{"1": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3487", "width": "2285", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0001.jp2"}, "2": {"fulltext": "LIBRARY OF CONGRESS.\\nChap.:..r Copyright No.\\nShelf...i_M^\\nUNITED STATES OF AMERICA.", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0002.jp2"}, "3": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3393", "width": "2124", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0003.jp2"}, "4": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0004.jp2"}, "5": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3393", "width": "2124", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0005.jp2"}, "6": {"fulltext": "OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0006.jp2"}, "7": {"fulltext": "THE EARLY POEMS\\nOF\\nOliver Wendell Holmes\\nWITH A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH\\nBy henry KETCHAM\\nNEW YORK\\nA. L. BURT, PUBLISHER\\n^Bmtmmmmwmmmm", "height": "3393", "width": "2124", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0009.jp2"}, "8": {"fulltext": "64428\\n11\\n366\\nLibrary of Con..iT-\u00c2\u00ab\u00c2\u00abs\\nTwi CfpFs Received\\nJUN -il 1900\\nCopyr.gnt \u00c2\u00abnriy\\n/V62...\\nstcoNO copy.\\n0\u00c2\u00abliv\u00c2\u00abred to\\nORDER DIVISION,\\nJUN 29 1900\\n^6\\nCopyright, 1900, by A. L. Burt.\\nBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\nBY\\nHENRY KETCHAM,\\nHolmes Poemf.", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0010.jp2"}, "9": {"fulltext": "THE AUTHOR TO THE PUBLISHEES.\\nI THANK you for the pains you have taken to\\nbring together the poems noAV added to this collec-\\ntion one of them having been accidentally omitted\\nand the existence of the others forgotten. So many\\nproductions which bear the plain marks of imma-\\nturity and inexperience have been allowed to remain,\\nbecause they were in the earlier editions, that a few\\noccasional and careless stanzas may be added to their\\ncompany without any apology. I have no doubt\\nyou are right in thinking that there is no harm in\\nallowing a few crudities to keep their place among\\nthe rest for, as you suggest, the readers of a book\\nare of various ages and tastes, and what sounds\\naltogether schoolboy -like to the author may be very\\nauthor-like to the schoolboy. Some of the more\\nquestionable extravagances to be found in the earlier\\nportion of the volume hav^e, as I learn, pleased a\\ngood many young people let ns call these, and all\\nthe others that we have outgrown, Jtiveiiile Poems^\\nbut keep them, lest some of the smaller sort that\\nwere, or are, or are to be, should lament their ab-\\nsence. I thought of mentioning the date at Tvhich\\nthe several poems were written, which would explain\\nsome of their differences but the reader can judge\\nthem nearly enough, perhaps without this assistance.\\nv", "height": "3393", "width": "2124", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0011.jp2"}, "10": {"fulltext": "Vi THE AUTHOR TO THE PUBLISHERS.\\nTo save a question that is sometimes put, it is\\nproper to say that in naming two of the poems\\nafter two of the Muses, nothing more was intended\\nthan a suggestion of their general character and aim.\\nIn a former note of mine (which you printed as a kind\\nof preface to the last edition), I made certain ex-\\nplanations which I thought might be needed but as\\nnobody seems to have misinterpreted anything, we\\nwill trust our book hereafter to itself, not doubting\\nthat whatever is good in it will redeem and justify\\nthe rest.\\nBoston, January 13, 1849.", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0012.jp2"}, "11": {"fulltext": "CONTENTS.\\nBiographical Sketch xi\\nPoetry A Metrical Essay 1\\nCambridge Churchyard 12\\nOld Ironsides 20\\nLYRICS.\\nThe Last Reader 35\\nOur Yankee Girls 37\\nLa Grisette 39\\nAn Evening Thought 41\\nA Souvenir 43\\nQui vive 45\\nThe Wasp and the Hornet 47\\nFrom a Bachelor s Private Journal, 48\\nStanzas 50\\nThe Philosopher to his Love 51\\nL inconnue 53\\nThe Star and the Water Lily 54\\nIllustration of a Picture 56\\nThe Dying Seneca 58\\nA Portrait 59\\nA Roman Aqueduct 60\\nThe Last Prophecy of Cassandra 62\\nTo a Caged Lion 64\\nTo my Companions 66\\nThe Last Leaf 68\\nTo a Blank Sheet of Paper 70\\nvii", "height": "3393", "width": "2124", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0013.jp2"}, "12": {"fulltext": "viii CONTENTS.\\nTo an Insect 72\\nThe Dilemma 74\\nMy Aunt 76\\nThe Toadstool 78\\nThe Meeting of the Dryads 80\\nThe Mysterious Visitor 83\\nThe Spectre Pig 87\\nLines by a Clerk 92\\nEeflections of a Proud Pedestrian 94\\nThe Poet s Lot 95\\nDaily Trials 97\\nEvening. By a Tailor 99\\nThe Dorchester Giant 101\\nTo the Portrait of A Gentleman 104\\nTo the Portrait of A Lady 107\\nThe Comet 109\\nA Noontide Lyric 112\\nThe Ballad of the Oysterman 114\\nThe Music-grinders 116\\nThe Treadmill Song 119\\nThe September Gale 121\\nThe Height of the Ridiculous 124\\nThe Hot Season 126\\nPOEMS ADDED SINCE THE FIRST EDITION.\\nDeparted Daj s 131\\nThe Steamboat 132\\nThe Parting Word. 135\\nSong 138\\nLines 140\\nVerses for After-dinner 143\\nSong 147\\nThe Only Daughter 149\\nLexington 152\\nThe Island Hunting Song 155\\nQuestions and Answers 157", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0014.jp2"}, "13": {"fulltext": "CONTENTS. ix\\nSong 158\\nTerpsichore 161\\nUrania A Rhymed Lesson 170\\nThe Pilgrim s Vision 199\\nA Modest Request 204\\nNux Postcoenatica 213\\nOn Lending a Punch-bowl 219\\nThe Stethoscope Song 223\\nExtracts from a Medical Poem 227\\nA Song of Other Days 230\\nA Sentiment 233\\nTo an English Friend 234\\nThe Ploughman 235\\nPittsfield Cemetery 238\\nAstraea 243", "height": "3393", "width": "2124", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0015.jp2"}, "14": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0016.jp2"}, "15": {"fulltext": "BIOCxRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\nOne of the most marked characteristics of Oliver\\nWendell Holmes was his geniality, his comradeship.\\nWhile he was in college he wrote, I am acquainted\\nwith a great many different fellows who do not\\nspeak to each other. Still I find pleasant com-\\npanions and a few good friends among these jarring\\nelements. These words are suggestive of much of\\nhis character through life. He had unusual power\\nin drawing men to him, and therefore to one an-\\nother, and in eliciting from them, or else creating in\\nthem, an abundance of good humor. That remark-\\nable constellation of literary stars which brightened\\nBoston and Cambridge, and indeed the United\\nStates, during many decades of this present century,\\ncan hardly be said to have been held together by\\nany one man and yet, if one was more influential\\nthan the others in this, that one was unquestionably\\nHolmes. Alwa3^s witty and humorous, frequently\\npathetic, he had the power of fascination. He\\nreadily took men into his confidence, and they\\nxi", "height": "3393", "width": "2124", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0017.jp2"}, "16": {"fulltext": "xii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\nnaturally gave him theirs in return. This trait\\ncomes out decidedly in his writing as well as in his\\npersonal converse. Such chatty papers as the series\\nof The Breakfast Table, leave in the reader a sense\\nof personal acquaintance and confidential fellow-\\nship with the author. His personal influence gave\\nan additional charm to all who were favored with\\nhis acquaintance.\\nThe facts of his life are few. He was born in\\nCambridge in 1809, the year made illustrious by the\\nbirth of Lincoln, Gladstone, Darwin, and Tenny-\\nson. Except for two trips to Europe, one in early\\nlife and the other in old age if so buoyant a spirit\\ncould ever be called old he spent his life almost\\nwithin sight of the State House in Boston.\\nHe was graduated from Harvard College in 1829.\\nSeveral famous men were in his class. Indeed it was\\nconsidered a notable class. But the classmate who\\nis to-day the best known was S. F. Smith, author\\nof My country His of thee. Even while in college\\nHolmes developed poetical abilities of no mean\\norder, but it never seems to have occurred to him\\nthat he was fitted for a literary career. He was\\nbarely twenty-one years of age when he wrote Old\\nIronsides. These lines were reprinted far and wide\\nin the newspapers of the country. In Washington\\ncity they w^ere printed on handbills and circulated", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0018.jp2"}, "17": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xiii\\nthrough the streets. It is not too much to say that\\nthey stirred the nation. They quickly accomplished\\ntheir object and the frigate Constitution was saved\\nfrom destruction. The youthful author became\\ninstantly famous. And yet he did not suspect that\\nhe was suited to a literary career.\\nAfter graduation he studied law, but at the end\\nof a year gave it up and turned his attention to\\nmedicine. This proved congenial to him. It roused\\nhis enthusiasm, and soon we find him in Paris study-\\ning with zeal and cherishing the very highest ambi-\\ntions for excellence in his profession. Having suc-\\ncessfully completed his studies he returned home\\nthoroughly equipped for the practice of his pro-\\nfession.\\nHe did not, however, leap into sudden fame, nor\\neven into that measure of success to which his\\npreparation entitled him. Indeed, he never had\\nmore than a moderate practice. When a young doc-\\ntor playfully remarks, Small fevers gratefully re-\\nceived, men will laugh at the joke, but the aver-\\nage citizen prefers a more solemn doctor for his\\nown fever. Neither were Holmes s poems a draw-\\ning advertisement for the building up of a medical\\npractice. The general public are sceptical to be^\\nlieve that a poet, full of humor and fairly bubbling\\nover with boyish exuberance, is the best person to", "height": "3393", "width": "2124", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0019.jp2"}, "18": {"fulltext": "j^iy BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\nbe entrusted with a case of critical illness. He\\nseems to have understood the situation perfectly\\nfor he wrote\\nDon t you know that people won t employ\\nA man that wrongs his manliness by laughing like a boy\\nIn short, he seemed to be lacking on the busi-\\nness side of his vocation. Thus while his practice\\nwas never large it gave him a fair living.\\nBut upon the scientific side of his profession he\\nwas brilliantly successful. From the first he took\\nprizes for medical essays. In 1838 he was appointed\\nlecturer on Anatomy at Dartmouth College, and\\nnine years later he became Professor of Anatomy\\nand Physiology in Harvard College. This position\\nhe held with great popularity for the long period\\nof thirty-five years. President Eliot regarded his\\nwork as highly efficient, and declared that he did a\\ngreat deal to make the Harvard Medical School\\nwhat it has become.\\nDuring the middle period of his life Holmes was\\nin the lecture field. At that time lecture courses\\nbefore l^^ceums and other associations were com-\\nmon. Far and wide, especially in New England,\\nthere was a demand for literary men to speak from\\nthe rostrum. The lectures of that day Avere of a\\nhigh order, those of Emerson, perhaps, being the", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0020.jp2"}, "19": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xv\\nstandard. The compensation was small as compared\\nwith the present day. Still it was something, and\\nthe proceeds of a successful lecture tour would be\\nwelcome to a literary man in moderate circum-\\nstances. But the trials and exposures of these tours\\nforced him out. The conveniences of travelling\\nin those days were crude. The railway cars Avere\\nuncomfortable, ill-heated, and ill- ventilated at best.\\nThe winter rides from the railway stations, the\\naccommodations of the hotel, the bleakness, fre-\\nquently, of the spare room of private hospitality,\\nmade the lecture tour anything but a jolly excur-\\nsion. Holmes s tendency to asthma made it a seri-\\nous matter to him, as it was a discomfort to every\\none. Though he Avas in great demand, and was\\nalways sure of a cordial welcome wherever he\\nappeared, still this business of lecturing was hard\\nwork and poor pay. It was therefore soon aban-\\ndoned. But the delivery of a course before the\\nLowell Institute w^as in every respect different.\\nThe hall was near his home, reached by an easy\\nand pleasant walk. His subject was the British\\nPoets. He spoke to crowded audiences com-\\nposed of the most intelligent and cultured of\\nBoston people, and the lectures were received with\\nenthusiasm. Such lecturing was a pleasure and an\\nhonor.", "height": "3393", "width": "2124", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0021.jp2"}, "20": {"fulltext": "xvi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\nThe last incident, in a life not overcrowded with\\nincidents, was a brief trip with his daughter, which\\nhe has recorded in Our Hundred Days in Europe.\\nHe was at this time seventy -seven years of age.\\nThe most of the time was spent in England, and this\\nvisit was an ovation from start to finish. He was\\nlionized by society in an almost incredible number\\nof receptions, etc. He was sought out by men of\\nletters. But chiefly, he was decorated by three of\\nthe four universities of Great Britain. Edinburgh\\nand Cambridge conferred on him the degree of\\nLL. D., and Oxford that of D. C. L.\\nHe glided gently into the period of old age per-\\nsisting in calling himself young, eighty years\\nyoung. The delightful spirits of youth he retained\\nthrough a long life. But the signs and incidents of\\nage caine in quick succession. In 1873 Agassiz\\ndied. In 1877 Motley died. In 1882 he laid down\\nthe duties of his lectureship at Harvard after having\\ncompleted thirty-six annual courses. The college\\nelected him professor emeritus. That same year\\nboth Longfellow and Emerson died. In 1881 his\\nson Edward died. Three years later his wife died,\\nafter which his daughter came to live with him.\\nBut two years later, or in 1889, she died. The\\nprevious year his classmate, the Rev. James Free-\\nman Clarke, who for more than sixty years had been", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0022.jp2"}, "21": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xvii\\nhis intimate possibly his most intimate friend,\\ndied. In 1891 Lowell died, Whittier in 1892, and\\nParkman in 1893. Thus was the author of The\\nLast Leaf left almost alone, so far as concerned\\nhis early friends. Two years later he followed\\nWhittier.\\nJust here we may quote a few sentences from a\\nletter to the Kev. Phillips Brooks, in which, after\\nexpressing warm appreciation of his friend s sermon,\\nhe says My natural Sunday home is King s\\nChapel. In that church I have worshipped for half\\na century. There, on the fifteenth of June,\\n1810, I was married, there my children were all\\nchristened, from that church the dear companion\\nof so many blessed years was buried. In her seat I\\nmust sit, and through its door I hope to be carried\\nto my last resting-place. This hope was realized\\ntwo days after his death, which occurred October 7,\\n1894. Death came to him quickly and gently. He\\nwas sitting in his chair talking to his son, when he\\ndied suddenly.