The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes Part 105

His stature moderate, but his strength confessed, In spite of broadcloth, by his ample breast; Full-armed, thick-handed; one that had been strong, And might be dangerous still, if things went wrong.

He lived at ease beneath his elm-trees' shade, Did naught for gain, yet all his debts were paid; Rich, so 't was thought, but careful of his store; Had all he needed, claimed to have no more.

But some that lingered round the isle at night Spoke of strange stealthy doings in their sight; Of creeping lonely visits that he made To nooks and corners, with a torch and spade.

Some said they saw the hollow of a cave; One, given to fables, swore it was a grave; Whereat some shuddered, others boldly cried, Those prowling boatmen lied, and knew they lied.

They said his house was framed with curious cares, Lest some old friend might enter unawares; That on the platform at his chamber's door Hinged a loose square that opened through the floor; Touch the black silken ta.s.sel next the bell, Down, with a crash, the flapping trap-door fell; Three stories deep the falling wretch would strike, To writhe at leisure on a boarder's pike.

By day armed always; double-armed at night,

His tools lay round him; wake him such as might.

A carbine hung beside his India fan, His hand could reach a Turkish ataghan; Pistols, with quaint-carved stocks and barrels gilt, Crossed a long dagger with a jewelled hilt; A slashing cutla.s.s stretched along the bed;-- All this was what those lying boatmen said.

Then some were full of wondrous stories told Of great oak chests and cupboards full of gold; Of the wedged ingots and the silver bars That cost old pirates ugly sabre-scars; How his laced wallet often would disgorge The fresh-faced guinea of an English George, Or sweated ducat, palmed by Jews of yore, Or double Joe, or Portuguese moidore; And how his finger wore a rubied ring Fit for the white-necked play-girl of a king.

But these fine legends, told with staring eyes, Met with small credence from the old and wise.

Why tell each idle guess, each whisper vain?

Enough: the scorched and cindered beams remain.

He came, a silent pilgrim to the West, Some old-world mystery throbbing in his breast; Close to the thronging mart he dwelt alone; He lived; he died. The rest is all unknown.

Stranger, whose eyes the shadowy isle survey, As the black steamer dashes through the bay, Why ask his buried secret to divine?

He was thy brother; speak, and tell us thine!

Silence at first, a kind of spell-bound pause; Then all the Teacups tinkled their applause; When that was hushed no sound the stillness broke Till once again the soft-voiced lady spoke:

"The Lover's Secret,--surely that must need The youngest voice our table holds to read.

Which of our two 'Annexes' shall we choose?

Either were charming, neither will refuse; But choose we must,--what better can we do Than take the younger of the youthful two?"

True to the primal instinct of her s.e.x, "Why, that means me," half whispered each Annex.

"What if it does?" the voiceless question came, That set those pale New England cheeks aflame; "Our old-world scholar may have ways to teach Of Oxford English, Britain's purest speech,-- She shall be youngest,--youngest for _to-day_,-- Our dates we'll fix hereafter as we may; _All rights reserved_,--the words we know so well, That guard the claims of books which never sell."

The British maiden bowed a pleased a.s.sent, Her two long ringlets swinging as she bent; The glistening eyes her eager soul looked through Betrayed her lineage in their Saxon blue.

Backward she flung each too obtrusive curl And thus began,--the rose-lipped English girl.

THE LOVER'S SECRET

WHAT ailed young Lucius? Art had vainly tried To guess his ill, and found herself defied.

The Augur plied his legendary skill; Useless; the fair young Roman languished still.

His chariot took him every cloudless day Along the Pincian Hill or Appian Way; They rubbed his wasted limbs with sulphurous oil, Oozed from the far-off Orient's heated soil; They led him tottering down the steamy path Where bubbling fountains filled the thermal bath; Borne in his litter to Egeria's cave, They washed him, shivering, in her icy wave.

They sought all curious herbs and costly stones, They sc.r.a.ped the moss that grew on dead men's bones, They tried all cures the votive tablets taught, Scoured every place whence healing drugs were brought, O'er Thracian hills his breathless couriers ran, His slaves waylaid the Syrian caravan.

At last a servant heard a stranger speak A new chirurgeon's name; a clever Greek, Skilled in his art; from Pergamus he came To Rome but lately; GALEN was the name.

The Greek was called: a man with piercing eyes, Who must be cunning, and who might be wise.

He spoke but little,--if they pleased, he said, He 'd wait awhile beside the sufferer's bed.

So by his side he sat, serene and calm, His very accents soft as healing balm; Not curious seemed, but every movement spied, His sharp eyes searching where they seemed to glide; Asked a few questions,--what he felt, and where?

"A pain just here," "A constant beating there."

Who ordered bathing for his aches and ails?

"Charmis, the water-doctor from Ma.r.s.eilles."

