Oliver Wendell Holmes

"Lucy." - The old familiar name Is now, as always, pleasant, Its liquid melody the same

Read at a meeting of the Massachusetts Historical Society. No! never such a draught was poured Since Hebe served with nectar

Who is the shepherd sent to lead, Through pastures green, the Master's sheep? What guileless "Israelite indeed"

Yes, write, if you want to, there's nothing like trying; Who knows what a treasure your casket may hold? I'll show you that rhyming's as easy as lying,

WOODSTOCK, CONN., JULY 4, 1877 Not to myself this breath of vesper song, Not to these patient friends, this kindly throng,

How the mountains talked together, Looking down upon the weather, When they heard our friend had planned his

Brave singer of the coming time, Sweet minstrel of the joyous present, Crowned with the noblest wreath of rhyme,

Angel of Peace, thou hast wandered too long! Spread thy white wings to the sunshine of love! Come while our voices are blended in song, -

Come, heap the fagots! Ere we go Again the cheerful hearth shall glow; We 'll have another blaze, my boys!

Read At The Meeting Held At Music Hall, February 8, 1876, In Memory Of Dr. Samuel G. Howe I. Leader of armies, Israel's God,

To Charles Wentworth Upham, The Following Metrical Essay Is Affectionately Inscribed. Scenes of my youth! awake its slumbering fire! Ye winds of Memory, sweep the silent lyre!

Complied With After The Dinner At President Everett's Inauguration Scene, - a back parlor in a certain square, Or court, or lane, - in short, no matter where;

The dinner-bell, the dinner-bell Is ringing loud and clear; Through hill and plain, through street and lane,

Yes, we knew we must lose him, - though friendship may claim To blend her green leaves with the laurels of fame; Though fondly, at parting, we call him our own,

Angel of Death! extend thy silent reign! Stretch thy dark sceptre o'er this new domain No sable car along the winding road

I hold a letter in my hand, - A flattering letter, more's the pity, - By some contriving junto planned,

Phi Beta Kappa, June 26, 1873 The Caliph ordered up his cook, And, scowling with a fearful look

A still, sweet, placid, moonlight face, And slightly nonchalant, Which seems to claim a middle place

Thoughtful in youth, but not austere in age; Calm, but not cold, and cheerful though a sage; Too true to flatter and too kind to sneer,

This poem, published anonymously in the Boston Evening Transcript, was claimed by several persons, three, if I remember correctly, whose names I have or have had, but never thought it worth while to publish. Where are you going, soldiers, With banner, gun, and sword?

Yes, dear Enchantress, - wandering far and long, In realms unperfumed by the breath of song, Where flowers ill-flavored shed their sweets around,

The sun-browned girl, whose limbs recline When noon her languid hand has laid Hot on the green flakes of the pine,

Cabin Passenger.            Man at Wheel. CABIN PASSENGER. Friend, you seem thoughtful. I not wonder much

A triple health to Friendship, Science, Art, From heads and hands that own a common heart! Each in its turn the others' willing slave,

O Bios Bpaxus, - life is but a song; H rexvn uakpn, - art is wondrous long; Yet to the wise her paths are ever fair,

The land of sunshine and of song! Her name your hearts divine; To her the banquet's vows belong

When the Puritans came over Our hills and swamps to clear, The woods were full of catamounts,

1851 The summer dawn is breaking On Auburn's tangled bowers,

As o'er the glacier's frozen sheet Breathes soft the Alpine rose, So through life's desert springing sweet

Lord of all being! throned afar, Thy glory flames from sun and star; Centre and soul of every sphere,

The painter's and the poet's fame Shed their twinned lustre round his name, To gild our story-teller's art,

JANUARY THIRD We sing "Our Country's" song to-night With saddened voice and eye;

Once more Orion and the sister Seven Look on thee from the skies that hailed thy birth, - How shall we welcome thee, whose home was heaven,

"Dumque virent genua Et decet, obducta solvatur fonte senectus." The muse of boyhood's fervid hour

So the gray Boatswain of 'Twenty-nine Piped to "The Boys" as they crossed the line; Round the cabin sat thirty guests,

Hang out our banners on the stately tower It dawns at last - the long-expected hour I The steep is climbed, the star-lit summit won,

In candent ire the solar splendor flames; The foles, langueseent, pend from arid rames; His humid front the Give, anheling, wipes,

"Purpureos spargam flores." The wreath that star-crowned Shelley gave Is lying on thy Roman grave,

Shine soft, ye trembling tears of light That strew the mourning skies; Hushed in the silent dews of night

