To The Eleven Ladies
WHO PRESENTED ME WITH A SILVER LOVING CUP
ON THE TWENTY-NINTH OF AUGUST, M DCCC LXXXIX
'WHO gave this cup?' The secret thou wouldst steal
Its brimming flood forbids it to reveal:
No mortal's eye shall read it till he first
Cool the red throat of thirst.
If on the golden floor one draught remain,
Trust me, thy careful search will be in vain;
Not till the bowl is emptied shalt thou know
The names enrolled below.
Deeper than Truth lies buried in her well
Those modest names the graven letters spell
Hide from the sight; but wait, and thou shalt see
Who the good angels be.
Whose bounty glistens in the beauteous gift
That friendly hands to loving lips shall lift
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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An Appeal For
'While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand;
When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall.'
FULL sevenscore years our city's pride--
The comely Southern spire--
Has cast its shadow, and defied
The storm, the foe, the fire;
Sad is the sight our eyes behold;
Woe to the three-hilled town,
When through the land the tale is told--
'The brave 'Old South' is down!'
Let darkness blot the starless dawn
That hears our children tell,
'Here rose the walls, now wrecked and gone,
Our fathers loved so well;
Here, while his brethren stood aloof,
The herald's blast was blown
That shook St. Stephen's pillared roof
And rocked King George's throne!
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Lines
I 'm ashamed,--that 's the fact,--it 's a pitiful case,--
Won't any kind classmate get up in my place?
Just remember how often I've risen before,--
I blush as I straighten my legs on the floor!
There are stories, once pleasing, too many times told,--
There are beauties once charming, too fearfully old,--
There are voices we've heard till we know them so well,
Though they talked for an hour they'd have nothing to tell.
Yet, Classmates! Friends! Brothers! Dear blessed old boys!
Made one by a lifetime of sorrows and joys,
What lips have such sounds as the poorest of these,
Though honeyed, like Plato's, by musical bees?
What voice is so sweet and what greeting so dear
As the simple, warm welcome that waits for us here?
The love of our boyhood still breathes in its tone,
And our hearts throb the answer, 'He's one of our own!'
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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The Two Armies
As Life's unending column pours,
Two marshalled hosts are seen,
Two armies on the trampled shores
That Death flows black between.
One marches to the drum-beat's roll,
The wide-mouthed clarion's bray,
And bears upon a crimson scroll,
Our glory is to slay.
One moves in silence by the stream,
With sad, yet watchful eyes,
Calm as the patient planet's gleam
That walks the clouded skies.
Along its front no sabres shine,
No blood-red pennons wave;
Its banner bears the single line,
Our duty is to save.
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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What We All Think
THAT age was older once than now,
In spite of locks untimely shed,
Or silvered on the youthful brow;
That babes make love and children wed.
That sunshine had a heavenly glow,
Which faded with those 'good old days'
When winters came with deeper snow,
And autumns with a softer haze.
That--mother, sister, wife, or child--
The 'best of women' each has known.
Were school-boys ever half so wild?
How young the grandpapas have grown!
That but for this our souls were free,
And but for that our lives were blest;
That in some season yet to be
Our cares will leave us time to rest.
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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To James Freeman Clarke
I BRING the simplest pledge of love,
Friend of my earlier days;
Mine is the hand without the glove,
The heart-beat, not the phrase.
How few still breathe this mortal air
We called by school-boy names!
You still, whatever robe you wear,
To me are always James.
That name the kind apostle bore
Who shames the sullen creeds,
Not trusting less, but loving more,
And showing faith by deeds.
What blending thoughts our memories share!
What visions yours and mine
Of May-days in whose morning air
The dews were golden wine,
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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The Flower of Liberty
WHAT flower is this that greets the morn,
Its hues from Heaven so freshly born?
With burning star and flaming band
It kindles all the sunset land:
Oh tell us what its name may be,--
Is this the Flower of Liberty?
It is the banner of the free,
The starry Flower of Liberty!
In savage Nature's far abode
Its tender seed our fathers sowed;
The storm-winds rocked its swelling bud,
Its opening leaves were streaked with blood,
Till lo! earth's tyrants shook to see
The full-blown Flower of Liberty!
Then hail the banner of the free,
The starry Flower of Liberty!
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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To Rutherford Birchard Hayes
AT THE DINNER TO THE PRESIDENT,
BOSTON, JUNE 26, 1877
How to address him? awkward, it is true
Call him 'Great Father,' as the Red Men do?
Borrow some title? this is not the place
That christens men Your Highness and Your Grace;
We tried such names as these awhile, you know,
But left them off a century ago.
His Majesty? We've had enough of that
Besides, that needs a crown; he wears a hat.
What if, to make the nicer ears content,
We say His Honesty, the President?
Sir, we believed you honest, truthful, brave,
When to your hands their precious trust we gave,
And we have found you better than we knew,
Braver, and not less honest, not less true!
So every heart has opened, every hand
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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In Memory Of Charles Wentworth Upham, Jr.
HE was all sunshine; in his face
The very soul of sweetness shone;
Fairest and gentlest of his race;
None like him we can call our own.
Something there was of one that died
In her fresh spring-time long ago,
Our first dear Mary, angel-eyed,
Whose smile it was a bliss to know.
Something of her whose love imparts
Such radiance to her day's decline,
We feel its twilight in our hearts
Bright as the earliest morning-shine.
Yet richer strains our eye could trace
That made our plainer mould more fair,
That curved the lip with happier grace,
That waved the soft and silken hair.
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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A Loving-Cup Song
COME, heap the fagots! Ere we go
Again the cheerful hearth shall glow;
We 'll have another blaze, my boys!
When clouds are black and snows are white,
Then Christmas logs lend ruddy light
They stole from summer days, my boys,
They stole from summer days.
And let the Loving-Cup go round,
The Cup with blessed memories crowned,
That flows whene'er we meet, my boys;
No draught will hold a drop of sin
If love is only well stirred in
To keep it sound and sweet, my boys,
To keep it sound and sweet.
Give me, to pin upon my breast,
The blossoms twain I love the best,
A rosebud and a pink, my boys;
Their leaves shall nestle next my heart,
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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