The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes Part 112

And he has leaped into the waves, and crossed the shining stream, And he has clambered up the bank, all in the moonlight gleam; Oh there were kisses sweet as dew, and words as soft as rain,-- But they have heard her father's step, and in he leaps again!

Out spoke the ancient fisherman,--"Oh, what was that, my daughter?"

"'T was nothing but a pebble, sir, I threw into the water."

"And what is that, pray tell me, love, that paddles off so fast?"

"It's nothing but a porpoise, sir, that 's been a swimming past."

Out spoke the ancient fisherman,--"Now bring me my harpoon!

I'll get into my fishing-boat, and fix the fellow soon."

Down fell that pretty innocent, as falls a snow-white lamb, Her hair drooped round her pallid cheeks, like sea-weed on a clam.

Alas for those two loving ones! she waked not from her swound, And he was taken with the cramp, and in the waves was drowned; But Fate has metamorphosed them, in pity of their woe, And now they keep an oyster-shop for mermaids down below.

A NOONTIDE LYRIC

THE dinner-bell, the dinner-bell Is ringing loud and clear; Through hill and plain, through street and lane, It echoes far and near; From curtained hall and whitewashed stall, Wherever men can hide, Like bursting waves from ocean caves, They float upon the tide.

I smell the smell of roasted meat!

I hear the hissing fry The beggars know where they can go, But where, oh where shall I?

At twelve o'clock men took my hand, At two they only stare, And eye me with a fearful look, As if I were a bear!

The poet lays his laurels down, And hastens to his greens; The happy tailor quits his goose, To riot on his beans; The weary cobbler snaps his thread, The printer leaves his pi; His very devil hath a home, But what, oh what have I?

Methinks I hear an angel voice, That softly seems to say "Pale stranger, all may yet be well, Then wipe thy tears away; Erect thy head, and c.o.c.k thy hat, And follow me afar, And thou shalt have a jolly meal, And charge it at the bar."

I hear the voice! I go! I go!

Prepare your meat and wine!

They little heed their future need Who pay not when they dine.

Give me to-day the rosy bowl, Give me one golden dream,-- To-morrow kick away the stool, And dangle from the beam!

THE HOT SEASON

THE folks, that on the first of May Wore winter coats and hose, Began to say, the first of June, "Good Lord! how hot it grows!"

At last two Fahrenheits blew up, And killed two children small, And one barometer shot dead A tutor with its ball!

Now all day long the locusts sang Among the leafless trees; Three new hotels warped inside out, The pumps could only wheeze; And ripe old wine, that twenty years Had cobwebbed o'er in vain, Came spouting through the rotten corks Like Joly's best champagne.

The Worcester locomotives did Their trip in half an hour; The Lowell cars ran forty miles Before they checked the power; Roll brimstone soon became a drug, And loco-focos fell; All asked for ice, but everywhere Saltpetre was to sell.

Plump men of mornings ordered tights, But, ere the scorching noons, Their candle-moulds had grown as loose As Cossack pantaloons!

The dogs ran mad,--men could not try If water they would choose; A horse fell dead,--he only left Four red-hot, rusty shoes!

But soon the people could not bear The slightest hint of fire; Allusions to caloric drew A flood of savage ire;

The leaves on heat were all torn out From every book at school, And many blackguards kicked and caned, Because they said, "Keep cool!"

The gas-light companies were mobbed, The bakers all were shot, The penny press began to talk Of lynching Doctor Nott; And all about the warehouse steps Were angry men in droves, Crashing and splintering through the doors To smash the patent stoves!

The abolition men and maids Were tanned to such a hue, You scarce could tell them from their friends, Unless their eyes were blue; And, when I left, society Had burst its ancient guards, And Brattle Street and Temple Place Were interchanging cards.

A PORTRAIT

A STILL, sweet, placid, moonlight face, And slightly nonchalant, Which seems to claim a middle place Between one's love and aunt, Where childhood's star has left a ray In woman's sunniest sky, As morning dew and blushing day On fruit and blossom lie.

And yet,--and yet I cannot love Those lovely lines on steel; They beam too much of heaven above, Earth's darker shades to feel; Perchance some early weeds of care Around my heart have grown, And brows unfurrowed seem not fair, Because they mock my own.

Alas! when Eden's gates were sealed, How oft some sheltered flower Breathed o'er the wanderers of the field, Like their own bridal bower; Yet, saddened by its loveliness, And humbled by its pride, Earth's fairest child they could not bless, It mocked them when they sighed.

AN EVENING THOUGHT

WRITTEN AT SEA

IF sometimes in the dark blue eye, Or in the deep red wine, Or soothed by gentlest melody, Still warms this heart of mine, Yet something colder in the blood, And calmer in the brain, Have whispered that my youth's bright flood Ebbs, not to flow again.

If by Helvetia's azure lake, Or Arno's yellow stream, Each star of memory could awake, As in my first young dream, I know that when mine eye shall greet The hillsides bleak and bare, That gird my home, it will not meet My childhood's sunsets there.

Oh, when love's first, sweet, stolen kiss Burned on my boyish brow, Was that young forehead worn as this?

Was that flushed cheek as now?

Were that wild pulse and throbbing heart Like these, which vainly strive, In thankless strains of soulless art, To dream themselves alive?

Alas! the morning dew is gone, Gone ere the full of day; Life's iron fetter still is on, Its wreaths all torn away; Happy if still some casual hour Can warm the fading shrine, Too soon to chill beyond the power Of love, or song, or wine!

THE WASP AND THE HORNET

THE two proud sisters of the sea, In glory and in doom!-- Well may the eternal waters be Their broad, unsculptured tomb!

The wind that rings along the wave, The clear, unshadowed sun, Are torch and trumpet o'er the brave, Whose last green wreath is won!

No stranger-hand their banners furled, No victor's shout they heard; Unseen, above them ocean curled, Safe by his own pale bird; The gnashing billows heaved and fell; Wild shrieked the midnight gale; Far, far beneath the morning swell Were pennon, spar, and sail.

The land of Freedom! Sea and sh.o.r.e Are guarded now, as when Her ebbing waves to victory bore Fair barks and gallant men; Oh, many a ship of prouder name May wave her starry fold, Nor trail, with deeper light of fame, The paths they swept of old!