One broad, white sail in Spezzia's treacherous bay On comes the blast; too daring bark, beware I The cloud has clasped her; to! it melts away;

Come, spread your wings, as I spread mine, And leave the crowded hall For where the eyes of twilight shine

The Play is over. While the light Yet lingers in the darkening hall, I come to say a last Good-night

While far along the eastern sky I saw the flags of Havoc fly, As if his forces would assault

PART FIRST THE KNIGHT The tale I tell is gospel true,

When Eve had led her lord away, And Cain had killed his brother, The stars and flowers, the poets say,

It is not what we say or sing, That keeps our charm so long unbroken, Though every lightest leaf we bring

Though watery deserts hold apart The worlds of East and West, Still beats the selfsame human heart

Sire, son, and grandson; so the century glides; Three lives, three strides, three foot-prints in the sand; Silent as midnight's falling meteor slides

(Terpsichore) Read at the Annual Dinner of the Phi Beta Kappa Society, at Cambridge, August 24, 1843. In narrowest girdle, O reluctant Muse,

"While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand; When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall." Full sevenscore years our city's pride -

If sometimes in the dark blue eye, Or in the deep red wine, Or soothed by gentlest melody,

Not premeditated 1853 The clock has struck noon; ere it thrice tell the hours

O Lord of Hosts! Almighty King! Behold the sacrifice we bring To every arm thy strength impart,

We will not speak of years to-night, - For what have years to bring But larger floods of love and light,

Now, smiling friends and shipmates all, Since half our battle 's won, A broadside for our Admiral!

When treason first began the strife That crimsoned sea and shore, The Nation poured her hoarded life

August 29, 1859 I remember - why, yes! God bless me! and was it so long ago? I fear I'm growing forgetful, as old folks do, you know;

I suppose it's myself that you're making allusion to And bringing the sense of dismay and confusion to. Of course some must speak, - they are always selected to,

Brothers, whom we may not reach Through the veil of alien speech, Welcome! welcome! eyes can tell

One word to the guest we have gathered to greet! The echoes are longing that word to repeat, - It springs to the lips that are waiting to part,

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,

As the voice of the watch to the mariner's dream, As the footstep of Spring on the ice-girdled stream, There comes a soft footstep, a whisper, to me, -

The house was crammed from roof to floor, Heads piled on heads at every door; Half dead with August's seething heat

A lovely show for eyes to see I looked upon this morning, - A bright-hued, feathered company

This is our place of meeting; opposite That towered and pillared building: look at it; King's Chapel in the Second George's day,

Sister, we bid you welcome, - we who stand On the high table-land; We who have climbed life's slippery Alpine slope,

The glory has passed from the goldenrod's plume, The purple-hued asters still linger in bloom The birch is bright yellow, the sumachs are red,

The waves unbuild the wasting shore; Where mountains towered the billows sweep, Yet still their borrowed spoils restore,

Whatever I do, and whatever I say, Aunt Tabitha tells me that is n't the way; When she was a girl (forty summers ago)

Prelude To "Illustrated Poems" Full well I know the frozen hand has come That smites the songs of grove and garden dumb,

I may not rightly call thy name, - Alas! thy forehead never knew The kiss that happier children claim,

At My Fireside Alone, beneath the darkened sky, With saddened heart and unstrung lyre,

For him the Architect of all Unroofed our planet's starlit hall; Through voids unknown to worlds unseen

Come, dear old comrade, you and I Will steal an hour from days gone by, The shining days when life was new,

When life hath run its largest round Of toil and triumph, joy and woe, How brief a storied page is found

Proud of her clustering spires, her new-built towers, Our Venice, stolen from the slumbering sea, A sister's kindliest greeting wafts to thee,

She has gone, - she has left us in passion and pride, - Our stormy-browed sister, so long at our side! She has torn her own star from our firmament's glow,

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

If all the trees in all the woods were men; And each and every blade of grass a pen; If every leaf on every shrub and tree

PHI BETA KAPPA. - CAMBRIDGE, 1867 You bid me sing, - can I forget The classic ode of days gone by, -

Yes, tyrants, you hate us, and fear while you hate The self-ruling, chain-breaking, throne-shaking State! The night-birds dread morning, - your instinct is true, -

"Man wants but little here below" Little I ask; my wants are few; I only wish a hut of stone,

Oh, there are times When all this fret and tumult that we hear Do seem more stale than to the sexton's ear

The first messages received through the submarine cable were sent by an electrical expert, a mysterious personage who signed himself De Sauty. Professor        Blue-Nose PROFESSOR

Yes, dear departed, cherished days, Could Memory's hand restore Your morning light, your evening rays,

