OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

Born Aug. 29, 1809.

John G. Whittier.

His laurels fresh from song and lay,Romance and art, so young withalAt heart, we scarcely dare to sayWe keep his seventieth festival.His still the keen analysisOf men and moods, electric wit,Free play of mirth, and tendernessTo heal the slightest wound from it.And his the pathos touching allLife’s sins and sorrows and regrets,Its hopes and fears, its final callAnd rest beneath the violets.His sparkling surface scarce betraysThe thoughtful tide beneath it rolled;The wisdom of the latter daysAnd tender memories of the old.Though now unnumbered guests surroundThe table that he rules at will,Its autocrat, however crowned,Is but our friend and comrade still.Long may he live to sing for usThe songs that stay the flight of time,And like his Chambered Nautilus,To holier heights of beauty climb.

His laurels fresh from song and lay,Romance and art, so young withalAt heart, we scarcely dare to sayWe keep his seventieth festival.

His laurels fresh from song and lay,

Romance and art, so young withal

At heart, we scarcely dare to say

We keep his seventieth festival.

His still the keen analysisOf men and moods, electric wit,Free play of mirth, and tendernessTo heal the slightest wound from it.

His still the keen analysis

Of men and moods, electric wit,

Free play of mirth, and tenderness

To heal the slightest wound from it.

And his the pathos touching allLife’s sins and sorrows and regrets,Its hopes and fears, its final callAnd rest beneath the violets.

And his the pathos touching all

Life’s sins and sorrows and regrets,

Its hopes and fears, its final call

And rest beneath the violets.

His sparkling surface scarce betraysThe thoughtful tide beneath it rolled;The wisdom of the latter daysAnd tender memories of the old.

His sparkling surface scarce betrays

The thoughtful tide beneath it rolled;

The wisdom of the latter days

And tender memories of the old.

Though now unnumbered guests surroundThe table that he rules at will,Its autocrat, however crowned,Is but our friend and comrade still.

Though now unnumbered guests surround

The table that he rules at will,

Its autocrat, however crowned,

Is but our friend and comrade still.

Long may he live to sing for usThe songs that stay the flight of time,And like his Chambered Nautilus,To holier heights of beauty climb.

Long may he live to sing for us

The songs that stay the flight of time,

And like his Chambered Nautilus,

To holier heights of beauty climb.

Dec. 3, 1879.

I think that none of us can understand the meaning and scope of Dr. Holmes’s writings unless we have observed that the main work of his life has been to study and teach an exact science, the noble science of anatomy. And let us honor him to-day, not forgetting, as they can never be forgotten, his poems, his essays, as a noble representative of the profession of the scientific student and teacher.—Charles W. Eliot.

What one does easily is apt to be his forte, though years may pass before he finds this out. Holmes’s early pieces, mostly college-verse, were better of their kind than those of a better kind written in youth by some of his contemporaries. The humbler the type, the sooner the development. The young poet had the aid of a suitable habitat; life at Harvard was the precise thing to bring out his talent. There was nothing of the hermit-thrush in him; his temper was not of the withdrawing and reflective kind, nor moodily introspective,—it throve on fellowship, and he looked to his mates for an audience as readily as they to him for a toast-master.—Frances H. Underwood.

One finds nowhere in Holmes’s volumes crude and unformed thoughts. He writes as clearly as he thinks. His sentences come from his pen clean-cut. The language of his prose is pure classical English. His style is simple, direct, forcible; affluent, in the sense that it apparently never fails to come spontaneously at need, and in the fittest form; but not exuberant to the obscuring of the thought. Whether he be discussing a medical thesis or reading a lyric to classmates and literary friends at an anniversary dinner, or sketching characterin the romance, or playing the autocrat at the breakfast-table, it is sure to be found acting effectively on those who hear or read them.—Rev. Ray Palmer.

It is as a writer of humorous poetry that Holmes excels. His non-humorous poems are full of beautiful passages, as we shall see, but they have not the same unique flavor of originality. In one of the great London papers it was editorially stated, not long since, that no contemporary American writer had so amused and instructed the insular mind as Holmes had done. The one most charming feature of his printed and spoken conversation is that he establishes a relation of sympathy between himself and his listeners, by expressing for them those common, every-day thoughts that we all think but rarely say.—Wm. Sloane Kennedy.

