The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes Part 109

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 th.o.r.n.y, 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 sh.o.r.e, 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.

ILl.u.s.tRATION 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 gra.s.s, 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 sh.o.r.es.

Thus bending o'er the nation's bier, Whose wants the captive earth supplied, The dew of Memory's pa.s.sing tear Falls on the arches of her pride!