What was the last prescription in his case?

"A draught of wine with powdered chrysoprase."

Had he no secret grief he nursed alone?

A pause; a little tremor; answer,--"None."

Thoughtful, a moment, sat the cunning leech, And muttered "Eros!" in his native speech.

In the broad atrium various friends await The last new utterance from the lips of fate; Men, matrons, maids, they talk the question o'er, And, restless, pace the tessellated floor.

Not un.o.bserved the youth so long had pined By gentle-hearted dames and damsels kind; One with the rest, a rich Patrician's pride, The lady Hermia, called "the golden-eyed"; The same the old Proconsul fain must woo, Whom, one dark night, a masked sicarius slew; The same black Cra.s.sus over roughly pressed To hear his suit,--the Tiber knows the rest.

(Cra.s.sus was missed next morning by his set; Next week the fishers found him in their net.) She with the others paced the ample hall, Fairest, alas! and saddest of them all.

At length the Greek declared, with puzzled face, Some strange enchantment mingled in the case, And naught would serve to act as counter-charm Save a warm bracelet from a maiden's arm.

Not every maiden's,--many might be tried; Which not in vain, experience must decide.

Were there no damsels willing to attend And do such service for a suffering friend?

The message pa.s.sed among the waiting crowd, First in a whisper, then proclaimed aloud.

Some wore no jewels; some were disinclined, For reasons better guessed at than defined; Though all were saints,--at least professed to be,-- The list all counted, there were named but three.

The leech, still seated by the patient's side, Held his thin wrist, and watched him, eagle-eyed.

Aurelia first, a fair-haired Tuscan girl, Slipped off her golden asp, with eyes of pearl.

His solemn head the grave physician shook; The waxen features thanked her with a look.

Olympia next, a creature half divine, Sprung from the blood of old Evander's line, Held her white arm, that wore a twisted chain Clasped with an opal-sheeny cymophane.

In vain, O daughter I said the baffled Greek.

The patient sighed the thanks he could not speak.

Last, Hermia entered; look, that sudden start!

The pallium heaves above his leaping heart; The beating pulse, the cheek's rekindled flame, Those quivering lips, the secret all proclaim.

The deep disease long throbbing in the breast, The dread enchantment, all at once confessed!

The case was plain; the treatment was begun; And Love soon cured the mischief he had done.

Young Love, too oft thy treacherous bandage slips Down from the eyes it blinded to the lips!

Ask not the G.o.ds, O youth, for clearer sight, But the bold heart to plead thy cause aright.

And thou, fair maiden, when thy lovers sigh, Suspect thy flattering ear, but trust thine eye; And learn this secret from the tale of old No love so true as love that dies untold.

"Bravo, Annex!" they shouted, every one,-- "Not Mrs. Kemble's self had better done."

"Quite so," she stammered in her awkward way,-- Not just the thing, but something she must say.

The teaspoon chorus tinkled to its close When from his chair the MAN OF LAW arose, Called by her voice whose mandate all obeyed, And took the open volume she displayed.

Tall, stately, strong, his form begins to own Some slight exuberance in its central zone,-- That comely fulness of the growing girth Which fifty summers lend the sons of earth.

A smooth, round disk about whose margin stray, Above the temples, glistening threads of gray; Strong, deep-cut grooves by toilsome decades wrought On brow and mouth, the battle-fields of thought; A voice that lingers in the listener's ear, Grave, calm, far-reaching, every accent clear,-- (Those tones resistless many a foreman knew That shaped their verdict ere the twelve withdrew;) A statesman's forehead, athlete's throat and jaw, Such the proud semblance of the Man of Law.

His eye just lighted on the printed leaf, Held as a practised pleader holds his brief.

One whispered softly from behind his cup, "He does not read,--his book is wrong side up!

He knows the story that it holds by heart,-- So like his own! How well he'll act his part!"

Then all were silent; not a rustling fan Stirred the deep stillness as the voice began.

THE STATESMAN'S SECRET

WHO of all statesmen is his country's pride, Her councils' prompter and her leaders' guide?

He speaks; the nation holds its breath to hear; He nods, and shakes the sunset hemisphere.

Born where the primal fount of Nature springs By the rude cradles of her throneless kings, In his proud eye her royal signet flames, By his own lips her Monarch she proclaims.

Why name his countless triumphs, whom to meet Is to be famous, envied in defeat?

The keen debaters, trained to brawls and strife, Who fire one shot, and finish with the knife, Tried him but once, and, cowering in their shame, Ground their hacked blades to strike at meaner game.

The lordly chief, his party's central stay, Whose lightest word a hundred votes obey, Found a new listener seated at his side, Looked in his eye, and felt himself defied, Flung his rash gauntlet on the startled floor, Met the all-conquering, fought,--and ruled no more.

See where he moves, what eager crowds attend!