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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell
+Holmes, Vol. 12, 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. 12
+       Verses From The Oldest Portfolio
+
+Author: Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.
+
+Release Date: September 30, 2004 [EBook #7399]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POETRY OF HOLMES, VOL. 12 ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Widger
+
+
+
+
+
+                           THE POETICAL WORKS
+
+                                   OF
+
+                         OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
+
+                 [Volume 3 of the 1893 three volume set]
+
+
+
+                     VERSES FROM THE OLDEST PORTFOLIO
+
+          FROM THE "COLLEGIAN," 1830, ILLUSTRATED ANNUALS, ETC.
+
+
+
+
+     FIRST VERSES: TRANSLATION FROM THE THE MEETING OF THE DRYADS
+     THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR
+     THE TOADSTOOL
+     THE SPECTRE PIG
+     TO A CAGED LION
+     THE STAR AND THE WATER-LILY
+     ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE: "A SPANISH GIRL REVERIE"
+     A ROMAN AQUEDUCT
+     FROM A BACHELOR'S PRIVATE JOURNAL
+     LA GRISETTE
+     OUR YANKEE GIRLS
+     L'INCONNUE
+     STANZAS
+     LINES BY A CLERK
+     THE PHILOSOPHER TO HIS LOVE
+     THE POET'S LOT
+     TO A BLANK SHEET OF PAPER
+     TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A GENTLEMAN" IN THE ATHENAEUM GALLERY
+     THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN
+     A NOONTIDE LYRIC
+     THE HOT SEASON
+     A PORTRAIT
+     AN EVENING THOUGHT.  WRITTEN AT SEA
+     THE WASP AND THE HORNET
+     "QUI VIVE?"
+
+
+
+
+VERSES FROM THE OLDEST PORTFOLIO
+
+     Nescit vox missa reverti.--Horat. Ars Poetica.
+     Ab lis qua non adjuvant quam mollissime oportet pedem referre.--
+     Quintillian, L. VI. C. 4.
+
+
+These verses have always been printed in my collected poems, and as the
+best of them may bear a single reading, I allow them to appear, but in a
+less conspicuous position than the other productions.  A chick, before
+his shell is off his back, is hardly a fair subject for severe criticism.
+If one has written anything worth preserving, his first efforts may be
+objects of interest and curiosity.  Other young authors may take
+encouragement from seeing how tame, how feeble, how commonplace were the
+rudimentary attempts of the half-fledged poet. If the boy or youth had
+anything in him, there will probably be some sign of it in the midst of
+his imitative mediocrities and ambitious failures.  These "first verses"
+of mine, written before I was sixteen, have little beyond a common
+academy boy's ordinary performance.  Yet a kindly critic said there was
+one line which showed a poetical quality:--
+
+                 "The boiling ocean trembled into calm."
+
+One of these poems--the reader may guess which--won fair words from
+Thackeray. The Spectre Pig was a wicked suggestion which came into my
+head after reading Dana's Buccaneer. Nobody seemed to find it out, and
+I never mentioned it to the venerable poet, who might not have been
+pleased with the parody.  This is enough to say of these unvalued copies
+of verses.
+
+
+                               FIRST VERSES
+
+              PHILLIPS ACADEMY, ANDOVER, MASS., 1824 OR 1825
+
+
+TRANSLATION FROM THE ENEID, BOOK I.
+
+THE god looked out upon the troubled deep
+Waked into tumult from its placid sleep;
+The flame of anger kindles in his eye
+As the wild waves ascend the lowering sky;
+He lifts his head above their awful height
+And to the distant fleet directs his sight,
+Now borne aloft upon the billow's crest,
+Struck by the bolt or by the winds oppressed,
+And well he knew that Juno's vengeful ire
+Frowned from those clouds and sparkled in that fire.
+On rapid pinions as they whistled by
+He calls swift Zephyrus and Eurus nigh
+Is this your glory in a noble line
+To leave your confines and to ravage mine?
+Whom I--but let these troubled waves subside--
+Another tempest and I'll quell your pride!
+Go--bear our message to your master's ear,
+That wide as ocean I am despot here;
+Let him sit monarch in his barren caves,
+I wield the trident and control the waves
+He said, and as the gathered vapors break
+The swelling ocean seemed a peaceful lake;
+To lift their ships the graceful nymphs essayed
+And the strong trident lent its powerful aid;
+The dangerous banks are sunk beneath the main,
+And the light chariot skims the unruffled plain.
+As when sedition fires the public mind,
+And maddening fury leads the rabble blind,
+The blazing torch lights up the dread alarm,
+Rage points the steel and fury nerves the arm,
+Then, if some reverend Sage appear in sight,
+They stand--they gaze, and check their headlong flight,--
+He turns the current of each wandering breast
+And hushes every passion into rest,--
+Thus by the power of his imperial arm
+The boiling ocean trembled into calm;
+With flowing reins the father sped his way
+And smiled serene upon rekindled day.
+
+
+
+
+THE MEETING OF THE DRYADS
+
+Written after a general pruning of the trees around Harvard College.
+A little poem, on a similar occasion, may be found in the works of Swift,
+from which, perhaps, the idea was borrowed; although I was as much
+surprised as amused to meet with it some time after writing the following
+lines.
+
+IT was not many centuries since,
+When, gathered on the moonlit green,
+Beneath the Tree of Liberty,
+A ring of weeping sprites was seen.
+
+The freshman's lamp had long been dim,
+The voice of busy day was mute,
+And tortured Melody had ceased
+Her sufferings on the evening flute.
+
+They met not as they once had met,
+To laugh o'er many a jocund tale
+But every pulse was beating low,
+And every cheek was cold and pale.
+
+There rose a fair but faded one,
+Who oft had cheered them with her song;
+She waved a mutilated arm,
+And silence held the listening throng.
+
+"Sweet friends," the gentle nymph began,
+"From opening bud to withering leaf,
+One common lot has bound us all,
+In every change of joy and grief.
+
+"While all around has felt decay,
+We rose in ever-living prime,
+With broader shade and fresher green,
+Beneath the crumbling step of Time.
+
+"When often by our feet has past
+Some biped, Nature's walking whim,
+Say, have we trimmed one awkward shape,
+Or lopped away one crooked limb?
+
+"Go on, fair Science; soon to thee
+Shall. Nature yield her idle boast;
+Her vulgar fingers formed a tree,
+But thou halt trained it to a post.
+
+"Go, paint the birch's silver rind,
+And quilt the peach with softer down;
+Up with the willow's trailing threads,
+Off with the sunflower's radiant crown!
+
+"Go, plant the lily on the shore,
+And set the rose among the waves,
+And bid the tropic bud unbind
+Its silken zone in arctic caves;
+
+"Bring bellows for the panting winds,
+Hang up a lantern by the moon,
+And give the nightingale a fife,
+And lend the eagle a balloon!
+
+"I cannot smile,--the tide of scorn,
+That rolled through every bleeding vein,
+Comes kindling fiercer as it flows
+Back to its burning source again.
+
+"Again in every quivering leaf
+That moment's agony I feel,
+When limbs, that spurned the northern blast,
+Shrunk from the sacrilegious steel.
+
+"A curse upon the wretch who dared
+To crop us with his felon saw!
+May every fruit his lip shall taste
+Lie like a bullet in his maw.
+
+"In every julep that he drinks,
+May gout, and bile, and headache be;
+And when he strives to calm his pain,
+May colic mingle with his tea.
+
+"May nightshade cluster round his path,
+And thistles shoot, and brambles cling;
+May blistering ivy scorch his veins,
+And dogwood burn, and nettles sting.
+
+"On him may never shadow fall,
+When fever racks his throbbing brow,
+And his last shilling buy a rope
+To hang him on my highest bough!"
+
+She spoke;--the morning's herald beam
+Sprang from the bosom of the sea,
+And every mangled sprite returned
+In sadness to her wounded tree.
+
+
+
+
+THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR
+
+THERE was a sound of hurrying feet,
+A tramp on echoing stairs,
+There was a rush along the aisles,--
+It was the hour of prayers.
+
+And on, like Ocean's midnight wave,
+The current rolled along,
+When, suddenly, a stranger form
+Was seen amidst the throng.
+
+He was a dark and swarthy man,
+That uninvited guest;
+A faded coat of bottle-green
+Was buttoned round his breast.
+
+There was not one among them all
+Could say from whence he came;
+Nor beardless boy, nor ancient man,
+Could tell that stranger's name.
+
+All silent as the sheeted dead,
+In spite of sneer and frown,
+Fast by a gray-haired senior's side
+He sat him boldly down.
+
+There was a look of horror flashed
+From out the tutor's eyes;
+When all around him rose to pray,
+The stranger did not rise!
+
+A murmur broke along the crowd,
+The prayer was at an end;
+With ringing heels and measured tread,
+A hundred forms descend.
+
+Through sounding aisle, o'er grating stair,
+The long procession poured,
+Till all were gathered on the seats
+Around the Commons board.
+
+That fearful stranger! down he sat,
+Unasked, yet undismayed;
+And on his lip a rising smile
+Of scorn or pleasure played.
+
+He took his hat and hung it up,
+With slow but earnest air;
+He stripped his coat from off his back,
+And placed it on a chair.
+
+Then from his nearest neighbor's side
+A knife and plate he drew;
+And, reaching out his hand again,
+He took his teacup too.
+
+How fled the sugar from the bowl
+How sunk the azure cream!
+They vanished like the shapes that float
+Upon a summer's dream.
+
+A long, long draught,--an outstretched hand,--
+And crackers, toast, and tea,
+They faded from the stranger's touch,
+Like dew upon the sea.
+
+Then clouds were dark on many a brow,
+Fear sat upon their souls,
+And, in a bitter agony,
+They clasped their buttered rolls.
+
+A whisper trembled through the crowd,
+Who could the stranger be?
+And some were silent, for they thought
+A cannibal was he.
+
+What if the creature should arise,--
+For he was stout and tall,--
+And swallow down a sophomore,
+Coat, crow's-foot, cap, and all!
+
+All sullenly the stranger rose;
+They sat in mute despair;
+He took his hat from off the peg,
+His coat from off the chair.
+
+Four freshmen fainted on the seat,
+Six swooned upon the floor;
+Yet on the fearful being passed,
+And shut the chapel door.
+
+There is full many a starving man,
+That walks in bottle green,
+But never more that hungry one
+In Commons hall was seen.
+
+Yet often at the sunset hour,
+When tolls the evening bell,
+The freshman lingers on the steps,
+That frightful tale to tell.
+
+
+
+
+THE TOADSTOOL
+
+THERE 's a thing that grows by the fainting flower,
+And springs in the shade of the lady's bower;
+The lily shrinks, and the rose turns pale,
+When they feel its breath in the summer gale,
+And the tulip curls its leaves in pride,
+And the blue-eyed violet starts aside;
+But the lily may flaunt, and the tulip stare,
+For what does the honest toadstool care?
+She does not glow in a painted vest,
+And she never blooms on the maiden's breast;
+But she comes, as the saintly sisters do,
+In a modest suit of a Quaker hue.
+And, when the stars in the evening skies
+Are weeping dew from their gentle eyes,
+The toad comes out from his hermit cell,
+The tale of his faithful love to tell.