The grace and gayety, the pathos and melody, the wit, the earnestness and shrewd sense of his writings, have given Holmes a place, and a sunny place, in the popular heart. On his happy birthday it was not Boston that sat at table, but the whole country. It was not a town meeting, but a national congress. The Autocrat is not a mayor, but an emperor, and the toast of the day was the toast of appreciative hearts and generous souls far beyond the sound of the Atlantic. “The Autocrat of the Breakfast-table; O king, live forever!”—Geo. Wm. Curtis.

Along its front no sabers shine,No blood-red pennons wave;Its banner bears the single line,“Our duty is to save.”The Two Armies.

Along its front no sabers shine,No blood-red pennons wave;Its banner bears the single line,“Our duty is to save.”

Along its front no sabers shine,

No blood-red pennons wave;

Its banner bears the single line,

“Our duty is to save.”

The Two Armies.

Bring bellows for the panting winds,Hang up a lantern by the moon;And give the nightingale a fife,And lend the eagle a balloon.The Meeting of the Dryads.

Bring bellows for the panting winds,Hang up a lantern by the moon;And give the nightingale a fife,And lend the eagle a balloon.

Bring bellows for the panting winds,

Hang up a lantern by the moon;

And give the nightingale a fife,

And lend the eagle a balloon.

The Meeting of the Dryads.

Child of the plowshare, smile;Boy of the counter, grieve not,Though muses round thy trundle-bedTheir broidered tissue weave not.The Poet’s Lot.

Child of the plowshare, smile;Boy of the counter, grieve not,Though muses round thy trundle-bedTheir broidered tissue weave not.

Child of the plowshare, smile;

Boy of the counter, grieve not,

Though muses round thy trundle-bed

Their broidered tissue weave not.

The Poet’s Lot.

Dear friends, who are listening so sweetly the whileWith your lips double-reefed in a snug little smile,I leave you two fables, both drawn from the deep,—The shells you can drop, but the pearls you may keep.Verses for After-dinner.

Dear friends, who are listening so sweetly the while

With your lips double-reefed in a snug little smile,

I leave you two fables, both drawn from the deep,—

The shells you can drop, but the pearls you may keep.

Verses for After-dinner.

Each moment fainter wave the fieldsAnd wider rolls the sea;The mist grows dark,—the sun goes down,—Day breaks,—and where are we?Departed Days.

Each moment fainter wave the fieldsAnd wider rolls the sea;The mist grows dark,—the sun goes down,—Day breaks,—and where are we?

Each moment fainter wave the fields

And wider rolls the sea;

The mist grows dark,—the sun goes down,—

Day breaks,—and where are we?

Departed Days.

Flowers will bloom over and over again in poems as in the summer fields, to the end of time, always old and always new. Why should we be more shy of repeating ourselves than the spring be tired of blossoms or the night of stars?—The Autocrat of the Breakfast-table.

God of all nations! Sovereign Lord!In Thy dread name we draw the sword,We lift the starry flag on highThat fills with light our stormy sky.Army Hymn.

God of all nations! Sovereign Lord!In Thy dread name we draw the sword,We lift the starry flag on highThat fills with light our stormy sky.

God of all nations! Sovereign Lord!

In Thy dread name we draw the sword,

We lift the starry flag on high

That fills with light our stormy sky.

Army Hymn.

How patient Nature smiles at Fame!The weeds that strewed the victor’s way,Feed on his dust to shroud his name,Green where his proudest towers decay.A Roman Aqueduct.

How patient Nature smiles at Fame!The weeds that strewed the victor’s way,Feed on his dust to shroud his name,Green where his proudest towers decay.

How patient Nature smiles at Fame!

The weeds that strewed the victor’s way,

Feed on his dust to shroud his name,

Green where his proudest towers decay.

A Roman Aqueduct.

It is likely that the language will shape itself by larger forces than phonography and dictionary-making. You may spade up the ocean as much as you like, and harrow it afterward if you can, but the moon will still lead the tides, and the winds will form their surface.—The Professor at the Breakfast-table.

Joy smiles in the fountain,Health flows in the rills,As their ribbons of silverUnwind from the hills.Song for a Temperance Dinner.

Joy smiles in the fountain,Health flows in the rills,As their ribbons of silverUnwind from the hills.

Joy smiles in the fountain,

Health flows in the rills,

As their ribbons of silver

Unwind from the hills.

Song for a Temperance Dinner.

Know old Cambridge? Hope you do.Born there? Don’t say so! I was too.Parson Turrell’s Legacy.

Know old Cambridge? Hope you do.Born there? Don’t say so! I was too.

Know old Cambridge? Hope you do.

Born there? Don’t say so! I was too.

Parson Turrell’s Legacy.

