The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Volume 04: Songs in Many Keys

THE POETICAL WORKS The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Volume 04: Songs in Many Keys This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world 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 . If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title : The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Volume 04: Songs in Many Keys Author : Oliver Wendell Holmes Release date : September 30, 2004 [eBook #7391] Most recently updated: December 30, 2020 Language : English Other information and formats : www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/7391 Credits : Produced by David Widger *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POETICAL WORKS OF OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES — VOLUME 04: SONGS IN MANY KEYS *** Produced by David Widger THE POETICAL WORKS OF OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES [1893 three volume set] SONGS IN MANY KEYS 1849-1861 PROLOGUE AGNES THE PLOUGHMAN SPRING THE STUDY THE BELLS NON-RESISTANCE THE MORAL BULLY THE MIND'S DIET OUR LIMITATIONS THE OLD PLAYER A POEM DEDICATION OF THE PITTSFIELD CEMETERY, SEPTEMBER 9,1850 TO GOVERNOR SWAIN TO AN ENGLISH FRIEND AFTER A LECTURE ON WORDSWORTH AFTER A LECTURE ON MOORE AFTER A LECTURE ON KEATS AFTER A LECTURE ON SHELLEY AT THE CLOSE OF A COURSE OF LECTURES THE HUDSON THE NEW EDEN SEMI-CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION OF THE NEW ENGLAND SOCIETY, NEW YORK, DECEMBER 22,1855 FAREWELL TO J. R. LOWELL FOR THE MEETING OF THE BURNS CLUB, 1856 ODE FOR WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY BIRTHDAY OF DANIEL WEBSTER THE VOICELESS THE TWO STREAMS THE PROMISE AVIS THE LIVING TEMPLE AT A BIRTHDAY FESTIVAL: TO J. R. LOWELL A BIRTHDAY TRIBUTE TO J. F. CLARKE THE GRAY CHIEF THE LAST LOOK: W. W. SWAIN IN MEMORY OF CHARLES WENTWORTH UPHAM, JR. MARTHA MEETING OF THE ALUMNI OF HARVARD COLLEGE THE PARTING SONG FOR THE MEETING OF THE NATIONAL SANITARY ASSOCIATION FOR THE BURNS CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION, AT A MEETING OF FRIENDS BOSTON COMMON: THREE PICTURES THE OLD MAN OF THE SEA INTERNATIONAL ODE VIVE LA FRANCE BROTHER JONATHAN'S LAMENT FOR SISTER CAROLINE THE piping of our slender, peaceful reeds Whispers uncared for while the trumpets bray; Song is thin air; our hearts' exulting play Beats time but to the tread of marching deeds, Following the mighty van that Freedom leads, Her glorious standard flaming to the day! The crimsoned pavement where a hero bleeds Breathes nobler lessons than the poet's lay. Strong arms, broad breasts, brave hearts, are better worth Than strains that sing the ravished echoes dumb. Hark! 't is the loud reverberating drum Rolls o'er the prairied West, the rock-bound North The myriad-handed Future stretches forth Its shadowy palms. Behold, we come,—we come! Turn o'er these idle leaves. Such toys as these Were not unsought for, as, in languid dreams, We lay beside our lotus-feeding streams, And nursed our fancies in forgetful ease. It matters little if they pall or please, Dropping untimely, while the sudden gleams Glare from the mustering clouds whose blackness seems Too swollen to hold its lightning from the trees. Yet, in some lull of passion, when at last These calm revolving moons that come and go— Turning our months to years, they creep so slow— Have brought us rest, the not unwelcome past May flutter to thee through these leaflets, cast On the wild winds that all around us blow. May 1, 1861. AGNES The story of Sir Harry Frankland and Agnes Surriage is told in the ballad with a very strict adhesion to the facts. These were obtained from information afforded me by the Rev. Mr. Webster, of Hopkinton, in company with whom I visited the Frankland Mansion in that town, then standing; from a very interesting Memoir, by the Rev. Elias Nason, of Medford; and from the manuscript diary of Sir Harry, or more properly Sir Charles Henry Frankland, now in the library of the Massachusetts Historical Society. At the time of the visit referred to, old Julia was living, and on our return we called at the house where she resided.—[She was living June 10, 1861, when this ballad was published]—Her account is little more than paraphrased in the poem. If the incidents are treated with a certain liberality at the close of the fifth part, the essential fact that Agnes rescued Sir Harry from the ruins after the earthquake, and their subsequent marriage as related, may be accepted as literal truth. So with regard to most of the trifling details which are given; they are taken from the record. It is greatly to be regretted that the Frankland Mansion no longer exists. It was accidentally burned on the 23d of January, 1858, a year or two after the first sketch of this ballad was written. A visit to it was like stepping out of the century into the years before the Revolution. A new house, similar in plan and arrangements to the old one, has been built upon its site, and the terraces, the clump of box, and the lilacs doubtless remain to bear witness to the truth of this story. The story, which I have told literally in rhyme, has been made the subject of a carefully studied and interesting romance by Mr. E. L. Bynner. PART FIRST THE KNIGHT THE tale I tell is gospel true, As all the bookmen know, And pilgrims who have strayed to view The wrecks still left to show. The old, old story,—fair, and young, And fond,—and not too wise,— That matrons tell, with sharpened tongue, To maids with downcast eyes. Ah! maidens err and matrons warn Beneath the coldest sky; Love lurks amid the tasselled corn As in the bearded rye! But who would dream our sober sires Had learned the old world's ways, And warmed their hearths with lawless fires In Shirley's homespun days? 