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

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СКАЧАТЬ Nerveless the iron hand,

       Raised for its native land,

       Lies by the weapon that gleams at its side.

      Over the hillsides the wild knell is tolling,

       From their far hamlets the yeomanry come;

       As through the storm-clouds the thunder-burst rolling,

       Circles the beat of the mustering drum.

       Fast on the soldier's path

       Darken the waves of wrath—

       Long have they gathered and loud shall they fall;

       Red glares the musket's flash,

       Sharp rings the rifle's crash,

       Blazing and clanging from thicket and wall.

      Gayly the plume of the horseman was dancing,

       Never to shadow his cold brow again;

       Proudly at morning the war-steed was prancing,

       Reeking and panting he droops on the rein;

       Pale is the lip of scorn,

       Voiceless the trumpet horn,

       Torn is the silken-fringed red cross on high;

       Many a belted breast

       Low on the turf shall rest

       Ere the dark hunters the herd have passed by.

      Snow-girdled crags where the hoarse wind is raving,

       Rocks where the weary floods murmur and wail,

       Wilds where the fern by the furrow is waving,

       Reeled with the echoes that rode on the gale;

       Far as the tempest thrills

       Over the darkened hills,

       Far as the sunshine streams over the plain,

       Roused by the tyrant band,

       Woke all the mighty land,

       Girded for battle, from mountain to main.

      Green be the graves where her martyrs are lying!

       Shroudless and tombless they sunk to their rest,

       While o'er their ashes the starry fold flying

       Wraps the proud eagle they roused from his nest.

       Borne on her Northern pine,

       Long o'er the foaming brine

       Spread her broad banner to storm and to sun;

       Heaven keep her ever free,

       Wide as o'er land and sea

       Floats the fair emblem her heroes have won.

ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL

       Table of Contents

      This "punch-bowl" was, according to old family tradition, a caudle-cup. It is a massive piece of silver, its cherubs and other ornaments of coarse repousse work, and has two handles like a loving-cup, by which it was held, or passed from guest to guest.

      THIS ancient silver bowl of mine, it tells of good old times,

       Of joyous days and jolly nights, and merry Christmas times;

       They were a free and jovial race, but honest, brave, and true,

       Who dipped their ladle in the punch when this old bowl was new.

      A Spanish galleon brought the bar—so runs the ancient tale;

       'T was hammered by an Antwerp smith, whose arm was like a flail;

       And now and then between the strokes, for fear his strength should fail,

       He wiped his brow and quaffed a cup of good old Flemish ale.

      'T was purchased by an English squire to please his loving dame,

       Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a longing for the same;

       And oft as on the ancient stock another twig was found,

       'T was filled with candle spiced and hot, and handed smoking round.

      But, changing hands, it reached at length a Puritan divine,

       Who used to follow Timothy, and take a little wine,

       But hated punch and prelacy; and so it was, perhaps,

       He went to Leyden, where he found conventicles and schnapps.

      And then, of course, you know what's next: it left the Dutchman's shore

       With those that in the Mayflower came—a hundred souls and more—

       Along with all the furniture, to fill their new abodes—

       To judge by what is still on hand, at least a hundred loads.

      'T was on a dreary winter's eve, the night was closing, dim,

       When brave Miles Standish took the bowl, and filled it to the brim;

       The little Captain stood and stirred the posset with his sword,

       And all his sturdy men-at-arms were ranged about the board.

      He poured the fiery Hollands in—the man that never feared—

       He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yellow beard;

       And one by one the musketeers—the men that fought and prayed—

       All drank as 't were their mother's milk, and not a man afraid.

      That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming eagle flew,

       He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the soldier's wild halloo;

       And there the sachem learned the rule he taught to kith and kin,

       Run from the white man when you find he smells of "Hollands gin!"

      A hundred years, and fifty more, had spread their leaves and snows,

       A thousand rubs had flattened down each little cherub's nose,

       When once again the bowl was filled, but not in mirth or joy—

       'T was mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her parting boy.

      Drink, СКАЧАТЬ