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    The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Volume 07: Songs of Many Seasons
    The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Volume 07: Songs of Many Seasons
    The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Volume 07: Songs of Many Seasons
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    The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Volume 07: Songs of Many Seasons

    By Oliver Wendell Holmes

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 25, 2013
    The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Volume 07: Songs of Many Seasons
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    Oliver Wendell Holmes

    Oliver Wendell Holmes was an American physician, poet, and polymath based in Boston. A member of the Fireside Poets, he was acclaimed by his peers as one of the best writers of the day. His most famous prose works are the “Breakfast Table” series, which began with The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table.

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      The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Volume 07 - Oliver Wendell Holmes

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes, Vol. 7, by Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net

      Title: The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes, Vol. 7 Songs Of Many Seasons (1862-1874)

      Author: Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.

      Release Date: September 30, 2004 [EBook #7394]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POETRY OF HOLMES, VOL. 7 ***

      Produced by David Widger

      THE POETICAL WORKS

      OF

      OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

      [Volume 2 of the 1893 three volume set]

      SONGS OF MANY SEASONS

      1862-1874

      OPENING THE WINDOW PROGRAMME

      IN THE QUIET DAYS AN OLD-YEAR SONG DOROTHY Q: A FAMILY PORTRAIT THE ORGAN-BLOWER AT THE PANTOMIME AFTER THE FIRE A BALLAD OF THE BOSTON TEA-PARTY NEARING THE SNOW-LINE

      IN WAR TIME TO CANAAN: A PURITAN WAR-SONG THUS SAITH THE LORD, I OFFER THEE THREE THINGS NEVER OR NOW ONE COUNTRY GOD SAVE THE FLAG! HYMN AFTER THE EMANCIPATION PROCLAMATION HYMN FOR THE FAIR AT CHICAGO UNDER THE WASHINGTON ELM, CAMBRIDGE FREEDOM, OUR QUEEN ARMY HYMN PARTING HYMN THE FLOWER OF LIBERTY THE SWEET LITTLE MAN UNION AND LIBERTY

           SONGS OF WELCOME AND FAREWELL

                AMERICA TO RUSSIA

                WELCOME TO THE GRAND DUKE ALEXIS

                AT THE BANQUET TO THE GRAND DUKE ALEXIS

                AT THE BANQUET TO THE CHINESE EMBASSY

                AT THE BANQUET TO THE JAPANESE EMBASSY

                BRYANT'S SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY

                A FAREWELL TO AGASSIZ

                AT A DINNER TO ADMIRAL FARRAGUT

                AT A DINNER TO GENERAL GRANT

                To H W LONGFELLOW

                To CHRISTIAN GOTTFRIED EHRENBERG

                A TOAST TO WILKIE COLLINS

      MEMORIAL VERSES FOR THE SERVICES IN MEMORY OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN, BOSTON, 1865 FOR THE COMMEMORATION SERVICES, CAMBRIDGE JULY 21, 1865 EDWARD EVERETT: JANUARY 30, 1865 SHAKESPEARE TERCENTENNIAL CELEBRATION, APRIL 23, 1864 IN MEMORY OF JOHN AND ROBERT WARE, MAY 25, 1864 HUMBOLDT'S BIRTHDAY: CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION, SEPTEMBER 14, 1869 POEM AT THE DEDICATION OF THE HALLECK MONUMENT, JULY 8, 1869 HYMN FOR THE CELEBRATION AT THE LAYING OF THE CORNER-STONE OF HARVARD MEMORIAL HALL, CAMBRIDGE, OCTOBER 6, 1870 HYMN FOR THE DEDICATION OF MEMORIAL HALL AT CAMBRIDGE, 1874 HYMN AT THE FUNERAL SERVICES OF CHARLES SUMNER, APRIL 29, 1874

           RHYMES OF AN HOUR

                ADDRESS FOR THE OPENING OF THE FIFTH AVENUE THEATRE, N. Y. 1873

                A SEA DIALOGUE

                CHANSON WITHOUT MUSIC

                FOR THE CENTENNIAL DINNER, PROPRIETORS OF BOSTON PIER, 1873

                A POEM SERVED TO ORDER

                THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH

                No TIME LIKE THE OLD TIME

                A HYMN OF PEACE, TO THE MUSIC OF KELLER'S AMERICAN HYMN

      OPENING THE WINDOW

      THUS I lift the sash, so long

      Shut against the flight of song;

      All too late for vain excuse,—

      Lo, my captive rhymes are loose.

