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 shield was lifted high
To slay the wrong, to save the right,--
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Stanzas
STRANGE! that one lightly whispered tone
Is far, far sweeter unto me,
Than all the sounds that kiss the earth,
Or breathe along the sea;
But, lady, when thy voice I greet,
Not heavenly music seems so sweet.
I look upon the fair blue skies,
And naught but empty air I see;
But when I turn me to thin eyes,
It seemeth unto me
Ten thousand angels spread their wings
Within those little azure rings.
The lily bath the softest leaf
That ever western breeze bath fanned,
But thou shalt have the tender flower,
So I may take thy hand;
That little hand to me doth yield
More joy than all the broidered field.
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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An Impromptu - II
AT THE WALCKER DINNER UPON THE
COMPLETION OF THE GREAT ORGAN
FOR BOSTON MUSIC HALL IN 1863
I ASKED three little maidens who heard the organ play,
Where all the music came from that stole our hearts away:
'I know,' - said fair-haired Edith,-'it was the autumn breeze
That whistled through the hollows of all those silver trees.'
'No, child!' ' said keen-eyed Clara, it is a lion's cage,
They woke him out of slumber, I heard him roar and rage.'
'Nay,' answered soft-voiced Anna, ''t was thunder that you heard,
And after that caine sunshine and singing of a bird.'
' Hush, hush, you little children, for all of you are wrong,'
I said, 'my pretty darlings, it was no earthly song; A band of blessed angels has left the heavenly choirs,
And what you heard last evening were seraph lips and lyres!'
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Boston To Florence
Sent to 'The Philological Circle' of Florence for its
meeting in commemoration of Dante, January 27, 1881,
the anniversary of his first condemnation.
PROUD of her clustering spires, her new-built towers,
Our Venice, stolen from the slumbering sea,
A sister's kindliest greeting wafts to thee,
Rose of Val d' Arno, queen of all its flowers!
Thine exile's shrine thy sorrowing love embowers,
Yet none with truer homage bends the knee,
Or stronger pledge of fealty brings, than we,
Whose poets make thy dead Immortal ours.
Lonely the height, but ah, to heaven how near!
Dante, whence flowed that solemn verse of thine
Like the stern river from its Apennine
Whose name the far-off Scythian thrilled with fear:
Now to all lands thy deep-toned voice is dear,
And every language knows the Song Divine!
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Martha
SEXTON! Martha's dead and gone;
Toll the bell! toll the bell!
Her weary hands their labor cease;
Good night, poor Martha,-- sleep in peace!
Toll the bell!
Sexton! Martha 's dead and gone;
Toll the bell! toll the bell!
For many a year has Martha said,
"I'm old and poor,-- would I were dead!"
Toll the bell!
Sexton! Martha's dead and gone;
Toll the bell! toll the bell!
She'll bring no more, by day or night,
Her basket full of linen white.
Toll the bell!
Sexton! Martha's dead and gone;
Toll the bell! toll the bell!
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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At A Birthday Festival
TO J. R. LOWELL
WE will not speak of years to-night,--
For what have years to bring
But larger floods of love and light,
And sweeter songs to sing?
We will not drown in wordy praise
The kindly thoughts that rise;
If Friendship own one tender phrase,
He reads it in our eyes.
We need not waste our school-boy art
To gild this notch of Time;--
Forgive me if my wayward heart
Has throbbed in artless rhyme.
Enough for him the silent grasp
That knits us hand in hand,
And he the bracelet's radiant clasp
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Old Ironsides
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky;
Beneath it rung the battle shout,
And burst the cannon's roar; --
The meteor of the ocean air
Shall sweep the clouds no more.
Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,
Where knelt the vanquished foe,
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,
And waves were white below,
No more shall feel the victor's tread,
Or know the conquered knee; --
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea!
Oh, better that her shattered hulk
Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Parting Hymn
'DUNDEE'
FATHER of Mercies, Heavenly Friend,
We seek thy gracious throne;
To Thee our faltering prayers ascend,
Our fainting hearts are known.
From blasts that chill, from suns that smite,
From every plague that harms;
In camp and march, in siege and fight,
Protect our men-at-arms.
Though from our darkened lives they take
What makes our life most dear,
We yield them for their country's sake
With no relenting tear.
Our blood their flowing veins will shed,
Their wounds our breasts will share;
Oh, save us from the woes we dread,
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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To The Teachers Of America
TEACHERS of teachers! Yours the task,
Noblest that noble minds can ask,
High up Aonia's murmurous mount,
To watch, to guard the sacred fount
That feeds the streams below;
To guide the hurrying flood that fills
A thousand silvery rippling rills
In ever-widening flow.
Rich is the harvest from the fields
That bounteous Nature kindly yields,
But fairer growths enrich the soil
Ploughed deep by thought's unwearied toil
In Learning's broad domain.
And where the leaves, the flowers, the fruits,
Without your watering at the roots,
To fill each branching vein ?
Welcome! the Author's firmest friends,
Your voice the surest Godspeed lends.
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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The Poet’s Lot
WHAT is a poet's love?--
To write a girl a sonnet,
To get a ring, or some such thing,
And fustianize upon it.
What is a poet's fame?--
Sad hints about his reason,
And sadder praise from garreteers,
To be returned in season.
Where go the poet's lines?--
Answer, ye evening tapers!
Ye auburn locks, ye golden curls,
Speak from your folded papers!
Child of the ploughshare, smile;
Boy of the counter, grieve not,
Though muses round thy trundle-bed
Their broidered tissue weave not.
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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