The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes Part 12

Say, shall my arms, in other conflicts taught To swing aloft the ponderous mace of thought, Lift, in obedience to a school-girl's law, Mirth's tinsel wand or laughter's tickling straw?

Say, shall I wound with satire's rankling spear The pure, warm hearts that bid me welcome here?

No! while I wander through the land of dreams, To strive with great and play with trifling themes, Let some kind meaning fill the varied line.

You have your judgment; will you trust to mine?

Between two breaths what crowded mysteries lie,-- The first short gasp, the last and long-drawn sigh!

Like phantoms painted on the magic slide, Forth from the darkness of the past we glide, As living shadows for a moment seen In airy pageant on the eternal screen, Traced by a ray from one unchanging flame, Then seek the dust and stillness whence we came.

But whence and why, our trembling souls inquire, Caught these dim visions their awakening fire?

Oh, who forgets when first the piercing thought Through childhood's musings found its way unsought?

I AM;--I LIVE. The mystery and the fear When the dread question, WHAT HAS BROUGHT ME HERE?

Burst through life's twilight, as before the sun Roll the deep thunders of the morning gun!

Are angel faces, silent and serene, Bent on the conflicts of this little scene, Whose dream-like efforts, whose unreal strife, Are but the preludes to a larger life?

Or does life's summer see the end of all, These leaves of being mouldering as they fall, As the old poet vaguely used to deem, As WESLEY questioned in his youthful dream?

Oh, could such mockery reach our souls indeed, Give back the Pharaohs' or the Athenian's creed; Better than this a Heaven of man's device,-- The Indian's sports, the Moslem's paradise!

Or is our being's only end and aim To add new glories to our Maker's name, As the poor insect, shrivelling in the blaze, Lends a faint sparkle to its streaming rays?

Does earth send upward to the Eternal's ear The mingled discords of her jarring sphere To swell his anthem, while creation rings With notes of anguish from its shattered strings?

Is it for this the immortal Artist means These conscious, throbbing, agonized machines?

Dark is the soul whose sullen creed can bind In chains like these the all-embracing Mind; No! two-faced bigot, thou dost ill reprove The sensual, selfish, yet benignant Jove, And praise a tyrant throned in lonely pride, Who loves himself, and cares for naught beside; Who gave thee, summoned from primeval night, A thousand laws, and not a single right,-- A heart to feel, and quivering nerves to thrill, The sense of wrong, the death-defying will; Who girt thy senses with this goodly frame, Its earthly glories and its...o...b.. of flame, Not for thyself, unworthy of a thought, Poor helpless victim of a life unsought, But all for him, unchanging and supreme, The heartless centre of thy frozen scheme.

Trust not the teacher with his lying scroll, Who tears the charter of thy shuddering soul; The G.o.d of love, who gave the breath that warms All living dust in all its varied forms, Asks not the tribute of a world like this To fill the measure of his perfect bliss.

Though winged with life through all its radiant sh.o.r.es, Creation flowed with unexhausted stores Cherub and seraph had not yet enjoyed; For this he called thee from the quickening void!

Nor this alone; a larger gift was thine, A mightier purpose swelled his vast design Thought,--conscience,--will,--to make them all thine own, He rent a pillar from the eternal throne!

Made in his image, thou must n.o.bly dare The th.o.r.n.y crown of sovereignty to share.

With eye uplifted, it is thine to view, From thine own centre, Heaven's o'erarching blue; So round thy heart a beaming circle lies No fiend can blot, no hypocrite disguise; From all its...o...b.. one cheering voice is heard, Full to thine ear it bears the Father's word, Now, as in Eden where his first-born trod "Seek thine own welfare, true to man and G.o.d!"

Think not too meanly of thy low estate; Thou hast a choice; to choose is to create!

Remember whose the sacred lips that tell, Angels approve thee when thy choice is well; Remember, One, a judge of righteous men, Swore to spare Sodom if she held but ten!

Use well the freedom which thy Master gave, (Think'st thou that Heaven can tolerate a slave?) And He who made thee to be just and true Will bless thee, love thee,--ay, respect thee too!

Nature has placed thee on a changeful tide, To breast its waves, but not without a guide; Yet, as the needle will forget its aim, Jarred by the fury of the electric flame, As the true current it will falsely feel, Warped from its axis by a freight of steel; So will thy CONSCIENCE lose its balanced truth If pa.s.sion's lightning fall upon thy youth, So the pure effluence quit its sacred hold Girt round too deeply with magnetic gold.

