drain, +Its fragrance will remain. + +Better love's perfume in the empty bowl +Than wine's nepenthe for the aching soul; +Sweeter than song that ever poet sung, +It makes an old heart young! + + + + +THE PEAU DE CHAGRIN OF STATE STREET + +How beauteous is the bond +In the manifold array +Of its promises to pay, +While the eight per cent it gives +And the rate at which one lives +Correspond! + +But at last the bough is bare +Where the coupons one by one +Through their ripening days have run, +And the bond, a beggar now, +Seeks investment anyhow, +Anywhere! + + + + +CACOETHES SCRIBENDI + +IF all the trees in all the woods were men; +And each and every blade of grass a pen; +If every leaf on every shrub and tree +Turned to a sheet of foolscap; every sea +Were changed to ink, and all earth's living tribes +Had nothing else to do but act as scribes, +And for ten thousand ages, day and night, +The human race should write, and write, and write, +Till all the pens and paper were used up, +And the huge inkstand was an empty cup, +Still would the scribblers clustered round its brink +Call for more pens, more paper, and more ink. + + + + +THE ROSE AND THE FERN + +LADY, life's sweetest lesson wouldst thou learn, +Come thou with me to Love's enchanted bower +High overhead the trellised roses burn; +Beneath thy feet behold the feathery fern,-- +A leaf without a flower. + +What though the rose leaves fall? They still are sweet, +And have been lovely in their beauteous prime, +While the bare frond seems ever to repeat, +"For us no bud, no blossom, wakes to greet +The joyous flowering time!" + +Heed thou the lesson. Life has leaves to tread +And flowers to cherish; summer round thee glows; +Wait not till autumn's fading robes are shed, +But while its petals still are burning red +Gather life's full-blown rose! + + + + +I LIKE YOU AND I LOVE YOU + +I LIKE YOU Met I LOVE You, face to face; +The path was narrow, and they could not pass. +I LIKE YOU smiled; I LOVE YOU cried, Alas! +And so they halted for a little space. + +"Turn thou and go before," I LOVE YOU said, +"Down the green pathway, bright with many a flower; +Deep in the valley, lo! my bridal bower +Awaits thee." But I LIKE YOU shook his head. + +Then while they lingered on the span-wide shelf +That shaped a pathway round the rocky ledge, +I LIKE You bared his icy dagger's edge, +And first he slew I LOVE You,--then himself. + + + + +LA MAISON D'OR + +(BAR HARBOR) + +FROM this fair home behold on either side +The restful mountains or the restless sea +So the warm sheltering walls of life divide +Time and its tides from still eternity. + +Look on the waves: their stormy voices teach +That not on earth may toil and struggle cease. +Look on the mountains: better far than speech +Their silent promise of eternal peace. + + + + +TOO YOUNG FOR LOVE + +Too young for love? +Ah, say not so! +Tell reddening rose-buds not to blow +Wait not for spring to pass away,-- +Love's summer months begin with May! +Too young for love? +Ah, say not so! +Too young? Too young? +Ah, no! no! no! + +Too young for love? +Ah, say not so, +To practise all love learned in May. +June soon will come with lengthened day +While daisies bloom and tulips glow! + +Too young for love? +Ah, say not so! +Too young? Too young? +Ah, no! no! no! + + + + +THE BROOMSTICK TRAIN; OR, +THE RETURN OF THE WITCHES + +LOOK out! Look out, boys! Clear the track! +The witches are here! They've all come back! +They hanged them high,--No use! No use! +What cares a witch for a hangman's noose? +They buried them deep, but they wouldn't lie still, +For cats and witches are hard to kill; +They swore they shouldn't and wouldn't die,-- +Books said they did, but they lie! they lie! + +A couple of hundred years, or so, +They had knocked about in the world below, +When an Essex Deacon dropped in to call, +And a homesick feeling seized them all; +For he came from a place they knew full well, +And many a tale he had to tell. +They longed to visit the haunts of men, +To see the old dwellings they knew again, +And ride on their broomsticks all around +Their wide domain of unhallowed ground. + +In Essex county there's many a roof +Well known to him of the cloven hoof; +The small square windows are full in view +Which the midnight hags went sailing through, +On their well-trained broomsticks mounted high, +Seen like shadows against the sky; +Crossing the track of owls and bats, +Hugging before them their coal-black cats. + +Well did they know, those gray old wives, +The sights we see in our daily drives +Shimmer of lake and shine of sea, +Browne's bare hill with its lonely tree, +(It was n't then as we see it now, +With one scant scalp-lock to shade its brow;) +Dusky nooks in the Essex woods, +Dark, dim, Dante-like solitudes, +Where the tree-toad watches the sinuous snake +Glide through his forests of fern and brake; +Ipswich River; its old stone bridge; +Far off Andover's Indian Ridge, +And many a scene where history tells +Some shadow of bygone terror dwells,-- +Of "Norman's Woe" with its tale of dread, +Of the Screeching Woman of Marblehead, +(The fearful story that turns men pale +Don't bid me tell it,--my speech would fail.) + +Who would not, will not, if he can, +Bathe in the breezes of fair Cape Ann,-- +Rest in the bowers her bays enfold, +Loved by the sachems and squaws of old? +Home where the white magnolias bloom, +Sweet with the bayberry's chaste perfume, +Hugged by the woods and kissed by the sea! +Where is the Eden like to thee? +For that "couple of hundred years, or so," +There had been no peace in the world below; +The witches still grumbling, "It is n't fair; +Come, give us a taste of the upper air! +We 've had enough of your sulphur springs, +And the evil odor that round them clings; +We long for a drink that is cool and nice,-- +Great buckets of water with Wenham ice; +We've served you well up-stairs, you know; +You 're a good old--fellow--come, let us go!" + +I don't feel sure of his being good, +But he happened to be in a pleasant mood,-- +As fiends with their skins full sometimes are,-- +(He'd been drinking with "roughs" at a Boston bar.) +So what does he do but up and shout +To a graybeard turnkey, "Let 'em out!" + +To mind his orders was all he knew; +The gates swung open, and out they flew. +"Where are our broomsticks?" the beldams cried. +"Here are your broomsticks," an imp replied. +"They 've been in--the place you know--so long +They smell of brimstone uncommon strong; +But they've gained by being left alone,-- +Just look, and you'll see how tall they've grown." +"And where is my cat?" a vixen squalled. +"Yes, where are our cats?" the witches bawled, +And began to call them all by name +As fast as they called the cats, they came +There was bob-tailed Tommy and long-tailed Tim, +And wall-eyed Jacky and green-eyed Jim, +And splay-foot Benny and slim-legged Beau, +And Skinny and Squally, and Jerry and Joe, +And many another that came at call,-- +It would take too long to count them all. +All black,--one could hardly tell which was which, +But every cat knew his own old witch; +And she knew hers as hers knew her,-- +Ah, didn't they curl their tails and purr! + +No sooner the withered hags were free +Than out they swarmed for a midnight spree; +I couldn't tell all they did in rhymes, +But the Essex people had dreadful times. +The Swampscott fishermen still relate +How a strange sea-monster stole their bait; +How their nets were tangled in loops and knots, +And they found dead crabs in their lobster-pots. +Poor Danvers grieved for her blasted crops, +And Wilmington mourned over mildewed hops. +A blight played havoc with Beverly beans,-- +It was all the work of those hateful queans! +A dreadful panic began at "Pride's," +Where the witches stopped in their midnight rides, +And there rose strange rumors and vague alarms +'Mid the peaceful dwellers at Beverly Farms. + +Now when the Boss of the Beldams found +That without his leave they were ramping round, +He called,--they could hear him twenty miles, +From Chelsea beach to the Misery Isles; +The deafest old granny knew his tone +Without the trick of the telephone. +"Come here, you witches! Come here!" says he,-- +"At your games of old, without asking me! +I'll give you a little job to do +That will keep you stirring, you godless crew!" + +They came, of course, at their master's call, +The witches, the broomsticks, the cats, and all; +He led the hags to a railway train +The horses were trying to drag in vain. +"Now, then," says he, "you've had your fun, +And here are the cars you've got to run. +The driver may just unhitch his team, +We don't want horses, we don't want steam; +You may keep your old black cats to hug, +But the loaded train you've got to lug." + +Since then on many a car you 'll see +A broomstick plain as plain can be; +On every stick there's a witch astride,-- +The string you see to her leg is tied. +She will do a mischief if she can, +But the string is held by a careful man, +And whenever the evil-minded witch +Would cut some caper, he gives a twitch. +As for the hag, you can't see her, +But hark! you can hear her black cat's purr, +And now and then, as a car goes by, +You may catch a gleam from her wicked eye. + +Often you've looked on a rushing train, +But just what moved it was not so plain. +It couldn't be those wires above, +For they could neither pull nor shove; +Where was the motor that made it go +You couldn't guess, but now you know. + +Remember my rhymes when you ride again +On the rattling rail by the broomstick train! + + + + +TARTARUS + +WHILE in my simple gospel creed +That "God is Love" so plain I read, +Shall dreams of heathen birth affright +My pathway through the coming night? +Ah, Lord of life, though spectres pale +Fill with their threats the shadowy vale, +With Thee my faltering steps to aid, +How can I dare to be afraid? + +Shall mouldering page or fading scroll +Outface the charter of the soul? +Shall priesthood's palsied arm protect +The wrong our human hearts reject, +And smite the lips whose shuddering cry +Proclaims a cruel creed a lie? +The wizard's rope we disallow +Was justice once,--is murder now! + +Is there a world of blank despair, +And dwells the Omnipresent there? +Does He behold with smile serene +The shows of that unending scene, +Where sleepless, hopeless anguish lies, +And, ever dying, never dies? +Say, does He hear the sufferer's groan, +And is that child of wrath his own? + +O mortal, wavering in thy trust, +Lift thy pale forehead from the dust! +The mists that cloud thy darkened eyes +Fade ere they reach the o'erarching skies +When the blind heralds of despair +Would bid thee doubt a Father's care, +Look up from earth, and read above +On heaven's blue tablet, GOD IS LOVE! + + + + +AT THE TURN OF THE ROAD + +THE glory has passed from the goldenrod's plume, +The purple-hued asters still linger in bloom +The birch is bright yellow, the sumachs are red, +The maples like torches aflame overhead. + +But what if the joy of the summer is past, +And winter's wild herald is blowing his blast? +For me dull November is sweeter than May, +For my love is its sunshine,--she meets me to-day! + +Will she come? Will the ring-dove return to her nest? +Will the needle swing back from the east or the west? +At the stroke of the hour she will be at her gate; +A friend may prove laggard,--love never comes late. + +Do I see her afar in the distance? Not yet. +Too early! Too early! She could not forget! +When I cross the old bridge where the brook overflowed, +She will flash full in sight at the turn of the road. + +I pass the low wall where the ivy entwines; +I tread the brown pathway that leads through the pines; +I haste by the boulder that lies in the field, +Where her promise at parting was lovingly sealed. + +Will she come by the hillside or round through the wood? +Will she wear her brown dress or her mantle and hood? +The minute draws near,--but her watch may go wrong; +My heart will be asking, What keeps her so long? + +Why doubt for a moment? More shame if I do! +Why question? Why tremble? Are angels more true? +She would come to the lover who calls her his own +Though she trod in the track of a whirling cyclone! + +I crossed the old bridge ere the minute had passed. +I looked: lo! my Love stood before me at last. +Her eyes, how they sparkled, her cheeks, how they glowed, +As we met, face to face, at the turn of the road! + + + + +IN VITA MINERVA + +VEX not the Muse with idle prayers,-- +She will not hear thy call; +She steals upon thee unawares, +Or seeks thee not at all. + +Soft as the moonbeams when they sought +Endymion's fragrant bower, +She parts the whispering leaves of thought +To show her full-blown flower. + +For thee her wooing hour has passed, +The singing birds have flown, +And winter comes with icy blast +To chill thy buds unblown. + +Yet, though the woods no longer thrill +As once their arches rung, +Sweet echoes hover round thee still +Of songs thy summer sung. + +Live in thy past; await no more +The rush of heaven-sent wings; +Earth still has music left in store +While Memory sighs and sings. + + + + + + READINGS OVER THE TEACUPS + + FIVE STORIES AND A SEQUEL + + +TO MY OLD READERS + +You know "The Teacups," that congenial set +Which round the Teapot you have often met; +The grave DICTATOR, him you knew of old,-- +Knew as the shepherd of another fold +Grayer he looks, less youthful, but the same +As when you called him by a different name. +Near him the MISTRESS, whose experienced skill +Has taught her duly every cup to fill; +"Weak;" "strong;" "cool;" "lukewarm;" "hot as you can pour;" +"No sweetening;" "sugared;" "two lumps;" "one lump more." +Next, the PROFESSOR, whose scholastic phrase +At every turn the teacher's tongue betrays, +Trying so hard to make his speech precise +The captious listener finds it overnice. + +Nor be forgotten our ANNEXES twain, +Nor HE, the owner of the squinting brain, +Which, while its curious fancies we pursue, +Oft makes us question, "Are we crack-brained too?" + +Along the board our growing list extends, +As one by one we count our clustering friends,-- +The youthful DOCTOR waiting for his share +Of fits and fevers when his crown gets bare; +In strong, dark lines our square-nibbed pen should draw +The lordly presence of the MAN OF LAW; +Our bashful TUTOR claims a humbler place, +A lighter touch, his slender form to trace. +Mark the fair lady he is seated by,-- +Some say he is her lover,--some deny,-- +Watch them together,--time alone can show +If dead-ripe friendship turns to love or no. +Where in my list of phrases shall I seek +The fitting words of NUMBER FIVE to speak? +Such task demands a readier pen than mine,-- +What