{"1": {"fulltext": "PS\\n^tT- JU W-i U\u00c2\u00ab~\u00c2\u00bb\\n\\\\95 8\\n\\\\90O\\nHi\\nALDINE\\nCLASSICS\\nBS1H\\n*/T^5C", "height": "4246", "width": "2720", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0001.jp2"}, "2": {"fulltext": "LIBRARY OF CONGRESS.\\nChap.. Copyright No.__.\\nShell:\\nUNITED STATES OF AMERICA.", "height": "4072", "width": "2596", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0002.jp2"}, "3": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4116", "width": "2536", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0003.jp2"}, "4": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4096", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0004.jp2"}, "5": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4116", "width": "2540", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0005.jp2"}, "6": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4104", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0006.jp2"}, "7": {"fulltext": "Ojr jUibersiDe 0lDtne Classics\\nTHE ONE-HOSS SHAY\\nAND OTHER POEMS", "height": "4116", "width": "2572", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0007.jp2"}, "8": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4100", "width": "2624", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0008.jp2"}, "9": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4100", "width": "2536", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0009.jp2"}, "10": {"fulltext": "X\\nN\\nI", "height": "4116", "width": "2616", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0010.jp2"}, "11": {"fulltext": "THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS\\nAND OTHER POEMS, GAY AND GRAVE\\nBY\\nOLIVER WENDELL HOLMES\\nRIVERSIDE\\nBOSTON AND NEW YORK\\nHOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY\\n@tf)t Oitoer^ibe pre??, \u00c2\u00a3amun ge\\n1900", "height": "4100", "width": "2532", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0013.jp2"}, "12": {"fulltext": "TWO COPIES RECEIVED,\\nLibrary of Coisgra*%\\nOfflco o f tfee\\nMAY 2 8 1900\\nReg|\u00c2\u00bbtor of Copyrights,\\nSECOND COPY.\\n59071\\nCOPYRIGHT, 1900, BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN CO.\\nALL RIGHTS RESERVED", "height": "4116", "width": "2636", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0014.jp2"}, "13": {"fulltext": "EDITOK S NOTE\\nHumor is so penetrating and pervasive a qual-\\nity that a writer possessed of it can scarcely re-\\nfrain from its expression even when engaged on\\nserious themes. It will lurk behind matter of\\nfact and send out its playful forays when one\\nleast looks for it. An author who is charged with\\nthis quality rarely goes any length in his mind\\nwithout betraying its presence, and even so the\\nvery earnestness of his speech will frequently find\\nan outlet through this channel, for tears and\\nsmiles are its component parts.\\nOne might, if he chose, make a pretty argument\\nfor the confusion of the advocates of the Baconian\\npersonality of Shakespeare who maintain that\\nShakespeare had Bacon s learning, by pointing out\\nthat Bacon had not Shakespeare s humor, and that\\nno man holding humor as a sponge holds water,\\nas did the author of Shakespeare s comedies, his-\\ntories, and tragedies, could have retained it through\\nthe thousand pages which go to make up Bacon s\\nWorks.\\nIt is with a little sense of its artificiality, there-\\nfore, that the editor bisects Dr. Holmes in this vol-\\nume and throws upon one side of the lino his gay,\\nupon the other his grave poetry. Is My Aunt\\na laughing mock Does The Last Leaf hold up", "height": "4112", "width": "2536", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0015.jp2"}, "14": {"fulltext": "vi EDITOR S NOTE\\nonly the hour-glass? Still, it is unquestionable\\nthat this versatile singer had his moods of down-\\nright merriment when he seized a piece of gro-\\ntesque fun and shook it till it scattered laughter\\nin every member, and he had his hours too of\\nkeen intellectual exploration when he wound his\\nway through the spirals of the chambered nau-\\ntilus, or of spiritual reverie when he breathed a\\nhymn which sought the very centre of life. And\\nabout these two poles of his nature were drawn\\nwhimsies and vagaries it may be, or speculations\\nand deep emotions.\\nBut between these two extremes was the most\\ndiversified playground of his imagination and\\nfancy, and in this temperate zone of kindly nature\\nwill be found the greater part of his writing. It\\nwas easy to find enough of his characteristic verse\\nand to divide it with careless hand into two loosely\\nconstructed groups the difficulty was to know\\nwhat to leave out, and if one misses his favorite\\npoem in this small volume, he must remember\\nthat this is but a handful drawn from the bin,\\nand any one who has tried to take up a handful of\\ngrain knows how surely some that was grasped\\nslips out.\\nH. E. S.", "height": "4116", "width": "2640", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0016.jp2"}, "15": {"fulltext": "CONTENTS\\nPAGE\\nThe Deacon s Masterpiece 1\\nParson Turell s Legacy 6\\nHow the Old Horse won the Bet 12\\nThe Broomstick Train 19\\nMy Aunt 25\\nThe Dorchester Giant 27\\nThe Height of the Ridiculous .29\\nThe Spectre Pig 31\\nThe Ballad of the Oysterman .35\\nThe Hot Season 37\\nThe Stethoscope Song .39\\nBill and Joe 43\\nLatter-Day Warnings 45\\nContentment 47\\nDe Sauty .50\\nOde for a Social Meeting 53\\nThe Archbishop and Gil Blas .54\\nOld Cambridge, July 3, 1875 58\\nEpilogue to the Breakfast-Table Series 62\\nThe Chambered Nautilus 65\\nOld Ironsides 67\\nThe Last Leaf 69\\nThe Cambridge Churchyard 73\\nDorothy Q 77\\nThe Organ-Blower 80", "height": "4108", "width": "2536", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0017.jp2"}, "16": {"fulltext": "viii CONTENTS\\nAgnes 82\\nAvis 106\\nA Sun-Day Hymn 108\\nThe Crooked Footpath 109\\nRobinson of Leyden Ill\\nMy Aviary 113\\nA Ballad of the Boston Tea-Party 117\\nGrandmother s Story of Bunker-Hill Battle 121\\nThe School-Boy 132\\nAt the Saturday Club 145\\nThe Iron Gate 151", "height": "4116", "width": "2652", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0018.jp2"}, "17": {"fulltext": "THE ONE-HOSS SHAY\\nTHE DEACON S MASTERPIECE\\nOR, THE WONDERFUL ONE-HOSS SHAY\\nA LOGICAL STORY\\n[The following note was prefaced to the poem when it\\nappeared in an illustrated edition.]\\nThe Wonderful One-Hoss Shay is a perfectly intelli-\\ngible conception, whatever material difficulties it presents.\\nIt is conceivable that a being of an order superior to human-\\nity should so understand the conditions of matter that he\\ncould construct a machine which should go to pieces, if not\\ninto its constituent atoms, at a given moment of the future.\\nThe mind may take a certain pleasure in this picture of the\\nimpossible. The event follows as a logical consequence of\\nthe presupposed condition of things.\\nThere is a practical lesson to be got out of the story.\\nObservation shows us in what point any particular mechan-\\nism is most likely to give way. In a wagon, for instance, the\\nweak point is where the axle enters the hub or nave. When\\nthe wagon breaks down, three times out of four, I think, it\\nis at this point that the accident occurs. The workman\\nshould see to it that this part should never give way then\\nfind the next vulnerable place, and so on, until he arrives\\nlogically at the perfect result attained by the deacon.\\nHAVE you heard of the wonderful one-hoss\\nshay,\\nThat was built in such a logical way", "height": "4108", "width": "2544", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0019.jp2"}, "18": {"fulltext": "2 THE DEACON S MASTERPIECE\\nIt ran a hundred years to a day,\\nAnd then, of a sudden, it ah, but stay,\\nI 11 tell you what happened without delay,\\nScaring the parson into fits,\\nFrightening people out of their wits,\\nHave you ever heard of that, I say\\nSeventeen hundred and fifty-five.\\nGeorgius Secundus was then alive,\\nSnuffy old drone from the German hive.\\nThat was the year when Lisbon-town\\nSaw the earth open and gulp her down,\\nAnd Braddock s army was done so brown,\\nLeft without a scalp to its crown.\\nIt was on the terrible Earthquake-day\\nThat the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.\\nNow in building of chaises, I tell you what,\\nThere is always somewhere a weakest spot,\\nIn hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,\\nIn panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,\\nIn screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, lurking still,\\nFind it somewhere you must and will,\\nAbove or below, or within or without,\\nAnd that s the reason, beyond a doubt,\\nThat a chaise breaks down, but does n t wear out\\nBut the Deacon swore (as Deacons do,\\nWith an I dew vum, or an I tell yeou\\nHe would build one shay to beat the taown\\nN the keounty V all the kentry raoun\\nIt should be so built that it could n break daown", "height": "4116", "width": "2660", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0020.jp2"}, "19": {"fulltext": "THE DEACON S MASTERPIECE 3\\nu Yut said the Deacon, t s mighty plain\\nThut the weakes place mus stan the strain;\\nN the way t fix it, nz I maintain,\\nIs only jest\\nT make that place nz strong nz the rest.\\nSo the Deacon inquired of the village folk\\nWhere he conld find the strongest oak,\\nThat conld n t be split nor bent nor broke,\\nThat was for spokes and floor and sills\\nHe sent for lancewood to make the thills\\nThe crossbars were ash, from the straightest tree3\\nThe panels of white-wood, that cnts like cheese,\\nBut lasts like iron for things like these\\nThe hnbs of logs from the Settler s ellum,\\nLast of its timber, they could n t sell em,\\nNever an axe had seen their chips,\\nAnd the wedges flew from between their lips,\\nTheir blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips\\nStep and prop-iron, bolt and screw,\\nSpring, tire, axle, and linchpin too,\\nSteel of the finest, bright and blue\\nThoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide\\nBoot, top, dasher, from tough old hide\\nFound in the pit when the tanner died.\\nThat was the way he put her through.\\nThere said the Deacon, naow she 11 dew\\nDo I tell you, I rather guess\\nShe was a wonder, and nothing less\\nColts grew horses, beards turned gray,\\nDeacon and deaconess dropped away,", "height": "4116", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0021.jp2"}, "20": {"fulltext": "4 THE DEACON S MASTERPIECE\\nChildren and grandchildren where were they?\\nBut there stood the stout old one-hoss shay\\nAs fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day\\nEighteen hundred; it came and found\\nThe Deacon s masterpiece strong and sound.\\nEighteen hundred increased by ten\\nHahnsum kerridge they called it then.\\nEighteen hundred and twenty came\\nRunning as usual much the same.\\nThirty and forty at last arrive,\\nAnd then come fifty, and fifty-five.\\nLittle of all we value here\\nWakes on the morn of its hundredth year\\nWithout both feeling and looking queer.\\nIn fact, there s nothing that keeps its youth,\\nSo far as I know, but a tree and truth.\\n(This is a moral that runs at large\\nTake it. You re welcome. No extra charge.)\\nFirst of November, the Earthquake-day,\\nThere are traces of age in the one-hoss shay,\\nA general flavor of mild decay,\\nBut nothing local, as one may say.\\nThere could n t be, for the Deacon s art\\nHad made it so like in every part\\nThat there was n t a chance for one to start.\\nFor the wheels were just as strong as the thills,\\nAnd the floor was just as strong as the sills,\\nAnd the panels just as strong as the floor,\\nAnd the whipple-tree neither less nor more,", "height": "4116", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0022.jp2"}, "21": {"fulltext": "THE DEACON S MASTERPIECE\\nAnd the back crossbar as strong as the fore,\\nAnd spring and axle and hub encore.\\nAnd yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt\\nIn another hour it will be worn out I\\nFirst of November, Fifty-five\\nThis morning the parson takes a drive.\\nNow, small boys, get out of the way\\nHere comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,\\nDrawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.\\n1 Huddup said the parson. Off went they.\\nThe parson was working his Sunday s text,\\nHad got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed\\nAt what the Moses was coming next.\\nAll at once the horse stood still,\\nClose by the meet n -house on the hill.\\nFirst a shiver, and then a thrill,\\nThen something decidedly like a spill,\\nAnd the parson was sitting upon a rock,\\nAt half past nine by the meet n -house clock,\\nJust the hour of the Earthquake shock\\nWhat do you think the parson found,\\nWhen he got up and stared around\\nThe poor old chaise in a heap or mound,\\nAs if it had been to the mill and ground\\nYou see, of course, if you re not a dunce,\\nHow it went to pieces all at once,\\nAll at once, and nothing first,\\nJust as bubbles do when they burst.\\nEnd of the wonderful one-hoss shay.\\nLogic is logic. That s all I say.", "height": "4116", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0023.jp2"}, "22": {"fulltext": "6 PARSON TURELL S LEGACY\\nPARSON TURELL S LEGACY\\nOR, THE PRESIDENT S OLD ARM-CHAIR\\nA MATHEMATICAL STORY\\n[The Professor had been making some experiments in\\nchloroform, and it was so evident that his friend the Auto-\\ncrat relieved him at the end of the prelude, by reading the\\npoem himself.]\\nI M the fellah that tole one day\\nThe tale of the won erf ul one-hoss-shay.\\nWan to hear another Say.\\nFunny, was n it Made me laugh,\\nI m too modest, I am, by half,\\nMade me laugh 9 s though I sh d split,\\nCahn a fellah like fellah s own wit\\nFellahs keep sayin Well, now that s nice\\nDid it once, but cahn do it twice.\\nDon you b lieve the z no more fat\\nLots in the kitch n z good z that.\\nFus -rate throw, n no mistake,\\nHan us the props for another shake\\nKnow I 11 try, V guess I 11 win\\nHere sh goes for hit m ag in\\nFacts respecting an old arm-chair.\\nAt Cambridge. Is kept in the College there.\\nSeems but little the worse for wear.\\nThat s remarkable when I say\\nIt was old in President Holyoke s day.\\n(One of his boys, perhaps you know,\\nDied, at one hundred, years ago.)\\nHe took lodgings for rain or shine\\nUnder green bed-clothes in 69.", "height": "4116", "width": "2584", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0024.jp2"}, "23": {"fulltext": "PARSON TURELL S LEGACY\\nKnow old Cambridge Hope you do.\\nBorn there Don t say so I was, too.\\n(Born in a house with a gambrel-roof\\nStanding still, if you must have proof.\\nGambrel Gambrel Let me beg\\nYou 11 look at a horse s hinder leg,\\nFirst great angle above the hoof,\\nThat s the gambrel hence gambrel-roof.)\\nNicest place that ever was seen,\\nColleges red and Common green,\\nSidewalks brownish with trees between.\\nSweetest spot beneath the skies\\nWhen the canker-worms don t rise,\\nWhen the dust, that sometimes flies\\nInto your mouth and ears and eyes,\\nIn a quiet slumber lies,\\nNot in the shape of unbaked pies\\nSuch as barefoot children prize.\\nA kind of harbor it seems to be,\\nFacing the flow of a boundless sea.\\nRows of gray old Tutors stand\\nRanged like rocks above the sand\\nRolling beneath them, soft and green,\\nBreaks the tide of bright sixteen,\\nOne wave, two waves, three waves, four,\\nSliding up the sparkling floor\\nThen it ebbs to flow no more,\\nWandering off from shore to shore\\nWith its freight of golden ore\\nPleasant place for boys to play\\nBetter keep your girls away", "height": "4100", "width": "2496", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0025.jp2"}, "24": {"fulltext": "8 PARSON TURELL S LEGACY\\nHearts get rolled as pebbles do\\nWhich countless fingering waves pursue,\\nAnd every classic beach is strown\\nWith heart-shaped pebbles of blood-red stone.\\nBut this is neither here nor there\\nI m talking about an old arm-chair.\\nYou ve heard, no doubt, of Parson Turell\\nOver at Medf ord he used to dwell\\nMarried one of the Mathers folk\\nGot with his wife a chair of oak,\\nFunny old chair with seat like wedge,\\nSharp behind and broad front edge,\\nOne of the oddest of human things,\\nTurned all over with knobs and rings,\\nBut heavy, and wide, and deep, and grand,\\nFit for the worthies of the land,\\nChief Justice Sewall a cause to try in,\\nOr Cotton Mather to sit and lie in.\\nParson Turell bequeathed the same\\nTo a certain student, Smith by name\\nThese were the terms, as we are told\\nSaide Smith saide Chaire to have and holde\\nWhen he doth graduate, then to passe\\nTo y\u00c2\u00b0 oldest Youth in y e Senior Classe.\\nOn payment of (naming a certain sum)\\nBy him to whom y e Chaire shall come\\nHe to y e oldest Senior next,\\nAnd soe forever, (thus runs the text,)\\nBut one Crown lesse than he gave to claime,.\\nThat being his Debte for use of same.", "height": "4148", "width": "2616", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0026.jp2"}, "25": {"fulltext": "PARSON TURELL S LEGACY\\nSmith transferred it to one of the Browns,\\nAnd took his money, five silver crowns.\\nBrown delivered it up to Moore,\\nWho paid, it is plain, not five, but four.\\nMoore made over the chair to Lee,\\nWho gave him crowns of silver three.\\nLee conveyed it unto Drew,\\nAnd now the payment, of course, was two.\\nDrew gave up the chair to Dunn,\\nAll he got, as you see, was one.\\nDunn released the chair to Hall,\\nAnd got by the bargain no crown at all.\\nAnd now it passed to a second Brown,\\nWho took it and likewise claimed a crown.\\nWhen Brown conveyed it unto Ware,\\nHaving had one crown, to make it fair,\\nHe paid him two crowns to take the chair\\nAnd Ware, being honest, (as all Wares be,)\\nHe paid one Potter, who took it, three.\\nFour got Robinson five got Dix\\nJohnson primus demanded six\\nAnd so the sum kept gathering still\\nTill after the battle of Bunker s Hill.\\nWhen paper money became so cheap,\\nFolks would n t count it, but said a heap,\\nA certain Richards, the books declare^\\n(A. M. in 90 I ve looked with care\\nThrough the Triennial, name not there,)\\nThis person, Richards, was offered then\\nEightscore pounds, but would have ten", "height": "4108", "width": "2476", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0027.jp2"}, "26": {"fulltext": "10 PARSON TURELL S LEGACY\\nNine, I think, was the sum he took,\\nNot quite certain, but see the book.\\nBy and by the wars were still,\\nBut nothing had altered the Parson s will.\\nThe old arm-chair was solid yet,\\nBut saddled with such a monstrous debt\\nThings grew quite too bad to bear,\\nPaying such sums to get rid of the chair\\nBut dead men s fingers hold awful tight,\\nAnd there was the will in black and white,\\nPlain enough for a child to spell.\\nWhat should be done no man could tell,\\nFor the chair was a kind of nightmare curse,\\nAnd every season but made it worse.\\nAs a last resort, to clear the doubt,\\nThey got old Governor Hancock out.\\nThe Governor came with his Lighthorse Troop\\nAnd his mounted truckmen, all cock-a-hoop\\nHalberds glittered and colors flew,\\nFrench horns whinnied and trumpets blew,\\nThe yellow fifes whistled between their teeth,\\nAnd the bumble-bee bass-drums boomed beneath\\nSo he rode with all his band,\\nTill the President met him, cap in hand.\\nThe Governor hefted the crowns, and said,\\nA will is a will, and the Parson s dead.\\nThe Governor hefted the crowns. Said he,\\nThere is your p int. And here s my fee.\\nThese are the terms you must fulfil,\\nOn such conditions I break the will\\nThe Governor mentioned what these should be.", "height": "4160", "width": "2640", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0028.jp2"}, "27": {"fulltext": "PARSON TURELL S LEGACY 11\\n(Just wait a minute and then you 11 see.)\\nThe President prayed. Then all was still,\\nAnd the Governor rose and broke the will\\nAbout those conditions? Well, now you go\\nAnd do as I tell you, and then you 11 know.\\nOnce a year, on Commencement day,\\nIf you 11 only take the pains to stay,\\nYou 11 see the President in the Chair,\\nLikewise the Governor sitting there.\\nThe President rises both old and young\\nMay hear his speech in a foreign tongue,\\nThe meaning whereof, as lawyers swear,\\nIs this Can I keep this old arm-chair\\nAnd then his Excellency bows,\\nAs much as to say that he allows.\\nThe Yice-Gub. next is called by name\\nHe bows like t other, which means the same.\\nAnd all the officers round em bow,\\nAs much as to say that they allow.\\nAnd a lot of parchments about the chair\\nAre handed to witnesses then and there,\\nAnd then the lawyers hold it clear\\nThat the chair is safe for another year.\\nGod bless you, Gentlemen Learn to give\\nMoney to colleges while you live.\\nDon t be silly and think you 11 try\\nTo bother the colleges, when you die,\\nWith codicil this, and codicil that,\\nThat Knowledge may starve while Law grows fat\\nFor there never was pitcher that would n t spill,\\nAnd there s always a flaw in a donkey s will", "height": "4108", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0029.jp2"}, "28": {"fulltext": "12 HOW THE OLD HORSE\\nHOW THE OLD HORSE WON THE BET\\nDEDICATED BY A CONTRIBUTOR TO THE COLLE-\\nGIAN, 1830, TO THE EDITORS OF THE HARVARD\\nADVOCATE, 1876\\nUnquestionably there is something a little like extrava-\\ngance in How the Old Horse won the Bet, which taxes the\\ncredulity of experienced horsemen. Still there have been\\na good many surprises in the history of the turf and the\\ntrotting course.\\nThe Godolphin Arabian was taken from ignoble drudgery\\nto become the patriarch of the English racing stock.\\nOld Dutchman was transferred from between the shafts\\nof a cart to become a champion of the American trotters in\\nhis time.\\nOld Blue, a famous Boston horse of the early decades\\nof this century, was said to trot a mile in less than three\\nminutes, but I do not find any exact record of his achieve-\\nments.\\nThose who have followed the history of the American\\ntrotting horse are aware of the wonderful development of\\nspeed attained in these last years. The lowest time as yet\\nrecorded is by Maud S., in 2.08|.\\n7|1 WAS on the famous trotting-ground,\\nJL The betting men were gathered round\\nFrom far and near the cracks were there\\nWhose deeds the sporting prints declare\\nThe swift g. m., Old Hiram s nag,\\nThe fleet s. h., Dan Pfeiifer s brag,\\nWith these a third and who is he\\nThat stands beside his fast b. g.", "height": "4160", "width": "2628", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0030.jp2"}, "29": {"fulltext": "WON THE BET 13\\nBudd Doble, whose catarrhal name\\nSo fills the nasal trump of fame.\\nThere too stood many a noted steed\\nOf Messenger and Morgan breed\\nGreen horses also, not a few\\nUnknown as yet what they could do\\nAnd all the hacks that know so well\\nThe scourgings of the Sunday swell.\\nBlue are the skies of opening day\\nThe bordering turf is green with May\\nThe sunshine s golden gleam is thrown\\nOn sorrel, chestnut, bay, and roan\\nThe horses paw and prance and neigh,\\nFillies and colts like kittens play,\\nAnd dance and toss their rippled manes\\nShining and soft as silken skeins\\nWagons and gigs are ranged about,\\nAnd fashion flaunts her gay turn-out\\nHere stands each youthful Jehu s dream\\nThe jointed tandem, ticklish team\\nAnd there in ampler breadth expand\\nThe splendors of the four-in-hand\\nOn faultless ties and glossy tiles\\nThe lovely bonnets beam their smiles\\n(The style s the man, so books avow\\nThe style s the woman, anyhow)\\nFrom flounces frothed with creamy lace\\nPeeps out the pug-dog s smutty face,\\nOr spaniel rolls his liquid eye,\\nOr stares the wiry pet of Skye,\\nO woman, in your hours of ease\\nSo shy with us, so free with these", "height": "4104", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0031.jp2"}, "30": {"fulltext": "14 HOW THE OLD HORSE\\nCome on I 11 bet you two to one\\nI 11 make him do it Will you Done\\nWhat was it who was bound to do\\nI did not hear and can t tell you,\\nPray listen till my story s through.\\nScarce noticed, back behind the rest,\\nBy cart and wagon rudely prest,\\nThe parson s lean and bony bay\\nStood harnessed in his one-horse shay\\nLent to his sexton for the day\\n(A funeral so the sexton said\\nHis mother s uncle s wife was dead.)