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diff --git a/old/ohp1210.txt b/old/ohp1210.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..12f5245 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/ohp1210.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1904 @@ +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. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. 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 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. 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