I cannot tell the story of Dorothy Q. more simply in prose than I have told it in verse, but I can add something to it. Dorothy was the daughter of Judge Edmund Quincy, and the niece of Josiah Quincy, junior, the young patriot and orator who died just before the American Revolution, of which he was one of the most eloquent and effective promoters. The son of the latter, Josiah Quincy, the first mayor of Boston bearing that name, lived to a great age, one of the most useful and honored citizens of his time. The canvas of the painting was so much decayed that it had to be replaced by a new one, in doing which the rapier thrust was of course filled up. Grandmother's mother: her age, I guess, Thirteen summers, or something less;

Winter's cold drift lies glistening o'er his breast; For him no spring shall bid the leaf unfold What Love could speak, by sudden grief oppressed,

At A Bookstore Anno Domini 1972 A crazy bookcase, placed before

It may be, yes, it must be, Time that brings An end to mortal things, That sends the beggar Winter in the train

Day hath put on his jacket, and around His burning bosom buttoned it with stars. Here will I lay me on the velvet grass,

The feeble sea-birds, blinded in the storms, On some tall lighthouse dash their little forms, And the rude granite scatters for their pains

Fast as the rolling seasons bring The hour of fate to those we love, Each pearl that leaves the broken string

Kiss mine eyelids, beauteous Morn, Blushing into life new-born! Lend me violets for my hair,

Farewell, for the bark has her breast to the tide, And the rough arms of Ocean are stretched for his bride; The winds from the mountain stream over the bay;

It is a pity and a shame - alas! alas! I know it is, To tread the trodden grapes again, but so it has been, so it is; The purple vintage long is past, with ripened clusters bursting so

January 25, 1859 His birthday. - Nay, we need not speak The name each heart is beating, -

Dear friends, we are strangers; we never before Have suspected what love to each other we bore; But each of us all to his neighbor is dear,

Four summers coined their golden light in leaves, Four wasteful autumns flung them to the gale, Four winters wore the shroud the tempest weaves,

Proudly, beneath her glittering dome, Our three-hilled city greets the morn; Here Freedom found her virgin home, -

1630 All overgrown with bush and fern, And straggling clumps of tangled trees,

The mountains glitter in the snow A thousand leagues asunder; Yet here, amid the banquet's glow,

What makes the Healing Art divine? The bitter drug we buy and sell, The brands that scorch, the blades that shine,

I Enchanter of Erin, whose magic has bound us, Thy wand for one moment we fondly would claim,

CITY OF BOSTON, JUNE 1, 1865 CHORAL: "LUTHER'S JUDGMENT HYMN." O thou of soul and sense and breath

Afar he sleeps whose name is graven here, Where loving hearts his early doom deplore; Youth, promise, virtue, all that made him dear

I believe that the copies of verses I've spun, Like Scheherezade's tales, are a thousand and one; You remember the story, - those mornings in bed, -

Land where the banners wave last in the sun, Blazoned with star-clusters, many in one, Floating o'er prairie and mountain and sea;

Sweet Mary, I have never breathed The love it were in vain to name; Though round my heart a serpent wreathed,

Washed in the blood of the brave and the blooming, Snatched from the altars of insolent foes, Burning with star-fires, but never consuming,

'T is like stirring living embers when, at eighty, one remembers All the achings and the quakings of "the times that tried men's souls"; When I talk of Whig and Tory, when I tell the Rebel story,

The dirge is played, the throbbing death-peal rung, The sad-voiced requiem sung; On each white urn where memory dwells

1798 The First Verse Of The Song By Joseph Hopkinson "Hail, Columbia! Happy land!

THE DIVINE VOICE Go seek thine earth-born sisters, - thus the Voice That all obey, - the sad and silent three;

I like, at times, to hear the steeples' chimes With sober thoughts impressively that mingle; But sometimes, too, I rather like - don't you? -

Dedicated By A Contributor To The Collegian, 1830, To The Editors Of The Harvard Advocate, 1876. 'T was on the famous trotting-ground, The betting men were gathered round

Ere yet the warning chimes of midnight sound, Set back the flaming index of the year, Track the swift-shifting seasons in their round

Giver of all that crowns our days, With grateful hearts we sing thy praise; Through deep and desert led by Thee,

Once more, ye sacred towers, Your solemn dirges sound; Strew, loving hands, the April flowers,

Not with the anguish of hearts that are breaking Come we as mourners to weep for our dead; Grief in our breasts has grown weary of aching,

Thou Gracious Power, whose mercy lends The light of home, the smile of friends, Our gathered flock thine arms infold