\\nHis day s work was long and somewhat volumin-\\nous. Among his books may be noted the following\\nThe Autocrat, Professor, and Poet, at the Break-\\nfast Table, followed, in the evening of his life, by a\\nseries entitled Over the Teacups various medical\\nessays; Elsie Yenner, and The Guardian Angel;", "height": "3393", "width": "2124", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0023.jp2"}, "22": {"fulltext": "xviii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\nlives of Motley and of Emerson and poems pub-\\nlished from time to time, but now collected in one\\nvolume.\\nIn estimating the quality of the man and his\\nwork, it must be confessed that he was provincial.\\nHis loyalty was first of all to his college class, then\\nto his college, next to the city of Boston, after that,\\nto E ew England, and finally to his country. He\\nindeed belonged to the best of Boston the Brah-\\nmin Caste, to borrow his own phrase but he was\\nessentially Bostonese. He spent substantially all\\nhis life in Boston or Cambridge. In early life he\\nhad a summer home in Pittsfield, but that was given\\nup and in late years his summer home was at Bev-\\nerley Farms, only twenty miles from the city. He\\nrarely got much beyond walking distance from the\\nState House on Beacon Hill, and apparently he had\\nno desire to do so. He was not cosmopolitan. To\\nhim Boston was always what he playfully called it,\\nthe Hub of the solar system.\\nIt may also be said that his work seems to lack\\nthe elements of permanency when compared with\\nthat of writers of the first grade. His work is ex-\\ncellent of its kind, but it is not the kind that is in-\\ntended to endure. He was chiefly the philosopher,\\nthe poet, the wit of the hour and, while un-\\nrivalled in his place, one must not claim for him", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0024.jp2"}, "23": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xix\\na permanency which belongs to a different type of\\nauthor.\\nHis excellence was seen in three degrees, chiefly\\nin his conversation, next in some of his prose writ-\\nings, and finally in his poetry. His title to eminence\\nrests upon his personality. In conversation he\\nwas at his best. Wherever he sat was the head\\nof the table. Dr. Johnson was probabl}^ more\\nlearned, Coleridge more profound, De Quincy\\nmore subtile and melodious but no one com-\\nbined these qualities, adding the good fellowship\\nof Holmes.\\nNext in brilliancy after his conversation came\\nhis prose, specifically, the Autocrat of the Breakfast\\nTable, and for the very reason that this most nearly\\nresembles his conversation. But as this sketch is\\nintended to concern chiefly his poetry, we must\\nturn, however reluctantly, from his prose to his\\npoetry and it is always a pleasure to turn to the\\npoetry of this man.\\nOne instantly observes the very large proportion\\nof occasional poems, a larger proportion probably\\nthan can be found in any other author. For thirty-\\nnine consecutive years he furnished the poem for\\nthe annual dinner of the class of 1829 of Harvard\\nCollege. Then he had poems for various benefit\\ndinners, for birthdays, and other occasions. It is", "height": "3393", "width": "2124", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0025.jp2"}, "24": {"fulltext": "XX BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\nhigh phrase to say that he was ahvays equal to the\\noccasion. He was always sure of a welcome, and\\nhis fund of wit never failed, while his felicity of\\nadaptation and the delicacy of his treatment secured\\nfor him an audience much wider than is the usual\\nfortune of the writers of even the best of occasional\\npoems.\\nIn some of his poems the prevailing trait is boyish\\nexuberance, pure fun. An excellent example of\\nthis is The Height of the Eidiculous. Its jollity is\\nirresistible either by old or by young. Almost\\nequal to this is, How the Old Horse Won the Bet.\\nOther poems combine humor and pathos so exqui-\\nsitely and delicately that it is impossible to analyze\\nthem. His biographer, John T. Morse, Jr., says of\\nthe Last Leaf, that it is a lyric in which drollery,\\npassing nigh unto ridicule, yet stopping short of\\nit, and sentiment becoming pathos, yet not too\\nprofound, are exquisitely intermingled. [It\\nmakes] the smile and the tear dispute for mastery\\nin a rivalry which is never quite decided. Xot far\\nfrom this in general effect, though widely different\\ninform, is Bill and Joe. This has a rough-and-\\nready exterior, but its heart is full of fine and ten-\\nder sentiment. It represents two old comrades,\\nboth crowned with honors in the world, spending an\\nevening together, when memory brings them to-", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0026.jp2"}, "25": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xxi\\ngether as in boyhood and discloses a warmth of\\nfellowship unkiiown to the world.\\nTo-day, old friend, remember still\\nThat I am Joe and you are Bill.\\nAnother group of his poems is distinguished by-\\nintense earnestness. One of these is his youthful\\npoem of Old Ironsides, ringing with a sentiment of\\npatriotism which thrills the reader even to this day.\\nEven superior to this is the Chambered IS autilus.\\nIn a preliminary note the author suggests that you\\nfind a figure of one of these shells and a section of\\nit. The last will show you a series of enlarging\\ncompartments successively dwelt in by the animal\\nthat inhabits the shell, which is built in a widening\\nspiral. The poem, which is comprised in forty-\\ntwo lines, is a model of sentiment, fancy, and dic-\\ntion. The poet follows the successive building of\\nthe animal until he reaches the message which it\\nsends to us\\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 sea\\nAmong his longer poems may be named the Phi\\nBeta Kappa poem on Poetry, A Khymed Lesson", "height": "3393", "width": "2124", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0027.jp2"}, "26": {"fulltext": "xxii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\n(Urania), x\\\\n After- Dinner Poem (Terpsichore), and\\nHarvard College Anniversary. However meritori-\\nous these may be, they are not equal to some of his\\nshorter poems. The Deacon s Masterpiece, or The\\nWonderful One-Hoss Shay, a Logical Story, has\\nlong been deservedly popular. It is as droll as can\\nbe, and is at the same time a good description of\\nlogic, showing that when one part of the syllogism\\nfails the whole structure tumbles to pieces. His\\nAngel of Peace is sung by school children through-\\nout the land.\\nHolmes would not be called a religious writer.\\nFrom the first he was hostile to the creed then pre-\\nvailing in the orthodox churcheSv His real position\\nwas simple enough had it been understood. He was,\\nin a sense, a puritan of the puritans. That is, he\\nhad the same right to criticise the creed of Jonathan\\nEdwards as Edwards had to criticise the ecclesias-\\nticism of the Pope. The orthodox churches were\\nthen under the influence of the theology of Edwards,\\nand they regarded these criticisms with abhorrence.\\nHolmes was thus a thorn in the flesh of the ortho-\\ndox ministers, and his wit, wisdom, and imperturb-\\nable good humor made him a formidable antago-\\nnist. But while he showed no mercy to creeds, he\\nwas sincerely devout in his Christian faith. Most\\nof the hymn-books now in use in the orthodox", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0028.jp2"}, "27": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xxiii\\nchurches contain two hymns of his composition, and\\nhymns more tender, more in accordance with the\\nspirit of Christian sympathy and worship it would\\nbe hard to find anywhere. These are, O Love\\nDivine, and Lord of all Being.\\nIt is dangerous to predict what will be the most\\nenduring of Holmes s writings, but it seems as if\\nthey will include most, if not all, of the following:\\nPuerperal Fever as a Private Pestilence. This is\\nstrictly medical, and it stirred up much antagonism\\nat the time, but it has long been accepted as stand-\\nard authority and is such to-day. Elsie Yenner,\\nwhich is a popular contribution to, or presentation\\nof, the problems involved in heredity. The Last\\nLeaf, which v^as one of the favorites with the\\nauthor, as it has been a favorite with many readers,\\nincluding Abraham Lincoln. The Chambered\\nNautilus, above described. The two hymns may be\\nadded to this list.\\nHis biographer declares that Dr. Holmes was\\nmore ambitious to be thought a poet than anything\\nelse. During most of his lifetime his prose over-\\nshadowed his poetry, and so his ambition was not\\nthen gratified. But it is the nature of poetry to\\noutlast prose, and it is probable that his ultimate\\nfame will spring chiefly from his best poems.\\nIn 1889, sixty years after graduation from college,", "height": "3393", "width": "2124", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0029.jp2"}, "28": {"fulltext": "xxiv BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\nand when he had passed the scriptural limit of four-\\nscore years, he read at the class dinner his last class\\npoem, significantly entitled After the Curfew. The\\nopening and closing stanzas are well worth quoting\\nThe Play is over. While the light\\nYet lingers in the darkening hall,\\nI come to say a last Good-night\\nBefore the final Exeunt all.\\nSo ends The Boys a lifelong play.\\nWe too must hear the Prompter s call\\nTo fairer scenes and brighter day\\nFarewell I let the curtain fall.\\nThere was but one class meeting after this, namely,\\nin the following year. Only three were present.\\nThis, therefore, practically closed the long series of\\nmeetings.\\nOne fact which greatly favored Holmes was the\\nlength of his literary career. The first poem which\\nattracted general attention was Old Ironsides, pub-\\nlished in 1830. Ilis first volume was published in\\n1836 and made his reputation. Consequently he\\nheld the public attention for not less than fifty-\\neight years, or, if we date from Old Ironsides, for\\nsixty-four years. During this long period he fre-\\nquently issued volumes, all of which were well re-\\nceived, and he never alienated the cordial welcome\\nof the reading public. The climax of his reputatioij", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0030.jp2"}, "29": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. XXV\\nwas reached with the Autocrat papers, which not\\nonly insured for himself a wide circle of loyal ad-\\nmirers, but floated the young Atlantic Monthly\\nthrough the first difficult and perilous period of its\\nexistence. His literary activity continued to the\\nvery end, and for many years his readers were of a\\nlater generation than his own. None the less they\\ndid him honor. His mission, in large part, was to\\nbring sunshine into life. His humor is healthy and\\nit has brightened many an hour.\\nWhen Holmes went to Europe in 1886, Lowell\\nwrote for him a farewell poem. It was Holmes s\\nTvish that the lines should be used as his envoi. We\\nconclude this sketch with the final stanza.\\nGo, then, dear friend, by all good hopes attended\\nTo Mother England go, our carrier dove.\\nSaying that this great race, from hers descended,\\nSends iu its Holmes an Easter-gift of love.\\nHENRY KETCHAM.", "height": "3393", "width": "2124", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0031.jp2"}, "30": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0032.jp2"}, "31": {"fulltext": "CHARLES WENTWORTH UPHAM\\nTHE FOLLOWING\\nMETRICAL ESSAY\\nIS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED", "height": "3393", "width": "2124", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0033.jp2"}, "32": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0034.jp2"}, "33": {"fulltext": "POETRY;\\nA METKICAL ESSAY,\\nScenes of my youth awake its slumbering fire\\nYe winds of Memory, sweep the silent lyre\\nEay of the past, if yet thou canst appear,\\nBreak through the clouds of Fancy s waning year\\nChase from her breast the thin autumnal snow,\\nIf leaf or blossom still is fresh below\\nLong have I wandered the returning tide\\nBrought back an exile to his cradle s side\\nAnd as my bark her time-w^orn flag unrolled,\\nTo greet the land-breeze with its faded fold.\\nSo, in remembrance of my boyhood s time,\\nI lift these ensigns of neglected rhyme\\nO more than blest, that, all my wanderings through,\\nMy anchor falls where first my pennons flew\\n1 Scenes of my youth.\\nThis poem was commenced a few months subsequently to\\nthe author s return to his native village, after an absence of\\nnearly three years.", "height": "3393", "width": "2124", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0035.jp2"}, "34": {"fulltext": "2 A METRICAL ESSAY.\\nThe morning light, which rains its quivering\\nbeams\\nWide o er the plains, the summits, and the streams,\\nIn one broad blaze expands its golden glow\\nOn all that answers to its glance below\\nYet, changed on earth, each far reflected ray\\nBraids with fresh hues the shining brow of day;\\nNow, clothed in blushes by the painted flowers,\\nTracks on their cheeks the rosy-fingered hours\\nNow, lost in shades, whose dark entangled leaves\\nDrip at the noontide from their pendent eaves.\\nFades into gloom, or gleams in light again\\nFrom every dew-drop on the jewelled plain.\\nWe, like the leaf, the summit, or the wave,\\nReflect the light our common nature gave.\\nBut every sunbeam, falling from her throne.\\nWears, on our hearts, some coloring of our own\\nChilled in the slave, and burning in the free,\\nLike the sealed cavern by the sparkling sea\\nLost, like the lightning in the sullen clod,\\nOr shedding radiance, like the smiles of God\\nPure, pale in Virtue, as the star above.\\nOr quivering roseate on the leaves of Love\\nGlaring like noontide, where it glows upon\\nAmbition s sands, the desert in the sun\\nOr soft suffusing o er the varied scene\\nLife s common coloring, intellectual green.\\nThus Heaven, repeating its material plan,\\nArched over all the rainbow mind of man\\nBut he who, blind to universal laws,", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0036.jp2"}, "35": {"fulltext": "A METRICAL ESSAY. 3\\nSees but effects, unconscious of tbeir cause,\\nBelieves each image in itself is bright,\\nNot robed in drapery of reflected light,\\nIs like the rustic who, amidst his toil.\\nHas found some crystal in his meagre soil,\\nAnd, lost in rapture, thinks for him alone\\nEarth worked her wonders on the sparkling stone.\\nNor dreams that Nature, with as nice a line.\\nCarved countless angles through the boundless\\nmine.\\nThus err the many who, entranced to find\\nUnwonted lustre in some clearer mind.