The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes Part 94

The souls that voyaged the azure depths before thee Watch with thy tireless vigils, all unseen,-- Tycho and Kepler bend benignant o'er thee, And with his toy-like tube the Florentine,--

He at whose word the orb that bore him shivered To find her central sovereignty disowned, While the wan lips of priest and pontiff quivered, Their jargon stilled, their Baal disenthroned.

Flamsteed and Newton look with brows unclouded, Their strife forgotten with its faded scars,-- (t.i.tans, who found the world of s.p.a.ce too crowded To walk in peace among its myriad stars.)

All cl.u.s.ter round thee,--seers of earliest ages, Persians, Ionians, Mizraim's learned kings, From the dim days of Shinar's h.o.a.ry sages To his who weighed the planet's fluid rings.

And we, for whom the northern heavens are lighted, For whom the storm has pa.s.sed, the sun has smiled, Our clouds all scattered, all our stars united, We claim thee, clasp thee, like a long-lost child.

Fresh from the spangled vault's o'er-arching splendor, Thy lonely pillar, thy revolving dome, In heartfelt accents, proud, rejoicing, tender, We bid thee welcome to thine earthly home!

TO FREDERICK HENRY HEDGE

AT A DINNER GIVEN HIM ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY, DECEMBER 12, 1885

With a bronze statuette of John of Bologna's Mercury, presented by a few friends.

FIT emblem for the altar's side, And him who serves its daily need, The stay, the solace, and the guide Of mortal men, whate'er his creed!

Flamen or Auspex, Priest or Bonze, He feeds the upward-climbing fire, Still teaching, like the deathless bronze, Man's n.o.blest lesson,--to aspire.

Hermes lies p.r.o.ne by fallen Jove, Crushed are the wheels of Krishna's car, And o'er Dodona's silent grove Streams the white, ray from Bethlehem's star.

Yet s.n.a.t.c.hed from Time's relentless clutch, A G.o.dlike shape, that human hands Have fired with Art's electric touch, The herald of Olympus stands.

Ask not what ore the furnace knew; Love mingled with the flowing ma.s.s, And lends its own unchanging hue, Like gold in Corinth's molten bra.s.s.

Take then our gift; this airy form Whose bronze our benedictions gild, The hearts of all its givers warm With love by freezing years unchilled.

With eye undimmed, with strength unworn, Still toiling in your Master's field, Before you wave the growths unshorn, Their ripened harvest yet to yield.

True servant of the Heavenly Sire, To you our tried affection clings, Bids you still labor, still aspire, But clasps your feet and steals their wings.

TO JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

THIS is your month, the month of "perfect days,"

Birds in full song and blossoms all ablaze.

Nature herself your earliest welcome breathes, Spreads every leaflet, every bower inwreathes; Carpets her paths for your returning feet, Puts forth her best your coming steps to greet; And Heaven must surely find the earth in tune When Home, sweet Home, exhales the breath of June.

These blessed days are waning all too fast, And June's bright visions mingling with the past;

Lilacs have bloomed and faded, and the rose Has dropped its petals, but the clover blows, And fills its slender tubes with honeyed sweets; The fields are pearled with milk-white margarites; The dandelion, which you sang of old, Has lost its pride of place, its crown of gold, But still displays its feathery-mantled globe, Which children's breath, or wandering winds unrobe.

These were your humble friends; your opened eyes Nature had trained her common gifts to prize; Not Cam nor Isis taught you to despise Charles, with his muddy margin and the harsh, Plebeian gra.s.ses of the reeking marsh.

New England's home-bred scholar, well you knew Her soil, her speech, her people, through and through, And loved them ever with the love that holds All sweet, fond memories in its fragrant folds.

Though far and wide your winged words have flown, Your daily presence kept you all our own, Till, with a sorrowing sigh, a thrill of pride, We heard your summons, and you left our side For larger duties and for tasks untried.

How pleased the Spaniards for a while to claim This frank Hidalgo with the liquid name, Who stored their cla.s.sics on his crowded shelves And loved their Calderon as they did themselves!

Before his eyes what changing pageants pa.s.s!

The bridal feast how near the funeral ma.s.s!

The death-stroke falls,--the Misereres wail; The joy-bells ring,--the tear-stained cheeks unveil, While, as the playwright shifts his pictured scene, The royal mourner crowns his second queen.

From Spain to Britain is a goodly stride,-- Madrid and London long-stretched leagues divide.

What if I send him, "Uncle S., says he,"

To my good cousin whom he calls "J. B."?

A nation's servants go where they are sent,-- He heard his Uncle's orders, and he went.

By what enchantments, what alluring arts, Our truthful James led captive British hearts,-- Whether his shrewdness made their statesmen halt, Or if his learning found their Dons at fault, Or if his virtue was a strange surprise, Or if his wit flung star-dust in their eyes,-- Like honest Yankees we can simply guess; But that he did it all must needs confess.

England herself without a blush may claim Her only conqueror since the Norman came.

Eight years an exile! What a weary while Since first our herald sought the mother isle!

His snow-white flag no churlish wrong has soiled,--- He left unchallenged, he returns unspoiled.

Here let us keep him, here he saw the light,-- His genius, wisdom, wit, are ours by right; And if we lose him our lament will be We have "five hundred"--_not_ "as good as he."

TO JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY

1887

FRIEND, whom thy fourscore winters leave more dear Than when life's roseate summer on thy cheek Burned in the flush of manhood's manliest year, Lonely, how lonely! is the snowy peak Thy feet have reached, and mine have climbed so near!

Close on thy footsteps 'mid the landscape drear I stretch my hand thine answering grasp to seek, Warm with the love no rippling rhymes can speak!

Look backward! From thy lofty height survey Thy years of toil, of peaceful victories won, Of dreams made real, largest hopes outrun!

Look forward! Brighter than earth's morning ray Streams the pure light of Heaven's unsetting sun, The unclouded dawn of life's immortal day!

PRELUDE TO A VOLUME PRINTED IN RAISED LETTERS FOR THE BLIND

DEAR friends, left darkling in the long eclipse That veils the noonday,--you whose finger-tips A meaning in these ridgy leaves can find Where ours go stumbling, senseless, helpless, blind.

This wreath of verse how dare I offer you To whom the garden's choicest gifts are due?

The hues of all its glowing beds are ours, Shall you not claim its sweetest-smelling flowers?

Nay, those I have I bring you,--at their birth Life's cheerful sunshine warmed the grateful earth; If my rash boyhood dropped some idle seeds, And here and there you light on saucy weeds Among the fairer growths, remember still Song comes of grace, and not of human will: We get a jarring note when most we try, Then strike the chord we know not how or why; Our stately verse with too aspiring art Oft overshoots and fails to reach the heart, While the rude rhyme one human throb endears Turns grief to smiles, and softens mirth to tears.

Kindest of critics, ye whose fingers read, From Nature's lesson learn the poet's creed; The queenly tulip flaunts in robes of flame, The wayside seedling scarce a tint may claim, Yet may the lowliest leaflets that unfold A dewdrop fresh from heaven's own chalice hold.