The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes Part 69

AT THE BANQUET TO THE CHINESE EMBa.s.sY

AUGUST 21, 1868

BROTHERS, whom we may not reach Through the veil of alien speech, Welcome! welcome! eyes can tell What the lips in vain would spell,-- Words that hearts can understand, Brothers from the Flowery Land!

We, the evening's latest born, Hail the children of the morn!

We, the new creation's birth, Greet the lords of ancient earth, From their storied walls and towers Wandering to these tents of ours!

Land of wonders, fair Cathay, Who long hast shunned the staring day, Hid in mists of poet's dreams By thy blue and yellow streams,-- Let us thy shadowed form behold,-- Teach us as thou didst of old.

Knowledge dwells with length of days; Wisdom walks in ancient ways; Thine the compa.s.s that could guide A nation o'er the stormy tide, Scourged by pa.s.sions, doubts, and fears, Safe through thrice a thousand years!

Looking from thy turrets gray Thou hast seen the world's decay,-- Egypt drowning in her sands,-- Athens rent by robbers' hands,-- Rome, the wild barbarian's prey, Like a storm-cloud swept away:

Looking from thy turrets gray Still we see thee. Where are they?

And to I a new-born nation waits, Sitting at the golden gates That glitter by the sunset sea,-- Waits with outspread arms for thee!

Open wide, ye gates of gold, To the Dragon's banner-fold!

Builders of the mighty wall, Bid your mountain barriers fall!

So may the girdle of the sun.

Bind the East and West in one,

Till Mount Shasta's breezes fan The snowy peaks of Ta Sieue-Shan,-- Till Erie blends its waters blue With the waves of Tung-Ting-Hu,-- Till deep Missouri lends its flow To swell the rushing Hoang-Ho!

AT THE BANQUET TO THE j.a.pANESE EMBa.s.sY

AUGUST 2, 1872

WE welcome you, Lords of the Land of the Sun!

The voice of the many sounds feebly through one; Ah! would 't were a voice of more musical tone, But the dog-star is here, and the song-birds have flown.

And what shall I sing that can cheat you of smiles, Ye heralds of peace from the Orient isles?

If only the Jubilee--Why did you wait?

You are welcome, but oh! you're a little too late!

We have greeted our brothers of Ireland and France, Round the fiddle of Strauss we have joined in the dance, We have lagered Herr Saro, that fine-looking man, And glorified G.o.dfrey, whose name it is Dan.

What a pity! we've missed it and you've missed it too, We had a day ready and waiting for you; We'd have shown you--provided, of course, you had come-- You 'd have heard--no, you would n't, because it was dumb.

And then the great organ! The chorus's shout Like the mixture teetotalers call "Cold without"-- A mingling of elements, strong, but not sweet; And the drum, just referred to, that "couldn't be beat."

The shrines of our pilgrims are not like your own, Where white Fusiyama lifts proudly its cone, (The snow-mantled mountain we see on the fan That cools our hot cheeks with a breeze from j.a.pan.)

But ours the wide temple where worship is free As the wind of the prairie, the wave of the sea; You may build your own altar wherever you will, For the roof of that temple is over you still.

One dome overarches the star-bannered sh.o.r.e; You may enter the Pope's or the Puritan's door, Or pa.s.s with the Buddhist his gateway of bronze, For a priest is but Man, be he bishop or bonze.

And the lesson we teach with the sword and the pen Is to all of G.o.d's children, "We also are men!

If you wrong us we smart, if you p.r.i.c.k us we bleed, If you love us, no quarrel with color or creed!"

You'll find us a well-meaning, free-spoken crowd, Good-natured enough, but a little too loud,-- To be sure, there is always a bit of a row When we choose our Tyc.o.o.n, and especially now.

You'll take it all calmly,--we want you to see What a peaceable fight such a contest can be, And of one thing be certain, however it ends, You will find that our voters have chosen your friends.

If the horse that stands saddled is first in the race, You will greet your old friend with the weed in his face; And if the white hat and the White House agree, You'll find H. G. really as loving as he.

But oh, what a pity--once more I must say-- That we could not have joined in a "j.a.panese day"!

Such greeting we give you to-night as we can; Long life to our brothers and friends of j.a.pan!

The Lord of the mountain looks down from his crest As the banner of morning unfurls in the West; The Eagle was always the friend of the Sun; You are welcome!--The song of the cage-bird is done.

BRYANT'S SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY

NOVEMBER 3, 1864

O EVEN-HANDED Nature! we confess This life that men so honor, love, and bless Has filled thine olden measure. Not the less.

We count the precious seasons that remain; Strike not the level of the golden grain, But heap it high with years, that earth may gain.

What heaven can lose,--for heaven is rich in song Do not all poets, dying, still prolong Their broken chants amid the seraph throng,

Where, blind no more, Ionia's bard is seen, And England's heavenly minstrel sits between The Mantuan and the wan-cheeked Florentine?

This was the first sweet singer in the cage Of our close-woven life. A new-born age Claims in his vesper song its heritage.

Spare us, oh spare us long our heart's desire!

Moloch, who calls our children through the fire, Leaves us the gentle master of the lyre.

We count not on the dial of the sun The hours, the minutes, that his sands have run; Rather, as on those flowers that one by one.

From earliest dawn their ordered bloom display Till evening's planet with her guiding ray Leads in the blind old mother of the day,

We reckon by his songs, each song a flower, The long, long daylight, numbering hour by hour, Each breathing sweetness like a bridal bower.

His morning glory shall we e'er forget?

His noontide's full-blown lily coronet?

His evening primrose has not opened yet;

Nay, even if creeping Time should hide the skies In midnight from his century-laden eyes, Darkened like his who sang of Paradise,