\\nLike Lazarus bid to Dives feast,\\nSo looked the poor forlorn old beast\\nHis coat was rough, his tail was bare,\\nThe gray was sprinkled in his hair\\nSportsmen and jockeys knew him not,\\nAnd yet they say he once could trot\\nAmong the fleetest of the town,\\nTill something cracked and broke him down,\\nThe steed s, the statesman s, common lot\\nAnd are we then so soon forgot\\nAh me I doubt if one of you\\nHas ever heard the name Old Blue,\\nWhose fame through all this region rung\\nIn those old days when I was young\\nBring forth the horse Alas he showed\\nNot like the one Mazeppa rode\\nScant-maned, sharp-backed, and shaky-kneed,", "height": "4156", "width": "2648", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0032.jp2"}, "31": {"fulltext": "WON THE BET 15\\nThe wreck of what was once a steed,\\nLips thin, eyes hollow, stiff in joints\\nYet not without his knowing points.\\nThe sexton laughing in his sleeve,\\nAs if t were all a make-believe,\\nLed forth the horse, and as he laughed\\nUnhitched the breeching from a shaft,\\nUnclasped the rusty belt beneath,\\nDrew forth the snaffle from his teeth,\\nSlipped off his head-stall, set him free\\nFrom strap and rein, a sight to see\\nSo worn, so lean in every limb,\\nIt can t be they are saddling him\\nIt is his back the pig-skin strides\\nAnd flaps his lank, rheumatic sides\\nWith look of mingled scorn and mirth\\nThey buckle round the saddle-girth\\nWith horsy wink and saucy toss\\nA youngster throws his leg across,\\nAnd so, his rider on his back,\\nThey lead him, limping, to the track,\\nFar up behind the starting-point,\\nTo limber out each stiffened joint.\\nAs through the jeering crowd he past,\\nOne pitying look Old Hiram cast\\nGo it, ye cripple, while ye can\\nCried out unsentimental Dan\\nA Fast-Day dinner for the crows\\nBudd Doble s scoffing shout arose.", "height": "4112", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0033.jp2"}, "32": {"fulltext": "16 HOW THE OLD HORSE\\nSlowly, as when the walking-beam\\nFirst feels the gathering head of steam,\\nWith warning cough and threatening wheeze\\nThe stiff old charger crooks his knees\\nAt first with cautious step sedate,\\nAs if he dragged a coach of state\\nHe s not a colt he knows full well\\nThat time is weight and sure to tell\\nNo horse so sturdy but he fears\\nThe handicap of twenty years.\\nAs through the throng on either hand\\nThe old horse nears the judges stand,\\nBeneath his jockey s feather-weight\\nHe warms a little to his gait,\\nAnd now and then a step is tried\\nThat hints of something like a stride.\\nGo Through his ear the summons stung\\nAs if a battle-trump had rung\\nThe slumbering instincts long unstirred\\nStart at the old familiar word\\nIt thrills like flame through every limb,\\nWhat mean his twenty years to him\\nThe savage blow his rider dealt\\nFell on his hollow flanks unfelt\\nThe spur that pricked his staring hide\\nUnheeded tore his bleeding side\\nAlike to him are spur and rein,\\nHe steps a five-year-old again\\nBefore the quarter pole was past,\\nOld Hiram said, He 9 s going fast.", "height": "4116", "width": "2584", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0034.jp2"}, "33": {"fulltext": "WON THE BET 17\\nLong ere the quarter was a half,\\nThe chuckling crowd had ceased to laugh\\nTighter his frightened jockey clung\\nAs in a mighty stride he swung,\\nThe gravel flying in his track,\\nHis neck stretched out, his ears laid back,\\nHis tail extended all the while\\nBehind him like a rat-tail file\\nOff went a shoe, away it spun,\\nShot like a bullet from a gun\\nThe quaking jockey shapes a prayer\\nFrom scraps of oaths he used to swear\\nHe drops his whip, he drops his rein,\\nHe clutches fiercely for a mane\\nHe 11 lose his hold he sways and reels\\nHe 11 slide beneath those trampling heels\\nThe knees of many a horseman quake,\\nThe flowers on many a bonnet shake,\\nAnd shouts arise from left and right,\\nStick on! Stick on! Hould tight! Hould\\ntight\\nCling round his neck and don t let go\\nThat pace can t hold there steady whoa\\nBut like the sable steed that bore\\nThe spectral lover of Lenore,\\nHis nostrils snorting foam and fire,\\nNo stretch his bony limbs can tire\\nAnd now the stand he rushes by,\\nAnd Stop him stop him is the cry.\\nStand back he s only just begun\\nHe s having out three heats in one", "height": "4112", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0035.jp2"}, "34": {"fulltext": "18 HOW THE OLD HORSE WON\\nDon t rush in front he 11 smash your brains\\nBut follow up and grab the reins\\nOld Hiram spoke. Dan Pfeiffer heard,\\nAnd sprang impatient at the word\\nBudd Doble started on his bay,\\nOld Hiram followed on his gray,\\nAnd off they spring, and round they go,\\nThe fast ones doing all they know.\\nLook twice they follow at his heels,\\nAs round the circling course he wheels,\\nAnd whirls with him that clinging boy\\nLike Hector round the walls of Troy\\nStill on, and on, the third time round I\\nThey re tailing off they re losing ground t\\nBudd Doble s nag begins to fail\\nDan Pfeiffer s sorrel whisks his tail\\nAnd see in spite of whip and shout,\\nOld Hiram s mare is giving out\\nNow for the finish at the turn,\\nThe old horse all the rest astern\\nComes swinging in, with easy trot\\nBy Jove he s distanced all the lot\\nThat trot no mortal could explain\\nSome said, Old Dutchman come again\\nSome took his time, at least they tried,\\nBut what it was could none decide\\nOne said he could n t understand\\nWhat happened to his second hand\\nOne said 2.10 that could n t be\\nMore like two twenty-two or three\\nOld Hiram settled it at last\\nThe time was two too dee-vel-ish fast J", "height": "4148", "width": "2620", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0036.jp2"}, "35": {"fulltext": "THE BROOMSTICK TRAIN 19\\nThe parson s horse had won the bet\\nIt cost him something of a sweat\\nBack in the one-hoss shay he went\\nThe parson wondered what it meant,\\nAnd murmnred, with a mild surprise\\nAnd pleasant twinkle of the eyes,\\nThat funeral must have been a trick,\\nOr corpses drive at double-quick\\nI should n t wonder, I declare,\\nIf brother Jehu made the prayer\\nAnd this is all I have to say\\nAbout that tough old trotting bay,\\nHuddup Huddup G lang Good day\\nMoral for which this tale is told\\nA horse can trot, for all he s old.\\nTHE BROOMSTICK TRAIN; OR, THE\\nRETURN OF THE WITCHES\\nIf there are any anachronisms or other inaccuracies in\\nthis story, the reader will please to remember that the nar-\\nrator s memory is liable to be at fault, and if the event re-\\ncorded interests him, will not worry over any little slips\\nor stumbles.\\nThe terrible witchcraft drama of 1692 has been seriously\\ntreated, as it well deserves to be. The story has been told\\nin two large volumes by the Rev. Charles Wentworth Up-\\nham, and in a small and more succinct volume, based upon\\nhis work, by his daughter-in-law, Caroline E. Upham.\\nThe delusion, commonly spoken of as if it belonged to", "height": "4108", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0037.jp2"}, "36": {"fulltext": "20 THE BROOMSTICK TRAIN\\nSalem, was more widely diffused through the towns of Es-\\nsex County. Looking upon it as a pitiful and long dead\\nand buried superstition, I trust my poem will no more of-\\nfend the good people of Essex County than Tarn O Shan-\\nter worries the honest folk of Ayrshire.\\nThe localities referred to are those with which I am fami-\\nliar in my drives about Essex County.\\nLOOK out Look out, boys Clear the track\\nThe witches are here They ve all come\\nback!\\nThey hanged them high, No use No use\\nWhat cares a witch for a hangman s noose\\nThey buried them deep, but they wouldn t lie\\nstill,\\nFor cats and witches are hard to kill\\nThey swore they should n t and would n t die,\\nBooks said they did, but they lie they lie\\nA couple of hundred years, or so,\\nThey had knocked about in the world below.\\nWhen an Essex Deacon dropped in to call,\\nAnd a homesick feeling seized them all\\nFor he came from a place they knew full well,\\nAnd many a tale he had to tell.\\nThey longed to visit the haunts of men,\\nTo see the old dwellings they knew again,\\nAnd ride on their broomsticks all around\\nTheir wide domain of unhallowed ground.\\nIn Essex County there s many a roof\\nWell known to him of the cloven hoof\\nThe small square windows are full in view\\nWhich the midnight hags went sailing through,", "height": "4160", "width": "2652", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0038.jp2"}, "37": {"fulltext": "THE BROOMSTICK TRAIN 21\\nOn their well-trained broomsticks mounted high,\\nSeen like shadows against the sky\\nCrossing the track of owls and bats,\\nHugging before them their coal-black cats.\\nWell did they know, those gray old wives,\\nThe sights we see in our daily drives\\nShimmer of lake and shine of sea,\\nBrowne s bare hill with its lonely tree,\\n(It was n t then as we see it now,\\nWith one scant scalp-lock to shade its brow\\nDusky nooks in the Essex woods,\\nDark, dim, Dante-like solitudes,\\nWhere the tree-toad watches the sinuous snake\\nGlide through his forests of fern and brake\\nIpswich River its old stone bridge\\nFar off Andover s Indian Ridge,\\nAnd many a scene where history tells\\nSome shadow of bygone terror dwells,\\nOf Norman s Woe with its tale of dread,\\nOf the Screeching Woman of Marblehead,\\n(The fearful story that turns men pale\\nDon t bid me tell it, my speech would fail.)\\nWho would not, will not, if he can,\\nBathe in the breezes of fair Cape Ann,\\nRest in the bowers her bays enfold,\\nLoved by the sachems and squaws of old\\nHome where the white magnolias bloom,\\nSweet with the bayberry s chaste perfume,\\nHugged by the woods and kissed by the sea\\nWhere is the Eden like to thee", "height": "4104", "width": "2508", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0039.jp2"}, "38": {"fulltext": "22 THE BROOMSTICK TRAIN\\nFor that couple of hundred years, or so,\\nThere had been no peace in the world below\\nThe witches still grumbling, It isn t fair;\\nCome, give us a taste of the upper air\\nWe Ve had enough of your sulphur springs,\\nAnd the evil odor that round them clings\\nWe long for a drink that is cool and nice,\\nGreat buckets of water with Wenham ice\\nWe ve served you well up-stairs, you know,\\nYou re a good old fellow come, let us go\\nI don t feel sure of his being good,\\nBut he happened to be in a pleasant mood,\\nAs fiends with their skins full sometimes are,\\n(He d been drinking with roughs at a Boston\\nbar.)\\nSo what does he do but up and shout\\nTo a graybeard turnkey, Let em out\\nTo mind his orders was all he knew\\nThe gates swung open, and out they flew.\\nWhere are our broomsticks the beldams cried.\\nHere are your broomsticks, an imp replied.\\nThey ve been in the place you know so long\\nThey smell of brimstone uncommon strong\\nBut they ve gained by being left alone,\\nJust look, and you 11 see how tall they ve grown.\\nAnd where is my cat a vixen squalled.\\nYes, where are our cats the witches bawled,\\nAnd began to call them all by name\\nAs fast as they called the cats, they came\\nThere was bob-tailed Tommy and long-tailed Tim,", "height": "4144", "width": "2580", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0040.jp2"}, "39": {"fulltext": "THE BROOMSTICK TRAIN 23\\nAnd wall-eyed Jacky and green-eyed Jim,\\nAnd splay-foot Benny and slim-legged Bean,\\nAnd Skinny and Squally, and Jerry and Joe,\\nAnd many another that came at call,\\nIt would take too long to count them all.\\nAll black, one could hardly tell which was\\nwhich,\\nBut every cat knew his own old witch\\nAnd she knew hers as hers knew her,\\nAh, did n t they curl their tails and purr\\nNo sooner the withered hags were free\\nThan out they swarmed for a midnight spree\\nI could n t tell all they did in rhymes,\\nBut the Essex people had dreadful times.\\nThe Swampscott fishermen still relate\\nHow a strange sea-monster stole their bait\\nHow their nets were tangled in loops and knots,\\nAnd they found dead crabs in their lobster-pots.\\nPoor Danvers grieved for her blasted crops,\\nAnd Wilmington mourned over mildewed hops.\\nA blight played havoc with Beverly beans,\\nIt was all the work of those hateful queans\\nA dreadful panic began at Pride s,\\nWhere the witches stopped in their midnight rides,\\nAnd there rose strange rumors and vague alarms\\nMid the peaceful dwellers at Beverly Farms.\\nNow when the Boss of the Beldams found\\nThat without his leave they were ramping round,\\nHe called, they could hear him twenty miles,\\nFrom Chelsea beach to the Misery Isles", "height": "4116", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0041.jp2"}, "40": {"fulltext": "24 THE BROOMSTICK TRAIN\\nThe deafest old granny knew his tone\\nWithout the trick of the telephone.\\nCome here, you witches Come here says he,\\nAt your games of old, without asking me\\n1 11 give you a little job to do\\nThat will keep you stirring, you godless crew 1\\nThey came, of course, at their master s call,\\nThe witches, the broomsticks, the cats, and all\\nHe led the hags to a railway train\\nThe horses were trying to drag in vain.\\nNow, then, says he, you Ve had your fun,\\nAnd here are the cars you Ve got to run.\\nThe driver may just unhitch his team,\\nWe don t want horses, we don t want steam\\nYou may keep your old black cats to hug,\\nBut the loaded train you ve got to lug.\\nSince then on many a car you 11 see\\nA broomstick plain as plain can be\\nOn every stick there s a witch astride,\\nThe string you see to her leg is tied.\\nShe will do a mischief if she can,\\nBut the string is held by a careful man,\\nAnd whenever the evil-minded witch\\nWould cut some caper, he gives a twitch.\\nAs for the hag, you can t see her,\\nBut hark you can hear her black cat s purr,\\nAnd now and then, as a car goes by,\\nYou may catch a gleam from her wicked eye.\\nOften you ve looked on a rushing train,\\nBut just what moved it was not so plain.", "height": "4160", "width": "2584", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0042.jp2"}, "41": {"fulltext": "MY AUNT 25\\nIt could n t be those wires above,\\nFor they could neither pull nor shove\\nWhere was the motor that made it go\\nYou could n t guess, but now you know.\\nRemember my rhymes when you ride again\\nOn the rattling rail by the broomstick train I\\nMY AUNT\\nMY aunt my dear unmarried aunt\\nLong years have o er her flown\\nYet still she strains the aching clasp\\nThat binds her virgin zone\\nI know it hurts her, though she looks\\nAs cheerful as she can\\nHer waist is ampler than her life,\\nFor life is but a span.\\nMy aunt my poor deluded aunt\\nHer hair is almost gray\\nWhy will she train that winter curl\\nIn such a spring-like way\\nHow can she lay her glasses down,\\nAnd say she reads as well,\\nWhen through a double convex lens\\nShe just makes out to spell?\\nHer father grandpapa forgive\\nThis erring lip its smiles\\nVowed she should make the finest girl\\nWithin a hundred miles", "height": "4112", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0043.jp2"}, "42": {"fulltext": "26 MY AUNT\\nHe sent her to a stylish school\\nT was in her thirteenth June\\nAnd with her, as the rules required,\\nTwo towels and a spoon.\\nThey braced my aunt against a board,\\nTo make her straight and tall\\nThey laced her up, they starved her down,\\nTo make her light and small\\nThey pinched her feet, they singed her hair,\\nThey screwed it up with pins\\nO never mortal suffered more\\nIn penance for her sins.\\nSo, when my precious aunt was done,\\nMy grandsire brought her back\\n(By daylight, lest some rabid youth\\nMight follow on the track\\nAh said my grandsire, as he shook\\nSome powder in his pan,\\nWhat could this lovely creature do\\nAgainst a desperate man\\nAlas nor chariot, nor barouche,\\nNor bandit cavalcade,\\nTore from the trembling father s arms\\nHis all-accomplished maid.\\nFor her how happy had it been\\nAnd Heaven had spared to me\\nTo see one sad, ungathered rose\\nOn my ancestral tree.", "height": "4116", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0044.jp2"}, "43": {"fulltext": "THE DORCHESTER GIANT 27\\nTHE DORCHESTER GIANT\\nThe pudding-stone is a remarkable conglomerate\\nfound very abundantly in the towns mentioned, all of\\nwhich are in the neighborhood of Boston. We used in\\nthose primitive days to ask friends to ride with us when\\nwe meant to take them to drive with us.\\n[It is interesting to see how the same subject presented\\nitself to the poet in different moods. There is a passage in\\nThe Professor at the Breakfast- Table which begins, I\\nwonder whether the boys who live in Roxbury and Dor-\\nchester are ever moved to tears or filled with silent awe as\\nthey look upon the rocks and fragments of pudding-stone\\nabounding in those localities. Then follows a half page of\\neloquent speculation on the pudding-stone.]\\nTHERE was a giant in time of old,\\nA mighty one was he.\\nHe had a wife, but she was a scold,\\nSo he kept her shut in his mammoth fold\\nAnd he had children three.\\nIt happened to be an election day,\\nAnd the giants were choosing a king\\nThe people were not democrats then,\\nThey did not talk of the rights of men,\\nAnd all that sort of thing.\\nThen the giant took his children three,\\nAnd fastened them in the pen\\nThe children roared quoth the giant, Be still\\nAnd Dorchester Heights and Milton Hill\\nRolled back the sound again.", "height": "4108", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0045.jp2"}, "44": {"fulltext": "28 THE DORCHESTER GIANT\\nThen he brought them a pudding stuffed with\\nplums,\\nAs big as the State-House dome\\nQuoth he, There s something for you to eat\\nSo stop your mouths with your lection treat,\\nAnd wait till your dad comes home.\\nSo the giant pulled him a chestnut stout,\\nAnd whittled the boughs away\\nThe boys and their mother set up a shout,\\nSaid he, You re in, and you can t get out,\\nBellow as loud as you may.\\nOff he went, and he growled a tune\\nAs he strode the fields along\\nT is said a buffalo fainted away,\\nAnd fell as cold as a lump of clay,\\nWhen he heard the giant s song.\\nBut whether the story s true or not,\\nIt is n t for me to show\\nThere s many a thing that s twice as queer\\nIn somebody s lectures that we hear,\\nAnd those are true, you know.\\nWhat are those lone ones doing now,\\nThe wife and the children sad\\nOh, they are in a terrible rout,\\nScreaming and throwing their pudding about,\\nActing as they were mad.", "height": "4116", "width": "2572", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0046.jp2"}, "45": {"fulltext": "THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS 29\\nThey flung it over to Roxbury hills,\\nThey flung it over the plain,\\nAnd all over Milton and Dorchester too\\nGreat lumps of pudding the giants threw\\nThey tumbled as thick as rain.\\nGiant and mammoth have passed away,\\nFor ages have floated by\\nThe suet is hard as a marrow-bone,\\nAnd every plum is turned to a stone,\\nBut there the puddings lie.\\nAnd if, some pleasant afternoon,\\nYou 11 ask me out to ride,\\nThe whole of the story I will tell,\\nAnd you shall see where the puddings fell,\\nAnd pay for the punch beside.\\nTHE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS\\nI WROTE some lines once on a time\\nIn wondrous merry mood,\\nAnd thought, as usual, men would say\\nThey were exceeding good.\\nThey were so queer, so very queer,\\nI laughed as I would die\\nAlbeit, in the general way,\\nA sober man am I.", "height": "4100", "width": "2568", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0047.jp2"}, "46": {"fulltext": "30 THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS\\nI called my servant, and he came\\nHow kind it was of him\\nTo mind a slender man like me,\\nHe of the mighty limb.\\nThese to the printer, I exclaimed,\\nAnd, in my humorous way,\\nI added, (as a trifling jest,)\\nThere 11 be the devil to pay.\\nHe took the paper, and I watched,\\nAnd saw him peep within\\nAt the first line he read, his face\\nWas all upon the grin.\\nHe read the next the grin grew broad,\\nAnd shot from ear to ear\\nHe read the third a chuckling noise\\nI now began to hear.\\nThe fourth he broke into a roar\\nThe fifth his waistband split\\nThe sixth he burst five buttons off,\\nAnd tumbled in a fit.\\nTen days and nights, with sleepless eye,\\nI watched that wretched man,\\nAnd since, I never dare to write\\nAs funny as I can.", "height": "4116", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0048.jp2"}, "47": {"fulltext": "THE SPECTRE PIG 31\\nTHE SPECTRE PIG\\nA BALLAD\\nIT was the stalwart butcher man,\\nThat knit his swarthy brow,\\nAnd said the gentle Pig must die,\\nAnd sealed it with a vow.\\nAnd oh it was the gentle Pig\\nLay stretched upon the ground,\\nAnd ah it was the cruel knife\\nHis little heart that found.\\nThey took him then, those wicked men,\\nThey trailed him all along\\nThey put a stick between his lips,\\nAnd through his heels a thong\\nAnd round and round an oaken beam\\nA hempen cord they flung,\\nAnd, like a mighty pendulum,\\nAll solemnly he swung\\nNow say thy prayers, thou sinful man,\\nAnd think what thou hast done,\\nAnd read thy catechism well,\\nThou bloody-minded one\\nFor if his sprite should walk by night,\\nIt better were for thee,\\nThat thou wert mouldering in the ground,\\nOr bleaching in the sea.", "height": "4088", "width": "2572", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0049.jp2"}, "48": {"fulltext": "32 THE SPECTRE PIG\\nIt was the savage butcher then,\\nThat made a mock of sin,\\nAnd swore a very wicked oath,\\nHe did not care a pin.\\nIt was the butcher s youngest son,\\nHis voice was broke with sighs,\\nAnd with his pocket-handkerchief\\nHe wiped his little eyes\\nAll young and ignorant was he,\\nBut innocent and mild,\\nAnd, in his soft simplicity,\\nOut spoke the tender child\\nOh, father, father, list to me\\nThe Pig is deadly sick,\\nAnd men have hung him by his heels,\\nAnd fed him with a stick.\\nIt was the bloody butcher then,\\nThat laughed as he would die,\\nYet did he soothe the sorrowing child,\\nAnd bid him not to cry\\nOh, Nathan, Nathan, what s a Pig,\\nThat thou shouldst weep and wail\\nCome, bear thee like a butcher s child,\\nAnd thou shalt have his tail\\nIt was the butcher s daughter then,\\nSo slender and so fair,", "height": "4116", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0050.jp2"}, "49": {"fulltext": "THE SPECTRE PIG 33\\nThat sobbed as if her heart would break,\\nAnd tore her yellow hair\\nAnd thus she spoke in thrilling tone,\\nFast fell the tear-drops big\\nAh woe is me Alas Alas\\nThe Pig The Pig The Pig\\nThen did her wicked father s lips\\nMake merry with her woe,\\nAnd call her many a naughty name,\\nBecause she whimpered so.\\nYe need not weep, ye gentle ones,\\nIn vain your tears are shed,\\nYe cannot wash his crimson hand,\\nYe cannot soothe the dead.\\nThe bright sun folded on his breast\\nHis robes of rosy flame,\\nAnd softly over all the west\\nThe shades of evening came.\\nHe slept, and troops of murdered Pigs\\nWere busy with his dreams\\nLoud rang their wild, unearthly shrieks,\\nWide yawned their mortal seams.\\nThe clock struck twelve the Dead hath heard\\nHe opened both his eyes,\\nAnd sullenly he shook his tail\\nTo lash the feeding flies.", "height": "4116", "width": "2544", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0051.jp2"}, "50": {"fulltext": "34 THE SPECTRE PIG\\nOne quiver of the hempen cord,\\nOne struggle and one bound,\\nWith stiffened limb and leaden eye,\\nThe Pig was on the ground\\nAnd straight towards the sleeper s house\\nHis fearful way he wended\\nAnd hooting owl and hovering bat\\nOn midnight wing attended.\\nBack flew the bolt, up rose the latch,\\nAnd open swung the door,\\nAnd little mincing feet were heard\\nPat, pat along the floor.\\nTwo hoofs upon the sanded floor,\\nAnd two upon the bed\\nAnd they are breathing side by side,\\nThe living and the dead\\nNow wake, now wake, thou butcher man\\nWhat makes thy cheek so pale\\nTake hold take hold thou dost not fear\\nTo clasp a spectre s tail\\nUntwisted every winding coil\\nThe shuddering wretch took hold,\\nAll like an icicle it seemed,\\nSo tapering and so cold.\\nThou com st with me, thou butcher man\\nHe strives to loose his grasp,", "height": "4116", "width": "2548", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0052.jp2"}, "51": {"fulltext": "THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN 35\\nBut. faster than the clinging vine,\\nThose twining spirals clasp\\nAnd open, open swung the door,\\nAnd, fleeter than the wind,\\nThe shadowy spectre swept before,\\nThe butcher trailed behind.