The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes Part 43

I own the weakness of the tuneful kind,-- Are not all harpers blind?

I sang too early, must I sing too late?

The lengthening shadows wait The first pale stars of twilight,--yet how sweet The flattering whisper's cheat,-- "Thou hast the fire no evening chill can tame, Whose coals outlast its flame!"

Farewell, ye carols of the laughing morn, Of earliest suns.h.i.+ne born!

The sower flings the seed and looks not back Along his furrowed track; The reaper leaves the stalks for other hands To gird with circling bands; The wind, earth's careless servant, truant-born, Blows clean the beaten corn And quits the thresher's floor, and goes his way To sport with ocean's spray; The headlong-stumbling rivulet scrambling down To wash the sea-girt town, Still babbling of the green and billowy waste Whose salt he longs to taste, Ere his warm wave its chilling clasp may feel Has twirled the miller's wheel.

The song has done its task that makes us bold With secrets else untold,-- And mine has run its errand; through the dews I tracked the flying Muse; The daughter of the morning touched my lips With roseate finger-tips; Whether I would or would not, I must sing With the new choirs of spring; Now, as I watch the fading autumn day And trill my softened lay, I think of all that listened, and of one For whom a brighter sun Dawned at high summer's noon. Ah, comrades dear, Are not all gathered here?

Our hearts have answered.--Yes! they hear our call: All gathered here! all! all!

THE SMILING LISTENER

1871 PRECISELY. I see it. You all want to say That a tear is too sad and a laugh is too gay; You could stand a faint smile, you could manage a sigh, But you value your ribs, and you don't want to cry.

And why at our feast of the clasping of hands Need we turn on the stream of our lachrymal glands?

Though we see the white breakers of age on our bow, Let us take a good pull in the jolly-boat now!

It's hard if a fellow cannot feel content When a banquet like this does n't cost him a cent, When his goblet and plate he may empty at will, And our kind Cla.s.s Committee will settle the bill.

And here's your old friend, the identical bard Who has rhymed and recited you verse by the yard Since the days of the empire of Andrew the First Till you 're full to the brim and feel ready to burst.

It's awful to think of,--how year after year With his piece in his pocket he waits for you here; No matter who's missing, there always is one To lug out his ma.n.u.script, sure as a gun.

"Why won't he stop writing?" Humanity cries The answer is briefly, "He can't if he tries; He has played with his foolish old feather so long, That the goose-quill in spite of him cackles in song."

You have watched him with patience from morning to dusk Since the ta.s.sel was bright o'er the green of the husk, And now--it 's too bad--it 's a pitiful job-- He has sh.e.l.led the ripe ear till he's come to the cob.

I see one face beaming--it listens so well There must be some music yet left in my sh.e.l.l-- The wine of my soul is not thick on the lees; One string is unbroken, one friend I can please!

Dear comrade, the suns.h.i.+ne of seasons gone by Looks out from your tender and tear-moistened eye, A pharos of love on an ice-girdled coast,-- Kind soul!--Don't you hear me?--He's deaf as a post!

Can it be one of Nature's benevolent tricks That you grow hard of hearing as I grow prolix?

And that look of delight which would angels beguile Is the deaf man's prolonged unintelligent smile?

Ah! the ear may grow dull, and the eye may wax dim, But they still know a cla.s.smate--they can't mistake him; There is something to tell us, "That's one of our band,"

Though we groped in the dark for a touch of his hand.

Well, Time with his snuffers is prowling about And his shaky old fingers will soon snuff us out; There's a hint for us all in each pendulum tick, For we're low in the tallow and long in the wick.

You remember Rossini--you 've been at the play?

How his overture-endings keep cras.h.i.+ng away Till you think, "It 's all over--it can't but stop now-- That 's the screech and the bang of the final bow-wow."

And you find you 're mistaken; there 's lots more to come, More banging, more screeching of fiddle and drum, Till when the last ending is finished and done, You feel like a horse when the winning-post 's won.

So I, who have sung to you, merry or sad, Since the days when they called me a promising lad, Though I 've made you more rhymes than a tutor could scan, Have a few more still left, like the razor-strop man.

Now pray don't be frightened--I 'm ready to stop My galloping anapests' clatter and pop-- In fact, if you say so, retire from to-day To the garret I left, on a poet's half-pay.

And yet--I can't help it--perhaps--who can tell?

You might miss the poor singer you treated so well, And confess you could stand him five minutes or so, "It was so like old times we remember, you know."

'T is not that the music can signify much, But then there are chords that awake with a touch,-- And our hearts can find echoes of sorrow and joy To the winch of the minstrel who hails from Savoy.

So this hand-organ tune that I cheerfully grind May bring the old places and faces to mind, And seen in the light of the past we recall The flowers that have faded bloom fairest of all!

OUR SWEET SINGER

J. A.

1872

ONE memory trembles on our lips; It throbs in every breast; In tear-dimmed eyes, in mirth's eclipse, The shadow stands confessed.

O silent voice, that cheered so long Our manhood's marching day, Without thy breath of heavenly song, How weary seems the way!

Vain every pictured phrase to tell Our sorrowing heart's desire,-- The shattered harp, the broken sh.e.l.l, The silent unstrung lyre;

For youth was round us while he sang; It glowed in every tone; With bridal chimes the echoes rang, And made the past our own.

Oh blissful dream! Our nursery joys We know must have an end, But love and friends.h.i.+p's broken toys May G.o.d's good angels mend!

The cheering smile, the voice of mirth And laughter's gay surprise That please the children born of earth.

Why deem that Heaven denies?

Methinks in that refulgent sphere That knows not sun or moon, An earth-born saint might long to hear One verse of "Bonny Doon";

Or walking through the streets of gold In heaven's unclouded light, His lips recall the song of old And hum "The sky is bright."

And can we smile when thou art dead?

Ah, brothers, even so!

The rose of summer will be red, In spite of winter's snow.

Thou wouldst not leave us all in gloom Because thy song is still, Nor blight the banquet-garland's bloom With grief's untimely chill.

The sighing wintry winds complain,-- The singing bird has flown,-- Hark! heard I not that ringing strain, That clear celestial tone?

How poor these pallid phrases seem, How weak this tinkling line, As warbles through my waking dream That angel voice of thine!

Thy requiem asks a sweeter lay; It falters on my tongue; For all we vainly strive to say, Thou shouldst thyself have sung!