'T is like some poet's pictured trance His idle rhymes recite,— This old New England-born romance Of Agnes and the Knight; Yet, known to all the country round, Their home is standing still, Between Wachusett's lonely mound And Shawmut's threefold hill. One hour we rumble on the rail, One half-hour guide the rein, We reach at last, o'er hill and dale, The village on the plain. With blackening wall and mossy roof, With stained and warping floor, A stately mansion stands aloof And bars its haughty door. This lowlier portal may be tried, That breaks the gable wall; And lo! with arches opening wide, Sir Harry Frankland's hall! 'T was in the second George's day They sought the forest shade, The knotted trunks they cleared away, The massive beams they laid, They piled the rock-hewn chimney tall, They smoothed the terraced ground, They reared the marble-pillared wall That fenced the mansion round. Far stretched beyond the village bound The Master's broad domain; With page and valet, horse and hound, He kept a goodly train. And, all the midland county through, The ploughman stopped to gaze Whene'er his chariot swept in view Behind the shining bays, With mute obeisance, grave and slow, Repaid by nod polite,— For such the way with high and low Till after Concord fight. Nor less to courtly circles known That graced the three-hilled town With far-off splendors of the Throne, And glimmerings from the Crown; Wise Phipps, who held the seals of state For Shirley over sea; Brave Knowles, whose press-gang moved of late The King Street mob's decree; And judges grave, and colonels grand, Fair dames and stately men, The mighty people of the land, The "World" of there and then. 'T was strange no Chloe's "beauteous Form," And "Eyes' celestial Blew," This Strephon of the West could warm, No Nymph his Heart subdue. Perchance he wooed as gallants use, Whom fleeting loves enchain, But still unfettered, free to choose, Would brook no bridle-rein. He saw the fairest of the fair, But smiled alike on all; No band his roving foot might snare, No ring his hand enthrall. PART SECOND THE MAIDEN Why seeks the knight that rocky cape Beyond the Bay of Lynn? What chance his wayward course may shape To reach its village inn? No story tells; whate'er we guess, The past lies deaf and still, But Fate, who rules to blight or bless, Can lead us where she will. Make way! Sir Harry's coach and four, And liveried grooms that ride! They cross the ferry, touch the shore On Winnisimmet's side. They hear the wash on Chelsea Beach,— The level marsh they pass, Where miles on miles the desert reach Is rough with bitter grass. The shining horses foam and pant, And now the smells begin Of fishy Swampscott, salt Nahant, And leather-scented Lynn. Next, on their left, the slender spires And glittering vanes that crown The home of Salem's frugal sires, The old, witch-haunted town. So onward, o'er the rugged way That runs through rocks and sand, Showered by the tempest-driven spray, From bays on either hand, That shut between their outstretched arms The crews of Marblehead, The lords of ocean's watery farms, Who plough the waves for bread. At last the ancient inn appears, The spreading elm below, Whose flapping sign these fifty years Has seesawed to and fro. How fair the azure fields in sight Before the low-browed inn The tumbling billows fringe with light The crescent shore of Lynn; Nahant thrusts outward through the waves Her arm of yellow sand, And breaks the roaring surge that braves The gauntlet on her hand; With eddying whirl the waters lock Yon treeless mound forlorn, The sharp-winged sea-fowl's breeding-rock, That fronts the Spouting Horn; Then free the white-sailed shallops glide, And wide the ocean smiles, Till, shoreward bent, his streams divide The two bare Misery Isles. The master's silent signal stays The wearied cavalcade; The coachman reins his smoking bays Beneath the elm-tree's shade. A gathering on the village green! The cocked-hats crowd to see, On legs in ancient velveteen, With buckles at the knee. A clustering round the tavern-door Of square-toed village boys, Still wearing, as their grandsires wore, The old-world corduroys! A scampering at the "Fountain" inn,—- A rush of great and small,— With hurrying servants' mingled din And screaming matron's call. Poor Agnes! with her work half done They caught her unaware; As, humbly, like a praying nun, She knelt upon the stair; Bent o'er the steps, with lowliest mien She knelt, but not to pray,— Her little hands must keep them clean, And wash their stains away. A foot, an ankle, bare and white, Her girlish shapes betrayed,— "Ha! Nymphs and Graces!" spoke the Knight; "Look up, my beauteous Maid!" She turned,—a reddening rose in bud, Its calyx half withdrawn,— Her cheek on fire with damasked blood Of girlhood's glowing dawn! He searched her features through and through, As royal lovers look On lowly maidens, when they woo Without the ring and book. "Come hither, Fair one! Here, my Sweet! Nay, prithee, look not down! Take this to shoe those little feet,"— He tossed a silver crown. A sudden paleness struck her brow,— A swifter blush succeeds; It burns her cheek; it kindles now Beneath her golden beads. She flitted, but the glittering eye Still sought the lovely face. Who was she? What, and whence? and why Doomed to such menial place? A skipper's daughter,—so they said,— Left orphan by the gale That cost the fleet of Marblehead And Gloucester thirty sail. Ah! many a lonely home is found Along the Essex shore, That cheered its goodman outward bound, And sees his face no more! "Not so," the matron whispered,—"sure No orphan girl is she,— The Surriage folk are deadly poor Since Edward left the sea, "And Mary, with her growing brood, Has work enough to do To find the children clothes and food With Thomas, John, and Hugh. "This girl of Mary's, growing tall,— (Just turned her sixteenth year,)— To earn her bread and help them all, Would work as housemaid here." So Agnes, with her golden beads, And naught beside as dower, Grew at the wayside with the weeds, Herself a garden-flower. 