if I steal the Tutor's Valentine? + +Why should I call her gracious, winning, fair? +Why with the loveliest of her sex compare? +Those varied charms have many a Muse inspired,-- +At last their worn superlatives have tired; +Wit, beauty, sweetness, each alluring grace, +All these in honeyed verse have found their place; +I need them not,--two little words I find +Which hold them all in happiest form combined; +No more with baffled language will I strive,-- +All in one breath I utter: Number Five! + +Now count our teaspoons--if you care to learn +How many tinkling cups were served in turn,-- +Add all together, you will find them ten,-- +Our young MUSICIAN joined us now and then. +Our bright DELILAH you must needs recall, +The comely handmaid, youngest of us all; +Need I remind you how the little maid +Came at a pinch to our Professor's aid,-- +Trimmed his long locks with unrelenting shears +And eased his looks of half a score of years? + +Sometimes, at table, as you well must know, +The stream of talk will all at once run low, +The air seems smitten with a sudden chill, +The wit grows silent and the gossip still; +This was our poet's chance, the hour of need, +When rhymes and stories we were used to read. +One day a whisper round the teacups stole,-- +"No scrap of paper in the silver bowl!" +(Our "poet's corner" may I not expect +My kindly reader still may recollect?) +"What! not a line to keep our souls alive?" +Spoke in her silvery accents Number Five. +"No matter, something we must find to read,-- +Find it or make it,--yes, we must indeed! +Now I remember I have seen at times +Some curious stories in a book of rhymes,-- +How certain secrets, long in silence sealed, +In after days were guessed at or revealed. +Those stories, doubtless, some of you must know,-- +They all were written many a year ago; +But an old story, be it false or true, +Twice told, well told, is twice as good as new; +Wait but three sips and I will go myself, +And fetch the book of verses from its shelf." +No time was lost in finding what she sought,-- +Gone but one moment,--lo! the book is brought. + +"Now, then, Professor, fortune has decreed +That you, this evening, shall be first to read,-- +Lucky for us that listen, for in fact +Who reads this poem must know how to _act_." +Right well she knew that in his greener age +He had a mighty hankering for the stage. +The patient audience had not long to wait; +Pleased with his chance, he smiled and took the bait; +Through his wild hair his coaxing fingers ran,-- +He spread the page before him and began. + + + + +THE BANKER'S SECRET + +THE Banker's dinner is the stateliest feast +The town has heard of for a year, at least; +The sparry lustres shed their broadest blaze, +Damask and silver catch and spread the rays; +The florist's triumphs crown the daintier spoil +Won from the sea, the forest, or the soil; +The steaming hot-house yields its largest pines, +The sunless vaults unearth their oldest wines; +With one admiring look the scene survey, +And turn a moment from the bright display. + +Of all the joys of earthly pride or power, +What gives most life, worth living, in an hour? +When Victory settles on the doubtful fight +And the last foeman wheels in panting flight, +No thrill like this is felt beneath the sun; +Life's sovereign moment is a battle won. +But say what next? To shape a Senate's choice, +By the strong magic of the master's voice; +To ride the stormy tempest of debate +That whirls the wavering fortunes of the state. +Third in the list, the happy lover's prize +Is won by honeyed words from women's eyes. +If some would have it first instead of third, +So let it be,--I answer not a word. +The fourth,--sweet readers, let the thoughtless half +Have its small shrug and inoffensive laugh; +Let the grave quarter wear its virtuous frown, +The stern half-quarter try to scowl us down; +But the last eighth, the choice and sifted few, +Will hear my words, and, pleased, confess them true. + +Among the great whom Heaven has made to shine, +How few have learned the art of arts,--to dine! +Nature, indulgent to our daily need, +Kind-hearted mother! taught us all to feed; +But the chief art,--how rarely Nature flings +This choicest gift among her social kings +Say, man of truth, has life a brighter hour +Than waits the chosen guest who knows his power? +He moves with ease, itself an angel charm,-- +Lifts with light touch my lady's jewelled arm, +Slides to his seat, half leading and half led, +Smiling but quiet till the grace is said, +Then gently kindles, while by slow degrees +Creep softly out the little arts that please; +Bright looks, the cheerful language of the eye, +The neat, crisp question and the gay reply,-- +Talk light and airy, such as well may pass +Between the rested fork and lifted glass;-- +With play like this the earlier evening flies, +Till rustling silks proclaim the ladies rise. +His hour has come,--he looks along the chairs, +As the Great Duke surveyed his iron squares. +That's the young traveller,--is n't much to show,-- +Fast on the road, but at the table slow. +Next him,--you see the author in his look,-- +His forehead lined with wrinkles like a book,-- +Wrote the great history of the ancient Huns,-- +Holds back to fire among the heavy guns. +Oh, there's our poet seated at his side, +Beloved of ladies, soft, cerulean-eyed. +Poets are prosy in their common talk, +As the fast trotters, for the most part, walk. +And there's our well-dressed gentleman, who sits, +By right divine, no doubt, among the wits, +Who airs his tailor's patterns when he walks, +The man that often speaks, but never talks. +Why should he talk, whose presence lends a grace +To every table where he shows his face? +He knows the manual of the silver fork, +Can name his claret--if he sees the cork,-- +Remark that "White-top" was considered fine, +But swear the "Juno" is the better wine;-- +Is not this talking? Ask Quintilian's rules; +If they say No, the town has many fools. +Pause for a moment,--for our eyes behold +The plain unsceptred king, the man of gold, +The thrice illustrious threefold millionnaire; +Mark his slow-creeping, dead, metallic stare; +His eyes, dull glimmering, like the balance-pan +That weighs its guinea as he weighs his man. +Who's next? An artist in a satin tie +Whose ample folds defeat the curious eye. +And there 's the cousin,--must be asked, you know,-- +Looks like a spinster at a baby-show. +Hope he is cool,--they set him next the door,-- +And likes his place, between the gap and bore. +Next comes a Congressman, distinguished guest +We don't count him,--they asked him with the rest; +And then some white cravats, with well-shaped ties, +And heads above them which their owners prize. + +Of all that cluster round the genial board, +Not one so radiant as the banquet's lord. +Some say they fancy, but they know not why, +A shade of trouble brooding in his eye, +Nothing, perhaps,--the rooms are overhot,-- +Yet see his cheek,--the dull-red burning spot,-- +Taste the brown sherry which he does not pass,-- +Ha! That is brandy; see him fill his glass! +But not forgetful of his feasting friends, +To each in turn some lively word he sends; +See how he throws his baited lines about, +And plays his men as anglers play their trout. +A question drops among the listening crew +And hits the traveller, pat on Timbuctoo. +We're on the Niger, somewhere near its source,-- +Not the least hurry, take the river's course +Through Kissi, Foota, Kankan, Bammakoo, +Bambarra, Sego, so to Timbuctoo, +Thence down to Youri;--stop him if we can, +We can't fare worse,--wake up the Congressman! +The Congressman, once on his talking legs, +Stirs up his knowledge to its thickest dregs; +Tremendous draught for dining men to quaff! +Nothing will choke him but a purpling laugh. +A word,--a shout,--a mighty roar,--'t is done; +Extinguished; lassoed by a treacherous pun. +A laugh is priming to the loaded soul; +The scattering shots become a steady roll, +Broke by sharp cracks that run along the line, +The light artillery of the talker's wine. +The kindling goblets flame with golden dews, +The hoarded flasks their tawny fire diffuse, +And the Rhine's breast-milk gushes cold and bright, +Pale as the moon and maddening as her light; +With crimson juice the thirsty southern sky +Sucks from the hills where buried armies lie, +So that the dreamy passion it imparts +Is drawn from heroes' bones and lovers' hearts. +But lulls will come; the flashing soul transmits +Its gleams of light in alternating fits. +The shower of talk that rattled down amain +Ends in small patterings like an April's rain; + +With the dry sticks all bonfires are begun; +Bring the first fagot, proser number one +The voices halt; the game is at a stand; +Now for a solo from the master-hand +'T is but a story,--quite a simple thing,-- +An aria touched upon a single string, +But every accent comes with such a grace +The stupid servants listen in their place, +Each with his waiter in his lifted hands, +Still as a well-bred pointer when he stands. +A query checks him: "Is he quite exact?" +(This from a grizzled, square-jawed man of fact.) +The sparkling story leaves him to his fate, +Crushed by a witness, smothered with a date, +As a swift river, sown with many a star, +Runs brighter, rippling on a shallow bar. +The smooth divine suggests a graver doubt; +A neat quotation bowls the parson out; +Then, sliding gayly from his own display, +He laughs the learned dulness all away. +So, with the merry tale and jovial song, +The jocund evening whirls itself along, +Till the last chorus shrieks its loud encore, +And the white neckcloths vanish through the door. + +One savage word!--The menials know its tone, +And slink away; the master stands alone. +"Well played, by ---"; breathe not what were best unheard; +His goblet shivers while he speaks the word,-- +"If wine tells truth,--and so have said the wise,-- +It makes me laugh to think how brandy lies! +Bankrupt to-morrow,--millionnaire to-day,-- +The farce is over,--now begins the play!" +The spring he touches lets a panel glide; +An iron closet harks beneath the slide, +Bright with such treasures as a search might bring +From the deep pockets of a truant king. +Two diamonds, eyeballs of a god of bronze, +Bought from his faithful priest, a pious bonze; +A string of brilliants; rubies, three or four; +Bags of old coin and bars of virgin ore; +A jewelled poniard and a Turkish knife, +Noiseless and useful if we come to strife. +Gone! As a pirate flies before the wind, +And not one tear for all he leaves behind +From all the love his better years have known +Fled like a felon,--ah! but not alone! +The chariot flashes through a lantern's glare,-- +Oh the wild eyes! the storm of sable hair! +Still to his side the broken heart will cling,-- +The bride of shame, the wife without the ring +Hark, the deep oath,--the wail of frenzied woe,-- +Lost! lost to hope of Heaven and peace below! + +He kept his secret; but the seed of crime +Bursts of itself in God's appointed time. +The lives he wrecked were scattered far and wide; +One never blamed nor wept,--she only died. +None knew his lot, though idle tongues would say +He sought a lonely refuge far away, +And there, with borrowed name and altered mien, +He died unheeded, as he lived unseen. +The moral market had the usual chills +Of Virtue suffering from protested bills; +The White Cravats, to friendship's memory true, +Sighed for the past, surveyed the future too; +Their sorrow breathed in one expressive line,-- +"Gave pleasant dinners; who has got his wine?" + + . . . . . . . . . . . . . . + +The reader paused,--the Teacups knew his ways,-- +He, like the rest, was not averse to praise. +Voices and hands united; every one +Joined in approval: "Number Three, well done!" + +"Now for the Exile's story; if my wits +Are not at fault, his curious record fits +Neatly as sequel to the tale we've heard; +Not wholly wild the fancy, nor absurd +That this our island hermit well might be +That story's hero, fled from over sea. +Come, Number Seven, we would not have you strain +The fertile powers of that inventive brain. +Read us 'The Exile's Secret'; there's enough +Of dream-like fiction and fantastic stuff +In the strange web of mystery that invests +The lonely isle where sea birds build their nests." + +"Lies! naught but lies!" so Number Seven began,-- +No harm was known of that secluded man. +He lived alone,--who would n't if he might, +And leave the rogues and idiots out of sight? +A foolish story,--still, I'll do my best,-- +The house was real,--don't believe the rest. +How could a ruined dwelling last so long +Without its legends shaped in tale and song? +Who was this man of whom they tell the lies? +Perhaps--why not?