\\nFast fled the darkness of the night,\\nAnd morn rose faint and dim\\nThey called full loud, they knocked full long,\\nThey did not waken him.\\nStraight, straight towards that oaken beam,\\nA trampled pathway ran\\nA ghastly shape was swinging there,\\nIt was the butcher man.\\nTHE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN\\nIT was a tall young oysterman lived by the river-\\nside,\\nHis shop was just upon the bank, his boat was on\\nthe tide\\nThe daughter of a fisherman, that was so straight\\nand slim,\\nLived over on the other bank, right opposite to him.\\nIt was the pensive oysterman that saw a lovely\\nmaid,\\nUpon a moonlight evening, a-sitting in the shade", "height": "4116", "width": "2548", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0053.jp2"}, "52": {"fulltext": "36 THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN\\nHe saw her wave her handkerchief, as much as if\\nto say,\\nI m wide awake, young oysterman, and all the\\nfolks away.\\nThen up arose the oysterman, and to himself said\\nhe,\\nI guess I 11 leave the skiff at home, for fear that\\nfolks should see\\nI read it in the story-book, that, for to kiss his\\ndear,\\nLeander swam the Hellespont, and I will swim\\nthis here.\\nAnd he has leaped into the waves, and crossed the\\nshining stream,\\nAnd he has clambered up the bank, all in the moon-\\nlight gleam\\nOh there were kisses sweet as dew, and words as\\nsoft as rain,\\nBut they have heard her father s step, and in he\\nleaps again\\nOut spoke the ancient fisherman, Oh, what was\\nthat, my daughter\\nT was nothing but a pebble, sir, I threw into the\\nwater.\\nAnd what is that, pray tell me, love, that paddles\\noff so fast\\nIt s nothing but a porpoise, sir, that s been a-\\nswimming past.", "height": "4116", "width": "2548", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0054.jp2"}, "53": {"fulltext": "THE HOT SEASON 37\\nOut spoke the ancient fisherman, Now bring\\nme my harpoon\\nI ll get into my fishing-boat, and fix the fellow\\nsoon.\\nDown fell that pretty innocent, as falls a snow-\\nwhite lamb,\\nHer hair drooped round her pallid cheeks, like sea-\\nweed on a clam.\\nAlas for those two loving ones she waked not from\\nher swound,\\nAnd he was taken with the cramp, and in the\\nwaves was drowned\\nBut Fate has metamorphosed them, in pity of their\\nwoe,\\nAnd now they keep an oyster-shop for mermaids\\ndown below.\\nTHE HOT SEASON\\nTHE folks, that on the first of May\\nWore winter coats and hose,\\nBegan to say, the first of June,\\nGood Lord how hot it grows\\nAt last two Fahrenheits blew up,\\nAnd killed two children small,\\nAnd one barometer shot dead\\nA tutor with its ball\\nNow all day long the locusts sang\\nAmong the leafless trees", "height": "4100", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0055.jp2"}, "54": {"fulltext": "38 THE HOT SEASON\\nThree new hotels warped inside out,\\nThe pumps could only wheeze\\nAnd ripe old wine, that twenty years\\nHad cobwebbed o er in vain,\\nCame spouting through the rotten corks\\nLike Joly s best champagne\\nThe Worcester locomotives did\\nTheir trip in half an hour\\nThe Lowell cars ran forty miles\\nBefore they checked the power\\nRoll brimstone soon became a drug,\\nAnd loco-f ocos fell\\nAll asked for ice, but everywhere\\nSaltpetre was to sell.\\nPlump men of mornings ordered tights,\\nBut, ere the scorching noons,\\nTheir candle-moulds had grown as loose\\nAs Cossack pantaloons\\nThe dogs ran mad, men could not try\\nIf water they would choose\\nA horse fell dead, he only left\\nFour red-hot, rusty shoes\\nBut soon the people could not bear\\nThe slightest hint of fire;\\nAllusions to caloric drew\\nA flood of savage ire\\nThe leaves on heat were all torn out\\nFrom every book at school,\\nAnd many blackguards kicked and caned,\\nBecause they said, Keep cool J", "height": "4116", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0056.jp2"}, "55": {"fulltext": "THE STETHOSCOPE SONG 39\\nTI13 gas-light companies were mobbed,\\nThe bakers all were shot,\\nThe penny press began to talk\\nOf lynching Doctor Nott\\nAnd all about the warehouse steps\\nWere angry men in droves,\\nCrashing and splintering through the doors\\nTo smash the patent stoves\\nThe abolition men and maids\\nWere tanned to such a hue,\\nYou scarce could tell them from their friends,\\nUnless their eyes were blue\\nAnd, when I left, society\\nHad burst its ancient guards,\\nAnd Brattle Street and Temple Place\\nWere interchanging cards\\nTHE STETHOSCOPE SONG\\nA PROFESSIONAL BALLAD\\nTHERE was a young man in Boston town,\\nHe bought him a stethoscope nice and new,\\nAll mounted and finished and polished down,\\nWith an ivory cap and a stopper too.\\nIt happened a spider within did crawl,\\nAnd spun him a web of ample size,\\nWherein there chanced one day to fall\\nA couple of very imprudent flies.", "height": "4116", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0057.jp2"}, "56": {"fulltext": "40 THE STETHOSCOPE SONG\\nThe first was a bottle-fly, big and blue,\\nThe second was smaller, and thin and long;\\nSo there was a concert between the two,\\nLike an octave flute and a tavern gong.\\nNow being from Paris but recently,\\nThis fine young man would show his skill\\nAnd so they gave him, his hand to try,\\nA hospital patient extremely ill.\\nSome said that his liver was short of bile,\\nAnd some that his heart was over size,\\nWhile some kept arguing, all the while,\\nHe was crammed with tubercles up to his eyes.\\nThis fine young man then up stepped he,\\nAnd all the doctors made a pause\\nSaid he, The man must die, you see,\\nBy the fifty-seventh of Louis s laws.\\nBut since the case is a desperate one,\\nTo explore his chest it may be well\\nFor if he should die and it were not done,\\nYou know the autopsy would not tell.\\nThen out his stethoscope he took,\\nAnd on it placed his curious ear\\nMon Dieu said he, with a knowing look,\\nWhy, here is a sound that s mighty queer\\nThe bourdonnement is very clear,\\nAmphoric buzzing, as I m alive", "height": "4116", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0058.jp2"}, "57": {"fulltext": "THE STETHOSCOPE SONG 41\\nFive doctors took their turn to hear\\nAmphoric buzzing, said all the five.\\nThere s empyema beyond a doubt\\nWe 11 plunge a trocar in his side.\\nThe diagnosis was made out,\\nThey tapped the patient so he died.\\nNow such as hate new-fashioned toys\\nBegan to look extremely glum\\nThey said that rattles were made for boys,\\nAnd vowed that his buzzing was all a hum.\\nThere was an old lady had long been sick\\nAnd what was the matter none did know\\nHer pulse was slow, though her tongue was quick\\nTo her this knowing youth must go.\\nSo there the nice old lady sat,\\nWith phials and boxes all in a row\\nShe asked the young doctor what he was at,\\nTo thump her and tumble her ruffles so.\\nNow, when the stethoscope came out,\\nThe flies began to buzz and whiz\\nOh, ho the matter is clear, no doubt;\\nAn aneurism there plainly is.\\nThe bruit de rape and the bruit de scie\\nAnd the bruit de diable are all combined\\nHow happy Bouillaud would be,\\nIf he a case like this could find", "height": "4092", "width": "2512", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0059.jp2"}, "58": {"fulltext": "42 THE STETHOSCOPE SONG\\nNow, when the neighboring doctors found\\nA case so rare had been descried,\\nThey every day her ribs did pound\\nIn squads of twenty so she died.\\nThen six young damsels, slight and frail,\\nReceived this kind young doctor s cares\\nThey all were getting slim and pale,\\nAnd short of breath on mounting stairs.\\nThey all made rhymes with sighs and skies,\\nAnd loathed their puddings and buttered rolls,\\nAnd dieted, much to their friends surprise,\\nOn pickles and pencils and chalk and coals.\\nSo fast their little hearts did bound,\\nThe frightened insects buzzed the more\\nSo over all their chests he found\\nThe rale sifflant and the rale sonore.\\nHe shook his head. There s grave disease,\\nI greatly fear you all must die\\nA slight post-mortem, if you please,\\nSurviving friends would gratify.\\nThe six young damsels wept aloud,\\nWhich so prevailed on six young men\\nThat each his honest love avowed,\\nWhereat they all got well again.\\nThis poor young man was all aghast\\nThe price of stethoscopes came down", "height": "4116", "width": "2548", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0060.jp2"}, "59": {"fulltext": "BILL AND JOE 43\\nAnd so he was reduced at last\\nTo practise in a country town.\\nThe doctors being very sore,\\nA stethoscope they did devise\\nThat had a rammer to clear the bore,\\nWith a knob at the end to kill the flies.\\nNow use your ears, all you that can,\\nBut don t forget to mind your eyes,\\nOr you may be cheated, like this young man,\\nBy a couple of silly, abnormal flies.\\nBILL AND JOE\\nCOME, dear old comrade, you and I\\nWill steal an hour from days gone by,\\nThe shining days when life was new,\\nAnd all was bright with morning dew,\\nThe lusty days of long ago,\\nWhen you were Bill and I was Joe.\\nYour name may flaunt a titled trail\\nProud as a cockerel s rainbow tail,\\nAnd mine as brief appendix wear\\nAs Tarn O Shanter s luckless mare\\nTo-day, old friend, remember still\\nThat I am Joe and you are Bill.\\nYou ve won the great world s envied prize,\\nAnd grand you look in people s eyes,", "height": "4100", "width": "2500", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0061.jp2"}, "60": {"fulltext": "44 BILL AND JOE\\nWith HON. and L L. D.\\nIn big brave letters, fair to see,\\nYour fist, old fellow off they go\\nHow are you, Bill How are you, Joe\\nYou ve worn the judge s ermined robe\\nYou Ve taught your name to half the globe\\nYou ve sung mankind a deathless strain\\nYou ve made the dead past live again\\nThe world may call you what it will,\\nBut you and I are Joe and Bill.\\nThe chaffing young folks stare and say\\nSee those old buffers, bent and gray,\\nThey talk like fellows in their teens\\nMad, poor old boys That s what it means,\\nAnd shake their heads they little know\\nThe throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe\\nHow Bill forgets his hour of pride,\\nWhile Joe sits smiling at his side\\nHow Joe, in spite of time s disguise,\\nFinds the old schoolmate in his eyes,\\nThose calm, stern eyes that melt and fill\\nAs Joe looks fondly up at Bill.\\nAh, pensive scholar, what is fame\\nA fitful tongue of leaping flame\\nA giddy whirlwind s fickle gust,\\nThat lifts a pinch of mortal dust\\nA few swift years, and who can show\\nWhich dust was Bill and which was Joe", "height": "4116", "width": "2608", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0062.jp2"}, "61": {"fulltext": "LATTER-DAY WARNINGS 45\\nThe weary idol takes his stand,\\nHolds out his bruised and aching hand,\\nWhile gaping thousands come and go,\\nHow vain it seems, this empty show\\nTill all at once his pulses thrill\\nT is poor old Joe s God bless you, Bill 1\\nAnd shall we breathe in happier spheres\\nThe names that pleased our mortal ears\\nIn some sweet lull of harp and song\\nFor earth-born spirits none too long,\\nJust whispering of the world below\\nWhere this was Bill and that was Joe\\nNo matter while our home is here\\nNo sounding name is half so dear\\nWhen fades at length our lingering day,\\nWho cares what pompous tombstones say\\nRead on the hearts that love us still,\\nHie Jacet Joe. Hie Jacet Bill.\\nLATTER-DAY WARNINGS\\nI should have felt more nervous about the late comet, if\\nI had thought the world was ripe. But it is very green yet,\\nif I am not mistaken and besides, there is a great deal of\\ncoal to use up, which I cannot bring myself to think was\\nmade for nothing. If certain things, which seem to me\\nessential to a millennium, had come to pass, I should have\\nbeen frightened but they have n t. [When those verses\\nwere written, Dr. Holmes was as incredulous as his neigh-\\nbors over the completion of the Hoosac Tunnel; but he\\nnever withdrew the lines.]", "height": "4108", "width": "2492", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0063.jp2"}, "62": {"fulltext": "46 LATTER-DAY WARNINGS\\nWHEN legislators keep the law,\\nWhen banks dispense with bolts and locks,\\nWhen berries whortle, rasp, and straw\\nGrow bigger downwards throngh the box,\\nWhen he that selleth house or land\\nShows leak in roof or flaw in right,\\nWhen haberdashers choose the stand\\nWhose window hath the broadest light,\\nWhen preachers tell us all they think,\\nAnd party leaders all they mean,\\nWhen what we pay for, that we drink,\\nFrom real grape and coffee-bean,\\nWhen lawyers take what they would give,\\nAnd doctors give what they would take,\\nWhen city fathers eat to live,\\nSave when they fast for conscience sake,\\nWhen one that hath a horse on sale\\nShall bring his merit to the proof,\\nWithout a lie for every nail\\nThat holds the iron on the hoof,\\nWhen in the usual place for rips\\nOur gloves are stitched with special care,\\nAnd guarded well the whalebone tips\\nWhere first umbrellas need repair,\\nWhen Cuba s weeds have quite forgot\\nThe power of suction to resist,", "height": "4116", "width": "2616", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0064.jp2"}, "63": {"fulltext": "CONTENTMENT 47\\nAnd claret-bottles harbor not\\nSuch dimples as would hold your fist,\\nWhen publishers no longer steal,\\nAnd pay for what they stole before,\\nWhen the first locomotive s wheel\\nRolls through the Hoosac Tunnel s bore\\nTill then let Cumming blaze away,\\nAnd Miller s saints blow up the globe\\nBut when you see that blessed day,\\nThen order your ascension robe\\nCONTENTMENT\\nMan wants but little here below.\\nShould you like to hear what moderate wishes life brings\\none to at last I used to be very ambitious, wasteful,\\nextravagant, and luxurious in all my fancies. Eead too\\nmuch in the Arabian Nights. Must have the lamp,\\ncouldn t do without the ring. Exercise every morning on\\nthe brazen horse. Plump down into castles as full of little\\nmilk-white princesses as a nest is of young sparrows. All\\nlove me dearly at once. Charming idea of life, but too\\nhigh-colored for the reality. I have outgrown all this my\\ntastes have become exceedingly primitive, almost, per-\\nhaps, ascetic. We carry happiness into our condition, but\\nmust not hope to find it there. I think you will be willing\\nto hear some lines which embody the subdued and limited\\ndesires of my maturity.\\nLITTLE I ask my wants are few\\nI only wish a hut of stone,\\n(A very plain brown stone will do,)", "height": "4108", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0065.jp2"}, "64": {"fulltext": "48 CONTENTMENT\\nThat I may call my own\\nAnd close at hand is such a one,\\nIn yonder street that fronts the sun.\\nPlain food is quite enough for me\\nThree courses are as good as ten\\nIf Nature can subsist on three,\\nThank Heaven for three. Amen\\nI always thought cold victual nice\\nMy choice would be vanilla- ice.\\nI care not much for gold or land\\nGive me a mortgage here and there,\\nSome good bank-stock, some note of hand,\\nOr trifling railroad share,\\nI only ask that Fortune send\\nA little more than I shall spend.\\nHonors are silly toys, I know,\\nAnd titles are but empty names\\nI would, perhaps, be Plenipo,\\nBut only near St. James\\nI m very sure I should not care\\nTo fill our Gubernator s chair.\\nJewels are baubles t is a sin\\nTo care for such unfruitful things\\nOne good-sized diamond in a pin,\\nSome, not so large, in rings,\\nA ruby, and a pearl, or so,\\nWill do for me I laugh at show.", "height": "4116", "width": "2612", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0066.jp2"}, "65": {"fulltext": "CONTENTMENT\\nMy dame should dress in cheap attire\\n(Good, heavy silks are never dear\\nI own perhaps I might desire\\nSome shawls of true Cashmere,\\nSome marrowy crapes of China silk,\\nLike wrinkled skins on scalded milk.\\nI would not have the horse I drive\\nSo fast that folks must stop and stare\\nAn easy gait two forty-five\\nSuits me I do not care\\nPerhaps, for just a single spurt,\\nSome seconds less would do no hurt.\\nOf pictures, I should like to own\\nTitians and Raphaels three or four,\\nI love so much their style and tone,\\nOne Turner, and no more,\\n(A landscape, foreground golden dirt,\\nThe sunshine painted with a squirt.)\\nOf books but few, some fifty score\\nFor daily use, and bound for wear\\nThe rest upon an upper floor\\nSome little luxury there\\nOf red morocco s gilded gleam\\nAnd vellum rich as country cream.\\nBusts, cameos, gems, such things as these,\\nWhich others often show for pride,\\nvalue for their power to please,\\nAnd selfish churls deride", "height": "4104", "width": "2504", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0067.jp2"}, "66": {"fulltext": "50 DE SAUTY\\nOne Stradivarius, I confess,\\nTwo Meerschaums, I would fain possess.\\nWealth s wasteful tricks I will not learn,\\nNor ape the glittering upstart fool\\nShall not carved tables serve my turn,\\nBut all must be of buhl\\nGive grasping pomp its double share,\\nI ask but one recumbent chair.\\nThus humble let me live and die,\\nNor long for Midas golden touch\\nIf Heaven more generous gifts deny,\\nI shall not miss them much,\\nToo grateful for the blessing lent\\nOf simple tastes and mind content\\nDE SAUTY\\nAN ELECTRO-CHEMICAL ECLOGUE\\nThe first messages received through the submarine cable\\nwere sent by an electrical expert, a mysterious personage\\nwho signed himself De Sauty.\\nProfessor Blue-Nose\\nPROFESSOR\\nTELL me, O Provincial speak, Ceruleo-Nasal\\nLives there one De Sauty extant now among\\nyou,\\nWhispering Boanerges, son of silent thunder,\\nHolding talk with nations", "height": "4116", "width": "2612", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0068.jp2"}, "67": {"fulltext": "DE SAUTY 51\\nIs there a De Sauty ambulant on Tellus,\\nBifid-cleft like mortals, dormient in nightcap,\\nHaving sight, smell, hearing, food-receiving feature\\nThree times daily patent\\nBreathes there such a being, O Ceruleo-Nasal\\nOr is he a mythus, ancient word for hum-\\nbug,\\nSuch as Livy told about the wolf that wet-nursed\\nRomulus and Remus\\nVv T as he born of woman, this alleged De Sauty?\\nOr a living product of galvanic action,\\nLike the acarus bred in Crosse s flint-solution\\nSpeak, thou Cyano-Rhinal\\nBLUE-NOSE\\nMany things thou askest, jackknife-bearing stran-\\nger,\\nMuch-conjecturing mortal, pork-and-treacle waster\\nPretermit thy whittling, wheel thine ear-flap to-\\nward me,\\nThou shalt hear them answered.\\nWhen the charge galvanic tingled through the\\ncable,\\nAt the polar focus of the wire electric\\nSuddenly appeared a white-faced man among us\\nCalled himself De Sauty.\\nAs the small opossum held in pouch maternal\\nGrasps the nutrient organ whence the term mam-\\nmalia,", "height": "4108", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0069.jp2"}, "68": {"fulltext": "52 DE SAUTY\\nSo the unknown stranger held the wire electric,\\nSucking in the current.\\nWhen the current strengthened, bloomed the pale-\\nfaced stranger,\\nTook no drink nor victual, yet grew fat and rosy,\\nAnd from time to time, in sharp articulation,\\nSaid, All right! De Sauty.\\nFrom the lonely station passed the utterance,\\nspreading\\nThrough the pines and hemlocks to the groves of\\nsteeples,\\nTill the land was filled with loud reverberations\\nOf All right De Sauty.\\nWhen the current slackened, drooped the mystic\\nstranger,\\nFaded, faded, faded, as the stream grew weaker,\\nWasted to a shadow, with a hartshorn odor\\nOf disintegration.\\nDrops of deliquescence glistened on his fore-\\nhead,\\nWhitened round his feet the dust of efflorescence,\\nTill one Monday morning, when the flow sus-\\npended,\\nThere was no De Sauty.\\nNothing but a cloud of elements organic,\\nC. O. H. N Ferrum, Chlor. Flu. Sil. Potassa,", "height": "4116", "width": "2612", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0070.jp2"}, "69": {"fulltext": "ODE FOR A SOCIAL MEETING 53\\nCalc. Sod. Phosph. Mag. Sulphur, Mang.\\nAlumin. Cuprum,\\nSuch as man is made of.\\nBorn of stream galvanic, with it he had perished\\nThere is no De Sauty now there is no current\\nGive us a new cable, then again we 11 hear him\\nCry, All right De Sauty.\\nODE FOR A SOCIAL MEETING\\nWITH SLIGHT ALTERATIONS BY A TEETOTALER\\nHere is a little poem I sent a short time since to a com-\\nmittee for a certain celebration. I understood that it was\\nto be a festive and convivial occasion, and ordered myself\\naccordingly. It seems the president of the day was what\\nis called a teetotaler. I received a note from him in the\\nfollowing words, containing the copy subjoined, with the\\nemendations annexed to it.\\nDear Sir, Your poem gives good satisfaction to the\\ncommittee. The sentiments expressed with reference to\\nliquor are not, however, those generally entertained by this\\ncommunity. I have therefore consulted the clergyman of\\nthis place, who has made some slight changes, which he\\nthinks will remove all objections, and keep the valuable\\nportions of the poem. Please to inform me of your charge\\nfor said poem. Our means are limited, etc., etc., etc.\\nYours with respect.\\nHere it is with the slight alterations.\\nCOME fill a fresh bumper, for why should we\\ngo\\nlogwood\\nWhile the nectar still reddens our cups as they\\nflow?", "height": "4108", "width": "2548", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0071.jp2"}, "70": {"fulltext": "54 THE ARCHBISHOP AND GIL BLAS\\ndecoction\\nPour out the rich juicos still bright with the sun,\\ndye-stuff\\nTill o er the brimmed crystal the rubies shall, run.\\nhalf-ripened apples _-\\nThe purple globed clusters^ their life-dews have\\nbled;\\ntaste sugar of lead.\\nHow sweet is the breath, of the fragrance they\\nshed 1\\nrank poisons _ wines 1\\nFor summer s last roses lie hid in the wines\\nstable-boys smoking\\nThat were garnered by maidens who laughed\\nlong-nines.\\nthro the vino3.\\nscowl howl scoff sneer,\\nThen a smile, and a glass, and a toast, and a cheer,\\nstrychnine and whiskey, and ratsbane and beer\\nFor all the good wino, and wo vo some of it hero I\\nIn cellar, in pantry, in attic, in hall,\\nDown, down with the tyrant that masters us all\\nLong live the gay servant that laughs for u s all 1\\nTHE ARCHBISHOP AND GIL BLAS\\nA JftOEnEKXIZED VERSION\\n18T9\\nI DON T think I feel much older; I m aware\\nI m rather gray,\\nBut so are many young folks; I meet em every\\nday.", "height": "4116", "width": "2612", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0072.jp2"}, "71": {"fulltext": "THE ARCHBISHOP AND GIL BLAS 55\\nI confess I m more particular in what I eat and\\ndrink,\\nBut one s taste improves with culture that is all\\nit means, I think.\\nCan you read as once you used to Well, the print-\\ning is so bad,\\nNo young folks eyes can read it like the books that\\nonce we had.\\nAre you quite as quick of hearing? Please to say\\nthat once again.\\nDon t I use plain words, your Reverence? Yes, I\\noften use a cane,\\nBut it s not because I need it, no, I always liked\\na stick\\nAnd as one might lean upon it, t is as well it should\\nbe thick.\\nOh, I m smart, I m spry, I m lively, I can walk,\\nyes, that I can,\\nOn the days I feel like walking, just as well as you,\\nyoung man\\nDon t you get a little sleepy after dinner every day\\nWell, I doze a little, sometimes, but that always\\nwas my way.\\nDon t you cry a little easier than some twenty years\\nago?\\nWell, my heart is very tender, but I think t was\\nalways so.\\nDon t you find it sometimes happens that you can t re-\\ncall a name", "height": "4108", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0073.jp2"}, "72": {"fulltext": "56 THE ARCHBISHOP AND GIL BIAS\\nYes, I know such lots of people, but my mem-\\nory s not to blame.\\nWhat You think my memory s failing Why,\\nit s just as bright and clear,\\nI remember my great-grandma She s been dead\\nthese sixty year\\nIs your voice a little trembly f Well, it may be, now\\nand then,\\nBut I write as well as ever with a good old-fashioned\\npen;\\nIt s the Gillotts make the trouble, not at all my\\nfinger-ends,\\nThat is why my hand looks shaky when I sign for\\ndividends.\\nDon t you stoop a little, walking It s a way I Ve\\nalways had,\\nI have always been round-shouldered, ever since I\\nwas a lad.\\nDon t you hate to tie your shoe-strings Yes, I own\\nit that is true.\\nDon t you tell old stories over I am not aware I do.