Let each unhallowed cause that bringsThe stern destroyer cease,Thy flaming angel fold his wingsAnd seraphs whisper Peace!Parting Hymn.

Let each unhallowed cause that bringsThe stern destroyer cease,Thy flaming angel fold his wingsAnd seraphs whisper Peace!

Let each unhallowed cause that brings

The stern destroyer cease,

Thy flaming angel fold his wings

And seraphs whisper Peace!

Parting Hymn.

Many ideas grow better when transplanted into another mind than in the one where they sprang up. That which was a weed in one intelligence becomes aflower in the other. A flower, on the other hand, may dwindle down to a mere weed by the same change.—The Poet at the Breakfast-table.

None wept,—none pitied;—they who kneltAt morning by the despot’s throneAt evening dashed the laureled bustAnd spurned the wreaths themselves had strewn.The Dying Seneca.

None wept,—none pitied;—they who kneltAt morning by the despot’s throneAt evening dashed the laureled bustAnd spurned the wreaths themselves had strewn.

None wept,—none pitied;—they who knelt

At morning by the despot’s throne

At evening dashed the laureled bust

And spurned the wreaths themselves had strewn.

The Dying Seneca.

Over the hill-sides 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.Lexington.

Over the hill-sides 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.

Over the hill-sides 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.

Lexington.

Poor conquered monarch! though that haughty glanceStill speaks thy courage unsubdued by time,And in the grandeur of thy sullen treadLives the proud spirit of thy burning clime.To a Caged Lion.

Poor conquered monarch! though that haughty glanceStill speaks thy courage unsubdued by time,And in the grandeur of thy sullen treadLives the proud spirit of thy burning clime.

Poor conquered monarch! though that haughty glance

Still speaks thy courage unsubdued by time,

And in the grandeur of thy sullen tread

Lives the proud spirit of thy burning clime.

To a Caged Lion.

Questioning all things: Why her Lord had sent her?What were these torturing gifts, and wherefore lent her?Scornful as spirit fallen, its own tormentor.Iris, Her Book.

Questioning all things: Why her Lord had sent her?What were these torturing gifts, and wherefore lent her?Scornful as spirit fallen, its own tormentor.

Questioning all things: Why her Lord had sent her?

What were these torturing gifts, and wherefore lent her?

Scornful as spirit fallen, its own tormentor.

Iris, Her Book.

Rain me sweet odors on the airAnd wheel me up my Indian chair,And spread some book not overwiseFlat out before my sleepy eyes.Midsummer.

Rain me sweet odors on the airAnd wheel me up my Indian chair,And spread some book not overwiseFlat out before my sleepy eyes.

Rain me sweet odors on the air

And wheel me up my Indian chair,

And spread some book not overwise

Flat out before my sleepy eyes.

Midsummer.

Scenes of my youth! awake, its slumbering fire!Ye winds of Memory, sweep the silent lyre!Ray of the past, if yet thou canst appear,Break through the clouds of Fancy’s waning year.A Metrical Essay.

Scenes of my youth! awake, its slumbering fire!Ye winds of Memory, sweep the silent lyre!Ray of the past, if yet thou canst appear,Break through the clouds of Fancy’s waning year.

Scenes of my youth! awake, its slumbering fire!

Ye winds of Memory, sweep the silent lyre!

Ray of the past, if yet thou canst appear,

Break through the clouds of Fancy’s waning year.

A Metrical Essay.

Trees as we see them, love them, adore them in the fields, where they are alive, holding their green sunshades over our heads, talking to us with their hundred thousand whispering tongues, looking down on us with that sweet meekness which belongs to huge but limited organisms.—The Autocrat of the Breakfast-table.

Unscathed, she treads the wreck-piled streetWhose narrow gaps affordA pathway for her bleeding feet,To seek her absent lord.Agnes.

Unscathed, she treads the wreck-piled streetWhose narrow gaps affordA pathway for her bleeding feet,To seek her absent lord.

Unscathed, she treads the wreck-piled street

Whose narrow gaps afford

A pathway for her bleeding feet,

To seek her absent lord.

Agnes.

Virtue—the guide that men and nations own;And Law—the bulwark that protects her throne;And Health—to all its happiest charm that lends,—These and their servants, man’s untiring friends.A Modest Request.

Virtue—the guide that men and nations own;And Law—the bulwark that protects her throne;And Health—to all its happiest charm that lends,—These and their servants, man’s untiring friends.

Virtue—the guide that men and nations own;

And Law—the bulwark that protects her throne;

And Health—to all its happiest charm that lends,—

These and their servants, man’s untiring friends.