'T was strange, 't was sad,—so fresh, so fair! Thus Pity's voice began. Such grace! an angel's shape and air! The half-heard whisper ran. For eyes could see in George's time, As now in later days, And lips could shape, in prose and rhyme, The honeyed breath of praise. No time to woo! The train must go Long ere the sun is down, To reach, before the night-winds blow, The many-steepled town. 'T is midnight,—street and square are still; Dark roll the whispering waves That lap the piers beneath the hill Ridged thick with ancient graves. Ah, gentle sleep! thy hand will smooth The weary couch of pain, When all thy poppies fail to soothe The lover's throbbing brain! 'T is morn,—the orange-mantled sun Breaks through the fading gray, And long and loud the Castle gun Peals o'er the glistening bay. "Thank God 't is day!" With eager eye He hails the morning shine:— "If art can win, or gold can buy, The maiden shall be mine!" PART THIRD THE CONQUEST "Who saw this hussy when she came? What is the wench, and who?" They whisper. "Agnes—is her name? Pray what has she to do?" The housemaids parley at the gate, The scullions on the stair, And in the footmen's grave debate The butler deigns to share. Black Dinah, stolen when a child, And sold on Boston pier, Grown up in service, petted, spoiled, Speaks in the coachman's ear: "What, all this household at his will? And all are yet too few? More servants, and more servants still,— This pert young madam too!" " Servant! fine servant!" laughed aloud The man of coach and steeds; "She looks too fair, she steps too proud, This girl with golden beads! "I tell you, you may fret and frown, And call her what you choose, You 'll find my Lady in her gown, Your Mistress in her shoes!" Ah, gentle maidens, free from blame, God grant you never know The little whisper, loud with shame, That makes the world your foe! Why tell the lordly flatterer's art, That won the maiden's ear,— The fluttering of the frightened heart, The blush, the smile, the tear? Alas! it were the saddening tale That every language knows,— The wooing wind, the yielding sail, The sunbeam and the rose. And now the gown of sober stuff Has changed to fair brocade, With broidered hem, and hanging cuff, And flower of silken braid; And clasped around her blanching wrist A jewelled bracelet shines, Her flowing tresses' massive twist A glittering net confines; And mingling with their truant wave A fretted chain is hung; But ah! the gift her mother gave,— Its beads are all unstrung! Her place is at the master's board, Where none disputes her claim; She walks beside the mansion's lord, His bride in all but name. The busy tongues have ceased to talk, Or speak in softened tone, So gracious in her daily walk The angel light has shown. No want that kindness may relieve Assails her heart in vain, The lifting of a ragged sleeve Will check her palfrey's rein. A thoughtful calm, a quiet grace In every movement shown, Reveal her moulded for the place She may not call her own. And, save that on her youthful brow There broods a shadowy care, No matron sealed with holy vow In all the land so fair. PART FOURTH THE RESCUE A ship comes foaming up the bay, Along the pier she glides; Before her furrow melts away, A courier mounts and rides. "Haste, Haste, post Haste!" the letters bear; "Sir Harry Frankland, These." Sad news to tell the loving pair! The knight must cross the seas. "Alas! we part!"—the lips that spoke Lost all their rosy red, As when a crystal cup is broke, And all its wine is shed. "Nay, droop not thus,—where'er," he cried, "I go by land or sea, My love, my life, my joy, my pride, Thy place is still by me!" Through town and city, far and wide, Their wandering feet have strayed, From Alpine lake to ocean tide, And cold Sierra's shade. At length they see the waters gleam Amid the fragrant bowers Where Lisbon mirrors in the stream Her belt of ancient towers. Red is the orange on its bough, To-morrow's sun shall fling O'er Cintra's hazel-shaded brow The flush of April's wing. The streets are loud with noisy mirth, They dance on every green; The morning's dial marks the birth Of proud Braganza's queen. At eve beneath their pictured dome The gilded courtiers throng; The broad moidores have cheated Rome Of all her lords of song. AH! Lisbon dreams not of the day— Pleased with her painted scenes— When all her towers shall slide away As now these canvas screens! The spring has passed, the summer fled, And yet they linger still, Though autumn's rustling leaves have spread The flank of Cintra's hill. The town has learned their Saxon name, And touched their English gold, Nor tale of doubt nor hint of blame From over sea is told. Three hours the first November dawn Has climbed with feeble ray Through mists like heavy curtains drawn Before the darkened day. How still the muffled echoes sleep! Hark! hark! a hollow sound,— A noise like chariots rumbling deep Beneath the solid ground. The channel lifts, the water slides And bares its bar of sand, Anon a mountain billow strides And crashes o'er the land. The turrets lean, the steeples reel Like masts on ocean's swell, And clash a long discordant peal, The death-doomed city's knell. The pavement bursts, the earth upheaves Beneath the staggering town! The turrets crack—the castle cleaves— The spires come rushing down. Around, the lurid mountains glow With strange unearthly gleams; While black abysses gape below, Then close in jagged seams. And all is