\\nBelieve that Genius sets the laws at nought\\nWhich chain the pinions of our wildest thought\\nUntaught to measure, with the eye of art.\\nThe wandering fancy or the wayward heart\\nWho match the little only with the less.\\nAnd gaze in rapture at its slight excess.\\nProud of a pebble, as the brightest gem\\nWhose light might crown an emperor s diadem.\\nAnd, most of all, the pure ethereal fire,\\nWhich seems to radiate from the poet s lyre.\\nIs to the world a mystery and a charm.\\nAn yEgis wielded on a mortal s arm.\\nWhile Reason turns her dazzled eye away.\\nAnd bows her sceptre to her subject s sway\\nAnd thus the poet, clothed with godlike state.\\nUsurped his Maker s title to create\\nHe, whose thoughts differing not in shape, but\\ndress,", "height": "3393", "width": "2124", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0037.jp2"}, "36": {"fulltext": "4 A METRICAL ESSAY.\\nWhat others feel, more fitly can express,\\nSits like the maniac on his fancied throne,\\nPeeps through the bars, and calls the world his\\nown.\\nThere breathes no being but has some pretence\\nTo that fine instinct called poetic sense\\nThe rudest savage roaming through the wild,\\nThe simplest rustic, bending o er his child.\\nThe infant listening to the warbling bird.\\nThe mother smiling at its half-formed word\\nThe boy uncaged, who tracks the fields at large,\\nThe girl, turned matron to her babe-like charge\\nThe freeman, casting with unpurchased hand\\nThe vote that shakes the turrets of the land\\nThe slave, who, slumbering on his rusted chain,\\nDreams of the palm trees on his burning plain\\nThe hot-cheeked reveller, tossing down the wine.\\nTo join the chorus pealing Auld lang syne\\nThe gentle maid, whose azure eye grows dim,\\nWhile Heaven is listening to her evening hymn\\nThe jewelled beauty, when her steps draw near\\nThe circling dance and dazzling chandelier\\nE en trembling age, when Spring s renewing air\\nWaves the thin ringlets of his silvered hair\\nAll, all are glowing with the inward flame,\\nWhose wider halo wreathes the poet s name.\\nWhile, unembalmed, the silent dreamer dies.\\nHis memory passing with his smiles and sighs\\nIf glorious visions, born for all mankind,\\nThe bright auroras of our twilight mind", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0038.jp2"}, "37": {"fulltext": "A METRICAL ESSAY.\\nIf fancies, varying as the shapes that lie\\nStained on the windows of the sunset sky\\nIf hopes, that beckon with dehisive gleams,\\nTill the eye dances in the void of dreams\\nIf passions, following with the winds that urge\\nEarth s wildest wanderer to her farthest verge\\nIf these on all some transient hours bestow\\nOf rapture tingling with its hectic glow,\\nThen all are poets and, if earth had rolled\\nHer myriad centuries, and her doom were told,\\nEach moaning billow of her shoreless wave\\nWould wail its requiem o er a poet s grave\\nIf to embody in a breathing word\\nTones that the spirit trembled when it heard\\nTo fix the image all unveiled and warm,\\nAnd carve in lano:uaoe its ethereal form.\\nSo pure, so perfect, that the lines express\\nNo meagre shrinking, no unlaced excess\\nTo feel that art, in living truth, has taught\\nOurselves, reflected in the sculptured thought\\nIf this alone bestow the right to claim\\nThe deathless garland and the sacred name\\nThen none are poets, save the saints on high.\\nWhose harps can murmur all that words deny\\nBut though to none is granted to reveal.\\nIn perfect semblance, all that each may feel,\\nAs withered flowers recall forgotten love,\\nSo, warmed to life, our faded passions move\\nIn every line, where kindling fancy throws\\nThe gleam of pleasures, or the shade of woes.", "height": "3393", "width": "2124", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0039.jp2"}, "38": {"fulltext": "6 A METRICAL ESSAY.\\nWhen, schooled by time, the stately queen of art\\nHad smoothed the pathways leading to the heart.\\nAssumed her measured tread, her solemn tone,\\nAnd round her courts the clouds of fable thrown.\\nThe wreaths of heaven descended on her shrine,\\nAnd wondering earth proclaimed the Muse divine\\nYet, if her votaries had but dared profane\\nThe mystic symbols of her sacred reign,\\nHow had they smiled beneath the veil to find\\nWhat slender threads can chain the mighty mind\\nPoets, like painters, their machinery claim,\\nAnd verse bestows the varnish and the frame;\\nOur grating English, whose Teutonic jar\\nShakes the racked axle of Art s rattling car,\\nFits like mosaic in the lines that gird\\nFast in its place each many-angled word\\nFrom Saxon lips Anacreon s numbers glide,\\nAs once they melted on the Teian tide.\\nAnd, fresh transfused, the Iliad thrills again\\nFrom Albion s cliffs as o er Achaia s plain\\nThe proud heroic, with its pulse-like beat,\\nEings like the cymbals clashing as they meet\\nThe sweet Spenserian, gathering as it flows,\\nSweeps gently onward to its dying close.\\nWhere waves on waves in long succession pour.\\nTill the ninth billow melts along the shore\\nThe lonely spirit of the mournful lay,\\nWhich lives immortal as the verse of Gray,\\nIn sable plumage slowly drifts along.\\nOn eagle pinion, through the air of song", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0040.jp2"}, "39": {"fulltext": "A METRICAL ESSAY. 7\\nThe glittering lyric bounds elastic by,\\nWith flashing ringlets and exulting eye,\\nWhile every image, in her airy whirl.\\nGleams like a diamond on a dancing girl\\n1 A few lines, perhaps deficient in dignity, were introduced\\nat this point, in delivering the poem, and are appended in\\nthis clandestine manner for the gratification of some of my\\naudience.\\nHow many a stanza, blushing like the rose,\\nWould turn to fustian if resolved to prose\\nHow many an epic, like a gilded crown,\\nIf some cold critic dared to melt it down,\\nRoll in his crucible a shapeless mass,\\nA grain of gold-leaf to a pound of brass\\nShorn of their plumes, our moonstruck sonneteers\\nWould seem but jackdaws croaking to the spheres\\nOur gay Lotharios, with their Byron curls,\\nWould pine like oysters cheated of their pearls\\nWo to the spectres of Parnassus shade,\\nIf truth should mingle in the masquerade.\\nLo, as the songster s pale creations pass.\\nOff come at once the Dearest and Alas\\nCrack go the lines and levers used to prop\\nTop-heavy thoughts, and down at once they drop.\\nFlowers weep for lioiirs Love, shrieking for his dove.\\nFinds not tlie solace that he seeks\u00e2\u0080\u0094 above.\\nFast in the mire, through which in happier time\\nHe ambled dryshod on the stilts of rhyme.\\nThe prostrate poet finds at length a tongue\\nTo curse in prose the thankless stars he sung.\\nAnd though, perchance, the haughty muse it shames,\\nHow deep the magic of harmonious names\\nHow sure the story of romance to please,\\nWhose rounded stanza ends with Heloise\\nHow rich and full our intouatious ride", "height": "3393", "width": "2124", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0041.jp2"}, "40": {"fulltext": "8 A METRICAL ESSAY.\\nBorn with mankind, with man s expanded range\\nAnd varying fates the poet s numbers change\\nThus in his history may we hope to find\\nSome clearer epochs of the poet s mind,\\nAs from the cradle of its birth we trace.\\nSlow wandering forth, the patriarchal race.\\nI.\\nWhen the green earth, beneath the zephyr s wing.\\nWears on her breast the varnished buds of Spring\\nWhen the loosed current, as its folds uncoil.\\nSlides in the channels of the mellowed soil\\nWhen the young hyacinth returns to seek\\nThe air and sunshine with her emerald beak\\nOn Torno s cliffs, or Pambamarca s side\\nBut were her name some vulgar proper noun,\\nAnd Pambamarca changed to Belchertown,\\nShe might be pilloried for her doubtful fame,\\nAnd no enthusiast would arise to blame\\nAnd he who outraged the poetic sense,\\nMight find a home at Belchertown s expense\\nThe harmless boys, scarce knowing right from wrong,\\nWho libel others and themselves in song.\\nWhen their first pothooks of poetic rage\\nSlant down the corners of an album s page,\\n(Where crippled couplets spread their sprawling charms,\\nAs half taught swimmers move their legs and arms,)\\nWill talk of Hesper on the brow of eve,\\nAnd call their cousins lovely Genevieve\\nWhile thus transformed, each dear deluded maid,\\nPleased with herself in novel grace arrayed,\\nSmiles on the Paris who has come to crown\\nThis new-born Helen in a gingham gown", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0042.jp2"}, "41": {"fulltext": "A METRICAL ESSAY. 9\\nWhen the light snowdrops, starting from their\\ncells,\\nHang each pagoda with its silver bells\\nWhen the frail willow twines her trailing bow\\nWith pallid leaves that sweep the soil below\\nWhen the broad elm, sole empress of the plain,\\nWhose circling shadow speaks a century s reign,\\nWreathes in the clouds her regal diadem,\\nA forest wavino^ on a sin o^le stem\\nThen mark tlie poet though to him unknown\\nThe quaint-mouthed titles, such as scholars own,\\nSee how his eye in ecstasy pursues\\nThe steps of Nature tracked in radiant hues\\nI^ay, in thyself, whate er may be thy fate,\\nPallid with toil, or surfeited with state,\\nMark how thy fancies, with the vernal rose,\\nAwake, all sweetness, from their long repose\\nThen turn to ponder o er the classic page,\\nTraced with the idyls of a greener age.\\nAnd learn the instinct which arose to warm\\nArt s earliest essay, and her simplest form.\\nTo themes like these her narrow path confined\\nThe first-born impulse moving in the mind\\nIn vales unshaken by the trumpet s sound,\\nWhere peaceful Labor tills his fertile ground.\\nThe silent changes of the rolling years.\\nMarked on the soil, or dialled on the spheres.\\nThe crested forests and the colored flowers.\\nThe dewy grottos and the blushing bowers.\\nThese, and their guardians, who, with liquid names,", "height": "3393", "width": "2124", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0043.jp2"}, "42": {"fulltext": "10 A METRICAL ESSAY.\\nStrephons and Chloes, melt in mutual flames,\\nWoo the young Muses from their mountain shade,\\nTo make Arcadias in the lonely glade.\\nNor think they visit only with their smiles\\nThe fabled valleys and Elysian isles\\nHe who is wearied of his village plain\\nMay roam the Edens of the world in vain.\\nTis not the star-crowned cliff, the cataract s flow.\\nThe softer foliage, or the greener glow.\\nThe lake of sapphire, or the spar-hung cave.\\nThe brighter sunset, or the broader wave,\\nCan warm his heart whom every wind has blown\\nTo every shore, forgetful of his own.\\nHome of our childhood how affection clings\\nAnd hovers round thee with her seraph Avings\\nDearer thy hills, though clad in autumn brown,\\nThan fairest summits which the cedars crown\\nSweeter the fragrance of thy summer breeze\\nThan all Arabia breathes along the seas\\nThe stranger s gale wafts home the exile s sigh.\\nFor the heart s temple is its own blue sk}^\\nO happiest they, whose early love unchanged,\\nHopes undissolved, and friendship unestranged.\\nTired of their wanderings, still can deign to see\\nLove, hopes, and friendship, centring all in thee\\nAnd thou, my village as again I tread\\nAmidst thy living, and above thy dead\\nThough some fair playmates guard with chaster\\nfears", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0044.jp2"}, "43": {"fulltext": "A METRICAL ESSAY. H\\nTheir cheeks, grown holy with the lapse of years\\nThough with the dust some reverend locks may\\nblend,\\nWhere life s last mile-stone marks the journey s\\nend\\nOn every bud the changing year recalls,\\nThe brightening glance of morning memory falls,\\nStill following onward as the months unclose\\nThe balmy lilac or the bridal rose\\nAnd still shall follow, till they sink once more\\nBeneath the snow-drifts of the frozen shore,\\nAs when my bark, long tossing in the gale.\\nFurled in her port her tempest-rended sail\\nWhat shall I give thee Can a simple lay,\\nFlung on thy bosom like a girl s bouquet.\\nDo more than deck thee for an idle hour,\\nThen fall unheeded, fading like the flower\\nYet, when I trod, with footsteps wild and free.\\nThe crackling leaves beneath yon linden tree,\\nPanting from play, or dripping from the stream.\\nHow bright the visions of my boyish dream\\nOr, modest Charles, along thy broken edge,\\nBlack with soft ooze and fringed with arrowy sedge,\\nAs once I wandered in the morning sun,\\nWith reeking sandal and superfluous gun\\nHow oft, as Fancy whispered in the gale.\\nThou wast the Avon of her flattering tale\\nYe hills, whose foliage, fretted on the skies.\\nPrints shadowy arches on their evening dyes.\\nHow should my song, with holiest charm, invest", "height": "3393", "width": "2124", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0045.jp2"}, "44": {"fulltext": "12 A METRICAL ESSAY.\\nEach dark ravine and forest-lifting crest\\nHow clothe in beauty each familiar scene,\\nTill all was classic on my native green\\nAs the drained fountain, filled with autumn leaves,\\nThe field swept naked of its garnered sheaves\\nSo wastes at noon the promise of our dawn,\\nThe springs all choking, and the harvest gone.\\nYet hear the lay of one whose natal star\\nStill seemed the brightest when it shone afar\\nWhose cheek, grown pallid with ungracious toil,\\nGlows in the welcome of his parent soil\\nAnd ask no garlands sought beyond the tide,\\nBut take the leaflets gathered at your side.\\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 sk}^.\\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.", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0046.jp2"}, "45": {"fulltext": "A METRICAL ESSAY. 13\\nThey shade the grass, whose pennoned spear\\nLeans on the narrow graves.\\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 sloAvly 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", "height": "3393", "width": "2124", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0047.jp2"}, "46": {"fulltext": "14 A METRICAL ESSAY.\\nTheir smiling babes, their cherished brides,\\nThe patriarchs of the town\\nHast thou a tear for buried love\\nA sigh for transient power\\nAll that a century left above,\\nGo, read it in an hour\\nThe Indian s shaft, the Briton s ball.\\nThe sabre s thirsting edge.\\nThe hot shell, shattering in its fall.\\nThe bayonet s rending w^edge,\\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\\nOr gaze upon yon pillared stone.^^\\nThe tomb of the Vassall family is marked by a free-stone\\ntablet, supported by five pillars, and bearing nothing but the\\nsculptured reliefs of the Goblet and the Sun,\u00e2\u0080\u0094 Fos-5^oZ\u00e2\u0080\u0094 which\\ndesignated a powerful faiiiily, now almost forgotten.\\nThe exile referred to in the next stanza was a native of\\nHonfleur in Normandy.", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0048.jp2"}, "47": {"fulltext": "A METRICAL ESSAY. 15\\nThere stand the Goblet and the Sun,\\nAVhat 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\\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 w^as 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 w^aited 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 the summer s flowery weaves\\nThe lake of verdure rolled,", "height": "3393", "width": "2124", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0049.jp2"}, "48": {"fulltext": "16 A METRICAL ESSAY.