A Modest Request.

Wan-visaged thing! thy virgin leafTo me looks more than deadly pale,Unknowing what may stain thee yet,—A poem or a tale.To a Blank Sheet of Paper.

Wan-visaged thing! thy virgin leafTo me looks more than deadly pale,Unknowing what may stain thee yet,—A poem or a tale.

Wan-visaged thing! thy virgin leaf

To me looks more than deadly pale,

Unknowing what may stain thee yet,—

A poem or a tale.

To a Blank Sheet of Paper.

“It ain’t jest the thing to grease your ex with ile o’ vitrul,” said the Member.—The Poet at the Breakfast-table.

Ye know not,—but the hour is nigh;Ye will not heed the warning breath;No vision strikes your clouded eye,To break the sleep that wakes in death.The Last Prophecy of Cassandra.

Ye know not,—but the hour is nigh;Ye will not heed the warning breath;No vision strikes your clouded eye,To break the sleep that wakes in death.

Ye know not,—but the hour is nigh;

Ye will not heed the warning breath;

No vision strikes your clouded eye,

To break the sleep that wakes in death.

The Last Prophecy of Cassandra.

“By Zhorzhe!” as friend Sales is accustomed to cry,You tell me they’re dead, but I know it’s a lie;Is Jackson not President? What was’t you said?It can’t be; you’re joking; what,—all of ’em dead?Once More.

“By Zhorzhe!” as friend Sales is accustomed to cry,

You tell me they’re dead, but I know it’s a lie;

Is Jackson not President? What was’t you said?

It can’t be; you’re joking; what,—all of ’em dead?

Once More.

April 27, 1861.

Eighty years have passed, and more,Since under the brave old treeOur fathers gathered in arms, and sworeThey would follow the sign their banners bore,And fight till the land was free.Half of their work was done,Half is left to do,—Cambridge, and Concord, and Lexington!When the battle is fought and won,What shall be told of you?Hark!—’tis the south-wind moans,—Who are the martyrs down?Ah, the marrow was true in your children’s bonesThat sprinkled with blood the cursèd stonesOf the murder-haunted town!What if the storm-clouds blow?What if the green leaves fall?Better the crashing tempest’s throeThan the army of worms that gnawed below;Trample them one and all!Then, when the battle is won,And the land from traitors free,Our children shall tell of the strife begunWhen Liberty’s second April sunWas bright on our brave old tree!

Eighty years have passed, and more,Since under the brave old treeOur fathers gathered in arms, and sworeThey would follow the sign their banners bore,And fight till the land was free.

Eighty years have passed, and more,

Since under the brave old tree

Our fathers gathered in arms, and swore

They would follow the sign their banners bore,

And fight till the land was free.

Half of their work was done,Half is left to do,—Cambridge, and Concord, and Lexington!When the battle is fought and won,What shall be told of you?

Half of their work was done,

Half is left to do,—

Cambridge, and Concord, and Lexington!

When the battle is fought and won,

What shall be told of you?

Hark!—’tis the south-wind moans,—Who are the martyrs down?Ah, the marrow was true in your children’s bonesThat sprinkled with blood the cursèd stonesOf the murder-haunted town!

Hark!—’tis the south-wind moans,—

Who are the martyrs down?

Ah, the marrow was true in your children’s bones

That sprinkled with blood the cursèd stones

Of the murder-haunted town!

What if the storm-clouds blow?What if the green leaves fall?Better the crashing tempest’s throeThan the army of worms that gnawed below;Trample them one and all!

What if the storm-clouds blow?

What if the green leaves fall?

Better the crashing tempest’s throe

Than the army of worms that gnawed below;

Trample them one and all!

Then, when the battle is won,And the land from traitors free,Our children shall tell of the strife begunWhen Liberty’s second April sunWas bright on our brave old tree!

Then, when the battle is won,

And the land from traitors free,

Our children shall tell of the strife begun

When Liberty’s second April sun

Was bright on our brave old tree!

Behold the rocky wallThat down its sloping sidesPours the swift rain-drops, blending, as they fallIn rushing river-tides!Yon stream, whose sources runTurned by a pebbled edge,Is Athabasca, rolling toward the sunThrough the cleft mountain-ledge.The slender rill had strayed,But for the slanting stone,To evening’s ocean, with the tangled braidOf foam-flecked Oregon.So from the heights of WillLife’s parting stream descends,And, as a moment turns its slender rill,Each widening torrent bends,—From the same cradle’s side,From the same mother’s knee,—One to long darkness and the frozen tide,One to the Peaceful Sea.

