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The Project Gutenberg EBook of The PoeticalWorks of Oliver Wendell Holmes, Vol. 1, by OliverWendell Holmes, Sr.This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere atno cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever.You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under theterms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.netTitle: The Poetical Works of Oliver WendellHolmes, Vol. 1 Earlier Poems (1830-1836)Author: Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.Release Date: September 30, 2004 [EBook #7388]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERGEBOOK HOLMES POETRY, VOL. 1 ***Produced by David Widger
TO MY READERSNAY, blame me not; I might have sparedYour patience many a trivial verse,Yet these my earlier welcome shared,So, let the better shield the worse.And some might say, "Those ruder songsHad freshness which the new have lost;To spring the opening leaf belongs,The chestnut-burs await the frost."When those I wrote, my locks were brown,When these I write—ah, well a-day!The autumn thistle's silvery downIs not the purple bloom of May.Go, little book, whose pages holdThose garnered years in loving trust;How long before your blue and goldShall fade and whiten in the dust?O sexton of the alcoved tomb,Where souls in leathern cerements lie,Tell me each living poet's doom!How long before his book shall die?It matters little, soon or late,A day, a month, a year, an age,—I read oblivion in its date,And Finis on its title-page.Before we sighed, our griefs were told;
Before we smiled, our joys were sung;And all our passions shaped of oldIn accents lost to mortal tongue.In vain a fresher mould we seek,—Can all the varied phrases tellThat Babel's wandering children speakHow thrushes sing or lilacs smell?Caged in the poet's lonely heart,Love wastes unheard its tenderest tone;The soul that sings must dwell apart,Its inward melodies unknown.Deal gently with us, ye who readOur largest hope is unfulfilled,The promise still outruns the deed,—The tower, but not the spire, we build.Our whitest pearl we never find;Our ripest fruit we never reach;The flowering moments of the mindDrop half their petals in our speech.These are my blossoms; if they wearOne streak of morn or evening's glow,Accept them; but to me more fairThe buds of song that never blow.April 8, 1862.
EARLIER POEMS1830-1836 OLD IRONSIDESThis was the popular name by which the frigateConstitution was known. The poem was firstprinted in the Boston Daily Advertiser, at the timewhen it was proposed to break up the old ship asunfit for service. I subjoin the paragraph which ledto the writing of the poem. It is from the Advertiserof Tuesday, September 14, 1830:—"Old Ironsides.—It has been affirmed upon goodauthority that the Secretary of the Navy hasrecommended to the Board of NavyCommissioners to dispose of the frigateConstitution. Since it has been understood thatsuch a step was in contemplation we have heardbut one opinion expressed, and that in decideddisapprobation of the measure. Such a nationalobject of interest, so endeared to our national prideas Old Ironsides is, should never by any act of ourgovernment cease to belong to the Navy, so longas our country is to be found upon the map ofnations. In England it was lately determined by theAdmiralty to cut the Victory, a one-hundred gunship (which it will be recollected bore the flag ofLord Nelson at the battle of Trafalgar,) down to aseventy-four, but so loud were the lamentations of
the people upon the proposed measure that theintention was abandoned. We confidently anticipatethat the Secretary of the Navy will in like mannerconsult the general wish in regard to theConstitution, and either let her remain in ordinaryor rebuild her whenever the public service mayrequire."—New York Journal of Commerce.The poem was an impromptu outburst of feelingand was published on the next day but one afterreading the above paragraph.AY, tear her tattered ensign downLong has it waved on high,And many an eye has danced to seeThat banner in the sky;Beneath it rung the battle shout,And burst the cannon's roar;—The meteor of the ocean airShall sweep the clouds no more.Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,Where knelt the vanquished foe,When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,And waves were white below,No more shall feel the victor's tread,Or know the conquered knee;—The harpies of the shore shall pluckThe eagle of the sea!Oh better that her shattered hulkShould sink beneath the wave;Her thunders shook the mighty deep,And there should be her grave;
Nail to the mast her holy flag,Set every threadbare sail,And give her to the god of storms,The lightning and the gale!THE LAST LEAFThis poem was suggested by the appearance inone of our streets of a venerable relic of theRevolution, said to be one of the party who threwthe tea overboard in Boston Harbor. He was a finemonumental specimen in his cocked hat and kneebreeches, with his buckled shoes and his sturdycane. The smile with which I, as a young man,greeted him, meant no disrespect to an honoredfellow-citizen whose costume was out of date, butwhose patriotism never changed with years. I donot recall any earlier example of this form of verse,which was commended by the fastidious EdgarAllan Poe, who made a copy of the whole poemwhich I have in his own handwriting. GoodAbraham Lincoln had a great liking for the poem,and repeated it from memory to Governor Andrew,as the governor himself told me.
I SAW him once before,As he passed by the door,And againThe pavement stones resound,As he totters o'er the groundWith his cane.They say that in his prime,Ere the pruning-knife of TimeCut him down,Not a better man was foundBy the Crier on his roundThrough the town.But now he walks the streets,And he looks at all he meetsSad and wan,And he shakes his feeble head,That it seems as if he said,"They are gone."The mossy marbles restOn the lips that he has prestIn their bloom,And the names he loved to hearHave been carved for many a yearOn the tomb.My grandmamma has said—Poor old lady, she is deadLong ago—That he had a Roman nose,And his cheek was like a roseIn the snow.
But now his nose is thin,And it rests upon his chinLike a staff,And a crook is in his back,And a melancholy crackIn his laugh.I know it is a sinFor me to sit and grinAt him here;But the old three-cornered hat,And the breeches, and all that,Are so queer!And if I should live to beThe last leaf upon the treeIn the spring,Let them smile, as I do now,At the old forsaken boughWhere I cling.THE CAMBRIDGECHURCHYARD
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