Where, girt around by savage foes, Our nurturing Mother's shelter rose, Behold, the lofty temple stands,

O God! in danger's darkest hour, In battle's deadliest field, Thy name has been our Nation's tower,

Behold the shape our eyes have known! It lives once more in changeless stone; So looked in mortal face and form

Sung By The Congregation To The Tune Of Tallis's Evening Hymn O'ershadowed by the walls that climb, Piled up in air by living hands,

O Love Divine, that stooped to share Our sharpest pang, our bitterest tear, On Thee we cast each earth-born care,

Angel of love, for every grief Its soothing balm thy mercy brings, For every pang its healing leaf,

(by supposition) An Hymn set forth to be sung by the Great Assembly at Newtown, [Mass.] Mo. 12. 1. 1636. [Written by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, eldest son of Rev. ABIEL HOLMES, eighth Pastor of the First Church in Cambridge, Massachusetts.]

I LIKE YOU Met I LOVE You, face to face; The path was narrow, and they could not pass. I LIKE YOU smiled; I LOVE YOU cried, Alas!

She twirled the string of golden beads, That round her neck was hung, - - My grandsire's gift; the good old man

He was all sunshine; in his face The very soul of sweetness shone; Fairest and gentlest of his race;

No mystic charm, no mortal art, Can bid our loved companions stay; The bands that clasp them to our heart

Breakfast at the Century Club, New York, May, 1879. Such kindness! the scowl of a cynic would soften, His pulse beat its way to some eloquent words,

As through the forest, disarrayed By chill November, late I strayed, A lonely minstrel of the wood

Not bed-time yet! The night-winds blow, The stars are out, - full well we know The nurse is on the stair,

Vex not the Muse with idle prayers, - She will not hear thy call; She steals upon thee unawares,

God bless our Fathers' Land! Keep her in heart and hand One with our own!

I pray thee by the soul of her that bore thee, By thine own sister's spirit I implore thee, Deal gently with the leaves that lie before thee!

The friends that are, and friends that were, What shallow waves divide! I miss the form for many a year

1819-1891 Thou shouldst have sung the swan-song for the choir That filled our groves with music till the day

Trained in the holy art whose lifted shield Wards off the darts a never-slumbering foe, By hearth and wayside lurking, waits to throw,

Read At The Two Hundredth Anniversary Is it a weanling's weakness for the past That in the stormy, rebel-breeding town,

Is thy name Mary, maiden fair? Such should, methinks, its music be; The sweetest name that mortals bear

As Clemence! when I saw thee last Trip down the Rue de Seine, And turning, when thy form had past,

(Bar Harbor) From this fair home behold on either side The restful mountains or the restless sea

When legislators keep the law, When banks dispense with bolts and looks, When berries - whortle, rasp, and straw -

Slowly the mist o'er the meadow was creeping, Bright on the dewy buds glistened the sun, When from his couch, while his children were sleeping,

I 'm ashamed, - that 's the fact, - it 's a pitiful case, - Won't any kind classmate get up in my place? Just remember how often I've risen before, -

Oh! I did love her dearly, And gave her toys and rings, And I thought she meant sincerely,

Come back to your mother, ye children, for shame, Who have wandered like truants for riches or fame! With a smile on her face, and a sprig in her cap,

1858 Flash out a stream of blood-red wine, For I would drink to other days,

Sexton! Martha's dead and gone; Toll the bell! toll the bell! Her weary hands their labor cease;

I thank you, MR. PRESIDENT, you've kindly broke the ice; Virtue should always be the first, - I 'm only SECOND VICE - (A vice is something with a screw that's made to hold its jaw

Here! sweep these foolish leaves away, I will not crush my brains to-day! Look! are the southern curtains drawn?

O my lost beauty! - hast thou folded quite Thy wings of morning light Beyond those iron gates

How long will this harp which you once loved to hear Cheat your lips of a smile or your eyes of a tear? How long stir the echoes it wakened of old,

My aunt! my dear unmarried aunt! Long years have o'er her flown; Yet still she strains the aching clasp

Through my north window, in the wintry weather, - My airy oriel on the river shore, - I watch the sea-fowl as they flock together

Slow toiling upward from' the misty vale, I leave the bright enamelled zones below; No more for me their beauteous bloom shall glow,

Listen, young heroes! your country is calling! Time strikes the hour for the brave and the true! Now, while the foremost are fighting and falling,

There is no time like the old time, when you and I were young, When the buds of April blossomed, and the birds of spring-time sung! The garden's brightest glories by summer suns are nursed,

Perhaps too far in these considerate days Has patience carried her submissive ways; Wisdom has taught us to be calm and meek,

I was sitting with my microscope, upon my parlor rug, With a very heavy quarto and a very lively bug; The true bug had been organized with only two antennae,

With Slight Alterations By A Teetotaler - (...) Come! fill a fresh bumper, for why should we go While the nectar (logwood) still reddens our cups as they flow?

