We count the broken lyres that restWhere the sweet wailing singers slumber,But o'er their silent sister's breastThe wild-flowers who will stoop to number?A few can touch the magic string,And noisy Fame is proud to win them;Alas for those who never sing,But die with all their music in them!Nay, grieve not for the dead aloneWhose song has told their hearts' sad story;Weep for the voiceless, who have knownThe cross without the crown of glory!Not where Leucadian breezes sweepO'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow,But where the glistening night-dews weepO'er nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow.O hearts that break and give no signSave whitening lip and fading tresses,Till Death pours out his cordial wine,Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses,—If singing breath or echoing chordTo every hidden pang were given,What endless melodies were poured,As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven!Oliver Wendell Holmes.
We count the broken lyres that restWhere the sweet wailing singers slumber,But o'er their silent sister's breastThe wild-flowers who will stoop to number?A few can touch the magic string,And noisy Fame is proud to win them;Alas for those who never sing,But die with all their music in them!
Nay, grieve not for the dead aloneWhose song has told their hearts' sad story;Weep for the voiceless, who have knownThe cross without the crown of glory!Not where Leucadian breezes sweepO'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow,But where the glistening night-dews weepO'er nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow.
O hearts that break and give no signSave whitening lip and fading tresses,Till Death pours out his cordial wine,Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses,—If singing breath or echoing chordTo every hidden pang were given,What endless melodies were poured,As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven!
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
'Tis pleasant business making books,When other people furnish brains;Like finding them in running brooks,—The pleasure, minus all the pains!They tell us Wordsworth once declaredThat he could, if he had the mind,Write plays like those of Avon's bard;Whereat the stammering Lamb rejoined,"S-s-s-s-s-so you see,That all he wanted was the mind!"O gentle Wordsworth, to derideThy simple speech I'm not inclined;For these good friends, and thou beside,Have freely lent me of their mind.I've Shakespeare's point, and Burns's fire,And Bulwer's own gentility,And Elia's meekness, yet aspireTo Pope's infallibility.I've made myself at home with Holmes;I'm in two Taylors' garments dressed;Campbell has told his rhymes for me,And Shelley shelled out like the rest,And Hood put on his thinking-cap,And Goldsmith beaten out his best.I've pilfered Alfred's laureate strains,And boldly counted Henry's chickens,And drained Harte's blood from his best veins,And stol'n from Dickens like the dickens;Of Hogg I have not gone the whole,But of three Proctors tithes demanded,And from a Miller taken toll,And plucked a Reade, to do as Pan did.I've beaten Beattie like a treeThat sheds its fruit for every knocker,Nor let Sir Walter go Scott free,And filched a shot from Frederick's Locker.The ladies, too—God bless them all!—What pieces of their minds I've taken!It would Achilles' self appall,If hiding here to save his bacon.By Hawthorne's genius hedged about,And deep in Browning's brownest study,This is the sure retreat, no doubt,From critics' favors, fair or muddy.Ah, How it Reads, How well it looks!—What one May call a death to pains!—This pleasant way of making books,With clever folks to furnish brains!
'Tis pleasant business making books,When other people furnish brains;Like finding them in running brooks,—The pleasure, minus all the pains!They tell us Wordsworth once declaredThat he could, if he had the mind,Write plays like those of Avon's bard;Whereat the stammering Lamb rejoined,"S-s-s-s-s-so you see,That all he wanted was the mind!"O gentle Wordsworth, to derideThy simple speech I'm not inclined;For these good friends, and thou beside,Have freely lent me of their mind.I've Shakespeare's point, and Burns's fire,And Bulwer's own gentility,And Elia's meekness, yet aspireTo Pope's infallibility.I've made myself at home with Holmes;I'm in two Taylors' garments dressed;Campbell has told his rhymes for me,And Shelley shelled out like the rest,And Hood put on his thinking-cap,And Goldsmith beaten out his best.I've pilfered Alfred's laureate strains,And boldly counted Henry's chickens,And drained Harte's blood from his best veins,And stol'n from Dickens like the dickens;Of Hogg I have not gone the whole,But of three Proctors tithes demanded,And from a Miller taken toll,And plucked a Reade, to do as Pan did.I've beaten Beattie like a treeThat sheds its fruit for every knocker,Nor let Sir Walter go Scott free,And filched a shot from Frederick's Locker.The ladies, too—God bless them all!—What pieces of their minds I've taken!It would Achilles' self appall,If hiding here to save his bacon.By Hawthorne's genius hedged about,And deep in Browning's brownest study,This is the sure retreat, no doubt,From critics' favors, fair or muddy.Ah, How it Reads, How well it looks!—What one May call a death to pains!—This pleasant way of making books,With clever folks to furnish brains!
New York, July, 1875.