Go to yon tower, where busy science plies Her vast antennae, feeling through the skies That little vernier on whose slender lines The midnight taper trembles as it s.h.i.+nes, A silent index, tracks the planets' march In all their wanderings through the ethereal arch; Tells through the mist where dazzled Mercury burns, And marks the spot where Ura.n.u.s returns.

So, till by wrong or negligence effaced, The living index which thy Maker traced Repeats the line each starry Virtue draws Through the wide circuit of creation's laws; Still tracks unchanged the everlasting ray Where the dark shadows of temptation stray, But, once defaced, forgets the orbs of light, And leaves thee wandering o'er the expanse of night.

"What is thy creed?" a hundred lips inquire; "Thou seekest G.o.d beneath what Christian spire?"

Nor ask they idly, for uncounted lies Float upward on the smoke of sacrifice; When man's first incense rose above the plain, Of earth's two altars one was built by Cain!

Uncursed by doubt, our earliest creed we take; We love the precepts for the teacher's sake; The simple lessons which the nursery taught Fell soft and stainless on the buds of thought, And the full blossom owes its fairest hue To those sweet tear-drops of affection's dew.

Too oft the light that led our earlier hours Fades with the perfume of our cradle flowers; The clear, cold question chills to frozen doubt; Tired of beliefs, we dread to live without Oh then, if Reason waver at thy side, Let humbler Memory be thy gentle guide; Go to thy birthplace, and, if faith was there, Repeat thy father's creed, thy mother's prayer!

Faith loves to lean on Time's destroying arm, And age, like distance, lends a double charm; In dim cathedrals, dark with vaulted gloom, What holy awe invests the saintly tomb!

There pride will bow, and anxious care expand, And creeping avarice come with open hand; The gay can weep, the impious can adore, From morn's first glimmerings on the chancel floor Till dying sunset sheds his crimson stains Through the faint halos of the irised panes.

Yet there are graves, whose rudely-shapen sod Bears the fresh footprints where the s.e.xton trod; Graves where the verdure has not dared to shoot, Where the chance wild-flower has not fixed its root, Whose slumbering tenants, dead without a name, The eternal record shall at length proclaim Pure as the holiest in the long array Of hooded, mitred, or tiaraed clay!

Come, seek the air; some pictures we may gain Whose pa.s.sing shadows shall not be in vain; Not from the scenes that crowd the stranger's soil, Not from our own amidst the stir of toil, But when the Sabbath brings its kind release, And Care lies slumbering on the lap of Peace.

The air is hushed, the street is holy ground; Hark! The sweet bells renew their welcome sound As one by one awakes each silent tongue, It tells the turret whence its voice is flung.

The Chapel, last of sublunary things That stirs our echoes with the name of Kings, Whose bell, just glistening from the font and forge, Rolled its proud requiem for the second George, Solemn and swelling, as of old it rang, Flings to the wind its deep, sonorous clang; The simpler pile, that, mindful of the hour When Howe's artillery shook its half-built tower, Wears on its bosom, as a bride might do, The iron breastpin which the "Rebels" threw, Wakes the sharp echoes with the quivering thrill Of keen vibrations, tremulous and shrill; Aloft, suspended in the morning's fire, Crash the vast cymbals from the Southern spire; The Giant, standing by the elm-clad green, His white lance lifted o'er the silent scene, Whirling in air his brazen goblet round, Swings from its brim the swollen floods of sound; While, sad with memories of the olden time, Throbs from his tower the Northern Minstrel's chime,-- Faint, single tones, that spell their ancient song, But tears still follow as they breathe along.

Child of the soil, whom fortune sends to range Where man and nature, faith and customs change, Borne in thy memory, each familiar tone Mourns on the winds that sigh in every zone.

When Ceylon sweeps thee with her perfumed breeze Through the warm billows of the Indian seas; When--s.h.i.+p and shadow blended both in one-- Flames o'er thy mast the equatorial sun, From sparkling midnight to refulgent noon Thy canvas swelling with the still monsoon; When through thy shrouds the wild tornado sings, And thy poor sea-bird folds her tattered wings,-- Oft will delusion o'er thy senses steal, And airy echoes ring the Sabbath peal Then, dim with grateful tears, in long array Rise the fair town, the island-studded bay, Home, with its smiling board, its cheering fire, The half-choked welcome of the expecting sire, The mother's kiss, and, still if aught remain, Our whispering hearts shall aid the silent strain.

Ah, let the dreamer o'er the taffrail lean To muse unheeded, and to weep unseen; Fear not the tropic's dews, the evening's chills, His heart lies warm among his triple hills!

Turned from her path by this deceitful gleam, My wayward fancy half forgets her theme.

