The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes Part 110

FROM A BACHELOR'S PRIVATE JOURNAL

SWEET Mary, I have never breathed The love it were in vain to name; Though round my heart a serpent wreathed, I smiled, or strove to smile, the same.

Once more the pulse of Nature glows With faster throb and fresher fire, While music round her pathway flows, Like echoes from a hidden lyre.

And is there none with me to share The glories of the earth and sky?

The eagle through the pathless air Is followed by one burning eye.

Ah no! the cradled flowers may wake, Again may flow the frozen sea, From every cloud a star may break,-- There conies no second spring to me.

Go,--ere the painted toys of youth Are crushed beneath the tread of years; Ere visions have been chilled to truth, And hopes are washed away in tears.

Go,--for I will not bid thee weep,-- Too soon my sorrows will be thine, And evening's troubled air shall sweep The incense from the broken shrine.

If Heaven can hear the dying tone Of chords that soon will cease to thrill, The prayer that Heaven has heard alone May bless thee when those chords are still.

LA GRISETTE

As Clemence! when I saw thee last Trip down the Rue de Seine, And turning, when thy form had past, I said, "We meet again,"-- I dreamed not in that idle glance Thy latest image came, And only left to memory's trance A shadow and a name.

The few strange words my lips had taught Thy timid voice to speak, Their gentler signs, which often brought Fresh roses to thy cheek, The trailing of thy long loose hair Bent o'er my couch of pain, All, all returned, more sweet, more fair; Oh, had we met again!

I walked where saint and virgin keep The vigil lights of Heaven, I knew that thou hadst woes to weep, And sins to be forgiven; I watched where Genevieve was laid, I knelt by Mary's shrine, Beside me low, soft voices prayed; Alas! but where was thine?

And when the morning sun was bright, When wind and wave were calm, And flamed, in thousand-tinted light, The rose of Notre Dame, I wandered through the haunts of men, From Boulevard to Quai, Till, frowning o'er Saint Etienne, The Pantheon's shadow lay.

In vain, in vain; we meet no more, Nor dream what fates befall; And long upon the stranger's sh.o.r.e My voice on thee may call, When years have clothed the line in moss That tells thy name and days, And withered, on thy simple cross, The wreaths of Pere-la-Chaise!

OUR YANKEE GIRLS

LET greener lands and bluer skies, If such the wide earth shows, With fairer cheeks and brighter eyes, Match us the star and rose; The winds that lift the Georgian's veil, Or wave Circa.s.sia's curls, Waft to their sh.o.r.es the sultan's sail,-- Who buys our Yankee girls?

The gay grisette, whose fingers touch Love's thousand chords so well; The dark Italian, loving much, But more than one can tell; And England's fair-haired, blue-eyed dame, Who binds her brow with pearls;-- Ye who have seen them, can they shame Our own sweet Yankee girls?

And what if court or castle vaunt Its children loftier born?-- Who heeds the silken ta.s.sel's flaunt Beside the golden corn?

They ask not for the dainty toil Of ribboned knights and earls, The daughters of the virgin soil, Our freeborn Yankee girls!

By every hill whose stately pines Wave their dark arms above The home where some fair being s.h.i.+nes, To warm the wilds with love, From barest rock to bleakest sh.o.r.e Where farthest sail unfurls, That stars and stripes are streaming o'er,-- G.o.d bless our Yankee girls!

L'INCONNUE

Is thy name Mary, maiden fair?

Such should, methinks, its music be; The sweetest name that mortals bear Were best befitting thee; And she to whom it once was given, Was half of earth and half of heaven.

I hear thy voice, I see thy smile, I look upon thy folded hair; Ah! while we dream not they beguile, Our hearts are in the snare; And she who chains a wild bird's wing Must start not if her captive sing.

So, lady, take the leaf that falls, To all but thee unseen, unknown; When evening shades thy silent walls, Then read it all alone; In stillness read, in darkness seal, Forget, despise, but not reveal!

STANZAS

STRANGE! that one lightly whispered tone Is far, far sweeter unto me, Than all the sounds that kiss the earth, Or breathe along the sea; But, lady, when thy voice I greet, Not heavenly music seems so sweet.

I look upon the fair blue skies, And naught but empty air I see; But when I turn me to thin eyes, It seemeth unto me Ten thousand angels spread their wings Within those little azure rings.

The lily bath the softest leaf That ever western breeze bath fanned, But thou shalt have the tender flower, So I may take thy hand; That little hand to me doth yield More joy than all the broidered field.

O lady! there be many things That seem right fair, below, above; But sure not one among them all Is half so sweet as love;-- Let us not pay our vows alone, But join two altars both in one.

LINES BY A CLERK

OH! I did love her dearly, And gave her toys and rings, And I thought she meant sincerely, When she took my pretty things.

But her heart has grown as icy As a fountain in the fall, And her love, that was so spicy, It did not last at all.

I gave her once a locket, It was filled with my own hair, And she put it in her pocket With very special care.

But a jeweller has got it,-- He offered it to me,-- And another that is not it Around her neck I see.

For my cooings and my billings I do not now complain, But my dollars and my s.h.i.+llings Will never come again; They were earned with toil and sorrow, But I never told her that, And now I have to borrow, And want another hat.

Think, think, thou cruel Emma, When thou shalt hear my woe, And know my sad dilemma, That thou hast made it so.

See, see my beaver rusty, Look, look upon this hole, This coat is dim and dusty; Oh let it rend thy soul!

Before the gates of fas.h.i.+on I daily bent my knee, But I sought the shrine of pa.s.sion, And found my idol,--thee.

Though never love intenser Had bowed a soul before it, Thine eye was on the censer, And not the hand that bore it.

THE PHILOSOPHER TO HIS LOVE

DEAREST, a look is but a ray Reflected in a certain way; A word, whatever tone it wear, Is but a trembling wave of air; A touch, obedience to a clause In nature's pure material laws.

The very flowers that bend and meet, In sweetening others, grow more sweet; The clouds by day, the stars by night, Inweave their floating locks of light; The rainbow, Heaven's own forehead's braid, Is but the embrace of sun and shade.

Oh! in the hour when I shall feel Those shadows round my senses steal, When gentle eyes are weeping o'er The clay that feels their tears no more, Then let thy spirit with me be, Or some sweet angel, likest thee!