+
+Oh, there is light in her lover's glance,
+That flies to her heart like a silver lance;
+His breeches are made of spotted skin,
+His jacket 'is tight, and his pumps are thin;
+In a cloudless night you may hear his song,
+As its pensive melody floats along,
+And, if you will look by the moonlight fair,
+The trembling form of the toad is there.
+
+And he twines his arms round her slender stem,
+In the shade of her velvet diadem;
+But she turns away in her maiden shame,
+And will not breathe on the kindling flame;
+He sings at her feet through the live-long night,
+And creeps to his cave at the break of light;
+And whenever he comes to the air above,
+His throat is swelling with baffled love.
+
+
+
+
+THE SPECTRE PIG
+
+A BALLAD
+
+IT was the stalwart butcher man,
+That knit his swarthy brow,
+And said the gentle Pig must die,
+And sealed it with a vow.
+
+And oh! it was the gentle Pig
+Lay stretched upon the ground,
+And ah! it was the cruel knife
+His little heart that found.
+
+They took him then, those wicked men,
+They trailed him all along;
+They put a stick between his lips,
+And through his heels a thong;
+
+And round and round an oaken beam
+A hempen cord they flung,
+And, like a mighty pendulum,
+All solemnly he swung!
+
+Now say thy prayers, thou sinful man,
+And think what thou hast done,
+And read thy catechism well,
+Thou bloody-minded one;
+
+For if his sprite should walk by night,
+It better were for thee,
+That thou wert mouldering in the ground,
+Or bleaching in the sea.
+
+It was the savage butcher then,
+That made a mock of sin,
+And swore a very wicked oath,
+He did not care a pin.
+
+It was the butcher's youngest son,--
+His voice was broke with sighs,
+And with his pocket-handkerchief
+He wiped his little eyes;
+
+All young and ignorant was he,
+But innocent and mild,
+And, in his soft simplicity,
+Out spoke the tender child:--
+
+"Oh, father, father, list to me;
+The Pig is deadly sick,
+And men have hung him by his heels,
+And fed him with a stick."
+
+It was the bloody butcher then,
+That laughed as he would die,
+Yet did he soothe the sorrowing child,
+And bid him not to cry;--
+
+"Oh, Nathan, Nathan, what's a Pig,
+That thou shouldst weep and wail?
+Come, bear thee like a butcher's child,
+And thou shalt have his tail!"
+
+It was the butcher's daughter then,
+So slender and so fair,
+That sobbed as it her heart would break,
+And tore her yellow hair;
+
+And thus she spoke in thrilling tone,--
+Fast fell the tear-drops big:--
+"Ah! woe is me! Alas! Alas!
+The Pig! The Pig! The Pig!"
+
+Then did her wicked father's lips
+Make merry with her woe,
+And call her many a naughty name,
+Because she whimpered so.
+
+Ye need not weep, ye gentle ones,
+In vain your tears are shed,
+Ye cannot wash his crimson hand,
+Ye cannot soothe the dead.
+
+The bright sun folded on his breast
+His robes of rosy flame,
+And softly over all the west
+The shades of evening came.
+
+He slept, and troops of murdered Pigs
+Were busy with his dreams;
+Loud rang their wild, unearthly shrieks,
+Wide yawned their mortal seams.
+
+The clock struck twelve; the Dead hath heard;
+He opened both his eyes,
+And sullenly he shook his tail
+To lash the feeding flies.
+
+One quiver of the hempen cord,--
+One struggle and one bound,--
+With stiffened limb and leaden eye,
+The Pig was on the ground.
+
+And straight towards the sleeper's house
+His fearful way he wended;
+And hooting owl and hovering bat
+On midnight wing attended.
+
+Back flew the bolt, up rose the latch,
+And open swung the door,
+And little mincing feet were heard
+Pat, pat along the floor.
+
+Two hoofs upon the sanded floor,
+And two upon the bed;
+And they are breathing side by side,
+The living and the dead!
+
+"Now wake, now wake, thou butcher man!
+What makes thy cheek so pale?
+Take hold! take hold! thou dost not fear
+To clasp a spectre's tail?"
+
+Untwisted every winding coil;
+The shuddering wretch took hold,
+All like an icicle it seemed,
+So tapering and so cold.
+
+"Thou com'st with me, thou butcher man!"--
+He strives to loose his grasp,
+But, faster than the clinging vine,
+Those twining spirals clasp;
+
+And open, open swung the door,
+And, fleeter than the wind,
+The shadowy spectre swept before,
+The butcher trailed behind.
+
+Fast fled the darkness of the night,
+And morn rose faint and dim;
+They called full loud, they knocked full long,
+They did not waken him.
+
+Straight, straight towards that oaken beam,
+A trampled pathway ran;
+A ghastly shape was swinging there,--
+It was the butcher man.
+
+
+
+
+TO A CAGED LION
+
+Poor conquered monarch! though that haughty glance
+Still speaks thy courage unsubdued by time,
+And in the grandeur of thy sullen tread
+Lives the proud spirit of thy burning clime;--
+Fettered by things that shudder at thy roar,
+Torn from thy pathless wilds to pace this narrow floor!
+
+Thou wast the victor, and all nature shrunk
+Before the thunders of thine awful wrath;
+The steel-armed hunter viewed thee from afar,
+Fearless and trackless in thy lonely path!
+The famished tiger closed his flaming eye,
+And crouched and panted as thy step went by!
+
+Thou art the vanquished, and insulting man
+Bars thy broad bosom as a sparrow's wing;
+His nerveless arms thine iron sinews bind,
+And lead in chains the desert's fallen king;
+Are these the beings that have dared to twine
+Their feeble threads around those limbs of thine?
+
+So must it be; the weaker, wiser race,
+That wields the tempest and that rides the sea,
+Even in the stillness of thy solitude
+Must teach the lesson of its power to thee;
+And thou, the terror of the trembling wild,
+Must bow thy savage strength, the mockery of a child!
+
+
+
+
+THE STAR AND THE WATER-LILY
+
+THE sun stepped down from his golden throne.
+And lay in the silent sea,
+And the Lily had folded her satin leaves,
+For a sleepy thing was she;
+What is the Lily dreaming of?
+Why crisp the waters blue?
+See, see, she is lifting her varnished lid!
+Her white leaves are glistening through!
+
+The Rose is cooling his burning cheek
+In the lap of the breathless tide;--
+The Lily hath sisters fresh and fair,
+That would lie by the Rose's side;
+He would love her better than all the rest,
+And he would be fond and true;--
+But the Lily unfolded her weary lids,
+And looked at the sky so blue.
+
+Remember, remember, thou silly one,
+How fast will thy summer glide,
+And wilt thou wither a virgin pale,
+Or flourish a blooming bride?
+Oh, the Rose is old, and thorny, and cold,
+"And he lives on earth," said she;
+"But the Star is fair and he lives in the air,
+And he shall my bridegroom be."
+
+But what if the stormy cloud should come,
+And ruffle the silver sea?
+Would he turn his eye from the distant sky,
+To smile on a thing like thee?
+Oh no, fair Lily, he will not send
+One ray from his far-off throne;
+The winds shall blow and the waves shall flow,
+And thou wilt be left alone.
+
+There is not a leaf on the mountain-top,
+Nor a drop of evening dew,
+Nor a golden sand on the sparkling shore,
+Nor a pearl in the waters blue,
+That he has not cheered with his fickle smile,
+And warmed with his faithless beam,--
+And will he be true to a pallid flower,
+That floats on the quiet stream?
+
+Alas for the Lily! she would not heed,
+But turned to the skies afar,
+And bared her breast to the trembling ray
+That shot from the rising star;
+The cloud came over the darkened sky,
+And over the waters wide
+She looked in vain through the beating rain,
+And sank in the stormy tide.
+
+
+
+
+ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE
+
+"A SPANISH GIRL IN REVERIE,"
+
+SHE twirled the string of golden beads,
+That round her neck was hung,---
+My grandsire's gift; the good old man
+Loved girls when he was young;
+And, bending lightly o'er the cord,
+And turning half away,
+With something like a youthful sigh,
+Thus spoke the maiden gray:--
+
+"Well, one may trail her silken robe,
+And bind her locks with pearls,
+And one may wreathe the woodland rose
+Among her floating curls;
+And one may tread the dewy grass,
+And one the marble floor,
+Nor half-hid bosom heave the less,
+Nor broidered corset more!
+
+"Some years ago, a dark-eyed girl
+Was sitting in the shade,--
+There's something brings her to my mind
+In that young dreaming maid,--
+And in her hand she held a flower,
+A flower, whose speaking hue
+Said, in the language of the heart,
+'Believe the giver true.'
+
+"And, as she looked upon its leaves,
+The maiden made a vow
+To wear it when the bridal wreath
+Was woven for her brow;
+She watched the flower, as, day by day,
+The leaflets curled and died;
+But he who gave it never came
+To claim her for his bride.
+
+"Oh, many a summer's morning glow
+Has lent the rose its ray,
+And many a winter's drifting snow
+Has swept its bloom away;
+But she has kept that faithless pledge
+To this, her winter hour,
+And keeps it still, herself alone,
+And wasted like the flower."
+
+Her pale lip quivered, and the light
+Gleamed in her moistening eyes;--
+I asked her how she liked the tints
+In those Castilian skies?
+"She thought them misty,--'t was perhaps
+Because she stood too near;"
+She turned away, and as she turned
+I saw her wipe a tear.
+
+
+
+
+A ROMAN AQUEDUCT
+
+THE sun-browned girl, whose limbs recline
+When noon her languid hand has laid
+Hot on the green flakes of the pine,
+Beneath its narrow disk of shade;
+
+As, through the flickering noontide glare,
+She gazes on the rainbow chain
+Of arches, lifting once in air
+The rivers of the Roman's plain;--
+
+Say, does her wandering eye recall
+The mountain-current's icy wave,--
+Or for the dead one tear let fall,
+Whose founts are broken by their grave?
+
+From stone to stone the ivy weaves
+Her braided tracery's winding veil,
+And lacing stalks and tangled leaves
+Nod heavy in the drowsy gale.
+
+And lightly floats the pendent vine,
+That swings beneath her slender bow,
+Arch answering arch,--whose rounded line
+Seems mirrored in the wreath below.
+
+How patient Nature smiles at Fame!
+The weeds, that strewed the victor's way,
+Feed on his dust to shroud his name,
+Green where his proudest towers decay.
+
+See, through that channel, empty now,
+The scanty rain its tribute pours,--
+Which cooled the lip and laved the brow
+Of conquerors from a hundred shores.
+
+Thus bending o'er the nation's bier,
+Whose wants the captive earth supplied,
+The dew of Memory's passing tear
+Falls on the arches of her pride!
+
+
+
+
+FROM A BACHELOR'S PRIVATE JOURNAL
+
+SWEET Mary, I have never breathed
+The love it were in vain to name;
+Though round my heart a serpent wreathed,
+I smiled, or strove to smile, the same.
+
+Once more the pulse of Nature glows
+With faster throb and fresher fire,
+While music round her pathway flows,
+Like echoes from a hidden lyre.
+
+And is there none with me to share
+The glories of the earth and sky?
