The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes Part 85

Altars once flaming, still with incense fragrant, Pa.s.sion's uneasy nurslings rocked asleep, Hope's anchor faster, wild desire less vagrant, Life's flow less noisy, but the stream how deep!

Still as the silver cord gets worn and slender, Its lightened task-work tugs with lessening strain, Hands get more helpful, voices, grown more tender, Soothe with their softened tones the slumberous brain.

Youth longs and manhood strives, but age remembers, Sits by the raked-up ashes of the past, Spreads its thin hands above the whitening embers That warm its creeping life-blood till the last.

Dear to its heart is every loving token That comes unbidden ere its pulse grows cold, Ere the last lingering ties of life are broken, Its labors ended and its story told.

Ah, while around us rosy youth rejoices, For us the sorrow-laden breezes sigh, And through the chorus of its jocund voices Throbs the sharp note of misery's hopeless cry.

As on the gauzy wings of fancy flying From some far orb I track our watery sphere, Home of the struggling, suffering, doubting, dying, The silvered globule seems a glistening tear.

But Nature lends her mirror of illusion To win from saddening scenes our age-dimmed eyes, And misty day-dreams blend in sweet confusion The wintry landscape and the summer skies.

So when the iron portal shuts behind us, And life forgets us in its noise and whirl, Visions that shunned the glaring noonday find us, And glimmering starlight shows the gates of pearl.

I come not here your morning hour to sadden, A limping pilgrim, leaning on his staff,-- I, who have never deemed it sin to gladden This vale of sorrows with a wholesome laugh.

If word of mine another's gloom has brightened, Through my dumb lips the heaven-sent message came; If hand of mine another's task has lightened, It felt the guidance that it dares not claim.

But, O my gentle sisters, O my brothers, These thick-sown snow-flakes hint of toil's release; These feebler pulses bid me leave to others The tasks once welcome; evening asks for peace.

Time claims his tribute; silence now is golden; Let me not vex the too long suffering lyre; Though to your love untiring still beholden, The curfew tells me--cover up the fire.

And now with grateful smile and accents cheerful, And warmer heart than look or word can tell, In simplest phrase--these traitorous eyes are tearful-- Thanks, Brothers, Sisters,--Children,--and farewell!

VESTIGIA QUINQUE RETRORSUM

AN ACADEMIC POEM

1829-1879

Read at the Commencement Dinner of the Alumni of Harvard University, June 25, 1879.

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, The choral tribute of the grove is due, And when the lengthening nights have chilled the skies, We fain would hear the song-bird ere be flies, And greet with kindly welcome, even as now, The lonely minstrel on his leafless bough.

This is our golden year,--its golden day; Its bridal memories soon must pa.s.s away; Soon shall its dying music cease to ring, And every year must loose some silver string, Till the last trembling chords no longer thrill,-- Hands all at rest and hearts forever still.

A few gray heads have joined the forming line; We hear our summons,--"Cla.s.s of 'Twenty-Nine!"

Close on the foremost, and, alas, how few!

Are these "The Boys" our dear old Mother knew?

Sixty brave swimmers. Twenty--something more-- Have pa.s.sed the stream and reached this frosty sh.o.r.e!

How near the banks these fifty years divide When memory crosses with a single stride!

'T is the first year of stern "Old Hickory" 's rule When our good Mother lets us out of school, Half glad, half sorrowing, it must be confessed, To leave her quiet lap, her bounteous breast, Armed with our dainty, ribbon-tied degrees, Pleased and yet pensive, exiles and A. B.'s.

Look back, O comrades, with your faded eyes, And see the phantoms as I bid them rise.

Whose smile is that? Its pattern Nature gave, A sunbeam dancing in a dimpled wave; KIRKLAND alone such grace from Heaven could win, His features radiant as the soul within; That smile would let him through Saint Peter's gate While sad-eyed martyrs had to stand and wait.

Here flits mercurial _Farrar_; standing there, See mild, benignant, cautious, learned _Ware_, And st.u.r.dy, patient, faithful, honest _Hedge_, Whose grinding logic gave our wits their edge; _Ticknor_, with honeyed voice and courtly grace; And _Willard_, larynxed like a double ba.s.s; And _Channing_, with his bland, superior look, Cool as a moonbeam on a frozen brook,

While the pale student, s.h.i.+vering in his shoes, Sees from his theme the turgid rhetoric ooze; And the born soldier, fate decreed to wreak His martial manhood on a cla.s.s in Greek, _Popkin_! How that explosive name recalls The grand old Busby of our ancient halls Such faces looked from Skippon's grim platoons, Such figures rode with Ireton's stout dragoons: He gave his strength to learning's gentle charms, But every accent sounded "Shoulder arms!"

