The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes Part 3

TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A LADY"

IN THE ATHENAEUM GALLERY

WELL, Miss, I wonder where you live, I wonder what's your name, I wonder how you came to be In such a stylish frame; Perhaps you were a favorite child, Perhaps an only one; Perhaps your friends were not aware You had your portrait done.

Yet you must be a harmless soul; I cannot think that Sin Would care to throw his loaded dice, With such a stake to win; I cannot think you would provoke The poet's wicked pen, Or make young women bite their lips, Or ruin fine young men.

Pray, did you ever hear, my love, Of boys that go about, Who, for a very trifling sum, Will snip one's picture out?

I'm not averse to red and white, But all things have their place, I think a profile cut in black Would suit your style of face!

I love sweet features; I will own That I should like myself To see my portrait on a wall, Or bust upon a shelf; But nature sometimes makes one up Of such sad odds and ends, It really might be quite as well Hushed up among one's friends!

THE COMET

THE Comet! He is on his way, And singing as he flies; The whizzing planets shrink before The spectre of the skies; Ah! well may regal orbs burn blue, And satellites turn pale, Ten million cubic miles of head, Ten billion leagues of tail!

On, on by whistling spheres of light He flashes and he flames; He turns not to the left nor right, He asks them not their names; One spurn from his demoniac heel,-- Away, away they fly, Where darkness might be bottled up And sold for "Tyrian dye."

And what would happen to the land, And how would look the sea, If in the bearded devil's path Our earth should chance to be?

Full hot and high the sea would boil, Full red the forests gleam; Methought I saw and heard it all In a dyspeptic dream!

I saw a tutor take his tube The Comet's course to spy; I heard a scream,--the gathered rays Had stewed the tutor's eye; I saw a fort,--the soldiers all Were armed with goggles green; Pop cracked the guns! whiz flew the b.a.l.l.s!

Bang went the magazine!

I saw a poet dip a scroll Each moment in a tub, I read upon the warping back, "The Dream of Beelzebub;"

He could not see his verses burn, Although his brain was fried, And ever and anon he bent To wet them as they dried.

I saw the scalding pitch roll down The crackling, sweating pines, And streams of smoke, like water-spouts, Burst through the rumbling mines; I asked the firemen why they made Such noise about the town; They answered not,--but all the while The brakes went up and down.

I saw a roasting pullet sit Upon a baking egg; I saw a cripple scorch his hand Extinguishing his leg; I saw nine geese upon the wing Towards the frozen pole, And every mother's gosling fell Crisped to a crackling coal.

I saw the ox that browsed the gra.s.s Writhe in the blistering rays, The herbage in his shrinking jaws Was all a fiery blaze; I saw huge fishes, boiled to rags, Bob through the bubbling brine; And thoughts of supper crossed my soul; I had been rash at mine.

Strange sights! strange sounds! Oh fearful dream!

Its memory haunts me still, The steaming sea, the crimson glare, That wreathed each wooded hill; Stranger! if through thy reeling brain Such midnight visions sweep, Spare, spare, oh, spare thine evening meal, And sweet shall be thy sleep!

THE MUSIC-GRINDERS

THERE are three ways in which men take One's money from his purse, And very hard it is to tell Which of the three is worse; But all of them are bad enough To make a body curse.

You're riding out some pleasant day, And counting up your gains; A fellow jumps from out a bush, And takes your horse's reins, Another hints some words about A bullet in your brains.

It's hard to meet such pressing friends In such a lonely spot; It's very hard to lose your cash, But harder to be shot; And so you take your wallet out, Though you would rather not.

Perhaps you're going out to dine,-- Some odious creature begs You'll hear about the cannon-ball That carried off his pegs, And says it is a dreadful thing For men to lose their legs.

He tells you of his starving wife, His children to be fed, Poor little, lovely innocents, All clamorous for bread,-- And so you kindly help to put A bachelor to bed.

You're sitting on your window-seat, Beneath a cloudless moon; You hear a sound, that seems to wear The semblance of a tune, As if a broken fife should strive To drown a cracked ba.s.soon.

And nearer, nearer still, the tide Of music seems to come, There's something like a human voice, And something like a drum; You sit in speechless agony, Until your ear is numb.

Poor "home, sweet home" should seem to be A very dismal place; Your "auld acquaintance" all at once Is altered in the face; Their discords sting through Burns and Moore, Like hedgehogs dressed in lace.

You think they are crusaders, sent From some infernal clime, To pluck the eyes of Sentiment, And dock the tail of Rhyme, To crack the voice of Melody, And break the legs of Time.

But hark! the air again is still, The music all is ground, And silence, like a poultice, comes To heal the blows of sound; It cannot be,--it is,--it is,-- A hat is going round!

No! Pay the dentist when he leaves A fracture in your jaw, And pay the owner of the bear That stunned you with his paw, And buy the lobster that has had Your knuckles in his claw;

But if you are a portly man, Put on your fiercest frown, And talk about a constable To turn them out of town; Then close your sentence with an oath, And shut the window down!

And if you are a slender man, Not big enough for that, Or, if you cannot make a speech, Because you are a flat, Go very quietly and drop A b.u.t.ton in the hat!

THE TREADMILL SONG

THE stars are rolling in the sky, The earth rolls on below, And we can feel the rattling wheel Revolving as we go.

Then tread away, my gallant boys, And make the axle fly; Why should not wheels go round about, Like planets in the sky?

Wake up, wake up, my duck-legged man, And stir your solid pegs Arouse, arouse, my gawky friend, And shake your spider legs; What though you're awkward at the trade, There's time enough to learn,-- So lean upon the rail, my lad, And take another turn.

They've built us up a n.o.ble wall, To keep the vulgar out; We've nothing in the world to do But just to walk about; So faster, now, you middle men, And try to beat the ends,-- It's pleasant work to ramble round Among one's honest friends.

Here, tread upon the long man's toes, He sha'n't be lazy here,-- And punch the little fellow's ribs, And tweak that lubber's ear,-- He's lost them both,--don't pull his hair, Because he wears a scratch, But poke him in the further eye, That is n't in the patch.

Hark! fellows, there 's the supper-bell, And so our work is done; It's pretty sport,--suppose we take A round or two for fun!

If ever they should turn me out, When I have better grown, Now hang me, but I mean to have A treadmill of my own!

THE SEPTEMBER GALE

This tremendous hurricane occurred on the 23d of September, 1815.

I remember it well, being then seven years old. A full account of it was published, I think, in the records of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences. Some of my recollections are given in The Seasons, an article to be found in a book of mine ent.i.tled Pages from an Old Volume of Life.