Behold the rocky wallThat down its sloping sidesPours the swift rain-drops, blending, as they fallIn rushing river-tides!

Behold the rocky wall

That down its sloping sides

Pours the swift rain-drops, blending, as they fall

In rushing river-tides!

Yon stream, whose sources runTurned by a pebbled edge,Is Athabasca, rolling toward the sunThrough the cleft mountain-ledge.

Yon stream, whose sources run

Turned by a pebbled edge,

Is Athabasca, rolling toward the sun

Through the cleft mountain-ledge.

The slender rill had strayed,But for the slanting stone,To evening’s ocean, with the tangled braidOf foam-flecked Oregon.

The slender rill had strayed,

But for the slanting stone,

To evening’s ocean, with the tangled braid

Of foam-flecked Oregon.

So from the heights of WillLife’s parting stream descends,And, as a moment turns its slender rill,Each widening torrent bends,—

So from the heights of Will

Life’s parting stream descends,

And, as a moment turns its slender rill,

Each widening torrent bends,—

From the same cradle’s side,From the same mother’s knee,—One to long darkness and the frozen tide,One to the Peaceful Sea.

From the same cradle’s side,

From the same mother’s knee,—

One to long darkness and the frozen tide,

One to the Peaceful Sea.

OUR FATHERS’ LAND.

Sung in unison by twelve hundred children of the public schools, at the visit of the Prince of Wales to Boston, October 18, 1860. Air, “God save the Queen.”

God bless our Fathers’ Land!Keep her in heart and handOne with our own!From all her foes defend,Be her brave People’s Friend,On all her realms descend,Protect her Throne!Father, with loving careGuard Thou her kingdom’s Heir,Guide all his ways:Thine arm his shelter be,From him by land and seaBid storm and danger flee,Prolong his days!Lord, let War’s tempest cease,Fold the whole Earth in peaceUnder thy wings!Make all Thy nations one,All hearts beneath the sun,Till thou shalt reign alone,Great King of kings!

God bless our Fathers’ Land!Keep her in heart and handOne with our own!From all her foes defend,Be her brave People’s Friend,On all her realms descend,Protect her Throne!

God bless our Fathers’ Land!

Keep her in heart and hand

One with our own!

From all her foes defend,

Be her brave People’s Friend,

On all her realms descend,

Protect her Throne!

Father, with loving careGuard Thou her kingdom’s Heir,Guide all his ways:Thine arm his shelter be,From him by land and seaBid storm and danger flee,Prolong his days!

Father, with loving care

Guard Thou her kingdom’s Heir,

Guide all his ways:

Thine arm his shelter be,

From him by land and sea

Bid storm and danger flee,

Prolong his days!

Lord, let War’s tempest cease,Fold the whole Earth in peaceUnder thy wings!Make all Thy nations one,All hearts beneath the sun,Till thou shalt reign alone,Great King of kings!

Lord, let War’s tempest cease,

Fold the whole Earth in peace

Under thy wings!

Make all Thy nations one,

All hearts beneath the sun,

Till thou shalt reign alone,

Great King of kings!

We will not speak of years to-night,For what have years to bringBut larger floods of love and light,And sweeter songs to sing.Enough for him the silent graspThat knits us hand in hand,And he the bracelet’s radiant claspThat locks our circling band.Strength to his hours of manly toil,Peace to his starlit dreams!Who loves alike the furrowed soil,The music-haunted streams!Sweet smiles to keep forever brightThe sunshine on his lips,And faith that sees the ring of lightRound nature’s last eclipse.

We will not speak of years to-night,For what have years to bringBut larger floods of love and light,And sweeter songs to sing.

We will not speak of years to-night,

For what have years to bring

But larger floods of love and light,

And sweeter songs to sing.

Enough for him the silent graspThat knits us hand in hand,And he the bracelet’s radiant claspThat locks our circling band.

Enough for him the silent grasp

That knits us hand in hand,

And he the bracelet’s radiant clasp

That locks our circling band.

Strength to his hours of manly toil,Peace to his starlit dreams!Who loves alike the furrowed soil,The music-haunted streams!

Strength to his hours of manly toil,

Peace to his starlit dreams!

Who loves alike the furrowed soil,

The music-haunted streams!

Sweet smiles to keep forever brightThe sunshine on his lips,And faith that sees the ring of lightRound nature’s last eclipse.

Sweet smiles to keep forever bright

The sunshine on his lips,

And faith that sees the ring of light

Round nature’s last eclipse.

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