\\nDon t you stay at home of evenings Don t you love\\na cushioned seat\\nIn a corner, by the fireside, with your slippers on your\\nfeet\\nDon t you wear warm fleecy ^flannels Don t you\\nmuffle up your throat f\\nDon t you like to have one help you when you re put-\\nting on your coat f", "height": "4116", "width": "2620", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0074.jp2"}, "73": {"fulltext": "THE ARCHBISHOP AND GIL BLAS 57\\nDon t you like old hooks you ve dogs-eared, you can t\\nremember when\\nDon t you call it late at nine o clock and go to bed at\\nten\\nHow many cronies can you count of all you used to\\nknow\\nWho called you by your Christian name some Jifty\\nyears ago\\nHow look the prizes to you that used to fire your brain f\\nYou ve reared your mound how high is it above the\\nlevel plain f\\nYou ve drained the brimming golden cup that made\\nyour fancy reel,\\nYou ve slept the giddy potion off, now tell us how\\nyou feel\\nYou ve watched the harvest ripening till every stem\\nwas cropped,\\nYou ve seen the rose of beauty fade tilV every petal\\ndropped,\\nYou ve told your thought, you ve done your task,\\nyou ve tracked your dial round,\\nI backing down Thank Heaven, not yet I m\\nhale and brisk and sound,\\nAnd good for many a tussle, as you shall live to see\\nMy shoes are not quite ready yet, don t think\\nyou re rid of me\\nOld Parr was in his lusty prime when he was older\\nfar,\\nAnd where will you be if I live to beat old Thomas\\nParr?", "height": "4100", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0075.jp2"}, "74": {"fulltext": "58 OLD CAMBRIDGE\\nAh well, i know, at every age life has a certain\\ncharm,\\nYou re going Come, permit me, please, I beg you 11\\ntake my arm.\\nI take your arm Why take your arm I d thank\\nyou to be told\\nI m old enough to walk alone, but not so very old\\nOLD CAMBRIDGE\\nJULY 3, 1875\\n[Upon the occasion of the Centennial celebration of Wash-\\nington taking command of the American army. It was on\\nthis occasion that Lowell read his ode, Under the Old Elm.]\\nAND can it be you ve found a place\\nJljl. Within this consecrated space,\\nThat makes so fine a show,\\nFor one of Rip Van Winkle s race\\nAnd is it really so\\nWho wants an old receipted bill\\nWho fishes in the Frog-pond still\\nWho digs last year s potato hill\\nThat s what he d like to know\\nAnd were it any spot on earth\\nSave this dear home that gave him birth\\nSome scores of years ago,\\nHe had not come to spoil your mirth\\nAnd chill your festive glow\\nBut round his baby-nest he strays,\\nWith tearful eye the scene surveys,", "height": "4116", "width": "2576", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0076.jp2"}, "75": {"fulltext": "OLD CAMBRIDGE 59\\nHis heart unchanged by changing days,\\nThat s what he d have you know.\\nCan you whose eyes not yet are dim\\nLive o er the buried past with him,\\nAnd see the roses blow\\nWhen white-haired men were Joe and Jim\\nUntouched by winter s snow\\nOr roll the years back one by one\\nAs Judah s monarch backed the sun,\\nAnd see the century just begun\\nThat s what he d like to know\\nI come, but as the swallow dips,\\nJust touching with her feather-tips\\nThe shining wave below,\\nTo sit with pleasure-murmuring lips\\nAnd listen to the flow\\nOf Elmwood s sparkling Hippocrene,\\nTo tread once more my native green,\\nTo sigh unheard, to smile unseen,\\nThat s what I d have you know.\\nBut since the common lot I ve shared\\n(We all are sitting unprepared/\\nLike culprits in a row,\\nWhose heads are down, whose necks are bared\\nTo wait the headsman s blow),\\nI d like to shift my task to you,\\nBy asking just a thing or two\\nAbout the good old times I knew,\\nHere s what I want to know", "height": "4092", "width": "2576", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0077.jp2"}, "76": {"fulltext": "60 OLD CAMBRIDGE\\nThe yellow meetin house can you tell\\nJust where it stood before it fell\\nPrey of the vandal foe,\\nOur dear old temple, loved so well,\\nBy ruthless hands laid low\\nWhere, tell me, was the Deacon s pew\\nWhose hair was braided in a queue?\\n(For there were pig-tails not a few,)\\nThat s what I d like to know.\\nThe bell can you recall its clang\\nAnd how the seats would slam and bang\\nThe voices high and low\\nThe basso s trump before he sang\\nThe viol and its bow\\nWhere was it old Judge Winthrop sat\\nWho wore the last three-cornered hat\\nWas Israel Porter lean or fat\\nThat s what I d like to know.\\nTell where the market used to be\\nThat stood beside the murdered tree\\nWhose dog to church would go?\\nOld Marcus Reemie, who was he\\nWho were the brothers Snow\\nDoes not your memory slightly fail\\nAbout that great September gale\\nWhereof one told a moving tale,\\nAs Cambridge boys should know.\\nWhen Cambridge was a simple town,\\nSay just when Deacon William Brown\\n(Last door in yonder row),", "height": "4116", "width": "2588", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0078.jp2"}, "77": {"fulltext": "OLD CAMBRIDGE 61\\nFor honest silver counted down,\\nHis groceries would bestow\\nFor those were days when money meant\\nSomething that jingled as you went,\\nNo hybrid like the nickel cent,\\nI d have you all to know,\\nBut quarter, ninepence, pistareen,\\nAnd four pence hapennies in between,\\nAll metal fit to show,\\nInstead of rags in stagnant green,\\nThe scum of debts we owe\\nHow sad to think such stuff should be\\nOur Wendell s cure-all recipe,\\nNot Wendell H., but Wendell P.,\\nThe one you all must know\\nI question but you answer not\\nDear me and have I quite forgot\\nHow fivescore years ago,\\nJust on this very blessed spot,\\nThe summer leaves below,\\nBefore his homespun ranks arrayed\\nIn green New England s elm-bough shade\\nThe great Virginian drew the blade\\nKing George full soon should know\\nO George the Third you found it true\\nOur George was more than double you,\\nFor nature made him so.\\nNot much an empire s crown can do\\nIf brains are scant and slow,", "height": "4104", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0079.jp2"}, "78": {"fulltext": "62 EPILOGUE\\nAh, not like that his laurel crown\\nWhose presence gilded with renown\\nOur brave old Academic town,\\nAs all her children know\\nSo here we meet with loud acclaim\\nTo tell mankind that here he came,\\nWith hearts that throb and glow\\nOurs is a portion of his fame\\nOur trumpets needs must blow\\nOn yonder hill the Lion fell,\\nBut here was chipped the eagle s shell,\\nThat little hatchet did it well,\\nAs all the world shall know\\nEPILOGUE TO THE BREAKFAST-TABLE\\nSERIES\\nAUTOCRAT PROFESSOR POET\\nAT A BOOKSTORE\\nAnno Domini 1972\\nA CRAZY bookcase, placed before\\nA low-price dealer s open door\\nTherein arrayed in broken rows\\nA ragged crew of rhyme and prose,\\nThe homeless vagrants, waifs, and strays\\nWhose low estate this line betrays\\n(Set forth the lesser birds to lime)\\nYour choice among these books 1 dime", "height": "4116", "width": "2588", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0080.jp2"}, "79": {"fulltext": "EPILOGUE\\nHo dealer for its motto s sake\\nThis scarecrow from the shelf I take\\nThree starveling volumes bound in one,\\nIts covers warping in the sun.\\nMethinks it hath a musty smell,\\nI like its flavor none too well,\\nBut Yorick s brain was far from dull,\\nThough Hamlet pah d, and dropped his skull.\\nWhy, here comes rain The sky grows dark,\\nWas that the roll of thunder Hark\\nThe shop affords a safe retreat,\\nA chair extends its welcome seat,\\nThe tradesman has a civil look\\n(I ve paid, impromptu, for my book),\\nThe clouds portend a sudden shower,\\n1 11 read my purchase for an hour.\\nWhat have I rescued from the shelf\\nA Boswell, writing out himself\\nFor though he changes dress and name,\\nThe man beneath is still the same,\\nLaughing or sad, by fits and starts,\\nOne actor in a dozen parts,\\nAnd whatsoe er the mask may be,\\nThe voice assures us, This is he.\\nI say not this to cry him down\\nI find my Shakespeare in his clown,\\nHis rogues the selfsame parent own\\nNay Satan talks in Milton s tone\\nWhere er the ocean inlet strays,\\nThe salt sea wave its force betrays", "height": "4112", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0081.jp2"}, "80": {"fulltext": "64 EPILOGUE\\nWhere er the queen of summer blows,\\nShe tells the zephyr, I m the rose\\nAnd his is not the playwright s page\\nHis table does not ape the stage\\nWhat matter if the figures seen\\nAre only shadows on a screen,\\nHe finds in them his lurking thought,\\nAnd on their lips the words he sought,\\nLike one who sits before the keys\\nAnd plays a tune himself to please.\\nAnd was he noted in his day\\nRead, flattered, honored? Who shall say?\\nPoor wreck of time the wave has cast\\nTo find a peaceful shore at last,\\nOnce glorying in thy gilded name\\nAnd freighted deep with hopes of fame,\\nThy leaf is moistened with a tear,\\nThe first for many a long, long year\\nFor be it more or less of art\\nThat veils the lowliest human heart\\nWhere passion throbs, where friendship glows,\\nWhere pity s tender tribute flows,\\nWhere love has lit its fragrant fire,\\nAnd sorrow quenched its vain desire,\\nFor me the altar is divine,\\nIts flame, its ashes, all are mine\\nAnd thou, my brother, as I look\\nAnd see thee pictured in thy book,\\nThy years on every page confessed", "height": "4116", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0082.jp2"}, "81": {"fulltext": "THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS 65\\nIn shadows lengthening from the west,\\nThy glance that wanders, as it sought\\nSome freshly opening flower of thought,\\nThy hopeful nature, light and free.\\nI start to find myself in thee\\nCome, vagrant, outcast, wretch forlorn\\nIn leather jerkin stained and torn,\\nWhose talk has filled my idle hour\\nAnd made me half forget the shower,\\nI 11 do at least as much for you,\\nYour coat I 11 patch, your gilt renew,\\nRead you perhaps some other time.\\nNot bad, my bargain Price one dime I\\nTHE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS\\nWe need not trouble ourselves about the distinction be-\\ntween this [the Pearly Nautilus] and the Paper Nautilus,\\nthe Argonauta of the ancients. The name applied to\\nboth shows that each has long been compared to a ship,\\nas you may see more fully in Webster s Dictionary or the\\nEncyclopedia, to which he refers. If you will look into\\nRoget s Bridgewater Treatise jovl will find a figure of one\\nof these shells and a section of it. The last will show you\\nthe series of enlarging compartments successively dwelt in\\nby the animal that inhabits the shell, which is built in a\\nwidening spiral. [This poem seemed to share with Dorothy\\nQ. Dr. Holmes s interest, if one may judge by the fre-\\nquency with which he chose it for reading or for autograph\\nalbums. He says on receipt of an album from the Princess\\nof Wales, I copied into it the last verse of a poem of mine\\ncalled The Chambered Nautilus, as I have often done for\\nplain republican albums.", "height": "4116", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0083.jp2"}, "82": {"fulltext": "66 THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS\\nTHIS is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,\\nSails the unshadowed main,\\nThe venturous bark that flings\\nOn the sweet summer wind its purpled wings\\nIn gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,\\nAnd coral reefs lie bare,\\nWhere the cold sea-maids rise to sun their stream-\\ning hair.\\nIts webs of living gauze no more unfurl\\nWrecked is the ship of pearl\\nAnd every chambered cell,\\nWhere its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,\\nAs the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,\\nBefore thee lies revealed,\\nIts irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed\\nYear after year beheld the silent toil\\nThat spread his lustrous coil\\nStill, as the spiral grew,\\nHe left the past year s dwelling for the new,\\nStole with soft step its shining archway through,\\nBuilt up its idle door,\\nStretched in his last-found home, and knew the\\nold no more.\\nThanks for the heavenly message brought by\\nthee,\\nChild of the wandering sea,\\nCast from her lap, forlorn\\nFrom thy dead lips a clearer note is born\\nThan ever Triton blew from wreathed horn", "height": "4116", "width": "2588", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0084.jp2"}, "83": {"fulltext": "OLD IRONSIDES 67\\nWhile on mine ear it rings,\\nThrough the deep caves of thought I hear a voice\\nthat sings\\nBuild thee more stately mansions, O my soul,\\nAs the swift seasons roll\\nLeave thy low-vaulted past\\nLet each new temple, nobler than the last,\\nShut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,\\nTill thou at length art free,\\nLeaving thine outgrown shell by life s unresting\\nsea!\\nOLD IRONSIDES\\nThis was the popular name by which the frigate Consti-\\ntution was known. The poem was first printed in the Bos-\\nton Daily Advertiser, at the time when it was proposed to\\nbreak up the old ship as unfit for service. I subjoin the\\nparagraph which led to the writing of the poem. It is from\\nthe Advertiser of Tuesday, September 14, 1830:\\nOld Ironsides. It has been affirmed upon good author-\\nity that the Secretary of the Navy has recommended to the\\nBoard of Navy Commissioners to dispose of the frigate Con-\\nstitution. Since it has been understood that such a step\\nwas in contemplation we have heard but one opinion ex-\\npressed, and that in decided disapprobation of the measure.\\nSuch a national object of interest, so endeared to our na-\\ntional pride as Old Ironsides is, should never by any act of\\nour government cease to belong to the Navy, so long as our\\ncountry is to be found upon the map of nations. In Eng-\\nland it was lately determined by the Admiralty to cut the\\nVictory, a one-hundred gun ship (which it will be recol-\\nlected bore the flag of Lord Nelson at the battle of Trafal-\\ngar), down to a seventy-four, but so loud were the lamenta-", "height": "4108", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0085.jp2"}, "84": {"fulltext": "68 OLD IRONSIDES\\ntions of the people upon the proposed measure that the in-\\ntention was abandoned. We confidently anticipate that the\\nSecretary of the Navy will in like manner consult the gen-\\neral wish in regard to the Constitution, and either let her\\nremain in ordinary or rebuild her whenever the public ser-\\nvice may require. New York Journal of Commerce,\\nThe poem was an impromptu outburst of feeling and was\\npublished on the next day but one after reading the above\\nparagraph. [When Poetry a Metrical Essay was pub-\\nlished this poem was introduced as an interlude at the close\\nof the second section.]\\nAY, tear her tattered ensign down\\nX\\\\- Long has it waved on high,\\nAnd many an eye has danced to see\\nThat banner in the sky\\nBeneath it rung the battle shout,\\nAnd burst the cannon s roar\\nThe meteor of the ocean air\\nShall sweep the clouds no more.\\nHer deck, once red with heroes blood,\\nWhere knelt the vanquished foe,\\nWhen winds were hurrying o er the flood\\nAnd waves were white below,\\nNo more shall feel the victor s tread,\\nOr know the conquered knee\\nThe harpies of the shore shall pluck\\nThe eagle of the sea\\nO, better that her shattered hulk\\nShould sink beneath the wave\\nHer thunders shook the mighty deep,\\nAnd there should be her grave", "height": "4116", "width": "2636", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0086.jp2"}, "85": {"fulltext": "THE LAST LEAF\\nNail to the mast her holy flag,\\nSet every threadbare sail,\\nAnd give her to the god of storms,\\nThe lightning and the gale\\nTHE LAST LEAF\\nThe poem was suggested by the sight of a figure well\\nknown to Bostonians [in 1831 or 1832], that of Major\\nThomas Melville, the last of the cocked hats, as he was\\nsometimes called. The Major had been a personable young\\nman, very evidently, and retained evidence of it in\\nM The monumental pomp of age,\\nwhich had something imposing and something odd about it\\nfor youthful eyes like mine. He was often pointed at as\\none of the Indians of the famous Boston Tea-Party\\nof 1774. His aspect among the crowds of a later generation\\nreminded me of a withered leaf which has held to its stem\\nthrough the storms of autumn and winter, and finds itself\\nstill clinging to its bough while the new growths of spring\\nare bursting their buds and spreading their foliage all\\naround it. I make this explanation for the benefit of those\\nwho have been puzzled by the lines,\\nThe last leaf upon the tree\\nIn the spring.\\nThe way in which it came to be written in a somewhat\\nsingular measure was this. I had become a little known\\nas a versifier, and I thought that one or two other young\\nwriters were following my efforts with imitations, not\\nmeant as parodies and hardly to be considered improvements\\non their models. I determined to write in a measure which\\nwould at once betray any copyist. So far as it was sug-\\ngested by any previous poem, the echo must have come", "height": "4100", "width": "2576", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0087.jp2"}, "86": {"fulltext": "70 THE LAST LEAF\\nfrom Campbell s Battle of the Baltic/ with its short ter-\\nminal lines, such as the last of these two,\\nBy thy wild and stormy steep,\\nElsinore.\\nBut I do not remember any poem in the same measure, ex-\\ncept such as have been written since its publication.\\nThe poem as first written had one of those false rhymes\\nwhich produce a shudder in all educated persons, even in\\nthe poems of Keats and others who ought to have known\\nbetter than to admit them.\\nThe guilty verse ran thus\\n11 But now he walks the streets,\\nAnd he looks at all he meets\\nSo forlorn,\\nAnd he shakes his feeble head,\\nThat it seems as if he said,\\nThey are gone\\nA little more experience, to say nothing of the sneer of an\\nAmerican critic in an English periodical, showed me that\\nthis would never do. Here was what is called a cockney\\nrhyme, one in which the sound of the letter r is neglected\\nmaltreated as the letter h is insulted by the average Briton\\nby leaving it out everywhere except where it should be silent.\\nSuch an ill-mated pair as u forlorn and gone could not\\npossibly pass current in good rhyming society. But what\\nto do about it was the question. I must keep\\nThey are gone\\nand I could not think of any rhyme which I could work in\\nsatisfactorily. In this perplexity my friend, Mrs. Folsom,\\nwife of that excellent scholar, Mr. Charles Folsom, then and\\nfor a long time the unsparing and infallible corrector of the\\npress at Cambridge, suggested the line,\\nSad and wan,\\nwhich I thankfully adopted and have always retained.", "height": "4116", "width": "2632", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0088.jp2"}, "87": {"fulltext": "THE LAST LEAF 71\\nGood Abraham Lincoln had a great liking for the poem,\\nand repeated it from memory to Governor Andrew, as the\\nGovernor himself told me. I have a copy of it made by\\nthe hand of Edgar Allan Poe.\\n[When this poem was issued with an accompaniment of\\nillustration and decoration in 1894, Dr. Holmes wrote to his\\npublishers:\\nI have read the proof you sent me and find nothing in\\nit which I feel called upon to alter or explain.\\nI have lasted long enough to serve as an illustration of\\nmy own poem. I am one of the very last of the leaves\\nwhich still cling to the bough of life that budded in the\\nspring of the nineteenth century. The days of my years\\nare threescore and twenty, and I am almost halfway up the\\nsteep incline which leads me toward the base of the new\\ncentury so near to which I have already climbed.\\nI am pleased to find that this poem, carrying with it the\\nmarks of having been written in the jocund morning of life,\\nis still read and cared for. It was with a smile on my lips\\nthat I wrote it; I cannot read it without a sigh of tender\\nremembrance. I hope it will not sadden my older readers,\\nwhile it may amuse some of the younger ones to whom its\\nexperiences are as yet only floating fancies.\\nI SAW him once before,\\nAs he passed by the door,\\nAnd again\\nThe pavement stones resound,\\nAs he totters o er the ground\\nWith his cane.\\nThey say that in his prime,\\nEre the pruning-knife of Time\\nCut him down,", "height": "4100", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0089.jp2"}, "88": {"fulltext": "72 THE LAST LEAF\\nNot a better man was found\\nBy the Crier on his round\\nThrough the town.\\nBut now he walks the streets,\\nJ And he looks at all he meets\\nSad and wan,\\nAnd he shakes his feeble head,\\nThat it seems as if he said,\\nThey are gone.\\nThe mossy marbles rest\\nOn the lips that he has prest\\nIn their bloom,\\nAnd the names he loved to hear\\nHave been carved for many a year\\nOn the tomb.\\nMy grandmamma has said\\nPoor old lady, she is dead\\nLong ago\\nThat he had a Roman nose,\\nAnd his cheek was like a rose\\nIn the snow\\nBut now his nose is thin,\\nAnd it rests upon his chin\\nLike a staff,\\nAnd a crook is in his back,\\nAnd a melancholy crack\\nIn his laugh.", "height": "4116", "width": "2640", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0090.jp2"}, "89": {"fulltext": "THE CAMBRIDGE CHURCHYARD 73\\nI know it is a sin\\nFor me to sit and grin\\nAt him here\\nBut the old three-cornered hat,\\nAnd the breeches, and all that,\\nAre so queer\\nAnd if I should live to be\\nThe last leaf upon the tree\\nIn the spring,\\nLet them smile, as I do now,\\nAt the old forsaken bough\\nWhere I cling.\\nTHE CAMBRIDGE CHURCHYARD\\nOUR ancient church its lowly tower,\\nBeneath the loftier spire,\\nIs shadowed when the sunset hour\\nClothes the tall shaft in fire\\nIt sinks beyond the distant eye\\nLong ere the glittering vane,\\nHigh wheeling in the western sky,\\nHas faded o er the plain.\\nLike Sentinel and Nun, they keep\\nTheir vigil on the green\\nOne seems to guard, and one to weep,\\nThe dead that lie between\\nAnd both roll out, so full and near,\\nTheir music s mingling waves,\\nThey shake the grass, whose pennoned spear\\nLeans on the narrow graves.", "height": "4104", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0091.jp2"}, "90": {"fulltext": "74 THE CAMBRIDGE CHURCHYARD\\nThe stranger parts the flaunting weeds,\\nWhose seeds the winds have strown\\nSo thick, beneath the line he reads,\\nThey shade the sculptured stone\\nThe child unveils his clustered brow,\\nAnd ponders for a while\\nThe graven willow s pendent bough,\\nOr rudest cherub s smile.\\nBut what to them the dirge, the knell\\nThese were the mourner s share,\\nThe sullen clang, whose heavy swell\\nThrobbed through the beating air\\nThe rattling cord, the rolling stone,\\nThe shelving sand that slid,\\nAnd, far beneath, with hollow tone\\nRung on the coffin s lid.\\nThe slumberer s mound grows fresh and green,\\nThen slowly disappears\\nThe mosses creep, the gray stones lean,\\nEarth hides his date and years\\nBut, long before the once-loved name\\nIs sunk or worn away,\\nNo lip the silent dust may claim,\\nThat pressed the breathing clay.\\nGo where the ancient pathway guides,\\nSee where our sires laid down\\nTheir smiling babes, their cherished brides,\\nThe patriarchs of the town\\nHast thou a tear for buried love\\nA sigh for transient power", "height": "4116", "width": "2644", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0092.jp2"}, "91": {"fulltext": "THE CAMBRIDGE CHURCHYARD 75\\nAll that a century left above,\\nGo, read it in an hour 1\\nThe Indian s shaft, the Briton s ball,\\nThe sabre s thirsting edge,\\nThe hot shell, shattering in its fall,\\nThe bayonet s rending wedge,\\nHere scattered death yet, seek the spot,\\nNo trace thine eye can see,\\nNo altar, and they need it not\\nWho leave their children free\\nLook where the turbid rain-drops stand\\nIn many a chiselled square\\nThe knightly crest, the shield, the brand\\nOf honored names were there\\nAlas for every tear is dried\\nThose blazoned tablets knew,\\nSave when the icy marble s side\\nDrips with the evening dew.\\nOr gaze upon yon pillared stone,\\nThe empty urn of pride\\nThere stand the Goblet and the Sun,\\nWhat need of more beside\\nWhere lives the memory of the dead,\\nWho made their tomb a toy\\nWhose ashes press that nameless bed\\nGo, ask the village boy\\nLean o er the slender western wall,\\nYe ever-roaming girls", "height": "4100", "width": "2492", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0093.jp2"}, "92": {"fulltext": "76 THE CAMBRIDGE CHURCHYARD\\nThe breath that bids the blossom fall\\nMay lift your floating curls,\\nTo sweep the simple lines that tell\\nAn exile s date and doom\\nAnd sigh, for where his daughters dwell,\\nThey wreathe the stranger s tomb.