over. Street and square In ruined heaps are piled; Ah! where is she, so frail, so fair, Amid the tumult wild? Unscathed, she treads the wreck-piled street, Whose narrow gaps afford A pathway for her bleeding feet, To seek her absent lord. A temple's broken walls arrest Her wild and wandering eyes; Beneath its shattered portal pressed, Her lord unconscious lies. The power that living hearts obey Shall lifeless blocks withstand? Love led her footsteps where he lay,— Love nerves her woman's hand. One cry,—the marble shaft she grasps,— Up heaves the ponderous stone:— He breathes,—her fainting form he clasps,— Her life has bought his own! PART FIFTH THE REWARD How like the starless night of death Our being's brief eclipse, When faltering heart and failing breath Have bleached the fading lips! The earth has folded like a wave, And thrice a thousand score, Clasped, shroudless, in their closing grave, The sun shall see no more! She lives! What guerdon shall repay His debt of ransomed life? One word can charm all wrongs away,— The sacred name of WIFE! The love that won her girlish charms Must shield her matron fame, And write beneath the Frankland arms The village beauty's name. Go, call the priest! no vain delay Shall dim the sacred ring! Who knows what change the passing day, The fleeting hour, may bring? Before the holy altar bent, There kneels a goodly pair; A stately man, of high descent, A woman, passing fair. No jewels lend the blinding sheen That meaner beauty needs, But on her bosom heaves unseen A string of golden beads. The vow is spoke,—the prayer is said,— And with a gentle pride The Lady Agnes lifts her head, Sir Harry Frankland's bride. No more her faithful heart shall bear Those griefs so meekly borne,— The passing sneer, the freezing stare, The icy look of scorn; No more the blue-eyed English dames Their haughty lips shall curl, Whene'er a hissing whisper names The poor New England girl. But stay!—his mother's haughty brow,— The pride of ancient race,— Will plighted faith, and holy vow, Win back her fond embrace? Too well she knew the saddening tale Of love no vow had blest, That turned his blushing honors pale And stained his knightly crest. They seek his Northern home,—alas He goes alone before;— His own dear Agnes may not pass The proud, ancestral door. He stood before the stately dame; He spoke; she calmly heard, But not to pity, nor to blame; She breathed no single word. He told his love,—her faith betrayed; She heard with tearless eyes; Could she forgive the erring maid? She stared in cold surprise. How fond her heart, he told,—how true; The haughty eyelids fell;— The kindly deeds she loved to do; She murmured, "It is well." But when he told that fearful day, And how her feet were led To where entombed in life he lay, The breathing with the dead, And how she bruised her tender breasts Against the crushing stone, That still the strong-armed clown protests No man can lift alone,— Oh! then the frozen spring was broke; By turns she wept and smiled;— "Sweet Agnes!" so the mother spoke, "God bless my angel child. "She saved thee from the jaws of death,— 'T is thine to right her wrongs; I tell thee,—I, who gave thee breath,— To her thy life belongs!" Thus Agnes won her noble name, Her lawless lover's hand; The lowly maiden so became A lady in the land! PART SIXTH CONCLUSION The tale is done; it little needs To track their after ways, And string again the golden beads Of love's uncounted days. They leave the fair ancestral isle For bleak New England's shore; How gracious is the courtly smile Of all who frowned before! Again through Lisbon's orange bowers They watch the river's gleam, And shudder as her shadowy towers Shake in the trembling stream. Fate parts at length the fondest pair; His cheek, alas! grows pale; The breast that trampling death could spare His noiseless shafts assail. He longs to change the heaven of blue For England's clouded sky,— To breathe the air his boyhood knew; He seeks then but to die. Hard by the terraced hillside town, Where healing streamlets run, Still sparkling with their old renown,— The "Waters of the Sun,"— The Lady Agnes raised the stone That marks his honored grave, And there Sir Harry sleeps alone By Wiltshire Avon's wave. The home of early love was dear; She sought its peaceful shade, And kept her state for many a year, With none to make afraid. At last the evil days were come That saw the red cross fall; She hears the rebels' rattling drum,— Farewell to Frankland Hall! I tell you, as my tale began, The hall is standing still; And you, kind listener, maid or man, May see it if you will. The box is glistening huge and green, Like trees the lilacs grow, Three elms high-arching still are seen, And one lies stretched below. The hangings, rough with velvet flowers, Flap on the latticed wall; And o'er the mossy ridge-pole towers The rock-hewn chimney tall. The doors on mighty hinges clash With massive bolt and bar, The heavy English-moulded sash Scarce can the night-winds jar. Behold the chosen room he sought Alone, to fast and pray, Each year, as chill November brought The dismal earthquake day. There hung the rapier blade he wore, Bent in its flattened sheath; The coat the shrieking woman tore Caught in her clenching teeth;— The coat with tarnished silver lace She snapped at as she slid, And down upon her death-white face Crashed the huge coffin's lid. A graded terrace yet remains; If on its turf you stand And look along the wooded plains That stretch on either hand, The broken forest walls define A dim, receding view, Where, on the far horizon's line, He cut his vista through. If further story you shall crave, Or ask for living proof, Go see old Julia, born a slave Beneath Sir Harry's roof. She told me half that I have told, And she remembers well The mansion