+The eagle through the pathless air
+Is followed by one burning eye.
+
+Ah no! the cradled flowers may wake,
+Again may flow the frozen sea,
+From every cloud a star may break,--
+There conies no second spring to me.
+
+Go,--ere the painted toys of youth
+Are crushed beneath the tread of years;
+Ere visions have been chilled to truth,
+And hopes are washed away in tears.
+
+Go,--for I will not bid thee weep,--
+Too soon my sorrows will be thine,
+And evening's troubled air shall sweep
+The incense from the broken shrine.
+
+If Heaven can hear the dying tone
+Of chords that soon will cease to thrill,
+The prayer that Heaven has heard alone
+May bless thee when those chords are still.
+
+
+
+
+LA GRISETTE
+
+As Clemence! when I saw thee last
+Trip down the Rue de Seine,
+And turning, when thy form had past,
+I said, "We meet again,"--
+I dreamed not in that idle glance
+Thy latest image came,
+And only left to memory's trance
+A shadow and a name.
+
+The few strange words my lips had taught
+Thy timid voice to speak,
+Their gentler signs, which often brought
+Fresh roses to thy cheek,
+The trailing of thy long loose hair
+Bent o'er my couch of pain,
+All, all returned, more sweet, more fair;
+Oh, had we met again!
+
+I walked where saint and virgin keep
+The vigil lights of Heaven,
+I knew that thou hadst woes to weep,
+And sins to be forgiven;
+I watched where Genevieve was laid,
+I knelt by Mary's shrine,
+Beside me low, soft voices prayed;
+Alas! but where was thine?
+
+And when the morning sun was bright,
+When wind and wave were calm,
+And flamed, in thousand-tinted light,
+The rose of Notre Dame,
+I wandered through the haunts of men,
+From Boulevard to Quai,
+Till, frowning o'er Saint Etienne,
+The Pantheon's shadow lay.
+
+In vain, in vain; we meet no more,
+Nor dream what fates befall;
+And long upon the stranger's shore
+My voice on thee may call,
+When years have clothed the line in moss
+That tells thy name and days,
+And withered, on thy simple cross,
+The wreaths of Pere-la-Chaise!
+
+
+
+
+OUR YANKEE GIRLS
+
+LET greener lands and bluer skies,
+If such the wide earth shows,
+With fairer cheeks and brighter eyes,
+Match us the star and rose;
+The winds that lift the Georgian's veil,
+Or wave Circassia's curls,
+Waft to their shores the sultan's sail,--
+Who buys our Yankee girls?
+
+The gay grisette, whose fingers touch
+Love's thousand chords so well;
+The dark Italian, loving much,
+But more than one can tell;
+And England's fair-haired, blue-eyed dame,
+Who binds her brow with pearls;--
+Ye who have seen them, can they shame
+Our own sweet Yankee girls?
+
+And what if court or castle vaunt
+Its children loftier born?--
+Who heeds the silken tassel's flaunt
+Beside the golden corn?
+They ask not for the dainty toil
+Of ribboned knights and earls,
+The daughters of the virgin soil,
+Our freeborn Yankee girls!
+
+By every hill whose stately pines
+Wave their dark arms above
+The home where some fair being shines,
+To warm the wilds with love,
+From barest rock to bleakest shore
+Where farthest sail unfurls,
+That stars and stripes are streaming o'er,--
+God bless our Yankee girls!
+
+
+
+
+L'INCONNUE
+
+Is thy name Mary, maiden fair?
+Such should, methinks, its music be;
+The sweetest name that mortals bear
+Were best befitting thee;
+And she to whom it once was given,
+Was half of earth and half of heaven.
+
+I hear thy voice, I see thy smile,
+I look upon thy folded hair;
+Ah! while we dream not they beguile,
+Our hearts are in the snare;
+And she who chains a wild bird's wing
+Must start not if her captive sing.
+
+So, lady, take the leaf that falls,
+To all but thee unseen, unknown;
+When evening shades thy silent walls,
+Then read it all alone;
+In stillness read, in darkness seal,
+Forget, despise, but not reveal!
+
+
+
+
+STANZAS
+
+STRANGE! that one lightly whispered tone
+Is far, far sweeter unto me,
+Than all the sounds that kiss the earth,
+Or breathe along the sea;
+But, lady, when thy voice I greet,
+Not heavenly music seems so sweet.
+
+I look upon the fair blue skies,
+And naught but empty air I see;
+But when I turn me to thin eyes,
+It seemeth unto me
+Ten thousand angels spread their wings
+Within those little azure rings.
+
+The lily bath the softest leaf
+That ever western breeze bath fanned,
+But thou shalt have the tender flower,
+So I may take thy hand;
+That little hand to me doth yield
+More joy than all the broidered field.
+
+O lady! there be many things
+That seem right fair, below, above;
+But sure not one among them all
+Is half so sweet as love;--
+Let us not pay our vows alone,
+But join two altars both in one.
+
+
+
+
+LINES BY A CLERK
+
+OH! I did love her dearly,
+And gave her toys and rings,
+And I thought she meant sincerely,
+When she took my pretty things.
+But her heart has grown as icy
+As a fountain in the fall,
+And her love, that was so spicy,
+It did not last at all.
+
+I gave her once a locket,
+It was filled with my own hair,
+And she put it in her pocket
+With very special care.
+But a jeweller has got it,--
+He offered it to me,--
+And another that is not it
+Around her neck I see.
+
+For my cooings and my billings
+I do not now complain,
+But my dollars and my shillings
+Will never come again;
+They were earned with toil and sorrow,
+But I never told her that,
+And now I have to borrow,
+And want another hat.
+
+Think, think, thou cruel Emma,
+When thou shalt hear my woe,
+And know my sad dilemma,
+That thou hast made it so.
+See, see my beaver rusty,
+Look, look upon this hole,
+This coat is dim and dusty;
+Oh let it rend thy soul!
+
+Before the gates of fashion
+I daily bent my knee,
+But I sought the shrine of passion,
+And found my idol,--thee.
+Though never love intenser
+Had bowed a soul before it,
+Thine eye was on the censer,
+And not the hand that bore it.
+
+
+
+
+THE PHILOSOPHER TO HIS LOVE
+
+DEAREST, a look is but a ray
+Reflected in a certain way;
+A word, whatever tone it wear,
+Is but a trembling wave of air;
+A touch, obedience to a clause
+In nature's pure material laws.
+
+The very flowers that bend and meet,
+In sweetening others, grow more sweet;
+The clouds by day, the stars by night,
+Inweave their floating locks of light;
+The rainbow, Heaven's own forehead's braid,
+Is but the embrace of sun and shade.
+
+Oh! in the hour when I shall feel
+Those shadows round my senses steal,
+When gentle eyes are weeping o'er
+The clay that feels their tears no more,
+Then let thy spirit with me be,
+Or some sweet angel, likest thee!
+
+How few that love us have we found!
+How wide the world that girds them round
+Like mountain streams we meet and part,
+Each living in the other's heart,
+Our course unknown, our hope to be
+Yet mingled in the distant sea.
+
+But Ocean coils and heaves in vain,
+Bound in the subtle moonbeam's chain;
+And love and hope do but obey
+Some cold, capricious planet's ray,
+Which lights and leads the tide it charms
+To Death's dark caves and icy arms.
+
+Alas! one narrow line is drawn,
+That links our sunset with our dawn;
+In mist and shade life's morning rose,
+And clouds are round it at its close;
+But ah! no twilight beam ascends
+To whisper where that evening ends.
+
+
+
+
+THE POET'S LOT
+
+WHAT is a poet's love?--
+To write a girl a sonnet,
+To get a ring, or some such thing,
+And fustianize upon it.
+
+What is a poet's fame?--
+Sad hints about his reason,
+And sadder praise from garreteers,
+To be returned in season.
+
+Where go the poet's lines?--
+Answer, ye evening tapers!
+Ye auburn locks, ye golden curls,
+Speak from your folded papers!
+
+Child of the ploughshare, smile;
+Boy of the counter, grieve not,
+Though muses round thy trundle-bed
+Their broidered tissue weave not.
+
+The poet's future holds
+No civic wreath above him;
+Nor slated roof, nor varnished chaise,
+Nor wife nor child to love him.
+
+Maid of the village inn,
+Who workest woe on satin,
+(The grass in black, the graves in green,
+The epitaph in Latin,)
+
+Trust not to them who say,
+In stanzas, they adore thee;
+Oh rather sleep in churchyard clay,
+With urn and cherub o'er thee!
+
+
+
+
+TO A BLANK SHEET OF PAPER
+
+WAN-VISAGED thing! thy virgin leaf
+To me looks more than deadly pale,
+Unknowing what may stain thee yet,--
+A poem or a tale.
+
+Who can thy unborn meaning scan?
+Can Seer or Sibyl read thee now?
+No,--seek to trace the fate of man
+Writ on his infant brow.
+
+Love may light on thy snowy cheek,
+And shake his Eden-breathing plumes;
+Then shalt thou tell how Lelia smiles,
+Or Angelina blooms.
+
+Satire may lift his bearded lance,
+Forestalling Time's slow-moving scythe,
+And, scattered on thy little field,
+Disjointed bards may writhe.
+
+Perchance a vision of the night,
+Some grizzled spectre, gaunt and thin,
+Or sheeted corpse, may stalk along,
+Or skeleton may grin.
+
+If it should be in pensive hour
+Some sorrow-moving theme I try,
+Ah, maiden, how thy tears will fall,
+For all I doom to die!
+
+But if in merry mood I touch
+Thy leaves, then shall the sight of thee
+Sow smiles as thick on rosy lips
+As ripples on the sea.
+
+The Weekly press shall gladly stoop
+To bind thee up among its sheaves;
+The Daily steal thy shining ore,
+To gild its leaden leaves.
+
+Thou hast no tongue, yet thou canst speak,
+Till distant shores shall hear the sound;
+Thou hast no life, yet thou canst breathe
+Fresh life on all around.
+
+Thou art the arena of the wise,
+The noiseless battle-ground of fame;
+The sky where halos may be wreathed
+Around the humblest name.
+
+Take, then, this treasure to thy trust,
+To win some idle reader's smile,
+Then fade and moulder in the dust,
+Or swell some bonfire's pile.
+
+
+
+
+TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A GENTLEMAN"
+
+IN THE ATHENIEUM GALLERY
+
+IT may be so,--perhaps thou hast
+A warm and loving heart;
+I will not blame thee for thy face,
+Poor devil as thou art.
+
+That thing thou fondly deem'st a nose,
+Unsightly though it be,--
+In spite of all the cold world's scorn,
+It may be much to thee.
+
+Those eyes,--among thine elder friends
+Perhaps they pass for blue,--
+No matter,--if a man can see,
+What more have eyes to do?
+
+Thy mouth,--that fissure in thy face,
+By something like a chin,--
+May be a very useful place
+To put thy victual in.
+
+I know thou hast a wife at home,
+I know thou hast a child,
+By that subdued, domestic smile
+Upon thy features mild.
+
+That wife sits fearless by thy side,
+That cherub on thy knee;
+They do not shudder at thy looks,
+They do not shrink from thee.
+
+Above thy mantel is a hook,--
+A portrait once was there;
+It was thine only ornament,--
+Alas! that hook is bare.
