The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes Part 62

Come, vagrant, outcast, wretch forlorn In leather jerkin stained and torn, Whose talk has filled my idle hour And made me half forget the shower, I'll do at least as much for you, Your coat I'll patch, your gilt renew, Read you--perhaps--some other time.

Not bad, my bargain! Price one dime!

SONGS OF MANY SEASONS

1862-1874

OPENING THE WINDOW

THUS I lift the sash, so long Shut against the flight of song; All too late for vain excuse,-- Lo, my captive rhymes are loose.

Rhymes that, flitting through my brain, Beat against my window-pane, Some with gayly colored wings, Some, alas! with venomed stings.

Shall they bask in sunny rays?

Shall they feed on sugared praise?

Shall they stick with tangled feet On the critic's poisoned sheet?

Are the outside winds too rough?

Is the world not wide enough?

Go, my winged verse, and try,-- Go, like Uncle Toby's fly!

PROGRAMME

READER--gentle--if so be Such still live, and live for me, Will it please you to be told What my tenscore pages hold?

Here are verses that in spite Of myself I needs must write, Like the wine that oozes first When the unsqueezed grapes have burst.

Here are angry lines, "too hard!"

Says the soldier, battle-scarred.

Could I smile his scars away I would blot the bitter lay,

Written with a knitted brow, Read with placid wonder now.

Throbbed such pa.s.sion in my heart?

Did his wounds once really smart?

Here are varied strains that sing All the changes life can bring, Songs when joyous friends have met, Songs the mourner's tears have wet.

See the banquet's dead bouquet, Fair and fragrant in its day; Do they read the selfsame lines,-- He that fasts and he that dines?

Year by year, like milestones placed, Mark the record Friends.h.i.+p traced.

Prisoned in the walls of time Life has notched itself in rhyme.

As its seasons slid along, Every year a notch of song, From the June of long ago, When the rose was full in blow,

Till the scarlet sage has come And the cold chrysanthemum.

Read, but not to praise or blame; Are not all our hearts the same?

For the rest, they take their chance,-- Some may pay a pa.s.sing glance; Others,-well, they served a turn,-- Wherefore written, would you learn?

Not for glory, not for pelf, Not, be sure, to please myself, Not for any meaner ends,-- Always "by request of friends."

Here's the cousin of a king,-- Would I do the civil thing?

Here 's the first-born of a queen; Here 's a slant-eyed Mandarin.

Would I polish off j.a.pan?

Would I greet this famous man, Prince or Prelate, Sheik or Shah?-- Figaro gi and Figaro la!

Would I just this once comply?-- So they teased and teased till I (Be the truth at once confessed) Wavered--yielded--did my best.

Turn my pages,--never mind If you like not all you find; Think not all the grains are gold Sacramento's sand-banks hold.

Every kernel has its sh.e.l.l, Every chime its harshest bell, Every face its weariest look, Every shelf its emptiest book,

Every field its leanest sheaf, Every book its dullest leaf, Every leaf its weakest line,-- Shall it not be so with mine?

Best for worst shall make amends, Find us, keep us, leave us friends Till, perchance, we meet again.

Benedicite.--Amen!

October 7, 1874.

IN THE QUIET DAYS

AN OLD-YEAR SONG

As through the forest, disarrayed By chill November, late I strayed, A lonely minstrel of the wood Was singing to the solitude I loved thy music, thus I said, When o'er thy perch the leaves were spread Sweet was thy song, but sweeter now Thy carol on the leafless bough.

Sing, little bird! thy note shall cheer The sadness of the dying year.

When violets pranked the turf with blue And morning filled their cups with dew, Thy slender voice with rippling trill The budding April bowers would fill, Nor pa.s.sed its joyous tones away When April rounded into May: Thy life shall hail no second dawn,-- Sing, little bird! the spring is gone.

And I remember--well-a-day!-- Thy full-blown summer roundelay, As when behind a broidered screen Some holy maiden sings unseen With answering notes the woodland rung, And every tree-top found a tongue.

How deep the shade! the groves how fair!

Sing, little bird! the woods are bare.

The summer's throbbing chant is done And mute the choral antiphon; The birds have left the s.h.i.+vering pines To flit among the trellised vines, Or fan the air with scented plumes Amid the love-sick orange-blooms, And thou art here alone,--alone,-- Sing, little bird! the rest have flown.