\\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\\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 other s dust,\\nMiofht call a tear on mine.\\n11.\\nBut times were changed the torch of terror came,\\nTo light the summits with the beacon s flame\\nThe streams ran crimson, the tall mountain pines\\nKose a new forest o er embattled lines\\nThe bloodless sickle lent the Avarrior s steel.\\nThe harvest bowed beneath his chariot wheel", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0050.jp2"}, "49": {"fulltext": "A METRICAL ESSAY. 17\\nWhere late the wood-dove sheltered her repose,\\nThe raven waited for the conflict s close\\nThe cuirassed sentry walked his sleepless round\\nWhere Daphne smiled or Amaryllis frowned\\nWhere timid minstrels sung their blushing charms,\\nSome wild Tyrtaeus called aloud, To arms\\nWhen Glory wakes, w^hen fiery spirits leap.\\nRoused by her accents from their tranquil sleep,\\nThe ra}^ that flashes from the soldier s crest.\\nLights, as it glances, in the poet s breast\\nNot in pale dreamers, whose fantastic lay\\nToys with smooth trifles like a child at play.\\nBut men, wdio act the passions they inspire,\\nWho wave the sabre as they sweep the lyre\\nYe mild enthusiasts, whose pacific frowns\\nAre lost like dew-drops caught in burning towns.\\nPluck as ye will the radiant plumes of fame.\\nBreak Caesar s bust to make yourselves a name,\\nBut, if your country bares the avenger s blade\\nFor wrongs unpunished, or for debts unpaid,\\nWhen the roused nation bids her armies form.\\nAnd screams her eagle through the gathering\\nstorm\\nWhen from your ports the bannered frigate rides.\\nHer black bows scowling to the crested tides.\\nYour hour has past in vain your feeble cry.\\nAs the babe s wailings to the thundering sky\\nScourge of mankind with all the dread array,\\nThat wraps in wrath thy desolating way,\\n2", "height": "3393", "width": "2124", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0051.jp2"}, "50": {"fulltext": "Ig A METRICAL ESSAY.\\nAs the wild tempest wakes the shimbering sea,\\nThou only teachest all that man can be.\\nAlike thy tocsin has the power to charm\\nThe toil-knit sinews of the rustic s arm,\\nOr swell the pulses in the poet s veins,\\nAnd bid the nations tremble at his strains.\\nThe city slept beneath the moonbeam s glance.\\nHer white walls gleaming through the vines of\\nFrance,\\nAnd all was hushed, save where the footsteps fell.\\nOn some high tower, of midnight sentinel.\\nBut one still watched no self-encircled woes\\nChased from his lids the angel of repose\\nHe watched, he wept, for thoughts of bitter years\\nBowed his dark lashes, wet with burning tears\\nHis country s sufferings and her children s shame\\nStreamed o er his memory like a forest s flame\\nEach treasured insult, each remembered wrong,\\nEolled through his heart and kindled into song;\\nHis taper faded and the morning gales\\nSwept through the world the war-song of Mar-\\nseilles\\nNow, while around the smiles of Peace expand.\\nAnd Plenty s wreaths festoon the laughing land\\nWhile France ships outward her reluctant ore,\\nAnd half our navy basks upon the shore\\n1 Swept through the world the ivar song of Marseilles.\\nThe music and words of the Marseilles Hymn were com-\\nposed in one night.", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0052.jp2"}, "51": {"fulltext": "A METRICAL ESSAY. 19\\nFrom ruder themes our meek-eyed Muses turn\\nTo crown with roses their enamelled urn.\\nIf e er again return those awful days\\nWhose clouds were crimsoned with the beacon s\\nblaze,\\nWhose grass was trampled by the soldier s heel,\\nWhose tides were reddened round the rushing keel,\\nGod grant some lyre may wake a nobler strain,\\nTo rend the silence of our tented plain\\nWhen Gallia s flag its triple fold displays.\\nHer marshalled legions peal the Marseillaise\\nWhen round the German close the war clouds dim.\\nFar through their shadows floats his battle-hymn\\nWhen, crowned with joy, the camps of England\\nring,\\nA thousand voices shout, God save the King\\nWhen victory follows with our eagle s glance,\\nOur nation s anthem is a country dance\\nSome prouder muse, when comes the hour at\\nlast.\\nMay shake our hill-sides w^ith her bugle-blast\\nNot ours the task but since the lyric dress\\nRelieves the statelier with its sprightliness.\\nHear an old song, which some, perchance, have seen\\nIn stale gazette, or cobwebbed magazine.\\nThere was an hour when patriots dared profane\\n1 Our nations anthem is a country dance\\nTlie popular air of Yankee Doodle, like the dagger of\\nHudibras, serves a pacific as well as a martial purpose.", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0053.jp2"}, "52": {"fulltext": "20 A METRICAL ESSAY.\\nThe mast that Britain strove to bow in vain\\nAnd one who listened to the tale of shame,\\nWhose heart still answered to that sacred name,\\nWhose eye still followed o er his country s tides\\nThy glorious flag, our brave Old Ironsides\\nFrom yon lone attic, on a summer s morn.\\nThus mocked the spoilers Avith his school-boy scorn.\\nAy, tear her tattered ensign down\\nLong has it Avaved 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\\nOh, better that her shattered hulk\\nShould sink beneath the wave\\n1 The mast that Britain strove to how in vain.\\nThe lyric which follows was printed in the Boston Daily-\\nAdvertiser, at the time when it was proposed to break up the\\nfrigate Constitution as unfit for service.", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0054.jp2"}, "53": {"fulltext": "A METRICAL ESSAY. 21\\nHer thimders shook the mighty deep,\\nAnd there should be her grave\\nNail to the mast her holy flag,\\nSet every threadbare sail.\\nAnd give her to the god of storms,\\nThe lightning and the gale\\nIII.\\nWhen florid Peace resumed her golden reign,\\nAnd arts revived, and valley bloomed again\\nWhile War still panted on his broken blade,\\nOnce more the Muse her heavenly wing essayev..\\nEude was the song some ballad, stern and wild,\\nLulled the light slumbers of the soldier s child\\nOr young romancer with his threatening glance\\nAnd fearful fables of his bloodless lance.\\nScared the soft fancy of the clinging girls,\\nWhose snowy fingers smoothed his raven curls.\\nBut when long years the stately form had bent.\\nAnd faithless memory her illusions lent.\\nSo vast the outlines of Tradition grew.\\nThat Histor}^ wondered at the shapes she drew.\\nAnd veiled at length their too ambitious hues\\nBeneath the pinions of the Epic Muse.\\nFar sv ^ept her wing for stormier days had brought\\nWith darker passions deeper tides of thought.\\nThe camp s harsh tumult and the conflict s glow,\\nThe thrill of triumph and the gasp of woe,\\nThe tender parting and the glad return,", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0055.jp2"}, "54": {"fulltext": "22 A METRICAL ESSAY.\\nThe festal banquet and the funeral urn,\\nAnd all the drama which at once uprears\\nIts spectral shadows through the clash of spears,\\nFrom camp and field to echoing verse transferred,\\nSwelled the proud song that listening nations heard\\nWhy floats the amaranth in eternal bJoom\\nO er Ilium s turrets and Achilles tomb\\nWhy lingers fanc}^, where the sunbeams smile\\nOn Circe s gardens and Calypso s isle\\nWhy follows memory to the gate of Troy\\nHer plumed defender and his trembling boy\\nLo, the blind dreamer, kneeling on the sand.\\nTo trace these records with his doubtful hand\\nIn fabled tones his own emotion flow^s.\\nAnd other lips repeat his silent woes\\nIn Hector s infant see the babes that shun\\nThose deathlike eyes, unconscious of the sun,\\nOr in his hero hear himself implore,\\nGive me to see, and Ajax asks no more\\nThus live undying through the lapse of time\\nThe solemn legends of the warrior s clime\\nLike Egypt s pyramid, or Paestum s fane,\\nThey stand the heralds of the voiceless plain\\nYet not like them, for Time, by slow degrees.\\nSaps the gray stone, and wears the chiselled frieze.\\nAnd Isis sleeps beneath her subject Nile,\\nAnd crumbled Neptune strews his Dorian pile\\nBut Art s fair fabric, strengthening as it rears\\nIts laurelled columns through the mist of years.\\nAs the blue arches of the bending skies", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0056.jp2"}, "55": {"fulltext": "A METRICAL ESSAY. 23\\nStill gird the torrent, following as it flies,\\nSpreads, with the surges bearing on mankind,\\nIts starred pavilion o er the tides of mind\\nIn vain the patriot asks some lofty lay\\nTo dress in state our wars of yesterday.\\nThe classic days, those mothers of romance,\\nThat roused a nation for a woman s glance\\nThe age of mystery with its hoarded power.\\nThat girt the tyrant in his storied tower,\\nHave past and faded like a dream of youth,\\nAnd riper eras ask for history s truth.\\nOn other shores, above their mouldering towns.\\nIn sullen pomp the tall cathedral frowns,\\nPride in its aisles, and paupers at the door,\\nWhich feeds the beggars w^hom it fleeced of yore.\\nSimple and frail, our lowly temples throw\\nTheir slender shadows on the paths below\\nScarce steal the w^inds, that sweep his woodland\\ntracks,\\nThe larch s perfume from the settler s axe,\\nEre, like a vision of the morning air.\\nHis slight-framed steeple marks the house of prayer\\nIts planks all reeking, and its paint undried,\\nIts rafters sprouting on the shady side,\\nIt sheds the raindrops from its shingled eaves,\\nEre its green brothers once have changed their leaves.\\nYet Faith s pure hymn, beneath its shelter rude.\\nBreathes out as sweetly to the tangled wood.", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0057.jp2"}, "56": {"fulltext": "24 A METRICAL ESSAY.\\nAs Avhere the rays through blazing oriels pour\\nOn marble shaft and tessellated floor;\\nHeaven asks no surplice round the heart that feels,\\nAnd all is holy where devotion kneels.\\nThus on the soil the patriot s knee should bend,\\nWhich holds the dust once living to defend;\\nWhere er the hireling shrinks before the free.\\nEach pass becomes a new Thermopylae\\nWhere er the battles of the brave are won,\\nThere every mountain looks on Marathon\\nOur fathers live they guard in glory still\\nThe grass-grown bastions of the fortressed hill\\nStill ring the echoes of the trampled gorge,\\nWith God and Freedom England and Saint\\nGeorge\\nThe royal cipher on the captured gun\\nMocks the sharp night-dews and the blistering sun\\nThe red-cross banner shades its captor s bust,\\nIts folds still loaded with the conflict s dust\\nThe drum, suspended by its tattered marge,\\nOnce rolled and rattled to the Hessian s charge\\nThe stars have floated from Britannia s mast.\\nThe redcoat s trumpets blown the rebel s blast.\\nPoint to the summits where the brave have bled,\\nWhere every village claims its glorious dead\\nSay, when their bosoms met the bayonet shock,\\nTlieir only corselet was the rustic frock\\nSay, when they mustered to the gathering horn.\\nThe titled chieftain curled his lip in scorn.", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0058.jp2"}, "57": {"fulltext": "A METRICAL ESSAY. 25\\nYet, when their leader bade his lines advance,\\nNo musket wavered in the lion s glance\\nSay, when they fainted in the forced retreat.\\nThey tracked the snow-drifts with their bleeding\\nfeet,\\nYet still their banners, tossing in the blast,\\nBore Ever Ready faithful to the last.\\nThrough storm and battle, till they waved again\\nOn Yorktown s hills and Saratoga s plain\\nThen, if so fierce the insatiate patriot s flame,\\nTruth looks too pale, and history seems too tame,\\nBid him await some new Columbiad s page.\\nTo gild the tablets of an iron age.\\nAnd save his tears, which yet may fall upon\\nSome fabled field, some fancied Washington\\nlY.\\nj3ut once again, from their JEolian cave,\\nThe winds of Genius wandered on the wave.\\nTired of the scenes the timid pencil drew.\\nSick of the notes the sounding clarion blew\\nSated with heroes who had worn so long\\nThe shadowy plumage of historic song\\nThe new-born poet left the beaten course.\\nTo track the passions to their living source.\\nThen rose the Drama and the world admired\\nHer varied page with deeper thought inspired\\n1 Bore Ever Ready, faithful to the last.\\nSemper per atiis, \u00e2\u0080\u0094Si motto of the revolutionary standards,", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0059.jp2"}, "58": {"fulltext": "2Q A METKICAL ESSAY.\\nBound to no clime, for Passion s tlirob is one\\nIn Greenland s twilight or in India s sun\\nBorn for no age, for all the thoughts that roll\\nIn the dark vortex of the stormy soul.\\nUnchained in song, no freezing years can tame\\nGod gave them birth, and man is still the same.\\nSo full on life her magic mirror shone,\\nHer sister Arts paid tribute to her throne\\nOne reared her temple, one her canvas warmed,\\nAnd Music thrilled, while Eloquence informed.\\nThe weary rustic left his stinted task\\nFor smiles and tears, the dagger and the mask\\nThe sage, turned scholar, half forgot his lore.\\nTo be the woman he despised before\\nO er sense and thought she threw her golden chain,\\nAnd Time, the anarch, spares her deathless reign.\\nThus lives Medea, in our tamer age.\\nAs when her buskin pressed the Grecian stage\\nNot in the cells wdiere frigid learning delves\\nIn Aldine folios mouldering on their shelves\\nBut breathing, burning in the glittering throng,\\nWhose thousand bravos roll untired along.\\nCircling and spreading through the gilded halls\\nFrom London s galleries to San Carlo s walls\\nThus shall he live whose more than mortal name\\nMocks w^ith its ray the pallid torch of Fame\\nSo proudly lifted, that it seems afar\\nE o earthly Pharos, but a heavenly star", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0060.jp2"}, "59": {"fulltext": "A METRICAL ESSAY. 27\\nWho, unconfined to Art s diurnal bound,\\nGirds lier whole zodiac in his flaming round,\\nAnd leads the passions, like the orb that guides,\\nFrom pole to pole, the palpitating tides\\nThough round the Muse the robe of song is\\nthrown,\\nThink not the poet lives in verse alone.\\nLong ere the chisel of the sculptor taught\\nThe lifeless stone to mock the living thought\\nLong ere the painter bade the canvas glow\\nWith every line the forms of beauty know\\nLong ere the Iris of the Muses threw\\nOn every leaf its own celestial hue\\nIn fable s dress the breath of genius poured.\\nAnd warmed the shapes that later times adored.\\nUntaught by Science how to forge the keys.\\nThat loose the gates of Nature s mysteries\\nUnschooled by Faith, who, with her angel tread,\\nLeads through the labyrinth with a single thread.\\nHis fancy, hovering round her guarded tower,\\nEained through its bars like Danae s golden shower.\\nHe spoke; the sea-nymph answered from her\\ncave\\nHe called the naiad left her mountain wave\\nHe dreamed of beauty lo, amidst his dream,\\nNarcissus mirrored in the breathless stream\\nAnd night s chaste empress, in her bridal play,", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0061.jp2"}, "60": {"fulltext": "2g A METRICAL ESSAY.