+
+She begged thee not to let it go,
+She begged thee all in vain;
+She wept,--and breathed a trembling prayer
+To meet it safe again.
+
+It was a bitter sight to see
+That picture torn away;
+It was a solemn thought to think
+What all her friends would say!
+
+And often in her calmer hours,
+And in her happy dreams,
+Upon its long-deserted hook
+The absent portrait seems.
+
+Thy wretched infant turns his head
+In melancholy wise,
+And looks to meet the placid stare
+Of those unbending eyes.
+
+I never saw thee, lovely one,--
+Perchance I never may;
+It is not often that we cross
+Such people in our way;
+
+But if we meet in distant years,
+Or on some foreign shore,
+Sure I can take my Bible oath,
+I've seen that face before.
+
+
+
+
+THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN
+
+IT was a tall young oysterman lived by the river-side,
+His shop was just upon the bank, his boat was on the tide;
+The daughter of a fisherman, that was so straight and slim,
+Lived over on the other bank, right opposite to him.
+
+It was the pensive oysterman that saw a lovely maid,
+Upon a moonlight evening, a sitting in the shade;
+He saw her wave her handkerchief, as much as if to say,
+"I 'm wide awake, young oysterman, and all the folks away."
+
+Then up arose the oysterman, and to himself said he,
+"I guess I 'll leave the skiff at home, for fear that folks should see
+I read it in the story-book, that, for to kiss his dear,
+Leander swam the Hellespont,--and I will swim this here."
+
+And he has leaped into the waves, and crossed the shining stream,
+And he has clambered up the bank, all in the moonlight gleam;
+Oh there were kisses sweet as dew, and words as soft as rain,--
+But they have heard her father's step, and in he leaps again!
+
+Out spoke the ancient fisherman,--"Oh, what was that, my daughter?"
+"'T was nothing but a pebble, sir, I threw into the water."
+"And what is that, pray tell me, love, that paddles off so fast?"
+"It's nothing but a porpoise, sir, that 's been a swimming past."
+
+Out spoke the ancient fisherman,--"Now bring me my harpoon!
+I'll get into my fishing-boat, and fix the fellow soon."
+Down fell that pretty innocent, as falls a snow-white lamb,
+Her hair drooped round her pallid cheeks, like sea-weed on a clam.
+
+Alas for those two loving ones! she waked not from her swound,
+And he was taken with the cramp, and in the waves was drowned;
+But Fate has metamorphosed them, in pity of their woe,
+And now they keep an oyster-shop for mermaids down below.
+
+
+
+
+A NOONTIDE LYRIC
+
+THE dinner-bell, the dinner-bell
+Is ringing loud and clear;
+Through hill and plain, through street and lane,
+It echoes far and near;
+From curtained hall and whitewashed stall,
+Wherever men can hide,
+Like bursting waves from ocean caves,
+They float upon the tide.
+
+I smell the smell of roasted meat!
+I hear the hissing fry
+The beggars know where they can go,
+But where, oh where shall I?
+At twelve o'clock men took my hand,
+At two they only stare,
+And eye me with a fearful look,
+As if I were a bear!
+
+The poet lays his laurels down,
+And hastens to his greens;
+The happy tailor quits his goose,
+To riot on his beans;
+The weary cobbler snaps his thread,
+The printer leaves his pi;
+His very devil hath a home,
+But what, oh what have I?
+
+Methinks I hear an angel voice,
+That softly seems to say
+"Pale stranger, all may yet be well,
+Then wipe thy tears away;
+Erect thy head, and cock thy hat,
+And follow me afar,
+And thou shalt have a jolly meal,
+And charge it at the bar."
+
+I hear the voice! I go! I go!
+Prepare your meat and wine!
+They little heed their future need
+Who pay not when they dine.
+Give me to-day the rosy bowl,
+Give me one golden dream,--
+To-morrow kick away the stool,
+And dangle from the beam!
+
+
+
+
+THE HOT SEASON
+
+THE folks, that on the first of May
+Wore winter coats and hose,
+Began to say, the first of June,
+"Good Lord! how hot it grows!"
+At last two Fahrenheits blew up,
+And killed two children small,
+And one barometer shot dead
+A tutor with its ball!
+
+Now all day long the locusts sang
+Among the leafless trees;
+Three new hotels warped inside out,
+The pumps could only wheeze;
+And ripe old wine, that twenty years
+Had cobwebbed o'er in vain,
+Came spouting through the rotten corks
+Like Joly's best champagne.
+
+The Worcester locomotives did
+Their trip in half an hour;
+The Lowell cars ran forty miles
+Before they checked the power;
+Roll brimstone soon became a drug,
+And loco-focos fell;
+All asked for ice, but everywhere
+Saltpetre was to sell.
+
+Plump men of mornings ordered tights,
+But, ere the scorching noons,
+Their candle-moulds had grown as loose
+As Cossack pantaloons!
+The dogs ran mad,--men could not try
+If water they would choose;
+A horse fell dead,--he only left
+Four red-hot, rusty shoes!
+
+But soon the people could not bear
+The slightest hint of fire;
+Allusions to caloric drew
+A flood of savage ire;
+
+The leaves on heat were all torn out
+From every book at school,
+And many blackguards kicked and caned,
+Because they said, "Keep cool!"
+
+The gas-light companies were mobbed,
+The bakers all were shot,
+The penny press began to talk
+Of lynching Doctor Nott;
+And all about the warehouse steps
+Were angry men in droves,
+Crashing and splintering through the doors
+To smash the patent stoves!
+
+The abolition men and maids
+Were tanned to such a hue,
+You scarce could tell them from their friends,
+Unless their eyes were blue;
+And, when I left, society
+Had burst its ancient guards,
+And Brattle Street and Temple Place
+Were interchanging cards.
+
+
+
+
+A PORTRAIT
+
+A STILL, sweet, placid, moonlight face,
+And slightly nonchalant,
+Which seems to claim a middle place
+Between one's love and aunt,
+Where childhood's star has left a ray
+In woman's sunniest sky,
+As morning dew and blushing day
+On fruit and blossom lie.
+
+And yet,--and yet I cannot love
+Those lovely lines on steel;
+They beam too much of heaven above,
+Earth's darker shades to feel;
+Perchance some early weeds of care
+Around my heart have grown,
+And brows unfurrowed seem not fair,
+Because they mock my own.
+
+Alas! when Eden's gates were sealed,
+How oft some sheltered flower
+Breathed o'er the wanderers of the field,
+Like their own bridal bower;
+Yet, saddened by its loveliness,
+And humbled by its pride,
+Earth's fairest child they could not bless,
+It mocked them when they sighed.
+
+
+
+
+AN EVENING THOUGHT
+
+WRITTEN AT SEA
+
+IF sometimes in the dark blue eye,
+Or in the deep red wine,
+Or soothed by gentlest melody,
+Still warms this heart of mine,
+Yet something colder in the blood,
+And calmer in the brain,
+Have whispered that my youth's bright flood
+Ebbs, not to flow again.
+
+If by Helvetia's azure lake,
+Or Arno's yellow stream,
+Each star of memory could awake,
+As in my first young dream,
+I know that when mine eye shall greet
+The hillsides bleak and bare,
+That gird my home, it will not meet
+My childhood's sunsets there.
+
+
+Oh, when love's first, sweet, stolen kiss
+Burned on my boyish brow,
+Was that young forehead worn as this?
+Was that flushed cheek as now?
+Were that wild pulse and throbbing heart
+Like these, which vainly strive,
+In thankless strains of soulless art,
+To dream themselves alive?
+
+Alas! the morning dew is gone,
+Gone ere the full of day;
+Life's iron fetter still is on,
+Its wreaths all torn away;
+Happy if still some casual hour
+Can warm the fading shrine,
+Too soon to chill beyond the power
+Of love, or song, or wine!
+
+
+
+
+THE WASP AND THE HORNET
+
+THE two proud sisters of the sea,
+In glory and in doom!--
+Well may the eternal waters be
+Their broad, unsculptured tomb!
+The wind that rings along the wave,
+The clear, unshadowed sun,
+Are torch and trumpet o'er the brave,
+Whose last green wreath is won!
+
+No stranger-hand their banners furled,
+No victor's shout they heard;
+Unseen, above them ocean curled,
+Safe by his own pale bird;
+The gnashing billows heaved and fell;
+Wild shrieked the midnight gale;
+Far, far beneath the morning swell
+Were pennon, spar, and sail.
+
+The land of Freedom! Sea and shore
+Are guarded now, as when
+Her ebbing waves to victory bore
+Fair barks and gallant men;
+Oh, many a ship of prouder name
+May wave her starry fold,
+Nor trail, with deeper light of fame,
+The paths they swept of old!
+
+
+
+
+"QUI VIVE?"
+
+"Qui vive?" The sentry's musket rings,
+The channelled bayonet gleams;
+High o'er him, like a raven's wings
+The broad tricolored banner flings
+Its shadow, rustling as it swings
+Pale in the moonlight beams;
+Pass on! while steel-clad sentries keep
+Their vigil o'er the monarch's sleep,
+Thy bare, unguarded breast
+Asks not the unbroken, bristling zone
+That girds yon sceptred trembler's throne;--
+Pass on, and take thy rest!
+
+"Qui vive?" How oft the midnight air
+That startling cry has borne!
+How oft the evening breeze has fanned
+The banner of this haughty land,
+O'er mountain snow and desert sand,
+Ere yet its folds were torn!
+Through Jena's carnage flying red,
+Or tossing o'er Marengo's dead,
+Or curling on the towers
+Where Austria's eagle quivers yet,
+And suns the ruffled plumage, wet
+With battle's crimson showers!
+
+"Qui vive?" And is the sentry's cry,--
+The sleepless soldier's hand,--
+Are these--the painted folds that fly
+And lift their emblems, printed high
+On morning mist and sunset sky--
+The guardians of a land?
+No! If the patriot's pulses sleep,
+How vain the watch that hirelings keep,
+The idle flag that waves,
+When Conquest, with his iron heel,
+Treads down the standards and the steel
+That belt the soil of slaves!
+
+
+
+
+
+
+NOTES.
+
+Page 6. "They're as safe as Dan'l Malcolm."
+The following epitaph is still to be read on a tall grave-stone standing
+as yet undisturbed among the transplanted monuments of the dead in Copp's
+Hill Burial-Ground, one of the three city cemeteries which have been
+desecrated and ruined within my own remembrance:--
+
+                        "Here lies buried in a
+                       Stone Grave 10 feet deep,
+                       Cap' DANIEL MALCOLM Merch'
+                         Who departed this Life
+                           October 23d, 1769,
+                             Aged 44 years,
+                         a true son of Liberty,
+                        a Friend to the Publick,
+                        an Enemy to oppression,
+                        and one of the foremost
+                      in opposing the Revenue Acts
+                              on America."
+
+Page 62. This broad-browed youth.
+Benjamin Robbins Curtis.
+
+Page 62. The stripling smooth of face and slight.
+George Tyler Bigelow.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell
+Holmes, Vol. 12, by Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.
+
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+Project Gutenberg EBook The Poetical Works of O. W. Holmes, Volume 12.