Celebration Of The Mercantile Library Association, February 22, 1856 Welcome to the day returning, Dearer still as ages flow,

And can it be you've found a place Within this consecrated space, That makes so fine a show,

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! Long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see

This ancient silver bowl of mine, it tells of good old times, Of joyous days and jolly nights, and merry Christmas times; They were a free and jovial race, but honest, brave, and true,

I. Fallen with autumn's falling leaf Ere yet his summer's noon was past,

Introduction To A Collection Of Poems By different Authors An usher standing at the door I show my white rosette;

"Will I come?" That is pleasant! I beg to inquire If the gun that I carry has ever missed fire? And which was the muster-roll-mention but one -

One country! Treason's writhing asp Struck madly at her girdle's clasp, And Hatred wrenched with might and main

Thus I lift the sash, so long Shut against the flight of song; All too late for vain excuse, -

Old time, in whose bank we deposit our notes, Is a miser who always wants guineas for groats; He keeps all his customers still in arrears

H. W. L. Pride of the sister realm so long our own, We claim with her that spotless fame of thine,

For The Semi-Centennial Celebration Of The Settlement Of Cambridge, Mass., December 28, 1880 Your home was mine, - kind Nature's gift; My love no years can chill;

1856 You 'll believe me, dear boys, 't is a pleasure to rise, With a welcome like this in your darling old eyes;

We trust and fear, we question and believe, From life's dark threads a trembling faith to weave, Frail as the web that misty night has spun,

I give you the health of the oldest friend That, short of eternity, earth can lend, - A friend so faithful and tried and true

One memory trembles on our lips; It throbs in every breast; In tear-dimmed eyes, in mirth's eclipse,

Let greener lands and bluer skies, If such the wide earth shows, With fairer cheeks and brighter eyes,

Facts respecting an old arm-chair. At Cambridge. Is kept in the College there. Seems but little the worse for wear.

Father of Mercies, Heavenly Friend, We seek thy gracious throne; To Thee our faltering prayers ascend,

Three paths there be where Learning's favored sons, Trained in the schools which hold her favored ones, Follow their several stars with separate aim;

Say not the Poet dies! Though in the dust he lies, He cannot forfeit his melodious breath,

Welcome, thrice welcome is thy silvery gleam, Thou long-imprisoned stream! Welcome the tinkle of thy crystal beads

Twice had the mellowing sun of autumn crowned The hundredth circle of his yearly round, When, as we meet to-day, our fathers met:

Wendell Phillips, Orator; Charles Godfrey Leland, Poet "The Dutch have taken Holland," - so the schoolboys used to say; The Dutch have taken Harvard, - no doubt of that to-day!

Dear friends, left darkling in the long eclipse That veils the noonday, - you whose finger-tips A meaning in these ridgy leaves can find

Reader - gentle - if so be Such still live, and live for me, Will it please you to be told

A prologue? Well, of course the ladies know, - I have my doubts. No matter, - here we go! What is a Prologue? Let our Tutor teach:

1852 Where, oh where are the visions of morning, Fresh as the dews of our prime?

"Qui vive?" The sentry's musket rings, The channelled bayonet gleams; High o'er him, like a raven's wings

To My Old Readers You know "The Teacups," that congenial set Which round the Teapot you have often met;

I saw the curl of his waving lash, And the glance of his knowing eye, And I knew that he thought he was cutting a dash,

1855 And what shall be the song to-night, If song there needs must be?

From the first gleam of morning to the gray Of peaceful evening, lo, a life unrolled! In woven pictures all its changes told,

An After-Dinner Prescription Taken By The Massachusetts Medical Society, At Their Meeting Held May 25, 1870 Canto First Old Rip Van Winkle had a grandson, Rip,

He sleeps not here; in hope and prayer His wandering flock had gone before, But he, the shepherd, might not share

New England, we love thee; no time can erase From the hearts of thy children the smile on thy face. 'T is the mother's fond look of affection and pride,

"Who claims our Shakespeare from that realm unknown, Beyond the storm-vexed islands of the deep, Where Genoa's roving mariner was blown?

