The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Complete. Oliver Wendell Holmes

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       Were armed with goggles green;

       Pop cracked the guns! whiz flew the balls!

       Bang went the magazine!

      I saw a poet dip a scroll

       Each moment in a tub,

       I read upon the warping back,

       "The Dream of Beelzebub;"

       He could not see his verses burn,

       Although his brain was fried,

       And ever and anon he bent

       To wet them as they dried.

      I saw the scalding pitch roll down

       The crackling, sweating pines,

       And streams of smoke, like water-spouts,

       Burst through the rumbling mines;

       I asked the firemen why they made

       Such noise about the town;

       They answered not—but all the while

       The brakes went up and down.

      I saw a roasting pullet sit

       Upon a baking egg;

       I saw a cripple scorch his hand

       Extinguishing his leg;

       I saw nine geese upon the wing

       Towards the frozen pole,

       And every mother's gosling fell

       Crisped to a crackling coal.

      I saw the ox that browsed the grass

       Writhe in the blistering rays,

       The herbage in his shrinking jaws

       Was all a fiery blaze;

       I saw huge fishes, boiled to rags,

       Bob through the bubbling brine;

       And thoughts of supper crossed my soul;

       I had been rash at mine.

      Strange sights! strange sounds! Oh fearful dream!

       Its memory haunts me still,

       The steaming sea, the crimson glare,

       That wreathed each wooded hill;

       Stranger! if through thy reeling brain

       Such midnight visions sweep,

       Spare, spare, oh, spare thine evening meal,

       And sweet shall be thy sleep!

THE MUSIC-GRINDERS

       Table of Contents

      THERE are three ways in which men take

       One's money from his purse,

       And very hard it is to tell

       Which of the three is worse;

       But all of them are bad enough

       To make a body curse.

      You're riding out some pleasant day,

       And counting up your gains;

       A fellow jumps from out a bush,

       And takes your horse's reins,

       Another hints some words about

       A bullet in your brains.

      It's hard to meet such pressing friends

       In such a lonely spot;

       It's very hard to lose your cash,

       But harder to be shot;

       And so you take your wallet out,

       Though you would rather not.

      Perhaps you're going out to dine—

       Some odious creature begs

       You'll hear about the cannon-ball

       That carried off his pegs,

       And says it is a dreadful thing

       For men to lose their legs.

      He tells you of his starving wife,

       His children to be fed,

       Poor little, lovely innocents,

       All clamorous for bread—

       And so you kindly help to put

       A bachelor to bed.

      You're sitting on your window-seat,

       Beneath a cloudless moon;

       You hear a sound, that seems to wear

       The semblance of a tune,

       As if a broken fife should strive

       To drown a cracked bassoon.

      And nearer, nearer still, the tide

       Of music seems to come,

       There's something like a human voice,

       And something like a drum;

       You sit in speechless agony,

       Until your ear is numb.

      Poor "home, sweet home" should seem to be

       A very dismal place;

       Your "auld acquaintance" all at once

       Is altered in the face;

       Their discords sting through Burns and Moore,

       Like hedgehogs dressed in lace.

      You think they are crusaders, sent

       From some infernal clime,

       To pluck the eyes of Sentiment,

       And dock the tail of Rhyme,

       To crack the voice of Melody,

       And break the legs of Time.

      But hark! СКАЧАТЬ