+Verses from the Oldest Portfolio
+#26 in our series by Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.
+
+Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the
+copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing
+this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook.
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+*****These EBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers*****
+
+
+
+Title: The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes, Volume 12.
+       Verses from the Oldest Portfolio
+
+Author: Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.
+
+Release Date: January, 2005 [Etext #7399]
+[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, V12 ***
+
+
+
+
+This eBook was produced by David Widger  [widger@cecomet.net]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+                           THE POETICAL WORKS
+
+                                  OF
+
+                         OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
+
+
+                                 1893
+                       (Printed in three volumes)
+
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS:
+
+VERSES FROM THE OLDEST PORTFOLIO
+     FIRST VERSES: TRANSLATION FROM THE THE MEETING OF THE DRYADS
+     THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR
+     THE TOADSTOOL
+     THE SPECTRE PIG
+     TO A CAGED LION
+     THE STAR AND THE WATER-LILY
+     ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE: "A SPANISH GIRL REVERIE"
+     A ROMAN AQUEDUCT
+     FROM A BACHELOR'S PRIVATE JOURNAL
+     LA GRISETTE
+     OUR YANKEE GIRLS
+     L'INCONNUE
+     STANZAS
+     LINES BY A CLERK
+     THE PHILOSOPHER TO HIS LOVE
+     THE POET'S LOT
+     TO A BLANK SHEET OF PAPER
+     TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A GENTLEMAN" IN THE ATHENAEUM GALLERY
+     THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN
+     A NOONTIDE LYRIC
+     THE HOT SEASON
+     A PORTRAIT
+     AN EVENING THOUGHT.  WRITTEN AT SEA
+     THE WASP AND THE HORNET
+     "QUI VIVE?"
+
+
+
+
+
+                     VERSES FROM THE OLDEST PORTFOLIO
+
+          FROM THE "COLLEGIAN," 1830, ILLUSTRATED ANNUALS, ETC.
+
+     Nescit vox missa reverti.--Horat. Ars Poetica.
+     Ab lis qua non adjuvant quam mollissime oportet pedem referre.--
+     Quintillian, L. VI. C. 4.
+
+These verses have always been printed in my collected poems, and as the
+best of them may bear a single reading, I allow them to appear, but in a
+less conspicuous position than the other productions.  A chick, before
+his shell is off his back, is hardly a fair subject for severe criticism.
+If one has written anything worth preserving, his first efforts may be
+objects of interest and curiosity.  Other young authors may take
+encouragement from seeing how tame, how feeble, how commonplace were the
+rudimentary attempts of the half-fledged poet. If the boy or youth had
+anything in him, there will probably be some sign of it in the midst of
+his imitative mediocrities and ambitious failures.  These "first verses"
+of mine, written before I was sixteen, have little beyond a common
+academy boy's ordinary performance.  Yet a kindly critic said there was
+one line which showed a poetical quality:--
+
+                 "The boiling ocean trembled into calm."
+
+One of these poems--the reader may guess which--won fair words from
+Thackeray. The Spectre Pig was a wicked suggestion which came into my
+head after reading Dana's Buccaneer. Nobody seemed to find it out, and
+I never mentioned it to the venerable poet, who might not have been
+pleased with the parody.  This is enough to say of these unvalued copies
+of verses.
+
+
+                               FIRST VERSES
+
+              PHILLIPS ACADEMY, ANDOVER, MASS., 1824 OR 1825
+
+
+TRANSLATION FROM THE ENEID, BOOK I.
+
+THE god looked out upon the troubled deep
+Waked into tumult from its placid sleep;
+The flame of anger kindles in his eye
+As the wild waves ascend the lowering sky;
+He lifts his head above their awful height
+And to the distant fleet directs his sight,
+Now borne aloft upon the billow's crest,
+Struck by the bolt or by the winds oppressed,
+And well he knew that Juno's vengeful ire
+Frowned from those clouds and sparkled in that fire.
+On rapid pinions as they whistled by
+He calls swift Zephyrus and Eurus nigh
+Is this your glory in a noble line
+To leave your confines and to ravage mine?
+Whom I--but let these troubled waves subside--
+Another tempest and I'11 quell your pride!
+Go--bear our message to your master's ear,
+That wide as ocean I am despot here;
+Let him sit monarch in his barren caves,
+I wield the trident and control the waves
+He said, and as the gathered vapors break
+The swelling ocean seemed a peaceful lake;
+To lift their ships the graceful nymphs essayed
+And the strong trident lent its powerful aid;
+The dangerous banks are sunk beneath the main,
+And the light chariot skims the unruffled plain.
+As when sedition fires the public mind,
+And maddening fury leads the rabble blind,
+The blazing torch lights up the dread alarm,
+Rage points the steel and fury nerves the arm,
+Then, if some reverend Sage appear in sight,
+They stand--they gaze, and check their headlong flight,--
+He turns the current of each wandering breast
+And hushes every passion into rest,--
+Thus by the power of his imperial arm
+The boiling ocean trembled into calm;
+With flowing reins the father sped his way
+And smiled serene upon rekindled day.
+
+
+
+
+THE MEETING OF THE DRYADS
+
+Written after a general pruning of the trees around Harvard College.
+A little poem, on a similar occasion, may be found in the works of Swift,
+from which, perhaps, the idea was borrowed; although I was as much
+surprised as amused to meet with it some time after writing the following
+lines.
+
+IT was not many centuries since,
+When, gathered on the moonlit green,
+Beneath the Tree of Liberty,
+A ring of weeping sprites was seen.
+
+The freshman's lamp had long been dim,
+The voice of busy day was mute,
+And tortured Melody had ceased
+Her sufferings on the evening flute.
+
+They met not as they once had met,
+To laugh o'er many a jocund tale
+But every pulse was beating low,
+And every cheek was cold and pale.
+
+There rose a fair but faded one,
+Who oft had cheered them with her song;
+She waved a mutilated arm,
+And silence held the listening throng.
+
+"Sweet friends," the gentle nymph began,
+"From opening bud to withering leaf,
+One common lot has bound us all,
+In every change of joy and grief.
+
+"While all around has felt decay,
+We rose in ever-living prime,
+With broader shade and fresher green,
+Beneath the crumbling step of Time.
+
+"When often by our feet has past
+Some biped, Nature's walking whim,
+Say, have we trimmed one awkward shape,
+Or lopped away one crooked limb?
+
+"Go on, fair Science; soon to thee
+Shall. Nature yield her idle boast;
+Her vulgar fingers formed a tree,
+But thou halt trained it to a post.
+
+"Go, paint the birch's silver rind,
+And quilt the peach with softer down;
+Up with the willow's trailing threads,
+Off with the sunflower's radiant crown!
+
+"Go, plant the lily on the shore,
+And set the rose among the waves,
+And bid the tropic bud unbind
+Its silken zone in arctic caves;
+
+"Bring bellows for the panting winds,
+Hang up a lantern by the moon,
+And give the nightingale a fife,
+And lend the eagle a balloon!
+
+"I cannot smile,--the tide of scorn,
+That rolled through every bleeding vein,
+Comes kindling fiercer as it flows
+Back to its burning source again.
+
+"Again in every quivering leaf
+That moment's agony I feel,
+When limbs, that spurned the northern blast,
+Shrunk from the sacrilegious steel.
+
+"A curse upon the wretch who dared
+To crop us with his felon saw!
+May every fruit his lip shall taste
+Lie like a bullet in his maw.
+
+"In every julep that he drinks,
+May gout, and bile, and headache be;
+And when he strives to calm his pain,
+May colic mingle with his tea.
+
+"May nightshade cluster round his path,
+And thistles shoot, and brambles cling;
+May blistering ivy scorch his veins,
+And dogwood burn, and nettles sting.
+
+"On him may never shadow fall,
+When fever racks his throbbing brow,
+And his last shilling buy a rope
+To hang him on my highest bough!"
+
+She spoke;--the morning's herald beam
+Sprang from the bosom of the sea,
+And every mangled sprite returned
+In sadness to her wounded tree.
+
+
+
+
+THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR
+
+THERE was a sound of hurrying feet,
+A tramp on echoing stairs,
+There was a rush along the aisles,--
+It was the hour of prayers.
+
+And on, like Ocean's midnight wave,
+The current rolled along,
+When, suddenly, a stranger form
+Was seen amidst the throng.
+
+He was a dark and swarthy man,
+That uninvited guest;
+A faded coat of bottle-green
+Was buttoned round his breast.
+
+There was not one among them all
+Could say from whence he came;
+Nor beardless boy, nor ancient man,
+Could tell that stranger's name.
+
+All silent as the sheeted dead,
+In spite of sneer and frown,
+Fast by a gray-haired senior's side
+He sat him boldly down.
+
+There was a look of horror flashed
+From out the tutor's eyes;
+When all around him rose to pray,
+The stranger did not rise!
+
+A murmur broke along the crowd,
+The prayer was at an end;
+With ringing heels and measured tread,
+A hundred forms descend.
+
+Through sounding aisle, o'er grating stair,
+The long procession poured,
+Till all were gathered on the seats
+Around the Commons board.
+
+That fearful stranger! down he sat,
+Unasked, yet undismayed;
+And on his lip a rising smile
+Of scorn or pleasure played.
+
+He took his hat and hung it up,
+With slow but earnest air;
+He stripped his coat from off his back,
+And placed it on a chair.
+
+Then from his nearest neighbor's side
+A knife and plate he drew;
+And, reaching out his hand again,
+He took his teacup too.
+
+How fled the sugar from the bowl
+How sunk the azure cream!
+They vanished like the shapes that float
+Upon a summer's dream.
+
+A long, long draught,--an outstretched hand,--
+And crackers, toast, and tea,
+They faded from the stranger's touch,
+Like dew upon the sea.
+
+Then clouds were dark on many a brow,
+Fear sat upon their souls,
+And, in a bitter agony,
+They clasped their buttered rolls.
+
+A whisper trembled through the crowd,
+Who could the stranger be?
+And some were silent, for they thought
+A cannibal was he.
+
+What if the creature should arise,--
+For he was stout and tall,--
+And swallow down a sophomore,
+Coat, crow's-foot, cap, and all!
+
+All sullenly the stranger rose;
+They sat in mute despair;
+He took his hat from off the peg,
+His coat from off the chair.
+
+Four freshmen fainted on the seat,
+Six swooned upon the floor;
+Yet on the fearful being passed,
+And shut the chapel door.
+
+There is full many a starving man,
+That walks in bottle green,
+But never more that hungry one
+In Commons hall was seen.
+
+Yet often at the sunset hour,
+When tolls the evening bell,
+The freshman lingers on the steps,
+That frightful tale to tell.
+
+
+
+
+THE TOADSTOOL
+
+THERE 's a thing that grows by the fainting flower,
+And springs in the shade of the lady's bower;
+The lily shrinks, and the rose turns pale,
+When they feel its breath in the summer gale,
+And the tulip curls its leaves in pride,
+And the blue-eyed violet starts aside;
+But the lily may flaunt, and the tulip stare,
+For what does the honest toadstool care?
+She does not glow in a painted vest,
+And she never blooms on the maiden's breast;
+But she comes, as the saintly sisters do,
+In a modest suit of a Quaker hue.