--NAPOLEON! in disguise,-- +So some said, kidnapped from his ocean coop, +Brought to this island in a coasting sloop,-- +Meanwhile a sham Napoleon in his place +Played Nap. and saved Sir Hudson from disgrace. +Such was one story; others used to say, +"No,--not Napoleon,--it was Marshal Ney." +"Shot?" Yes, no doubt, but not with balls of lead, +But balls of pith that never shoot folks dead. +He wandered round, lived South for many a year, +At last came North and fixed his dwelling here. +Choose which you will of all the tales that pile +Their mingling fables on the tree-crowned isle. +Who wrote this modest version I suppose +That truthful Teacup, our Dictator, knows; +Made up of various legends, it would seem, +The sailor's yarn, the crazy poet's dream. +Such tales as this, by simple souls received, +At first are stared at and at last believed; +From threads like this the grave historians try +To weave their webs, and never know they lie. +Hear, then, the fables that have gathered round +The lonely home an exiled stranger found. + + +THE EXILE'S SECRET + +YE that have faced the billows and the spray +Of good St. Botolph's island-studded bay, +As from the gliding bark your eye has scanned +The beaconed rocks, the wave-girt hills of sand, +Have ye not marked one elm-o'ershadowed isle, +Round as the dimple chased in beauty's smile,-- +A stain of verdure on an azure field, +Set like a jewel in a battered shield? +Fixed in the narrow gorge of Ocean's path, +Peaceful it meets him in his hour of wrath; +When the mailed Titan, scourged by hissing gales, +Writhes in his glistening coat of clashing scales, +The storm-beat island spreads its tranquil green, +Calm as an emerald on an angry queen. +So fair when distant should be fairer near; +A boat shall waft us from the outstretched pier. +The breeze blows fresh; we reach the island's edge, +Our shallop rustling through the yielding sedge. +No welcome greets us on the desert isle; +Those elms, far-shadowing, hide no stately pile +Yet these green ridges mark an ancient road; +And to! the traces of a fair abode; +The long gray line that marks a garden-wall, +And heaps of fallen beams,--fire-branded all. + +Who sees unmoved, a ruin at his feet, +The lowliest home where human hearts have beat? +Its hearthstone, shaded with the bistre stain +A century's showery torrents wash in vain; +Its starving orchard, where the thistle blows +And mossy trunks still mark the broken rows; +Its chimney-loving poplar, oftenest seen +Next an old roof, or where a roof has been; +Its knot-grass, plantain,--all the social weeds, +Man's mute companions, following where he leads; +Its dwarfed, pale flowers, that show their straggling heads, +Sown by the wind from grass-choked garden-beds; +Its woodbine, creeping where it used to climb; +Its roses, breathing of the olden time; +All the poor shows the curious idler sees, +As life's thin shadows waste by slow degrees, +Till naught remains, the saddening tale to tell, +Save home's last wrecks,--the cellar and the well? + +And whose the home that strews in black decay +The one green-glowing island of the bay? +Some dark-browed pirate's, jealous of the fate +That seized the strangled wretch of "Nix's Mate"? +Some forger's, skulking in a borrowed name, +Whom Tyburn's dangling halter yet may claim? +Some wan-eyed exile's, wealth and sorrow's heir, +Who sought a lone retreat for tears and prayer? +Some brooding poet's, sure of deathless fame, +Had not his epic perished in the flame? +Or some gray wooer's, whom a girlish frown +Chased from his solid friends and sober town? +Or some plain tradesman's, fond of shade and ease, +Who sought them both beneath these quiet trees? +Why question mutes no question can unlock, +Dumb as the legend on the Dighton rock? +One thing at least these ruined heaps declare,-- +They were a shelter once; a man lived there. + +But where the charred and crumbling records fail, +Some breathing lips may piece the half-told tale; +No man may live with neighbors such as these, +Though girt with walls of rock and angry seas, +And shield his home, his children, or his wife, +His ways, his means, his vote, his creed, his life, +From the dread sovereignty of Ears and Eyes +And the small member that beneath them lies. +They told strange things of that mysterious man; +Believe who will, deny them such as can; +Why should we fret if every passing sail +Had its old seaman talking on the rail? +The deep-sunk schooner stuffed with Eastern lime, +Slow wedging on, as if the waves were slime; +The knife-edged clipper with her ruffled spars, +The pawing steamer with her inane of stars, +The bull-browed galliot butting through the stream, +The wide-sailed yacht that slipped along her beam, +The deck-piled sloops, the pinched chebacco-boats, +The frigate, black with thunder-freighted throats, +All had their talk about the lonely man; +And thus, in varying phrase, the story ran. +His name had cost him little care to seek, +Plain, honest, brief, a decent name to speak, +Common, not vulgar, just the kind that slips +With least suggestion from a stranger's lips. +His birthplace England, as his speech might show, +Or his hale cheek, that wore the red-streak's glow; +His mouth sharp-moulded; in its mirth or scorn +There came a flash as from the milky corn, +When from the ear you rip the rustling sheath, +And the white ridges show their even teeth. +His stature moderate, but his strength confessed, +In spite of broadcloth, by his ample breast; +Full-armed, thick-handed; one that had been strong, +And might be dangerous still, if things went wrong. +He lived at ease beneath his elm-trees' shade, +Did naught for gain, yet all his debts were paid; +Rich, so 't was thought, but careful of his store; +Had all he needed, claimed to have no more. + +But some that lingered round the isle at night +Spoke of strange stealthy doings in their sight; +Of creeping lonely visits that he made +To nooks and corners, with a torch and spade. +Some said they saw the hollow of a cave; +One, given to fables, swore it was a grave; +Whereat some shuddered, others boldly cried, +Those prowling boatmen lied, and knew they lied. +They said his house was framed with curious cares, +Lest some old friend might enter unawares; +That on the platform at his chamber's door +Hinged a loose square that opened through the floor; +Touch the black silken tassel next the bell, +Down, with a crash, the flapping trap-door fell; +Three stories deep the falling wretch would strike, +To writhe at leisure on a boarder's pike. +By day armed always; double-armed at night, + +His tools lay round him; wake him such as might. +A carbine hung beside his India fan, +His hand could reach a Turkish ataghan; +Pistols, with quaint-carved stocks and barrels gilt, +Crossed a long dagger with a jewelled hilt; +A slashing cutlass stretched along the bed;-- +All this was what those lying boatmen said. +Then some were full of wondrous stories told +Of great oak chests and cupboards full of gold; +Of the wedged ingots and the silver bars +That cost old pirates ugly sabre-scars; +How his laced wallet often would disgorge +The fresh-faced guinea of an English George, +Or sweated ducat, palmed by Jews of yore, +Or double Joe, or Portuguese moidore; +And how his finger wore a rubied ring +Fit for the white-necked play-girl of a king. +But these fine legends, told with staring eyes, +Met with small credence from the old and wise. + +Why tell each idle guess, each whisper vain? +Enough: the scorched and cindered beams remain. +He came, a silent pilgrim to the West, +Some old-world mystery throbbing in his breast; +Close to the thronging mart he dwelt alone; +He lived; he died. The rest is all unknown. + +Stranger, whose eyes the shadowy isle survey, +As the black steamer dashes through the bay, +Why ask his buried secret to divine? +He was thy brother; speak, and tell us thine! + + . . . . . . . . . . . + +Silence at first, a kind of spell-bound pause; +Then all the Teacups tinkled their applause; +When that was hushed no sound the stillness broke +Till once again the soft-voiced lady spoke: + +"The Lover's Secret,--surely that must need +The youngest voice our table holds to read. +Which of our two 'Annexes' shall we choose? +Either were charming, neither will refuse; +But choose we must,--what better can we do +Than take the younger of the youthful two?" + +True to the primal instinct of her sex, +"Why, that means me," half whispered each Annex. +"What if it does?" the voiceless question came, +That set those pale New England cheeks aflame; +"Our old-world scholar may have ways to teach +Of Oxford English, Britain's purest speech,-- +She shall be youngest,--youngest for _to-day_,-- +Our dates we'll fix hereafter as we may; +_All rights reserved_,--the words we know so well, +That guard the claims of books which never sell." +The British maiden bowed a pleased assent, +Her two long ringlets swinging as she bent; +The glistening eyes her eager soul looked through +Betrayed her lineage in their Saxon blue. +Backward she flung each too obtrusive curl +And thus began,--the rose-lipped English girl. + + +THE LOVER'S SECRET + +WHAT ailed young Lucius? Art had vainly tried +To guess his ill, and found herself defied. +The Augur plied his legendary skill; +Useless; the fair young Roman languished still. +His chariot took him every cloudless day +Along the Pincian Hill or Appian Way; +They rubbed his wasted limbs with sulphurous oil, +Oozed from the far-off Orient's heated soil; +They led him tottering down the steamy path +Where bubbling fountains filled the thermal bath; +Borne in his litter to Egeria's cave, +They washed him, shivering, in her icy wave. +They sought all curious herbs and costly stones, +They scraped the moss that grew on dead men's bones, +They tried all cures the votive tablets taught, +Scoured every place whence healing drugs were brought, +O'er Thracian hills his breathless couriers ran, +His slaves waylaid the Syrian caravan. +At last a servant heard a stranger speak +A new chirurgeon's name; a clever Greek, +Skilled in his art; from Pergamus he came +To Rome but lately; GALEN was the name. +The Greek was called: a man with piercing eyes, +Who must be cunning, and who might be wise. +He spoke but little,--if they pleased, he said, +He 'd wait awhile beside the sufferer's bed. +So by his side he sat, serene and calm, +His very accents soft as healing balm; +Not curious seemed, but every movement spied, +His sharp eyes searching where they seemed to glide; +Asked a few questions,--what he felt, and where? +"A pain just here," "A constant beating there." +Who ordered bathing for his aches and ails? +"Charmis, the water-doctor from Marseilles." +What was the last prescription in his case? +"A draught of wine with powdered chrysoprase." +Had he no secret grief he nursed alone? +A pause; a little tremor; answer,--"None." +Thoughtful, a moment, sat the cunning leech, +And muttered "Eros!" in his native speech. +In the broad atrium various friends await +The last new utterance from the lips of fate; +Men, matrons, maids, they talk the question o'er, +And, restless, pace the tessellated floor. +Not unobserved the youth so long had pined +By gentle-hearted dames and damsels kind; +One with the rest, a rich Patrician's pride, +The lady Hermia, called "the golden-eyed"; +The same the old Proconsul fain must woo, +Whom, one dark night, a masked sicarius slew; +The same black Crassus over roughly pressed +To hear his suit,--the Tiber knows the rest. +(Crassus was missed next morning by his set; +Next week the fishers found him in their net.) +She with the others paced the ample hall, +Fairest, alas! and saddest of them all. + +At length the Greek declared, with puzzled face, +Some strange enchantment mingled in the case, +And naught would serve to act as counter-charm +Save a warm bracelet from a maiden's arm. +Not every maiden's,--many might be tried; +Which not in vain, experience must decide. +Were there no damsels willing to attend +And do such service for a suffering friend? +The message passed among the waiting crowd, +First in a whisper, then proclaimed aloud. +Some wore no jewels; some were disinclined, +For reasons better guessed at than defined; +Though all were saints,--at least professed to be,-- +The list all counted, there were named but three. +The leech, still seated by the patient's side, +Held his thin wrist, and watched him, eagle-eyed. +Aurelia first, a fair-haired Tuscan girl, +Slipped off her golden asp, with eyes of pearl. +His solemn head the grave physician shook; +The waxen features thanked her with a look. +Olympia next, a creature half divine, +Sprung from the blood of old Evander's line, +Held her white arm, that wore a twisted chain +Clasped with an opal-sheeny cymophane. +In vain, O daughter I said the baffled Greek. +The patient sighed the thanks he could not speak. + +Last, Hermia entered; look, that sudden start! +The pallium heaves above his leaping heart; +The beating pulse, the cheek's rekindled flame, +Those quivering lips, the secret all proclaim. +The deep disease long throbbing in the breast, +The dread enchantment, all at once confessed! +The case was plain; the treatment was begun; +And Love soon cured the mischief he had done. + +Young Love, too oft thy treacherous bandage slips +Down from the eyes it blinded to the lips! +Ask not the Gods, O youth, for clearer sight, +But the bold heart to plead thy cause aright. +And thou, fair maiden, when thy lovers sigh, +Suspect thy flattering ear, but trust thine eye; +And learn this secret from the tale of old +No love so true as love that dies untold. + + . . . . . . . . . . + +"Bravo, Annex!" they shouted, every one,-- +"Not Mrs. Kemble's self had better done." +"Quite so," she stammered in her awkward way,-- +Not just the thing, but something she must say. + +The teaspoon chorus tinkled to its close +When from his chair the MAN OF LAW arose, +Called by her voice whose mandate all obeyed, +And took the open volume she displayed. +Tall, stately, strong, his form begins to own +Some slight exuberance in its central zone,-- +That comely fulness of the growing girth +Which fifty summers lend the sons of earth. +A smooth, round disk about whose margin stray, +Above the temples, glistening threads of gray; +Strong, deep-cut grooves by toilsome decades wrought +On brow and mouth, the battle-fields of thought; +A voice that lingers in the listener's ear, +Grave, calm, far-reaching, every accent clear,-- +(Those tones resistless many a foreman knew +That shaped their verdict ere the twelve withdrew;) +A statesman's forehead, athlete's throat and jaw, +Such the proud semblance of the Man of Law. +His eye just lighted on the printed leaf, +Held as a practised pleader holds his brief. +One whispered softly from behind his cup, +"He does not read,--his book is wrong side up! +He knows the story that it holds by heart,-- +So like his own! How well he'll act his part!" +Then all were silent; not a rustling fan +Stirred the deep stillness as the voice began. + + +THE STATESMAN'S SECRET + +WHO of all statesmen is his country's pride, +Her councils' prompter and her leaders' guide? +He speaks; the nation holds its breath to hear; +He nods, and shakes the sunset hemisphere. +Born where the primal fount of Nature springs +By the rude cradles of her throneless kings, +In his proud eye her royal signet flames, +By his own lips her Monarch she proclaims. +Why name his countless triumphs, whom to meet +Is to be famous, envied in defeat? +The keen debaters, trained to brawls and strife, +Who fire one shot, and finish with the knife, +Tried him but once, and, cowering in their shame, +Ground their hacked blades to strike at meaner game. +The lordly chief, his party's central stay, +Whose lightest word a hundred votes obey, +Found a new listener seated at his side, +Looked in his eye, and felt himself defied, +Flung his rash gauntlet on the startled floor, +Met the all-conquering, fought,--and ruled no more. +See where he moves, what eager crowds attend! +What shouts of thronging multitudes ascend! +If this is life,--to mark with every hour +The purple deepening in his robes of power, +To see the painted fruits of honor fall +Thick at his feet, and choose among them all, +To hear the sounds that shape his spreading name +Peal through the myriad organ-stops of fame, +Stamp the lone isle that spots the seaman's chart, +And crown the pillared glory of the mart, +To count as peers the few supremely wise +Who mark their planet in the angels' eyes,-- +If this is life-- +What savage man is he +Who strides alone beside the sounding