The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes Part 35

BILL AND JOE

COME, dear old comrade, you and I Will steal an hour from days gone by, The s.h.i.+ning days when life was new, And all was bright with morning dew, The l.u.s.ty days of long ago, When you were Bill and I was Joe.

Your name may flaunt a t.i.tled trail Proud as a c.o.c.kerel's rainbow tail, And mine as brief appendix wear As Tam O'Shanter's luckless mare; To-day, old friend, remember still That I am Joe and you are Bill.

You've won the great world's envied prize, And grand you look in people's eyes, With H O N. and L L. D.

In big brave letters, fair to see,-- Your fist, old fellow! off they go!-- How are you, Bill? How are you, Joe?

You've worn the judge's ermined robe; You 've taught your name to half the globe; You've sung mankind a deathless strain; You've made the dead past live again The world may call you what it will, But you and I are Joe and Bill.

The chaffing young folks stare and say "See those old buffers, bent and gray,-- They talk like fellows in their teens!

Mad, poor old boys! That's what it means,"-- And shake their heads; they little know The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe!--

How Bill forgets his hour of pride, While Joe sits smiling at his side; How Joe, in spite of time's disguise, Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes,-- Those calm, stern eyes that melt and fill As Joe looks fondly up at Bill.

Ah, pensive scholar, what is fame?

A fitful tongue of leaping flame; A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust, That lifts a pinch of mortal dust; A few swift years, and who can show Which dust was Bill and which was Joe?

The weary idol takes his stand, Holds out his bruised and aching hand, While gaping thousands come and go,-- How vain it seems, this empty show!

Till all at once his pulses thrill;-- 'T is poor old Joe's "G.o.d bless you, Bill!"

And shall we breathe in happier spheres The names that pleased our mortal ears; In some sweet lull of harp and song For earth-born spirits none too long, Just whispering of the world below Where this was Bill and that was Joe?

No matter; while our home is here No sounding name is half so dear; When fades at length our lingering day, Who cares what pompous tombstones say?

Read on the hearts that love us still, _Hic jacet_ Joe. _Hic jacet_ Bill.

A SONG OF "TWENTY-NINE"

1851

THE summer dawn is breaking On Auburn's tangled bowers, The golden light is waking On Harvard's ancient towers; The sun is in the sky That must see us do or die, Ere it s.h.i.+ne on the line Of the CLa.s.s OF '29.

At last the day is ended, The tutor screws no more, By doubt and fear attended Each hovers round the door, Till the good old Praeses cries, While the tears stand in his eyes, "You have pa.s.sed, and are cla.s.sed With the Boys of '29."

Not long are they in making The college halls their own, Instead of standing shaking, Too bashful to be known; But they kick the Seniors' s.h.i.+ns Ere the second week begins, When they stray in the way Of the BOYS OF '29.

If a jolly set is trolling The last _Der Freischutz_ airs, Or a "cannon bullet" rolling Comes bouncing down the stairs, The tutors, looking out, Sigh, "Alas! there is no doubt, 'T is the noise of the Boys Of the CLa.s.s OF '29."

Four happy years together, By storm and suns.h.i.+ne tried, In changing wind and weather, They rough it side by side, Till they hear their Mother cry, "You are fledged, and you must fly,"

And the bell tolls the knell Of the days of '29.

Since then, in peace or trouble, Full many a year has rolled, And life has counted double The days that then we told; Yet we'll end as we've begun, For though scattered, we are one, While each year sees us here, Round the board of '29.

Though fate may throw between us The mountains or the sea, No time shall ever wean us, No distance set us free; But around the yearly board, When the flaming pledge is poured, It shall claim every name On the roll of '29.

To yonder peaceful ocean That glows with sunset fires, Shall reach the warm emotion This welcome day inspires, Beyond the ridges cold Where a brother toils for gold, Till it s.h.i.+ne through the mine Round the Boy of '29.

If one whom fate has broken Shall lift a moistened eye, We'll say, before he 's spoken-- "Old Cla.s.smate, don't you cry!

Here, take the purse I hold, There 's a tear upon the gold-- It was mine-it is thine-- A'n't we BOYS OF '29?"

As nearer still and nearer The fatal stars appear, The living shall be dearer With each encircling year, Till a few old men shall say, "We remember 't is the day-- Let it pa.s.s with a gla.s.s For the CLa.s.s OF '29."

As one by one is falling Beneath the leaves or snows, Each memory still recalling, The broken ring shall close, Till the nightwinds softly pa.s.s O'er the green and growing gra.s.s, Where it waves on the graves Of the BOYS OF '29!

QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS

1852

WHERE, oh where are the visions of morning, Fresh as the dews of our prime?

Gone, like tenants that quit without warning, Down the back entry of time.

Where, oh where are life's lilies and roses, Nursed in the golden dawn's smile?

Dead as the bulrushes round little Moses, On the old banks of the Nile.

Where are the Marys, and Anns, and Elizas, Loving and lovely of yore?

Look in the columns of old Advertisers,-- Married and dead by the score.

Where the gray colts and the ten-year-old fillies, Sat.u.r.day's triumph and joy?

Gone, like our friend (--Greek--) Achilles, Homer's ferocious old boy.

Die-away dreams of ecstatic emotion, Hopes like young eagles at play, Vows of unheard-of and endless devotion, How ye have faded away!

Yet, through the ebbing of Time's mighty river Leave our young blossoms to die, Let him roll smooth in his current forever, Till the last pebble is dry.

AN IMPROMPTU

Not premeditated

1853

THE clock has struck noon; ere it thrice tell the hours We shall meet round the table that blushes with flowers, And I shall blush deeper with shame-driven blood That I came to the banquet and brought not a bud.

Who cares that his verse is a beggar in art If you see through its rags the full throb of his heart?

Who asks if his comrade is battered and tanned When he feels his warm soul in the clasp of his hand?