Like the tribes of Israel, Fed on quails and manna, Sherman and his glorious band

(New York Mercantile Library Association, November, 1842) A health to dear woman! She bids us untwine, From the cup it encircles, the fast-clinging vine;

The stars their early vigils keep, The silent hours are near, When drooping eyes forget to weep, -

The piping of our slender, peaceful reeds Whispers uncared for while the trumpets bray; Song is thin air; our hearts' exulting play

Winter is past; the heart of Nature warms Beneath the wrecks of unresisted storms; Doubtful at first, suspected more than seen,

Intra Muros The sunbeams, lost for half a year, Slant through my pane their morning rays;

No fear lest praise should make us proud! We know how cheaply that is won; The idle homage of the crowd

Strange! that one lightly whispered tone Is far, far sweeter unto me, Than all the sounds that kiss the earth,

As I look from the isle, o'er its billows of green, To the billows of foam-crested blue, Yon bark, that afar in the distance is seen,

While in my simple gospel creed That "God is Love" so plain I read, Shall dreams of heathen birth affright

Time is a thief who leaves his tools behind him; He comes by night, he vanishes at dawn; We track his footsteps, but we never find him

I Don't think I feel much older; I'm aware I'm rather gray, But so are many young folks; I meet 'em every day. I confess I 'm more particular in what I eat and drink,

It was a tall young oysterman lived by the river-side, His shop was just upon the bank, his boat was on the tide; The daughter of a fisherman, that was so straight and slim,

The Banker's dinner is the stateliest feast The town has heard of for a year, at least; The sparry lustres shed their broadest blaze,

When o'er the street the morning peal is flung From yon tall belfry with the brazen tongue, Its wide vibrations, wafted by the gale,

1859 Has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys? If there has, take him out, without making a noise.

I stood On Sarum's treeless plain, The waste that careless Nature owns; Lone tenants of her bleak domain,

Look out! Look out, boys! Clear the track! The witches are here! They've all come back! They hanged them high, - No use! No use!

Our ancient church! its lowly tower, Beneath the loftier spire, Is shadowed when the sunset hour

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sails the unshadowed main, - The venturous bark that flings

The Comet! He is on his way, And singing as he flies; The whizzing planets shrink before

They tell us that the Muse is soon to fly hence, Leaving the bowers of song that once were dear, Her robes bequeathing to her sister, Science,

Ah, here it is! the sliding rail That marks the old remembered spot, - The gap that struck our school-boy trail, -

Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, That was built in such a logical way It ran a hundred years to a day,

Now, by the blessed Paphian queen, Who heaves the breast of sweet sixteen; By every name I cut on bark

There was a giant in time of old, A mighty one was he; He had a wife, but she was a scold,

Ye that have faced the billows and the spray Of good St. Botolph's island-studded bay, As from the gliding bark your eye has scanned

When rose the cry "Great Pan is dead!" And Jove's high palace closed its portal, The fallen gods, before they fled,

Boston Common, December 6, 1882 During The Transit Of Venus I Love all sights of earth and skies, From flowers that glow to stars that shine;

What flower is this that greets the morn, Its hues from Heaven so freshly born? With burning star and flaming band

The fount the Spaniard sought in vain Through all the land of flowers Leaps glittering from the sandy plain

She gathered at her slender waist The beauteous robe she wore; Its folds a golden belt embraced,

When Advent dawns with lessening days, While earth awaits the angels' hymn; When bare as branching coral sways

For The Meeting Of The Massachusetts Medical Society, 1859 'T is sweet to fight our battles o'er, And crown with honest praise

I wrote some lines once on a time In wondrous merry mood, And thought, as usual, men would say

The folks, that on the first of May Wore winter coats and hose, Began to say, the first of June,

'T was a vision of childhood that came with its dawn, Ere the curtain that covered life's day-star was drawn; The nurse told the tale when the shadows grew long,

Where is this patriarch you are kindly greeting? Not unfamiliar to my ear his name, Nor yet unknown to many a joyous meeting

No more the summer floweret charms, The leaves will soon be sere, And Autumn folds his jewelled arms

Though young no more, we still would dream Of beauty's dear deluding wiles; The leagues of life to graybeards seem

Now, men of the North! will you join in the strife For country, for freedom, for honor, for life? The giant grows blind in his fury and spite, -

I saw him once before, As he passed by the door, And again

W. W. Swain Behold - not him we knew! This was the prison which his soul looked through,

I sometimes sit beneath a tree And read my own sweet songs; Though naught they may to others be,

Yes! the vacant chairs tell sadly we are going, going fast, And the thought comes strangely o'er me, who will live to be the last? When the twentieth century's sunbeams climb the far-off eastern hill,

Not in the world of light alone, Where God has built his blazing throne, Nor yet alone in earth below,

