The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes Part 42

Into the harbor she bravely steers Just as she 's done for these forty years, Over her anchor goes, splash and clang!

Down her sails drop, rattle and bang!

Comes a vessel out of the dock Fresh and spry as a fighting-c.o.c.k, Feathered with sails and spurred with steam, Heading out of the cla.s.sic stream.

Crew of a hundred all aboard, Every man as fine as a lord.

Gay they look and proud they feel, Bowling along on even keel.

On they float with wind and tide,-- Gain at last the old s.h.i.+p's side; Every man looks down in turn,-- Reads the name that's on her stern.

"Twenty-nine!--Diable you say!

That was in Skipper Kirkland's day!

What was the Flying Dutchman's name?

This old rover must be the same.

"Ho! you Boatswain that walks the deck, How does it happen you're not a wreck?

One and another have come to grief, How have you dodged by rock and reef?"

Boatswain, lifting one knowing lid, Hitches his breeches and s.h.i.+fts his quid "Hey? What is it? Who 's come to grief Louder, young swab, I 'm a little deaf."

"I say, old fellow, what keeps your boat With all you jolly old boys afloat, When scores of vessels as good as she Have swallowed the salt of the bitter sea?

"Many a crew from many a craft Goes drifting by on a broken raft Pieced from a vessel that clove the brine Taller and prouder than 'Twenty-nine.

"Some capsized in an angry breeze, Some were lost in the narrow seas, Some on snags and some on sands Struck and perished and lost their hands.

"Tell us young ones, you gray old man, What is your secret, if you can.

We have a s.h.i.+p as good as you, Show us how to keep our crew."

So in his ear the youngster cries; Then the gray Boatswain straight replies:-- "All your crew be sure you know,-- Never let one of your s.h.i.+pmates go.

"If he leaves you, change your tack, Follow him close and fetch him back; When you've hauled him in at last, Grapple his flipper and hold him fast.

"If you've wronged him, speak him fair, Say you're sorry and make it square; If he's wronged you, wink so tight None of you see what 's plain in sight.

"When the world goes hard and wrong, Lend a hand to help him along; When his stockings have holes to darn, Don't you grudge him your ball of yarn.

"Once in a twelvemonth, come what may, Anchor your s.h.i.+p in a quiet bay, Call all hands and read the log, And give 'em a taste of grub and grog.

"Stick to each other through thick and thin; All the closer as age leaks in; Squalls will blow and clouds will frown, But stay by your s.h.i.+p till you all go down!"

ADDED FOR THE ALUMNI MEETING, JUNE 29,

1869.

So the gray Boatswain of 'Twenty-nine Piped to "The Boys" as they crossed the line; Round the cabin sat thirty guests, Babes of the nurse with a thousand b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

There were the judges, grave and grand, Flanked by the priests on either hand; There was the lord of wealth untold, And the dear good fellow in broadcloth old.

Thirty men, from twenty towns, Sires and grandsires with silvered crowns,-- Thirty school-boys all in a row,-- Bens and Georges and Bill and Joe.

In thirty goblets the wine was poured, But threescore gathered around the board,-- For lo! at the side of every chair A shadow hovered--we all were there!

HYMN FOR THE CLa.s.s-MEETING

1869

THOU Gracious Power, whose mercy lends The light of home, the smile of friends, Our gathered flock thine arms infold As in the peaceful days of old.

Wilt thou not hear us while we raise, In sweet accord of solemn praise, The voices that have mingled long In joyous flow of mirth and song?

For all the blessings life has brought, For all its sorrowing hours have taught, For all we mourn, for all we keep, The hands we clasp, the loved that sleep;

The noontide suns.h.i.+ne of the past, These brief, bright moments fading fast, The stars that gild our darkening years, The twilight ray from holier spheres;

We thank thee, Father! let thy grace Our narrowing circle still embrace, Thy mercy shed its heavenly store, Thy peace be with us evermore!

EVEN-SONG.

1870

IT may be, yes, it must be, Time that brings An end to mortal things, That sends the beggar Winter in the train Of Autumn's burdened wain,-- Time, that is heir of all our earthly state, And knoweth well to wait Till sea hath turned to sh.o.r.e and sh.o.r.e to sea, If so it need must be, Ere he make good his claim and call his own Old empires overthrown,-- Time, who can find no heavenly orb too large To hold its fee in charge, Nor any motes that fill its beam so small, But he shall care for all,-- It may be, must be,--yes, he soon shall tire This hand that holds the lyre.

Then ye who listened in that earlier day When to my careless lay I matched its chords and stole their first-born thrill, With untaught rudest skill Vexing a treble from the slender strings Thin as the locust sings When the shrill-crying child of summer's heat Pipes from its leafy seat, The dim pavilion of embowering green Beneath whose shadowy screen The small sopranist tries his single note Against the song-bird's throat, And all the echoes listen, but in vain; They hear no answering strain,-- Then ye who listened in that earlier day Shall sadly turn away,

Saying, "The fire burns low, the hearth is cold That warmed our blood of old; Cover its embers and its half-burnt brands, And let us stretch our hands Over a brighter and fresh-kindled flame; Lo, this is not the same, The joyous singer of our morning time, Flushed high with l.u.s.ty rhyme!

Speak kindly, for he bears a human heart, But whisper him apart,-- Tell him the woods their autumn robes have shed And all their birds have fled, And shouting winds unbuild the naked nests They warmed with patient b.r.e.a.s.t.s; Tell him the sky is dark, the summer o'er, And bid him sing no more!"

Ah, welladay! if words so cruel-kind A listening ear might find!

But who that hears the music in his soul Of rhythmic waves that roll Crested with gleams of fire, and as they flow Stir all the deeps below Till the great pearls no calm might ever reach Leap glistening on the beach,-- Who that has known the pa.s.sion and the pain, The rush through heart and brain, The joy so like a pang his hand is pressed Hard on his throbbing breast, When thou, whose smile is life and bliss and fame Hast set his pulse aflame, Muse of the lyre! can say farewell to thee?

Alas! and must it be?

In many a clime, in many a stately tongue, The mighty bards have sung; To these the immemorial thrones belong And purple robes of song; Yet the slight minstrel loves the slender tone His lips may call his own, And finds the measure of the verse more sweet, Timed by his pulse's beat, Than all the hymnings of the laurelled throng.

Say not I do him wrong, For Nature spoils her warblers,--them she feeds In lotus-growing meads And pours them subtle draughts from haunted streams That fill their souls with dreams.

Full well I know the gracious mother's wiles And dear delusive smiles!

No callow fledgling of her singing brood But tastes that witching food, And hearing overhead the eagle's wing, And how the thrushes sing, Vents his exiguous chirp, and from his nest Flaps forth--we know the rest.