The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes Part 28

The boundless prairies learned his name, His words the mountain echoes knew, The Northern breezes swept his fame From icy lake to warm bayou.

In toil he lived; in peace he died; When life's full cycle was complete, Put off his robes of power and pride, And laid them at his Master's feet.

His rest is by the storm-swept waves Whom life's wild tempests roughly trie Whose heart was like the streaming eaves Of ocean, throbbing at his side.

Death's cold white hand is like the snow Laid softly on the furrowed hill, It hides the broken seams below, And leaves the summit brighter still.

In vain the envious tongue upbraids; His name a nation's heart shall keep Till morning's latest sunlight fades On the blue tablet of the deep.

THE VOICELESS

WE count the broken lyres that rest Where the sweet wailing singers slumber, But o'er their silent sister's breast The wild-flowers who will stoop to number?

A few can touch the magic string, And noisy Fame is proud to win them:-- Alas for those that never sing, But die with all their music in them!

Nay, grieve not for the dead alone Whose song has told their hearts' sad story,-- Weep for the voiceless, who have known The cross without the crown of glory Not where Leucadian breezes sweep O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow, But where the glistening night-dews weep On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow.

O hearts that break and give no sign Save whitening lip and fading tresses, Till Death pours out his longed-for wine Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses,-- If singing breath or echoing chord To every hidden pang were given, What endless melodies were poured, As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven!

THE TWO STREAMS

BEHOLD the rocky wall That down its sloping sides Pours the swift rain-drops, blending, as they fall, In rushing river-tides!

Yon stream, whose sources run Turned by a pebble's edge, Is Athabasca, rolling toward the sun Through the cleft mountain-ledge.

The slender rill had strayed, But for the slanting stone, To evening's ocean, with the tangled braid Of foam-flecked Oregon.

So from the heights of Will Life's parting stream descends, And, as a moment turns its slender rill, Each widening torrent bends,--

From the same cradle's side, From the same mother's knee,-- One to long darkness and the frozen tide, One to the Peaceful Sea!

THE PROMISE

NOT charity we ask, Nor yet thy gift refuse; Please thy light fancy with the easy task Only to look and choose.

The little-heeded toy That wins thy treasured gold May be the dearest memory, holiest joy, Of coming years untold.

Heaven rains on every heart, But there its showers divide, The drops of mercy choosing, as they part, The dark or glowing side.

One kindly deed may turn The fountain of thy soul To love's sweet day-star, that shall o'er thee burn Long as its currents roll.

The pleasures thou hast planned,-- Where shall their memory be When the white angel with the freezing hand Shall sit and watch by thee?

Living, thou dost not live, If mercy's spring run dry; What Heaven has lent thee wilt thou freely give, Dying, thou shalt not die.

HE promised even so!

To thee his lips repeat,-- Behold, the tears that soothed thy sister's woe Have washed thy Master's feet!

March 20, 1859.

AVIS

I MAY not rightly call thy name,-- Alas! thy forehead never knew The kiss that happier children claim, Nor glistened with baptismal dew.

Daughter of want and wrong and woe, I saw thee with thy sister-band, s.n.a.t.c.hed from the whirlpool's narrowing flow By Mercy's strong yet trembling hand.

"Avis!"--With Saxon eye and cheek, At once a woman and a child, The saint uncrowned I came to seek Drew near to greet us,--spoke, and smiled.

G.o.d gave that sweet sad smile she wore All wrong to shame, all souls to win,-- A heavenly sunbeam sent before Her footsteps through a world of sin.

"And who is Avis?"--Hear the tale The calm-voiced matrons gravely tell,-- The story known through all the vale Where Avis and her sisters dwell.

With the lost children running wild, Strayed from the hand of human care, They find one little refuse child Left helpless in its poisoned lair.

The primal mark is on her face,-- The chattel-stamp,--the pariah-stain That follows still her hunted race,-- The curse without the crime of Cain.

How shall our smooth-turned phrase relate The little suffering outcast's ail?

Not Lazarus at the rich man's gate So turned the rose-wreathed revellers pale.

Ah, veil the living death from sight That wounds our beauty-loving eye!

The children turn in selfish fright, The white-lipped nurses hurry by.

Take her, dread Angel! Break in love This bruised reed and make it thine!-- No voice descended from above, But Avis answered, "She is mine."

The task that dainty menials spurn The fair young girl has made her own; Her heart shall teach, her hand shall learn The toils, the duties yet unknown.

So Love and Death in lingering strife Stand face to face from day to day, Still battling for the spoil of Life While the slow seasons creep away.

Love conquers Death; the prize is won; See to her joyous bosom pressed The dusky daughter of the sun,-- The bronze against the marble breast!

Her task is done; no voice divine Has crowned her deeds with saintly fame.

No eye can see the aureole shine That rings her brow with heavenly flame.