+And, when the stars in the evening skies
+Are weeping dew from their gentle eyes,
+The toad comes out from his hermit cell,
+The tale of his faithful love to tell.
+
+Oh, there is light in her lover's glance,
+That flies to her heart like a silver lance;
+His breeches are made of spotted skin,
+His jacket 'is tight, and his pumps are thin;
+In a cloudless night you may hear his song,
+As its pensive melody floats along,
+And, if you will look by the moonlight fair,
+The trembling form of the toad is there.
+
+And he twines his arms round her slender stem,
+In the shade of her velvet diadem;
+But she turns away in her maiden shame,
+And will not breathe on the kindling flame;
+He sings at her feet through the live-long night,
+And creeps to his cave at the break of light;
+And whenever he comes to the air above,
+His throat is swelling with baffled love.
+
+
+
+
+THE SPECTRE PIG
+
+A BALLAD
+
+IT was the stalwart butcher man,
+That knit his swarthy brow,
+And said the gentle Pig must die,
+And sealed it with a vow.
+
+And oh! it was the gentle Pig
+Lay stretched upon the ground,
+And ah! it was the cruel knife
+His little heart that found.
+
+They took him then, those wicked men,
+They trailed him all along;
+They put a stick between his lips,
+And through his heels a thong;
+
+And round and round an oaken beam
+A hempen cord they flung,
+And, like a mighty pendulum,
+All solemnly he swung!
+
+Now say thy prayers, thou sinful man,
+And think what thou hast done,
+And read thy catechism well,
+Thou bloody-minded one;
+
+For if his sprite should walk by night,
+It better were for thee,
+That thou wert mouldering in the ground,
+Or bleaching in the sea.
+
+It was the savage butcher then,
+That made a mock of sin,
+And swore a very wicked oath,
+He did not care a pin.
+
+It was the butcher's youngest son,--
+His voice was broke with sighs,
+And with his pocket-handkerchief
+He wiped his little eyes;
+
+All young and ignornt was he,
+But innocent and mild,
+And, in his soft simplicity,
+Out spoke the tender child :--
+
+"Oh, father, father, list to me;
+The Pig is deadly sick,
+And men have hung him by his heels,
+And fed him with a stick."
+
+It was the bloody butcher then,
+That laughed as he would die,
+Yet did he soothe the sorrowing child,
+And bid him not to cry;--
+
+"Oh, Nathan, Nathan, what's a Pig,
+That thou shouldst weep and wail?
+Come, bear thee like a butcher's child,
+And thou shalt have his tail!"
+
+It was the butcher's daughter then,
+So slender and so fair,
+That sobbed as it her heart would break,
+And tore her yellow hair;
+
+And thus she spoke in thrilling tone,--
+Fast fell the tear-drops big:--
+"Ah! woe is me! Alas! Alas!
+The Pig! The Pig! The Pig!
+
+Then did her wicked father's lips
+Make merry with her woe,
+And call her many a naughty name,
+Because she whimpered so.
+
+Ye need not weep, ye gentle ones,
+In vain your tears are shed,
+Ye cannot wash his crimson hand,
+Ye cannot soothe the dead.
+
+The bright sun folded on his breast
+His robes of rosy flame,
+And softly over all the west
+The shades of evening came.
+
+He slept, and troops of murdered Pigs
+Were busy with his dreams;
+Loud rang their wild, unearthly shrieks,
+Wide yawned their mortal seams.
+
+The clock struck twelve; the Dead hath heard;
+He opened both his eyes,
+And sullenly he shook his tail
+To lash the feeding flies.
+
+One quiver of the hempen cord,--
+One struggle and one bound,--
+With stiffened limb and leaden eye,
+The Pig was on the ground
+
+And straight towards the sleeper's house
+His fearful way he wended;
+And hooting owl and hovering bat
+On midnight wing attended.
+
+Back flew the bolt, up rose the latch,
+And open swung the door,
+And little mincing feet were heard
+Pat, pat along the floor.
+
+Two hoofs upon the sanded floor,
+And two upon the bed;
+And they are breathing side by side,
+The living and the dead!
+
+"Now wake, now wake, thou butcher man!
+What makes thy cheek so pale?
+Take hold! take hold! thou dost not fear
+To clasp a spectre's tail?"
+
+Untwisted every winding coil;
+The shuddering wretch took hold,
+All like an icicle it seemed,
+So tapering and so cold.
+
+"Thou com'st with me, thou butcher man!"--
+He strives to loose his grasp,
+But, faster than the clinging vine,
+Those twining spirals clasp;
+
+And open, open swung the door,
+And, fleeter than the wind,
+The shadowy spectre swept before,
+The butcher trailed behind.
+
+Fast fled the darkness of the night,
+And morn rose faint and dim;
+They called full loud, they knocked full long,
+They did not waken him.
+
+Straight, straight towards that oaken beam,
+A trampled pathway ran;
+A ghastly shape was swinging there,--
+It was the butcher man.
+
+
+
+
+TO A CAGED LION
+
+Poor conquered monarch! though that haughty glance
+Still speaks thy courage unsubdued by time,
+And in the grandeur of thy sullen tread
+Lives the proud spirit of thy burning clime;--
+Fettered by things that shudder at thy roar,
+Torn from thy pathless wilds to pace this narrow floor!
+
+Thou wast the victor, and all nature shrunk
+Before the thunders of thine awful wrath;
+The steel-armed hunter viewed thee from afar,
+Fearless and trackless in thy lonely path!
+The famished tiger closed his flaming eye,
+And crouched and panted as thy step went by!
+
+Thou art the vanquished, and insulting man
+Bars thy broad bosom as a sparrow's wing;
+His nerveless arms thine iron sinews bind,
+And lead in chains the desert's fallen king;
+Are these the beings that have dared to twine
+Their feeble threads around those limbs of thine?
+
+So must it be; the weaker, wiser race,
+That wields the tempest and that rides the sea,
+Even in the stillness of thy solitude
+Must teach the lesson of its power to thee;
+And thou, the terror of the trembling wild,
+Must bow thy savage strength, the mockery of a child!
+
+
+
+
+THE STAR AND THE WATER-LILY
+
+THE sun stepped down from his golden throne.
+And lay in the silent sea,
+And the Lily had folded her satin leaves,
+For a sleepy thing was she;
+What is the Lily dreaming of?
+Why crisp the waters blue?
+See, see, she is lifting her varnished lid!
+Her white leaves are glistening through!
+
+The Rose is cooling his burning cheek
+In the lap of the breathless tide;--
+The Lily hath sisters fresh and fair,
+That would lie by the Rose's side;
+He would love her better than all the rest,
+And he would be fond and true;--
+But the Lily unfolded her weary lids,
+And looked at the sky so blue.
+
+Remember, remember, thou silly one,
+How fast will thy summer glide,
+And wilt thou wither a virgin pale,
+Or flourish a blooming bride?
+Oh, the Rose is old, and thorny, and cold,
+And he lives on earth," said she;
+"But the Star is fair and he lives in the air,
+And he shall my bridegroom be."
+
+But what if the stormy cloud should come,
+And ruffle the silver sea?
+Would he turn his eye from the distant sky,
+To smile on a thing like thee?
+Oh no, fair Lily, he will not send
+One ray from his far-off throne;
+The winds shall blow and the waves shall flow,
+And thou wilt be left alone.
+
+There is not a leaf on the mountain-top,
+Nor a drop of evening dew,
+Nor a golden sand on the sparkling shore,
+Nor a pearl in the waters blue,
+That he has not cheered with his fickle smile,
+And warmed with his faithless beam,--
+And will he be true to a pallid flower,
+That floats on the quiet stream?
+
+Alas for the Lily! she would not heed,
+But turned to the skies afar,
+And bared her breast to the trembling ray
+That shot from the rising star;
+The cloud came over the darkened sky,
+And over the waters wide
+She looked in vain through the beating rain,
+And sank in the stormy tide.
+
+
+
+
+ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE
+
+"A SPANISH GIRL IN REVERIE,"
+
+SHE twirled the string of golden beads,
+That round her neck was hung,---
+My grandsire's gift; the good old man
+Loved girls when he was young;
+And, bending lightly o'er the cord,
+And turning half away,
+With something like a youthful sigh,
+Thus spoke the maiden gray:--
+
+"Well, one may trail her silken robe,
+And bind her locks with pearls,
+And one may wreathe the woodland rose
+Among her floating curls;
+And one may tread the dewy grass,
+And one the marble floor,
+Nor half-hid bosom heave the less,
+Nor broidered corset more!
+
+"Some years ago, a dark-eyed girl
+Was sitting in the shade,--
+There's something brings her to my mind
+In that young dreaming maid,--
+And in her hand she held a flower,
+A flower, whose speaking hue
+Said, in the language of the heart,
+'Believe the giver true.'
+
+"And, as she looked upon its leaves,
+The maiden made a vow
+To wear it when the bridal wreath
+Was woven for her brow;
+She watched the flower, as, day by day,
+The leaflets curled and died;
+But he who gave it never came
+To claim her for his bride.
+
+"Oh, many a summer's morning glow
+Has lent the rose its ray,
+And many a winter's drifting snow
+Has swept its bloom away;
+But she has kept that faithless pledge
+To this, her winter hour,
+And keeps it still, herself alone,
+And wasted like the flower."
+
+Her pale lip quivered, and the light
+Gleamed in her moistening eyes;--
+I asked her how she liked the tints
+In those Castilian skies?
+"She thought them misty,--'t was perhaps
+Because she stood too near;"
+She turned away, and as she turned
+I saw her wipe a tear.
+
+
+
+
+A ROMAN AQUEDUCT
+
+THE sun-browned girl, whose limbs recline
+When noon her languid hand has laid
+Hot on the green flakes of the pine,
+Beneath its narrow disk of shade;
+
+As, through the flickering noontide glare,
+She gazes on the rainbow chain
+Of arches, lifting once in air
+The rivers of the Roman's plain;--
+
+Say, does her wandering eye recall
+The mountain-current's icy wave,--
+Or for the dead one tear let fall,
+Whose founts are broken by their grave?
+
+From stone to stone the ivy weaves
+Her braided tracery's winding veil,
+And lacing stalks and tangled leaves
+Nod heavy in the drowsy gale.
+
+And lightly floats the pendent vine,
+That swings beneath her slender bow,
+Arch answering arch,--whose rounded line
+Seems mirrored in the wreath below.
+
+How patient Nature smiles at Fame!
+The weeds, that strewed the victor's way,
+Feed on his dust to shroud his name,
+Green where his proudest towers decay.
+
+See, through that channel, empty now,
+The scanty rain its tribute pours,--
+Which cooled the lip and laved the brow
+Of conquerors from a hundred shores.
+
+Thus bending o'er the nation's bier,
+Whose wants the captive earth supplied,
+The dew of Memory's passing tear
+Falls on the arches of her pride!
+
+
+
+
+FROM A BACHELOR'S PRIVATE JOURNAL
+
+SWEET Mary, I have never breathed
+The love it were in vain to name;
+Though round my heart a serpent wreathed,
+I smiled, or strove to smile, the same.
+
+Once more the pulse of Nature glows
+With faster throb and fresher fire,
+While music round her pathway flows,
+Like echoes from a hidden lyre.