See through the streets that slumbered in repose The living current of devotion flows, Its varied forms in one harmonious band Age leading childhood by its dimpled hand; Want, in the robe whose faded edges fall To tell of rags beneath the tartan shawl; And wealth, in silks that, fluttering to appear, Lift the deep borders of the proud cashmere.

See, but glance briefly, sorrow-worn and pale, Those sunken cheeks beneath the widow's veil; Alone she wanders where with HIM she trod, No arm to stay her, but she leans on G.o.d.

While other doublets deviate here and there, What secret handcuff binds that pretty pair?

Compactest couple! pressing side to side,-- Ah, the white bonnet that reveals the bride!

By the white neckcloth, with its straitened tie, The sober hat, the Sabbath-speaking eye, Severe and smileless, he that runs may read The stern disciple of Geneva's creed Decent and slow, behold his solemn march; Silent he enters through yon crowded arch.

A livelier bearing of the outward man, The light-hued gloves, the undevout rattan, Now smartly raised or half profanely twirled,-- A bright, fresh twinkle from the week-day world,-- Tell their plain story; yes, thine eyes behold A cheerful Christian from the liberal fold.

Down the chill street that curves in gloomiest shade What marks betray yon solitary maid?

The cheek's red rose that speaks of balmier air, The Celtic hue that shades her braided hair, The gilded missal in her kerchief tied,-- Poor Nora, exile from Killarney's side!

Sister in toil, though blanched by colder skies, That left their azure in her downcast eyes, See pallid Margaret, Labor's patient child, Scarce weaned from home, the nursling of the wild, Where white Katahdin o'er the horizon s.h.i.+nes, And broad Pen.o.bscot dashes through the pines.

Still, as she hastes, her careful fingers hold The unfailing hymn-book in its cambric fold.

Six days at drudgery's heavy wheel she stands, The seventh sweet morning folds her weary hands.

Yes, child of suffering, thou mayst well be sure He who ordained the Sabbath loves the poor!

This weekly picture faithful Memory draws, Nor claims the noisy tribute of applause; Faint is the glow such barren hopes can lend, And frail the line that asks no loftier end.

Trust me, kind listener, I will yet beguile Thy saddened features of the promised smile.

This magic mantle thou must well divide, It has its sable and its ermine side; Yet, ere the lining of the robe appears, Take thou in silence what I give in tears.

Dear listening soul, this transitory scene Of murmuring stillness, busily serene,-- This solemn pause, the breathing-s.p.a.ce of man, The halt of toil's exhausted caravan,-- Comes sweet with music to thy wearied ear; Rise with its anthems to a holier sphere!

Deal meekly, gently, with the hopes that guide The lowliest brother straying from thy side If right, they bid thee tremble for thine own; If wrong, the verdict is for G.o.d alone.

What though the champions of thy faith esteem The sprinkled fountain or baptismal stream; Shall jealous pa.s.sions in unseemly strife Cross their dark weapons o'er the waves of life?

Let my free soul, expanding as it can, Leave to his scheme the thoughtful Puritan; But Calvin's dogma shall my lips deride?

In that stern faith my angel Mary died; Or ask if mercy's milder creed can save, Sweet sister, risen from thy new-made grave?

True, the harsh founders of thy church reviled That ancient faith, the trust of Erin's child; Must thou be raking in the crumbled past For racks and f.a.gots in her teeth to cast?

See from the ashes of Helvetia's pile The whitened skull of old Servetus smile!

Round her young heart thy "Romish Upas" threw Its firm, deep fibres, strengthening as she grew; Thy sneering voice may call them "Popish tricks,"

Her Latin prayers, her dangling crucifix, But De Profundis blessed her father's grave, That "idol" cross her dying mother gave!

What if some angel looks with equal eyes On her and thee, the simple and the wise, Writes each dark fault against thy brighter creed, And drops a tear with every foolish bead!

Grieve, as thou must, o'er history's reeking page; Blush for the wrongs that stain thy happier age; Strive with the wanderer from the better path, Bearing thy message meekly, not in wrath; Weep for the frail that err, the weak that fall, Have thine own faith,--but hope and pray for all!

Faith; Conscience; Love. A meaner task remains, And humbler thoughts must creep in lowlier strains.

Shalt thou be honest? Ask the worldly schools, And all will tell thee knaves are busier fools; Prudent? Industrious? Let not modern pens Instruct "Poor Richard's" fellow-citizens.

Be firm! One constant element in luck Is genuine solid old Teutonic pluck.

See yon tall shaft; it felt the earthquake's thrill, Clung to its base, and greets the sunrise still.

Stick to your aim: the mongrel's hold will slip, But only crowbars loose the bulldog's grip; Small as he looks, the jaw that never yields Drags down the bellowing monarch of the fields!