\\nAnd one amid these shades was born,\\nBeneath this turf who lies,\\nOnce beaming as the summer s morn,\\nThat closed her gentle eyes\\nIf sinless angels love as we,\\nWho stood thy grave beside,\\nThree seraph welcomes waited thee,\\nThe daughter, sister, bride\\nI wandered to thy buried mound\\nWhen earth was hid below\\nThe level of the glaring ground,\\nChoked to its gates with snow,\\nAnd when with summer s flowery waves\\nThe lake of verdure rolled,\\nAs if a Sultan s white-robed slaves\\nHad scattered pearls and gold.\\nNay, the soft pinions of the air,\\nThat lift this trembling tone,\\nIts breath of love may almost bear\\nTo kiss thy funeral stone\\nAnd, now thy smiles have passed away,\\nFor all the joy they gave,\\nMay sweetest dews and warmest ray\\nLie on thine early grave", "height": "4144", "width": "2636", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0094.jp2"}, "93": {"fulltext": "DOROTHY Q. 77\\nWhen damps beneath and storms above\\nHave bowed these fragile towers,\\nStill o er the graves yon locust grove\\nShall swing its Orient flowers\\nAnd I would ask no mouldering bust,\\nIf e er this humble line,\\nWhich breathed a sigh o er others dust,\\nMight call a tear on mine.\\nDOROTHY Q.\\nA FAMILY PORTRAIT\\nI cannot tell the story of Dorothy Q. more simply in prose\\nthan I have told it in verse, but I can add something to it.\\nDorothy was the daughter of Judge Edmund Quincy, and\\nthe niece of Josiah Quincy, junior, the young patriot and\\norator who died just before the American Revolution, of\\nwhich he was one of the most eloquent and effective pro-\\nmoters. The son of the latter, Josiah Quincy, the first\\nmayor of Boston bearing that name, lived to a great age,\\none of the most useful and honored citizens of his time.\\nThe canvas of the painting was so much decayed that it\\nhad to be replaced by a new one, in doing which the rapier\\nthrust was of course filled up.\\nGRANDMOTHER S mother her age, I guess,\\nThirteen summers, or something less\\nGirlish bust, but womanly air\\nSmooth, square forehead with uprolled hair\\nLips that lover has never kissed\\nTaper fingers and slender wrist\\nHanging sleeves of stiff brocade\\nSo they painted the little maid.", "height": "4108", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0095.jp2"}, "94": {"fulltext": "78 DOROTHY Q.\\nOn her hand a parrot green\\nSits unmoving and broods serene.\\nHold up the canvas full in view,\\nLook there s a rent the light shines through,\\nDark with a century s fringe of dust,\\nThat was a Red-Coat s rapier-thrust\\nSuch is the tale the lady old,\\nDorothy s daughter s daughter, told.\\nWho the painter was none may tell,\\nOne whose best was not over well\\nHard and dry, it must be confessed,\\nFlat as a rose that has long been pressed\\nYet in her cheek the hues are bright,\\nDainty colors of red and white,\\nAnd in her slender shape are seen\\nHint and promise of stately mien.\\nLook not on her with eyes of scorn,\\nDorothy Q. was a lady born\\nAy since the galloping Normans came,\\nEngland s annals have known her name\\nAnd still to the three-hilled rebel town\\nDear is that ancient name s renown,\\nFor many a civic wreath they won,\\nThe youthful sire and the gray-haired son.\\nO Damsel Dorothy Dorothy Q.\\nStrange is the gift that I owe to you\\nSuch a gift as never a king\\nSave to daughter or son might bring,\\nAll my tenure of heart and hand,\\nAll my title to house and land", "height": "4116", "width": "2644", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0096.jp2"}, "95": {"fulltext": "DOROTHY Q. 79\\nMother and sister and child and wife\\nAnd joy and sorrow and death and life\\nWhat if a hundred years ago\\nThose close-shut lips had answered No,\\nWhen forth the tremulous question came\\nThat cost the maiden her Norman name,\\nAnd under the folds that look so still\\nThe bodice swelled with the bosom s thrill\\nShould I be I, or would it be\\nOne tenth another, to nine tenths me\\nSoft is the breath of a maiden s Yes\\nNot the light gossamer stirs with less\\nBut never a cable that holds so fast\\nThrough all the battles of wave and blast,\\nAnd never an echo of speech or song\\nThat lives in the babbling air so long\\nThere were tones in the voice that whispered then\\nYou may hear to-day in a hundred men.\\nlady and lover, how faint and far\\nYour images hover, and here we are,\\nSolid and stirring in flesh and bone,\\nEdward s and Dorothy s all their own,\\nA goodly record for Time to show\\nOf a syllable spoken so long ago\\nShall I bless you, Dorothy, or forgive\\nFor the tender whisper that bade me live\\nIt shall be a blessing, my little maid\\n1 will heal the stab of the Red-Coat s blade,", "height": "4088", "width": "2508", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0097.jp2"}, "96": {"fulltext": "80 THE ORGAN-BLOWER\\nAnd freshen the gold of the tarnished frame,\\nAnd gild with a rhyme your household name\\nSo you shall smile on us brave and bright\\nAs first you greeted the morning s light,\\nAnd live untroubled by woes and fears\\nThrough a second youth of a hundred years.\\nTHE ORGAN-BLOWER\\nDEVOUTEST of my Sunday friends,\\nThe patient Organ-blower bends\\nI see his figure sink and rise,\\n(Forgive me, Heaven, my wandering eyes\\nA moment lost, the uext half seen,\\nHis head above the scanty screen,\\nStill measuring out his deep salaams\\nThrough quavering hymns and panting psalms.\\nNo priest that prays in gilded stole,\\nTo save a rich man s mortgaged soul\\nNo sister, fresh from holy vows,\\nSo humbly stoops, so meekly bows\\nHis large obeisance puts to shame\\nThe proudest genuflecting dame,\\nWhose Easter bonnet low descends\\nWith all the grace devotion lends.\\nO brother with the supple spine,\\nHow much we owe those bows of thine\\nWithout thine arm to lend the breeze,\\nHow vain the finger on the keys", "height": "4116", "width": "2612", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0098.jp2"}, "97": {"fulltext": "THE ORGAN-BLOWER 81\\nThough all unmatched the player s skill,\\nThose thousand throats were dumb and still\\nAnother s art may shape the tone,\\nThe breath that nils it is thine own.\\nSix days the silent Memnon waits\\nBehind his temple s folded gates\\nBut when the seventh day s sunshine falls\\nThrough rainbowed windows on the walls,\\nHe breathes, he sings, he shouts, he fills\\nThe quivering air with rapturous thrills\\nThe roof resounds, the pillars shake,\\nAnd all the slumbering echoes wake\\nThe Preacher from the Bible-text\\nWith weary words my soul has vexed\\n(Some stranger, fumbling far astray\\nTo find the lesson for the day)\\nHe tells us truths too plainly true,\\nAnd reads the service all askew,\\nWhy, why the mischief can t he look\\nBeforehand in the service-book\\nBut thou, with decent mien and face,\\nArt always ready in thy place\\nThy strenuous blast, whate er the tune,\\nAs steady as the strong monsoon\\nThy only dread a leathery creak,\\nOr small residual extra squeak,\\nTo send along the shadowy aisles\\nA sunlit wave of dimpled smiles.", "height": "4100", "width": "2576", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0099.jp2"}, "98": {"fulltext": "82 AGNES\\nNot all the preaching, O my friend,\\nComes from the church s pulpit end\\nNot all that bend the knee and bow\\nYield service half so true as thou\\nOne simple task performed aright,\\nWith slender skill, but all thy might,\\nWhere honest labor does its best,\\nAnd leaves the player all the rest.\\nThis many-diapasoned maze,\\nThrough which the breath of being strays,\\nWhose music makes our earth divine,\\nHas work for mortal hands like mine.\\nMy duty lies before me. Lo,\\nThe lever there Take hold and blow\\nAnd He whose hand is on the keys\\nWill play the tune as He shall please.\\nAGNES\\nThe story of Sir Harry Frankland and Agnes Surriage is\\ntold in the ballad with a very strict adhesion to the facts.\\nThese were obtained from information afforded me by the\\nEev. Mr. Webster, of Hopkinton, in company with whom I\\nvisited the Frankland Mansion in that town, then standing\\nfrom a very interesting Memoir, by the Rev. Elias Nason,\\nof Medford and from the manuscript diary of Sir Harry,\\nor more properly Sir Charles Henry Frankland, now in the\\nlibrary of the Massachusetts Historical Society.\\nAt the time of the visit referred to, old Julia was living,\\nand on our return we called at the house where she re-\\nsided.* Her account is little more than paraphrased in the\\n1 She was living June 10, 1861, when this ballad was published.", "height": "4116", "width": "2612", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0100.jp2"}, "99": {"fulltext": "AGNES 83\\npoem. If the incidents are treated with a certain liberality\\nat the close of the fifth part, the essential fact that Agnes\\nrescued Sir Harry from the ruins after the earthquake, and\\ntheir subsequent marriage as related, may be accepted as\\nliteral truth. So with regard to most of the trifling details\\nwhich are given they are taken from the record.\\nIt is greatly to be regretted that the Frankland Mansion\\nno longer exists. It was accidentally burned on the 23d of\\nJanuary, 1858, a year or two after the first sketch of this\\nballad was written. A visit to it was like stepping out of\\nthe century into the years before the Revolution. A new\\nhouse, similar in plan and arrangements to the old one, has\\nbeen built upon its site, and the terraces, the clump of box,\\nand the lilacs doubtless remain to bear witness to the truth\\nof this story.\\nThe story, which I have told literally in rhyme, has been\\nmade the subject of a carefully studied and interesting ro-\\nmance by Mr. E. L. Bynner.\\nPART I. THE KNIGHT\\nTHE tale I tell is gospel true,\\nAs all the bookmen know,\\nAnd pilgrims who have strayed to view\\nThe wrecks still left to show.\\nThe old, old story, fair, and young,\\nAnd fond, and not too wise,\\nThat matrons tell, with sharpened tongue,\\nTo maids with downcast eyes.\\nAh maidens err and matrons warn\\nBeneath the coldest sky\\nLove lurks amid the tasselled corn\\nAs in the bearded rye", "height": "4116", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0101.jp2"}, "100": {"fulltext": "84 AGNES\\nBut who would dream our sober sires\\nHad learned the old world s ways,\\nAnd warmed their hearths with lawless fires\\nIn Shirley s homespun days\\nT is like some poet s pictured trance\\nHis idle rhymes recite,\\nThis old jSTew-England-born romance\\nOf Agnes and the Knight\\nYet, known to all the country round,\\nTheir home is standing still,\\nBetween Wachusett s lonely mound\\nAnd Shawmut s threefold hill.\\nOne hour we rumble on the rail,\\nOne half-hour guide the rein,\\nWe reach at last, o er hill and dale,\\nThe village on the plain.\\nWith blackening wall and mossy roof,\\nWith stained and warping floor,\\nA stately mansion stands aloof\\nAnd bars its haughty door.\\nThis lowlier portal may be tried,\\nThat breaks the gable wall\\nAnd lo with arches opening wide,\\nSir Harry Frankland s hall\\nT was in the second George s day\\nThey sought the forest shade,", "height": "4116", "width": "2632", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0102.jp2"}, "101": {"fulltext": "AGNES 85\\nThe knotted trunks they cleared away,\\nThe massive beams they laid,\\nThey piled the rock-hewn chimney tall,\\nThey smoothed the terraced ground,\\nThey reared the marble-pillared wall\\nThat fenced the mansion round.\\nFar stretched beyond the village bound\\nThe Master s broad domain\\nWith page and valet, horse and hound,\\nHe kept a goodly train.\\nAnd, all the midland county through,\\nThe ploughman stopped to gaze\\nWhene er his chariot swept in view\\nBehind the shining bays,\\nWith mute obeisance, grave and slow,\\nRepaid by nod polite,\\nFor such the way with high and low\\nTill after Concord fight.\\nNor less to courtly circles known\\nThat graced the three-hilled town\\nWith far-off splendors of the Throne,\\nAnd glimmerings from the Crown\\nWise Phipps, who held the seals of state\\nFor Shirley over sea\\nBrave Knowles, whose press-gang moved of late\\nThe King Street mob s decree", "height": "4116", "width": "2576", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0103.jp2"}, "102": {"fulltext": "3 AGNES\\nAnd judges grave, and colonels grand,\\nFair dames and stately men,\\nThe mighty people of the land,\\nThe World of there and then.\\nT was strange no Chloe s beauteous Form,\\nAnd Eyes coelestial Blew,\\nThis Strephon of the West could warm,\\nNo Nymph his Heart subdue\\nPerchance he wooed as gallants use,\\nWhom fleeting loves enchain,\\nBut still unfettered, free to choose,\\nWould brook no bridle-rein.\\nHe saw the fairest of the fair,\\nBut smiled alike on all\\nNo band his roving foot might snare,\\nNo ring his hand enthrall.\\nPART II. THE MAIDEN\\nWhy seeks the knight that rocky cape\\nBeyond the Bay of Lynn\\nWhat chance his wayward course may shape\\nTo reach its village inn\\nNo story tells whate er we guess,\\nThe past lies deaf and still,\\nBut Fate, who rules to blight or bless,\\nCan lead us where she will.", "height": "4116", "width": "2676", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0104.jp2"}, "103": {"fulltext": "AGNES 87\\nMake way Sir Harry s coach and four,\\nAnd liveried grooms that ride\\nThey cross the ferry, touch the shore\\nOn Winnisimmet s side.\\nThey hear the wash on Chelsea Beach,\\nThe level marsh they pass,\\nWhere miles on miles the desert reach\\nIs rough with bitter grass.\\nThe shining horses foam and pant,\\nAnd now the smells begin\\nOf fishy Swampscott, salt Nahant,\\nAnd leather-scented Lynn.\\nNext, on their left, the slender spires\\nAnd glittering vanes that crown\\nThe home of Salem s frugal sires,\\nThe old, witch-haunted town.\\nSo onward, o er the rugged way\\nThat runs through rocks and sand,\\nShowered by the tempest-driven spray,\\nFrom bays on either hand,\\nThat shut between their outstretched arms\\nThe crews of Marblehead,\\nThe lords of ocean s watery farms,\\nWho plough the waves for bread.\\nAt last the ancient inn appears,\\nThe spreading elm below,", "height": "4112", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0105.jp2"}, "104": {"fulltext": "88 AGNES\\nWhose flapping sign these fifty years\\nHas seesawed to and fro.\\nHow fair the azure fields in sight\\nBefore the low-browed inn\\nThe tumbling billows fringe with light\\nThe crescent shore of Lynn\\nNahant thrusts outward through the waves\\nHer arm of yellow sand,\\nAnd breaks the roaring surge that braves\\nThe gauntlet on her hand\\nWith eddying whirl the waters lock\\nYon treeless mound forlorn,\\nThe sharp-winged sea-fowl s breeding-rock,\\nThat fronts the Spouting Horn\\nThen free the white-sailed shallops glide,\\nAnd wide the ocean smiles,\\nTill, shoreward bent, his streams divide\\nThe two bare Misery Isles.\\nThe master s silent signal stays\\nThe wearied cavalcade\\nThe coachman reins his smoking bays\\nBeneath the elm-tree s shade.\\nA gathering on the village green\\nThe cocked-hats crowd to see,\\nOn legs in ancient velveteen,\\nWith buckles at the knee.", "height": "4116", "width": "2644", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0106.jp2"}, "105": {"fulltext": "AGNES 89\\nA clustering round the tavern-door\\nOf square-toed village boys,\\nStill wearing, as their grandsires wore,\\nThe old-world corduroys\\nA scampering at the Fountain inn,\\nA rush of great and small,\\nWith hurrying servants mingled din\\nAnd screaming matron s call\\nPoor Agnes with her work half done\\nThey caught her unaware\\nAs, humbly, like a praying nun,\\nShe knelt upon the stair\\nBent o er the steps, with lowliest mien\\nShe knelt, but not to pray,\\nHer little hands must keep them clean,\\nAnd wash their stains away.\\nA foot, an ankle, bare and white,\\nHer girlish shapes betrayed,\\nHa Nymphs and Graces spoke the Knight\\nLook up, my beauteous Maid\\nShe turned, a reddening rose in bud,\\nIts calyx half withdrawn,\\nHer cheek on fire with damasked blood\\nOf girlhood s glowing dawn\\nHe searched her features through and through,\\nAs royal lovers look", "height": "4104", "width": "2492", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0107.jp2"}, "106": {"fulltext": "90 AGNES\\nOn lowly maidens, when they woo\\nWithout the ring and book.\\nCome hither, Fair one Here, my Sweet\\nNay, prithee, look not down\\nTake this to shoe those little feet,\\nHe tossed a silver crown.\\nA sudden paleness struck her brow,\\nA swifter blush succeeds\\nIt burns her cheek it kindles now\\nBeneath her golden beads.\\nShe flitted, but the glittering eye\\nStill sought the lovely face.\\nWho was she What, and whence and why\\nDoomed to such menial place\\nA skipper s daughter, so they said,\\nLeft orphan by the gale\\nThat cost the fleet of Marblehead\\nAnd Gloucester thirty sail.\\nAh many a lonely home is found\\nAlong the Essex shore,\\nThat cheered its goodman outward bound,\\nAnd sees his face no more\\nNot so, the matron whispered, sure\\nNo orphan girl is she,\\nThe Surriage folk are deadly poor\\nSince Edward left the sea,", "height": "4116", "width": "2624", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0108.jp2"}, "107": {"fulltext": "AGNES 91\\nAnd Mary, with her growing brood,\\nHas work enough to do\\nTo find the children clothes and food\\nWith Thomas, John, and Hugh.\\nThis girl of Mary s, growing tall,\\n(Just turned her sixteenth year,)\\nTo earn her bread and help them all,\\nWould work as housemaid here.\\nSo Agnes, with her golden beads,\\nAnd naught beside as dower,\\nGrew at the wayside with the weeds,\\nHerself a garden-flower.\\nT was strange, t was sad, so fresh, so fair\\nThus Pity s voice began.\\nSuch grace an angel s shape and air\\nThe half -heard whisper ran.\\nFor eyes could see in George s time,\\nAs now in later days,\\nAnd lips could shape, in prose and rhyme,\\nThe honeyed breath of praise.\\nNo time to woo 1 The train must go\\nLong ere the sun is down,\\nTo reach, before the night-winds blow,\\nThe many-steepled town.\\nT is midnight, street and square are still\\nDark roll the whispering waves", "height": "4108", "width": "2492", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0109.jp2"}, "108": {"fulltext": "92 AGNES\\nThat lap the piers beneath the hill\\nRidged thick with ancient graves.\\nAh, gentle sleep thy hand will smooth\\nThe weary couch of pain,\\nWhen all thy poppies fail to soothe\\nThe lover s throbbing brain\\nT is morn, the orange-mantled sun\\nBreaks through the fading gray,\\nAnd long and loud the Castle gun\\nPeals o er the glistening bay.\\nThank God t is day With eager eye\\nHe hails the morning shine\\nIf art can win, or gold can buy,\\nThe maiden shall be mine\\nPART III. THE CONQUEST\\nWho saw this hussy when she came\\nWhat is the wench, and who\\nThey whisper. Agnes is her name\\nPray what has she to do\\nThe housemaids parley at the gate,\\nThe scullions on the stair,\\nAnd in the footmen s grave debate\\nThe butler deigns to share.\\nBlack Dinah, stolen when a child,\\nAnd sold on Boston pier,", "height": "4116", "width": "2580", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0110.jp2"}, "109": {"fulltext": "AGNES 93\\nGrown up in service, petted, spoiled,\\nSpeaks in the coachman s ear\\nWhat, all this household at his will\\nAnd all are yet too few\\nMore servants, and more servants still,\\nThis pert young madam too\\nServant fine servant laughed aloud\\nThe man of coach and steeds\\nShe looks too fair, she steps too proud,\\nThis girl with golden beads\\nI tell you, you may fret and frown,\\nAnd call her what you choose,\\nYou 11 find my Lady in her gown,\\nYour Mistress in her shoes\\nAh, gentle maidens, free from blame,\\nGod grant you never know\\nThe little whisper, loud with shame,\\nThat makes the world your foe\\nWhy tell the lordly flatterer s art,\\nThat won the maiden s ear,\\nThe fluttering of the frightened heart,\\nThe blush, the smile, the tear?\\nAlas it were the saddening tale\\nThat every language knows,\\nThe wooing wind, the yielding sail,\\nThe sunbeam and the rose.", "height": "4116", "width": "2472", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0111.jp2"}, "110": {"fulltext": "94 AGNES\\nAnd now the gown of sober stuff\\nHas changed to fair brocade,\\nWith broidered hem, and hanging cuff,\\nAnd flower of silken braid\\nAnd clasped around her blanching wrist\\nA jewelled bracelet shines,\\nHer flowing tresses massive twist\\nA glittering net confines\\nAnd mingling with their truant wave\\nA fretted chain is hung\\nBut ah the gift her mother gave,\\nIts beads are all unstrung\\nHer place is at the master s board,\\nWhere none disputes her claim\\nShe walks beside the mansion s lord,\\nHis bride in all but name.\\nThe busy tongues have ceased to talk,\\nOr speak in softened tone,\\nSo gracious in her daily walk\\nThe angel light has shown.\\nNo want that kindness may relieve\\nAssails her heart in vain,\\nThe lifting of a ragged sleeve\\nWill check her palfrey s rein.\\nA thoughtful calm, a quiet grace\\nIn every movement shown,", "height": "4116", "width": "2580", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0112.jp2"}, "111": {"fulltext": "AGNES 95\\nReveal her moulded for the place\\nShe may not call her own.\\nAnd, save that on her youthful brow\\nThere broods a shadowy care,\\nNo matron sealed with holy vow\\nIn all the land so fair\\nPART IV. THE RESCUE\\nA ship comes foaming up the bay,\\nAlong the pier she glides\\nBefore her furrow melts away,\\nA courier mounts and rides.\\nHaste, Haste, post Haste the letters bear\\nSir Harry Frankland, These.\\nSad news to tell the loving pair\\nThe knight must cross the seas.\\nAlas we part the lips that spoke\\nLost all their rosy red,\\nAs when a crystal cup is broke,\\nAnd all its wine is shed.\\nNay, droop not thus, where er, he cried,\\nI go by land or sea,\\nMy love, my life, my joy, my pride,\\nThy place is still by me\\nThrough town and city, far and wide,\\nTheir wandering feet have strayed,", "height": "4112", "width": "2488", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0113.jp2"}, "112": {"fulltext": "96 AGNES\\nFrom Alpine lake to ocean tide,\\nAnd cold Sierra s shade.\\nAt length they see the waters gleam\\nAmid the fragrant bowers\\nWhere Lisbon mirrors in the stream\\nHer belt of ancient towers.\\nRed is the orange on its bough,\\nTo-morrow s sun shall fling\\nO er Cintra s hazel-shaded brow\\nThe flush of April s wing.\\nThe streets are loud with noisy mirth,\\nThey dance on every green\\nThe morning s dial marks the birth\\nOf proud Braganza s queen.\\nAt eve beneath their pictured dome\\nThe gilded courtiers throng\\nThe broad moidores have cheated Rome\\nOf all her lords of song.\\nAh Lisbon dreams not of the day\\nPleased with her painted scenes\\nWhen all her towers shall slide away\\nAs now these canvas screens\\nThe spring has passed, the summer fled,\\nAnd yet they linger still,\\nThough autumn s rustling leaves have spread\\nThe flank of Cintra s hill.", "height": "4116", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0114.jp2"}, "113": {"fulltext": "AGNES 97\\nThe town has learned their Saxon name,\\nAnd touched their English gold,\\nNor tale of doubt nor hint of blame\\nFrom over sea is told.\\nThree hours the first November dawn\\nHas climbed with feeble ray\\nThrough mists like heavy curtains drawn\\nBefore the darkened day.\\nHow still the muffled echoes sleep\\nHark hark a hollow sound,\\nA noise like chariots rumbling deep\\nBeneath the solid ground.\\nThe channel lifts, the water slides\\nAnd bares its bar of sand,\\nAnon a mountain billow strides\\nAnd crashes o er the land.\\nThe turrets lean, the steeples reel\\nLike masts on ocean s swell,\\nAnd clash a long discordant peal,\\nThe death-doomed city s knell.\\nThe pavement bursts, the earth upheaves\\nBeneath the staggering town\\nThe turrets crack the castle cleaves\\nThe spires come rushing down.\\nAround, the lurid mountains glow\\nWith strange unearthly gleams", "height": "4100", "width": "2492", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0115.jp2"}, "114": {"fulltext": "98 AGNES\\nWhile black abysses gape below,\\nThen close in jagged seams.