+
+And is there none with me to share
+The glories of the earth and sky?
+The eagle through the pathless air
+Is followed by one burning eye.
+
+Ah no! the cradled flowers may wake,
+Again may flow the frozen sea,
+From every cloud a star may break,--
+There conies no second spring to me.
+
+Go,--ere the painted toys of youth
+Are crushed beneath the tread of years;
+Ere visions have been chilled to truth,
+And hopes are washed away in tears.
+
+Go,--for I will not bid thee weep,--
+Too soon my sorrows will be thine,
+And evening's troubled air shall sweep
+The incense from the broken shrine.
+
+If Heaven can hear the dying tone
+Of chords that soon will cease to thrill,
+The prayer that Heaven has heard alone
+May bless thee when those chords are still.
+
+
+
+
+LA GRISETTE
+
+As Clemence! when I saw thee last
+Trip down the Rue de Seine,
+And turning, when thy form had past,
+I said, "We meet again,"--
+I dreamed not in that idle glance
+Thy latest image came,
+And only left to memory's trance
+A shadow and a name.
+
+The few strange words my lips had taught
+Thy timid voice to speak,
+Their gentler signs, which often brought
+Fresh roses to thy cheek,
+The trailing of thy long loose hair
+Bent o'er my couch of pain,
+All, all returned, more sweet, more fair;
+Oh, had we met again!
+
+I walked where saint and virgin keep
+The vigil lights of Heaven,
+I knew that thou hadst woes to weep,
+And sins to be forgiven;
+I watched where Genevieve was laid,
+I knelt by Mary's shrine,
+Beside me low, soft voices prayed;
+Alas! but where was thine?
+
+And when the morning sun was bright,
+When wind and wave were calm,
+And flamed, in thousand-tinted light,
+The rose of Notre Dame,
+I wandered through the haunts of men,
+From Boulevard to Quai,
+Till, frowning o'er Saint Etienne,
+The Pantheon's shadow lay.
+
+In vain, in vain; we meet no more,
+Nor dream what fates befall;
+And long upon the stranger's shore
+My voice on thee may call,
+When years have clothed the line in moss
+That tells thy name and days,
+And withered, on thy simple cross,
+The wreaths of Pere-la-Chaise!
+
+
+
+
+OUR YANKEE GIRLS
+
+LET greener lands and bluer skies,
+If such the wide earth shows,
+With fairer cheeks and brighter eyes,
+Match us the star and rose;
+The winds that lift the Georgian's veil,
+Or wave Circassia's curls,
+Waft to their shores the sultan's sail,--
+Who buys our Yankee girls?
+
+The gay grisette, whose fingers touch
+Love's thousand chords so well;
+The dark Italian, loving much,
+But more than one can tell;
+And England's fair-haired, blue-eyed dame,
+Who binds her brow with pearls;--
+Ye who have seen them, can they shame
+Our own sweet Yankee girls?
+
+And what if court or castle vaunt
+Its children loftier born?--
+Who heeds the silken tassel's flaunt
+Beside the golden corn?
+They ask not for the dainty toil
+Of ribboned knights and earls,
+The daughters of the virgin soil,
+Our freeborn Yankee girls!
+
+By every hill whose stately pines
+Wave their dark arms above
+The home where some fair being shines,
+To warm the wilds with love,
+From barest rock to bleakest shore
+Where farthest sail unfurls,
+That stars and stripes are streaming o'er,--
+God bless our Yankee girls!
+
+
+
+
+L'INCONNUE
+
+Is thy name Mary, maiden fair?
+Such should, methinks, its music be;
+The sweetest name that mortals bear
+Were best befitting thee;
+And she to whom it once was given,
+Was half of earth and half of heaven.
+
+I hear thy voice, I see thy smile,
+I look upon thy folded hair;
+Ah! while we dream not they beguile,
+Our hearts are in the snare;
+And she who chains a wild bird's wing
+Must start not if her captive sing.
+
+So, lady, take the leaf that falls,
+To all but thee unseen, unknown;
+When evening shades thy silent walls,
+Then read it all alone;
+In stillness read, in darkness seal,
+Forget, despise, but not reveal!
+
+
+
+
+STANZAS
+
+STRANGE! that one lightly whispered tone
+Is far, far sweeter unto me,
+Than all the sounds that kiss the earth,
+Or breathe along the sea;
+But, lady, when thy voice I greet,
+Not heavenly music seems so sweet.
+
+I look upon the fair blue skies,
+And naught but empty air I see;
+But when I turn me to thin eyes,
+It seemeth unto me
+Ten thousand angels spread their wings
+Within those little azure rings.
+
+The lily bath the softest leaf
+That ever western breeze bath fanned,
+But thou shalt have the tender flower,
+So I may take thy hand;
+That little hand to me doth yield
+More joy than all the broidered field.
+
+O lady! there be many things
+That seem right fair, below, above;
+But sure not one among them all
+Is half so sweet as love;--
+Let us not pay our vows alone,
+But join two altars both in one.
+
+
+
+
+LINES BY A CLERK
+
+OH! I did love her dearly,
+And gave her toys and rings,
+And I thought she meant sincerely,
+When she took my pretty things.
+But her heart has grown as icy
+As a fountain in the fall,
+And her love, that was so spicy,
+It did not last at all.
+
+I gave her once a locket,
+It was filled with my own hair,
+And she put it in her pocket
+With very special care.
+But a jeweller has got it,--
+He offered it to me,--
+And another that is not it
+Around her neck I see.
+
+For my cooings and my billings
+I do not now complain,
+But my dollars and my shillings
+Will never come again;
+They were earned with toil and sorrow,
+But I never told her that,
+And now I have to borrow,
+And want another hat.
+
+Think, think, thou cruel Emma,
+When thou shalt hear my woe,
+And know my sad dilemma,
+That thou hast made it so.
+See, see my beaver rusty,
+Look, look upon this hole,
+This coat is dim and dusty;
+Oh let it rend thy soul!
+
+Before the gates of fashion
+I daily bent my knee,
+But I sought the shrine of passion,
+And found my idol,--thee.
+Though never love intenser
+Had bowed a soul before it,
+Thine eye was on the censer,
+And not the hand that bore it.
+
+
+
+
+THE PHILOSOPHER TO HIS LOVE
+
+DEAREST, a look is but a ray
+Reflected in a certain way;
+A word, whatever tone it wear,
+Is but a trembling wave of air;
+A touch, obedience to a clause
+In nature's pure material laws.
+
+The very flowers that bend and meet,
+In sweetening others, grow more sweet;
+The clouds by day, the stars by night,
+Inweave their floating locks of light;
+The rainbow, Heaven's own forehead's braid,
+Is but the embrace of sun and shade.
+
+Oh! in the hour when I shall feel
+Those shadows round my senses steal,
+When gentle eyes are weeping o'er
+The clay that feels their tears no more,
+Then let thy spirit with me be,
+Or some sweet angel, likest thee!
+
+How few that love us have we found!
+How wide the world that girds them round
+Like mountain streams we meet and part,
+Each living in the other's heart,
+Our course unknown, our hope to be
+Yet mingled in the distant sea.
+
+But Ocean coils and heaves in vain,
+Bound in the subtle moonbeam's chain;
+And love and hope do but obey
+Some cold, capricious planet's ray,
+Which lights and leads the tide it charms
+To Death's dark caves and icy arms.
+
+Alas! one narrow line is drawn,
+That links our sunset with our dawn;
+In mist and shade life's morning rose,
+And clouds are round it at its close;
+But ah! no twilight beam ascends
+To whisper where that evening ends.
+
+
+
+
+THE POET'S LOT
+
+WHAT is a poet's love?--
+To write a girl a sonnet,
+To get a ring, or some such thing,
+And fustianize upon it.
+
+What is a poet's fame?--
+Sad hints about his reason,
+And sadder praise from garreteers,
+To be returned in season.
+
+Where go the poet's lines?--
+Answer, ye evening tapers!
+Ye auburn locks, ye golden curls,
+Speak from your folded papers!
+
+Child of the ploughshare, smile;
+Boy of the counter, grieve not,
+Though muses round thy trundle-bed
+Their broidered tissue weave not.
+
+The poet's future holds
+No civic wreath above him;
+Nor slated roof, nor varnished chaise,
+Nor wife nor child to love him.
+
+Maid of the village inn,
+Who workest woe on satin,
+(The grass in black, the graves in green,
+The epitaph in Latin,)
+
+Trust not to them who say,
+In stanzas, they adore thee;
+Oh rather sleep in churchyard clay,
+With urn and cherub o'er thee!
+
+
+
+
+TO A BLANK SHEET OF PAPER
+
+WAN-VISAGED thing! thy virgin leaf
+To me looks more than deadly pale,
+Unknowing what may stain thee yet,--
+A poem or a tale.
+
+Who can thy unborn meaning scan?
+Can Seer or Sibyl read thee now?
+No,--seek to trace the fate of man
+Writ on his infant brow.
+
+Love may light on thy snowy cheek,
+And shake his Eden-breathing plumes;
+Then shalt thou tell how Lelia smiles,
+Or Angelina blooms.
+
+Satire may lift his bearded lance,
+Forestalling Time's slow-moving scythe,
+And, scattered on thy little field,
+Disjointed bards may writhe.
+
+Perchance a vision of the night,
+Some grizzled spectre, gaunt and thin,
+Or sheeted corpse, may stalk along,
+Or skeleton may grin
+
+If it should be in pensive hour
+Some sorrow-moving theme I try,
+Ah, maiden, how thy tears will fall,
+For all I doom to die!
+
+But if in merry mood I touch
+Thy leaves, then shall the sight of thee
+Sow smiles as thick on rosy lips
+As ripples on the sea.
+
+The Weekly press shall gladly stoop
+To bind thee up among its sheaves;
+The Daily steal thy shining ore,
+To gild its leaden leaves.
+
+Thou hast no tongue, yet thou canst speak,
+Till distant shores shall hear the sound;
+Thou hast no life, yet thou canst breathe
+Fresh life on all around.
+
+Thou art the arena of the wise,
+The noiseless battle-ground of fame;
+The sky where halos may be wreathed
+Around the humblest name.
+
+Take, then, this treasure to thy trust,
+To win some idle reader's smile,
+Then fade and moulder in the dust,
+Or swell some bonfire's pile.
+
+
+
+
+TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A GENTLEMAN"
+
+IN THE ATHENIEUM GALLERY
+
+IT may be so,--perhaps thou hast
+A warm and loving heart;
+I will not blame thee for thy face,
+Poor devil as thou art.
+
+That thing thou fondly deem'st a nose,
+Unsightly though it be,--
+In spite of all the cold world's scorn,
+It may be much to thee.
+
+Those eyes,--among thine elder friends
+Perhaps they pass for blue,--
+No matter,--if a man can see,
+What more have eyes to do?
+
+Thy mouth,--that fissure in thy face,
+By something like a chin,--
+May be a very useful place
+To put thy victual in.
+
+I know thou hast a wife at home,
+I know thou hast a child,
+By that subdued, domestic smile
+Upon thy features mild.
+
+That wife sits fearless by thy side,
+That cherub on thy knee;
+They do not shudder at thy looks,
+They do not shrink from thee.
