The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes Part 63

The snow has capped yon distant hill, At morn the running brook was still, From driven herds the clouds that rise Are like the smoke of sacrifice; Erelong the frozen sod shall mock The ploughshare, changed to stubborn rock, The brawling streams shall soon be dumb,-- Sing, little bird! the frosts have come.

Fast, fast the lengthening shadows creep, The songless fowls are half asleep, The air grows chill, the setting sun May leave thee ere thy song is done, The pulse that warms thy breast grow cold, Thy secret die with thee, untold The lingering sunset still is bright,-- Sing, little bird! 't will soon be night.

1874.

DOROTHY Q.

A FAMILY PORTRAIT

I cannot tell the story of Dorothy Q. more simply in prose than I have told it in verse, but I can add something to it. Dorothy was the daughter of Judge Edmund Quincy, and the niece of Josiah Quincy, junior, the young patriot and orator who died just before the American Revolution, of which he was one of the most eloquent and effective promoters. The son of the latter, Josiah Quincy, the first mayor of Boston bearing that name, lived to a great age, one of the most useful and honored citizens of his time.

The canvas of the painting was so much decayed that it had to be replaced by a new one, in doing which the rapier thrust was of course filled up.

GRANDMOTHER'S mother: her age, I guess, Thirteen summers, or something less; Girlish bust, but womanly air; Smooth, square forehead with uprolled hair; Lips that lover has never kissed; Taper fingers and slender wrist; Hanging sleeves of stiff brocade; So they painted the little maid.

On her hand a parrot green Sits unmoving and broods serene.

Hold up the canvas full in view,-- Look! there's a rent the light s.h.i.+nes through, Dark with a century's fringe of dust,-- That was a Red-Coat's rapier-thrust!

Such is the tale the lady old, Dorothy's daughter's daughter, told.

Who the painter was none may tell,-- One whose best was not over well; Hard and dry, it must be confessed, Flat as a rose that has long been pressed; Yet in her cheek the hues are bright, Dainty colors of red and white, And in her slender shape are seen Hint and promise of stately mien.

Look not on her with eyes of scorn,-- Dorothy Q. was a lady born!

Ay! since the galloping Normans came, England's annals have known her name; And still to the three-billed rebel town Dear is that ancient name's renown, For many a civic wreath they won, The youthful sire and the gray-haired son.

O Damsel Dorothy! Dorothy Q.!

Strange is the gift that I owe to you; Such a gift as never a king Save to daughter or son might bring,-- All my tenure of heart and hand, All my t.i.tle to house and land; Mother and sister and child and wife And joy and sorrow and death and life!

What if a hundred years ago Those close-shut lips had answered No, When forth the tremulous question came That cost the maiden her Norman name, And under the folds that look so still The bodice swelled with the bosom's thrill?

Should I be I, or would it be One tenth another, to nine tenths me?

Soft is the breath of a maiden's YES Not the light gossamer stirs with less; But never a cable that holds so fast Through all the battles of wave and blast, And never an echo of speech or song That lives in the babbling air so long!

There were tones in the voice that whispered then You may hear to-day in a hundred men.

O lady and lover, how faint and far Your images hover,--and here we are, Solid and stirring in flesh and bone,-- Edward's and Dorothy's--all their own,-- A goodly record for Time to show Of a syllable spoken so long ago!-- Shall I bless you, Dorothy, or forgive For the tender whisper that bade me live?

It shall be a blessing, my little maid!

I will heal the stab of the Red-Coat's blade, And freshen the gold of the tarnished frame, And gild with a rhyme your household name; So you shall smile on us brave and bright As first you greeted the morning's light, And live untroubled by woes and fears Through a second youth of a hundred years.

1871.

THE ORGAN-BLOWER

DEVOUTEST of My Sunday friends, The patient Organ-blower bends; I see his figure sink and rise, (Forgive me, Heaven, my wandering eyes!) A moment lost, the next half seen, His head above the scanty screen, Still measuring out his deep salaams Through quavering hymns and panting psalms.

No priest that prays in gilded stole, To save a rich man's mortgaged soul; No sister, fresh from holy vows, So humbly stoops, so meekly bows; His large obeisance puts to shame The proudest genuflecting dame, Whose Easter bonnet low descends With all the grace devotion lends.

O brother with the supple spine, How much we owe those bows of thine Without thine arm to lend the breeze, How vain the finger on the keys!