\\nThe earth has folded like a wave,\\nAnd thrice a thousand score,\\nClasped, shroudless, in their closing grave,\\nThe sun shall see no more\\nAnd all is over. Street and square\\nIn ruined heaps are piled\\nAh where is she, so frail, so fair,\\nAmid the tumult wild\\nUnscathed, she treads the wreck-piled street,\\nWhose narrow gaps afford\\nA pathway for her bleeding feet,\\nTo seek her absent lord.\\nA temple s broken walls arrest\\nHer wild and wandering eyes\\nBeneath its shattered portal pressed,\\nHer lord unconscious lies.\\nThe power that living hearts obey\\nShall lifeless blocks withstand?\\nLove led her footsteps where he lay,\\nLove nerves her woman s hand\\nOne cry, the marble shaft she grasps,\\nUp heaves the ponderous stone\\nHe breathes, her fainting form he clasps,\\nHer life has bought his own", "height": "4116", "width": "2548", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0116.jp2"}, "115": {"fulltext": "AGNES 99\\nPART V. THE REWARD\\nHow like the starless night of death\\nOur being s brief eclipse,\\nWhen faltering heart and failing breath\\nHave bleached the fading lips\\nShe lives What guerdon shall repay\\nHis debt of ransomed life\\nOne word can charm all wrongs away,\\nThe sacred name of Wife\\nThe love that won her girlish charms\\nMust shield her matron fame,\\nAnd write beneath the Frankland arms\\nThe village beauty s name.\\nGo, call the priest no vain delay\\nShall dim the sacred ring\\nWho knows what change the passing day,\\nThe fleeting hour, may bring\\nBefore the holy altar bent,\\nThere kneels a goodly pair\\nA stately man, of high descent,\\nA woman, passing fair.\\nNo jewels lend the blinding sheen\\nThat meaner beauty needs,\\nBut on her bosom heaves unseen\\nA string of golden beads.\\n\u00e2\u0080\u00a2fC,", "height": "4100", "width": "2484", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0117.jp2"}, "116": {"fulltext": "100 AGNES\\nThe vow is spoke, the prayer is said,\\nAnd with a gentle pride\\nThe Lady Agnes lifts her head,\\nSir Harry Frankland s bride.\\nNo more her faithful heart shall bear\\nThose griefs so meekly borne,\\nThe passing sneer, the freezing stare,\\nThe icy look of scorn\\nNo more the blue-eyed English dames\\nTheir haughty lips shall curl,\\nWhene er a hissing whisper names\\nThe poor New England girl.\\nBut stay his mother s haughty brow,\\nThe pride of ancient race,\\nWill plighted faith, and holy vow,\\nWin back her fond embrace\\nToo well she knew the saddening tale\\nOf love no vow had blest,\\nThat turned his blushing honors pale\\nAnd stained his knightly crest.\\nThey seek his Northern home, alas\\nHe goes alone before\\nHis own dear Agnes may not pass\\nThe proud, ancestral door.\\nHe stood before the stately dame\\nHe spoke she calmly heard,", "height": "4116", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0118.jp2"}, "117": {"fulltext": "AGNES 101\\nBut not to pity, nor to blame\\nShe breathed no single word.\\nHe told his love, her faith betrayed\\nShe heard with tearless eyes\\nCould she forgive the erring maid\\nShe stared in cold surprise.\\nHow fond her heart, he told, how true\\nThe haughty eyelids fell\\nThe kindly deeds she loved to do\\nShe murmured, It is well.\\nBut when he told that fearful day,\\nAnd how her feet were led\\nTo where entombed in life he lay,\\nThe breathing with the dead,\\nAnd how she bruised her tender breasts\\nAgainst the crushing stone,\\nThat still the strong-armed clown protests\\nNo man can lift alone,\\nOh then the frozen spring was broke\\nBy turns she wept and smiled\\n11 Sweet Agnes so the mother spoke,\\nGod bless my angel child\\nShe saved thee from the jaws of death,\\nT is thine to right her wrongs\\nI tell thee, I, who gave thee breath,\\nTo her thy life belongs", "height": "4116", "width": "2488", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0119.jp2"}, "118": {"fulltext": "102 AGNES\\nThus Agnes won her noble name,\\nHer lawless lover s hand\\nThe lowly maiden so became\\nA lady in the land\\nPART VI. CONCLUSION\\nThe tale is done it little needs\\nTo track their after ways,\\nAnd string again the golden beads\\nOf love s uncounted days.\\nThey leave the fair ancestral isle\\nFor bleak New England s shore\\nHow gracious is the courtly smile\\nOf all who frowned before\\nAgain through Lisbon s orange bowers\\nThey watch the river s gleam,\\nAnd shudder as her shadowy towers\\nShake in the trembling stream.\\nFate parts at length the fondest pair\\nHis cheek, alas grows pale\\nThe breast that trampling death could spare\\nHis noiseless shafts assail.\\nHe longs to change the heaven of blue\\nFor England s clouded sky,\\nTo breathe the air his boyhood knew\\nHe seeks them but to die.", "height": "4116", "width": "2548", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0120.jp2"}, "119": {"fulltext": "AGNES 103\\nHard by the terraced hillside town,\\nWhere healing streamlets run,\\nStill sparkling with their old renown,\\nThe Waters of the Sun,\\nThe Lady Agnes raised the stone\\nThat marks his honored grave,\\nAnd there Sir Harry sleeps alone\\nBy Wiltshire Avon s wave.\\nThe home of early love was dear\\nShe sought its peaceful shade,\\nAnd kept her state for many a year,\\nWith none to make afraid.\\nAt last the evil days were come\\nThat saw the red cross fall\\nShe hears the rebels rattling drum,\\nFarewell to Frankland Hall\\nI tell you, as my tale began,\\nThe hall is standing still\\nAnd you, kind listener, maid or man,\\nMay see it if you will.\\nThe box is glistening huge and green,\\nLike trees the lilacs grow,\\nThree elms high-arching still are seen,\\nAnd one lies stretched below.\\nThe hangings, rough with velvet flowers,\\nFlap on the latticed wall", "height": "4108", "width": "2500", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0121.jp2"}, "120": {"fulltext": "104 AGNES\\nAnd o er the mossy ridgepole towers\\nThe rock-hewn chimney tall.\\nThe doors on mighty hinges clash\\nWith massive bolt and bar,\\nThe heavy English-moulded sash\\nScarce can the night winds jar.\\nBehold the chosen room he sought\\nAlone, to fast and pray,\\nEach year, as chill November brought\\nThe dismal earthquake day.\\nThere hung the rapier blade he wore,\\nBent in its flattened sheath\\nThe coat the shrieking woman tore\\nCaught in her clenching teeth\\nThe coat with tarnished silver lace\\nShe snapped at as she slid,\\nAnd down upon her death-white face\\nCrashed the huge coffin s lid.\\nA graded terrace yet remains\\nIf on its turf you stand\\nAnd look along the wooded plains\\nThat stretch on either hand,\\nThe broken forest walls define]\\nA dim, receding view,\\nWhere, on the far horizon s line,\\nHe cut his vista through.", "height": "4116", "width": "2548", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0122.jp2"}, "121": {"fulltext": "AGNES 105\\nIf further story you shall crave,\\nOr ask for living proof,\\nGo see old Julia, born a slave\\nBeneath Sir Harry s roof.\\nShe told me half that I have told,\\nAnd she remembers well\\nThe mansion as it looked of old\\nBefore its glories fell\\nThe box, when round the terraced square\\nIts glossy wall was drawn\\nThe climbing vines, the snow-balls fair,\\nThe roses on the lawn.\\nAnd Julia says, with truthful look\\nStamped on her wrinkled face,\\nThat in her own black hands she took\\nThe coat with silver lace.\\nAnd you may hold the story light,\\nOr, if you like, believe\\nBut there it was, the woman s bite,\\nA mouthful from the sleeve.\\nNow go your ways I need not tell\\nThe moral of my rhyme\\nBut, youths and maidens, ponder well\\nThis tale of olden time 1", "height": "4108", "width": "2488", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0123.jp2"}, "122": {"fulltext": "106 AVIS\\nAVIS\\nThis is a true story. Avis, Avise, or Avice (they pro-\\nnounce it Avvis) is a real breathing person. Her home is\\nnot more than an hour and a half s space from the palaces\\nof the great ladies who might like to look at her. They may\\nsee her and the little black girl she gave herself to, body\\nand soul, when nobody else could bear the sight of her in-\\nfirmity leaving home at noon, or even after breakfast, and\\ncoming back in season to undress for the evening s party.\\nI MAY not rightly call thy name,\\nAlas thy forehead never knew\\nThe kiss that happier children claim,\\nNor glistened with baptismal dew.\\nDaughter of want and wrong and woe,\\nI saw thee with thy sister-band,\\nSnatched from the whirlpool s narrowing flow\\nBy Mercy s strong yet trembling hand.\\nAvis With Saxon eye and cheek,\\nAt once a woman and a child,\\nThe saint uncrowned I came to seek\\nDrew near to greet us, spoke, and smiled.\\nGod gave that sweet sad smile she wore\\nAll wrong to shame, all souls to win,\\nA heavenly sunbeam sent before\\nHer footsteps through a world of sin.\\nAnd who is Avis Hear the tale\\nThe calm- voiced matrons gravely tell,", "height": "4116", "width": "2604", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0124.jp2"}, "123": {"fulltext": "AVIS 107\\nThe story known through all the vale\\nWhere Avis and her sisters dwell.\\nWith the lost children running wild,\\nStrayed from the hand of human care,\\nThey find one little refuse child\\nLeft helpless in its poisoned lair.\\nThe primal mark is on her face,\\nThe chattel-stamp, the pariah-stain\\nThat follows still her hunted race,\\nThe curse without the crime of Cain.\\nHow shall our smooth-turned phrase relate\\nThe little suffering outcast s ail?\\nXot Lazarus at the rich man s gate\\nSo turned the rose-wreathed revellers pale.\\nAh, veil the living death from sight\\nThat wounds our beauty-loving eye\\nThe children turn in selfish fright,\\nThe white-lipped nurses hurry by.\\nTake her, dread Angel Break in love\\nThis bruised reed and make it thine\\nNo voice descended from above,\\nBut Avis answered, She is mine.\\nThe task that dainty menials spurn\\nThe fair young girl has made her own\\nHer heart shall teach, her hand shall learn\\nThe toils, the duties yet unknown.", "height": "4096", "width": "2468", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0125.jp2"}, "124": {"fulltext": "108 A SUN-DAY HYMN\\nSo Love and Death in lingering 1 strife\\nStand face to face from day to day,\\nStill battling for the spoil of Life\\nWhile the slow seasons creep away.\\nLove conquers Death the prize is won\\nSee to her joyous bosom pressed\\nThe dusky daughter of the sun,\\nThe bronze against the marble breast I\\nHer task is done no voice divine\\nHas crowned her deeds with saintly fame.\\nNo eye can see the aureole shine\\nThat rings her brow with heavenly flame.\\nYet what has holy page more sweet,\\nOr what had woman s love more fair,\\nWhen Mary clasped her Saviour s feet\\nWith flowing eyes and streaming hair\\nMeek child of sorrow, walk unknown,\\nThe Angel of that earthly throng,\\nAnd let thine image live alone\\nTo hallow this unstudied song\\nA SUN-DAY HYMN\\nLORD of all being throned afar,\\nThy glory flames from sun and star\\nCentre and soul of every sphere,\\nYet to each loving heart how near", "height": "4116", "width": "2620", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0126.jp2"}, "125": {"fulltext": "THE CROOKED FOOTPATH 109\\nSun of our life, thy quickening ray-\\nSheds on our path the glow of day\\nStar of our hope, thy softened light\\nCheers the long watches of the night.\\nOur midnight is thy smile withdrawn\\nOur noontide is thy gracious dawn\\nOur rainbow arch thy mercy s sign\\nAll, save the clouds of sin, are thine\\nLord of all life, below, above,\\nWhose light is truth, whose warmth is love,\\nBefore thy ever-blazing throne\\nWe ask no lustre of our own.\\nGrant us thy truth to make us free,\\nAnd kindling hearts that burn for thee,\\nTill all thy living altars claim\\nOne holy light, one heavenly flame\\nTHE CEOOKED FOOTPATH\\nA H, here it is the sliding rail\\nJlJL That marks the old remembered spot,\\nThe gap that struck our school-boy trail,\\nThe crooked path across the lot.\\nIt left the road by school and church,\\nA pencilled shadow, nothing more,\\nThat parted from the silver-birch\\nAnd ended at the farm-house door.", "height": "4100", "width": "2452", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0127.jp2"}, "126": {"fulltext": "110 THE CROOKED FOOTPATH\\nNo line or compass traced its plan\\nWith frequent bends to left or right,\\nIn aimless, wayward curves it ran,\\nBut always kept the door in sight.\\nThe gabled porch, with woodbine green,\\nThe broken millstone at the sill,\\nThough many a rood might stretch between,\\nThe truant child could see them still.\\nNo rocks across the pathway lie,\\nNo fallen trunk is o er it thrown,\\nAnd yet it winds, we know not why,\\nAnd turns as if for tree or stone.\\nPerhaps some lover trod the way\\nWith shaking knees and leaping heart,\\nAnd so it often runs astray\\nWith sinuous sweep or sudden start.\\nOr one, perchance, with clouded brain\\nFrom some unholy banquet reeled,\\nAnd since, our devious steps maintain\\nHis track across the trodden field.\\nNay, deem not thus, no earthborn will\\nCould ever trace a faultless line\\nOur truest steps are human still,\\nTo walk unswerving were divine\\nTruants from love, we dream of wrath\\nOh, rather let us trust the more\\nThrough all the wanderings of the path\\nWe still can see our Father s door", "height": "4116", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0128.jp2"}, "127": {"fulltext": "ROBINSON OF LEYDEN 111\\nROBINSON OF LEYDEN\\nHE sleeps not here in hope and prayer\\nHis wandering flock had gone before,\\nBut he, the shepherd, might not share\\nTheir sorrows on the wintry shore.\\nBefore the Speedwell s anchor swung,\\nEre yet the Mayflower s sail was spread,\\nWhile round his feet the Pilgrims clung,\\nThe pastor spake, and thus he said\\nMen, brethren, sisters, children dear\\nGod calls you hence from over sea\\nYe may not build by Haerlem Meer,\\nNor yet along the Zuyder-Zee.\\nYe go to bear the saving word\\nTo tribes unnamed and shores untrod\\nHeed well the lessons ye have heard\\nFrom those old teachers taught of God.\\nYet think not unto them was lent\\nAll light for all the coming days,\\nAnd heaven s eternal wisdom spent\\nIn making straight the ancient ways\\nThe living fountain overflows\\nFor every flock, for every lamb,\\nNor heeds, though angry creeds oppose\\nWith Luther s dike or Calvin s dam.", "height": "4100", "width": "2512", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0129.jp2"}, "128": {"fulltext": "112 ROBINSON OF LEYDEN\\nHe spake with lingering, long embrace,\\nWith tears of love and partings fond,\\nThey floated down the creeping Maas,\\nAlong the isle of Ysselmond.\\nThey passed the frowning towers of Briel,\\nThe Hook of Holland s shelf of sand,\\nAnd grated soon with lifting keel\\nThe sullen shores of Fatherland.\\nNo home for these too well they knew\\nThe mitred king behind the throne;\\nThe sails were set, the pennons flew,\\nAnd westward ho 1 for worlds unknown.\\nAnd these were they who gave us birth,\\nThe Pilgrims of the sunset wave,\\nWho won for us this virgin earth,\\nAnd freedom with the soil they gave.\\nThe pastor slumbers by the Rhine,\\nIn alien earth the exiles lie,\\nTheir nameless graves our holiest shrine,\\nHis words our noblest battle-cry\\nStill cry them, and the world shall hear,\\nYe dwellers by the storm-swept sea 1\\nYe have not built by Haerlem Meer,\\nNor on the land-locked Zuyder-Zee 1", "height": "4104", "width": "2588", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0130.jp2"}, "129": {"fulltext": "MY AVIARY 113\\nMY AVIARY\\nTHROUGH my north window, in the wintry\\nweather,\\nMy airy oriel on the river shore,\\nI watch the sea-fowl as they flock together\\nWhere late the boatman flashed his dripping oar.\\nThe gull, high floating, like a sloop unladen,\\nLets the loose water waft him as it will\\nThe duck, round-breasted as a rustic maiden,\\nPaddles and plunges, busy, busy still.\\nI see the solemn gulls in council sitting\\nOn some broad ice-floe pondering long and late,\\nWhile overhead the home-bound ducks are flitting,\\nAnd leave the tardy conclave in debate,\\nThose weighty questions in their breasts revolving\\nWhose deeper meaning science never learns,\\nTill at some reverend elder s look dissolving,\\nThe speechless senate silently adjourns.\\nBut when along the waves the shrill northeaster\\nShrieks through the laboring coaster s shrouds\\nBeware\\nThe pale bird, kindling like a Christmas feaster\\nWhen some wild chorus shakes the vinous air,\\nFlaps from the leaden wave in fierce rejoicing,\\nFeels heaven s dumb lightning thrill his torpid\\nnerves,", "height": "4116", "width": "2492", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0131.jp2"}, "130": {"fulltext": "114 MY AVIARY\\nNow on the blast his whistling plumage poising,\\nNow wheeling, whirling in fantastic curves.\\nSuch is our gull a gentleman of leisure,\\nLess fleshed than feathered bagged you 11 find\\nhim such\\nHis virtue silence his employment pleasure\\nNot bad to look at, and not good for much.\\nWhat of our duck He has some high-bred cous-\\nins,\\nHis Grace the Canvas-back, My Lord the\\nBrant,\\nAnas and A user, both served up by dozens,\\nAt Boston s Rocher, halfway to Nahant.\\nAs for himself, he seems alert and thriving,\\nGrubs up a living somehow what, who knows?\\nCrabs mussels weeds Look quick there s\\none just diving\\nFlop Splash his white breast glistens down\\nhe goes\\nAnd while he s under just about a minute\\nI take advantage of the fact to say\\nHis fishy carcase has no virtue in it\\nThe gunning idiot s worthless hire to pay.\\nHe knows you sportsmen from suburban\\nalleys,\\nStretched under seaweed in the treacherous punt\\nKnows every lazy, shiftless lout that sallies\\nForth to waste powder as he says, to hunt.", "height": "4116", "width": "2568", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0132.jp2"}, "131": {"fulltext": "MY AVIARY 115\\nI watch you with a patient satisfaction,\\nWell pleased to discount your predestined luck\\nThe float that figures in your sly transaction\\nWill carry back a goose, but not a duck.\\nShrewd is our bird not easy to outwit him\\nSharp is the outlook of those pin-head eyes\\nStill, he is mortal and a shot may hit him,\\nOne cannot always miss him if he tries.\\nLook there s a young one, dreaming not of\\ndanger\\nSees a flat log come floating down the stream\\nStares undismayed upon the harmless stranger\\nAh were all strangers harmless as they seem\\nHabet a leaden shower his breast has shattered\\nVainly he flutters, not again to rise\\nHis soft white plumes along the waves are scattered\\nHelpless the wing that braved the tempest lies.\\nHe sees his comrades high above him flying\\nTo seek their nests among the island reeds\\nStrong is their flight all lonely he is lying\\nWashed by the crimsoned water as he bleeds.\\nO Thou who carest for the falling sparrow,\\nCanst Thou the sinless sufferer s pang forget\\nOr is thy dread account-book s page so narrow\\nIts one long column scores thy creatures debt?\\nPoor gentle guest, by nature kindly cherished,\\nA world grows dark with thee in blinding death", "height": "4092", "width": "2516", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0133.jp2"}, "132": {"fulltext": "116 MY AVIARY\\nOne little gasp thy universe has perished,\\nWrecked by the idle thief who stole thy breath\\nIs this the whole sad story of creation,\\nLived by its breathing myriads o er and o er,\\nOne glimpse of day, then black annihilation,\\nA sunlit passage to a sunless shore\\nGive back our faith, ye mystery-solving lynxes\\nRobe us once more in heaven-aspiring creeds\\nHappier was dreaming Egypt with her sphinxes,\\nThe stony convent with its cross and beads\\nHow often gazing where a bird reposes,\\nRocked on the wavelets, drifting with the tide,\\nI lose myself in strange metempsychosis\\nAnd float a sea-fowl at a sea-fowl s side\\nFrom rain, hail, snow in feathery mantle muffled,\\nClear-eyed, strong-limbed, with keenest sense to\\nhear\\nMy mate soft murmuring, who, with plumes un-\\nruffled,\\nWhere er I wander still is nestling near\\nThe great blue hollow like a garment o er me\\nSpace all unmeasured, unrecorded time\\nWhile seen with inward eye moves on before me\\nThought s pictured train in wordless pantomime.\\nA voice recalls me. From my window turning\\nI find myself a plumeless biped still\\nNo beak, no claws, no sign of wings discerning,\\nIn fact with nothing bird-like but my quill.", "height": "4116", "width": "2576", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0134.jp2"}, "133": {"fulltext": "THE BOSTON TEA-PARTY 117\\nA BALLAD OF THE BOSTON TEA-PARTY\\nThe tax on tea, which was considered so odious and led\\nto the act on which A Ballad of the Boston Tea-Party is\\nfounded, was but a small matter, only twopence in the\\npound. But it involved a principle of taxation, to which\\nthe Colonies would not submit. Their objection was not to\\nthe amount, but to the claim. The East India Company,\\nhowever, sent out a number of tea-ships to different Ameri-\\ncan ports, three of them to Boston.\\nThe inhabitants tried to send them back, but in vain.\\nThe captains of the ships had consented, if permitted, to re-\\nturn with their cargoes to England, but the consignees re-\\nfused to discharge them from their obligations, the cus-\\ntom house to give them a clearance for their return, and the\\ngovernor to grant them a passport for going by the fort.\\nIt was easily seen that the tea would be gradually landed\\nfrom the ships lying so near the town, and that if landed it\\nwould be disposed of, and the purpose of establishing the\\nmonopoly and raising a revenue effected. To prevent the\\ndreaded consequence, a number of armed men, disguised\\nlike Indians, boarded the ships and threw their whole car-\\ngoes of tea into the dock. About seventeen persons boarded\\nthe ships in Boston harbor, and emptied three hundred and\\nforty-two chests of tea. Among these Indians was\\nMajor Thomas Melville, the same who suggested to me the\\npoem, The Last Leaf.\\nRead at a meeting of the Massachusetts Historical So-\\nciety in 1874.\\nNO never such a draught was poured\\nSince Hebe served with nectar\\nThe bright Olympians and their Lord,\\nHer over-kind protector,\\nSince Father Noah squeezed the grape\\nAnd took to such behaving", "height": "4116", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0135.jp2"}, "134": {"fulltext": "118 THE BOSTON TEA-PARTY\\nAs would have shamed our grandsire ape\\nBefore the days of shaving,\\nNo ne er was mingled such a draught\\nIn palace, hall, or arbor,\\nAs freemen brewed and tyrants quaffed\\nThat night in Boston Harbor\\nIt kept King George so long awake\\nHis brain at last got addled,\\nIt made the nerves of Britain shake,\\nWith sevenscore millions saddled\\nBefore that bitter cup was drained,\\nAmid the roar of cannon,\\nThe Western war-cloud s crimson stained\\nThe Thames, the Clyde, the Shannon\\nFull many a six-foot grenadier\\nThe flattened grass had measured,\\nAnd many a mother many a year\\nHer tearful memories treasured\\nFast spread the tempest s darkening pall,\\nThe mighty realms were troubled,\\nThe storm broke loose, but first of all\\nThe Boston teapot bubbled\\nAn evening party, only that,\\nNo formal invitation,\\nNo gold-laced coat, no stiff cravat,\\nNo feast in contemplation,\\nNo silk-robed dames, no fiddling band,\\nNo flowers, no songs, no dancing,\\nA tribe of red men, axe in hand,\\nBehold the guests advancing\\nHow fast the stragglers join the throng,\\nFrom stall and workshop gathered", "height": "4116", "width": "2572", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0136.jp2"}, "135": {"fulltext": "THE BOSTON TEA-PARTY 119\\nThe lively barber skips along\\nAnd leaves a chin half -lathered\\nThe smith has flung his hammer down,\\nThe horseshoe still is glowing\\nThe truant tapster at the Crown\\nHas left a beer-cask flowing\\nThe cooper s boys have dropped the adze,\\nAnd trot behind their master;\\nUp run the tarry ship-yard lads,\\nThe crowd is hurrying faster,\\nOut from the Millpond s purlieus gush\\nThe streams of white-faced millers,\\nAnd down their slippery alleys rush\\nThe lusty young Fort-Hillers\\nThe ropewalk lends its prentice crew,\\nThe tories seize the omen\\nAy, boys, you 11 soon have work to do\\nFor England s rebel foemen,\\n1 King Hancock, Adams, and their gang,\\nThat fire the mob with treason,\\nWhen these we shoot and those we hang\\nThe town will come to reason.