The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes Part 83

THE FIRST FAN

READ AT A MEETING OF THE BOSTON BRIC-A-BRAC CLUB, FEBRUARY 21, 1877

WHEN rose the cry "Great Pan is dead!"

And Jove's high palace closed its portal, The fallen G.o.ds, before they fled, Sold out their frippery to a mortal.

"To whom?" you ask. I ask of you.

The answer hardly needs suggestion; Of course it was the Wandering Jew,-- How could you put me such a question?

A purple robe, a little worn, The Thunderer deigned himself to offer; The bearded wanderer laughed in scorn,-- You know he always was a scoffer.

"Vife s.h.i.+llins! 't is a monstrous price; Say two and six and further talk shun."

"Take it," cried Jove; "we can't be nice,-- 'T would fetch twice that at Leonard's auction."

The ice was broken; up they came, All sharp for bargains, G.o.d and G.o.ddess, Each ready with the price to name For robe or head-dress, scarf or bodice.

First Juno, out of temper, too,-- Her queenly forehead somewhat cloudy; Then Pallas in her stockings blue, Imposing, but a little dowdy.

The scowling queen of heaven unrolled Before the Jew a threadbare turban "Three s.h.i.+llings." "One. 'T will suit some old Terrific feminine suburban."

But as for Pallas,--how to tell In seemly phrase a fact so shocking?

She pointed,--pray excuse me,--well, She pointed to her azure stocking.

And if the honest truth were told, Its heel confessed the need of darning; "G.o.ds!" low-bred Vulcan cried, "behold!

There! that's what comes of too much larning!"

Pale Proserpine came groping round, Her pupils dreadfully dilated With too much living underground,-- A residence quite overrated;

This kerchief's what you want, I know,-- Don't cheat poor Venus of her cestus,-- You'll find it handy when you go To--you know where; it's pure asbestus.

Then Phoebus of the silverr bow, And Hebe, dimpled as a baby, And Dian with the breast of snow, Chaser and chased--and caught, it may be:

One took the quiver from her back, One held the cap he spent the night in, And one a bit of bric-a-brac, Such as the G.o.ds themselves delight in.

Then Mars, the foe of human kind, Strode up and showed his suit of armor; So none at last was left behind Save Venus, the celestial charmer.

Poor Venus! What had she to sell?

For all she looked so fresh and jaunty, Her wardrobe, as I blush' to tell, Already seemed but quite too scanty.

Her gems were sold, her sandals gone,-- She always would be rash and flighty,-- Her winter garments all in p.a.w.n, Alas for charming Aphrodite.

The lady of a thousand loves, The darling of the old religion, Had only left of all the doves That drew her car one fan-tailed pigeon.

How oft upon her finger-tips He perched, afraid of Cupid's arrow, Or kissed her on the rosebud lips, Like Roman Lesbia's loving sparrow!

"My bird, I want your train," she cried; "Come, don't let's have a fuss about it; I'll make it beauty's pet and pride, And you'll be better off without it.

"So vulgar! Have you noticed, pray, An earthly belle or das.h.i.+ng bride walk, And how her flounces track her way, Like slimy serpents on the sidewalk?

"A lover's heart it quickly cools; In mine it kindles up enough rage To wring their necks. How can such fools Ask men to vote for woman suffrage?"

The G.o.ddess spoke, and gently stripped Her bird of every caudal feather; A strand of gold-bright hair she clipped, And bound the glossy plumes together,

And lo, the Fan! for beauty's hand, The lovely queen of beauty made it; The price she named was hard to stand, But Venus smiled: the Hebrew paid it.

Jove, Juno, Venus, where are you?

Mars, Mercury, Phoebus, Neptune, Saturn?

But o'er the world the Wandering Jew Has borne the Fan's celestial pattern.

So everywhere we find the Fan,-- In lonely isles of the Pacific, In farthest China and j.a.pan,-- Wherever suns are sudorific.

Nay, even the oily Esquimaux In summer court its cooling breezes,-- In fact, in every clime 't is so, No matter if it fries or freezes.

And since from Aphrodite's dove The pattern of the fan was given, No wonder that it breathes of love And wafts the perfumed gales of heaven!

Before this new Pandora's gift In slavery woman's tyrant kept her, But now he kneels her glove to lift,-- The fan is mightier than the sceptre.

The tap it gives how arch and sly!

The breath it wakes how fresh and grateful!

Behind its s.h.i.+eld how soft the sigh!

The whispered tale of shame how fateful!

Its empire shadows every throne And every sh.o.r.e that man is tost on; It rules the lords of every zone, Nay, even the bluest blood of Boston!

But every one that swings to-night, Of fairest shape, from farthest region, May trace its pedigree aright To Aphrodite's fan-tailed pigeon.

TO R. B. H.

AT THE DINNER TO THE PRESIDENT, BOSTON, JUNE 26, 1877

How to address him? awkward, it is true Call him "Great Father," as the Red Men do?

Borrow some t.i.tle? this is not the place That christens men Your Highness and Your Grace; We tried such names as these awhile, you know, But left them off a century ago.

His Majesty? We've had enough of that Besides, that needs a crown; he wears a hat.

What if, to make the nicer ears content, We say His Honesty, the President?

Sir, we believed you honest, truthful, brave, When to your hands their precious trust we gave, And we have found you better than we knew, Braver, and not less honest, not less true!

So every heart has opened, every hand Tingles with welcome, and through all the land All voices greet you in one broad acclaim, Healer of strife! Has earth a n.o.bler name?

What phrases mean you do not need to learn; We must be civil, and they serve our turn "Your most obedient humble" means--means what?

Something the well-bred signer just is not.