as it looked of old Before its glories fell;— The box, when round the terraced square Its glossy wall was drawn; The climbing vines, the snow-balls fair, The roses on the lawn. And Julia says, with truthful look Stamped on her wrinkled face, That in her own black hands she took The coat with silver lace. And you may hold the story light, Or, if you like, believe; But there it was, the woman's bite,— A mouthful from the sleeve. Now go your ways;—I need not tell The moral of my rhyme; But, youths and maidens, ponder well This tale of olden time! THE PLOUGHMAN ANNIVERSARY OF THE BERKSHIRE AGRICULTURAL SOCIETY, OCTOBER 4, 1849 CLEAR the brown path, to meet his coulter's gleam! Lo! on he comes, behind his smoking team, With toil's bright dew-drops on his sunburnt brow, The lord of earth, the hero of the plough! First in the field before the reddening sun, Last in the shadows when the day is done, Line after line, along the bursting sod, Marks the broad acres where his feet have trod; Still, where he treads, the stubborn clods divide, The smooth, fresh furrow opens deep and wide; Matted and dense the tangled turf upheaves, Mellow and dark the ridgy cornfield cleaves; Up the steep hillside, where the laboring train Slants the long track that scores the level plain; Through the moist valley, clogged with oozing clay, The patient convoy breaks its destined way; At every turn the loosening chains resound, The swinging ploughshare circles glistening round, Till the wide field one billowy waste appears, And wearied hands unbind the panting steers. These are the hands whose sturdy labor brings The peasant's food, the golden pomp of kings; This is the page, whose letters shall be seen Changed by the sun to words of living green; This is the scholar, whose immortal pen Spells the first lesson hunger taught to men; These are the lines which heaven-commanded Toil Shows on his deed,—the charter of the soil. O gracious Mother, whose benignant breast Wakes us to life, and lulls us all to rest, How thy sweet features, kind to every clime, Mock with their smile the wrinkled front of time We stain thy flowers,—they blossom o'er the dead; We rend thy bosom, and it gives us bread; O'er the red field that trampling strife has torn, Waves the green plumage of thy tasselled corn; Our maddening conflicts sear thy fairest plain, Still thy soft answer is the growing grain. Yet, O our Mother, while uncounted charms Steal round our hearts in thine embracing arms, Let not our virtues in thy love decay, And thy fond sweetness waste our strength away. No! by these hills, whose banners now displayed In blazing cohorts Autumn has arrayed; By yon twin summits, on whose splintery crests The tossing hemlocks hold the eagles' nests; By these fair plains the mountain circle screens, And feeds with streamlets from its dark ravines, True to their home, these faithful arms shall toil To crown with peace their own untainted soil; And, true to God, to freedom, to mankind, If her chained bandogs Faction shall unbind, These stately forms, that bending even now Bowed their strong manhood to the humble plough, Shall rise erect, the guardians of the land, The same stern iron in the same right hand, Till o'er their hills the shouts of triumph run, The sword has rescued what the ploughshare won! SPRING WINTER is past; the heart of Nature warms Beneath the wrecks of unresisted storms; Doubtful at first, suspected more than seen, The southern slopes are fringed with tender green; On sheltered banks, beneath the dripping eaves, Spring's earliest nurslings spread their glowing leaves, Bright with the hues from wider pictures won, White, azure, golden,—drift, or sky, or sun,— The snowdrop, bearing on her patient breast The frozen trophy torn from Winter's crest; The violet, gazing on the arch of blue Till her own iris wears its deepened hue; The spendthrift crocus, bursting through the mould Naked and shivering with his cup of gold. Swelled with new life, the darkening elm on high Prints her thick buds against the spotted sky On all her boughs the stately chestnut cleaves The gummy shroud that wraps her embryo leaves; The house-fly, stealing from his narrow grave, Drugged with the opiate that November gave, Beats with faint wing against the sunny pane, Or crawls, tenacious, o'er its lucid plain; From shaded chinks of lichen-crusted walls, In languid curves, the gliding serpent crawls; The bog's green harper, thawing from his sleep, Twangs a hoarse note and tries a shortened leap; On floating rails that face the softening noons The still shy turtles range their dark platoons, Or, toiling aimless o'er the mellowing fields, Trail through the grass their tessellated shields. At last young April, ever frail and fair, Wooed by her playmate with the golden hair, Chased to the margin of receding floods O'er the soft meadows starred with opening buds, In tears and blushes sighs herself away, And hides her cheek beneath the flowers of May. Then the proud tulip lights her beacon blaze, Her clustering curls the hyacinth displays; O'er her tall blades the crested fleur-de-lis, Like blue-eyed Pallas, towers erect and free; With yellower flames the lengthened sunshine glows, And love lays bare the passion-breathing rose; Queen of the lake, along its reedy verge The rival lily hastens to emerge, Her snowy shoulders glistening as she strips, Till morn is sultan of her parted lips. Then bursts the song from every leafy glade, The yielding season's bridal serenade; Then flash the wings returning Summer calls Through the deep arches of her forest halls,— The bluebird, breathing from his azure plumes The fragrance borrowed where the myrtle blooms; The thrush, poor wanderer, dropping meekly down, Clad in his remnant of autumnal brown; The oriole, drifting like a flake