The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes Part 64

18--. Rewritten 1874.

AFTER THE FIRE

WHILE far along the eastern sky I saw the flags of Havoc fly, As if his forces would a.s.sault The sovereign of the starry vault And hurl Him back the burning rain That seared the cities of the plain, I read as on a crimson page The words of Israel's sceptred sage:--

_For riches make them wings, and they Do as an eagle fly away_.

O vision of that sleepless night, What hue shall paint the mocking light That burned and stained the orient skies Where peaceful morning loves to rise, As if the sun had lost his way And dawned to make a second day,-- Above how red with fiery glow, How dark to those it woke below!

On roof and wall, on dome and spire, Flashed the false jewels of the fire; Girt with her belt of glittering panes, And crowned with starry-gleaming vanes, Our northern queen in glory shone With new-born splendors not her own, And stood, transfigured in our eyes, A victim decked for sacrifice!

The cloud still hovers overhead, And still the midnight sky is red; As the lost wanderer strays alone To seek the place he called his own, His devious footprints sadly tell How changed the pathways known so well; The scene, how new! The tale, how old Ere yet the ashes have grown cold!

Again I read the words that came Writ in the rubric of the flame Howe'r we trust to mortal things, Each hath its pair of folded wings; Though long their terrors rest unspread Their fatal plumes are never shed; At last, at last they spread in flight, And blot the day and blast then night!

Hope, only Hope, of all that clings Around us, never spreads her wings; Love, though he break his earthly chain, Still whispers he will come again; But Faith that soars to seek the sky Shall teach our half-fledged souls to fly, And find, beyond the smoke and flame, The cloudless azure whence they came!

1872.

A BALLAD OF THE BOSTON TEA-PARTY

Read at a meeting of the Ma.s.sachusetts Historical Society.

No! never such a draught was poured Since Hebe served with nectar The bright Olympians and their Lord, Her over-kind protector,-- Since Father Noah squeezed the grape And took to such behaving As would have shamed our grandsire ape Before the days of shaving,-- No! ne'er was mingled such a draught In palace, hall, or arbor, As freemen brewed and tyrants quaffed That night in Boston Harbor!

The Western war-cloud's crimson stained The Thames, the Clyde, the Shannon; Full many a six-foot grenadier The flattened gra.s.s had measured, And many a mother many a year Her tearful memories treasured; Fast spread the tempest's darkening pall, The mighty realms were troubled, The storm broke loose, but first of all The Boston teapot bubbled!

An evening party,--only that, No formal invitation, No gold-laced coat, no stiff cravat, No feast in contemplation, No silk-robed dames, no fiddling band, No flowers, no songs, no dancing,-- A tribe of red men, axe in hand,-- Behold the guests advancing!

How fast the stragglers join the throng, From stall and workshop gathered!

The lively barber skips along And leaves a chin half-lathered; The smith has flung his hammer down, The horseshoe still is glowing; The truant tapster at the Crown Has left a beer-cask flowing; The cooper's boys have dropped the adze, And trot behind their master; Up run the tarry s.h.i.+p-yard lads,-- The crowd is hurrying faster,-- Out from the Millpond's purlieus gush The streams of white-faced millers, And down their slippery alleys rush The l.u.s.ty young Fort-Hillers-- The ropewalk lends its 'prentice crew,-- The tories seize the omen: "Ay, boys, you'll soon have work to do For England's rebel foemen, 'King Hanc.o.c.k,' Adams, and their gang, That fire the mob with treason,-- When these we shoot and those we hang The town will come to reason."

On--on to where the tea-s.h.i.+ps ride!

And now their ranks are forming,-- A rush, and up the Dartmouth's side The Mohawk band is swarming!

See the fierce natives! What a glimpse Of paint and fur and feather, As all at once the full-grown imps Light on the deck together!

A scarf the pigtail's secret keeps, A blanket hides the breeches,-- And out the cursed cargo leaps, And overboard it pitches!

O woman, at the evening board So gracious, sweet, and purring, So happy while the tea is poured, So blest while spoons are stirring, What martyr can compare with thee, The mother, wife, or daughter, That night, instead of best Bohea, Condemned to milk and water!

Ah, little dreams the quiet dame Who plies with' rock and spindle The patient flax, how great a flame Yon little spark shall kindle!

The lurid morning shall reveal A fire no king can smother Where British flint and Boston steel Have clashed against each other!

Old charters shrivel in its track, His Wors.h.i.+p's bench has crumbled,

It climbs and clasps the union-jack, Its blazoned pomp is humbled, The flags go down on land and sea Like corn before the reapers; So burned the fire that brewed the tea That Boston served her keepers!

The waves that wrought a century's wreck Have rolled o'er whig and tory; The Mohawks on the Dartmouth's deck Still live in song and story; The waters in the rebel bay Have kept the tea-leaf savor; Our old North-Enders in their spray Still taste a Hyson flavor; And Freedom's teacup still o'erflows With ever fresh libations, To cheat of slumber all her foes And cheer the wakening nations.

1874.

NEARING THE SNOW-LINE

SLOW toiling upward from' the misty vale, I leave the bright enamelled zones below; No more for me their beauteous bloom shall glow, Their lingering sweetness load the morning gale; Few are the slender flowerets, scentless, pale, That on their ice-clad stems all trembling blow Along the margin of unmelting snow; Yet with unsaddened voice thy verge I hail, White realm of peace above the flowering line; Welcome thy frozen domes, thy rocky spires!

O'er thee undimmed the moon-girt planets s.h.i.+ne, On thy majestic altars fade the fires That filled the air with smoke of vain desires, And all the unclouded blue of heaven is thine!

1870.

IN WARTIME

TO CANAAN

A PURITAN WAR SONG

This poem, published anonymously in the Boston Evening Transcript, was claimed by several persons, three, if I remember correctly, whose names I have or have had, but never thought it worth while to publish.

WHERE are you going, soldiers, With banner, gun, and sword?

We 're marching South to Canaan To battle for the Lord What Captain leads your armies Along the rebel coasts?

The Mighty One of Israel, His name is Lord of Hosts!

To Canaan, to Canaan The Lord has led us forth, To blow before the heathen walls The trumpets of the North!

What flag is this you carry Along the sea and sh.o.r.e?

The same our grandsires lifted up,-- The same our fathers bore In many a battle's tempest It shed the crimson rain,-- What G.o.d has woven in his loom Let no man rend in twain!

To Canaan, to Canaan The Lord has led us forth, To plant upon the rebel towers The banners of the North!

What troop is this that follows, All armed with picks and spades?

These are the swarthy bondsmen,-- The iron-skin brigades!

They'll pile up Freedom's breastwork, They 'LL scoop out rebels' graves; Who then will be their owner And march them off for slaves?

To Canaan, to Canaan The Lord has led us forth, To strike upon the captive's chain The hammers of the North!

What song is this you're singing?

The same that Israel sung When Moses led the mighty choir, And Miriam's timbrel rung!

To Canaan! To Canaan!

The priests and maidens cried: To Canaan! To Canaan!

The people's voice replied.

To Canaan, to Canaan The Lord has led us forth, To thunder through its adder dens The anthems of the North.