What ailed young Lucius? Art had vainly tried To guess his ill, and found herself defied. The Augur plied his legendary skill;

The minstrel of the classic lay Of love and wine who sings Still found the fingers run astray

Written after a general pruning of the trees around Harvard College. A little poem, on a similar occasion, may be found in the works of Swift, from which, perhaps, the idea was borrowed; although I was as much surprised as amused to meet with it some time after writing the following lines. It was not many centuries since, When, gathered on the moonlit green,

No life worth naming ever comes to good If always nourished on the selfsame food; The creeping mite may live so if he please,

Yon whey-faced brother, who delights to wear A weedy flux of ill-conditioned hair, Seems of the sort that in a crowded place

A sick man's chamber, though it often boast The grateful presence of a literal toast, Can hardly claim, amidst its various wealth,

How sweet the sacred legend - if unblamed In my slight verse such holy things are named - Of Mary's secret hours of hidden joy,

There are three ways in which men take One's money from his purse, And very hard it is to tell

There was a sound of hurrying feet, A tramp on echoing stairs, There was a rush along the aisles, -

Meeting Of The Berkshire Horticultural Society, At Stockbridge, September 13,1854 Scarce could the parting ocean close, Seamed by the Mayflower's cleaving bow,

Here's the old cruiser, 'Twenty-nine, Forty times she 's crossed the line; Same old masts and sails and crew,

1854 Oh for one hour of youthful joy! Give back my twentieth spring!

Do you know the Old Man of the Sea, of the Sea? Have you met with that dreadful old man? If you have n't been caught, you will be, you will be;

The curtain rose; in thunders long and loud The galleries rung; the veteran actor bowed. In flaming line the telltales of the stage

This shred of song you bid me bring Is snatched from fancy's embers; Ah, when the lips forget to sing,

Illustration Of A Picture They bid me strike the idle strings, As if my summer days

In the little southern parlor of the house you may have seen With the gambrel-roof, and the gable looking westward to the green, At the side toward the sunset, with the window on its right,

Devoutest of My Sunday friends, The patient Organ-blower bends; I see his figure sink and rise,

The noon of summer sheds its ray On Harvard's holy ground; The Matron calls, the sons obey,

I must leave thee, lady sweet Months shall waste before we meet; Winds are fair and sails are spread,

How beauteous is the bond In the manifold array Of its promises to pay,

Dearest, a look is but a ray Reflected in a certain way; A word, whatever tone it wear,

In the hour of twilight shadows The Pilgrim sire looked out; He thought of the "bloudy Salvages"

Anniversary Of The Berkshire Agricultural Society, October 4, 1849 Clear the brown path, to meet his coulter's gleam! Lo! on he comes, behind his smoking team,

What is a poet's love? - To write a girl a sonnet, To get a ring, or some such thing,

Not charity we ask, Nor yet thy gift refuse; Please thy light fancy with the easy task

Lady, life's sweetest lesson wouldst thou learn, Come thou with me to Love's enchanted bower High overhead the trellised roses burn;

These hallowed precincts, long to memory dear, Smile with fresh welcome as our feet draw near; With softer gales the opening leaves are fanned,

Is man's the only throbbing heart that hides The silent spring that feeds its whispering tides? Speak from thy caverns, mystery-breeding Earth,

I'm not a chicken; I have seen Full many a chill September, And though I was a youngster then,

"How many have gone?" was the question of old Ere Time our bright ring of its jewels bereft; Alas! for too often the death-bell has tolled,

This "sentiment" was read on the same occasion as the "Family Record," which immediately follows it. The latter poem is the dutiful tribute of a son to his father and his father's ancestors, residents of Woodstock from its first settlement. The Ship of State! above her skies are blue, But still she rocks a little, it is true,

"Bring me my broken harp," he said; "We both are wrecks, - but as ye will, - Though all its ringing tones have fled,

Precisely. I see it. You all want to say That a tear is too sad and a laugh is too gay; You could stand a faint smile, you could manage a sigh,

It was the stalwart butcher man, That knit his swarthy brow, And said the gentle Pig must die,

The sun stepped down from his golden throne. And lay in the silent sea, And the Lily had folded her satin leaves,

Who of all statesmen is his country's pride, Her councils' prompter and her leaders' guide? He speaks; the nation holds its breath to hear;

See how yon flaming herald treads The ridged and rolling waves, As, crashing o'er their crested heads,

There was a young man in Boston town, He bought him a stethoscope nice and new, All mounted and finished and polished down,

Yet in the darksome crypt I left so late, Whose only altar is its rusted grate, - Sepulchral, rayless, joyless as it seems,