sea? +Alone he wanders by the murmuring shore, +His thoughts as restless as the waves that roar; +Looks on the sullen sky as stormy-browed +As on the waves yon tempest-brooding cloud, +Heaves from his aching breast a wailing sigh, +Sad as the gust that sweeps the clouded sky. +Ask him his griefs; what midnight demons plough +The lines of torture on his lofty brow; +Unlock those marble lips, and bid them speak +The mystery freezing in his bloodless cheek. +His secret? Hid beneath a flimsy word; +One foolish whisper that ambition heard; +And thus it spake: "Behold yon gilded chair, +The world's one vacant throne,--thy plate is there!" + +Ah, fatal dream! What warning spectres meet +In ghastly circle round its shadowy seat! +Yet still the Tempter murmurs in his ear +The maddening taunt he cannot choose but hear +"Meanest of slaves, by gods and men accurst, +He who is second when he might be first +Climb with bold front the ladder's topmost round, +Or chain thy creeping footsteps to the ground!" +Illustrious Dupe! Have those majestic eyes +Lost their proud fire for such a vulgar prize? +Art thou the last of all mankind to know +That party-fights are won by aiming low? +Thou, stamped by Nature with her royal sign, +That party-hirelings hate a look like thine? +Shake from thy sense the wild delusive dream +Without the purple, art thou not supreme? +And soothed by love unbought, thy heart shall own +A nation's homage nobler than its throne! + + . . . . . . . . . . + +Loud rang the plaudits; with them rose the thought, +"Would he had learned the lesson he has taught!" +Used to the tributes of the noisy crowd, +The stately speaker calmly smiled and bowed; +The fire within a flushing cheek betrayed, +And eyes that burned beneath their penthouse shade. + +"The clock strikes ten, the hours are flying fast,-- +Now, Number Five, we've kept you till the last!" + +What music charms like those caressing tones +Whose magic influence every listener owns,-- +Where all the woman finds herself expressed, +And Heaven's divinest effluence breathes confessed? +Such was the breath that wooed our ravished ears, +Sweet as the voice a dreaming vestal hears; +Soft as the murmur of a brooding dove, +It told the mystery of a mother's love. + + +THE MOTHER'S SECRET + +How sweet the sacred legend--if unblamed +In my slight verse such holy things are named-- +Of Mary's secret hours of hidden joy, +Silent, but pondering on her wondrous boy! +Ave, Maria! Pardon, if I wrong +Those heavenly words that shame my earthly song! +The choral host had closed the Angel's strain +Sung to the listening watch on Bethlehem's plain, +And now the shepherds, hastening on their way, +Sought the still hamlet where the Infant lay. +They passed the fields that gleaning Ruth toiled o'er,-- +They saw afar the ruined threshing-floor +Where Moab's daughter, homeless and forlorn, +Found Boaz slumbering by his heaps of corn; +And some remembered how the holy scribe, +Skilled in the lore of every jealous tribe, +Traced the warm blood of Jesse's royal son +To that fair alien, bravely wooed and won. +So fared they on to seek the promised sign, +That marked the anointed heir of David's line. +At last, by forms of earthly semblance led, +They found the crowded inn, the oxen's shed. + +No pomp was there, no glory shone around +On the coarse straw that strewed the reeking ground; +One dim retreat a flickering torch betrayed,-- +In that poor cell the Lord of Life was laid +The wondering shepherds told their breathless tale +Of the bright choir that woke the sleeping vale; +Told how the skies with sudden glory flamed, +Told how the shining multitude proclaimed, +"Joy, joy to earth! Behold the hallowed morn +In David's city Christ the Lord is born! +'Glory to God!' let angels shout on high, +'Good-will to men!' the listening earth reply!" +They spoke with hurried words and accents wild; +Calm in his cradle slept the heavenly child. +No trembling word the mother's joy revealed,-- +One sigh of rapture, and her lips were sealed; +Unmoved she saw the rustic train depart, +But kept their words to ponder in her heart. + +Twelve years had passed; the boy was fair and tall, +Growing in wisdom, finding grace with all. +The maids of Nazareth, as they trooped to fill +Their balanced urns beside the mountain rill, +The gathered matrons, as they sat and spun, +Spoke in soft words of Joseph's quiet son. +No voice had reached the Galilean vale +Of star-led kings, or awe-struck shepherd's tale; +In the meek, studious child they only saw +The future Rabbi, learned in Israel's law. + +Beyond the hills that girt the village green; +Save when at midnight, o'er the starlit sands, +Snatched from the steel of Herod's murdering bands, +A babe, close folded to his mother's breast, +Through Edom's wilds he sought the sheltering West. +Then Joseph spake: "Thy boy hath largely grown; +Weave him fine raiment, fitting to be shown; +Fair robes beseem the pilgrim, as the priest; +Goes he not with us to the holy feast?" +And Mary culled the flaxen fibres white; +Till eve she spun; she spun till morning light. +The thread was twined; its parting meshes through +From hand to hand her restless shuttle flew, +Till the full web was wound upon the beam; +Love's curious toil,--a vest without a seam! +They reach the Holy Place, fulfil the days +To solemn feasting given, and grateful praise. +At last they turn, and far Moriah's height +Melts in the southern sky and fades from sight. +All day the dusky caravan has flowed +In devious trails along the winding road; +(For many a step their homeward path attends, +And all the sons of Abraham are as friends.) +Evening has come,--the hour of rest and joy,-- +Hush! Hush! That whisper,--"Where is Mary's boy?" +Oh, weary hour! Oh, aching days that passed +Filled with strange fears each wilder than the last,-- +The soldier's lance, the fierce centurion's sword, +The crushing wheels that whirl some Roman lord, +The midnight crypt that sucks the captive's breath, +The blistering sun on Hinnom's vale of death! +Thrice on his cheek had rained the morning light; +Thrice on his lips the mildewed kiss of night, +Crouched by a sheltering column's shining plinth, +Or stretched beneath the odorous terebinth. +At last, in desperate mood, they sought once more +The Temple's porches, searched in vain before; +They found him seated with the ancient men,-- +The grim old rufflers of the tongue and pen,-- +Their bald heads glistening as they clustered near, +Their gray beards slanting as they turned to hear, +Lost in half-envious wonder and surprise +That lips so fresh should utter words so wise. +And Mary said,--as one who, tried too long, +Tells all her grief and half her sense of wrong,-- +What is this thoughtless thing which thou hast done? +Lo, we have sought thee sorrowing, O my son! +Few words he spake, and scarce of filial tone, +Strange words, their sense a mystery yet unknown; +Then turned with them and left the holy hill, +To all their mild commands obedient still. +The tale was told to Nazareth's sober men, +And Nazareth's matrons told it oft again; +The maids retold it at the fountain's side, +The youthful shepherds doubted or denied; +It passed around among the listening friends, +With all that fancy adds and fiction lends, +Till newer marvels dimmed the young renown +Of Joseph's son, who talked the Rabbis down. + +But Mary, faithful to its lightest word, +Kept in her heart the sayings she had heard, +Till the dread morning rent the Temple's veil, +And shuddering earth confirmed the wondrous tale. + +Youth fades; love droops; the leaves of friendship fall +A mother's secret hope outlives them all. + + . . . . . . . . . . . + +Hushed was the voice, but still its accents thrilled +The throbbing hearts its lingering sweetness filled. +The simple story which a tear repays +Asks not to share the noisy breath of praise. +A trance-like stillness,--scarce a whisper heard, +No tinkling teaspoon in its saucer stirred; +A deep-drawn sigh that would not be suppressed, +A sob, a lifted kerchief told the rest. + +"Come now, Dictator," so the lady spoke, +"You too must fit your shoulder to the yoke; +You'll find there's something, doubtless, if you look, +To serve your purpose,--so, now take the book." +"Ah, my dear lady, you must know full well, +'Story, God bless you, I have none to tell.' +To those five stories which these pages hold +You all have listened,--every one is told. +There's nothing left to make you smile or weep,-- +A few grave thoughts may work you off to sleep." + + +THE SECRET OF THE STARS + +Is man's the only throbbing heart that hides +The silent spring that feeds its whispering tides? +Speak from thy caverns, mystery-breeding Earth, +Tell the half-hinted story of thy birth, +And calm the noisy champions who have thrown +The book of types against the book of stone! + +Have ye not secrets, ye refulgent spheres, +No sleepless listener of the starlight hears? +In vain the sweeping equatorial pries +Through every world-sown corner of the skies, +To the far orb that so remotely strays +Our midnight darkness is its noonday blaze; +In vain the climbing soul of creeping man +Metes out the heavenly concave with a span, +Tracks into space the long-lost meteor's trail, +And weighs an unseen planet in the scale; +Still o'er their doubts the wan-eyed watchers sigh, +And Science lifts her still unanswered cry +"Are all these worlds, that speed their circling flight, +Dumb, vacant, soulless,--baubles of the night? +Warmed with God's smile and wafted by his breath, +To weave in ceaseless round the dance of Death? +Or rolls a sphere in each expanding zone, +Crowned with a life as varied as our own?" + +Maker of earth and stars! If thou hast taught +By what thy voice hath spoke, thy hand hath wrought, +By all that Science proves, or guesses true, +More than thy poet dreamed, thy prophet knew,-- +The heavens still bow in darkness at thy feet, +And shadows veil thy cloud-pavilioned seat! +Not for ourselves we ask thee to reveal +One awful word beneath the future's seal; +What thou shalt tell us, grant us strength to bear; +What thou withholdest is thy single care. +Not for ourselves; the present clings too fast, +Moored to the mighty anchors of the past; +But when, with angry snap, some cable parts, +The sound re-echoing in our startled hearts,-- +When, through the wall that clasps the harbor round, +And shuts the raving ocean from its bound, +Shattered and rent by sacrilegious hands, +The first mad billow leaps upon the sands,-- +Then to the Future's awful page we turn, +And what we question hardly dare to learn. +Still let us hope! for while we seem to tread +The time-worn pathway of the nations dead, +Though Sparta laughs at all our warlike deeds, +And buried Athens claims our stolen creeds, +Though Rome, a spectre on her broken throne, +Beholds our eagle and recalls her own, +Though England fling her pennons on the breeze +And reign before us Mistress of the seas,-- +While calm-eyed History tracks us circling round +Fate's iron pillar where they all were bound, +Still in our path a larger curve she finds, +The spiral widening as the chain unwinds +Still sees new beacons crowned with brighter flame +Than the old watch-fires, like, but not the same +No shameless haste shall spot with bandit-crime +Our destined empire snatched before its time. +Wait,--wait, undoubting, for the winds have caught +From our bold speech the heritage of thought; +No marble form that sculptured truth can wear +Vies with the image shaped in viewless air; +And thought unfettered grows through speech to deeds, +As the broad forest marches in its seeds. +What though we perish ere the day is won? +Enough to see its glorious work begun! +The thistle falls before a trampling clown, +But who can chain the flying thistle-down? +Wait while the fiery seeds of freedom fly, +The prairie blazes when the grass is dry! +What arms might ravish, leave to peaceful arts, +Wisdom and love shall win the roughest hearts; +So shall the angel who has closed for man +The blissful garden since his woes began +Swing wide the golden portals of the West, +And Eden's secret stand at length confessed! + + . . . . . . . . . . . + +The reader paused; in truth he thought it time,-- +Some threatening signs accused the drowsy rhyme. +The Mistress nodded, the Professor dozed, +The two Annexes sat with eyelids closed,-- +Not sleeping,--no! But when one shuts one's eyes, +That one hears better no one, sure, denies. +The Doctor whispered in Delilah's ear, +Or seemed to whisper, for their heads drew near. +Not all the owner's efforts could restrain +The wild vagaries of the squinting brain,-- +Last of the listeners Number Five alone +The patient reader still could call his own. + +"Teacups, arouse!" 'T was thus the spell I broke; +The drowsy started and the slumberers woke. +"The sleep I promised you have now enjoyed, +Due to your hour of labor well employed. +Swiftly the busy moments have been passed; +This, our first 'Teacups,' must not be our last. +Here, on this spot, now consecrated ground, +The Order of 'The Teacups' let us found! +By winter's fireside and in summer's bower +Still shall it claim its ever-welcome hour, +In distant regions where our feet may roam +The magic teapot find or make a home; +Long may its floods their bright infusion pour, +Till time and teacups both shall be no more!" + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell +Holmes, Vol. 11, by Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POETRY OF HOLMES, VOL. 11 *** + +***** This file should be named 7398.txt or 7398.