Though all unmatched the player's skill, Those thousand throats were dumb and still: Another's art may shape the tone, The breath that fills it is thine own.

Six days the silent Memnon waits Behind his temple's folded gates; But when the seventh day's suns.h.i.+ne falls Through rainbowed windows on the walls, He breathes, he sings, he shouts, he fills The quivering air with rapturous thrills; The roof resounds, the pillars shake, And all the slumbering echoes wake!

The Preacher from the Bible-text With weary words my soul has vexed (Some stranger, fumbling far astray To find the lesson for the day); He tells us truths too plainly true, And reads the service all askew,-- Why, why the--mischief--can't he look Beforehand in the service-book?

But thou, with decent mien and face, Art always ready in thy place; Thy strenuous blast, whate'er the tune, As steady as the strong monsoon; Thy only dread a leathery creak, Or small residual extra squeak, To send along the shadowy aisles A sunlit wave of dimpled smiles.

Not all the preaching, O my friend, Comes from the church's pulpit end!

Not all that bend the knee and bow Yield service half so true as thou!

One simple task performed aright, With slender skill, but all thy might, Where honest labor does its best, And leaves the player all the rest.

This many-diapasoned maze, Through which the breath of being strays, Whose music makes our earth divine, Has work for mortal hands like mine.

My duty lies before me. Lo, The lever there! Take hold and blow And He whose hand is on the keys Will play the tune as He shall please.

1812.

AT THE PANTOMIME

THE house was crammed from roof to floor, Heads piled on heads at every door; Half dead with August's seething heat I crowded on and found my seat, My patience slightly out of joint, My temper short of boiling-point, Not quite at _Hate mankind as such_, Nor yet at _Love them overmuch_.

Amidst the throng the pageant drew Were gathered Hebrews not a few, Black-bearded, swarthy,--at their side Dark, jewelled women, orient-eyed: If scarce a Christian hopes for grace Who crowds one in his narrow place, What will the savage victim do Whose ribs are kneaded by a Jew?

Next on my left a breathing form Wedged up against me, close and warm; The beak that crowned the bistred face Betrayed the mould of Abraham's race,-- That coal-black hair, that smoke-brown hue,-- Ah, cursed, unbelieving Jew I started, shuddering, to the right, And squeezed--a second Israelite.

Then woke the evil brood of rage That slumber, tongueless, in their cage; I stabbed in turn with silent oaths The hook-nosed kite of carrion clothes, The snaky usurer, him that crawls And cheats beneath the golden b.a.l.l.s, Moses and Levi, all the horde, Sp.a.w.n of the race that slew its Lord.

Up came their murderous deeds of old, The grisly story Chaucer told, And many an ugly tale beside Of children caught and crucified; I heard the ducat-sweating thieves Beneath the Ghetto's slouching eaves, And, thrust beyond the tented green, The lepers cry, "Unclean! Unclean!"

The show went on, but, ill at ease, My sullen eye it could not please, In vain my conscience whispered, "Shame!

Who but their Maker is to blame?"

I thought of Judas and his bribe, And steeled my soul against their tribe My neighbors stirred; I looked again Full on the younger of the twain.

A fresh young cheek whose olive hue The mantling blood shows faintly through; Locks dark as midnight, that divide And shade the neck on either side; Soft, gentle, loving eyes that gleam Clear as a starlit mountain stream;-- So looked that other child of Shem, The Maiden's Boy of Bethlehem!

And thou couldst scorn the peerless blood That flows immingled from the Flood,-- Thy scutcheon spotted with the stains Of Norman thieves and pirate Danes!

The New World's foundling, in thy pride Scowl on the Hebrew at thy side, And lo! the very semblance there The Lord of Glory deigned to wear!

I see that radiant image rise, The flowing hair, the pitying eyes, The faintly crimsoned cheek that shows The blush of Sharon's opening rose,-- Thy hands would clasp his hallowed feet Whose brethren soil thy Christian seat, Thy lips would press his garment's hem That curl in wrathful scorn for them!

A sudden mist, a watery screen, Dropped like a veil before the scene; The shadow floated from my soul, And to my lips a whisper stole,-- "Thy prophets caught the Spirit's flame, From thee the Son of Mary came, With thee the Father deigned to dwell,-- Peace be upon thee, Israel!"