The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes Part 30

THE LAST LOOK

W. W. SWAIN

BEHOLD--not him we knew!

This was the prison which his soul looked through, Tender, and brave, and true.

His voice no more is heard; And his dead name--that dear familiar word-- Lies on our lips unstirred.

He spake with poet's tongue; Living, for him the minstrel's lyre was strung: He shall not die unsung.

Grief tried his love, and pain; And the long bondage of his martyr-chain Vexed his sweet soul,--in vain!

It felt life's surges break, As, girt with stormy seas, his island lake, Smiling while tempests wake.

How can we sorrow more?

Grieve not for him whose heart had gone before To that untrodden sh.o.r.e!

Lo, through its leafy screen, A gleam of sunlight on a ring of green, Untrodden, half unseen!

Here let his body rest, Where the calm shadows that his soul loved best May slide above his breast.

Smooth his uncurtained bed; And if some natural tears are softly shed, It is not for the dead.

Fold the green turf aright For the long hours before the morning's light, And say the last Good Night!

And plant a clear white stone Close by those mounds which hold his loved, his own,-- Lonely, but not alone.

Here let him sleeping lie, Till Heaven's bright watchers slumber in the sky And Death himself shall die!

Naushon, September 22, 1858.

IN MEMORY OF CHARLES WENTWORTH UPHAM, JR.

HE was all suns.h.i.+ne; in his face The very soul of sweetness shone; Fairest and gentlest of his race; None like him we can call our own.

Something there was of one that died In her fresh spring-time long ago, Our first dear Mary, angel-eyed, Whose smile it was a bliss to know.

Something of her whose love imparts Such radiance to her day's decline, We feel its twilight in our hearts Bright as the earliest morning-s.h.i.+ne.

Yet richer strains our eye could trace That made our plainer mould more fair, That curved the lip with happier grace, That waved the soft and silken hair.

Dust unto dust! the lips are still That only spoke to cheer and bless; The folded hands lie white and chill Unclasped from sorrow's last caress.

Leave him in peace; he will not heed These idle tears we vainly pour, Give back to earth the fading weed Of mortal shape his spirit wore.

"Shall I not weep my heartstrings torn, My flower of love that falls half blown, My youth uncrowned, my life forlorn, A th.o.r.n.y path to walk alone?"

O Mary! one who bore thy name, Whose Friend and Master was divine, Sat waiting silent till He came, Bowed down in speechless grief like thine.

"Where have ye laid him?" "Come," they say, Pointing to where the loved one slept; Weeping, the sister led the way,-- And, seeing Mary, "Jesus wept."

He weeps with thee, with all that mourn, And He shall wipe thy streaming eyes Who knew all sorrows, woman-born,-- Trust in his word; thy dead shall rise!

April 15, 1860.

MARTHA

DIED JANUARY 7, 1861

s.e.xTON! Martha's dead and gone; Toll the bell! toll the bell!

Her weary hands their labor cease; Good night, poor Martha,--sleep in peace!

Toll the bell!

s.e.xton! Martha's dead and gone; Toll the bell! toll the bell!

For many a year has Martha said, "I'm old and poor,--would I were dead!"

Toll the bell!

s.e.xton! Martha's dead and gone; Toll the bell! toll the bell!

She'll bring no more, by day or night, Her basket full of linen white.

Toll the bell!

s.e.xton! Martha's dead and gone; Toll the bell! toll the bell!

'T is fitting she should lie below A pure white sheet of drifted snow.

Toll the bell!

s.e.xton! Martha's dead and gone; Toll the bell! toll the bell!

Sleep, Martha, sleep, to wake in light, Where all the robes are stainless white.

Toll the bell!

MEETING OF THE ALUMNI OF HARVARD COLLEGE

1857

I THANK you, MR. PRESIDENT, you've kindly broke the ice; Virtue should always be the first,--I 'm only SECOND VICE-- (A vice is something with a screw that's made to hold its jaw Till some old file has played away upon an ancient saw).

Sweet brothers by the Mother's side, the babes of days gone by, All nurslings of her Juno b.r.e.a.s.t.s whose milk is never dry, We come again, like half-grown boys, and gather at her beck About her knees, and on her lap, and clinging round her neck.