\\nLaughed through the foliage where Endymion lay\\nAnd ocean dimpled, as the languid swell\\nKissed the red lip of Cytherea s shell\\nOf power, Bellona swept the crimson field,\\nAnd blue-eyed Pallas shook her Gorgon shield\\nO er the hushed waves their mightier monarch drove,\\nAnd Ida trembled to the tread of Jove\\nSo every grace, that plastic language knows,\\nTo nameless poets its perfection owes.\\nThe rough-hewn words to simplest thoughts con-\\nfined,\\nWere cut and polished in their nicer mind\\nCaught on their edge, imagination s ray\\nSplits into rainbows, shooting far away\\nFrom sense to soul, from soul to sense, it flies,\\nAnd through all nature links analogies\\nHe who reads right will rarely look upon\\nA better poet than his lexicon\\nThere is a race, which cold, un genial skies\\nBreed from decay, as fungous growths arise\\nThough dying fast, yet springing fast again.\\nWhich still usurps an unsubstantial reign.\\nWith frames too languid for the charms of sense,\\nAnd minds worn down with action too intense\\nTired of a world whose joys they never knew,\\nThemselves deceived, yet thinking all untrue\\nScarce men without, and less than girls within.\\nSick of their life before its cares begin\\nThe dull disease, which drains their feeble hearts,\\nTo life s decay some hectic thrills imparts,", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0062.jp2"}, "61": {"fulltext": "A METRICAL ESSAY. 29\\nAnd lends a force which, like the maniac s power,\\nPays with blank years the frenzy of an hour.\\nAnd this is Genius Say, does Heaven degrade\\nThe manly frame, for health, for action made\\nBreak down the sinews, rack the brow with pains,\\nBlanch the bright cheek, and drain the purple veins,\\nTo clothe the mind with more extended sway,\\nThus faintly struggling in degenerate clay\\nNo gentle maid, too ready to admire.\\nThough false its notes, the pale enthusiast s lyre\\nIf this be genius, though its bitter springs\\nGlowed like the morn beneath Aurora s wings,\\nSeek not the source whose sullen bosom feeds\\nBut fruitless flowers, and dark, envenomed weeds\\nBut, if so bright the dear illusion seems.\\nThou wouldst be partner of thy poet s dreams,\\nAnd hang in rapture on his bloodless charms,\\nOr die, like Eaphael, in his angel arms\\nGo, and enjoy thy blessed lot, to share\\nIn Cowper s gloom, or Chatterton s despair\\nNot such were they whom, wandering o er the\\nwaves,\\nI looked to meet, but only found their graves\\nIf friendship s smile, the better part of fame,\\nShould lend my song the only wreath I claim,\\nWhose voice would greet me with a sweeter tone,\\nWhose living hand more kindly press my own,\\nThan theirs, could Memory, as her silent tread", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0063.jp2"}, "62": {"fulltext": "30 A METRICAL ESSAY.\\nPrints the pale flowers that blossom o er the dead,\\nThose breathless lips, now closed in peace, restore,\\nOr wake those pulses hushed to beat no more\\nThou calm, chaste scholar I can see thee now,\\nThe first young laurels on thy pallid brow,\\nO er thy slight figure floating lightly down\\nIn graceful folds the academic gown.\\nOn thy curled lip the classic lines, that taught\\nHow nice the mind that sculptured them with\\nthought,\\nAnd triumph glistening in the clear blue eye.\\nToo bright to live, but oh, too fair to die\\nAnd thou, dear friend,^ whom Science still de-\\nplores.\\nAnd love still mourns, on ocean-severed shores.\\nThough the bleak forest twice has bowed with snow,\\nSince thou wast laid its budding leaves below.\\nThine image mingles with my closing strain.\\nAs when we wandered by the turbid Seine,\\nBoth blest with hopes, which revelled, bright and\\nfree,\\nOn all we longed, or all we dreamed to be\\nTo thee the amaranth and the cypress fell,\\nAnd I was spared to breathe this last farewell\\nBut lived there one in unremembered days,\\nOr lives there still, who spurns the poet s bays\\n1 Tliou calm, chaste scholar.\\nCharles Chauncy Emerson died May 9th, 1836.\\n2 And thou, dear friend.\\nJames Jackson, Jr., M. D. died March 29th, 1834.", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0064.jp2"}, "63": {"fulltext": "A METRICAL ESSAY. 31\\nWhose fingers, dewy from Castalia s springs,\\nKest on the lore, yet scorn to touch the strings\\nWho shakes the senate with the silver tone\\nThe groves of Pindus might have sighed to own\\nHave such e er been Remember Canning s name\\nDo such still live Let Alaric s Dirge proclaim\\nImmortal Art where er the rounded sky\\nBends o er the cradle where thy children lie.\\nTheir home is earth, their herald every tongue\\nWhose accents echo to the voice that sung.\\nOne leap of Ocean scatters on the sand\\nThe quarried bulwarks of the loosening land\\nOne thrill of earth dissolves a century s toil,\\nStrewed like the leaves that vanish in the soil\\nOne hill o erflows, and cities sink below,\\nTheir marbles splintering in the lava s glow\\nBut one sweet tone, scarce whispered to the air,\\nFrom shore to shore the blasts of ages bear\\nOne humble name, Avhich oft, perchance, has borne\\nThe tyrant s mockery and the courtier s scorn.\\nTowers o er the dust of earth s forgotten graves.\\nAs once, emerging through the waste of waves.\\nThe rocky Titan, round whose shattered spear\\nCoiled the last whirlpool of the drowning sphere", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0065.jp2"}, "64": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0066.jp2"}, "65": {"fulltext": "LYRICS.", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0067.jp2"}, "66": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0068.jp2"}, "67": {"fulltext": "LYRICS.\\nTHE LAST KEADER.\\nI SOMETIMES sit beneath a tree,\\nAnd read my own sweet songs\\nThough naught they may to others be,\\nEach humble line prolongs\\nA tone that might have passed away,\\nBut for that scarce remembered lay.\\nI keep them like a lock or leaf.\\nThat some dear girl has given\\nFrail record of an hour, as brief\\nAs sunset clouds in heaven.\\nBut spreading purple twilight still\\nHigh over memory s shadowed hill.\\nThey lie upon my pathway bleak,\\nThose flowers that once ran wild.\\nAs on a father s care-worn cheek\\nThe ringlets of his child\\nThe golden mingling with the gray.\\nAnd stealing half its snows away.\\nWhat care I though the dust is spread\\nAround these yellow leaves,\\n35", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0069.jp2"}, "68": {"fulltext": "36 THE LAST READER.\\nOr o er them his sarcastic thread\\nOblivion s insect weaves\\nThough weeds are tangled on the stream,\\nIt still reflects my morning s beam.\\nAnd therefore love I such as smile\\nOn these neglected songs.\\nNor deem that flattery s needless wile\\nMy opening bosom wrongs\\nFor who would trample, at my side,\\nA few pale buds, my garden s pride\\nIt may be that my scanty ore\\nLong years have washed away,\\nAnd where were golden sands before,\\nIs naught but common clay\\nStill something sparkles in the sun\\nFor Memory to look back upon.\\nAnd Avhen my name no more is heard.\\nMy lyre no more is known.\\nStill let me, like a winter s bird.\\nIn silence and alone,\\nFold over them the weary wing\\nOnce flashing through the dews of spring.\\nYes, let my fancy fondly wrap\\nMy youth in its decline.\\nAnd riot in the rosy lap\\nOf thoughts that once were mine,\\nAnd give the Avorm my little store\\nWhen the last reader reads no more", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0070.jp2"}, "69": {"fulltext": "OUR YANKEE GIELS.\\nLet greener lands and bluer skies,\\nIf such the wide earth shows,\\nWith fairer cheeks and brighter eyes,\\nMatch us the star and rose\\nThe winds that lift the Georgian s veil,\\nOr wave Circassia s curls,\\nWaft to their shores the sultan s sail,\\nWho buys our Yankee girls\\nThe gay grisette, whose fingers touch\\nLove s thousand chords so well\\nThe dark Italian, loving much.\\nBut more than 07ie can tell\\nAnd England s fair-haired, blue-eyed dame,\\nWho binds her brow with pearls;\\nYe who have seen them, can they shame\\nOur own sweet Yankee girls\\nAnd what if court or castle vaunt\\nIts children loftier born\\nWho heeds the silken tassel s flaunt\\nBeside the golden corn\\nThey ask not for the dainty toil\\nOf ribboned knights and earls.\\nThe daughters of the virgin soil.\\nOur free-born Yankee girls\\n37", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0071.jp2"}, "70": {"fulltext": "38 OUR YANKEE GIRLS.\\nBy every hill whose stately pines\\nWave their dark arms above\\nThe home where some fair being shines,\\nTo warm the wilds with love,\\nFrom barest rock to bleakest shore\\nWhere farthest sail unfurls,\\nThat stars and stripes are streaming o er,-\\nGod bless our Yankee girls", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0072.jp2"}, "71": {"fulltext": "LA GEISETTE.\\nAh Clemence when I saw thee last\\nTrip down the Rue de Seine,\\nAnd turning, when thy form had past,\\nI said, We meet again,\\nI dreamed not in that idle glance\\nThy latest image came.\\nAnd only left to memory s trance\\nA shadow and a name.\\nThe few strange words my lips had taught\\nThy timid voice to speak.\\nTheir gentler signs, w^hich often brought\\nFresh roses to thy cheek,\\nThe trailing of thy long loose hair\\nBent o er my couch of pain,\\nAll, all returned, more sweet, more fair\\nhad we met again\\nI walked where saint and virgin keep\\nThe vigil lights of heaven,\\nI knew that thou hadst woes to weep,\\nAnd sins to be forgiven\\nI watched Avhere Genevieve was laid,\\n1 knelt by Mary s shrine,\\nBeside me low, soft voices prayed\\nAlas but where was thine\\n39", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0073.jp2"}, "72": {"fulltext": "40 LA GRISETTE.\\nAnd when the morning sun was bright,\\nWhen wind and wave were calm,\\nAnd flamed, in thousand-tinted light,\\nThe rose of Notre Dame,\\nI wandered through the haunts of men,\\nFrom Boulevard to Quai.\\nTill, frowning o er Saint Etienne,\\nThe Pantheon s shadow lay.\\nIn vain, in vain we meet no more,\\nNor dream what fates befall\\nAnd long upon the stranger s shore\\nMy voice on thee may call.\\nWhen years have clothed the line in moss,\\nThat tells thy name and days.\\nAnd withered, on thy simple cross.\\nThe wreaths of Pere-la-Chaise", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0074.jp2"}, "73": {"fulltext": "Al^ EYEKING THOUGHT.\\nWRITTEN AT SEA.\\nIf sometimes in the dark blue eye,\\nOr in the deep red wine,\\nOr soothed by gentlest melody.\\nStill warms this heart of mine,\\nYet something colder in the blood,\\nAnd calmer in the brain.\\nHave whispered that my youth s bright flood\\nEbbs, not to flow again.\\nIf by Helvetia s azure lake.\\nOr Arno s yellow stream.\\nEach star of memory could awake.\\nAs in my first young dream,\\nI know that when mine eye shall greet\\nThe hill-sides bleak and bare.\\nThat gird my home, it will not meet\\nMy childhood s sunsets there.\\nOh, when love s first, sweet, stolen kiss\\nBurned on my boyish brow.\\nWas that young forehead worn as this\\nWas that flushed cheek as now\\nWere that wild pulse and throbbing heart\\nLike these, which vainly strive,\\n41", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0075.jp2"}, "74": {"fulltext": "42 AN EVENING THOUGHT.\\nIn thankless strains of soulless art,\\nTo dream themselves alive?\\nAlas the morning dew is gone,\\nGone ere the full of day\\nLife s iron fetter still is on,\\nIts wreaths all torn away\\nHappy if still some casual hour\\nCan warm the fading shrine.\\nToo soon to chill beyond the power\\nOf love, or song, or wine", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0076.jp2"}, "75": {"fulltext": "A SOUYEJSriE.\\nYes, lady I can ne er forget,\\nThat once in other years we met\\nThy memory may perchance recall\\nA festal eve, a rose-wreathed hall.\\nIts tapers blaze, its mirrors glance.\\nIts melting song, its ringing dance\\nWhy, in thy dream of virgin joy,\\nShouldst thou recall a pallid boy\\nThine eye had other forms to seek.\\nWhy rest upon his bashful cheek\\nWith other tones thy heart was stirred,\\nWhy waste on him a gentle word\\nWe parted, lady,\u00e2\u0080\u0094 all night long\\nThine ear to thrill with dance and song,\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nAnd I\u00e2\u0080\u0094 to weep that I was born\\nA thing thou scarce wouldst deign to scorn.\\nAnd, lady now that years have past.\\nMy bark has reached the shore at last\\nThe gales that filled her ocean wing\\nHave chilled and shrunk thy hasty spring,\\nAnd eye to eye, and brow to brow,\\nI stand before thy presence now\\nThy lip is smoothed, thy voice is sweet,\\nThv warm hand offered when we meet.\\n43", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0077.jp2"}, "76": {"fulltext": "44 A SOUVENIR.\\nIS ay, lady tis not now for me\\nTo droop the lid or bend the knee.\\nI seek thee, oh, thou dost not shun\\nI speak, thou listenest like a nun\\nI ask thy smile, thy lip uncurls,\\nToo liberal of its flashiug pearls\\nThy tears, thy lashes sink again,\\nMy Hebe turns to Magdalen\\nO changing youth that evening hour\\nLook down on ours, the bud the flower\\nThine faded in its virgin soil.\\nAnd mine was nursed in tears and toil\\nThy leaves were withering, one by one,\\nWhile mine were opening to the sun\\nWhich now can meet the cold and storm,\\nWith freshest leaf and hardiest form\\nAy, lady that once haughty glance\\nStill wanders through the glittering dance,\\nAnd asks in vain from others pride,\\nThe charity thine own denied\\nAnd as thy fickle lips could learn\\nTo smile and praise, that used to spurn,\\nSo the last offering on thy shrine\\nShall be this flattering lay of mine", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0078.jp2"}, "77": {"fulltext": "^^Q[JiyiYE!\\nQm VIVE The sentry s musket rings,\\nThe channelled bayonet gleams\\nHigh o er him, like a raven s wings\\nThe broad tricolored banner flings\\nIts shadow, rustling as it swings\\nPale in the moonlight beams\\nPass on while steel-clad sentries keep\\nTheir vigil o er the monarch s sleep,\\nThy bare, unguarded breast\\nAsks not the unbroken, bristling zone\\nThat girds yon sceptred trembler s throne\\nPass on, and take thy rest\\nQui vive How oft the midnight air\\nThat startling cry has borne\\nHow oft the evening breeze has fanned\\nThe banner of this haughty land,\\nO er mountain snow and desert sand,\\nEre yet its folds were torn\\nThrough Jena s carnage flying red.\\nOr tossing o er Marengo s dead.\\nOr curling on the towers\\nWhere Austria s eagle quivers yet,\\nAnd suns the ruffled plumage, wet\\nWith battle s crimson showers\\n45", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0079.jp2"}, "78": {"fulltext": "46 QUI VIVE.\\nQui vive And is the sentry s cry,\\nThe sleepless soldier s hand,\\nAre these, the painted folds that fly\\nAnd lift their emblems, printed high,\\nOn morning mist and sunset sky,\\nThe guardians of a land\\nNo If the patriot s pulses sleep,\\nHow vain the watch that hirelings keep,-\\nThe idle flag that waves.