+
+Above thy mantel is a hook,--
+A portrait once was there;
+It was thine only ornament,--
+Alas! that hook is bare.
+
+She begged thee not to let it go,
+She begged thee all in vain;
+She wept,--and breathed a trembling prayer
+To meet it safe again.
+
+It was a bitter sight to see
+That picture torn away;
+It was a solemn thought to think
+What all her friends would say!
+
+And often in her calmer hours,
+And in her happy dreams,
+Upon its long-deserted hook
+The absent portrait seems.
+
+Thy wretched infant turns his head
+In melancholy wise,
+And looks to meet the placid stare
+Of those unbending eyes.
+
+I never saw thee, lovely one,--
+Perchance I never may;
+It is not often that we cross
+Such people in our way;
+
+But if we meet in distant years,
+Or on some foreign shore,
+Sure I can take my Bible oath,
+I've seen that face before.
+
+
+
+
+THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN
+
+IT was a tall young oysterman lived by the river-side,
+His shop was just upon the bank, his boat was on the tide;
+The daughter of a fisherman, that was so straight and slim,
+Lived over on the other bank, right opposite to him.
+
+It was the pensive oysterman that saw a lovely maid,
+Upon a moonlight evening, a sitting in the shade;
+He saw her wave her handkerchief, as much as if to say,
+"I 'm wide awake, young oysterman, and all the folks away."
+
+Then up arose the oysterman, and to himself said he,
+"I guess I 'll leave the skiff at home, for fear that folks should see
+I read it in the story-book, that, for to kiss his dear,
+Leander swam the Hellespont,--and I will swim this here."
+
+And he has leaped into the waves, and crossed the shining stream,
+And he has clambered up the bank, all in the moonlight gleam;
+Oh there were kisses sweet as dew, and words as soft as rain,--
+But they have heard her father's step, and in he leaps again!
+
+Out spoke the ancient fisherman,--"Oh, what was that, my daughter?"
+"'T was nothing but a pebble, sir, I threw into the water."
+"And what is that, pray tell me, love, that paddles off so fast?"
+"It's nothing but a porpoise, sir, that 's been a swimming past."
+
+Out spoke the ancient fisherman,--"Now bring me my harpoon!
+I'll get into my fishing-boat, and fix the fellow soon."
+Down fell that pretty innocent, as falls a snow-white lamb,
+Her hair drooped round her pallid cheeks, like sea-weed on a clam.
+
+Alas for those two loving ones! she waked not from her swound,
+And he was taken with the cramp, and in the waves was drowned;
+But Fate has metamorphosed them, in pity of their woe,
+And now they keep an oyster-shop for mermaids down below.
+
+
+
+
+A NOONTIDE LYRIC
+
+THE dinner-bell, the dinner-bell
+Is ringing loud and clear;
+Through hill and plain, through street and lane,
+It echoes far and near;
+From curtained hall and whitewashed stall,
+Wherever men can hide,
+Like bursting waves from ocean caves,
+They float upon the tide.
+
+I smell the smell of roasted meat!
+I hear the hissing fry
+The beggars know where they can go,
+But where, oh where shall I?
+At twelve o'clock men took my hand,
+At two they only stare,
+And eye me with a fearful look,
+As if I were a bear!
+
+The poet lays his laurels down,
+And hastens to his greens;
+The happy tailor quits his goose,
+To riot on his beans;
+The weary cobbler snaps his thread,
+The printer leaves his pi;
+His very devil hath a home,
+But what, oh what have I?
+
+Methinks I hear an angel voice,
+That softly seems to say
+"Pale stranger, all may yet be well,
+Then wipe thy tears away;
+Erect thy head, and cock thy hat,
+And follow me afar,
+And thou shalt have a jolly meal,
+And charge it at the bar."
+
+I hear the voice! I go! I go!
+Prepare your meat and wine!
+They little heed their future need
+Who pay not when they dine.
+Give me to-day the rosy bowl,
+Give me one golden dream,--
+To-morrow kick away the stool,
+And dangle from the beam!
+
+
+
+
+THE HOT SEASON
+
+THE folks, that on the first of May
+Wore winter coats and hose,
+Began to say, the first of June,
+"Good Lord! how hot it grows!"
+At last two Fahrenheits blew up,
+And killed two children small,
+And one barometer shot dead
+A tutor with its ball!
+
+Now all day long the locusts sang
+Among the leafless trees;
+Three new hotels warped inside out,
+The pumps could only wheeze;
+And ripe old wine, that twenty years
+Had cobwebbed o'er in vain,
+Came spouting through the rotten corks
+Like Joly's best champagne
+
+The Worcester locomotives did
+Their trip in half an hour;
+The Lowell cars ran forty miles
+Before they checked the power;
+Roll brimstone soon became a drug,
+And loco-focos fell;
+All asked for ice, but everywhere
+Saltpetre was to sell.
+
+Plump men of mornings ordered tights,
+But, ere the scorching noons,
+Their candle-moulds had grown as loose
+As Cossack pantaloons!
+The dogs ran mad,--men could not try
+If water they would choose;
+A horse fell dead,--he only left
+Four red-hot, rusty shoes!
+
+But soon the people could not bear
+The slightest hint of fire;
+Allusions to caloric drew
+A flood of savage ire;
+
+The leaves on heat were all torn out
+From every book at school,
+And many blackguards kicked and caned,
+Because they said, "Keep cool!"
+
+The gas-light companies were mobbed,
+The bakers all were shot,
+The penny press began to talk
+Of lynching Doctor Nott;
+And all about the warehouse steps
+Were angry men in droves,
+Crashing and splintering through the doors
+To smash the patent stoves!
+
+The abolition men and maids
+Were tanned to such a hue,
+You scarce could tell them from their friends,
+Unless their eyes were blue;
+And, when I left, society
+Had burst its ancient guards,
+And Brattle Street and Temple Place
+Were interchanging cards
+
+
+
+
+A PORTRAIT
+
+A STILL, sweet, placid, moonlight face,
+And slightly nonchalant,
+Which seems to claim a middle place
+Between one's love and aunt,
+Where childhood's star has left a ray
+In woman's sunniest sky,
+As morning dew and blushing day
+On fruit and blossom lie.
+
+And yet,--and yet I cannot love
+Those lovely lines on steel;
+They beam too much of heaven above,
+Earth's darker shades to feel;
+Perchance some early weeds of care
+Around my heart have grown,
+And brows unfurrowed seem not fair,
+Because they mock my own.
+
+Alas! when Eden's gates were sealed,
+How oft some sheltered flower
+Breathed o'er the wanderers of the field,
+Like their own bridal bower;
+Yet, saddened by its loveliness,
+And humbled by its pride,
+Earth's fairest child they could not bless,
+It mocked them when they sighed.
+
+
+
+
+AN EVENING THOUGHT
+
+WRITTEN AT SEA
+
+IF sometimes in the dark blue eye,
+Or in the deep red wine,
+Or soothed by gentlest melody,
+Still warms this heart of mine,
+Yet something colder in the blood,
+And calmer in the brain,
+Have whispered that my youth's bright flood
+Ebbs, not to flow again.
+
+If by Helvetia's azure lake,
+Or Arno's yellow stream,
+Each star of memory could awake,
+As in my first young dream,
+I know that when mine eye shall greet
+The hillsides bleak and bare,
+That gird my home, it will not meet
+My childhood's sunsets there.
+
+
+Oh, when love's first, sweet, stolen kiss
+Burned on my boyish brow,
+Was that young forehead worn as this?
+Was that flushed cheek as now?
+Were that wild pulse and throbbing heart
+Like these, which vainly strive,
+In thankless strains of soulless art,
+To dream themselves alive?
+
+Alas! the morning dew is gone,
+Gone ere the full of day;
+Life's iron fetter still is on,
+Its wreaths all torn away;
+Happy if still some casual hour
+Can warm the fading shrine,
+Too soon to chill beyond the power
+Of love, or song, or wine!
+
+
+
+
+THE WASP AND THE HORNET
+
+THE two proud sisters of the sea,
+In glory and in doom!--
+Well may the eternal waters be
+Their broad, unsculptured tomb!
+The wind that rings along the wave,
+The clear, unshadowed sun,
+Are torch and trumpet o'er the brave,
+Whose last green wreath is won!
+
+No stranger-hand their banners furled,
+No victor's shout they heard;
+Unseen, above them ocean curled,
+Safe by his own pale bird;
+The gnashing billows heaved and fell;
+Wild shrieked the midnight gale;
+Far, far beneath the morning swell
+Were pennon, spar, and sail.
+
+The land of Freedom! Sea and shore
+Are guarded now, as when
+Her ebbing waves to victory bore
+Fair barks and gallant men;
+Oh, many a ship of prouder name
+May wave her starry fold,
+Nor trail, with deeper light of fame,
+The paths they swept of old!
+
+
+
+
+"QUI VIVE?"
+
+"Qui vive?" The sentry's musket rings,
+The channelled bayonet gleams;
+High o'er him, like a raven's wings
+The broad tricolored banner flings
+Its shadow, rustling as it swings
+Pale in the moonlight beams;
+Pass on! while steel-clad sentries keep
+Their vigil o'er the monarch's sleep,
+Thy bare, unguarded breast
+Asks not the unbroken, bristling zone
+That girds yon sceptred trembler's throne;--
+Pass on, and take thy rest!
+
+"Qui vive?" How oft the midnight air
+That startling cry has borne!
+How oft the evening breeze has fanned
+The banner of this haughty land,
+O'er mountain snow and desert sand,
+Ere yet its folds were torn!
+Through Jena's carnage flying red,
+Or tossing o'er Marengo's dead,
+Or curling on the towers
+Where Austria's eagle quivers yet,
+And suns the ruffled plumage, wet
+With battle's crimson showers!
+
+"Qui vive?" And is the sentry's cry,--
+The sleepless soldier's hand,--
+Are these--the painted folds that fly
+And lift their emblems, printed high
+On morning mist and sunset sky--
+The guardians of a land?
+No! If the patriot's pulses sleep,
+How vain the watch that hirelings keep,
+The idle flag that waves,
+When Conquest, with his iron heel,
+Treads down the standards and the steel
+That belt the soil of slaves!
+
+
+
+
+
+
+NOTES.
+
+Page 6. "They're as safe as Dan'l Malcolm."
+The following epitaph is still to be read on a tall grave-stone standing
+as yet undisturbed among the transplanted monuments of the dead in Copp's
+Hill Burial-Ground, one of the three city cemeteries which have been
+desecrated and ruined within my own remembrance :--
+
+                        "Here lies buried in a
+                       Stone Grave 10 feet deep,
+                       Cap' DANIEL MALCOLM Merch'
+                         Who departed this Life
+                           October 23d, 1769,
+                             Aged 44 years,
+                         a true son of Liberty,
+                        a Friend to the Publick,
+                        an Enemy to oppression,
+                        and one of the foremost
+                      in opposing the Revenue Acts
+                              on America."
+
+Page 62. This broad-browed youth.
+Benjamin Robbins Curtis.
+
+Page 62. The stripling smooth of face and slight.
+George Tyler Bigelow.
+
+
+
+
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POETRY OF O. W. HOLMES, V12 ***
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