      Rhymes that, flitting through my brain,

      Beat against my window-pane,

      Some with gayly colored wings,

      Some, alas! with venomed stings.

      Shall they bask in sunny rays?

      Shall they feed on sugared praise?

      Shall they stick with tangled feet

      On the critic's poisoned sheet?

      Are the outside winds too rough?

      Is the world not wide enough?

      Go, my winged verse, and try,—

      Go, like Uncle Toby's fly!

      PROGRAMME

      READER—gentle—if so be

      Such still live, and live for me,

      Will it please you to be told

      What my tenscore pages hold?

      Here are verses that in spite

      Of myself I needs must write,

      Like the wine that oozes first

      When the unsqueezed grapes have burst.

      Here are angry lines, too hard!

      Says the soldier, battle-scarred.

      Could I smile his scars away

      I would blot the bitter lay,

      Written with a knitted brow,

      Read with placid wonder now.

      Throbbed such passion in my heart?

      Did his wounds once really smart?

      Here are varied strains that sing

      All the changes life can bring,

      Songs when joyous friends have met,

      Songs the mourner's tears have wet.

      See the banquet's dead bouquet,

      Fair and fragrant in its day;

      Do they read the selfsame lines,—

      He that fasts and he that dines?

      Year by year, like milestones placed,

      Mark the record Friendship traced.

      Prisoned in the walls of time

      Life has notched itself in rhyme.

      As its seasons slid along,

      Every year a notch of song,

      From the June of long ago,

      When the rose was full in blow,

      Till the scarlet sage has come

      And the cold chrysanthemum.

      Read, but not to praise or blame;

      Are not all our hearts the same?

      For the rest, they take their chance,—

      Some may pay a passing glance;

      Others,-well, they served a turn,—

      Wherefore written, would you learn?

      Not for glory, not for pelf,

      Not, be sure, to please myself,

      Not for any meaner ends,—

      Always by request of friends.

      Here's the cousin of a king,—

      Would I do the civil thing?

      Here 's the first-born of a queen;

      Here 's a slant-eyed Mandarin.

      Would I polish off Japan?

      Would I greet this famous man,

      Prince or Prelate, Sheik or Shah?—

      Figaro gi and Figaro la!

      Would I just this once comply?—

      So they teased and teased till I

      (Be the truth at once confessed)

      Wavered—yielded—did my best.

      Turn my pages,—never mind

      If you like not all you find;

      Think not all the grains are gold

      Sacramento's sand-banks hold.

      Every kernel has its shell,

      Every chime its harshest bell,

      Every face its weariest look,

      Every shelf its emptiest book,

      Every field its leanest sheaf,

      Every book its dullest leaf,

      Every leaf its weakest line,—

      Shall it not be so with mine?

      Best for worst shall make amends,

      Find us, keep us, leave us friends

      Till, perchance, we meet again.

      Benedicite.—Amen!

      October 7, 1874.

      IN THE QUIET DAYS

      AN OLD-YEAR SONG

      As through the forest, disarrayed

      By chill November, late I strayed,

      A lonely minstrel of the wood

      Was singing to the solitude

      I loved thy music, thus I said,

      When o'er thy perch the leaves were spread

      Sweet was thy song, but sweeter now

      Thy carol on the leafless bough.

      Sing, little bird! thy note shall cheer

      The sadness of the dying year.

      When violets pranked the turf with blue

      And morning filled their cups with dew,

      Thy slender voice with rippling trill

      The budding April bowers would fill,

      Nor passed its joyous tones away

      When April rounded into May:

      Thy life shall hail no second dawn,—

      Sing, little bird! the spring is gone.

      And I remember—well-a-day!—

      Thy full-blown summer roundelay,

      As

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