\\nWhen Conquest, with his iron heel,\\nTreads down the standards and the steel\\nThat belt the soil of slaves", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0080.jp2"}, "79": {"fulltext": "THE WASP AND THE HOENET.\\nThe two proud sisters of the sea,\\nIn glory and in doom\\nWell may the eternal waters be\\nTheir broad, unsculptured tomb\\nThe wind that rings along the wave,\\nTlie clear, unshadowed sun.\\nAre torch and trumpet o er the brave.\\nWhose last green wreath is won\\nNo stranger-hand their banners furled,\\nNo victor s shout they heard\\nUnseen, above them ocean curled.\\nSave by his own pale bird\\nThe gnashing billow^s heaved and fell\\nWild shrieked the midnight gale\\nFar, far beneath the morning swell\\nWere pennon, spar, and sail.\\nThe land of Freedom Sea and shore\\nAre guarded now, as when\\nHer ebbing waves to victory bore\\nFair barks and gallant men\\nOh, many a ship of prouder name\\nMay wave her starry fold.\\nNor trail, with deeper light of fame.\\nThe paths they swept of old", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0081.jp2"}, "80": {"fulltext": "FEOM A BACHELOE S PEIYATE JOUEJ^AL.\\nSweet Mary, I have never breathed\\nThe love it were in vain to name\\nThough round my heart a serpent wreathed,\\nI smiled, or strove to smile, the same.\\nOnce more the pulse of Nature glows\\nWith faster throb and fresher fire,\\nWhile music round her pathway flows\\nLike echoes from a hidden lyre.\\nAnd is there none with me to share\\nThe glories of the earth and sky\\nThe eagle through the pathless air\\nIs followed by one burning eye.\\nAh, no the cradled flowers may wake,\\nAgain may flow the frozen sea.\\nFrom every cloud a star may break,\\nThere comes no second Spring to me.\\nGo, ere the painted toys of youth\\nAre crushed beneath the tread of years\\nEre visions have been chilled to truth.\\nAnd hopes are washed away in tears.\\n48", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0082.jp2"}, "81": {"fulltext": "FROM A BACHELOR S PRIVATE JOURNAL. 49\\nGo, for I will not bid thee weep,\\nToo soon my sorrows will be thine,\\nAnd evening s troubled air shall sweep\\nThe incense from the broken shrine.\\nIf Heaven can bear the djing tone\\nOf chords that soon will cease to thrill,\\nThe prayer that Heaven has heard alone,\\nMay bless thee when those chords are still\\n4", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0083.jp2"}, "82": {"fulltext": "STANZAS.\\nStrange that one lightly whispered tone\\nIs far, far sweeter unto me,\\nThan all the sounds that kiss the earth,\\nOr breathe along the sea\\nBut, lady, when thy voice I greet,\\nNot heavenly music seems so sweet.\\nI look upon the fair blue skies.\\nAnd naught but empty air I see\\nBut when I turn me to thine eyes.\\nIt seemeth unto me\\nTen thousand angels spread their wings\\nWithin those little azure rings.\\nThe lily hath the softest leaf\\nThat ever western breeze hath fanned,\\nBut thou shalt have the tender flower.\\nSo I may take thy hand\\nThat little hand to me doth yield\\nMore joy than all the broidered field.\\nO lady there be many things\\nThat seem right fair, below, above\\nBut sure not one among them all\\nIs half so sweet as love\\nLet us not pay our vows alone.\\nBut join two altars both in one.\\n50", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0084.jp2"}, "83": {"fulltext": "THE PHILOSOPHER TO HIS LOYE.\\nDeakest, a look is but a ray\\nEeflected in a certain way\\nA word, whatever tone it wear,\\nIs but a trembling wave of air\\nA touch, obedience to a clause\\nIn nature s pure material laws.\\nThe very flowers that bend and meet,\\nIn sweetening others, grow more sweet\\nThe clouds by day, the stars by night.\\nInweave their floating locks of light\\nThe rainbow. Heaven s own forehead s braid,\\nIs but the embrace of sun and shade.\\nHow few that love us have w^e found\\nHow wide the world that girds them round\\nLike mountain streams we meet and part,\\nEach living in the other s heart,\\nOur course unknown, our hope to be\\nYet mingled in the distant sea.\\nBut Ocean coils and heaves in vain,\\nBound in the subtle moonbeam s chain\\nAnd love and hope do but obey\\nSome cold, capricious planet s ray.\\nWhich lights and leads the tide it charms.\\nTo Death s dark caves and icy arms.\\n51", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0085.jp2"}, "84": {"fulltext": "52 THE PHILOSOPHER TO HIS LOVE.\\nAlas one narrow line is drawn,\\nThat links our sunset with our dawn\\nIn mist and shade life s morning rose,\\nAnd clouds are round it at its close\\nBut ah no twilight beam ascends\\nTo whisper where that evening ends.\\nOh in the hour when I shall feel\\nThose shadows round my senses steal,\\nWhen gentle eyes are weeping o er\\nThe clay that feels their tears no more,\\nThen let thy spirit with me be.\\nOr some sweet angel, likest thee", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0086.jp2"}, "85": {"fulltext": "L mCONNUE.\\nIs thy name Mary, maiden fair\\nSuch should, methinks, its music be\\nThe sweetest name that mortals bear.\\nWere best befitting thee\\nAnd she, to whom it once was given.\\nWas half of earth and half of heaven.\\nI hear thy voice, I see thy smile,\\nI look upon thy folded hair\\nAh while we dream not they beguile.\\nOur hearts are in the snare\\nAnd she, who chains a wild bird s Aving,\\nMust start not if her captive sing.\\nSo, lady, take the leaf that falls,\\nTo all but thee unseen, unknown\\nWhen evening shades thy silent walls,\\nThen read it all alone\\nIn stillness read, in darkness seal.\\nForget, despise, but not reveal\\n53", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0087.jp2"}, "86": {"fulltext": "THE STAK AND THE WATEK-LILY.\\nThe sun stepped down from his golden throne,\\nAnd lay in the silent sea,\\nAnd the Lily had folded her satin leaves,\\nFor a sleepy thing was she\\nWhat is the Lily dreaming of\\nWhy crisp the waters blue\\nSee, see, she is lifting her varnished lid\\nHer white leaves are glistening through\\nThe Rose is cooling his burning cheek\\nIn the lap of the breathless tide\\nThe Lily hath sisters fresh and fair.\\nThat would lie by the Hose s side\\nHe would love her better than all the rest,\\nAnd he would be fond and true\\nBut the Lily unfolded her weary lids,\\nAnd looked at the sky so blue.\\nRemember, remember, thou silly one,\\nHow fast will thy summer glide.\\nAnd wilt thou wither a virgin pale,\\nOr flourish a blooming bride\\nOh, the Rose is old, and thorny, and cold,\\nAnd he lives on earth, said she\\nBut the Star is fair and he lives in the air.\\nAnd he shall my bridegroom be.\\n64", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0088.jp2"}, "87": {"fulltext": "THE STAR AND THE WATER-LILY. 55\\nBut what if the stormy cloud should come\\nAnd ruffle the silver sea\\nWould he turn his eye from the distant sky,\\nTo smile on a thing like thee\\nOh, no, fair Lily, he will not send\\nOne ray from his far-off throne\\nThe winds shall blow and the waves shall flow,\\nAnd thou wilt be left alone.\\nThere is not a leaf on the mountain top,\\nNor a drop of evening dew,\\nNor a golden sand on the sparkling shore,\\nNor a pearl in the waters blue,\\nThat he has not cheered with his fickle smile,\\nAnd warmed with his faithless beam,\\nAnd will he be true to a pallid flower.\\nThat floats on the quiet stream\\nAlas for the Lily she would not heed,\\nBut turned to the skies afar.\\nAnd bared her breast to the trembling ray\\nThat shot from the rising star\\nThe cloud came over the darkened sk}^.\\nAnd over the waters wide\\nShe looked in vain through the beating rain,\\nAnd sank in the stormy tide.", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0089.jp2"}, "88": {"fulltext": "ILLUSTKATION OF A PICTUKE.\\nA SPANISH GIRL IN REVERY.\\nShe twirled the string of golden beads,\\nThat round her neck was hung,\\nMy grandsire s gift the good old man\\nLoved girls when he was young\\nAnd, bending lightly o er the cord,\\nAnd turning half away,\\nWith something like a youthful sigh,\\nThus spoke the maiden gray\\nWell, one may trail her silken robe,\\nAnd bind her locks with pearls,\\nAnd one may wreathe the woodland rose\\nAmong her floating curls\\nAnd one may tread the dewy grass,\\nAnd one the marble floor,\\nNor half-hid bosom heave the less,\\nNor broidered corset more\\nSome years ago, a dark-eyed girl\\nWas sitting in the shade,\\nThere s something brings her to my mind\\nIn that young dreaming maid,\\nAnd in her hand she held a flower,\\nA flower, whose speaking hue\\n66", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0090.jp2"}, "89": {"fulltext": "ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE. 57\\nSaid, in the language of the heart,\\nBelieve the giver true.\\nAnd, as she looked upon its leaves,\\nThe maiden made a vow\\nTo wear it when the bridal wreath\\nWas woven for her brow\\nShe watched the flower, as, day by day,\\nThe leaflets curled and died\\nBut he who gave it never came\\nTo claim her for his bride.\\nOh, many a summer s morning glow\\nHas lent the rose its ray.\\nAnd many a winter s drifting snow\\nHas swept its bloom away\\nBut she has kept that faithless pledge\\nTo this, her winter hour,\\nAnd keeps it still, herself alone,\\nAnd wasted like the flower.\\nHer pale lip quivered, and the light\\nGleamed in her moistening eyes\\nI asked her how she liked the tints\\nIn those Castilian skies\\nShe thought them misty, twas perhaps\\nBecause she stood too near\\nShe turned away, and as she turned,\\nI saw her wipe a tear.", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0091.jp2"}, "90": {"fulltext": "THE DYING SENECA.\\nHe died not as the martyr dies\\nWrapped in his living shroud of flame\\nHe fell not as the warrior falls,\\nGasping upon the field of fame\\nA gentler passage to the grave,\\nThe murderer s softened fury gave.\\nEome s slaughtered sons and blazing piles\\nHad tracked the purple demon s path,\\nAnd yet another victim lived\\nTo fill the fiery scroll of wrath\\nCould not imperial vengeance spare\\nHis furrowed brow and silver hair 1\\nThe field was sown with noble blood,\\nThe harvest reaped in burning tears,\\nWhen, rolling up its crimson flood.\\nBroke the long-gathering tide of years\\nHis diadem was rent away.\\nAnd beggars trampled on his clay.\\nNone wept,\u00e2\u0080\u0094 none pitied they who knelt\\nAt morning by the despot s throne.\\nAt evening dashed the laurelled bust,\\nAnd spurned the wreaths themselves had\\nstrewn\\nThe shout of triumph echoed wide,\\nThe self-stung reptile writhed and died\\n58", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0092.jp2"}, "91": {"fulltext": "A POETEAIT.\\nA STILL, sweet, placid, moonlight face,\\nAnd slightly nonchalant,\\nWhich seems to claim a middle place\\nBetween one s love and aunt,\\nWhere childhood s star has left a ray\\nIn woman s sunniest sky.\\nAs morning dew and blushing day\\nOn fruit and blossom lie.\\nAnd yet, and yet I cannot love\\nThose lovely lines on steel\\nThey beam too much of heaven above,\\nEarth s darker shades to feel\\nPerchance some early weeds of care\\nAround my heart have grown.\\nAnd brows unfurrowed seem not fair.\\nBecause they mock my own.\\nAlas when Eden s gates were sealed.\\nHow oft some sheltered flower\\nBreathed o er the wanderers of the field,\\nLike their own bridal bower\\nYet, saddened by its loveliness.\\nAnd humbled by its pride.\\nEarth s fairest child they could not bless,\\nIt mocked them when they sighed.\\n59", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0093.jp2"}, "92": {"fulltext": "A EOMAN AQUEDUCT.\\nThe sun-browned girl, whose limbs recline\\nWhen noon her languid hand has laid\\nHot on the green flakes of the pine,\\nBeneath its narrow disk of shade\\nAs, through the flickering noontide glare,\\nShe gazes on the rainbow chain\\nOf arches, lifting once in air\\nThe rivers of the Roman s plain\\nSay, does her Avandering eye recall\\nThe mountain-current s icy wave,\\nOr for the dead one tear let fall.\\nWhose founts are broken by their grave\\nFrom stone to stone the ivy weaves\\nHer braided tracery s winding veil,\\nAnd lacing stalks and tangled leaves\\nIS od heavy in the drowsy gale.\\nAnd lightly floats the pendent vine.\\nThat swings beneath her slender bow.\\nArch answering arch, whose rounded line\\nSeems mirrored in the wreath below.\\nHow patient Nature smiles at Fame\\nThe weeds, that strewed the victor s way,\\nFeed on his dust to shroud his name.\\nGreen where his proudest towers decay.\\nGO", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0094.jp2"}, "93": {"fulltext": "A ROMAN AQUEDUCT. 61\\nSee, through that channel, empty now,\\nThe scanty rain its tribute pours,\\nWhich cooled the lip and laved the brow\\nOf conquerors from a hundred shores.\\nThus bending o er the nation s bier.\\nWhose wants the captive earth supplied,\\nThe dew of Memory s passing tear\\nFalls on the arches of her pride", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0095.jp2"}, "94": {"fulltext": "THE LAST PEOPHECY OF CASSAISTDRA.\\nThe sun is fading in the skies\\nAnd evening shades are gathering fast\\nFair city, ere that sun shall rise,\\nThy night hath come, thy day is past\\nYe know not, but the hour is nigh\\nYe will not heed the warning breath\\nNo vision strikes your clouded eye^\\nTo break the sleep that wakes in death.\\nGo, age, and let thy withered cheek\\nBe wet once more with freezing tears\\nAnd bid thy trembling sorrow speak,\\nIn accents of departed years.\\nGo, child, and pour thy sinless prayer\\nBefore the everlasting throne\\nAnd He who sits in glory there.\\nMay stoop to hear thy silver tone.\\nGo, warrior, in thy glittering steel,\\nAnd bow thee at the altar s side\\nAnd bid thy frowning gods reveal\\nThe doom their mystic counsels hide.\\n62", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0096.jp2"}, "95": {"fulltext": "THE LAST PROPHECY OF CASSANDRA. 63\\nGo, maiden, in thy flowing veil.\\nAnd bare thy brow, and bend thy knee\\nWhen the last hopes of mercy fail.\\nThy God may yet remember thee.\\nGo, as thou didst in happier hours.\\nAnd lay thine incense on the shrine\\nAnd greener leaves, and fairer flowers.\\nAround the sacred image twine.\\nI saw them rise, the buried dead,\\nFrom marble tomb and grassy mound\\nI heard the spirits printless tread,\\nAnd voices not of earthly sound.\\nI looked upon the quivering stream.\\nAnd its cold wave was bright with flame\\nAnd wild, as from a fearful dream.\\nThe wasted forms of battle came.\\nYe will not hear ye will not know,\\nYe scorn the maniac s idle song\\nYe care not but the voice of woe\\nShall thunder loud, and echo long.\\nBlood shall be in your marble halls.\\nAnd spears shall glance, and fires shall glow\\nEuin shall sit upon your walls.\\nBut ye shall lie in death below.\\nAy, none shall live to hear the storm\\nAround their blackened pillars sweep\\nTo shudder at the reptile s form.\\nOr scare the wild bird from her sleep.", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0097.jp2"}, "96": {"fulltext": "TO A CAGED LION.\\nPooK conquered monarch though that haughty\\nglance\\nStill speaks thy courage unsubdued by time,\\nAnd in the grandeur of thy sullen tread\\nLives the proud spirit of thy burning clime\\nFettered by things that shudder at thy roar,\\nTorn from thy pathless wilds to pace this narrow\\nfloor!