\\nOn on to where the tea-ships ride\\nAnd now their ranks are forming,\\nA rush, and up the Dartmouth s side\\nThe Mohawk band is swarming\\nSee the fierce natives What a glimpse\\nOf paint and fur and feather,\\nAs all at once the full-grown imps\\nLight on the deck together\\nA scarf the pigtail s secret keeps,\\nA blanket hides the breeches,", "height": "4100", "width": "2552", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0137.jp2"}, "136": {"fulltext": "120 THE BOSTON TEA-PARTY\\nAnd out the cursed cargo leaps,\\nAnd overboard it pitches\\nO woman, at the evening board\\nSo gracious, sweet, and purring,\\nSo happy while the tea is poured,\\nSo blest while spoons are stirring,\\nWhat martyr can compare with thee,\\nThe mother, wife, or daughter,\\nThat night, instead of best Bohea,\\nCondemned to milk and water\\nAh, little dreams the quiet dame\\nWho plies with rock and spindle\\nThe patient flax, how great a flame\\nYon little spark shall kindle\\nThe lurid morning shall reveal\\nA fire no king can smother\\nWhere British flint and Boston steel\\nHave clashed against each other\\nOld charters shrivel in its track,\\nHis Worship s bench has crumbled,\\nIt climbs and clasps the union-jack,\\nIts blazoned pomp is humbled,\\nThe flags go down on land and sea\\nLike corn before the reapers\\nSo burned the fire that brewed the tea\\nThat Boston served her keepers\\nThe waves that wrought a century s wreck\\nHave rolled o er whig and tory\\nThe Mohawks on the Dartmouth s deck\\nStill live in song and story", "height": "4116", "width": "2568", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0138.jp2"}, "137": {"fulltext": "GRANDMOTHER S STORY 121\\nThe waters in the rebel bay-\\nHave kept the tea-leaf savor\\nOur old North-Enders in their spray\\nStill taste a Hyson flavor\\nAnd Freedom s teacup still o erflows\\nWith ever fresh libations,\\nTo cheat of slumber all her foes\\nAnd cheer the wakening nations I\\nGRANDMOTHER S STORY OF BUNKER-\\nHILL BATTLE\\nAS SHE SAW IT FROM THE BELFRY\\nThe story of Bunker Hill battle is told as literally in ac-\\ncordance with the best authorities as it would have been if\\nit had been written in prose instead of in verse. I have\\noften been asked what steeple it was from which the little\\ngroup I speak of looked upon the conflict. To this I an-\\nswer that I am not prepared to speak authoritatively, but\\nthat the reader may take his choice among all the steeples\\nstanding at that time in the northern part of the city.\\nChrist Church in Salem Street is the one I always think of,\\nbut I do not insist upon its claim. As to the personages\\nwho made up the small company that followed the old cor-\\nporal, it would be hard to identify them, but by ascertain-\\ning where the portrait by Copley is now to be found, some\\nlight may be thrown on their personality.\\nDaniel Malcolm s gravestone, splintered by British bul-\\nlets, may be seen in the Copp s Hill burial-ground.\\nfin IS like stirring living embers when, at eighty,\\nJ- one remembers\\nAll the achings and the quakings of the times\\nthat tried men s souls", "height": "4116", "width": "2508", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0139.jp2"}, "138": {"fulltext": "122 GRANDMOTHER S STORY\\nWhen I talk of Whig and Tory, when I tell the\\nRebel story,\\nTo you the words are ashes, but to me they re\\nburning coals.\\nI had heard the muskets rattle of the April run-\\nning battle\\nLord Percy s hunted soldiers, I can see their red\\ncoats still\\nBut a deadly chill comes o er me, as the day looms\\nup before me,\\nWhen a thousand men lay bleeding on the slopes\\nof Bunker s Hill.\\n*T was a peaceful summer s morning, when the\\nfirst thing gave us warning\\nWas the booming of the cannon from the river\\nand the shore\\nChild, says grandma, what s the matter, what\\nis all this noise and clatter\\nHave those scalping Indian devils come to murder\\nus once more\\nPoor old soul my sides were shaking in the midst\\nof all my quaking,\\nTo hear her talk of Indians when the guns began\\nto roar\\nShe had seen the burning village, and the slaugh-\\nter and the pillage,\\nWhen the Mohawks killed her father with their\\nbullets through his door.", "height": "4116", "width": "2568", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0140.jp2"}, "139": {"fulltext": "GRANDMOTHER S STORY 123\\nThen I said, Now, dear old granny, don t yon\\nfret and worry any,\\nFor I 11 soon come back and tell yon whether this\\nis work or play\\nThere can t be mischief in it, so I won t be gone a\\nminute\\nFor a minute then I started. I was gone the live-\\nlong day.\\nNo time for bodice-lacing or for looking-glass\\ngrimacing\\nDown my hair went as I hurried, tumbling half-\\nway to my heels\\nGod forbid your ever knowing, when there s blood\\naround her flowing,\\nHow the lonely, helpless daughter of a quiet\\nhousehold feels\\nIn the street I heard a thumping and I knew it\\nwas the stumping\\nOf the Corporal, our old neighbor, on that wooden\\nleg he wore,\\nWith a knot of women round him, it was lucky\\nI had found him,\\nSo I followed with the others, and the Corporal\\nmarched before.\\nThey were making for the steeple, the old soldier\\nand his people\\nThe pigeons circled round us as we climbed the\\ncreaking stair.", "height": "4092", "width": "2480", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0141.jp2"}, "140": {"fulltext": "124 GRANDMOTHER S STORY\\nJust across the narrow river oh, so close it made\\nme shiver\\nStood a fortress on the hill-top that but yesterday\\nwas bare.\\nNot slow our eyes to find it well we knew who\\nstood behind it,\\nThough the earthwork hid them from us, and the\\nstubborn walls were dumb\\nHere were sister, wife, and mother, looking wild\\nupon each other,\\nAnd their lips were white with terror as they said,\\nThe hour has come!\\nThe morning slowly wasted, not a morsel had we\\ntasted,\\nAnd our heads were almost splitting with the\\ncannons deafening thrill,\\nWhen a figure tall and stately round the rampart\\nstrode sedately\\nIt was Prescott, one since told me; he com-\\nmanded on the hill.\\nEvery woman s heart grew bigger when we saw\\nhis manly figure,\\nWith the banyan buckled round it, standing up so\\nstraight and tall\\nLike a gentleman of leisure who is strolling out\\nfor pleasure,\\nThrough the storm of shells and cannon-shot he\\nwalked around the wall.", "height": "4116", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0142.jp2"}, "141": {"fulltext": "GRANDMOTHER S STORY 125\\nAt eleven the streets were swarming, for the red-\\ncoats ranks were forming\\nAt noon in marching order they were moving to\\nthe piers\\nHow the bayonets gleamed and glistened, as we\\nlooked far down, and listened\\nTo the trampling and the drnm-beat of the belted\\ngrenadiers 1\\nAt length the men have started, with a cheer (it\\nseemed faint-hearted),\\nIn their scarlet regimentals, with their knapsacks\\non their backs,\\nAnd the reddening, rippling water, as after a sea-\\nfight s slaughter,\\nRound the barges gliding onward blushed like\\nblood along their tracks.\\nSo they crossed to the other border, and again they\\nformed in order\\nAnd the boats came back for soldiers, came for\\nsoldiers, soldiers still\\nThe time seemed everlasting to us women faint and\\nfasting,\\nAt last they re moving, marching, marching\\nproudly up the hill.\\nWe can see the bright steel glancing all along the\\nlines advancing,\\nNow the front rank fires a volley, they have\\nthrown away their shot", "height": "4104", "width": "2492", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0143.jp2"}, "142": {"fulltext": "126 GRANDMOTHERS STORY\\nFor behind their earthwork lying, all the Dalls\\nabove them flying,\\nOur people need not hurry so they wait and an-\\nswer not.\\nThen the Corporal, our old cripple (he would swear\\nsometimes and tipple),\\nHe had heard the Bullets whistle (in the old French\\nwar) before,\\nCalls out in words of jeering, just as if they all\\nwere hearing,\\nAnd his wooden leg thumps fiercely on the dusty\\nbelfry floor\\nOh fire away, ye villains, and earn King George s\\nshilling,\\nBut ye 11 waste a ton of powder afore a rebel\\nfalls\\nYou may bang the dirt and welcome, they re as\\nsafe as Dan l Malcolm\\nTen foot beneath the gravestone that you ve splin-\\ntered with your balls\\nIn the hush of expectation, in the awe and trepida-\\ntion\\nOf the dread approaching moment, we are well-\\nnigh breathless all\\nThough the rotten bars are failing on the rickety\\nbelfry railing,\\nWe are crowding up against them like the waves\\nagainst a wall.", "height": "4116", "width": "2568", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0144.jp2"}, "143": {"fulltext": "GRANDMOTHER S STORY 127\\nJust a glimpse (the air is clearer), they are nearer,\\nnearer, nearer,\\nWhen a flash a curling smoke-wreath then a\\ncrash the steeple shakes\\nThe deadly truce is ended the tempest s shroud\\nis rended\\nLike a morning mist it gathered, like a thunder-\\ncloud it breaks\\nOh the sight our eyes discover as the blue-black\\nsmoke blows over\\nThe red-coats stretched in windrows as a mower\\nrakes his hay\\nHere a scarlet heap is lying, there a headlong\\ncrowd is flying\\nLike a billow that has broken and is shivered into\\nspray.\\nThen we cried, The troops are routed they are\\nbeat it can t be doubted\\nGod be thanked, the fight is over Ah the\\ngrim old soldier s smile\\nTell us, tell us why you look so (we could\\nhardly speak, we shook so),\\nAre they beaten Are they beaten Are they\\nbeaten Wait a while.\\nOh the trembling and the terror for too soon we\\nsaw our error\\nThey are baffled, not defeated we have driven\\nthem back in vain", "height": "4096", "width": "2492", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0145.jp2"}, "144": {"fulltext": "128 GRANDMOTHERS STORY\\nAnd the columns that were scattered, round the\\ncolors that were tattered,\\nToward the sullen, silent fortress turn their belted\\nbreasts again.\\nAll at once, as we are gazing, lo the roofs of Charles-\\ntown blazing\\nThey have fired the harmless village in an hour it\\nwill be down\\nThe Lord in heaven confound them, rain his fire\\nand brimstone round them,\\nThe robbing, murdering red-coats, that would burn\\na peaceful town\\nThey are marching, stern and solemn we can see\\neach massive column\\nAs they near the naked earth-mound with the\\nslanting walls so steep.\\nHave our soldiers got faint-hearted, and in noise-\\nless haste departed\\nAre they panic-struck and helpless Are they\\npalsied or asleep\\nNow the walls they re almost under scarce a rod\\nthe foes asunder\\nNot a firelock flashed against them up the earth-\\nwork they will swarm\\nBut the words have scarce been spoken, when the\\nominous calm is broken,\\nAnd a bellowing crash has emptied all the ven-\\ngeance of the storm", "height": "4116", "width": "2552", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0146.jp2"}, "145": {"fulltext": "GRANDMOTHER S STORY 129\\nSo again, with murderous slaughter, pelted back-\\nwards to the water,\\nFly Pigot s running heroes and the frightened\\nbraves of Howe\\nAnd we shout, At last they re done for, it s their\\nbarges they have run for\\nThey are beaten, beaten, beaten and the battle s\\nover now\\nAnd we looked, poor timid creatures, on the rough\\nold soldier s features,\\nOur lips afraid to question, but he knew what we\\nwould ask\\nNot sure, he said keep quiet, once more, I\\nguess, they 11 try it\\nHere s damnation to the cut-throats then he\\nhanded me his flask,\\nSaying, Gal, you re looking shaky have a drop\\nof old Jamaiky\\nI m afeared there 11 be more trouble afore the job\\nis done\\nSo I took one scorching swallow dreadful faint I\\nfelt and hollow,\\nStanding there from early morning when the firing\\nwas begun.\\nAll through those hours of trial I had watched a\\ncalm clock dial,\\nAs the hands kept creeping, creeping they were\\ncreeping round to four,", "height": "4104", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0147.jp2"}, "146": {"fulltext": "130 GRANDMOTHER S STORY\\nWhen the old man said, They re forming with\\ntheir bagonets fixed for storming\\nIt s the death-grip that s a-coming, they will\\ntry the works once more.\\nWith brazen trumpets blaring, the flames behind\\nthem glaring,\\nThe deadly wall before them, in close arrayj they\\ncome\\nStill onward, upward toiling, like a dragon s fold\\nuncoiling,\\nLike the rattlesnake s shrill warning the reverber-\\nating drum\\nOver heaps all torn and gory shall I tell the fear-\\nful story,\\nHow they surged above the breastwork, as a sea\\nbreaks over a deck\\nHow, driven, yet scarce defeated, our worn-out men\\nretreated,\\nWith their powder-horns all emptied, like the\\nswimmers from a wreck\\nIt has all been told and painted as for me, they\\nsay I fainted,\\nAnd the wooden-legged old Corporal stumped with\\nme down the stair\\nWhen I woke from dreams affrighted the evening\\nlamps were lighted,\\nOn the floor a youth was lying his bleeding breast\\nwas bare.", "height": "4116", "width": "2568", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0148.jp2"}, "147": {"fulltext": "GRANDMOTHER S STORY 131\\nAnd I heard through all the flurry, Send for\\nWarren hurry hurry\\nTell him here s a soldier bleeding, and he 11 come\\nand dress his wound\\nAh, we knew not till the morrow told its tale of\\ndeath and sorrow,\\nHow the starlight found him stiffened on the dark\\nand bloody ground.\\nWho the youth was, what his name was, where the\\nplace from which he came was,\\nWho had brought him from the battle, and had\\nleft him at our door,\\nHe could not speak to tell us but t was one of\\nour brave fellows,\\nAs the homespun plainly showed us which the dy-\\ning soldier wore.\\nFor they all thought he was dying, as they gath-\\nered round him crying,\\nAnd they said, Oh, how they 11 miss him and,\\nWhat will his mother do\\nThen, his eyelids just unclosing like a child s that\\nhas been dozing,\\nHe faintly murmured, Mother and I saw\\nhis eyes were blue.\\nWhy, grandma, how you re winking 1 Ah, my\\nchild, it sets me thinking\\nOf a story not like this one. Well, he somehow\\nlived along", "height": "4100", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0149.jp2"}, "148": {"fulltext": "132 THE SCHOOL-BOY\\nSo we came to know each other, and I nursed him\\nlike a mother,\\nTill at last he stood before me, tall, and rosy-\\ncheeked, and strong.\\nAnd we sometimes walked together in the pleasant\\nsummer weather,\\nPlease to tell us what his name was Just your\\nown, my little dear,\\nThere s his picture Copley painted we became so\\nwell acquainted,\\nThat in short, that s why I m grandma, and you\\nchildren all are here\\nTHE SCHOOL-BOY\\nRead at the Centennial Celebration of the foundation of\\nPhillips Academy, Andover.\\n1778-1878\\nTHESE hallowed precincts, long to memory\\ndear,\\nSmile with fresh welcome as our feet draw near\\nWith softer gales the opening leaves are fanned,\\nWith fairer hues the kindling flowers expand,\\nThe rose-bush reddens with the blush of June,\\nThe groves are vocal with their minstrels tune,\\nThe mighty elm, beneath whose arching shade\\nThe wandering children of the forest strayed,\\nGreets the bright morning in its bridal dress,\\nAnd spreads its arms the gladsome dawn to bless.", "height": "4116", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0150.jp2"}, "149": {"fulltext": "THE SCHOOL-BOY 133\\nIs it an idle dream that nature shares\\nOur joys, our griefs, our pastimes, and our cares\\nIs there no summons when, at morning s call,\\nThe sable vestments of the darkness fall\\nDoes not meek evening s low-voiced Ave blend\\nWith the soft vesper as its notes ascend\\nIs there no whisper in the perfumed air\\nWhen the sweet bosom of the rose is bare\\nDoes not the sunshine call us to rejoice\\nIs there no meaning in the storm-cloud s voice\\nNo silent message when from midnight skies\\nHeaven looks upon us with its myriad eyes\\nOr shift the mirror say our dreams diffuse\\nO er life s pale landscape their celestial hues,\\nLend heaven the rainbow it has never known,\\nAnd robe the earth in glories not its own,\\nSing their own music in the summer breeze,\\nWith fresher foliage clothe the stately trees,\\nStain the June blossoms with a livelier dye\\nAnd spread a bluer azure on the sky,\\nBlest be the power that works its lawless will\\nAnd finds the weediest patch an Eden still\\nNo walls so fair as those our fancies build,\\nNo views so bright as those our visions gild\\nSo ran my lines, as pen and paper met,\\nThe truant goose-quill travelling like Planchette\\nToo ready servant, whose deceitful ways\\nFull many a slipshod line, alas betrays\\nHence of the rhyming thousand not a few\\nHave builded worse a great deal than they\\nknew.", "height": "4100", "width": "2584", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0151.jp2"}, "150": {"fulltext": "134 THE SCHOOL-BOY\\nWhat need of idle fancy to adorn\\nOur mother s birthplace on her birthday morn\\nHers are the blossoms of eternal spring,\\nFrom these green boughs her new-fledged birds\\ntake wing,\\nThese echoes hear their earliest carols sung,\\nIn this old nest the brood is ever young.\\nIf some tired wanderer, resting from his flight,\\nAmid the gay young choristers alight,\\nThese gather round him, mark his faded plumes\\nThat faintly still the far-off grove perfumes,\\nAnd listen, wondering if some feeble note\\nYet lingers, quavering in his weary throat\\nI, whose fresh voice yon red-faced temple knew,\\nWhat tune is left me, fit to sing to you\\nAsk not the grandeurs of a labored song,\\nBut let my easy couplets slide along\\nMuch could I tell you that you know too well\\nMuch I remember, but I will not tell\\nAge brings experience graybeards oft are wise,\\nBut oh how sharp a youngster s ears and eyes\\nMy cheek was bare of adolescent down\\nWhen first I sought the academic town\\nSlow rolls the coach along the dusty road,\\nBig with its filial and parental load\\nThe frequent hills, the lonely woods are past,\\nThe school-boy s chosen home is reached at last.\\nI see it now, the same unchanging spot,\\nThe swinging gate, the little garden plot,\\nThe narrow yard, the rock that made its floor,\\nThe flat, pale house, the knocker-garnished door,", "height": "4140", "width": "2552", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0152.jp2"}, "151": {"fulltext": "THE SCHOOL-BOY 135\\nThe small, trim parlor, neat, decorous, chill,\\nThe strange, new faces, kind, but grave and still\\nTwo, creased with age, or what I then called\\nage,\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nLife s volume open at its fiftieth page\\nOne, a shy maiden s, pallid, placid, sweet\\nAs the first snowdrop, which the sunbeams greet\\nOne, the last nursling s slight she was, and fair,\\nHer smooth white forehead warmed with auburn\\nhair\\nLast came the virgin Hymen long had spared,\\nWhose daily cares the grateful household shared,\\nStrong, patient, humble her substantial frame\\nStretched the chaste draperies I forbear to name.\\nBrave, but with effort, had the school-boy come\\nTo the cold comfort of a stranger s home\\nHow like a dagger to my sinking heart\\nCome the dry summons, It is time to part\\nGood-by Goo ood-by one fond maternal\\nkiss.\\nHomesick as death Was ever pang like\\nthis?\\nToo young as yet with willing feet to stray\\nFrom the tame fireside, glad to get away,\\nToo old to let my watery grief appear,\\nAnd what so bitter as a swallowed tear\\nOne figure still my vagrant thoughts pursue\\nFirst boy to greet me, Ariel, where are you\\nImp of all mischief, heaven alone knows how\\nYou learned it all, are you an angel now,\\nOr tottering gently down the slope of years,\\nYour face grown sober in the vale of tears", "height": "4116", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0153.jp2"}, "152": {"fulltext": "136 THE SCHOOL-BOY\\nForgive my freedom if you are breathing still\\nIf in a happier world, I know you will.\\nYou were a school-boy what beneath the sun\\nSo like a monkey I was also one.\\nStrange, sure enough, to see what curious shoots\\nThe nursery raises from the study s roots\\nIn those old days the very, very good\\nTook up more room a little than they should\\nSomething too much one s eyes encountered then\\nOf serious youth and funeral-vis aged men\\nThe solemn elders saw life s mournful half,\\nHeaven sent this boy, whose mission was to laugh,\\nDrollest of buffos, Nature s odd protest,\\nA catbird squealing in a blackbird s nest.\\nKind, faithful Nature While the sour-eyed\\nScot\\nHer cheerful smiles forbidden or forgot\\nTalks only of his preacher and his kirk,\\nHears five-hour sermons for his Sunday work,\\nPraying and fasting till his meagre face\\nGains its due length, the genuine sign of grace,\\nAn Ayrshire mother in the land of Knox\\nHer embryo poet in his cradle rocks\\nNature, long shivering in her dim eclipse,\\nSteals in a sunbeam to those baby lips\\nSo to its home her banished smile returns,\\nAnd Scotland sweetens with the song of Burns\\nThe morning came I reached the classic hall\\nA clock-face eyed me, staring from the wall\\nBeneath its hands a printed line I read\\nYouth is life s seed-time: so the clock-face\\nsaid:", "height": "4116", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0154.jp2"}, "153": {"fulltext": "THE SCHOOL-BOY 137\\nSome took its counsel, as the sequel showed,\\nSowed, their wild oats, and reaped as they had\\nsowed.\\nHow all comes back the upward slanting\\nfloor,\\nThe masters thrones that flank the central door,\\nThe long, outstretching alleys that divide\\nThe rows of desks that stand on either side,\\nThe staring boys, a face to every desk,\\nBright, dull, pale, blooming, common, picturesque.\\nGrave is the Master s look; his forehead wears\\nThick rows of wrinkles, prints of worrying cares\\nUneasy lie the heads of all that rule,\\nHis most of all whose kingdom is a school.\\nSupreme he sits before the awful frown\\nThat bends his brows the boldest eye goes down\\nNot more submissive Israel heard and saw\\nAt Sinai s foot the Giver of the Law.\\nLess stern he seems, who sits in equal state\\nOn the twin throne and shares the empire s weight\\nAround his lips the subtle life that plays\\nSteals quaintly forth in many a jesting phrase\\nA lightsome nature, not so hard to chafe,\\nPleasant when pleased rough-handled, not so\\nsafe;\\nSome tingling memories vaguely I recall,\\nBut to forgive him. God forgive us all 1\\nOne yet remains, whose well-remembered name\\nPleads in my grateful heart its tender claim\\nHis was the charm magnetic, the bright look\\nThat sheds its sunshine on the dreariest book", "height": "4108", "width": "2552", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0155.jp2"}, "154": {"fulltext": "138 THE SCHOOL-BOY\\nA loving soul to every task he brought\\nThat sweetly mingled with the lore he taught\\nSprung from a saintly race that never could\\nFrom youth to age be anything but good,\\nHis few brief years in holiest labors spent,\\nEarth lost too soon the treasure heaven had lent.\\nKindest of teachers, studious to divine\\nSome hint of promise in my earliest line,\\nThese faint and faltering words thou canst not\\nhear\\nThrob from a heart that holds thy memory dear.\\nAs to the traveller s eye the varied plain\\nShows through the window of the flying train,\\nA mingled landscape, rather felt than seen,\\nA gravelly bank, a sudden flash of green,\\nA tangled wood, a glittering stream that flows\\nThrough the cleft summit where the cliff once rose,\\nAll strangely blended in a hurried gleam,\\nRock, wood, waste, meadow, village, hillside,\\nstream,\\nSo, as we look behind us, life appears,\\nSeen through the vista of our bygone years.\\nYet in the dead past s shadow-filled domain,\\nSome vanished shapes the hues of life retain\\nUnbidden, oft, before our dreaming eyes\\nFrom the vague mists in memory s path they rise.\\nSo comes his blooming image to my view,\\nThe friend of joyous days when life was new,\\nHope yet untamed, the blood of youth unchilled,\\nNo blank arrear of promise unfulfilled,\\nLife s flower yet hidden in its sheltering fold,\\nIts pictured canvas yet to be unrolled,", "height": "4116", "width": "2612", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0156.jp2"}, "155": {"fulltext": "THE SCHOOL-BOY 139\\nHis the frank smile I vainly look to greet,\\nHis the warm grasp my clasping hand should\\nmeet\\nHow would our lips renew their school-boy talk,\\nOur feet retrace the old familiar walk\\nFor thee no more earth s cheerful morning shines\\nThrough the green fringes of the tented pines\\nAh me is heaven so far thou canst not hear,\\nOr is thy viewless spirit hovering near,\\nA fair young presence, bright with morning s glow,\\nThe fresh-cheeked boy of fifty years ago\\nYes, fifty years, with all their circling suns,\\nBehind them all my glance reverted runs\\nWhere now that time remote, its griefs, its joys,\\nWhere are its gray-haired men, its bright-haired\\nboys?