The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes Part 7

"I see the living tide roll on; It crowns with flaming towers The icy capes of Labrador, The Spaniard's 'land of flowers'!

It streams beyond the splintered ridge That parts the northern showers; From eastern rock to sunset wave The Continent is ours!"

He ceased, the grim old soldier-saint, Then softly bent to cheer The Pilgrim-child, whose wasting face Was meekly turned to hear; And drew his toil-worn sleeve across To brush the manly tear From cheeks that never changed in woe, And never blanched in fear.

The weary Pilgrim slumbers, His resting-place unknown; His hands were crossed, his lips were closed, The dust was o'er him strown; The drifting soil, the mouldering leaf, Along the sod were blown; His mound has melted into earth, His memory lives alone.

So let it live unfading, The memory of the dead, Long as the pale anemone Springs where their tears were shed, Or, raining in the summer's wind In flakes of burning red, The wild rose sprinkles with its leaves The turf where once they bled!

Yea, when the frowning bulwarks That guard this holy strand Have sunk beneath the trampling surge In beds of sparkling sand, While in the waste of ocean One h.o.a.ry rock shall stand, Be this its latest legend,-- HERE WAS THE PILGRIM'S LAND!

THE STEAMBOAT

SEE how yon flaming herald treads The ridged and rolling waves, As, cras.h.i.+ng o'er their crested heads, She bows her surly slaves!

With foam before and fire behind, She rends the clinging sea, That flies before the roaring wind, Beneath her hissing lee.

The morning spray, like sea-born flowers, With heaped and glistening bells, Falls round her fast, in ringing showers, With every wave that swells; And, burning o'er the midnight deep, In lurid fringes thrown, The living gems of ocean sweep Along her flas.h.i.+ng zone.

With clas.h.i.+ng wheel and lifting keel, And smoking torch on high, When winds are loud and billows reel, She thunders foaming by; When seas are silent and serene, With even beam she glides, The suns.h.i.+ne glimmering through the green That skirts her gleaming sides.

Now, like a wild, nymph, far apart She veils her shadowy form, The beating of her restless heart Still sounding through the storm; Now answers, like a courtly dame, The reddening surges o'er, With flying scarf of spangled flame, The Pharos of the sh.o.r.e.

To-night yon pilot shall not sleep, Who trims his narrowed sail; To-night yon frigate scarce shall keep Her broad breast to the gale; And many a foresail, scooped and strained, Shall break from yard and stay, Before this smoky wreath has stained The rising mist of day.

Hark! hark! I hear yon whistling shroud, I see yon quivering mast; The black throat of the hunted cloud Is panting forth the blast!

An hour, and, whirled like winnowing chaff, The giant surge shall fling His tresses o'er yon pennon staff, White as the sea-bird's wing.

Yet rest, ye wanderers of the deep; Nor wind nor wave shall tire Those fleshless arms, whose pulses leap With floods of living fire; Sleep on, and, when the morning light Streams o'er the s.h.i.+ning bay, Oh think of those for whom the night Shall never wake in day.

LEXINGTON

SLOWLY the mist o'er the meadow was creeping, Bright on the dewy buds glistened the sun, When from his couch, while his children were sleeping, Rose the bold rebel and shouldered his gun.

Waving her golden veil Over the silent dale, Blithe looked the morning on cottage and spire; Hushed was his parting sigh, While from his n.o.ble eye Flashed the last sparkle of liberty's fire.

On the smooth green where the fresh leaf is springing Calmly the first-born of glory have met; Hark! the death-volley around them is ringing!

Look! with their life-blood the young gra.s.s is wet Faint is the feeble breath, Murmuring low in death, "Tell to our sons how their fathers have died;"

Nerveless the iron hand, Raised for its native land, Lies by the weapon that gleams at its side.

Over the hillsides the wild knell is tolling, From their far hamlets the yeomanry come; As through the storm-clouds the thunder-burst rolling, Circles the beat of the mustering drum.

Fast on the soldier's path Darken the waves of wrath,-- Long have they gathered and loud shall they fall; Red glares the musket's flash, Sharp rings the rifle's crash, Blazing and clanging from thicket and wall.