\\nThou wast the victor, and all nature shrunk\\nBefore the thunders of thine awful wrath\\nThe steel -armed hunter viewed thee from afar.\\nFearless and trackless in thy lonely path\\nThe famished tiger closed his flaming eye,\\nAnd crouched and panted as thy step went by\\nThou art the vanquished, and insulting man\\nBars thy broad bosom as a sparrow s wing\\nHis nerveless arms thine iron sinews bind.\\nAnd lead in chains the desert s fallen king\\nAre these the beings that have dared to twine\\nTheir feeble threads around those limbs of thine\\n64", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0098.jp2"}, "97": {"fulltext": "TO A CAGED LION. 65\\nSo must it be the weaker, wiser race,\\nThat wields the tempest and that rides the sea,\\nEven in the stillness of thy solitude\\nMust teach the lesson of its power to thee\\nAnd thou, the terror of the trembling wild.\\nMust bow thy savage strength, the mockery of a\\nchild\\n5", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0099.jp2"}, "98": {"fulltext": "TO MY COMPANIONS.\\nMine ancient Chair thy wide-embracing arms\\nHave clasped around me even from a boy\\nHadst thou a voice to speak of years gone by,\\nThine were a tale of sorrow and of joy,\\nOf fevered hopes and ill-foreboding fears,\\nAnd smile unseen, and unrecorded tears.\\nAnd thou, my Table though unwearied Time\\nHath set his signet on thine altered brow,\\nStill can I see thee in thy spotless prime.\\nAnd in my memory thou art living now\\nSoon must thou slumber with forgotten things.\\nThe peasant s ashes and the dust of kings.\\nThou melancholy Mug thy sober brown\\nHath something pensive in its evening hue,\\nNot like the things that please the tasteless clown.\\nWith gaudy streaks of orange and of blue\\nAnd I must love thee, for thou art mine own.\\nPressed by my lip, and pressed by mine alone.\\nMy broken Mirror faithless, yet beloved.\\nThou who canst smile, and smile alike on all,\\nOft do I leave thee, oft again return,\\nI scorn the siren, but obey the call\\nI hate thy falsehood, w^hile I fear thy truth,\\nBut most I love thee, flattering friend of youth.\\n66", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0100.jp2"}, "99": {"fulltext": "TO MY COMPANIONS. 67\\nPrimeval Carpet every well-worn thread\\nHas slowly parted with its virgin dye\\nI saw thee fade beneath the ceaseless tread,\\nFainter and fainter in mine anxious eye\\nSo flies the color from the brightest flower,\\nAnd heaven s own rainboAV lives but for an hour.\\nI love you all there radiates from our own\\nA. soul that lives in every shape we see\\nThere is a voice, to other ears unknown,\\nLike echoed music answering to its key.\\nThe dungeoned captive hath a tale to tell.\\nOf every insect in his lonely cell\\nAnd these poor frailties have a simple tone,\\nThat breathes in accents sweet to me alone.", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0101.jp2"}, "100": {"fulltext": "THE LAST LEAF.\\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,\\nNot a better man was found\\nBy the Crier on his round\\nThrough the town.\\nBut now he walks the streets,\\nAnd 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 marble 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.\\n68", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0102.jp2"}, "101": {"fulltext": "THE LAST LEAF. 69\\nMy grandmamma has said,\\nPoor old lady, she is dead\\nLong ago,\\nThat he had a Koman 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.\\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.", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0103.jp2"}, "102": {"fulltext": "TO A BLANK SHEET OF PAPEE.\\nWan-yisaged thing thy virgin leaf\\nTo me looks more than deadly pale,\\nUnknowing what may stain thee yet,\\nA poem or a tale.\\nWho can thy unborn meaning scan\\nCan Seer or Sibyl read thee now\\nNo, seek to trace the fate of man\\nWrit on his infant brow.\\nLove may light on thy snowy cheek,\\nAnd shake his Eden-breathing plumes\\nThen shalt thou tell how Lelia smiles,\\nOr Angelina blooms.\\nSatire may lift his bearded lance,\\nForestalling Time s slow-moving scythe.\\nAnd, scattered on thy little field.\\nDisjointed bards may writhe.\\nPerchance a vision of the night.\\nSome grizzled spectre, gaunt and thin,\\nOr sheeted corpse, may stalk along.\\nOr skeleton may grin\\n70", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0104.jp2"}, "103": {"fulltext": "TO A BLANK SHEET OF PAPER. 71\\nIf it should be in pensive hour\\nSome sorrow-moving theme I try,\\nAh, maiden, how thy tears will fall,\\nFor all I doom to die\\nBut if in merry mood I touch\\nThy leaves, then shall the sight of thee\\nSow smiles as thick on rosy lips\\nAs ripples on the sea.\\nThe Weekly press shall gladly stoop\\nTo bind thee up among its sheaves\\nThe Daily steal thy shining ore,\\nTo gild its leaden leaves.\\nThou hast no tongue, yet thou canst speak,\\nTill distant shores shall hear the sound\\nThou hast no life, yet thou canst breathe\\nFresh life on all around.\\nThou art the arena of the wise,\\nThe noiseless battle-ground of fame\\nThe sky where halos may be wreathed\\nAround the humblest name.\\nTake, then, this treasure to thy trust,\\nTo win some idle reader s smile,\\nThen fade and moulder in the dust,\\nOr swell some bonfire s crackling pile", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0105.jp2"}, "104": {"fulltext": "TO AN INSECT.\\nI LOVE to hear thine earnest voice,\\nWherever thou art hid,\\nThou testy little dogmatist,\\nThou pretty Katydid\\nThou mind est me of gentlefolks,\\nOld gentlefolks are they,\\nThou say st an undisputed thing\\nIn such a solemn way.\\nThou art a female, Katydid\\nI know it by the trill\\nThat quivers through thy piercing notes,\\nSo petulant and shrill,\\nI think there is a knot of you\\nBeneath the hollow tree,\\nA knot of spinster Katydids,\\nDo Katydids drink tea\\nOh, tell me where did Katy live,\\nAnd what did Katy do\\nAnd was she very fair and young,\\nAnd yet so wicked, too\\nDid Katy love a naughty man.\\nOr kiss more cheeks than one\\nI warrant Katy did no more\\nThan many a Kate has done.\\n72", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0106.jp2"}, "105": {"fulltext": "TO AN INSECT. 73\\nDear me Fll tell you all about\\nMy fuss with little Jane,\\nAnd Ann, with whom I used to walk\\nSo often down the lane,\\nAnd all that tore their locks of black,\\nOr wet their eyes of blue,\\nPray tell me, sweetest Katydid,\\nWhat did poor Katy do\\nOh, no the living oak shall crash.\\nThat stood for ages still.\\nThe rock shall rend its mossy base\\nAnd thunder down the hill.\\nBefore the little Katydid\\nShall add one word, to tell\\nThe mystic story of the maid\\nWhose name she knows so well.\\nPeace to the ever murmuring race\\nAnd when the latest one\\nShall fold in death her feeble wings\\nBeneath the autumn sun,\\nThen shall she raise her fainting voice\\nAnd lift her drooping lid.\\nAnd then the child of future years\\nShall hear what Katy did.", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0107.jp2"}, "106": {"fulltext": "THE DILEMMA.\\n!N ow, by the blessed Paphian queen,\\nWho heaves the breast of sweet sixteen:\\nBy every name I cut on bark\\nBefore my morning star grew dark\\nBy Hymen s torch, by Cupid s dart,\\nBy all that thrills the beating heart\\nThe bright black eye, the melting blue,\\nI cannot choose between the two.\\nI had a vision in my dreams\\nI saw a row of twenty beams\\nFrom every beam a rope was hung.\\nIn every rope a lover swung\\nI asked the hue of every eye.\\nThat bade each luckless lover die\\nTen shadowy lips said, heavenly blue.\\nAnd ten accused the darker hue.\\nI asked a matron, which she deemed\\nWith fairest light of beauty beamed\\nShe answered, some thought both were fair.\\nGive her blue eyes and golden hair.\\nI might have liked her judgment Avell,\\nBut, as she spoke, she rung the bell,\\nAnd all her girls, nor small nor few.\\nCame marching in, their eyes were blue.\\n74", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0108.jp2"}, "107": {"fulltext": "THE DILEMMA. ^5\\nI asked a maiden back she flung\\nThe locks that round her forehead hung,\\nAnd turned her eye, a glorious one.\\nBright as a diamon l in the sun,\\nOn me, until beneath its rays\\nI felt as if my hair would blaze\\nShe liked all eyes but eyes of green\\nShe looked at me what could she mean\\nAh many lids Love lurks between.\\nNor heeds the coloring of his screen\\nAnd when his random arrows fly,\\nThe victim falls, but knows not why.\\nGaze not upon his shield of jet,\\nThe shaft upon the string is set\\nLook not beneath his azure veil,\\nThough every limb w^ere cased in mail.\\nWell, both might make a martyr break\\nThe chain that bound him to the stake\\nAnd both, with but a single ray.\\nCan melt our very hearts away\\nAnd both, when balanced, hardly seem\\nTo stir the scales, or rock the beam\\nBut that is dearest, all the while.\\nThat wears for us the sweetest smile.", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0109.jp2"}, "108": {"fulltext": "MY 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,\\nYowed she should make the finest girl\\nWithin a hundred miles\\nHe sent her to a stylish school\\nTwas in her thirteenth June\\nAnd with her, as the rules required,\\nTwo towels and a spoon.\\n76", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0110.jp2"}, "109": {"fulltext": "MY AUNT.\\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\\nOh, 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,\\nE or 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": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0111.jp2"}, "110": {"fulltext": "THE TOADSTOOL.\\nThere s a thing that grows by the fainting flower,\\nAnd springs in the shade of the lady s bower\\nThe lily shrinks, and the rose turns pale.\\nWhen they feel its breath in the summer gale,\\nAnd the tulip curls its leaves in pride,\\nAnd the blue-eyed violet starts aside\\nBut the lily may flaunt, and the tulip stare,\\nFor what does the honest toadstool care\\nShe does not glow in a painted vest.\\nAnd she never blooms on the maiden s breast;\\nBut she comes, as the saintly sisters do.\\nIn a modest suit of a Quaker hue.\\nAnd, when the stars in the evening skies\\nAre weeping dew from their gentle e3^es,\\nThe toad comes out from his hermit cell,\\nThe tale of his faithful love to tell.\\nOh, there is light in her lover s glance.\\nThat flies to her heart like a silver lance\\nHis breeches are made of spotted skin.\\nHis jacket is tight, and his pumps are thin\\nIn a cloudless night you may hear his song.\\nAs its pensive melody floats along.\\nAnd, if you will look by the moonlight fair,\\nThe trembling form of the toad is there.\\n78", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0112.jp2"}, "111": {"fulltext": "THE TOADSTOOL. 79\\nAnd he twines bis arms round her slender stem,\\nIn the shade of her velvet diadem\\nBut she turns away in her maiden shame,\\nAnd will not breatlie on the kindling flame\\nHe sings at her feet through the livelong night,\\nAnd creeps to his cave at the break of light\\nAnd whenever he comes to the air above.\\nHis throat is swelling with baffled love.", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0113.jp2"}, "112": {"fulltext": "THE MEETING OF THE DRYADS.i\\nIt was not many centuries since,\\nWhen, gatiiered on the moonlit green,\\nBeneath the Tree of Liberty,\\nA ring of weeping sprites were seen.\\nThe freshman s lamp had long been dim,\\nThe voice of busy day was mute,\\nAnd tortured melody had ceased\\nHer sufferings on the evening flute.\\nThey met not as they once had met.\\nTo laugh o er many a jocund tale\\nBut every pulse was beating low.\\nAnd every cheek was cold and pale.\\nThere rose a fair but faded one,\\nWho oft had cheered them with her song\\nShe waved a mutilated arm,\\nAnd silence held the listening throng.\\nSweet friends, the gentle nymph began^\\nFrom opening bud to withering leaf.\\nOne common lot has bound us all,\\nIn every change of joy and grief.\\n1 Written after a general pruning of the trees around Har-\\nvard College.\\n80", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0114.jp2"}, "113": {"fulltext": "THE MEETING OF THE DRYADS. 81\\nWhile all around has felt decay,\\nWe rose in ever living prime,\\nWith broader shade and fresher green,\\nBeneath the crumbling step of Time.\\nWhen often by our feet has past\\nSome biped, nature s walking whim.\\nSay, have we trimmed one awkward shape.\\nOr lopped away one crooked limb\\nGo on, fair Science soon to thee\\nShall Nature yield her idle boast\\nHer vulgar fingers formed a tree.\\nBut thou hast trained it to a post.\\nGo paint the birch s silver rind.\\nAnd quilt the peach with softer down\\nUp with the willow s trailing threads.\\nOff with the sunflower s radiant crown\\nGo, plant the lily on the shore.\\nAnd set the rose among the waves,\\nAnd bid the tropic bud unbind\\nIts silken zone in arctic caves\\nBring bellows for the panting winds.\\nHang up a lantern by the moon.\\nAnd give the nightingale a fife.\\nAnd lend the eagle a balloon\\nI cannot smile, the tide of scorn.\\nThat rolled through every bleeding vein.\\nComes kindling fiercer as it flows\\nBack to its burning source again.\\n6", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0115.jp2"}, "114": {"fulltext": "g2 THE MEETING OF THE DRYADS.\\nAgain in every quivering leaf\\nThat moment s agony I feel,\\nWhen limbs, that spurned the northern blast,\\nShrunk from the sacrilegious steel.\\nA curse upon the wretch who dared\\nTo crop us with his felon saw\\nMay every fruit his lip shall taste.\\nLie like a bullet in his maw.\\nIn ever julep that he drinks,\\nMay gout, and bile, and headache be\\nAnd when he strives to calm his pain,\\nMay colic mingle with his tea.\\nMay nightshade cluster round his path.\\nAnd thistles shoot, and brambles cling\\nMay blistering ivy scorch his veins,\\nAnd dogwood burn, and nettles sting.\\nOn him may never shadow fall,\\nWhen fever racks his throbbing brow.\\nAnd his last shilling buy a rope\\nTo hang him on my highest bough\\nShe spoke the morning s herald beam\\nSprang from the bosom of the sea,\\nAnd every mangled sprite returned\\nIn sadness to her wounded tree.^\\n1 A little poem, on a similar occasion, may be found in the\\nworks of Swift, from which, perhaps, the idea was borrowed\\nalthough I was as much surprised as amused to meet with it\\nsome time after writing the preceding lines.", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0116.jp2"}, "115": {"fulltext": "THE MYSTEEIOUS YISITOE.\\nThere was a sound of hurrying feet,\\nA tramp on echoing stairs,\\nThere was a rush along the aisles,\\nIt was the hour of prayers.\\nAnd on, like Ocean s midnight wave,\\nThe current rolled along,\\nWhen, suddenly, a stranger form\\nWas seen amidst the throng.\\nHe was a dark and swarthy man.\\nThat uninvited guest\\nA faded coat of bottle green\\nWas buttoned round his breast.\\nThere was not one among them all\\nCould say from whence he came\\nNor beardless boy, nor ancient man.