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

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СКАЧАТЬ 't will do you good—poor child,

       you'll never bear

       This working in the dismal trench, out in the midnight air;

       And if—God bless me!—you were hurt, 't would keep away the chill.

       So John did drink—and well he wrought that night at Bunker's Hill!

      I tell you, there was generous warmth in good old English cheer;

       I tell you, 't was a pleasant thought to bring its symbol here.

       'T is but the fool that loves excess; hast thou a drunken soul?

       Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver bowl!

      I love the memory of the past—its pressed yet fragrant flowers—

       The moss that clothes its broken walls, the ivy on its towers;

       Nay, this poor bauble it bequeathed—my eyes grow moist and dim,

       To think of all the vanished joys that danced around its brim.

      Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight to me;

       The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er the liquid be;

       And may the cherubs on its face protect me from the sin

       That dooms one to those dreadful words—"My dear, where HAVE you been?"

A SONG

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      FOR THE CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION OF HARVARD COLLEGE, 1836

      This song, which I had the temerity to sing myself (felix auda-cia, Mr. Franklin Dexter had the goodness to call it), was sent in a little too late to be printed with the official account of the celebration. It was written at the suggestion of Dr. Jacob Bigelow, who thought the popular tune "The Poacher's Song" would be a good model for a lively ballad or ditty. He himself wrote the admirable Latin song to be found in the record of the meeting.

      WHEN the Puritans came over

       Our hills and swamps to clear,

       The woods were full of catamounts,

       And Indians red as deer,

       With tomahawks and scalping-knives,

       That make folks' heads look queer;

       Oh the ship from England used to bring

       A hundred wigs a year!

      The crows came cawing through the air

       To pluck the Pilgrims' corn,

       The bears came snuffing round the door

       Whene'er a babe was born,

       The rattlesnakes were bigger round

       Than the but of the old rams horn

       The deacon blew at meeting time

       On every "Sabbath" morn.

      But soon they knocked the wigwams down,

       And pine-tree trunk and limb

       Began to sprout among the leaves

       In shape of steeples slim;

       And out the little wharves were stretched

       Along the ocean's rim,

       And up the little school-house shot

       To keep the boys in trim.

      And when at length the College rose,

       The sachem cocked his eye

       At every tutor's meagre ribs

       Whose coat-tails whistled by

       But when the Greek and Hebrew words

       Came tumbling from his jaws,

       The copper-colored children all

       Ran screaming to the squaws.

      And who was on the Catalogue

       When college was begun?

       Two nephews of the President,

       And the Professor's son;

       (They turned a little Indian by,

       As brown as any bun;)

       Lord! how the seniors knocked about

       The freshman class of one!

      They had not then the dainty things

       That commons now afford,

       But succotash and hominy

       Were smoking on the board;

       They did not rattle round in gigs,

       Or dash in long-tailed blues,

       But always on Commencement days

       The tutors blacked their shoes.

      God bless the ancient Puritans!

       Their lot was hard enough;

       But honest hearts make iron arms,

       And tender maids are tough;

       So love and faith have formed and fed

       Our true-born Yankee stuff,

       And keep the kernel in the shell

       The British found so rough!

THE ISLAND HUNTING-SONG

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      The island referred to is a domain of princely proportions, which has long been the seat of a generous hospitality. Naushon is its old Indian name. William Swain, Esq., commonly known as "the Governor," was the proprietor of it at the time when this song was written. Mr. John M. Forbes is his worthy successor in territorial rights and as a hospitable entertainer. The Island Book has been the recipient of many poems from visitors and friends of the owners of the old mansion.

      No more the summer floweret charms,

       The leaves will soon be sere,

       And Autumn folds his jewelled arms

       Around the dying year;

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