The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes Part 91

"We both are wrecks,--a shattered pair,-- Strange to ourselves in time's disguise.

What say ye to the lovesick air That brought the tears from Marian's eyes?

Ay! trust me,--under b.r.e.a.s.t.s of snow Hearts could be melted long ago!

"Or will ye hear the storm-song's crash That from his dreams the soldier woke, And bade him face the lightning flash When battle's cloud in thunder broke? . . .

Wrecks,--nought but wrecks!--the time was when We two were worth a thousand men!"

And so the broken harp they bring With pitying smiles that none could blame; Alas! there's not a single string Of all that filled the tarnished frame!

But see! like children overjoyed, His fingers rambling through the void!

"I clasp thee! Ay . . . mine ancient lyre . . .

Nay, guide my wandering fingers. . . There They love to dally with the wire As Isaac played with Esau's hair.

Hus.h.!.+ ye shall hear the famous tune That Marian called the Breath of June!"

And so they softly gather round Rapt in his tuneful trance he seems His fingers move: but not a sound!

A silence like the song of dreams. . . .

"There! ye have heard the air," he cries, "That brought the tears from Marian's eyes!"

Ah, smile not at his fond conceit, Nor deem his fancy wrought in vain; To him the unreal sounds are sweet,-- No discord mars the silent strain Scored on life's latest, starlit page-- The voiceless melody of age.

Sweet are the lips, of all that sing, When Nature's music breathes unsought, But never yet could voice or string So truly shape our tenderest thought As when by life's decaying fire Our fingers sweep the stringless lyre!

OUR HOME--OUR COUNTRY

FOR THE SEMI-CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION OF THE SETTLEMENT OF CAMBRIDGE, Ma.s.s., DECEMBER 28, 1880

YOUR home was mine,--kind Nature's gift; My love no years can chill; In vain their flakes the storm-winds sift, The snow-drop hides beneath the drift, A living blossom still.

Mute are a hundred long-famed lyres, Hushed all their golden strings; One lay the coldest bosom fires, One song, one only, never tires While sweet-voiced memory sings.

No spot so lone but echo knows That dear familiar strain; In tropic isles, on arctic snows, Through burning lips its music flows And rings its fond refrain.

From Pisa's tower my straining sight Roamed wandering leagues away, When lo! a frigate's banner bright, The starry blue, the red, the white, In far Livorno's bay.

Hot leaps the life-blood from my heart, Forth springs the sudden tear; The s.h.i.+p that rocks by yonder mart Is of my land, my life, a part,-- Home, home, sweet home, is here!

Fades from my view the sunlit scene,-- My vision spans the waves; I see the elm-encircled green, The tower,--the steeple,--and, between, The field of ancient graves.

There runs the path my feet would tread When first they learned to stray; There stands the gambrel roof that spread Its quaint old angles o'er my head When first I saw the day.

The sounds that met my boyish ear My inward sense salute,-- The woodnotes wild I loved to hear,-- The robin's challenge, sharp and clear,-- The breath of evening's flute.

The faces loved from cradle days,-- Unseen, alas, how long!

As fond remembrance round them plays, Touched with its softening moonlight rays, Through fancy's portal throng.

And see! as if the opening skies Some angel form had spared Us wingless mortals to surprise, The little maid with light-blue eyes, White necked and golden haired!

So rose the picture full in view I paint in feebler song; Such power the seamless banner knew Of red and white and starry blue For exiles banished long.

Oh, boys, dear boys, who wait as men To guard its heaven-bright folds, Blest are the eyes that see again That banner, seamless now, as then,-- The fairest earth beholds!

Sweet was the Tuscan air and soft In that unfading hour, And fancy leads my footsteps oft Up the round galleries, high aloft On Pisa's threatening tower.

And still in Memory's holiest shrine I read with pride and joy, "For me those stars of empire s.h.i.+ne; That empire's dearest home is mine; I am a Cambridge boy!"

