The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes Part 74

Which wears the garland that shall never fade, Sweet with fair memories that can never die?

Ask not the marbles where their bones are laid, But bow thine ear to hear thy brothers' cry:--

"Tear up the despot's laurels by the root, Like mandrakes, shrieking as they quit the soil!

Feed us no more upon the blood-red fruit That sucks its crimson from the heart of Toil!

"We claim the food that fixed our mortal fate,-- Bend to our reach the long-forbidden tree!

The angel frowned at Eden's eastern gate,-- Its western portal is forever free!

"Bring the white blossoms of the waning year, Heap with full hands the peaceful conqueror's shrine Whose bloodless triumphs cost no sufferer's tear!

Hero of knowledge, be our tribute thine!"

POEM

AT THE DEDICATION OF THE HALLECK MONUMENT, JULY 8, 1869

SAY not the Poet dies!

Though in the dust he lies, He cannot forfeit his melodious breath, Unsphered by envious death!

Life drops the voiceless myriads from its roll; Their fate he cannot share, Who, in the enchanted air Sweet with the lingering strains that Echo stole, Has left his dearer self, the music of his soul!

We o'er his turf may raise Our notes of feeble praise, And carve with pious care for after eyes The stone with "Here he lies;"

He for himself has built a n.o.bler shrine, Whose walls of stately rhyme Roll back the tides of time, While o'er their gates the gleaming tablets s.h.i.+ne That wear his name inwrought with many a golden line!

Call not our Poet dead, Though on his turf we tread!

Green is the wreath their brows so long have worn,-- The minstrels of the morn, Who, while the Orient burned with new-born flame, Caught that celestial fire And struck a Nation's lyre These taught the western winds the poet's name; Theirs the first opening buds, the maiden flowers of fame!

Count not our Poet dead!

The stars shall watch his bed, The rose of June its fragrant life renew His blus.h.i.+ng mound to strew, And all the tuneful throats of summer swell With trills as crystal-clear As when he wooed the ear Of the young muse that haunts each wooded dell, With songs of that "rough land" he loved so long and well!

He sleeps; he cannot die!

As evening's long-drawn sigh, Lifting the rose-leaves on his peaceful mound, Spreads all their sweets around, So, laden with his song, the breezes blow From where the rustling sedge Frets our rude ocean's edge To the smooth sea beyond the peaks of snow.

His soul the air enshrines and leaves but dust below!

HYMN

FOR THE CELEBRATION AT THE LAYING OF THE CORNERSTONE OF HARVARD MEMORIAL HALL, CAMBRIDGE, OCTOBER 6, 1870

NOT with the anguish of hearts that are breaking Come we as mourners to weep for our dead; Grief in our b.r.e.a.s.t.s has grown weary of aching, Green is the turf where our tears we have shed.

While o'er their marbles the mosses are creeping, Stealing each name and its legend away, Give their proud story to Memory's keeping, Shrined in the temple we hallow to-day.

Hushed are their battle-fields, ended their marches, Deaf are their ears to the drum-beat of morn,--

Rise from the sod, ye fair columns and arches Tell their bright deeds to the ages unborn!

Emblem and legend may fade from the portal, Keystone may crumble and pillar may fall; They were the builders whose work is immortal, Crowned with the dome that is over us all!

HYMN

FOR THE DEDICATION OF MEMORIAL HALL AT CAMBRIDGE, JUNE 23, 1874

WHERE, girt around by savage foes, Our nurturing Mother's shelter rose, Behold, the lofty temple stands, Reared by her children's grateful hands!

Firm are the pillars that defy The volleyed thunders of the sky; Sweet are the summer wreaths that twine With bud and flower our martyrs' shrine.

The hues their tattered colors bore Fall mingling on the sunlit floor Till evening spreads her spangled pall, And wraps in shade the storied hall.

Firm were their hearts in danger's hour, Sweet was their manhood's morning flower, Their hopes with rainbow hues were bright,-- How swiftly winged the sudden night!

O Mother! on thy marble page Thy children read, from age to age, The mighty word that upward leads Through n.o.ble thought to n.o.bler deeds.

TRUTH, heaven-born TRUTH, their fearless guide, Thy saints have lived, thy heroes died; Our love has reared their earthly shrine, Their glory be forever thine!

HYMN

AT THE FUNERAL SERVICES OF CHARLES SUMNER, APRIL 29, 1874

SUNG BY MALE VOICES TO A NATIONAL AIR OF HOLLAND

ONCE more, ye sacred towers, Your solemn dirges sound; Strew, loving hands, the April flowers, Once more to deck his mound.

A nation mourns its dead, Its sorrowing voices one, As Israel's monarch bowed his head And cried, "My son! My son!"

Why mourn for him?--For him The welcome angel came Ere yet his eye with age was dim Or bent his stately frame; His weapon still was bright, His s.h.i.+eld was lifted high To slay the wrong, to save the right,-- What happier hour to die?

Thou orderest all things well; Thy servant's work was done; He lived to hear Oppression's knell, The shouts for Freedom won.

Hark!! from the opening skies The anthem's echoing swell,-- "O mourning Land, lift up thine eyes!

G.o.d reigneth. All is well!"

RHYMES OF AN HOUR