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

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ fold.

       Down the chill street that curves in gloomiest shade

       What marks betray yon solitary maid?

       The cheek's red rose that speaks of balmier air,

       The Celtic hue that shades her braided hair,

       The gilded missal in her kerchief tied—

       Poor Nora, exile from Killarney's side!

       Sister in toil, though blanched by colder skies,

       That left their azure in her downcast eyes,

       See pallid Margaret, Labor's patient child,

       Scarce weaned from home, the nursling of the wild,

       Where white Katahdin o'er the horizon shines,

       And broad Penobscot dashes through the pines.

       Still, as she hastes, her careful fingers hold

       The unfailing hymn-book in its cambric fold.

       Six days at drudgery's heavy wheel she stands,

       The seventh sweet morning folds her weary hands.

       Yes, child of suffering, thou mayst well be sure

       He who ordained the Sabbath loves the poor!

      This weekly picture faithful Memory draws,

       Nor claims the noisy tribute of applause;

       Faint is the glow such barren hopes can lend,

       And frail the line that asks no loftier end.

       Trust me, kind listener, I will yet beguile

       Thy saddened features of the promised smile.

       This magic mantle thou must well divide,

       It has its sable and its ermine side;

       Yet, ere the lining of the robe appears,

       Take thou in silence what I give in tears.

      Dear listening soul, this transitory scene

       Of murmuring stillness, busily serene—

       This solemn pause, the breathing-space of man,

       The halt of toil's exhausted caravan—

       Comes sweet with music to thy wearied ear;

       Rise with its anthems to a holier sphere!

      Deal meekly, gently, with the hopes that guide

       The lowliest brother straying from thy side

       If right, they bid thee tremble for thine own;

       If wrong, the verdict is for God alone.

      What though the champions of thy faith esteem

       The sprinkled fountain or baptismal stream;

       Shall jealous passions in unseemly strife

       Cross their dark weapons o'er the waves of life?

      Let my free soul, expanding as it can,

       Leave to his scheme the thoughtful Puritan;

       But Calvin's dogma shall my lips deride?

       In that stern faith my angel Mary died;

       Or ask if mercy's milder creed can save,

       Sweet sister, risen from thy new-made grave?

      True, the harsh founders of thy church reviled

       That ancient faith, the trust of Erin's child;

       Must thou be raking in the crumbled past

       For racks and fagots in her teeth to cast?

       See from the ashes of Helvetia's pile

       The whitened skull of old Servetus smile!

       Round her young heart thy "Romish Upas" threw

       Its firm, deep fibres, strengthening as she grew;

       Thy sneering voice may call them "Popish tricks,"

       Her Latin prayers, her dangling crucifix,

       But De Profundis blessed her father's grave,

       That "idol" cross her dying mother gave!

       What if some angel looks with equal eyes

       On her and thee, the simple and the wise,

       Writes each dark fault against thy brighter creed,

       And drops a tear with every foolish bead!

       Grieve, as thou must, o'er history's reeking page;

       Blush for the wrongs that stain thy happier age;

       Strive with the wanderer from the better path,

       Bearing thy message meekly, not in wrath;

       Weep for the frail that err, the weak that fall,

       Have thine own faith—but hope and pray for all!

      Faith; Conscience; Love. A meaner task remains,

       And humbler thoughts must creep in lowlier strains.

       Shalt thou be honest? Ask the worldly schools,

       And all will tell thee knaves are busier fools;

       Prudent? Industrious? Let not modern pens

       Instruct "Poor Richard's" fellow-citizens.

      Be firm! One constant element in luck

       Is genuine solid old Teutonic pluck.

       See yon tall shaft; it felt the earthquake's thrill,

       Clung to its base, and greets the sunrise still.

      Stick to your aim: the mongrel's hold will slip,

       But only crowbars loose the bulldog's grip;

       Small as he looks, the jaw that never yields

       Drags down the bellowing monarch of the fields!

      Yet in opinions look not always back—

       Your wake is nothing, mind the coming track;

       Leave what you've done for what you have to do;

       Don't be "consistent," but be simply true.

      Don't catch СКАЧАТЬ