The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes Part 76

You do not mean it! _Not_ encore?

Another string of playday rhymes?

You 've heard me--nonne est?-before, Multoties,-more than twenty times; Non possum,--vraiment,--pas du tout, I cannot! I am loath to s.h.i.+rk; But who will listen if I do, My memory makes such shocking work?

Ginosko. Scio. Yes, I 'm told Some ancients like my rusty lay, As Grandpa Noah loved the old Red-sandstone march of Jubal's day.

I used to carol like the birds, But time my wits has quite unfixed, Et quoad verba,--for my words,-- Ciel! Eheu! Whe-ew!--how they're mixed!

Mehercle! Zeu! Diable! how My thoughts were dressed when I was young, But tempus fugit! see them now Half clad in rags of every tongue!

O philoi, fratres, chers amis I dare not court the youthful Muse, For fear her sharp response should be, "Papa Anacreon, please excuse!"

Adieu! I 've trod my annual track How long!--let others count the miles,-- And peddled out my rhyming pack To friends who always paid in smiles.

So, laissez-moi! some youthful wit No doubt has wares he wants to show; And I am asking, "Let me sit,"

Dum ille clamat, "Dos pou sto!"

FOR THE CENTENNIAL DINNER

OF THE PROPRIETORS OF BOSTON PIER, OR THE LONG WHARF, APRIL 16, 1873

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, Whose heart has a throb for our time-honored pier.

As I look on each brother proprietor's face, I could open my arms in a loving embrace; What wonder that feelings, undreamed of so long, Should burst all at once in a blossom of song!

While I turn my fond glance on the monarch of piers, Whose throne has stood firm through his eightscore of years, My thought travels backward and reaches the day When they drove the first pile on the edge of the bay.

See! The joiner, the s.h.i.+pwright, the smith from his forge, The redcoat, who shoulders his gun for King George, The shopman, the 'prentice, the boys from the lane, The parson, the doctor with gold-headed cane,

Come trooping down King Street, where now may be seen The pulleys and ropes of a mighty machine; The weight rises slowly; it drops with a thud; And, to! the great timber sinks deep in the mud!

They are gone, the stout craftsmen that hammered the piles, And the square-toed old boys in the three-cornered tiles; The breeches, the buckles, have faded from view, And the parson's white wig and the ribbon-tied queue.

The redcoats have vanished; the last grenadier Stepped into the boat from the end of our pier; They found that our hills were not easy to climb, And the order came, "Countermarch, double-quick time!"

They are gone, friend and foe,--anch.o.r.ed fast at the pier, Whence no vessel brings back its pale pa.s.sengers here; But our wharf, like a lily, still floats on the flood, Its breast in the suns.h.i.+ne, its roots in the mud.

Who--who that has loved it so long and so well-- The flower of his birthright would barter or sell?

No: pride of the bay, while its ripples shall run, You shall pa.s.s, as an heirloom, from father to son!

Let me part with the acres my grandfather bought, With the bonds that my uncle's kind legacy brought, With my bank-shares,--old "Union," whose ten per cent stock Stands stiff through the storms as the Eddystone rock;

With my rights (or my wrongs) in the "Erie,"--alas!

With my claims on the mournful and "Mutual Ma.s.s.;"

With my "Phil. Wil. and Balt.," with my "C. B. and Q.;"

But I never, no never, will sell out of you.

We drink to thy past and thy future to-day, Strong right arm of Boston, stretched out o'er the bay.

May the winds waft the wealth of all nations to thee, And thy dividends flow like the waves of the sea!

A POEM SERVED TO ORDER

PHI BETA KAPPA, JUNE 26, 1873

THE Caliph ordered up his cook, And, scowling with a fearful look That meant,--We stand no gammon,-- "To-morrow, just at two," he said, "Ha.s.san, our cook, will lose his head, Or serve us up a salmon."

"Great sire," the trembling chef replied, "Lord of the Earth and all beside, Sun, Moon, and Stars, and so on (Look in Eothen,-there you'll find A list of t.i.tles. Never mind; I have n't time to go on:)

"Great sire," and so forth, thus he spoke, "Your Highness must intend a joke; It doesn't stand to reason For one to order salmon brought, Unless that fish is sometimes caught, And also is in season.

"Our luck of late is shocking bad, In fact, the latest catch we had (We kept the matter shady), But, hauling in our nets,--alack!

We found no salmon, but a sack That held your honored Lady!"

"Allah is great!" the Caliph said, "My poor Zuleika, you are dead, I once took interest in you."

"Perhaps, my Lord, you'd like to know We cut the lines and let her go."

"Allah be praised! Continue."

"It is n't hard one's hook to bait, And, squatting down, to watch and wait, To see the cork go under; At last suppose you've got your bite, You twitch away with all your might,-- You've hooked an eel, by thunder!"

The Caliph patted Ha.s.san's head "Slave, thou hast spoken well," he said, "And won thy master's favor.

Yes; since what happened t' other morn The salmon of the Golden Horn Might have a doubtful flavor.

"That last remark about the eel Has also justice that we feel Quite to our satisfaction.

To-morrow we dispense with fish, And, for the present, if you wish, You'll keep your bulbous fraction."

"Thanks! thanks!" the grateful chef replied, His nutrient feature showing wide The gleam of arches dental: "To cut my head off wouldn't pay, I find it useful every day, As well as ornamental."

Brothers, I hope you will not fail To see the moral of my tale And kindly to receive it.

You know your anniversary pie Must have its crust, though hard and dry, And some prefer to leave it.

How oft before these youths were born I've fished in Fancy's Golden Horn For what the Muse might send me!

How gayly then I cast the line, When all the morning sky was mine, And Hope her flies would lend me!

And now I hear our despot's call, And come, like Ha.s.san, to the hall,-- If there's a slave, I am one,-- My bait no longer flies, but worms!

I 've caught--Lord bless me! how he squirms!

An eel, and not a salmon!