The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes Part 47

I DON'T think I feel much older; I'm aware I'm rather gray, But so are many young folks; I meet 'em every day.

I confess I 'm more particular in what I eat and drink, But one's taste improves with culture; that is all it means, I think.

_Can you read as once you used to?_ Well, the printing is so bad, No young folks' eyes can read it like the books that once we had.

_Are you quite as quick of hearing?_ Please to say that once again.

_Don't I use plain words, your Reverence?_ Yes, I often use a cane,

But it's not because I need it,--no, I always liked a stick; And as one might lean upon it, 't is as well it should be thick.

Oh, I'm smart, I'm spry, I'm lively,--I can walk, yes, that I can, On the days I feel like walking, just as well as you, young man!

_Don't you get a little sleepy after dinner every day?_ Well, I doze a little, sometimes, but that always was my way.

_Don't you cry a little easier than some twenty years ago?_ Well, my heart is very tender, but I think 't was always so.

_Don't you find it sometimes happens that you can't recall a name?_ Yes, I know such lots of people,--but my memory 's not to blame.

What! You think my memory's failing! Why, it's just as bright and clear, I remember my great-grandma! She's been dead these sixty year!

_Is your voice a little trembly?_ Well, it may be, now and then, But I write as well as ever with a good old-fas.h.i.+oned pen; It 's the Gillotts make the trouble,--not at all my finger-ends,-- That is why my hand looks shaky when I sign for dividends.

_Don't you stoop a little, walking?_ It 's a way I 've always had, I have always been round-shouldered, ever since I was a lad.

_Don't you hate to tie your shoe-strings?_ Yes, I own it--that is true.

_Don't you tell old stories over?_ I am not aware I do.

_Don't you stay at home of evenings? Don't you love a cus.h.i.+oned seat_ _In a corner, by the fireside, with your slippers on your feet?_ _Don't you wear warm fleecy flannels? Don't you m.u.f.fle up your throat_ _Don't you like to have one help you when you're putting on your coat?_

_Don't you like old books you've dogs-eared, you can't remember when?_ _Don't you call it late at nine o'clock and go to bed at ten?_ _How many cronies can you count of all you used to know_ _Who called you by your Christian name some fifty years ago?_

_How look the prizes to you that used to fire your brain?_ _You've reared your mound-how high is it above the level plain?_ _You 've drained the br.i.m.m.i.n.g golden cup that made your fancy reel,_ _You've slept the giddy potion off,--now tell us how you feel!_

_You've watched the harvest ripening till every stem was cropped,_ _You 've seen the rose of beauty fade till every petal dropped,_ _You've told your thought, you 've done your task, you've tracked your dial round,_ --I backing down! Thank Heaven, not yet! I'm hale and brisk and sound,

And good for many a tussle, as you shall live to see; My shoes are not quite ready yet,--don't think you're rid of me!

Old Parr was in his l.u.s.ty prime when he was older far, And where will you be if I live to beat old Thomas Parr?

_Ah well,--I know,--at every age life has a certain charm,_-- _You're going? Come, permit me, please, I beg you'll take my arm._ I take your arm! Why take your arm? I 'd thank you to be told I 'm old enough to walk alone, but not so _very_ old!

THE SHADOWS

1880

"How many have gone?" was the question of old Ere Time our bright ring of its jewels bereft; Alas! for too often the death-bell has tolled, And the question we ask is, "How many are left?"

Bright sparkled the wine; there were fifty that quaffed; For a decade had slipped and had taken but three.

How they frolicked and sung, how they shouted and laughed, Like a school full of boys from their benches set free!

There were speeches and toasts, there were stories and rhymes, The hall shook its sides with their merriment's noise; As they talked and lived over the college-day times,-- No wonder they kept their old name of "The Boys"!

The seasons moved on in their rhythmical flow With mornings like maidens that pouted or smiled, With the bud and the leaf and the fruit and the snow, And the year-books of Time in his alcoves were piled.

There were forty that gathered where fifty had met; Some locks had got silvered, some lives had grown sere, But the laugh of the laughers was l.u.s.ty as yet, And the song of the singers rose ringing and clear.

Still flitted the years; there were thirty that came; "The Boys" they were still, and they answered their call; There were foreheads of care, but the smiles were the same, And the chorus rang loud through the garlanded hall.

The hour-hand moved on, and they gathered again; There were twenty that joined in the hymn that was sung; But ah! for our song-bird we listened in vain,-- The crystalline tones like a seraph's that rung!

How narrow the circle that holds us to-night!

How many the loved ones that greet us no more, As we meet like the stragglers that come from the fight, Like the mariners flung from a wreck on the sh.o.r.e!

We look through the twilight for those we have lost; The stream rolls between us, and yet they seem near; Already outnumbered by those who have crossed, Our band is transplanted, its home is not here!

They smile on us still--is it only a dream?-- While fondly or proudly their names we recall; They beckon--they come--they are crossing the stream-- Lo! the Shadows! the Shadows! room--room for them all!

BENJAMIN PEIRCE

ASTRONOMER, MATHEMATICIAN. 1809-1890

1881

FOR him the Architect of all Unroofed our planet's starlit hall; Through voids unknown to worlds unseen His clearer vision rose serene.

With us on earth he walked by day, His midnight path how far away!

We knew him not so well who knew The patient eyes his soul looked through;

For who his untrod realm could share Of us that breathe this mortal air, Or camp in that celestial tent Whose fringes gild our firmament?

How vast the workroom where he brought The viewless implements of thought!

The wit how subtle, how profound, That Nature's tangled webs unwound;

That through the clouded matrix saw The crystal planes of shaping law, Through these the sovereign skill that planned,-- The Father's care, the Master's hand!

To him the wandering stars revealed The secrets in their cradle sealed The far-off, frozen sphere that swings Through ether, zoned with lucid rings;

The orb that rolls in dim eclipse Wide wheeling round its long ellipse,-- His name Urania writes with these And stamps it on her Pleiades.

We knew him not? Ah, well we knew The manly soul, so brave, so true, The cheerful heart that conquered age, The childlike silver-bearded sage.

No more his tireless thought explores The azure sea with golden sh.o.r.es; Rest, wearied frame I the stars shall keep A loving watch where thou shalt sleep.

Farewell! the spirit needs must rise, So long a tenant of the skies,-- Rise to that home all worlds above Whose sun is G.o.d, whose light is love.