Names,--empty names! Save only here and there Some white-haired listener, dozing in his chair, Starts at the sound he often used to hear, And upward slants his Sunday-sermon ear.

And we--our blooming manhood we regain; Smiling we join the long Commencement train, One point first battled in discussion hot,-- Shall we wear gowns? and settled: We will not.

How strange the scene,--that noisy boy-debate Where embryo-speakers learn to rule the State!

This broad-browed youth, sedate and sober-eyed, Shall wear the ermined robe at Taney's side; And he, the stripling, smooth of face and slight, Whose slender form scarce intercepts the light, Shall rule the Bench where Parsons gave the law, And sphinx-like sat uncouth, majestic Shaw Ah, many a star has shed its fatal ray On names we loved--our brothers--where are they?

Nor these alone; our hearts in silence claim Names not less dear, unsyllabled by fame.

How brief the s.p.a.ce! and yet it sweeps us back Far, far along our new-born history's track Five strides like this;--the sachem rules the land; The Indian wigwams cl.u.s.ter where we stand.

The second. Lo! a scene of deadly strife-- A nation struggling into infant life; Not yet the fatal game at Yorktown won Where failing Empire fired its sunset gun.

LANGDON sits restless in the ancient chair,-- Harvard's grave Head,--these echoes heard his prayer When from yon mansion, dear to memory still, The banded yeomen marched for Bunker's Hill.

Count on the grave triennial's thick-starred roll What names were numbered on the lengthening scroll,-- Not unfamiliar in our ears they ring,-- Winthrop, Hale, Eliot, Everett, Dexter, Tyng.

Another stride. Once more at 'twenty-nine,-- G.o.d SAVE KING GEORGE, the Second of his line!

And is Sir Isaac living? Nay, not so,-- He followed Flainsteed two short years ago,-- And what about the little hump-backed man Who pleased the bygone days of good Queen Anne?

What, Pope? another book he's just put out,-- "The Dunciad,"--witty, but profane, no doubt.

Where's Cotton Mather? he was always here.

And so he would be, but he died last year.

Who is this preacher our Northampton claims, Whose rhetoric blazes with sulphureous flames And torches stolen from Tartarean mines?

Edwards, the salamander of divines.

A deep, strong nature, pure and undefiled; Faith, firm as his who stabbed his sleeping child; Alas for him who blindly strays apart, And seeking G.o.d has lost his human heart!

Fall where they might, no flying cinders caught These sober halls where WADSWORTH ruled and taught.

One footstep more; the fourth receding stride Leaves the round century on the nearer side.

G.o.d SAVE KING CHARLES! G.o.d knows that pleasant knave His grace will find it hard enough to save.

Ten years and more, and now the Plague, the Fire, Talk of all tongues, at last begin to tire; One fear prevails, all other frights forgot,-- White lips are whispering,--hark! The Popish Plot!

Happy New England, from such troubles free In health and peace beyond the stormy sea!

No Romish daggers threat her children's throats, No gibbering nightmare mutters "t.i.tus Oates;"

Philip is slain, the Quaker graves are green, Not yet the witch has entered on the scene; Happy our Harvard; pleased her graduates four; URIAN OAKES the name their parchments bore.

Two centuries past, our hurried feet arrive At the last footprint of the scanty five; Take the fifth stride; our wandering eyes explore A tangled forest on a trackless sh.o.r.e; Here, where we stand, the savage sorcerer howls, The wild cat snarls, the stealthy gray wolf prowls, The slouching bear, perchance the trampling moose Starts the brown squaw and scares her red pappoose; At every step the lurking foe is near; His Demons reign; G.o.d has no temple here!

Lift up your eyes! behold these pictured walls; Look where the flood of western glory falls Through the great sunflower disk of blazing panes In ruby, saffron, azure, emerald stains; With reverent step the marble pavement tread Where our proud Mother's martyr-roll is read; See the great halls that cl.u.s.ter, gathering round This lofty shrine with holiest memories crowned; See the fair Matron in her summer bower, Fresh as a rose in bright perennial flower; Read on her standard, always in the van, "TRUTH,"--the one word that makes a slave a man; Think whose the hands that fed her altar-fires, Then count the debt we owe our scholar-sires!

Brothers, farewell! the fast declining ray Fades to the twilight of our golden day; Some lesson yet our wearied brains may learn, Some leaves, perhaps, in life's thin volume turn.

How few they seem as in our waning age We count them backwards to the t.i.tle-page!

Oh let us trust with holy men of old Not all the story here begun is told; So the tired spirit, waiting to be freed, On life's last leaf with tranquil eye shall read By the pale glimmer of the torch reversed, Not Finis, but _The End of Volume First_!

MY AVIARY