A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun213Ae fond kiss, and then we sever!52Ah! Jeane, my maid, I stood to you20Ah! my heart is weary waiting91All houses wherein men have lived and died73As an unperfect actor on the stage50As ships becalmed at eve, that lay69A steed! a steed of matchlesse speed132As upland fields were sunburnt brown43At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still175Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead161Before I trust my fate to thee46Behold this ruin! 'Twas a skull201Between the dark and the daylight152Bird of the wilderness104Break, break, break53By the waters of Life we sat together84Close his eyes; his work is done!134Come, all ye jolly shepherds30Come in the evening, or come in the morning35Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer46Could we but know220Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas167Deep on the convent-roof the snows215Drawn by horses with decorous feet185Eyes which can but ill define88Farewell! since nevermore for thee173Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea112From Stirling castle we had seen93"Give us a song!" the soldiers cried130God makes sech nights, all white an' still26Go, Soul, the body's guest204Green be the turf above thee169Hail to thee, blithe spirit!106He clasps the crag with hookéd hands105He is gone on the mountain133Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling168He wiled me through the furzy croft59Ho! pretty page with the dimpled chin115Ho, sailor of the sea!150How sleep the brave who sink to rest139I arise from dreams of thee42I cannot make him dead!154I fill this cup to one made up21I have had playmates, I have had companions66I heard the trailing garments of the night103I mourn no more my vanished years221I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary158I'm wearin' awa', John156In Xanadu did Kubla Khan16I remember, I remember72I saw her once,—so freshly fair67I saw him once before117It was the calm and silent night217I wandered by the brookside36I was thy neighbor once, thou rugged pile!209Just for a handful of silver he left us119Life! I know not what thou art193Like as the damask rose you see189Like to the falling of a star192Look at me with thy large brown eyes149Love not, love not! ye hapless sons of clay!51Maid of Athens, ere we part45Mellow the moonlight to shine is beginning32My boat is on the shore110My fairest child, I have no song to give you199My glass shall not persuade me I am old49My heid is like to rend, Willie56My life is like the summer rose113My mother bore me in the southern wild181Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew104No bird-song floated down the hill82O, a dainty plant is the ivy green90Oft in the stilly night64O little feet! that such long years227O Mary, go and call the cattle home102O, sing unto my roundelay!171Our bugles sang truce; for the night-cloud had lowered127Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass140Over the river they beckon to me78O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?177O Woman of Three Cows, agragh! don't let your tongue thus rattle!196O World! O Life! O Time!192Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin228September strews the woodland o'er63Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?50She died in beauty,—like a rose164She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps170She walks in beauty like the night84She was a phantom of delight18She was not fair, nor full of grace165Slave of the dark and dirty mine183Sleep sweetly in your humble graves136So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn123Stars of the summer night!41Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright203Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean65Tell me not, sweet, I am unkinde125That which her slender waist confined23The glories of our birth and state182The glow and the glory are plighted24The heath this night must be my bed124The maid who binds her warrior's sash142The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year100There sat an old man on a rock120These years! these years! these naughty years!114The shadows lay along Broadway207The splendor falls on castle walls40The sunlight fills the trembling air86The winds that once the Argo bore144The woods decay, the woods decay and fall193They are all gone into the world of light80They grew in beauty, side by side174They sleep so calm and stately137This is the arsenal. From floor to ceiling146This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign214This sweet child which hath climbed upon my knee219Thou lingering star, with lessening ray61Thou still unravished bride of quietness!199Three fishers went sailing out into the west143Tiger! Tiger! burning bright96'Tis a fearful night in the winter time97'Tis pleasant business making books231'Tis the last rose of summer111To him who in the love of nature holds75Touch us gently, Time!122Tread softly,—bow the head208Weave no more the marriage-chain!163We count the broken lyres that rest229We left behind the painted buoy13We watched her breathing through the night160We were not many,—we who stood128What constitutes a state?148What hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells?212What was he doing, the great god Pan?11When forty winters shall besiege thy brow48When I consider how my light is spent143When I do count the clock that tells the time49When Liberty lives loud on every lip179When the latest strife is lost, and all is done with54Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?133Whom first we love, you know, we seldom wed71With blackest moss the flower-pots37With what clear guile of gracious love enticed224Ye banks, and braes, and streams around166You ask me, why, though ill at ease126
Edited byRossiter Johnson. Each in one volume, 18mo, $1.00. The set, in box, $18.00.
1. EXILE.2. INTELLECT.3. TRAGEDY.4. LIFE.5. LAUGHTER.6. LOVE.7. ROMANCE.8. MYSTERY.9. COMEDY.10. CHILDHOOD.11. HEROISM.12. FORTUNE.13. NARRATIVE POEMS.14 LYRICAL POEMS.15. MINOR POEMS.16. NATURE.17. HUMANITY.18. AUTHORS.
1. EXILE.2. INTELLECT.3. TRAGEDY.4. LIFE.5. LAUGHTER.6. LOVE.7. ROMANCE.8. MYSTERY.9. COMEDY.10. CHILDHOOD.11. HEROISM.12. FORTUNE.13. NARRATIVE POEMS.14 LYRICAL POEMS.15. MINOR POEMS.16. NATURE.17. HUMANITY.18. AUTHORS.
Sixteenmo Edition.18 vols., 16mo, gilt top, $18.00. (Sold only in sets.)
A list of the entire contents of the volumes of thisSeries will be sent free on application.HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.Boston and New York.