The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes Part 18

"Good-by," he faltered, "Mrs. Van, my dear!

I'm going to sleep, but wake me once a year; I don't like bleaching in the frost and dew, I'll take the barn, if all the same to you.

Just once a year--remember! no mistake!

Cry, 'Rip Van Winkle! time for you to wake!'

Watch for the week in May when laylocks blow, For then the Doctors meet, and I must go."

Just once a year the Doctor's worthy dame Goes to the barn and shouts her husband's name; "Come, Rip Van Winkle!" (giving him a shake) "Rip! Rip Van Winkle! time for you to wake!

Laylocks in blossom! 't is the month of May-- The Doctors' meeting is this blessed day, And come what will, you know I heard you swear You'd never miss it, but be always there!"

And so it is, as every year comes round Old Rip Van Winkle here is always found.

You'll quickly know him by his mildewed air, The hayseed sprinkled through his scanty hair, The lichens growing on his rusty suit-- I've seen a toadstool sprouting on his boot-- Who says I lie? Does any man presume?-- Toadstool? No matter--call it a mushroom.

Where is his seat? He moves it every year; But look, you'll find him,--he is always here,-- Perhaps you'll track him by a whiff you know-- A certain flavor of "Elixir Pro."

Now, then, I give you--as you seem to think We can give toasts without a drop to drink-- Health to the mighty sleeper,--long live he!

Our brother Rip, M. M. S. S., M. D.!

SONGS IN MANY KEYS

1849-1861

THE piping of our slender, peaceful reeds Whispers uncared for while the trumpets bray; Song is thin air; our hearts' exulting play Beats time but to the tread of marching deeds, Following the mighty van that Freedom leads, Her glorious standard flaming to the day!

The crimsoned pavement where a hero bleeds Breathes n.o.bler lessons than the poet's lay.

Strong arms, broad b.r.e.a.s.t.s, brave hearts, are better worth Than strains that sing the ravished echoes dumb.

Hark! 't is the loud reverberating drum Rolls o'er the prairied West, the rock-bound North The myriad-handed Future stretches forth Its shadowy palms. Behold, we come,--we come!

Turn o'er these idle leaves. Such toys as these Were not unsought for, as, in languid dreams, We lay beside our lotus-feeding streams, And nursed our fancies in forgetful ease.

It matters little if they pall or please, Dropping untimely, while the sudden gleams Glare from the mustering clouds whose blackness seems Too swollen to hold its lightning from the trees.

Yet, in some lull of pa.s.sion, when at last These calm revolving moons that come and go-- Turning our months to years, they creep so slow-- Have brought us rest, the not unwelcome past May flutter to thee through these leaflets, cast On the wild winds that all around us blow.

May 1, 1861.

AGNES

The story of Sir Harry Frankland and Agnes Surriage is told in the ballad with a very strict adhesion to the facts. These were obtained from information afforded me by the Rev. Mr. Webster, of Hopkinton, in company with whom I visited the Frankland Mansion in that town, then standing; from a very interesting Memoir, by the Rev. Elias Nason, of Medford; and from the ma.n.u.script diary of Sir Harry, or more properly Sir Charles Henry Frankland, now in the library of the Ma.s.sachusetts Historical Society.

At the time of the visit referred to, old Julia was living, and on our return we called at the house where she resided.--[She was living June 10, 1861, when this ballad was published]--Her account is little more than paraphrased in the poem. If the incidents are treated with a certain liberality at the close of the fifth part, the essential fact that Agnes rescued Sir Harry from the ruins after the earthquake, and their subsequent marriage as related, may be accepted as literal truth.

So with regard to most of the trifling details which are given; they are taken from the record. It is greatly to be regretted that the Frankland Mansion no longer exists. It was accidentally burned on the 23d of January, 1858, a year or two after the first sketch of this ballad was written. A visit to it was like stepping out of the century into the years before the Revolution. A new house, similar in plan and arrangements to the old one, has been built upon its site, and the terraces, the clump of box, and the lilacs doubtless remain to bear witness to the truth of this story.

The story, which I have told literally in rhyme, has been made the subject of a carefully studied and interesting romance by Mr.

E. L. Bynner.

PART FIRST

THE KNIGHT

THE tale I tell is gospel true, As all the bookmen know, And pilgrims who have strayed to view The wrecks still left to show.

The old, old story,--fair, and young, And fond,--and not too wise,-- That matrons tell, with sharpened tongue, To maids with downcast eyes.

Ah! maidens err and matrons warn Beneath the coldest sky; Love lurks amid the ta.s.selled corn As in the bearded rye!

But who would dream our sober sires Had learned the old world's ways, And warmed their hearths with lawless fires In Shirley's homespun days?

'T is like some poet's pictured trance His idle rhymes recite,-- This old New England-born romance Of Agnes and the Knight;

Yet, known to all the country round, Their home is standing still, Between Wachusett's lonely mound And Shawmut's threefold hill.

One hour we rumble on the rail, One half-hour guide the rein, We reach at last, o'er hill and dale, The village on the plain.

With blackening wall and mossy roof, With stained and warping floor, A stately mansion stands aloof And bars its haughty door.

This lowlier portal may be tried, That breaks the gable wall; And lo! with arches opening wide, Sir Harry Frankland's hall!

'T was in the second George's day They sought the forest shade, The knotted trunks they cleared away, The ma.s.sive beams they laid,

They piled the rock-hewn chimney tall, They smoothed the terraced ground, They reared the marble-pillared wall That fenced the mansion round.

Far stretched beyond the village bound The Master's broad domain; With page and valet, horse and hound, He kept a goodly train.

And, all the midland county through, The ploughman stopped to gaze Whene'er his chariot swept in view Behind the shining bays,

With mute obeisance, grave and slow, Repaid by nod polite,-- For such the way with high and low Till after Concord fight.

Nor less to courtly circles known That graced the three-hilled town With far-off splendors of the Throne, And glimmerings from the Crown;

Wise Phipps, who held the seals of state For Shirley over sea; Brave Knowles, whose press-gang moved of late The King Street mob's decree;

And judges grave, and colonels grand, Fair dames and stately men, The mighty people of the land, The "World" of there and then.

'T was strange no Chloe's "beauteous Form,"

And "Eyes' celestial Blew,"

This Strephon of the West could warm, No Nymph his Heart subdue.

Perchance he wooed as gallants use, Whom fleeting loves enchain, But still unfettered, free to choose, Would brook no bridle-rein.

He saw the fairest of the fair, But smiled alike on all; No band his roving foot might snare, No ring his hand enthrall.

PART SECOND

THE MAIDEN