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