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/7/3/9/7398/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**EBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These EBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers***** + + + +Title: The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes, Volume 11. + Poems from The Teacups Series + +Author: Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. + +Release Date: January, 2005 [Etext #7398] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[Most recently updated: April 22, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + + + + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POETRY OF O. W. HOLMES, V11 *** + + + + +This eBook was produced by David Widger [widger@cecomet.net] + + + + + + THE POETICAL WORKS + + OF + + OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES + + + 1893 + (Printed in three volumes) + + + + +CONTENTS: + +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 + + + + + POEMS FROM OVER THE TEACUPS + + + +TO THE ELEVEN LADIES + +WHO PRESENTED ME WITH A SILVER LOVING CUP +ON THE TWENTY-NINTH OF AUGUST, M DCCC LXXXIX + +"WHO gave this cup?" The secret thou wouldst steal +Its brimming flood forbids it to reveal: +No mortal's eye shall read it till he first +Cool the red throat of thirst. + +If on the golden floor one draught remain, +Trust me, thy careful search will be in vain; +Not till the bowl is emptied shalt thou know +The names enrolled below. + +Deeper than Truth lies buried in her well +Those modest names the graven letters spell +Hide from the sight; but wait, and thou shalt see +Who the good angels be + +Whose bounty glistens in the beauteous gift +That friendly hands to loving lips shall lift +Turn the fair goblet when its floor is dry,-- +Their names shall meet thine eye. + +Count thou their number on the beads of Heaven +Alas! the clustered Pleiads are but seven; +Nay, the nine sister Muses are too few,-- +The Graces must add two. + +"For whom this gift?" For one who all too long +Clings to his bough among the groves of song; +Autumn's last leaf, that spreads its faded wing +To greet a second spring. + +Dear friends, kind friends, whate'er the cup may hold, +Bathing its burnished depths, will change to gold +Its last bright drop let thirsty Maenads drain, +Its fragrance will remain. + +Better love's perfume in the empty bowl +Than wine's nepenthe for the aching soul; +Sweeter than song that ever poet sung, +It makes an old heart young! + + + + +THE PEAU DE CHAGRIN OF STATE STREET + +How beauteous is the bond +In the manifold array +Of its promises to pay, +While the eight per cent it gives +And the rate at which one lives +Correspond! + +But at last the bough is bare +Where the coupons one by one +Through their ripening days have run, +And the bond, a beggar now, +Seeks investment anyhow, +Anywhere! + + + + +CACOETHES SCRIBENDI + +IF all the trees in all the woods were men; +And each and every blade of grass a pen; +If every leaf on every shrub and tree +Turned to a sheet of foolscap; every sea +Were changed to ink, and all earth's living tribes +Had nothing else to do but act as scribes, +And for ten thousand ages, day and night, +The human race should write, and write, and write, +Till all the pens and paper were used up, +And the huge inkstand was an empty cup, +Still would the scribblers clustered round its brink +Call for more pens, more paper, and more ink. + + + + +THE ROSE AND THE FERN + +LADY, life's sweetest lesson wouldst thou learn, +Come thou with me to Love's enchanted bower +High overhead the trellised roses burn; +Beneath thy feet behold the feathery fern,-- +A leaf without a flower. + +What though the rose leaves fall? They still are sweet, +And have been lovely in their beauteous prime, +While the bare frond seems ever to repeat, +"For us no bud, no blossom, wakes to greet +The joyous flowering time!" + +Heed thou the lesson. Life has leaves to tread +And flowers to cherish; summer round thee glows; +Wait not till autumn's fading robes are shed, +But while its petals still are burning red +Gather life's full-blown rose! + + + + +I LIKE YOU AND I LOVE YOU + +I LIKE YOU Met I LOVE You, face to face; +The path was narrow, and they could not pass. +I LIKE YOU smiled; I LOVE YOU cried, Alas! +And so they halted for a little space. + +"Turn thou and go before," I LOVE YOU said, +"Down the green pathway, bright with many a flower; +Deep in the valley, lo! my bridal bower +Awaits thee." But I LIKE YOU shook his head. + +Then while they lingered on the span-wide shelf +That shaped a pathway round the rocky ledge, +I LIKE You bared his icy dagger's edge, +And first he slew I LOVE You,--then himself. + + + + +LA MAISON D'OR + +(BAR HARBOR) + +FROM this fair home behold on either side +The restful mountains or the restless sea +So the warm sheltering walls of life divide +Time and its tides from still eternity. + +Look on the waves: their stormy voices teach +That not on earth may toil and struggle cease. +Look on the mountains: better far than speech +Their silent promise of eternal peace. + + + + +TOO YOUNG FOR LOVE + +Too young for love? +Ah, say not so! +Tell reddening rose-buds not to blow +Wait not for spring to pass away,-- +Love's summer months begin with May! +Too young for love? +Ah, say not so! +Too young? Too young? +Ah, no! no! no! + +Too young for love? +Ah, say not so, +To practise all love learned in May. +June soon will come with lengthened day +While daisies bloom and tulips glow! + +Too young for love? +Ah, say not so! +Too young? Too young? +Ah, no! no! no + + + + +THE BROOMSTICK TRAIN; OR, +THE RETURN OF THE WITCHES + +LOOK out! Look out, boys! Clear the track! +The witches are here! They've all come back! +They hanged them high,--No use! No use! +What cares a witch for a hangman's noose? +They buried them deep, but they wouldn't lie still, +For cats and witches are hard to kill; +They swore they shouldn't and wouldn't die,-- +Books said they did, but they lie! they lie! + +A couple of hundred years, or so, +They had knocked about in the world below, +When an Essex Deacon dropped in to call, +And a homesick feeling seized them all; +For he came from a place they knew full well, +And many a tale he had to tell. +They longed to visit the haunts of men, +To see the old dwellings they knew again, +And ride on their broomsticks all around +Their wide domain of unhallowed ground. + +In Essex county there's many a roof +Well known to him of the cloven hoof; +The small square windows are full in view +Which the midnight hags went sailing through, +On their well-trained broomsticks mounted high, +Seen like shadows against the sky; +Crossing the track of owls and bats, +Hugging before them their coal-black cats. + +Well did they know, those gray old wives, +The sights we see in our daily drives +Shimmer of lake and shine of sea, +Browne's bare hill with its lonely tree, +(It was n't then as we see it now, +With one scant scalp-lock to shade its brow;) +Dusky nooks in the Essex woods, +Dark, dim, Dante-like solitudes, +Where the tree-toad watches the sinuous snake +Glide through his forests of fern and brake; +Ipswich River; its old stone bridge; +Far off Andover's Indian Ridge, +And many a scene where history tells +Some shadow of bygone terror dwells,-- +Of "Norman's Woe" with its tale of dread, +Of the Screeching Woman of Marblehead, +(The fearful story that turns men pale +Don't bid me tell it,--my speech would fail.) + +Who would not, will not, if he can, +Bathe in the breezes of fair Cape Ann,-- +Rest in the bowers her bays enfold, +Loved by the sachems and squaws of old? +Home where the white magnolias bloom, +Sweet with the bayberry's chaste perfume, +Hugged by the woods and kissed by the sea! +Where is the Eden like to thee? +For that "couple of hundred years, or so," +There had been no peace in the world below; +The witches still grumbling, "It is n't fair; +Come, give us a taste of the upper air! +We 've had enough of your sulphur springs, +And the evil odor that round them clings; +We long for a drink that is cool and nice,-- +Great buckets of water with Wenham ice; +We've served you well up-stairs, you know; +You 're a good old--fellow--come, let us go!" + +I don't feel sure of his being good, +But he happened to be in a pleasant mood,-- +As fiends with their skins full sometimes are,-- +(He'd been drinking with "roughs" at a Boston bar.) +So what does he do but up and shout +To a graybeard turnkey, "Let 'em out!" + +To mind his orders was all he knew; +The gates swung open, and out they flew. +"Where are our broomsticks?" the beldams cried. +"Here are your broomsticks," an imp replied. +"They 've been in--the place you know--so long +They smell of brimstone uncommon strong; +But they've gained by being left alone,-- +Just look, and you'll see how tall they've grown." +"And where is my cat?" a vixen squalled. +"Yes, where are our cats?" the witches bawled, +And began to call them all by name +As fast as they called the cats, they came +There was bob-tailed Tommy and long-tailed Tim, +And wall-eyed Jacky and green-eyed Jim, +And splay-foot Benny and slim-legged Beau, +And Skinny and Squally, and Jerry and Joe, +And many another that came at call,-- +It would take too long to count them all. +All black,--one could hardly tell which was which, +But every cat knew his own old witch; +And she knew hers as hers knew her,-- +Ah, didn't they curl their tails and purr! + +No sooner the withered hags were free +Than out they swarmed for a midnight spree; +I couldn't tell all they did in rhymes, +But the Essex people had dreadful times. +The Swampscott fishermen still relate +How a strange sea-monster stole their bait; +How their nets were tangled in loops and knots, +And they found dead crabs in their lobster-pots. +Poor Danvers grieved for her blasted crops, +And Wilmington mourned over mildewed hops. +A blight played havoc with Beverly beans,-- +It was all the work of those hateful queans! +A dreadful panic began at "Pride's," +Where the witches stopped in their midnight rides, +And there rose strange rumors and vague alarms +'Mid the peaceful dwellers at Beverly Farms. + +Now when the Boss of the Beldams found +That without his leave they were ramping round, +He called,--they could hear him twenty miles, +From Chelsea beach to the Misery Isles; +The deafest old granny knew his tone +Without the trick of the telephone. +"Come here, you witches! Come here!" says he,-- +"At your games of old, without asking me! +I'll give you a little job to do +That will keep you stirring, you godless crew!" + +They came, of course, at their master's call, +The witches, the broomsticks, the cats, and all; +He led the hags to a railway train +The horses were trying to drag in vain. +"Now, then," says he, "you've had your fun, +And here are the cars you've got to run. +The driver may just unhitch his team, +We don't want horses, we don't want steam; +You may keep your old black cats to hug, +But the loaded train you've got to lug." + +Since then on many a car you 'll see +A broomstick plain as plain can be; +On every stick there's a witch astride,-- +The string you see to her leg is tied. +She will do a mischief if she can, +But the string is held by a careful man, +And whenever the evil-minded witch +Would cut some caper, he gives a twitch. +As for the hag, you can't see her, +But hark! you can hear her black cat's purr, +And now and then, as a car goes by, +You may catch a gleam from her wicked eye. + +Often you've looked on a rushing train, +But just what moved it was not so plain. +It couldn't be those wires above, +For they could neither pull nor shove; +Where was the motor that made it go +You couldn't guess, but now you know. + +Remember my rhymes when you ride again +On the rattling rail by the broomstick train! + + + + +TARTARUS + +WHILE in my simple gospel creed +That "God is Love" so plain I read, +Shall dreams of heathen birth affright +My pathway through the coming night? +Ah, Lord of life, though spectres pale +Fill with their threats the shadowy vale, +With Thee my faltering steps to aid, +How can I dare to be afraid? + +Shall mouldering page or fading scroll +Outface the charter of the soul? +Shall priesthood's palsied arm protect +The wrong our human hearts reject, +And smite the lips whose shuddering cry +Proclaims a cruel creed a lie? +The wizard's rope we disallow +Was justice once,--is murder now! + +Is there a world of blank despair, +And dwells the Omnipresent there? +Does He behold with smile serene +The shows of that unending scene, +Where sleepless, hopeless anguish lies, +And, ever dying, never dies? +Say, does He hear the sufferer's groan, +And is that child of wrath his own? + +O mortal, wavering in thy trust, +Lift thy pale forehead from the dust! +The mists that cloud thy darkened eyes +Fade ere they reach the o'erarching skies +When the blind heralds of despair +Would bid thee doubt a Father's care, +Look up from earth, and read above +On heaven's blue tablet, GOD IS LOVE! + + + + +AT THE TURN OF THE ROAD + +THE glory has passed from the goldenrod's plume, +The purple-hued asters still linger in bloom +The birch is bright yellow, the sumachs are red, +The maples like torches aflame overhead. + +But what if the joy of the summer is past, +And winter's wild herald is blowing his blast? +For me dull November is sweeter than May, +For my love is its sunshine,--she meets me to-day! + +Will she come? Will the ring-dove return to her nest? +Will the needle swing back from the east or the west? +At the stroke of the hour she will be at her gate; +A friend may prove laggard,--love never comes late. + +Do I see her afar in the distance? Not yet. +Too early! Too early! She could not forget! +When I cross the old bridge where the brook overflowed, +She will flash full in sight at the turn of the road. + +I pass the low wall where the ivy entwines; +I tread the brown pathway that leads through the pines; +I haste by the boulder that lies in the field, +Where her promise at parting was lovingly sealed. + +Will she come by the hillside or round through the wood? +Will she wear her brown dress or her mantle and hood? +The minute draws near,--but her watch may go wrong; +My heart will be asking, What keeps her so long? + +Why doubt for a moment? More shame if I do! +Why question? Why tremble? Are angels more true? +She would come to the lover who calls her his own +Though she trod in the track of a whirling cyclone! + +I crossed the old bridge ere the minute had passed. +I looked: lo! my Love stood before me at last. +Her eyes, how they sparkled, her cheeks, how they glowed, +As we met, face to face, at the turn of the road! + + + + +IN VITA MINERVA + +VEX not the Muse with idle prayers,-- +She will not hear thy call; +She steals upon thee unawares, +Or seeks thee not at all. + +Soft as the moonbeams when they sought +Endymion's fragrant bower, +She parts the whispering leaves of thought +To show her full-blown flower. + +For thee her wooing hour has passed, +The singing birds have flown, +And winter comes with icy blast +To chill thy buds unblown. + +Yet, though the woods no longer thrill +As once their arches rung, +Sweet echoes hover round thee still +Of songs thy summer sung. + +Live in thy past; await no more +The rush of heaven-sent wings; +Earth still has music left in store +While Memory sighs and sings. + + + + + + READINGS OVER THE TEACUPS + + FIVE STORIES AND A SEQUEL + + +TO MY OLD READERS + +You know "The Teacups," that congenial set +Which round the Teapot you have often met; +The grave DICTATOR, him you knew of old,-- +Knew as the shepherd of another fold +Grayer he looks, less youthful, but the same +As when you called him by a different name. +Near him the MISTRESS, whose experienced