\\nWhere is the patriarch time could hardly tire,\\nThe good old, wrinkled, immemorial squire\\n(An honest treasurer, like a black-plumed swan,\\nNot every day our eyes may look upon.)\\nWhere the tough champion who, with Calvin s\\nsword,\\nIn wordy conflicts battled for the Lord\\nWhere the grave scholar, lonely, calm, austere,\\nWhose voice like music charmed the listening ear,\\nWhose light rekindled, like the^morning star\\nStill shines upon us through the gates ajar\\nWhere the still, solemn, weary, sad-eyed man,\\nWhose care-worn face my wandering eyes would\\nscan,\\nHis features wasted in the lingering strife\\nWith the pale foe that drains the student s life", "height": "4112", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0157.jp2"}, "156": {"fulltext": "140 THE SCHOOL-BOY\\nWhere my old friend, the scholar, teacher, saint,\\nWhose creed, some hinted, showed a speck af taint\\nHe broached his own opinion, which is not\\nLightly to be forgiven or forgot\\nSome riddle s point, I scarce remember now,\\nHomo/-, perhaps, where they said homo-ou.\\n(If the unlettered greatly wish to know\\nWhere lies the difference betwixt oi and o,\\nThose of the curious who have time may search\\nAmong the stale conundrums of their church.)\\nBeneath his roof his peaceful life I shared,\\nAnd for his modes of faith I little cared,\\nI, taught to judge men s dogmas by their deeds,\\nLong ere the days of india-rubber creeds.\\nWhy should we look one common faith to find,\\nWhere one in every score is color-blind\\nIf here on earth they know not red from green,\\nWill they see better into things unseen\\nOnce more to time s old graveyard I return\\nAnd scrape the moss from memory s pictured urn.\\nWho, in these days when all things go by steam,\\nRecalls the stage-coach with its four-horse team?\\nIts sturdy driver, who remembers him?\\nOr the old landlord, saturnine and grim,\\nWho left our hill-top for a new abode\\nAnd reared his sign-post farther down the road\\nStill in the waters of the dark Shawshine\\nDo the young bathers splash and think they re\\nclean\\nDo pilgrims find their way to Indian Ridge,\\nOr journey onward to the far-off bridge,", "height": "4112", "width": "2684", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0158.jp2"}, "157": {"fulltext": "THE SCHOOL-BOY 141\\nAnd bring to younger ears the story back\\nOf the broad stream, the mighty Merrimac?\\nAre there still truant feet that stray beyond\\nThese circling bounds to Pomp s or Haggett s\\nPond,\\nOr where the legendary name recalls\\nThe forest s earlier tenant, Deerjump Falls\\nYes, every nook these youthful feet explore,\\nJust as our sires and grandsires did of yore\\nSo all life s opening paths, where nature led\\nTheir father s feet, the children s children tread.\\nPoll the round century s fivescore years away,\\nCall from our storied past that earliest day\\nWhen great Eliphalet (I can see him now,\\nBig name, big frame, big voice, and beetling\\nbrow),\\nThen young Eliphalet, ruled the rows of boys\\nIn homespun gray or old-world corduroys,\\nAnd save for fashion s whims, the benches show\\nThe selfsame youths, the very boys we know.\\nTime works strange marvels since I trod the\\ngreen\\nAnd swung the gates, what wonders I have seen\\nBut come what will, the sky itself may fall,\\nAs things of course the boy accepts them all.\\nThe prophet s chariot, drawn by steeds of flame, J\\nFor daily use our travelling millions claim\\nThe face we love a sunbeam makes our own\\nNo more the surgeon hears the sufferer s groan 5\\nWhat unwrit histories wrapped in darkness lay\\nTill shovelling Schliemann bared them to the\\nday!", "height": "4100", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0159.jp2"}, "158": {"fulltext": "142 THE SCHOOL-BOY\\nYour Richelieu says, and says it well, my lord,\\nThe pen is (sometimes) mightier than the sword\\nGreat is the goosequill, say we all Amen\\nSometimes the spade is mightier than the pen\\nIt shows where Babel s terraced walls were raised,\\nThe slabs that cracked when Mmrod s palace\\nblazed,\\nUnearths Mycenae, rediscovers Troy,\\nCalmly he listens, that immortal boy.\\nA new Prometheus tips our wands with fire,\\nA mightier Orpheus strains the whispering wire,\\nWhose lightning thrills the lazy winds outrun\\nAnd hold the hours as Joshua stayed the sun,\\nSo swift, in truth, we hardly find a place\\nFor those dim fictions known as time and space.\\nStill a new miracle each year supplies,\\nSee at his work the chemist of the skies,\\nWho questions Sirius in his tortured rays\\nAnd steals the secret of the solar blaze\\nHush 1 while the window-rattling bugles play\\nThe nation s airs a hundred miles away\\nThat wicked phonograph hark how it swears\\nTurn it again and make it say its prayers\\nAnd was it true, then, what the story said\\nOf Oxford s friar and his brazen head\\nWhile wondering Science stands, herself per-\\nplexed\\nAt each day s miracle, and asks What next\\nThe immortal boy, the coming heir of all,\\nSprings from his desk to urge the flying ball,\\nCleaves with his bending oar the glassy waves,\\nWith sinewy arm the dashing current braves,", "height": "4116", "width": "2692", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0160.jp2"}, "159": {"fulltext": "THE SCHOOL-BOY 143\\nThe same bright creature in these haunts of ours\\nThat Eton shadowed with her antique towers/\\nBoy Where is he the long-limbed youth in-\\nquires,\\nWhom his rough chin with manly pride inspires\\nAh, when the ruddy cheek no longer glows,\\nWhen the bright hair is white as winter snows,\\nWhen the dim eye has lost its lambent flame,\\nSweet to his ear will be his school-boy name\\nNor think the difference mighty as it seems\\nBetween life s morning and its evening dreams\\nFourscore, like twenty, has its tasks and toys\\nIn earth s wide school-house all are girls and boys.\\nBrothers, forgive my wayward fancy. Who\\nCan guess beforehand what his pen will do\\nToo light my strain for listeners such as these,\\nWhom graver thoughts and soberer speech shall\\nplease.\\nIs he not here whose breath of holy song\\nHas raised the downcast eyes of Faith so long\\nAre they not here, the strangers in your gates,\\nFor whom the wearied ear impatient waits,\\nThe large-brained scholars whom their toils re-\\nlease,\\nThe bannered heralds of the Prince of Peace\\nSuch was the gentle friend whose youth un-\\nblamed\\nIn years long past our student-benches claimed\\nWhose name, illumined on the sacred page,", "height": "4092", "width": "2584", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0161.jp2"}, "160": {"fulltext": "144 THE SCHOOL-BOY\\nLives in the labors of his riper age\\nSuch he whose record time s destroying march\\nLeaves uneffaced on Zion s springing arch\\nNot to the scanty phrase of measured song,\\nCramped in its fetters, names like these belong\\nOne ray they lend to gild my slender line,\\nTheir praise I leave to sweeter lips than mine.\\nHomes of our sires, where Learning s temple\\nrose,\\nWhile yet they struggled with their banded foes,\\nAs in the West thy century s sun descends,\\nOne parting gleam its dying radiance lends.\\nDarker and deeper though the shadows fall\\nFrom the gray towers on Doubting Castle s wall,\\nThough Pope and Pagan re-array their hosts,\\nAnd her new armor youthful Science boasts,\\nTruth, for whose altar rose this holy shrine,\\nShall fly for refuge to these bowers of thine\\nNo past shall chain her with its rusted vow,\\nNo Jew s phylactery bind her Christian brow,\\nBut Faith shall smile to find her sister free,\\nAnd nobler manhood draw its life from thee.\\nLong as the arching skies above thee spread,\\nAs on thy groves the dews of heaven are shed,\\nWith currents widening still from year to year,\\nAnd deepening channels, calm, untroubled, clear,\\nFlow the twin streamlets from thy sacred hill\\nPieria s fount and Siloam s shaded rill", "height": "4116", "width": "2700", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0162.jp2"}, "161": {"fulltext": "AT THE SATURDAY CLUB 145\\nAT THE SATURDAY CLUB\\nAbout the time when these papers [The Autocrat] were\\npublished, the Saturday Club was founded, or, rather,\\nfound itself in existence, without any organization, almost\\nwithout parentage. It was natural enough that such men\\nas Emerson, Longfellow, Agassiz, Peirce, with Hawthorne,\\nMotley, Sumner, when within reach, and others who would\\nbe good company for them, should meet and dine together\\nonce in a while, as they did, in point of fact, every month,\\nand as some who are still living, with other and newer\\nmembers, still meet and dine. If some of them had not ad-\\nmired each other they would have been exceptions in the\\nworld of letters and science. The club deserves being remem-\\nbered for having no constitution or by-laws, for making\\nno speeches, reading no papers, observing no ceremonies,\\ncoming and going at will without remark, and acting out,\\nthough it did not proclaim the motto, Shall I not take\\nmine ease in mine inn There was and is nothing of the\\nBohemian element about this club, but it has had many\\ngood times and not a little good talking.\\nTHIS is our place of meeting opposite\\nThat towered and pillared building look at\\nit;\\nKing s Chapel in the Second George s day,\\nRebellion stole its regal name away,\\nStone Chapel sounded better but at last\\nThe poisoned name of our provincial past\\nHad lost its ancient venom then once more\\nStone Chapel was King s Chapel as before.\\n(So let rechristened North Street, when it can,\\nBring back the days of Marlborough and Queen\\nAnne 1", "height": "4108", "width": "2572", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0163.jp2"}, "162": {"fulltext": "146 AT THE SATURDAY CLUB\\nNext the old church your wandering eye will\\nmeet\\nA granite pile that stares upon the street\\nOur civic temple slanderous tongues have said\\nIts shape was modelled from St. Botolph s head,\\nLofty, but narrow jealous passers-by\\nSay Boston always held her head too high.\\nTurn half-way round, and let your look survey\\nThe white f acade, that gleams across the way,\\nThe many-windowed building, tall and wide,\\nThe palace-inn that shows its northern side\\nIn grateful shadow when the sunbeams beat\\nThe granite wall in summer s scorching heat.\\nThis is the place whether its name you spell\\nTavern, or caravansera, or hotel.\\nWould I could steal its echoes you should find\\nSuch store of vanished pleasures brought to mind\\nSuch feasts the laughs of many a jocund hour\\nThat shook the mortar from King George s tower\\nSuch guests What famous names its record\\nboasts,\\nWhose owners wander in the mob of ghosts\\nSuch stories Every beam and plank is filled\\nWith juicy wit the joyous talkers spilled,\\nBeady to ooze, as once the mountain pine\\nThe floors are laid with oozed its turpentine\\nA month had flitted since The Club had met\\nThe day came round I found the table set,\\nThe waiters lounging round the marble stairs,\\nEmpty as yet the double row of chairs.\\nI was a full half hour before the rest,\\nAlone, the banquet-chamber s single guest.", "height": "4116", "width": "2688", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0164.jp2"}, "163": {"fulltext": "AT THE SATURDAY CLUB 147\\nSo from the table s side a chair I took,\\nAnd having neither company nor book\\nTo keep me waking, by degrees there crept\\nA torpor over me, in short, I slept.\\nLoosed from its chain, along the wreck-strown\\ntrack\\nOf the dead years my soul goes travelling back\\nMy ghosts take on their robes of flesh it seems\\nDreaming is life nay, life less life than dreams,\\nSo real are the shapes that meet my eyes.\\nThey bring no sense of wonder, no surprise,\\nNo hint of other than an earth-born source\\nAll seems plain daylight, everything of course.\\nHow dim the colors are, how poor and faint\\nThis palette of weak words with which I paint\\nHere sit my friends if I could fix them so\\nAs to my eyes they seem, my page would glow\\nLike a queen s missal, warm as if the brush\\nOf Titian or Velasquez brought the flush\\nOf life into their features. Ay de mi\\nIf syllables were pigments, you should see\\nSuch breathing portraitures as never man\\nFound in the Pitti or the Vatican.\\nHere sits our Poet, Laureate, if you will.\\nLong has he worn the wreath, and wears it still.\\nDead f Nay, not so and yet they say his bust\\nLooks down on marbles covering royal dust,\\nKings by the Grace of God, or Nature s grace\\nDead No Alive I see him in his place,\\nFull featured, with the bloom that heaven de-\\nnies\\nHer children, pinched by cold New England skies,", "height": "4108", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0165.jp2"}, "164": {"fulltext": "148 AT THE SATURDAY CLUB\\nToo often, while the nursery s happier few\\nWin from a summer cloud its roseate hue.\\nKind, soft-voiced, gentle, in his eye there shines\\nThe ray serene that filled Evangeline s.\\nModest he seems, not shy content to wait\\nAmid the noisy clamor of debate\\nThe looked-f or moment when a peaceful word\\nSmooths the rough ripples louder tongues have\\nstirred.\\nIn every tone I mark his tender grace\\nAnd all his poems hinted in his face\\nWhat tranquil joy his friendly presence gives\\nHow could I think him dead He lives He\\nlives\\nThere, at the table s further end I see\\nIn his old place our Poet s vis-a-vis,\\nThe great Professor, strong, broad-shouldered,\\nsquare,\\nIn life s rich noontide, joyous, debonair.\\nHis social hour no leaden care alloys,\\nHis laugh rings loud and mirthful as a boy s,\\nThat lusty laugh the Puritan forgot,\\nWhat ear has heard it and remembers not\\nHow often, halting at some wide crevasse\\nAmid the windings of his Alpine pass,\\nHigh up the cliffs, the climbing mountaineer,\\nListening the f ar-off avalanche to hear,\\nSilent, and leaning on his steel-shod staff,\\nHas heard that cheery voice, that ringing laugh,\\nFrom the rude cabin whose nomadic walls\\nCreep with the moving glacier as it crawls", "height": "4116", "width": "2688", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0166.jp2"}, "165": {"fulltext": "AT THE SATURDAY CLUB 149\\nHew does vast Nature lead her living train\\nIn ordered sequence through that spacious brain,\\nAs in the primal hour when Adam named\\nThe new-born tribes that young creation claimed\\nHow will her realm be darkened, losing thee,\\nHer darling, whom we call our Agassiz\\nBut who is he whose massive frame belies\\nThe maiden shyness of his downcast eyes\\nWho broods in silence till, by questions pressed,\\nSome answer struggles from his laboring breast\\nAn artist Nature meant to dwell apart,\\nLocked in his studio with a human heart,\\nTracking its caverned passions to their lair,\\nAnd all its throbbing mysteries laying bare.\\nCount it no marvel that he broods alone\\nOver the heart he studies, t is his own\\nSo in his page, whatever shape it wear,\\nThe Essex wizard s shadowed self is there,\\nThe great Romancer, hid beneath his veil\\nLike the stern preacher of his sombre tale\\nVirile in strength, yet bashful as a girl,\\nProuder than Hester, sensitive as Pearl.\\nFrom his mild throng of worshippers released,\\nOur Concord Delphi sends its chosen priest,\\nProphet or poet, mystic, sage, or seer,\\nBy every title always welcome here.\\nWhy that ethereal spirit s frame describe\\nYou know the race-marks of the Brahmin tribe,\\nThe spare, slight form, the sloping shoulder s\\ndroop,\\nThe calm, scholastic mien, the clerkly stoop,", "height": "4108", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0167.jp2"}, "166": {"fulltext": "150 AT THE SATURDAY CLUB\\nThe lines of thought the sharpened features wear,\\nCarved by the edge of keen New England air.\\nList! for he speaks! As when a king would\\nchoose\\nThe jewels for his bride, he might refuse\\nThis diamond for its flaw, find that less bright\\nThan those, its fellows, and a pearl less white\\nThan fits her snowy neck, and yet at last,\\nThe fairest gems are chosen, and made fast\\nIn golden fetters so, with light delays\\nHe seeks the fittest word to fill his phrase\\nNor vain nor idle his fastidious quest,\\nHis chosen word is sure to prove the best.\\nWhere in the realm of thought, whose air is song,\\nDoes he, the Buddha of the West, belong\\nHe seems a winged Franklin, sweetly wise,\\nBorn to unlock the secrets of the skies\\nAnd which the nobler calling, if t is fair\\nTerrestrial with celestial to compare,\\nTo guide the storm-cloud s elemental flame,\\nOr walk the chambers whence the lightning came,\\nAmidst the sources of its subtile fire,\\nAnd steal their effluence for his lips and lyre\\nIf lost at times in vague aerial flights,\\nNone treads with firmer footstep when he lights\\nA soaring nature, ballasted with sense,\\nWisdom without her wrinkles or pretence,\\nIn every Bible he has faith to read,\\nAnd every altar helps to shape his creed.\\nAsk you what name this prisoned spirit bears\\nWhile with ourselves this fleeting breath it shares\\nTill angels greet him with a sweeter one\\nIn heaven, on earth we call him Emerson.", "height": "4108", "width": "2704", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0168.jp2"}, "167": {"fulltext": "THE IRON GATE 151\\nI start I wake the vision is withdrawn\\nIts figures fading like the stars at dawn\\nCrossed from the roll of life their cherished names,\\nAnd memory s pictures fading in their frames\\nYet life is lovelier for these transient gleams\\nOf buried friendships blest is he who dreams\\nTHE IRON GATE\\n[Read at the Breakfast given in honor of Dr. Holmes s\\nSeventieth Birthday by the publishers of the Atlantic\\nMonthly, Boston, December 3, 1879.]\\nWHERE is this patriarch you are kindly\\ngreeting\\nNot unfamiliar to my ear his name,\\nNor yet unknown to many a joyous meeting\\nIn days long vanished, is he still the same,\\nOr changed by years, forgotten and forgetting,\\nDull-eared, dim-sighted, slow of speech and\\nthought,\\nStill o er the sad, degenerate present fretting,\\nWhere all goes wrong, and nothing as it ought\\nOld age, the graybeard Well, indeed, I know\\nhim,\\nShrunk, tottering, bent, of aches and ills the\\nprey;\\nIn sermon, story, fable, picture, poem,\\nOft have I met him from my earliest day", "height": "4104", "width": "2572", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0169.jp2"}, "168": {"fulltext": "152 THE IRON GATE\\nIn my old iEsop, toiling with his bundle,\\nHis load of sticks, politely asking Death,\\nWho comes when called for would he lug or\\ntrundle\\nHis fagot for him he was scant of breath.\\nAnd sad Ecclesiastes, or the Preacher,\\nHas he not stamped the image on my soul,\\nIn that last chapter, where the worn-out Teacher\\nSighs o er the loosened cord, the broken bowl\\nYes, long, indeed, I ve known him at a distance,\\nAnd now my lifted door-latch shows him here\\nI take his shrivelled hand without resistance,\\nAnd find him smiling as his step draws near.\\nWhat though of gilded baubles he bereaves us,\\nDear to the heart of youth, to manhood s prime\\nThink of the calm he brings, the wealth he leaves\\nus,\\nThe hoarded spoils, the legacies of time I\\nAltars once flaming, still with incense fragrant,\\nPassion s uneasy nurslings rocked asleep\\nHope s anchor faster, wild desire less vagrant,\\nLife s flow less noisy, but the stream how deep\\nStill as the silver cord gets worn and slender,\\nIts lightened task-work tugs wi lessening\\nstrain,\\nHands get more helpful, voices, grown more tender,\\nSoothe with their softened tones the slumberous\\nbrain.", "height": "4116", "width": "2552", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0170.jp2"}, "169": {"fulltext": "THE IRON GATE 153\\nYouth longs and manhood strives, but age remem-\\nbers,\\nSits by the raked-up ashes of the past,\\nSpreads its thin hands above the whitening embers\\nThat warm its creeping life-blood till the last.\\nDear to its heart is every loving token\\nThat comes unbidden ere its pulse grows cold,\\nEre the last lingering ties of life are broken,\\nIts labors ended and its story told.\\nAh, while around us rosy youth rejoices,\\nFor us the sorrow-laden breezes sigh,\\nAnd through the chorus of its jocund voices\\nThrobs the sharp note of misery s hopeless cry.\\nAs on the gauzy wings of fancy flying\\nFrom some far orb I track our watery sphere,\\nHome of the struggling, suffering, doubting, dying\\nThe silvered globule seems a glistening tear.\\nBut Nature lends her mirror of illusion\\nTo win from saddening scenes our age-dimmed\\neyes,\\nAnd m.sty day-dreams blend in sweet confusion\\nThe wintry landscape and the summer skies.\\nSo when the iron portal shuts behind us,\\nAnd life forgets us in its noise and whirl,\\nVisions that shunned the glaring noonday find us,\\nAnd glimmering starlight shows the gates of\\npearl.", "height": "4104", "width": "2520", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0171.jp2"}, "170": {"fulltext": "154 THE IRON GATE\\nI come not here your morning hour to sadden,\\nA limping pilgrim, leaning on his staff,\\nI, who have never deemed it sin to gladden\\nThis vale of sorrows with a wholesome laugh.\\nIf word of mine another s gloom has brightened,\\nThrough my dumb lips the heaven-sent message\\ncame;\\nIf hand of mine another s task has lightened,\\nIt felt the guidance that it dares not claim.\\nBut, O my gentle sisters, O my brothers,\\nThese thick-sown snow-flakes hint of toil s re-\\nlease\\nThese feebler pulses bid me leave to others\\nThe tasks once welcome evening asks for peace.\\nTime claims his tribute silence now is golden\\nLet me not vex the too long suffering lyre\\nThough to your love untiring still beholden,\\nThe curfew tells me cover up the fire.\\nAnd now with grateful smile and accents cheerful,\\nAnd warmer heart than look or word can tell,\\nIn simplest phrase these traitorous eyes are\\ntearful\\nThanks, Brothers, Sisters, Children, and\\nfarewell", "height": "4116", "width": "2592", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0172.jp2"}, "171": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4100", "width": "2544", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0173.jp2"}, "172": {"fulltext": "ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED\\nBY H. O. HOUGHTON AND CO.\\n(gtfte ffitetff be ffire g\\nCAMBRIDGE, MASS., U. S. A.", "height": "4116", "width": "2552", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0174.jp2"}, "173": {"fulltext": "fc\u00c2\u00ab\\nHENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW\\nEvangeline A Tale of Acadie. With In-\\ntroduction and Notes.\\nJOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER\\nSNOW-BOUND, AND OTHER AUTOBIOGRAPHIC\\nPoems. With Introduction and Notes.\\nOLIVER WENDELL HOLMES\\nThe One Hoss Shay, The Chambered Nau-\\ntilus, and Other Poems, Gay and Grave.\\nWith an Introduction.\\nJAMES RUSSELL LOWELL\\nThe Vision of Sir Launfal, A Fable for\\nCritics, and the Commemoration Ode.\\nWith Introduction and Notes.\\nNATHANIEL HAWTHORNE\\nLegends of the Province House, and\\nOther Twice-Told Tales. With an Intro-\\nduction.\\nEach volume has a photogravure frontispiece.\\nPRICE, 50 CENTS EACH\\nOthers to follow.", "height": "4096", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0175.jp2"}, "174": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4116", "width": "2552", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0176.jp2"}, "175": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4092", "width": "2544", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0177.jp2"}, "176": {"fulltext": "MAY 28 1900\\nDeacidified using the Bookkeeper process.\\nNeutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide\\nTreatment Date: Sept. 2009\\nPreservationTechnologies\\nA WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION\\n111 Thomson Park Drive\\nCranberry Township, PA 16066\\n(724)779-2111", "height": "4177", "width": "2525", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0178.jp2"}, "177": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4092", "width": "2544", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0179.jp2"}, "178": {"fulltext": "LIBRARY OF CONGRESS\\n012 074 526 8\\nHHH1\\nshBSk\\naflsS\\nt\u00c2\u00a3fc8ta3E2", "height": "4308", "width": "2642", "jp2-path": "onehossshaychamb00holm_0180.jp2"}}