of fire Rent by a whirlwind from a blazing spire. The robin, jerking his spasmodic throat, Repeats, imperious, his staccato note; The crack-brained bobolink courts his crazy mate, Poised on a bulrush tipsy with his weight; Nay, in his cage the lone canary sings, Feels the soft air, and spreads his idle wings. Why dream I here within these caging walls, Deaf to her voice, while blooming Nature calls; Peering and gazing with insatiate looks Through blinding lenses, or in wearying books? Off, gloomy spectres of the shrivelled past! Fly with the leaves that fill the autumn blast Ye imps of Science, whose relentless chains Lock the warm tides within these living veins, Close your dim cavern, while its captive strays Dazzled and giddy in the morning's blaze! THE STUDY YET in the darksome crypt I left so late, Whose only altar is its rusted grate,— Sepulchral, rayless, joyless as it seems, Shamed by the glare of May's refulgent beams,— While the dim seasons dragged their shrouded train, Its paler splendors were not quite in vain. From these dull bars the cheerful firelight's glow Streamed through the casement o'er the spectral snow; Here, while the night-wind wreaked its frantic will On the loose ocean and the rock-bound hill, Rent the cracked topsail from its quivering yard, And rived the oak a thousand storms had scarred, Fenced by these walls the peaceful taper shone, Nor felt a breath to slant its trembling cone. Not all unblest the mild interior scene When the red curtain spread its falling screen; O'er some light task the lonely hours were past, And the long evening only flew too fast; Or the wide chair its leathern arms would lend In genial welcome to some easy friend, Stretched on its bosom with relaxing nerves, Slow moulding, plastic, to its hollow curves; Perchance indulging, if of generous creed, In brave Sir Walter's dream-compelling weed. Or, happier still, the evening hour would bring To the round table its expected ring, And while the punch-bowl's sounding depths were stirred,— Its silver cherubs smiling as they heard,— Our hearts would open, as at evening's hour The close-sealed primrose frees its hidden flower. Such the warm life this dim retreat has known, Not quite deserted when its guests were flown; Nay, filled with friends, an unobtrusive set, Guiltless of calls and cards and etiquette, Ready to answer, never known to ask, Claiming no service, prompt for every task. On those dark shelves no housewife hand profanes, O'er his mute files the monarch folio reigns; A mingled race, the wreck of chance and time, That talk all tongues and breathe of every clime, Each knows his place, and each may claim his part In some quaint corner of his master's heart. This old Decretal, won from Moss's hoards, Thick-leaved, brass-cornered, ribbed with oaken boards, Stands the gray patriarch of the graver rows, Its fourth ripe century narrowing to its close; Not daily conned, but glorious still to view, With glistening letters wrought in red and blue. There towers Stagira's all-embracing sage, The Aldine anchor on his opening page; There sleep the births of Plato's heavenly mind, In yon dark tomb by jealous clasps confused, "Olim e libris" (dare I call it mine?) Of Yale's grave Head and Killingworth's divine! In those square sheets the songs of Maro fill The silvery types of smooth-leaved Baskerville; High over all, in close, compact array, Their classic wealth the Elzevirs display. In lower regions of the sacred space Range the dense volumes of a humbler race; There grim chirurgeons all their mysteries teach, In spectral pictures, or in crabbed speech; Harvey and Haller, fresh from Nature's page, Shoulder the dreamers of an earlier age, Lully and Geber, and the learned crew That loved to talk of all they could not do. Why count the rest,—those names of later days That many love, and all agree to praise,— Or point the titles, where a glance may read The dangerous lines of party or of creed? Too well, perchance, the chosen list would show What few may care and none can claim to know. Each has his features, whose exterior seal A brush may copy, or a sunbeam steal; Go to his study,—on the nearest shelf Stands the mosaic portrait of himself. What though for months the tranquil dust descends, Whitening the heads of these mine ancient friends, While the damp offspring of the modern press Flaunts on my table with its pictured dress; Not less I love each dull familiar face, Nor less should miss it from the appointed place; I snatch the book, along whose burning leaves His scarlet web our wild romancer weaves, Yet, while proud Hester's fiery pangs I share, My old MAGNALIA must be standing there ! THE BELLS WHEN o'er the street the morning peal is flung From yon tall belfry with the brazen tongue, Its wide vibrations, wafted by the gale, To each far listener tell a different tale. The sexton, stooping to the quivering floor Till the great caldron spills its brassy roar, Whirls the hot axle, counting, one by one, Each dull concussion, till his task is done. Toil's patient daughter, when the welcome note Clangs through the silence from the steeple's throat, Streams, a white unit, to the checkered street, Demure, but guessing whom she soon shall meet; The bell, responsive to her secret flame, With every note repeats her lover's name. The lover, tenant of the neighboring lane, Sighing, and fearing lest he sigh in vain, Hears the stern accents, as they come and go, Their only burden one despairing No! Ocean's rough child, whom many a shore has known Ere homeward breezes swept him to his own, Starts at the echo as it circles round, A thousand memories kindling with the sound; The early favorite's unforgotten charms, Whose blue initials stain his tawny arms; His first farewell, the flapping canvas spread, The seaward streamers crackling overhead, His kind, pale mother, not ashamed to weep Her first-born's bridal with the haggard deep, While the brave father stood with tearless eye, Smiling and choking with his last good-by. 