The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes Part 52

PROLOGUE

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: Pro means beforehand; logos stands for speech.

'T is like the harper's prelude on the strings, The prima donna's courtesy ere she sings; Prologues in metre are to other pros As worsted stockings are to engine-hose.

"The world's a stage,"--as Shakespeare said, one day; The stage a world--was what he meant to say.

The outside world's a blunder, that is clear; The real world that Nature meant is here.

Here every foundling finds its lost mamma; Each rogue, repentant, melts his stern papa; Misers relent, the spendthrift's debts are paid, The cheats are taken in the traps they laid; One after one the troubles all are past Till the fifth act comes right side up at last, When the young couple, old folks, rogues, and all, Join hands, so happy at the curtain's fall.

Here suffering virtue ever finds relief, And black-browed ruffians always come to grief.

When the lorn damsel, with a frantic screech, And cheeks as hueless as a brandy-peach, Cries, "Help, kyind Heaven!" and drops upon her knees On the green--baize,--beneath the (canvas) trees,-- See to her side avenging Valor fly:-- "Ha! Villain! Draw! Now, Terraitorr, yield or die!"

When the poor hero flounders in despair, Some dear lost uncle turns up millionaire, Clasps the young scapegrace with paternal joy, Sobs on his neck, "My boy! MY BOY!! _MY BOY_!!!"

Ours, then, sweet friends, the real world to-night, Of love that conquers in disaster's spite.

Ladies, attend! While woful cares and doubt Wrong the soft pa.s.sion in the world without, Though fortune scowl, though prudence interfere, One thing is certain: Love will triumph here!

Lords of creation, whom your ladies rule,-- The world's great masters, when you 're out of school,-- Learn the brief moral of our evening's play Man has his will,--but woman has her way!

While man's dull spirit toils in smoke and fire, Woman's swift instinct threads the electric wire,-- The magic bracelet stretched beneath the waves Beats the black giant with his score of slaves.

All earthly powers confess your sovereign art But that one rebel,--woman's wilful heart.

All foes you master, but a woman's wit Lets daylight through you ere you know you 're hit.

So, just to picture what her art can do, Hear an old story, made as good as new.

Rudolph, professor of the headsman's trade, Alike was famous for his arm and blade.

One day a prisoner Justice had to kill Knelt at the block to test the artist's skill.

Bare-armed, swart-visaged, gaunt, and s.h.a.ggy-browed, Rudolph the headsman rose above the crowd.

His falchion lighted with a sudden gleam, As the pike's armor flashes in the stream.

He sheathed his blade; he turned as if to go; The victim knelt, still waiting for the blow.

"Why strikest not? Perform thy murderous act,"

The prisoner said. (His voice was slightly cracked.) "Friend, I have struck," the artist straight replied; "Wait but one moment, and yourself decide."

He held his snuff-box,--"Now then, if you please!"

The prisoner sniffed, and, with a cras.h.i.+ng sneeze, Off his head tumbled,--bowled along the floor,-- Bounced down the steps;--the prisoner said no more!

Woman! thy falchion is a glittering eye; If death lurk in it, oh how sweet to die!

Thou takest hearts as Rudolph took the head; We die with love, and never dream we're dead!

LATTER-DAY WARNINGS

WHEN legislators keep the law, When banks dispense with bolts and looks, When berries--whortle, rasp, and straw-- Grow bigger downwards through the box,--

When he that selleth house or land Shows leak in roof or flaw in right,-- When haberdashers choose the stand Whose window hath the broadest light,--

When preachers tell us all they think, And party leaders all they mean,-- When what we pay for, that we drink, From real grape and coffee-bean,--

When lawyers take what they would give, And doctors give what they would take,-- When city fathers eat to live, Save when they fast for conscience' sake,--

When one that hath a horse on sale Shall bring his merit to the proof, Without a lie for every nail That holds the iron on the hoof,--

When in the usual place for rips Our gloves are st.i.tched with special care, And guarded well the whalebone tips Where first umbrellas need repair,--

When Cuba's weeds have quite forgot The power of suction to resist, And claret-bottles harbor not Such dimples as would hold your fist,--

When publishers no longer steal, And pay for what they stole before,-- When the first locomotive's wheel Rolls through the Hoosac Tunnel's bore;--

Till then let c.u.mming blaze away, And Miller's saints blow up the globe; But when you see that blessed day, Then order your ascension robe.

ALb.u.m VERSES

WHEN Eve had led her lord away, And Cain had killed his brother, The stars and flowers, the poets say, Agreed with one another.

To cheat the cunning tempter's art, And teach the race its duty, By keeping on its wicked heart Their eyes of light and beauty.

A million sleepless lids, they say, Will be at least a warning; And so the flowers would watch by day, The stars from eve to morning.

On hill and prairie, field and lawn, Their dewy eyes upturning, The flowers still watch from reddening dawn Till western skies are burning.

Alas! each hour of daylight tells A tale of shame so crus.h.i.+ng, That some turn white as sea-bleached sh.e.l.ls, And some are always blus.h.i.+ng.

But when the patient stars look down On all their light discovers, The traitor's smile, the murderer's frown, The lips of lying lovers,

They try to shut their saddening eyes, And in the vain endeavor We see them twinkling in the skies, And so they wink forever.

A GOOD TIME GOING!

BRAVE singer of the coming time, Sweet minstrel of the joyous present, Crowned with the n.o.blest wreath of rhyme, The holly-leaf of Ayrs.h.i.+re's peasant, Good by! Good by!--Our hearts and hands, Our lips in honest Saxon phrases, Cry, G.o.d be with him, till he stands His feet among the English daisies!

'T is here we part;--for other eyes The busy deck, the fluttering streamer, The dripping arms that plunge and rise, The waves in foam, the s.h.i.+p in tremor, The kerchiefs waving from the pier, The cloudy pillar gliding o'er him, The deep blue desert, lone and drear, With heaven above and home before him!

His home!--the Western giant smiles, And twirls the spotty globe to find it; This little speck the British Isles?

'T is but a freckle,--never mind it!

He laughs, and all his prairies roll, Each gurgling cataract roars and chuckles, And ridges stretched from pole to pole Heave till they crack their iron knuckles!

But Memory blushes at the sneer, And Honor turns with frown defiant, And Freedom, leaning on her spear, Laughs louder than the laughing giant "An islet is a world," she said, "When glory with its dust has blended, And Britain keeps her n.o.ble dead Till earth and seas and skies are rended!"

Beneath each swinging forest-bough Some arm as stout in death reposes,-- From wave-washed foot to heaven-kissed brow Her valor's life-blood runs in roses; Nay, let our brothers of the West Write smiling in their florid pages, One half her soil has walked the rest In poets, heroes, martyrs, sages!

Hugged in the clinging billow's clasp, From sea-weed fringe to mountain heather, The British oak with rooted grasp Her slender handful holds together;-- With cliffs of white and bowers of green, And Ocean narrowing to caress her, And hills and threaded streams between,-- Our little mother isle, G.o.d bless her!