skill +Has taught her duly every cup to fill; +"Weak;" "strong;" "cool;" "lukewarm; "hot as you can pour;" +"No sweetening;" "sugared;" "two lumps;" "one lump more." +Next, the PROFESSOR, whose scholastic phrase +At every turn the teacher's tongue betrays, +Trying so hard to make his speech precise +The captious listener finds it overnice. + +Nor be forgotten our ANNEXES twain, +Nor HE, the owner of the squinting brain, +Which, while its curious fancies we pursue, +Oft makes us question, "Are we crack-brained too?" + +Along the board our growing list extends, +As one by one we count our clustering friends,-- +The youthful DOCTOR waiting for his share +Of fits and fevers when his crown gets bare; +In strong, dark lines our square-nibbed pen should draw +The lordly presence of the MAN OF LAW; +Our bashful TUTOR claims a humbler place, +A lighter touch, his slender form to trace. +Mark the fair lady he is seated by,-- +Some say he is her lover,--some deny,-- +Watch them together,--time alone can show +If dead-ripe friendship turns to love or no. +Where in my list of phrases shall I seek +The fitting words of NUMBER FIVE to speak? +Such task demands a readier pen than mine,-- +What if I steal the Tutor's Valentine? + +Why should I call her gracious, winning, fair? +Why with the loveliest of her sex compare? +Those varied charms have many a Muse inspired,-- +At last their worn superlatives have tired; +Wit, beauty, sweetness, each alluring grace, +All these in honeyed verse have found their place; +I need them not,--two little words I find +Which hold them all in happiest form combined; +No more with baffled language will I strive,-- +All in one breath I utter: Number Five! + +Now count our teaspoons--if you care to learn +How many tinkling cups were served in turn,-- +Add all together, you will find them ten,-- +Our young MUSICIAN joined us now and then. +Our bright DELILAH you must needs recall, +The comely handmaid, youngest of us all; +Need I remind you how the little maid +Came at a pinch to our Professor's aid,-- +Trimmed his long locks with unrelenting shears +And eased his looks of half a score of years? + +Sometimes, at table, as you well must know, +The stream of talk will all at once run low, +The air seems smitten with a sudden chill, +The wit grows silent and the gossip still; +This was our poet's chance, the hour of need, +When rhymes and stories we were used to read. +One day a whisper round the teacups stole,-- +"No scrap of paper in the silver bowl!" +(Our "poet's corner" may I not expect +My kindly reader still may recollect?) +"What! not a line to keep our souls alive?" +Spoke in her silvery accents Number Five. +"No matter, something we must find to read,-- +Find it or make it,--yes, we must indeed! +Now I remember I have seen at times +Some curious stories in a book of rhymes,-- +How certain secrets, long in silence sealed, +In after days were guessed at or revealed. +Those stories, doubtless, some of you must know,-- +They all were written many a year ago; +But an old story, be it false or true, +Twice told, well told, is twice as good as new; +Wait but three sips and I will go myself, +And fetch the book of verses from its shelf." +No time was lost in finding what she sought,-- +Gone but one moment,--lo! the book is brought. + +"Now, then, Professor, fortune has decreed +That you, this evening, shall be first to read,-- +Lucky for us that listen, for in fact +Who reads this poem must know how to _act_." +Right well she knew that in his greener age +He had a mighty hankering for the stage. +The patient audience had not long to wait; +Pleased with his chance, he smiled and took the bait; +Through his wild hair his coaxing fingers ran,-- +He spread the page before him and began. + + + + +THE BANKER'S SECRET + +THE Banker's dinner is the stateliest feast +The town has heard of for a year, at least; +The sparry lustres shed their broadest blaze, +Damask and silver catch and spread the rays; +The florist's triumphs crown the daintier spoil +Won from the sea, the forest, or the soil; +The steaming hot-house yields its largest pines, +The sunless vaults unearth their oldest wines; +With one admiring look the scene survey, +And turn a moment from the bright display. + +Of all the joys of earthly pride or power, +What gives most life, worth living, in an hour? +When Victory settles on the doubtful fight +And the last foeman wheels in panting flight, +No thrill like this is felt beneath the sun; +Life's sovereign moment is a battle won. +But say what next? To shape a Senate's choice, +By the strong magic of the master's voice; +To ride the stormy tempest of debate +That whirls the wavering fortunes of the state. +Third in the list, the happy lover's prize +Is won by honeyed words from women's eyes. +If some would have it first instead of third, +So let it be,--I answer not a word. +The fourth,--sweet readers, let the thoughtless half +Have its small shrug and inoffensive laugh; +Let the grave quarter wear its virtuous frown, +The stern half-quarter try to scowl us down; +But the last eighth, the choice and sifted few, +Will hear my words, and, pleased, confess them true. + +Among the great whom Heaven has made to shine, +How few have learned the art of arts,--to dine! +Nature, indulgent to our daily need, +Kind-hearted mother! taught us all to feed; +But the chief art,--how rarely Nature flings +This choicest gift among her social kings +Say, man of truth, has life a brighter hour +Than waits the chosen guest who knows his power? +He moves with ease, itself an angel charm,-- +Lifts with light touch my lady's jewelled arm, +Slides to his seat, half leading and half led, +Smiling but quiet till the grace is said, +Then gently kindles, while by slow degrees +Creep softly out the little arts that please; +Bright looks, the cheerful language of the eye, +The neat, crisp question and the gay reply,-- +Talk light and airy, such as well may pass +Between the rested fork and lifted glass;-- +With play like this the earlier evening flies, +Till rustling silks proclaim the ladies rise. +His hour has come,--he looks along the chairs, +As the Great Duke surveyed his iron squares. +That's the young traveller,--is n't much to show,-- +Fast on the road, but at the table slow. +Next him,--you see the author in his look,-- +His forehead lined with wrinkles like a book,-- +Wrote the great history of the ancient Huns,-- +Holds back to fire among the heavy guns. +Oh, there's our poet seated at his side, +Beloved of ladies, soft, cerulean-eyed. +Poets are prosy in their common talk, +As the fast trotters, for the most part, walk. +And there's our well-dressed gentleman, who sits, +By right divine, no doubt, among the wits, +Who airs his tailor's patterns when he walks, +The man that often speaks, but never talks. +Why should he talk, whose presence lends a grace +To every table where he shows his face? +He knows the manual of the silver fork, +Can name his claret--if he sees the cork,-- +Remark that "White-top" was considered fine, +But swear the "Juno" is the better wine;-- +Is not this talking? Ask Quintilian's rules; +If they say No, the town has many fools. +Pause for a moment,--for our eyes behold +The plain unsceptred king, the man of gold, +The thrice illustrious threefold millionnaire; +Mark his slow-creeping, dead, metallic stare; +His eyes, dull glimmering, like the balance-pan +That weighs its guinea as he weighs his man. +Who's next? An artist in a satin tie +Whose ample folds defeat the curious eye. +And there 's the cousin,--must be asked, you know,-- +Looks like a spinster at a baby-show. +Hope he is cool,--they set him next the door,-- +And likes his place, between the gap and bore. +Next comes a Congressman, distinguished guest +We don't count him,--they asked him with the rest; +And then some white cravats, with well-shaped ties, +And heads above them which their owners prize. + +Of all that cluster round the genial board, +Not one so radiant as the banquet's lord. +Some say they fancy, but they know not why, +A shade of trouble brooding in his eye, +Nothing, perhaps,--the rooms are overhot,-- +Yet see his cheek,--the dull-red burning spot,-- +Taste the brown sherry which he does not pass,-- +Ha! That is brandy; see him fill his glass! +But not forgetful of his feasting friends, +To each in turn some lively word he sends; +See how he throws his baited lines about, +And plays his men as anglers play their trout. +A question drops among the listening crew +And hits the traveller, pat on Timbuctoo. +We're on the Niger, somewhere near its source,-- +Not the least hurry, take the river's course +Through Kissi, Foota, Kankan, Bammakoo, +Bambarra, Sego, so to Timbuctoo, +Thence down to Youri;--stop him if we can, +We can't fare worse,--wake up the Congressman! +The Congressman, once on his talking legs, +Stirs up his knowledge to its thickest dregs; +Tremendous draught for dining men to quaff! +Nothing will choke him but a purpling laugh. +A word,--a shout,--a mighty roar,--'t is done; +Extinguished; lassoed by a treacherous pun. +A laugh is priming to the loaded soul; +The scattering shots become a steady roll, +Broke by sharp cracks that run along the line, +The light artillery of the talker's wine. +The kindling goblets flame with golden dews, +The hoarded flasks their tawny fire diffuse, +And the Rhine's breast-milk gushes cold and bright, +Pale as the moon and maddening as her light; +With crimson juice the thirsty southern sky +Sucks from the hills where buried armies lie, +So that the dreamy passion it imparts +Is drawn from heroes' bones and lovers' hearts. +But lulls will come; the flashing soul transmits +Its gleams of light in alternating fits. +The shower of talk that rattled down amain +Ends in small patterings like an April's rain; + +With the dry sticks all bonfires are begun; +Bring the first fagot, proser number one +The voices halt; the game is at a stand; +Now for a solo from the master-hand +'T is but a story,--quite a simple thing,-- +An aria touched upon a single string, +But every accent comes with such a grace +The stupid servants listen in their place, +Each with his waiter in his lifted hands, +Still as a well-bred pointer when he stands. +A query checks him: "Is he quite exact?" +(This from a grizzled, square-jawed man of fact.) +The sparkling story leaves him to his fate, +Crushed by a witness, smothered with a date, +As a swift river, sown with many a star, +Runs brighter, rippling on a shallow bar. +The smooth divine suggests a graver doubt; +A neat quotation bowls the parson out; +Then, sliding gayly from his own display, +He laughs the learned dulness all away. +So, with the merry tale and jovial song, +The jocund evening whirls itself along, +Till the last chorus shrieks its loud encore, +And the white neckcloths vanish through the door. + +One savage word!--The menials know its tone, +And slink away; the master stands alone. +Well played, by ------"; breathe not what were best unheard; +His goblet shivers while he speaks the word,-- +"If wine tells truth,--and so have said the wise,-- +It makes me laugh to think how brandy lies! +Bankrupt to-morrow,--millionnaire to-day,-- +The farce is over,--now begins the play!" +The spring he touches lets a panel glide; +An iron closet harks beneath the slide, +Bright with such treasures as a search might bring +From the deep pockets of a truant king. +Two diamonds, eyeballs of a god of bronze, +Bought from his faithful priest, a pious bonze; +A string of brilliants; rubies, three or four; +Bags of old coin and bars of virgin ore; +A jewelled poniard and a Turkish knife, +Noiseless and useful if we come to strife. +Gone! As a pirate flies before the wind, +And not one tear for all he leaves behind +From all the love his better years have known +Fled like a felon,--ah! but not alone! +The chariot flashes through a lantern's glare,-- +Oh the wild eyes! the storm of sable hair! +Still to his side the broken heart will cling,-- +The bride of shame, the wife without the ring +Hark, the deep oath,--the wail of frenzied woe,-- +Lost! lost to hope of Heaven and peace below! + +He kept his secret; but the seed of crime +Bursts of itself in God's appointed time. +The lives he wrecked were scattered far and wide; +One never blamed nor wept,--she only died. +None knew his lot, though idle tongues would say +He sought a lonely refuge far away, +And there, with borrowed name and altered mien, +He died unheeded, as he lived unseen. +The moral market had the usual chills +Of Virtue suffering from protested bills; +The White Cravats, to friendship's memory true, +Sighed for the past, surveyed the future too; +Their sorrow breathed in one expressive line,-- +"Gave pleasant dinners; who has got his wine?" + + . . . . . . . . . . . . . . + +The reader paused,--the Teacups knew his ways,-- +He, like the rest, was not averse to praise. +Voices and hands united; every one +Joined in approval: "Number Three, well done!" + +"Now for the Exile's story; if my wits +Are not at fault, his curious record fits +Neatly as sequel to the tale we've heard; +Not wholly wild the fancy, nor absurd +That this our island hermit well might be +That story's hero, fled from over sea. +Come, Number Seven, we would not have you strain +The fertile powers of that inventive brain. +Read us 'The Exile's Secret'; there's enough +Of dream-like fiction and fantastic stuff +In the strange web of mystery that invests +The lonely isle where sea birds build their nests." + +"Lies! naught but lies!" so Number Seven began,-- +No harm was known of that secluded man. +He lived alone,--who would n't if he might, +And leave the rogues and idiots out of sight? +A foolish story,--still, I'll do my best,-- +The house was real,--don't believe the rest. +How could a ruined dwelling last so long +Without its legends shaped in tale and song? +Who was this man of whom they tell the lies? +Perhaps--why not?