The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes Part 45

For who can tell by what he likes what other people's fancies are?

How all men think the best of wives their own particular Nancies are?

If what I sing you brings a smile, you will not stop to catechise, Nor read Bceotia's lumbering line with nicely scanning Attic eyes.

Perhaps the alabaster box that Mary broke so lovingly, While Judas looked so sternly on, the Master so approvingly, Was not so fairly wrought as those that Pilate's wife and daughters had, Or many a dame of Judah's line that drank of Jordan's waters had.

Perhaps the balm that cost so dear, as some remarked officiously, The precious nard that filled the room with fragrance so deliciously, So oft recalled in storied page and sung in verse melodious, The dancing girl had thought too cheap,--that daughter of Herodias.

Where now are all the mighty deeds that Herod boasted loudest of?

Where now the flashing jewelry the tetrarch's wife was proudest of?

Yet still to hear how Mary loved, all tribes of men are listening, And still the sinful woman's tears like stars heaven are glistening.

'T is not the gift our hands have brought, the love it is we bring with it,-- The minstrel's lips may shape the song, his heart in tune must sing with it; And so we love the simple lays, and wish we might have more of them, Our poet brothers sing for us,--there must be half a score of them.

It may be that of fame and name our voices once were emulous,-- With deeper thoughts, with tenderer throbs their softening tones are tremulous; The dead seem listening as of old, ere friendship was bereft of them; The living wear a kinder smile, the remnant that is left of them.

Though on the once unfurrowed brows the harrow- teeth of Time may show, Though all the strain of crippling years the halting feet of rhyme may show, We look and hear with melting hearts, for what we all remember is The morn of Spring, nor heed how chill the sky of gray November is.

Thanks to the gracious powers above from all mankind that singled us, And dropped the pearl of friendship in the cup they kindly mingled us, And bound us in a wreath of flowers with hoops of steel knit under it;-- Nor time, nor s.p.a.ce, nor chance, nor change, nor death himself shall sunder it!

"AD AMICOS"

1876

"Dumque virent genua Et decet, obducta solvatur fonte senectus."

THE muse of boyhood's fervid hour Grows tame as skies get chill and hazy; Where once she sought a pa.s.sion-flower, She only hopes to find a daisy.

Well, who the changing world bewails?

Who asks to have it stay unaltered?

Shall grown-up kittens chase their tails?

Shall colts be never shod or haltered?

Are we "The Boys" that used to make The tables ring with noisy follies?

Whose deep-lunged laughter oft would shake The ceiling with its thunder-volleys?

Are we the youths with lips unshorn, At beauty's feet unwrinkled suitors, Whose memories reach tradition's morn,-- The days of prehistoric tutors?

"The Boys" we knew,--but who are these Whose heads might serve for Plutarch's sages, Or Fox's martyrs, if you please, Or hermits of the dismal ages?

"The Boys" we knew--can these be those?

Their cheeks with morning's blush were painted;-- Where are the Harrys, Jims, and Joes With whom we once were well acquainted?

If we are they, we're not the same; If they are we, why then they're masking; Do tell us, neighbor What 's--your--name, Who are you?--What's the use of asking?

You once were George, or Bill, or Ben; There's you, yourself--there 's you, that other-- I know you now--I knew you then-- You used to be your younger brother!

You both are all our own to-day,-- But ah! I hear a warning whisper; Yon roseate hour that flits away Repeats the Roman's sad _paulisper_.

Come back! come back! we've need of you To pay you for your word of warning; We'll bathe your wings in brighter dew Than ever wet the lids of morning!

Behold this cup; its mystic wine No alien's lip has ever tasted; The blood of friendship's clinging vine, Still flowing, flowing, yet unwasted Old Time forgot his running sand And laid his hour-gla.s.s down to fill it, And Death himself with gentle hand Has touched the chalice, not to spill it.

Each bubble rounding at the brim Is rainbowed with its magic story; The shining days with age grown dim Are dressed again in robes of glory; In all its freshness spring returns With song of birds and blossoms tender; Once more the torch of pa.s.sion burns, And youth is here in all its splendor!

Hope swings her anchor like a toy, Love laughs and shows the silver arrow We knew so well as man and boy,-- The shaft that stings through bone and marrow; Again our kindling pulses beat, With tangled curls our fingers dally, And bygone beauties smile as sweet As fresh-blown lilies of the valley.

O blessed hour! we may forget Its wreaths, its rhymes, its songs, its laughter, But not the loving eyes we met, Whose light shall gild the dim hereafter.

How every heart to each grows warm!

Is one in sunshine's ray? We share it.

Is one in sorrow's blinding storm?

A look, a word, shall help him bear it.

"The Boys" we were, "The Boys" we 'll be As long as three, as two, are creeping; Then here 's to him--ah! which is he?-- Who lives till all the rest are sleeping; A life with tranquil comfort blest, The young man's health, the rich man's plenty, All earth can give that earth has best, And heaven at fourscore years and twenty.

HOW NOT TO SETTLE IT

1877

I LIKE, at times, to hear the steeples' chimes With sober thoughts impressively that mingle; But sometimes, too, I rather like--don't you?-- To hear the music of the sleigh bells' jingle.

I like full well the deep resounding swell Of mighty symphonies with chords inwoven; But sometimes, too, a song of Burns--don't you?

After a solemn storm-blast of Beethoven.

Good to the heels the well-worn slipper feels When the tired player shuffles off the buskin; A page of Hood may do a fellow good After a scolding from Carlyle or Ruskin.

Some works I find,--say Watts upon the Mind,-- No matter though at first they seemed amusing, Not quite the same, but just a little tame After some five or six times' reperusing.

So, too, at times when melancholy rhymes Or solemn speeches sober down a dinner, I've seen it 's true, quite often,--have n't you?-- The best-fed guests perceptibly grow thinner.

Better some jest (in proper terms expressed) Or story (strictly moral) even if musty, Or song we sung when these old throats were young,-- Something to keep our souls from getting rusty.

The poorest sc.r.a.p from memory's ragged lap Comes like an heirloom from a dear dead mother-- Hush! there's a tear that has no business here, A half-formed sigh that ere its birth we smother.

We cry, we laugh; ah, life is half and half, Now bright and joyous as a song of Herrick's, Then chill and bare as funeral-minded Blair; As fickle as a female in hysterics.

If I could make you cry I would n't try; If you have hidden smiles I'd like to find them, And that although, as well I ought to know, The lips of laughter have a skull behind them.

Yet when I think we may be on the brink Of having Freedom's banner to dispose of, All crimson-hued, because the Nation would Insist on cutting its own precious nose off,

I feel indeed as if we rather need A sermon such as preachers tie a text on.

If Freedom dies because a ballot lies, She earns her grave; 't is time to call the s.e.xton!

But if a fight can make the matter right, Here are we, cla.s.smates, thirty men of mettle; We're strong and tough, we've lived nigh long enough,-- What if the Nation gave it us to settle?

The tale would read like that ill.u.s.trious deed When Curtius took the leap the gap that filled in, Thus: "Fivescore years, good friends, as it appears, At last this people split on Hayes and Tilden.