The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes Part 53

In earth's broad temple where we stand, Fanned by the eastern gales that brought us, We hold the missal in our hand, Bright with the lines our Mother taught us.

Where'er its blazoned page betrays The glistening links of gilded fetters, Behold, the half-turned leaf displays Her rubric stained in crimson letters!

Enough! To speed a parting friend 'T is vain alike to speak and listen;-- Yet stay,--these feeble accents blend With rays of light from eyes that glisten.

Good by! once more,--and kindly tell In words of peace the young world's story,-- And say, besides, we love too well Our mothers' soil, our fathers' glory.

THE LAST BLOSSOM

THOUGH young no more, we still would dream Of beauty's dear deluding wiles; The leagues of life to graybeards seem Shorter than boyhood's lingering miles.

Who knows a woman's wild caprice?

'It played with Goethe's silvered hair, And many a Holy Father's "niece"

Has softly smoothed the papal chair.

When sixty bids us sigh in vain To melt the heart of sweet sixteen, We think upon those ladies twain Who loved so well the tough old Dean.

We see the Patriarch's wintry face, The maid of Egypt's dusky glow, And dream that Youth and Age embrace, As April violets fill with snow.

Tranced in her lord's Olympian smile His lotus-loving Memphian lies,-- The musky daughter of the Nile, With plaited hair and almond eyes.

Might we but share one wild caress Ere life's autumnal blossoms fall, And Earth's brown, clinging lips impress The long cold kiss that waits us all!

My bosom heaves, remembering yet The morning of that blissful day, When Rose, the flower of spring, I met, And gave my raptured soul away.

Flung from her eyes of purest blue, A la.s.so, with its leaping chain, Light as a loop of larkspurs, flew O'er sense and spirit, heart and brain.

Thou com'st to cheer my waning age, Sweet vision, waited for so long!

Dove that would seek the poet's cage Lured by the magic breath of song!

She blushes! Ah, reluctant maid, Love's drapeau rouge the truth has told!

O' er girlhood's yielding barricade Floats the great Leveller's crimson fold!

Come to my arms!--love heeds not years; No frost the bud of pa.s.sion knows.

Ha! what is this my frenzy hears?

A voice behind me uttered,--Rose!

Sweet was her smile,--but not for me; Alas! when woman looks too kind, Just turn your foolish head and see,-- Some youth is walking close behind!

CONTENTMENT

"Man wants but little here below"

LITTLE I ask; my wants are few; I only wish a hut of stone, (A _very plain_ brown stone will do,) That I may call my own;-- And close at hand is such a one, In yonder street that fronts the sun.

Plain food is quite enough for me; Three courses are as good as ten;-- If Nature can subsist on three, Thank Heaven for three. Amen I always thought cold victual nice;-- My _choice_ would be vanilla-ice.

I care not much for gold or land;-- Give me a mortgage here and there,-- Some good bank-stock, some note of hand, Or trifling railroad share,-- I only ask that Fortune send A _little_ more than I shall spend.

Honors are silly toys, I know, And t.i.tles are but empty names; I would, _perhaps_, be Plenipo,-- But only near St. James; I'm very sure I should not care To fill our Gubernator's chair.

Jewels are baubles; 't is a sin To care for such unfruitful things;-- One good-sized diamond in a pin,-- Some, not so large, in rings,-- A ruby, and a pearl, or so, Will do for me;--I laugh at show.

My dame should dress in cheap attire; (Good, heavy silks are never dear;)-- I own perhaps I might desire Some shawls of true Cashmere,-- Some marrowy c.r.a.pes of China silk, Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk.

I would not have the horse I drive So fast that folks must stop and stare; An easy gait--two, forty-five-- Suits me; I do not care;-- Perhaps, for just a _single spurt_, Some seconds less would do no hurt.

Of pictures, I should like to own t.i.tians and Raphaels three or four,-- I love so much their style and tone, One Turner, and no more, (A landscape,--foreground golden dirt,-- The suns.h.i.+ne painted with a squirt.)

Of books but few,--some fifty score For daily use, and bound for wear; The rest upon an upper floor;-- Some _little_ luxury _there_ Of red morocco's gilded gleam And vellum rich as country cream.

Busts, cameos, gems,--such things as these, Which others often show for pride, I value for their power to please, And selfish churls deride;-- _One_ Stradivarius, I confess, _Two_ Meerschaums, I would fain possess.

Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn, Nor ape the glittering upstart fool;-- Shall not carved tables serve my turn, But _all_ must be of buhl?

Give grasping pomp its double share,-- I ask but _one_ rec.u.mbent chair.

Thus humble let me live and die, Nor long for Midas' golden touch; If Heaven more generous gifts deny, I shall not miss them much,-- Too grateful for the blessing lent Of simple tastes and mind content!

AESTIVATION

AN UNPUBLISHED POEM, BY MY LATE LATIN TUTOR

IN candent ire the solar splendor flames; The foles, langueseent, pend from arid rames; His humid front the Give, anheling, wipes, And dreams of erring on ventiferous riper.

How dulce to vive occult to mortal eyes, Dorm on the herb with none to supervise, Carp the suave berries from the crescent vine, And bibe the flow from longicaudate kine!

To me, alas! no verdurous visions come, Save yon exiguous pool's conferva-sc.u.m,-- No concave vast repeats the tender hue That laves my milk-jug with celestial blue!

Me wretched! Let me curr to quercine shades!

Effund your albid hausts, lactiferous maids!

Oh, might I vole to some umbrageous clump,-- Depart,--be off,--excede,--evade,--erump!

THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE

OR, THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSS SHAY"