--NAPOLEON! in disguise,-- +So some said, kidnapped from his ocean coop, +Brought to this island in a coasting sloop,-- +Meanwhile a sham Napoleon in his place +Played Nap. and saved Sir Hudson from disgrace. +Such was one story; others used to say, +"No,--not Napoleon,--it was Marshal Ney." +"Shot?" Yes, no doubt, but not with balls of lead, +But balls of pith that never shoot folks dead. +He wandered round, lived South for many a year, +At last came North and fixed his dwelling here. +Choose which you will of all the tales that pile +Their mingling fables on the tree-crowned isle. +Who wrote this modest version I suppose +That truthful Teacup, our Dictator, knows; +Made up of various legends, it would seem, +The sailor's yarn, the crazy poet's dream. +Such tales as this, by simple souls received, +At first are stared at and at last believed; +From threads like this the grave historians try +To weave their webs, and never know they lie. +Hear, then, the fables that have gathered round +The lonely home an exiled stranger found. + + +THE EXILE'S SECRET + +YE that have faced the billows and the spray +Of good St. Botolph's island-studded bay, +As from the gliding bark your eye has scanned +The beaconed rocks, the wave-girt hills of sand, +Have ye not marked one elm-o'ershadowed isle, +Round as the dimple chased in beauty's smile,-- +A stain of verdure on an azure field, +Set like a jewel in a battered shield? +Fixed in the narrow gorge of Ocean's path, +Peaceful it meets him in his hour of wrath; +When the mailed Titan, scourged by hissing gales, +Writhes in his glistening coat of clashing scales, +The storm-beat island spreads its tranquil green, +Calm as an emerald on an angry queen. +So fair when distant should be fairer near; +A boat shall waft us from the outstretched pier. +The breeze blows fresh; we reach the island's edge, +Our shallop rustling through the yielding sedge. +No welcome greets us on the desert isle; +Those elms, far-shadowing, hide no stately pile +Yet these green ridges mark an ancient road; +And to! the traces of a fair abode; +The long gray line that marks a garden-wall, +And heaps of fallen beams,--fire-branded all. + +Who sees unmoved, a ruin at his feet, +The lowliest home where human hearts have beat? +Its hearthstone, shaded with the bistre stain +A century's showery torrents wash in vain; +Its starving orchard, where the thistle blows +And mossy trunks still mark the broken rows; +Its chimney-loving poplar, oftenest seen +Next an old roof, or where a roof has been; +Its knot-grass, plantain,--all the social weeds, +Man's mute companions, following where he leads; +Its dwarfed, pale flowers, that show their straggling heads, +Sown by the wind from grass-choked garden-beds; +Its woodbine, creeping where it used to climb; +Its roses, breathing of the olden time; +All the poor shows the curious idler sees, +As life's thin shadows waste by slow degrees, +Till naught remains, the saddening tale to tell, +Save home's last wrecks,--the cellar and the well? + +And whose the home that strews in black decay +The one green-glowing island of the bay? +Some dark-browed pirate's, jealous of the fate +That seized the strangled wretch of "Nix's Mate"? +Some forger's, skulking in a borrowed name, +Whom Tyburn's dangling halter yet may claim? +Some wan-eyed exile's, wealth and sorrow's heir, +Who sought a lone retreat for tears and prayer? +Some brooding poet's, sure of deathless fame, +Had not his epic perished in the flame? +Or some gray wooer's, whom a girlish frown +Chased from his solid friends and sober town? +Or some plain tradesman's, fond of shade and ease, +Who sought them both beneath these quiet trees? +Why question mutes no question can unlock, +Dumb as the legend on the Dighton rock? +One thing at least these ruined heaps declare,-- +They were a shelter once; a man lived there. + +But where the charred and crumbling records fail, +Some breathing lips may piece the half-told tale; +No man may live with neighbors such as these, +Though girt with walls of rock and angry seas, +And shield his home, his children, or his wife, +His ways, his means, his vote, his creed, his life, +From the dread sovereignty of Ears and Eyes +And the small member that beneath them lies. +They told strange things of that mysterious man; +Believe who will, deny them such as can; +Why should we fret if every passing sail +Had its old seaman talking on the rail? +The deep-sunk schooner stuffed with Eastern lime, +Slow wedging on, as if the waves were slime; +The knife-edged clipper with her ruffled spars, +The pawing steamer with her inane of stars, +The bull-browed galliot butting through the stream, +The wide-sailed yacht that slipped along her beam, +The deck-piled sloops, the pinched chebacco-boats, +The frigate, black with thunder-freighted throats, +All had their talk about the lonely man; +And thus, in varying phrase, the story ran. +His name had cost him little care to seek, +Plain, honest, brief, a decent name to speak, +Common, not vulgar, just the kind that slips +With least suggestion from a stranger's lips. +His birthplace England, as his speech might show, +Or his hale cheek, that wore the red-streak's glow; +His mouth sharp-moulded; in its mirth or scorn +There came a flash as from the milky corn, +When from the ear you rip the rustling sheath, +And the white ridges show their even teeth. +His stature moderate, but his strength confessed, +In spite of broadcloth, by his ample breast; +Full-armed, thick-handed; one that had been strong, +And might be dangerous still, if things went wrong. +He lived at ease beneath his elm-trees' shade, +Did naught for gain, yet all his debts were paid; +Rich, so 't was thought, but careful of his store; +Had all he needed, claimed to have no more. + +But some that lingered round the isle at night +Spoke of strange stealthy doings in their sight; +Of creeping lonely visits that he made +To nooks and corners, with a torch and spade. +Some said they saw the hollow of a cave; +One, given to fables, swore it was a grave; +Whereat some shuddered, others boldly cried, +Those prowling boatmen lied, and knew they lied. +They said his house was framed with curious cares, +Lest some old friend might enter unawares; +That on the platform at his chamber's door +Hinged a loose square that opened through the floor; +Touch the black silken tassel next the bell, +Down, with a crash, the flapping trap-door fell; +Three stories deep the falling wretch would strike, +To writhe at leisure on a boarder's pike. +By day armed always; double-armed at night, + +His tools lay round him; wake him such as might. +A carbine hung beside his India fan, +His hand could reach a Turkish ataghan; +Pistols, with quaint-carved stocks and barrels gilt, +Crossed a long dagger with a jewelled hilt; +A slashing cutlass stretched along the bed;-- +All this was what those lying boatmen said. +Then some were full of wondrous stories told +Of great oak chests and cupboards full of gold; +Of the wedged ingots and the silver bars +That cost old pirates ugly sabre-scars; +How his laced wallet often would disgorge +The fresh-faced guinea of an English George, +Or sweated ducat, palmed by Jews of yore, +Or double Joe, or Portuguese moidore; +And how his finger wore a rubied ring +Fit for the white-necked play-girl of a king. +But these fine legends, told with staring eyes, +Met with small credence from the old and wise. + +Why tell each idle guess, each whisper vain? +Enough : the scorched and cindered beams remain. +He came, a silent pilgrim to the West, +Some old-world mystery throbbing in his breast; +Close to the thronging mart he dwelt alone; +He lived; he died. The rest is all unknown. + +Stranger, whose eyes the shadowy isle survey, +As the black steamer dashes through the bay, +Why ask his buried secret to divine? +He was thy brother; speak, and tell us thine! + + . . . . . . . . . . . + +Silence at first, a kind of spell-bound pause; +Then all the Teacups tinkled their applause; +When that was hushed no sound the stillness broke +Till once again the soft-voiced lady spoke: + +"The Lover's Secret,--surely that must need +The youngest voice our table holds to read. +Which of our two 'Annexes' shall we choose? +Either were charming, neither will refuse; +But choose we must,--what better can we do +Than take the younger of the youthful two?" + +True to the primal instinct of her sex, +"Why, that means me," half whispered each Annex. +"What if it does?" the voiceless question came, +That set those pale New England cheeks aflame; +"Our old-world scholar may have ways to teach +Of Oxford English, Britain's purest speech,-- +She shall be youngest,--youngest for _to-day_,-- +Our dates we'll fix hereafter as we may; +_All rights reserved_,--the words we know so well, +That guard the claims of books which never sell." +The British maiden bowed a pleased assent, +Her two long ringlets swinging as she bent; +The glistening eyes her eager soul looked through +Betrayed her lineage in their Saxon blue. +Backward she flung each too obtrusive curl +And thus began,--the rose-lipped English girl. + + +THE LOVER'S SECRET + +WHAT ailed young Lucius? Art had vainly tried +To guess his ill, and found herself defied. +The Augur plied his legendary skill; +Useless; the fair young Roman languished still. +His chariot took him every cloudless day +Along the Pincian Hill or Appian Way; +They rubbed his wasted limbs with sulphurous oil, +Oozed from the far-off Orient's heated soil; +They led him tottering down the steamy path +Where bubbling fountains filled the thermal bath; +Borne in his litter to Egeria's cave, +They washed him, shivering, in her icy wave. +They sought all curious herbs and costly stones, +They scraped the moss that grew on dead men's bones, +They tried all cures the votive tablets taught, +Scoured every place whence healing drugs were brought, +O'er Thracian hills his breathless couriers ran, +His slaves waylaid the Syrian caravan. +At last a servant heard a stranger speak +A new chirurgeon's name; a clever Greek, +Skilled in his art; from Pergamus he came +To Rome but lately; GALEN was the name. +The Greek was called: a man with piercing eyes, +Who must be cunning, and who might be wise. +He spoke but little,--if they pleased, he said, +He 'd wait awhile beside the sufferer's bed. +So by his side he sat, serene and calm, +His very accents soft as healing balm; +Not curious seemed, but every movement spied, +His sharp eyes searching where they seemed to glide; +Asked a few questions,--what he felt, and where? +"A pain just here," "A constant beating there." +Who ordered bathing for his aches and ails? +"Charmis, the water-doctor from Marseilles." +What was the last prescription in his case? +"A draught of wine with powdered chrysoprase." +Had he no secret grief he nursed alone? +A pause; a little tremor; answer,--"None." +Thoughtful, a moment, sat the cunning leech, +And muttered " Eros! " in his native speech. +In the broad atrium various friends await +The last new utterance from the lips of fate; +Men, matrons, maids, they talk the question o'er, +And, restless, pace the tessellated floor. +Not unobserved the youth so long had pined +By gentle-hearted dames and damsels kind; +One with the rest, a rich Patrician's pride, +The lady Hermia, called "the golden-eyed"; +The same the old Proconsul fain must woo, +Whom, one dark night, a masked sicarius slew; +The same black Crassus over roughly pressed +To hear his suit,--the Tiber knows the rest. +(Crassus was missed next morning by his set; +Next week the fishers found him in their net.) +She with the others paced the ample hall, +Fairest, alas! and saddest of them all. + +At length the Greek declared, with puzzled face, +Some strange enchantment mingled in the case, +And naught would serve to act as counter-charm +Save a warm bracelet from a maiden's arm. +Not every maiden's,--many might be tried; +Which not in vain, experience must decide. +Were there no damsels willing to attend +And do such service for a suffering friend? +The message passed among the waiting crowd, +First in a whisper, then proclaimed aloud. +Some wore no jewels; some were disinclined, +For reasons better guessed at than defined; +Though all were saints,--at least professed to be,-- +The list all counted, there were named but three. +The leech, still seated by the patient's side, +Held his thin wrist, and watched him, eagle-eyed. +Aurelia first, a fair-haired Tuscan girl, +Slipped off her golden asp, with eyes of pearl. +His solemn head the grave physician shook; +The waxen features thanked her with a look. +Olympia next, a creature half divine, +Sprung from the blood of old Evander's line, +Held her white arm, that wore a twisted chain +Clasped with an opal-sheeny cymophane. +In vain, O daughter I said the baffled Greek. +The patient sighed the thanks he could not speak. + +Last, Hermia entered; look, that sudden start! +The pallium heaves above his leaping heart; +The beating pulse, the cheek's rekindled flame, +Those quivering lips, the secret all proclaim. +The deep disease long throbbing in the breast, +The dread enchantment, all at once confessed! +The case was plain; the treatment was begun; +And Love soon cured the mischief he had done. + +Young Love, too oft thy treacherous bandage slips +Down from the eyes it blinded to the lips! +Ask not the Gods, O youth, for clearer sight, +But the bold heart to plead thy cause aright. +And thou, fair maiden, when thy lovers sigh, +Suspect thy flattering ear, but trust thine eye; +And learn this secret from the tale of old +No love so true as love that dies untold. + + . . . . . . . . . . + +"Bravo, Annex!" they shouted, every one,-- +"Not Mrs. Kemble's self had better done." +"Quite so," she stammered in her awkward way,-- +Not just the thing, but something she must say. + +The teaspoon chorus tinkled to its close +When from his chair the MAN OF LAW arose, +Called by her voice whose mandate all obeyed, +And took the open volume she displayed. +Tall, stately, strong, his form begins to own +Some slight exuberance in its central zone,-- +That comely fulness of the growing girth +Which fifty summers lend the sons of earth. +A smooth, round disk about whose margin stray, +Above the temples, glistening threads of gray; +Strong, deep-cut grooves by toilsome decades wrought +On brow and mouth, the battle-fields of thought; +A voice that lingers in the listener's ear, +Grave, calm, far-reaching, every accent clear,-- +(Those tones resistless many a foreman knew +That shaped their verdict ere the twelve withdrew;) +A statesman's forehead, athlete's throat and jaw, +Such the proud semblance of the Man of Law. +His eye just lighted on the printed leaf, +Held as a practised pleader holds his brief. +One whispered softly from behind his cup, +"He does not read,--his book is wrong side up! +He knows the story that it holds by heart,-- +So like his own! How well he'll act his part!" +Then all were silent; not a rustling fan +Stirred the deep stillness as the voice began. + + +THE STATESMAN'S SECRET + +WHO of all statesmen is his country's pride, +Her councils' prompter and her leaders' guide? +He speaks; the nation holds its breath to hear; +He nods, and shakes the sunset hemisphere. +Born where the primal fount of Nature springs +By the rude cradles of her throneless kings, +In his proud eye her royal signet flames, +By his own lips her Monarch