Gayly the plume of the horseman was dancing, Never to shadow his cold brow again; Proudly at morning the war-steed was prancing, Reeking and panting he droops on the rein; Pale is the lip of scorn, Voiceless the trumpet horn, Torn is the silken-fringed red cross on high; Many a belted breast Low on the turf shall rest Ere the dark hunters the herd have pa.s.sed by.

Snow-girdled crags where the hoa.r.s.e wind is raving, Rocks where the weary floods murmur and wail, Wilds where the fern by the furrow is waving, Reeled with the echoes that rode on the gale; Far as the tempest thrills Over the darkened hills, Far as the suns.h.i.+ne streams over the plain, Roused by the tyrant band, Woke all the mighty land, Girded for battle, from mountain to main.

Green be the graves where her martyrs are lying!

Shroudless and tombless they sunk to their rest, While o'er their ashes the starry fold flying Wraps the proud eagle they roused from his nest.

Borne on her Northern pine, Long o'er the foaming brine Spread her broad banner to storm and to sun; Heaven keep her ever free, Wide as o'er land and sea Floats the fair emblem her heroes have won.

ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL

This "punch-bowl" was, according to old family tradition, a caudle-cup.

It is a ma.s.sive piece of silver, its cherubs and other ornaments of coa.r.s.e repousse work, and has two handles like a loving-cup, by which it was held, or pa.s.sed from guest to guest.

THIS ancient silver bowl of mine, it tells of good old times, Of joyous days and jolly nights, and merry Christmas times; They were a free and jovial race, but honest, brave, and true, Who dipped their ladle in the punch when this old bowl was new.

A Spanish galleon brought the bar,--so runs the ancient tale; 'T was hammered by an Antwerp smith, whose arm was like a flail; And now and then between the strokes, for fear his strength should fail, He wiped his brow and quaffed a cup of good old Flemish ale.

'T was purchased by an English squire to please his loving dame, Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a longing for the same; And oft as on the ancient stock another twig was found, 'T was filled with candle spiced and hot, and handed smoking round.

But, changing hands, it reached at length a Puritan divine, Who used to follow Timothy, and take a little wine, But hated punch and prelacy; and so it was, perhaps, He went to Leyden, where he found conventicles and schnapps.

And then, of course, you know what's next: it left the Dutchman's sh.o.r.e With those that in the Mayflower came,--a hundred souls and more,-- Along with all the furniture, to fill their new abodes,-- To judge by what is still on hand, at least a hundred loads.

'T was on a dreary winter's eve, the night was closing, dim, When brave Miles Standish took the bowl, and filled it to the brim; The little Captain stood and stirred the posset with his sword, And all his st.u.r.dy men-at-arms were ranged about the board.

He poured the fiery Hollands in,--the man that never feared,-- He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yellow beard; And one by one the musketeers--the men that fought and prayed-- All drank as 't were their mother's milk, and not a man afraid.

That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming eagle flew, He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the soldier's wild halloo; And there the sachem learned the rule he taught to kith and kin, Run from the white man when you find he smells of "Hollands gin!"

A hundred years, and fifty more, had spread their leaves and snows, A thousand rubs had flattened down each little cherub's nose, When once again the bowl was filled, but not in mirth or joy,-- 'T was mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her parting boy.

Drink, John, she said, 't will do you good,--poor child, you'll never bear This working in the dismal trench, out in the midnight air; And if--G.o.d bless me!--you were hurt, 't would keep away the chill.

So John did drink,--and well he wrought that night at Bunker's Hill!

I tell you, there was generous warmth in good old English cheer; I tell you, 't was a pleasant thought to bring its symbol here.

'T is but the fool that loves excess; hast thou a drunken soul?

Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver bowl!

I love the memory of the past,--its pressed yet fragrant flowers,-- The moss that clothes its broken walls, the ivy on its towers; Nay, this poor bauble it bequeathed,--my eyes grow moist and dim, To think of all the vanished joys that danced around its brim.

Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight to me; The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er the liquid be; And may the cherubs on its face protect me from the sin That dooms one to those dreadful words,--"My dear, where HAVE you been?"