Dedicated To The Stay-At-Home Rangers Now, while our soldiers are fighting our battles, Each at his post to do all that he can,

There's a thing that grows by the fainting flower, And springs in the shade of the lady's bower; The lily shrinks, and the rose turns pale,

The stars are rolling in the sky, The earth rolls on below, And we can feel the rattling wheel

Two armies stand enrolled beneath The banner with the starry wreath; One, facing battle, blight and blast,

Behold the rocky wall That down its sloping sides Pours the swift rain-drops, blending, as they fall,

We count the broken lyres that rest Where the sweet wailing singers slumber, But o'er their silent sister's breast

The two proud sisters of the sea, In glory and in doom! - Well may the eternal waters be

If every tongue that speaks her praise For whom I shape my tinkling phrase Were summoned to the table,

In poisonous dens, where traitors hide Like bats that fear the day, While all the land our charters claim

Wan-Visaged thing! thy virgin leaf To me looks more than deadly pale, Unknowing what may stain thee yet, -

Poor conquered monarch! though that haughty glance Still speaks thy courage unsubdued by time, And in the grandeur of thy sullen tread

The seed that wasteful autumn cast To waver on its stormy blast, Long o'er the wintry desert tost,

I Love to hear thine earnest voice, Wherever thou art hid, Thou testy little dogmatist,

Thou who hast taught the teachers of mankind How from the least of things the mightiest grow, What marvel jealous Nature made thee blind,

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,

Danvers, 1866 Bankrupt! our pockets inside out! Empty of words to speak his praises!

Dear Governor, if my skiff might brave The winds that lift the ocean wave, The mountain stream that loops and swerves

Our Poet, who has taught the Western breeze To waft his songs before him o'er the seas, Will find them wheresoe'er his wanderings reach

I bring the simplest pledge of love, Friend of my earlier days; Mine is the hand without the glove,

This is your month, the month of "perfect days," Birds in full song and blossoms all ablaze. Nature herself your earliest welcome breathes,

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,

You know "The Teacups," that congenial set Which round the Teapot you have often met; The grave DICTATOR, him you knew of old, -

Nay, blame me not; I might have spared Your patience many a trivial verse, Yet these my earlier welcome shared,

At The Dinner To The President, Boston, June 26, 1877 How to address him? awkward, it is true Call him "Great Father," as the Red Men do?

Who Presented Me With A Silver Loving Cup On The Twenty-Ninth Of August, M Dccc Lxxxix "Who gave this cup?" The secret thou wouldst steal Its brimming flood forbids it to reveal:

When evening's shadowy fingers fold The flowers of every hue, Some shy, half-opened bud will hold

It may be so, - perhaps thou hast A warm and loving heart; I will not blame thee for thy face,

Well, Miss, I wonder where you live, I wonder what's your name, I wonder how you came to be

Too young for love? Ah, say not so! Tell reddening rose-buds not to blow

At the meeting of the New York Harvard Club, February 21, 1878. "CHRISTO ET ECCLESLE." 1700 To GOD'S ANOINTED AND HIS CHOSEN FLOCK

Her hands are cold; her face is white; No more her pulses come and go; Her eyes are shut to life and light; -

April 27,1861 Eighty years have passed, and more, Since under the brave old tree

Flag of the heroes who left us their glory, Borne through their battle-fields' thunder and flame, Blazoned in song and illumined in story,

"Only a housemaid!" She looked from the kitchen, - Neat was the kitchen and tidy was she; There at her window a sempstress sat stitching;

I was thinking last night, as I sat in the cars, With the charmingest prospect of cinders and stars, Next Thursday is - bless me! - how hard it will be,

Translation From The Eneid, Book I. The god looked out upon the troubled deep Waked into tumult from its placid sleep;

While fond, sad memories all around us throng, Silence were sweeter than the sweetest song; Yet when the leaves are green and heaven is blue,

'T is midnight: through my troubled dream Loud wails the tempest's cry; Before the gale, with tattered sail,

Chicago sounds rough to the maker of verse; One comfort we have - Cincinnati sounds worse; If we only were licensed to say Chicago!

Shadowed so long by the storm-cloud of danger, Thou whom the prayers of an empire defend, Welcome, thrice welcome! but not as a stranger,

Bright on the banners of lily and rose Lo! the last sun of our century sets! Wreathe the black cannon that scowled on our foes,

I have come with my verses - I think I may claim It is not the first time I have tried on the same. They were puckered in rhyme, they were wrinkled in wit;

That age was older once than now, In spite of locks untimely shed, Or silvered on the youthful brow;

From The Young Astronomer's Poem I. AMBITION