The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes Part 20

"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, G.o.d 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 s.h.i.+nes, Her flowing tresses' ma.s.sive 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 a.s.sails 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 s.h.i.+p 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 pa.s.sed, 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 m.u.f.fled 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 rus.h.i.+ng 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!