The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes - LightNovelsOnl.com
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They shaped our future; we but carve their names.
HYMN
FOR THE SAME OCCASION
SUNG BY THE CONGREGATION TO THE TUNE OF TALLIS'S EVENING HYMN
O'ERSHADOWED by the walls that climb, Piled up in air by living hands, A rock amid the waves of time, Our gray old house of wors.h.i.+p stands.
High o'er the pillared aisles we love The symbols of the past look down; Unharmed, unharming, throned above, Behold the mitre and the crown!
Let not our younger faith forget The loyal souls that held them dear; The prayers we read their tears have wet, The hymns we sing they loved to hear.
The memory of their earthly throne Still to our holy temple clings, But here the kneeling suppliants own One only Lord, the King of kings.
Hark! while our hymn of grateful praise The solemn echoing vaults prolong, The far-off voice of earlier days Blends with our own in hallowed song:
To Him who ever lives and reigns, Whom all the hosts of heaven adore, Who lent the life His breath sustains, Be glory now and evermore!
HYMN.--THE WORD OF PROMISE
(by supposition)
An Hymn set forth to be sung by the Great a.s.sembly at Newtown, [Ma.s.s.] Mo. 12. 1. 1636.
[Written by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, eldest son of Rev.
ABIEL HOLMES, eighth Pastor of the First Church in Cambridge, Ma.s.sachusetts.]
LORD, Thou hast led us as of old Thine Arm led forth the chosen Race Through Foes that raged, through Floods that roll'd, To Canaan's far-off Dwelling-Place.
Here is Thy bounteous Table spread, Thy Manna falls on every Field, Thy Grace our hungering Souls hath fed, Thy Might hath been our Spear and s.h.i.+eld.
Lift high Thy Buckler, Lord of Hosts!
Guard Thou Thy Servants, Sons and Sires, While on the G.o.dless heathen Coasts They light Thine Israel's Altar-fires!
The salvage Wilderness remote Shall hear Thy Works and Wonders sung; So from the Rock that Moses smote The Fountain of the Desart sprung.
Soon shall the slumbering Morn awake, From wandering Stars of Errour freed, When Christ the Bread of Heaven shall break For Saints that own a common Creed.
The Walls that fence His Flocks apart Shall crack and crumble in Decay, And every Tongue and every Heart Shall welcome in the new-born Day.
Then shall His glorious Church rejoice His Word of Promise to recall,-- ONE SHELTERING FOLD, ONE SHEPHERD'S VOICE, ONE G.o.d AND FATHER OVER ALL!
HYMN
READ AT THE DEDICATION OF THE OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES HOSPITAL AT HUDSON, WISCONSIN
JUNE 7, 1877
ANGEL of love, for every grief Its soothing balm thy mercy brings, For every pang its healing leaf, For homeless want, thine outspread, wings.
Enough for thee the pleading eye, The knitted brow of silent pain; The portals open to a sigh Without the clank of bolt or chain.
Who is our brother? He that lies Left at the wayside, bruised and sore His need our open hand supplies, His welcome waits him at our door.
Not ours to ask in freezing tones His race, his calling, or his creed; Each heart the tie of kins.h.i.+p owns, When those are human veins that bleed.
Here stand the champions to defend From every wound that flesh can feel; Here science, patience, skill, shall blend To save, to calm, to help, to heal.
Father of Mercies! Weak and frail, Thy guiding hand Thy children ask; Let not the Great Physician fail To aid us in our holy task.
Source of all truth, and love, and light, That warm and cheer our earthly days, Be ours to serve Thy will aright, Be Thine the glory and the praise!
ON THE DEATH OF PRESIDENT GARFIELD
I.
FALLEN with autumn's falling leaf Ere yet his summer's noon was past, Our friend, our guide, our trusted chief,-- What words can match a woe so vast!
And whose the chartered claim to speak The sacred grief where all have part, Where sorrow saddens every cheek And broods in every aching heart?
Yet Nature prompts the burning phrase That thrills the hushed and shrouded hall, The loud lament, the sorrowing praise, The silent tear that love lets fall.
In loftiest verse, in lowliest rhyme, Shall strive unblamed the minstrel choir,--- The singers of the new-born time, And trembling age with outworn lyre.
No room for pride, no place for blame,-- We fling our blossoms on the grave, Pale,--scentless,--faded,--all we claim, This only,--what we had we gave.
Ah, could the grief of all who mourn Blend in one voice its bitter cry, The wail to heaven's high arches borne Would echo through the caverned sky.
II.
O happiest land, whose peaceful choice Fills with a breath its empty throne!
G.o.d, speaking through thy people's voice, Has made that voice for once His own.
No angry pa.s.sion shakes the state Whose weary servant seeks for rest; And who could fear that scowling hate Would strike at that unguarded breast?