'T is but a wave, whose spreading circle beats, With the same impulse, every nerve it meets, Yet who shall count the varied shapes that ride On the round surge of that aerial tide! O child of earth! If floating sounds like these Steal from thyself their power to wound or please, If here or there thy changing will inclines, As the bright zodiac shifts its rolling signs, Look at thy heart, and when its depths are known, Then try thy brother's, judging by thine own, But keep thy wisdom to the narrower range, While its own standards are the sport of change, Nor count us rebels when we disobey The passing breath that holds thy passion's sway. NON-RESISTANCE PERHAPS too far in these considerate days Has patience carried her submissive ways; Wisdom has taught us to be calm and meek, To take one blow, and turn the other cheek; It is not written what a man shall do, If the rude caitiff smite the other too! Land of our fathers, in thine hour of need God help thee, guarded by the passive creed! As the lone pilgrim trusts to beads and cowl, When through the forest rings the gray wolf's howl; As the deep galleon trusts her gilded prow When the black corsair slants athwart her bow; As the poor pheasant, with his peaceful mien, Trusts to his feathers, shining golden-green, When the dark plumage with the crimson beak Has rustled shadowy from its splintered peak,— So trust thy friends, whose babbling tongues would charm The lifted sabre from thy foeman's arm, Thy torches ready for the answering peal From bellowing fort and thunder-freighted keel! THE MORAL BULLY YON whey-faced brother, who delights to wear A weedy flux of ill-conditioned hair, Seems of the sort that in a crowded place One elbows freely into smallest space; A timid creature, lax of knee and hip, Whom small disturbance whitens round the lip; One of those harmless spectacled machines, The Holy-Week of Protestants convenes; Whom school-boys question if their walk transcends The last advices of maternal friends; Whom John, obedient to his master's sign, Conducts, laborious, up to ninety-nine, While Peter, glistening with luxurious scorn, Husks his white ivories like an ear of corn; Dark in the brow and bilious in the cheek, Whose yellowish linen flowers but once a week, Conspicuous, annual, in their threadbare suits, And the laced high-lows which they call their boots, Well mayst thou shun that dingy front severe, But him, O stranger, him thou canst not fear . Be slow to judge, and slower to despise, Man of broad shoulders and heroic size The tiger, writhing from the boa's rings, Drops at the fountain where the cobra stings. In that lean phantom, whose extended glove Points to the text of universal love, Behold the master that can tame thee down To crouch, the vassal of his Sunday frown; His velvet throat against thy corded wrist, His loosened tongue against thy doubled fist. The MORAL BULLY, though he never swears, Nor kicks intruders down his entry stairs, Though meekness plants his backward-sloping hat, And non-resistance ties his white cravat, Though his black broadcloth glories to be seen In the same plight with Shylock's gaberdine, Hugs the same passion to his narrow breast That heaves the cuirass on the trooper's chest, Hears the same hell-hounds yelling in his rear That chase from port the maddened buccaneer, Feels the same comfort while his acrid words Turn the sweet milk of kindness into curds, Or with grim logic prove, beyond debate, That all we love is worthiest of our hate, As the scarred ruffian of the pirate's deck, When his long swivel rakes the staggering wreck! Heaven keep us all! Is every rascal clown Whose arm is stronger free to knock us down? Has every scarecrow, whose cachectic soul Seems fresh from Bedlam, airing on parole, Who, though he carries but a doubtful trace Of angel visits on his hungry face, From lack of marrow or the coins to pay, Has dodged some vices in a shabby way, The right to stick us with his cutthroat terms, And bait his homilies with his brother worms? THE MIND'S DIET No life worth naming ever comes to good If always nourished on the selfsame food; The creeping mite may live so if he please, And feed on Stilton till he turns to cheese, But cool Magendie proves beyond a doubt, If mammals try it, that their eyes drop out. No reasoning natures find it safe to feed, For their sole diet, on a single creed; It spoils their eyeballs while it spares their tongues, And starves the heart to feed the noisy lungs. When the first larvae on the elm are seen, The crawling wretches, like its leaves, are green; Ere chill October shakes the latest down, They, like the foliage, change their tint to brown; On the blue flower a bluer flower you spy, You stretch to pluck it—'tis a butterfly; The flattened tree-toads so resemble bark, They're hard to find as Ethiops in the dark; The woodcock, stiffening to fictitious mud, Cheats the young sportsman thirsting for his blood; So by long living on a single lie, Nay, on one truth, will creatures get its dye; Red, yellow, green, they take their subject's hue,— Except when squabbling turns them black and blue! OUR LIMITATIONS WE trust and fear, we question and believe, From life's dark threads a trembling faith to weave, Frail as the web that misty night has spun, Whose dew-gemmed awnings glitter in the sun. While the calm centuries spell their lessons out, Each truth we conquer spreads the realm of doubt; When Sinai's summit was Jehovah's throne, The chosen Prophet knew his voice alone; When Pilate's hall that awful question heard, The Heavenly Captive answered not a word. Eternal