she proclaims. +Why name his countless triumphs, whom to meet +Is to be famous, envied in defeat? +The keen debaters, trained to brawls and strife, +Who fire one shot, and finish with the knife, +Tried him but once, and, cowering in their shame, +Ground their hacked blades to strike at meaner game. +The lordly chief, his party's central stay, +Whose lightest word a hundred votes obey, +Found a new listener seated at his side, +Looked in his eye, and felt himself defied, +Flung his rash gauntlet on the startled floor, +Met the all-conquering, fought,--and ruled no more. +See where he moves, what eager crowds attend! +What shouts of thronging multitudes ascend! +If this is life,--to mark with every hour +The purple deepening in his robes of power, +To see the painted fruits of honor fall +Thick at his feet, and choose among them all, +To hear the sounds that shape his spreading name +Peal through the myriad organ-stops of fame, +Stamp the lone isle that spots the seaman's chart, +And crown the pillared glory of the mart, +To count as peers the few supremely wise +Who mark their planet in the angels' eyes,-- +If this is life-- +What savage man is he +Who strides alone beside the sounding sea? +Alone he wanders by the murmuring shore, +His thoughts as restless as the waves that roar; +Looks on the sullen sky as stormy-browed +As on the waves yon tempest-brooding cloud, +Heaves from his aching breast a wailing sigh, +Sad as the gust that sweeps the clouded sky. +Ask him his griefs; what midnight demons plough +The lines of torture on his lofty brow; +Unlock those marble lips, and bid them speak +The mystery freezing in his bloodless cheek. +His secret? Hid beneath a flimsy word; +One foolish whisper that ambition heard; +And thus it spake: "Behold yon gilded chair, +The world's one vacant throne,--thy plate is there!" + +Ah, fatal dream! What warning spectres meet +In ghastly circle round its shadowy seat! +Yet still the Tempter murmurs in his ear +The maddening taunt he cannot choose but hear +"Meanest of slaves, by gods and men accurst, +He who is second when he might be first +Climb with bold front the ladder's topmost round, +Or chain thy creeping footsteps to the ground!" +Illustrious Dupe! Have those majestic eyes +Lost their proud fire for such a vulgar prize? +Art thou the last of all mankind to know +That party-fights are won by aiming low? +Thou, stamped by Nature with her royal sign, +That party-hirelings hate a look like thine? +Shake from thy sense the wild delusive dream +Without the purple, art thou not supreme? +And soothed by love unbought, thy heart shall own +A nation's homage nobler than its throne! + + . . . . . . . . . . + +Loud rang the plaudits; with them rose the thought, +"Would he had learned the lesson he has taught!" +Used to the tributes of the noisy crowd, +The stately speaker calmly smiled and bowed; +The fire within a flushing cheek betrayed, +And eyes that burned beneath their penthouse shade. + +"The clock strikes ten, the hours are flying fast,-- +Now, Number Five, we've kept you till the last!" + +What music charms like those caressing tones +Whose magic influence every listener owns,-- +Where all the woman finds herself expressed, +And Heaven's divinest effluence breathes confessed? +Such was the breath that wooed our ravished ears, +Sweet as the voice a dreaming vestal hears; +Soft as the murmur of a brooding dove, +It told the mystery of a mother's love. + + +THE MOTHER'S SECRET + +How sweet the sacred legend--if unblamed +In my slight verse such holy things are named-- +Of Mary's secret hours of hidden joy, +Silent, but pondering on her wondrous boy! +Ave, Maria! Pardon, if I wrong +Those heavenly words that shame my earthly song! +The choral host had closed the Angel's strain +Sung to the listening watch on Bethlehem's plain, +And now the shepherds, hastening on their way, +Sought the still hamlet where the Infant lay. +They passed the fields that gleaning Ruth toiled o'er,-- +They saw afar the ruined threshing-floor +Where Moab's daughter, homeless and forlorn, +Found Boaz slumbering by his heaps of corn; +And some remembered how the holy scribe, +Skilled in the lore of every jealous tribe, +Traced the warm blood of Jesse's royal son +To that fair alien, bravely wooed and won. +So fared they on to seek the promised sign, +That marked the anointed heir of David's line. +At last, by forms of earthly semblance led, +They found the crowded inn, the oxen's shed. + +No pomp was there, no glory shone around +On the coarse straw that strewed the reeking ground; +One dim retreat a flickering torch betrayed,-- +In that poor cell the Lord of Life was laid +The wondering shepherds told their breathless tale +Of the bright choir that woke the sleeping vale; +Told how the skies with sudden glory flamed, +Told how the shining multitude proclaimed, +"Joy, joy to earth! Behold the hallowed morn +In David's city Christ the Lord is born! +'Glory to God!' let angels shout on high, +'Good-will to men!' the listening earth reply!" +They spoke with hurried words and accents wild; +Calm in his cradle slept the heavenly child. +No trembling word the mother's joy revealed,-- +One sigh of rapture, and her lips were sealed; +Unmoved she saw the rustic train depart, +But kept their words to ponder in her heart. + +Twelve years had passed; the boy was fair and tall, +Growing in wisdom, finding grace with all. +The maids of Nazareth, as they trooped to fill +Their balanced urns beside the mountain rill, +The gathered matrons, as they sat and spun, +Spoke in soft words of Joseph's quiet son. +No voice had reached the Galilean vale +Of star-led kings, or awe-struck shepherd's tale; +In the meek, studious child they only saw +The future Rabbi, learned in Israel's law. + +Beyond the hills that girt the village green; +Save when at midnight, o'er the starlit sands, +Snatched from the steel of Herod's murdering bands, +A babe, close folded to his mother's breast, +Through Edom's wilds he sought the sheltering West. +Then Joseph spake: "Thy boy hath largely grown; +Weave him fine raiment, fitting to be shown; +Fair robes beseem the pilgrim, as the priest; +Goes he not with us to the holy feast?" +And Mary culled the flaxen fibres white; +Till eve she spun; she spun till morning light. +The thread was twined; its parting meshes through +From hand to hand her restless shuttle flew, +Till the full web was wound upon the beam; +Love's curious toil,--a vest without a seam! +They reach the Holy Place, fulfil the days +To solemn feasting given, and grateful praise. +At last they turn, and far Moriah's height +Melts in the southern sky and fades from sight. +All day the dusky caravan has flowed +In devious trails along the winding road; +(For many a step their homeward path attends, +And all the sons of Abraham are as friends.) +Evening has come,--the hour of rest and joy,-- +Hush! Hush! That whisper,--"Where is Mary's boy?" +Oh, weary hour! Oh, aching days that passed +Filled with strange fears each wilder than the last,-- +The soldier's lance, the fierce centurion's sword, +The crushing wheels that whirl some Roman lord, +The midnight crypt that sucks the captive's breath, +The blistering sun on Hinnom's vale of death! +Thrice on his cheek had rained the morning light; +Thrice on his lips the mildewed kiss of night, +Crouched by a sheltering column's shining plinth, +Or stretched beneath the odorous terebinth. +At last, in desperate mood, they sought once more +The Temple's porches, searched in vain before; +They found him seated with the ancient men,-- +The grim old rufflers of the tongue and pen,-- +Their bald heads glistening as they clustered near, +Their gray beards slanting as they turned to hear, +Lost in half-envious wonder and surprise +That lips so fresh should utter words so wise. +And Mary said,--as one who, tried too long, +Tells all her grief and half her sense of wrong,-- +What is this thoughtless thing which thou hast done? +Lo, we have sought thee sorrowing, O my son! +Few words he spake, and scarce of filial tone, +Strange words, their sense a mystery yet unknown; +Then turned with them and left the holy hill, +To all their mild commands obedient still. +The tale was told to Nazareth's sober men, +And Nazareth's matrons told it oft again; +The maids retold it at the fountain's side, +The youthful shepherds doubted or denied; +It passed around among the listening friends, +With all that fancy adds and fiction lends, +Till newer marvels dimmed the young renown +Of Joseph's son, who talked the Rabbis down. + +But Mary, faithful to its lightest word, +Kept in her heart the sayings she had heard, +Till the dread morning rent the Temple's veil, +And shuddering earth confirmed the wondrous tale. + +Youth fades; love droops; the leaves of friendship fall +A mother's secret hope outlives them all. + + . . . . . . . . . . . + +Hushed was the voice, but still its accents thrilled +The throbbing hearts its lingering sweetness filled. +The simple story which a tear repays +Asks not to share the noisy breath of praise. +A trance-like stillness,--scarce a whisper heard, +No tinkling teaspoon in its saucer stirred; +A deep-drawn sigh that would not be suppressed, +A sob, a lifted kerchief told the rest. + +"Come now, Dictator," so the lady spoke, +"You too must fit your shoulder to the yoke; +You'll find there's something, doubtless, if you look, +To serve your purpose,--so, now take the book." +"Ah, my dear lady, you must know full well, +'Story, God bless you, I have none to tell.' +To those five stories which these pages hold +You all have listened,--every one is told. +There's nothing left to make you smile or weep,-- +A few grave thoughts may work you off to sleep." + + +THE SECRET OF THE STARS + +Is man's the only throbbing heart that hides +The silent spring that feeds its whispering tides? +Speak from thy caverns, mystery-breeding Earth, +Tell the half-hinted story of thy birth, +And calm the noisy champions who have thrown +The book of types against the book of stone! + +Have ye not secrets, ye refulgent spheres, +No sleepless listener of the starlight hears? +In vain the sweeping equatorial pries +Through every world-sown corner of the skies, +To the far orb that so remotely strays +Our midnight darkness is its noonday blaze; +In vain the climbing soul of creeping man +Metes out the heavenly concave with a span, +Tracks into space the long-lost meteor's trail, +And weighs an unseen planet in the scale; +Still o'er their doubts the wan-eyed watchers sigh, +And Science lifts her still unanswered cry +"Are all these worlds, that speed their circling flight, +Dumb, vacant, soulless,--baubles of the night? +Warmed with God's smile and wafted by his breath, +To weave in ceaseless round the dance of Death? +Or rolls a sphere in each expanding zone, +Crowned with a life as varied as our own?" + +Maker of earth and stars! If thou hast taught +By what thy voice hath spoke, thy hand hath wrought, +By all that Science proves, or guesses true, +More than thy poet dreamed, thy prophet knew,-- +The heavens still bow in darkness at thy feet, +And shadows veil thy cloud-pavilioned seat! +Not for ourselves we ask thee to reveal +One awful word beneath the future's seal; +What thou shalt tell us, grant us strength to bear; +What thou withholdest is thy single care. +Not for ourselves; the present clings too fast, +Moored to the mighty anchors of the past; +But when, with angry snap, some cable parts, +The sound re-echoing in our startled hearts,-- +When, through the wall that clasps the harbor round, +And shuts the raving ocean from its bound, +Shattered and rent by sacrilegious hands, +The first mad billow leaps upon the sands,-- +Then to the Future's awful page we turn, +And what we question hardly dare to learn. +Still let us hope! for while we seem to tread +The time-worn pathway of the nations dead, +Though Sparta laughs at all our warlike deeds, +And buried Athens claims our stolen creeds, +Though Rome, a spectre on her broken throne, +Beholds our eagle and recalls her own, +Though England fling her pennons on the breeze +And reign before us Mistress of the seas,-- +While calm-eyed History tracks us circling round +Fate's iron pillar where they all were bound, +Still in our path a larger curve she finds, +The spiral widening as the chain unwinds +Still sees new beacons crowned with brighter flame +Than the old watch-fires, like, but not the same +No shameless haste shall spot with bandit-crime +Our destined empire snatched before its time. +Wait,--wait, undoubting, for the winds have caught +From our bold speech the heritage of thought; +No marble form that sculptured truth can wear +Vies with the image shaped in viewless air; +And thought unfettered grows through speech to deeds, +As the broad forest marches in its seeds. +What though we perish ere the day is won? +Enough to see its glorious work begun! +The thistle falls before a trampling clown, +But who can chain the flying thistle-down? +Wait while the fiery seeds of freedom fly, +The prairie blazes when the grass is dry! +What arms might ravish, leave to peaceful arts, +Wisdom and love shall win the roughest hearts; +So shall the angel who has closed for man +The blissful garden since his woes began +Swing wide the golden portals of the West, +And Eden's secret stand at length confessed! + + . . . . . . . . . . . + +The reader paused; in truth he thought it time,-- +Some threatening signs accused the drowsy rhyme. +The Mistress nodded, the Professor dozed, +The two Annexes sat with eyelids closed,-- +Not sleeping,--no! But when one shuts one's eyes, +That one hears better no one, sure, denies. +The Doctor whispered in Delilah's ear, +Or seemed to whisper, for their heads drew near. +Not all the owner's efforts could restrain +The wild vagaries of the squinting brain,-- +Last of the listeners Number Five alone +The patient reader still could call his own. + +"Teacups, arouse!" 'T was thus the spell I broke; +The drowsy started and the slumberers woke. +"The sleep I promised you have now enjoyed, +Due to your hour of labor well employed. +Swiftly the busy moments have been passed; +This, our first 'Teacups,' must not be our last. +Here, on this spot, now consecrated ground, +The Order of 'The Teacups' let us found! +By winter's fireside and in summer's bower +Still shall it claim its ever-welcome hour, +In distant regions where our feet may roam +The magic teapot find or make a home; +Long may its floods their bright infusion pour, +Till time and teacups both shall be no more!" + + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POETRY OF O. W. 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