POEM

AT THE CENTENNIAL ANNIVERSARY DINNER OF THE Ma.s.sACHUSETTS MEDICAL SOCIETY, JUNE 8, 1881

THREE paths there be where Learning's favored sons, Trained in the schools which hold her favored ones, Follow their several stars with separate aim; Each has its honors, each its special claim.

Bred in the fruitful cradle of the East, First, as of oldest lineage, comes the Priest; The Lawyer next, in wordy conflict strong, Full armed to battle for the right,--or wrong; Last, he whose calling finds its voice in deeds, Frail Nature's helper in her sharpest needs.

Each has his gifts, his losses and his gains, Each his own share of pleasures and of pains; No life-long aim with steadfast eye pursued Finds a smooth pathway all with roses strewed; Trouble belongs to man of woman born,-- Tread where he may, his foot will find its thorn.

Of all the guests at life's perennial feast, Who of her children sits above the Priest?

For him the broidered robe, the carven seat, Pride at his beck, and beauty at his feet, For him the incense fumes, the wine is poured, Himself a G.o.d, adoring and adored!

His the first welcome when our hearts rejoice, His in our dying ear the latest voice, Font, altar, grave, his steps on all attend, Our staff, our stay, our all but heavenly friend!

Where is the meddling hand that dares to probe The secret grief beneath his sable robe?

How grave his port! how every gesture tells Here truth abides, here peace forever dwells; Vex not his lofty soul with comments vain; Faith asks no questions; silence, ye profane!

Alas! too oft while all is calm without The stormy spirit wars with endless doubt; This is the mocking spectre, scarce concealed Behind tradition's bruised and battered s.h.i.+eld.

He sees the sleepless critic, age by age, Scrawl his new readings on the hallowed page, The wondrous deeds that priests and prophets saw Dissolved in legend, crystallized in law, And on the soil where saints and martyrs trod Altars new builded to the Unknown G.o.d; His shrines imperilled, his evangels torn,-- He dares not limp, but ah! how sharp his thorn!

Yet while G.o.d's herald questions as he reads The outworn dogmas of his ancient creeds, Drops from his ritual the exploded verse, Blots from its page the Athanasian curse, Though by the critic's dangerous art perplexed, His holy life is Heaven's unquestioned text; That s.h.i.+ning guidance doubt can never mar,-- The pillar's flame, the light of Bethlehem's star!

Strong is the moral blister that will draw Laid on the conscience of the Man of Law Whom blindfold Justice lends her eyes to see Truth in the scale that holds his promised fee.

What! Has not every lie its truthful side, Its honest fraction, not to be denied?

Per contra,--ask the moralist,--in sooth Has not a lie its share in every truth?

Then what forbids an honest man to try To find the truth that lurks in every lie, And just as fairly call on truth to yield The lying fraction in its breast concealed?

So the worst rogue shall claim a ready friend His modest virtues boldly to defend, And he who shows the record of a saint See himself blacker than the devil could paint.

What struggles to his captive soul belong Who loves the right, yet combats for the wrong, Who fights the battle he would fain refuse, And wins, well knowing that he ought to lose, Who speaks with glowing lips and look sincere In spangled words that make the worse appear The better reason; who, behind his mask, Hides his true self and blushes at his task,-- What quips, what quillets cheat the inward scorn That mocks such triumph? Has he not his thorn?

Yet stay thy judgment; were thy life the prize, Thy death the forfeit, would thy cynic eyes See fault in him who bravely dares defend The cause forlorn, the wretch without a friend Nay, though the rightful side is wisdom's choice, Wrong has its rights and claims a champion's voice; Let the strong arm be lifted for the weak, For the dumb lips the fluent pleader speak;-- When with warm "rebel" blood our street was dyed Who took, unawed, the hated hirelings' side?

No greener civic wreath can Adams claim, No brighter page the youthful Quincy's name!