Truth! beyond our hopes and fears Sweep the vast orbits of thy myriad spheres! From age to age, while History carves sublime On her waste rock the flaming curves of time, How the wild swayings of our planet show That worlds unseen surround the world we know. THE OLD PLAYER THE curtain rose; in thunders long and loud The galleries rung; the veteran actor bowed. In flaming line the telltales of the stage Showed on his brow the autograph of age; Pale, hueless waves amid his clustered hair, And umbered shadows, prints of toil and care; Round the wide circle glanced his vacant eye,— He strove to speak,—his voice was but a sigh. Year after year had seen its short-lived race Flit past the scenes and others take their place; Yet the old prompter watched his accents still, His name still flaunted on the evening's bill. Heroes, the monarchs of the scenic floor, Had died in earnest and were heard no more; Beauties, whose cheeks such roseate bloom o'er-spread They faced the footlights in unborrowed red, Had faded slowly through successive shades To gray duennas, foils of younger maids; Sweet voices lost the melting tones that start With Southern throbs the sturdy Saxon heart, While fresh sopranos shook the painted sky With their long, breathless, quivering locust-cry. Yet there he stood,—the man of other days, In the clear present's full, unsparing blaze, As on the oak a faded leaf that clings While a new April spreads its burnished wings. How bright yon rows that soared in triple tier, Their central sun the flashing chandelier! How dim the eye that sought with doubtful aim Some friendly smile it still might dare to claim How fresh these hearts! his own how worn and cold! Such the sad thoughts that long-drawn sigh had told. No word yet faltered on his trembling tongue; Again, again, the crashing galleries rung. As the old guardsman at the bugle's blast Hears in its strain the echoes of the past, So, as the plaudits rolled and thundered round, A life of memories startled at the sound. He lived again,—the page of earliest days,— Days of small fee and parsimonious praise; Then lithe young Romeo—hark that silvered tone, From those smooth lips—alas! they were his own. Then the bronzed Moor, with all his love and woe, Told his strange tale of midnight melting snow; And dark—plumed Hamlet, with his cloak and blade, Looked on the royal ghost, himself a shade. All in one flash, his youthful memories came, Traced in bright hues of evanescent flame, As the spent swimmer's in the lifelong dream, While the last bubble rises through the stream. Call him not old, whose visionary brain Holds o'er the past its undivided reign. For him in vain the envious seasons roll Who bears eternal summer in his soul. If yet the minstrel's song, the poet's lay, Spring with her birds, or children at their play, Or maiden's smile, or heavenly dream of art, Stir the few life-drops creeping round his heart, Turn to the record where his years are told,— Count his gray hairs,—they cannot make him old! What magic power has changed the faded mime? One breath of memory on the dust of time. As the last window in the buttressed wall Of some gray minster tottering to its fall, Though to the passing crowd its hues are spread, A dull mosaic, yellow, green, and red, Viewed from within, a radiant glory shows When through its pictured screen the sunlight flows, And kneeling pilgrims on its storied pane See angels glow in every shapeless stain; So streamed the vision through his sunken eye, Clad in the splendors of his morning sky. All the wild hopes his eager boyhood knew, All the young fancies riper years proved true, The sweet, low-whispered words, the winning glance From queens of song, from Houris of the dance, Wealth's lavish gift, and Flattery's soothing phrase, And Beauty's silence when her blush was praise, And melting Pride, her lashes wet with tears, Triumphs and banquets, wreaths and crowns and cheers, Pangs of wild joy that perish on the tongue, And all that poets dream, but leave unsung! In every heart some viewless founts are fed From far-off hillsides where the dews were shed; On the worn features of the weariest face Some youthful memory leaves its hidden trace, As in old gardens left by exiled kings The marble basins tell of hidden springs, But, gray with dust, and overgrown with weeds, Their choking jets the passer little heeds, Till time's revenges break their seals away, And, clad in rainbow light, the waters play. Good night, fond dreamer! let the curtain fall The world's a stage, and we are players all. A strange rehearsal! Kings without their crowns, And threadbare lords, and jewel-wearing clowns, Speak the vain words that mock their throbbing hearts, As Want, stern prompter! spells them out their parts. The tinselled hero whom we praise and pay Is twice an actor in a twofold play. We smile at children when a painted screen Seems to their simple eyes a real scene; Ask the poor hireling, who has left his throne To seek the cheerless home he calls his own, Which of his double lives most real seems, The world of solid fact or scenic dreams? Canvas, or clouds,—the footlights, or the spheres,— The play of two short hours, or seventy years? Dream on! Though Heaven may woo our open eyes, Through their closed lids we look on fairer skies; Truth is for other worlds, and hope for this; The cheating future lends the present's bliss; Life is a running shade, with fettered hands, That chases phantoms over shifting sands; Death a still spectre on a marble seat, With ever clutching palms and shackled feet; The airy shapes that mock life's slender chain, The flying joys he strives to clasp in vain, Death only grasps; to live is to pursue,— Dream on! there 's nothing but illusion true!

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