\\nCould tell that stranger s name.\\nAll silent as the sheeted dead,\\nIn spite of sneer and frown.\\nFast by a gray-haired senior s side\\nHe sat him boldly down.\\n83", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0117.jp2"}, "116": {"fulltext": "g4 THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR.\\nThere was a look of horror flashed\\nFrom out the tutor s eyes\\nWhen all around him rose to pray,\\nThe stranger did not rise\\nA murmur broke along the crowd,\\nThe prayer was at an end\\nWith ringing heels and measured tread\\nA hundred forms descend.\\nThrough sounding aisles, o er grating stair,\\nThe long procession poured.\\nTill all were gathered on the seats\\nAround the Commons board.\\nThat fearful stranger down he sat.\\nUnasked, yet undismayed\\nAnd on his lip a rising smile\\nOf scorn or pleasure played.\\nHe took his hat and hung it up,\\nWith slow but earnest air\\nHe stripped his coat from off his back,\\nAnd placed it on a chair.\\nThen from his nearest neighbor s side\\nA knife and plate he drew\\nAnd, reaching out his hand again.\\nHe took his teacup too.\\nHow fled the sugar from the bowl\\nHow sunk the azure cream", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0118.jp2"}, "117": {"fulltext": "THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR. 85\\nThey vanished like the shapes that float\\nUpon a summer s dream.\\nA long, long draught, an outstretched hand,\\nAnd crackers, toast, and tea,\\nThey faded from the stranger s touch\\nLike dew upon the sea.\\nThen clouds were dark on many a brow,\\nFear sat upon their souls,\\nAnd, in a bitter agony,\\nThey clasped their buttered rolls.\\nA whisper trembled through the crowd,\\nWho could the stranger be\\nAnd some were silent, for they thought\\nA cannibal was he.\\nWhat if the creature should arise.\\nFor he was stout and tall,\\nAnd swallow down a sophomore.\\nCoat, crow s foot, cap, and all\\nAll suddenly the stranger rose\\nThey sat in mute despair\\nHe took his hat from off the peg,\\nHis coat from off the chair.\\nFour freshmen fainted on the seat,\\nSix swooned upon the floor\\nYet on the fearful being passed.\\nAnd shut the chapel door.", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0119.jp2"}, "118": {"fulltext": "86 THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR.\\nThere is full many a starving man,\\nThat walks in bottle green,\\nBut never more that hungry one\\nIn Common s-hall was seen.\\nYet often at the sunset hour.\\nWhen tolls the evening bell,\\nThe freshman lingers on the steps.\\nThat frightful tale to tell.", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0120.jp2"}, "119": {"fulltext": "THE SPECTKE 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\\n87", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0121.jp2"}, "120": {"fulltext": "THE SPECTRE PIG.\\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.\\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\\nO 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\\nO 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", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0122.jp2"}, "121": {"fulltext": "THE SPECTRE PIG.\\nIt was the butcher s daughter then,\\nSo slender and so fair,\\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 brio^ht 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 ej^es.\\nAnd sullenly he shook his tail\\nTo lash the feeding flies.", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0123.jp2"}, "122": {"fulltext": "90 THE SPEGTRfi PIG.\\nOne quiver of the hempen cordj-\\nOne struggle and one bound.\\nWith stiffened limb and leaden eye,\\nThe Pig was on the ground\\nAnd straight towards the sleeper s hoUtSb\\nIlis 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\\n.I^ow 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.\\nBut, faster than the clinging vine,\\nThose twining spirals clasp.", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0124.jp2"}, "123": {"fulltext": "THE SPECTRE PIG. 91\\nAnd opew, 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 Avaken him.\\nStraight, straight towards that oaken beam,\\nA trampled pathway ran\\nA ghastly shape was swinging there,\\nIt was the butcher man.", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0125.jp2"}, "124": {"fulltext": "LmES BY A CLEEK.\\nOh I did love her dearh^,\\nAnd gave her toys and rings,\\nAnd I thought she meant sincerely,\\nWhen she took my pretty things\\nBut her heart has grown as icy\\nAs a fountain in the fall,\\nAnd her love, that was so spicy.\\nIt did not last at all.\\nI gave her once a locket.\\nIt was filled Avith my own hair,\\nAnd she put it in her j)ocket\\nWith very special care.\\nBut a jeweller has got it,\\nHe offered it to me,\\nAnd another that is not it\\nAround her neck I see.\\nFor my cooings and my billings\\nI do not now complain.\\nBut my dollars and my shillings\\nWill never come again\\nThey were earned with toil and sorrow,\\nBut I never told her that,\\nAnd now I have to borrow.\\nAnd want another hat.\\n92", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0126.jp2"}, "125": {"fulltext": "LINES BY A CLERK. 93\\nThink, think, thou cruel Emma,\\nWhen thou shalt hear ray woe,\\nAnd know my sad dilemma,\\nThat thou hast made it so.\\nSee, see my beaver rusty,\\nLook, look upon this hole,\\nThis coat is dim and dusty\\nOh, let it rend thy soul\\nBefore the gates of fashion\\nI daily bent my knee,\\nBut I sought the shrine of passion.\\nAnd found my idol, thee\\nThough never love intenser\\nHad bowed a soul before it,\\nThine eye was on the censer.\\nAnd not the hand that bore it.", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0127.jp2"}, "126": {"fulltext": "EEFLECTIONS OF A PEOUD PEDESTEIAK\\nI SAW the curl of his waving lash,\\nAnd the glance of his knowing eye,\\nAnd I knew that he thought he was cutting a dash,\\nAs his steed went thundering by.\\nAnd he may ride in the rattling gig.\\nOr flourish the Stanhope gay.\\nAnd dream that he looks exceeding big\\nTo the people that walk in the way\\nBut he shall think, when the night is still,\\nOn the stable-boy s gathering numbers,\\nAnd the ghost of many a veteran bill\\nShall hover around his slumbers\\nThe ghastly dun shall worry his sleep.\\nAnd constables cluster around him,\\nAnd he shall creep from the wood-hole deep\\nWhere their spectre eyes have found him\\nAy gather your reins, and crack your thong,\\nAnd bid your steed go faster\\nHe does not know, as he scrambles along,\\nThat he has a fool for his master\\nAnd hurry away on your lonely ride,\\nNor deign from the mire to save me\\nI will paddle it stoutly at your side\\nWith the tandem that nature gave me\\n94", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0128.jp2"}, "127": {"fulltext": "THE POET S LOT.\\nWhat is a poet s love\\nTo write a girl a sonnet,\\nTo get a ring, or some such thing,\\nAnd f ustianize upon it.\\nWhat is a poet s fame\\nSad hints about his reason.\\nAnd sadder praise from garreteers.\\nTo be returned in season.\\nWhere go the poet s lines\\nAnswer, ye evening tapers\\nYe auburn locks, ye golden curls,\\nSpeak from your folded papers\\nChild of the ploughshare, smile\\nBoy of the counter, grieve not.\\nThough muses round thy trundle-bed\\nTheir broidered tissue weave not.\\nThe poet s future holds\\nE o civic wreath above him\\nNor slated roof, or varnished chaise,\\nNor wife nor child to love him.\\n95", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0129.jp2"}, "128": {"fulltext": "96 THE POET S LOT.\\nMaid of the village inn,\\nWho ^Yorkest Avoe on satin\\n(The grass in black, the graves in green,\\nThe epitaph in Latin),\\nTrust not to them who sa}^\\nIn stanzas, they adore thee;\\nOh rather sleep in churchyard clay.\\nWith urns and cherubs o er thee", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0130.jp2"}, "129": {"fulltext": "DAILY TEIALS.\\nBY A SENSITIVE MAN.\\nOh there are times\\nWhen all this fret and tumult that we hear\\nDo seem more stale than to the sexton s ear\\nHis own dull chimes.\\nDing dong ding dong\\nThe world is in a simmer like a sea\\nOver a pent volcano, woe is me\\nAll the day long\\nFrom crib to shroud\\nNurse o er our cradles screameth lullaby,\\nAnd friends in boots tramp round us as we die,\\nSnuffling aloud.\\nAt morning s call\\nThe small-voiced pug-dog welcomes in the sun,\\nAnd flea-bit mongrels, wakening one by one.\\nGive answer all.\\nWhen evening dim\\nDraws round us, then the lonely caterwaul\\nTart solo, sour duet, and general squall,\\nThese are our hymn.\\n7 97", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0131.jp2"}, "130": {"fulltext": "98 DAILY TRIALS.\\nWomen, with tongues\\nLike polar needles, ever on the jar,\\nMen, plugless word-spouts, whose deep fountains are\\nWithin their lungs.\\nChildren, ith drums\\nStrapped round them by the fond paternal ass,\\nPeripatetics with a blade of grass\\nBetween their thumbs.\\nYagrants, whose arts\\nHave caged some devil in their mad machine,\\nWhich grinding, squeaks, with husky groans be-\\ntween.\\nCome out by starts.\\nCockneys that kill\\nThin horses of a Sunday, men, with clams.\\nHoarse as 3^oung bisons roaring for their dams\\nFrom hill to hill.\\nSoldiers, with guns\\nMaking a nuisance of the blessed air.\\nChild -crying bellmen, children in despair\\nScreeching for buns.\\nStorms, thunders, waves\\nHowl, crash, and bellow till ye get your fill;\\nYe sometimes rest men never can be still\\nBut in their graves.\\n.0%.?", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0132.jp2"}, "131": {"fulltext": "EYENmG.\\nBY A TAILOR.\\nDay hath put on his jacket, and around\\nHis burning bosom buttoned it Avith stars.\\nHere will I lay me on the velvet grass,\\nThat is like padding to earth s meagre ribs,\\nAnd hold communion with the things about me.\\nAh me how lovely is the golden braid.\\nThat binds the skirt of night s descending robe!\\nThe thin leaves, quivering on their silken threads,\\nDo make a music like to rustling satin,\\nAs the light breezes smooth their downy nap.\\nHa what is this that rises to my touch,\\nSo like a cushion Can it be a cabbage\\nIt is, it is that deeply injured flower,\\nWhich boys do flout us with but yet I love thee,\\nThou giant rose, w^rapped in a green surtout.\\nDoubtless in Eden thou didst blush as bright\\nAs these, thy puny brethren and thy breath\\nSweetened the fragrance of her spicy air;\\nBut now thou seem est like a bankrupt beau.\\nStripped of his gaudy hues and essences,\\nAnd growing portly in his sober garments.\\nIs that a swan that rides upon the water\\nOh no, it is that other gentle bird,\\n99\\nU^C.", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0133.jp2"}, "132": {"fulltext": "100 EVENING.\\nWhich is the patron of our noble calling.\\nI well remember, in my early years,\\nWhen these young hands first closed upon a goose\\nI have a scar upon my thimble finger.\\nWhich chronicles the hour of young ambition.\\nMy father was a tailor, and his father.\\nAnd my sire s grandsire, all of them were tailors\\nThev had an ancient o:oose, it was an heirloom\\nFrom some remoter tailor of our race.\\nIt happened I did see it on a time\\nWhen none was near, and I did deal with it,\\nAnd it did burn me, oh, most fearfully\\nIt is a joy to straighten out one s limbs,\\nAnd leap elastic from the level counter,\\nLeaving the petty grievances of earth.\\nThe breaking thread, the din of clashing shears.\\nAnd all the needles that do wound the spirit.\\nFor such a pensive hour of soothing silence.\\nKind Nature, shuffling in her loose mi dress.\\nLays bare her shady bosom I can feel\\nWith all around me I can hail the flowers\\nThat sprig earth s mantle, and yon quiet bird,\\nThat rides the stream, is to me as a brother.\\nThe vulgar know^ not all the hidden pockets,\\nWhere Nature stows away her loveliness.\\nBut this unnatural posture of the legs\\nCramps my extended calves, and I must go\\nWhere I can coil them in their wonted fashion.", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0134.jp2"}, "133": {"fulltext": "THE DOECHESTEK GIANT.\\nTheee was a giant in time of old,\\nA miglity 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 Dorcliester Heights and Milton Hill\\nRolled back the sound aorain.\\nThen he brought them a pudding stuffed with plums,\\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.\\n101", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0135.jp2"}, "134": {"fulltext": "1Q2 THE DORCHESTER GIANT.\\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 ma3^\\nOff he went, and he growled a tune\\nAs he strode the fields along\\nTis said a buffalo fainted awa}^,\\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 not 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.\\nThey flung it over to Eoxbury 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.", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0136.jp2"}, "135": {"fulltext": "THE DORCHESTER GIANT. 103\\nGiant and mammoth have passed away,\\nFor ages have floated by\\nThe suet is hard as a marrow bone,\\nAnd every pkun is turned to a stone,\\nBut there the puddings lie.\\nAnd if, some pleasant afternoon,\\nYou ll 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 besides.", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0137.jp2"}, "136": {"fulltext": "TO THE PORTE AIT OF A GENTLEMAN.\\nIN THE ATHEN.EUM GALLERY.\\nIt may be so, perhaps thou hast\\nA warm and loving heart\\nI will not blame thee for thy face,\\nPoor devil as thou art.\\nThat thing, thou fondly deem st a nose,\\nUnsightly though it be,\\nIn spite of all the cold world s scorn.\\nIt may be much to thee.\\nThose eyes, among thine elder friends\\nPerhaps they pass for blue\\nNo matter, if a man can see.\\nWhat more have eyes to do\\nThy mouth, that fissure in thy face\\nBy something like a chin,\\nMay be a very useful place\\nTo put thy victual in.\\nI know thou hast a wife at home,\\nI know thou hast a child.\\nBy that subdued, domestic smile\\nUpon thy features mild.\\n104", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0138.jp2"}, "137": {"fulltext": "TO THE PORTRAIT OF A GENTLEMAN. 105\\nThat wife sits fearless by thy side,\\nThat cherub on thy knee\\nThey do not shudder at thy looks,\\nThey do not shrink from thee.\\nAbove thy mantel is a hook,\\nA portrait once was there\\nIt was thine only ornament,\\nAlas that hook is bare.\\nShe begged thee not to let it go.\\nShe begged thee all in vain\\nShe wept, and breathed a trembling prayer\\nTo meet it safe again.\\nIt was a bitter sight to see\\nThat picture torn away\\nIt was a solemn thought to think\\nWhat all her friends would sav\\nAnd often in her calmer hours.\\nAnd in her happy dreams,\\nUpon its long-deserted hook\\nThe absent portrait seems.\\nThy wretched infant turns his head\\nIn melancholy w^ise.\\nAnd looks to meet the placid stare\\nOf those unbending eyes.", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0139.jp2"}, "138": {"fulltext": "106 TO THE PORTRAIT OF A GENTLEMAN.\\nI never saw thee, lovely one,\\nPerchance I never may\\nIt is not often that we cross\\nSuch people in our way\\nBut if we meet in distant years,\\nOr on some foreign shore,\\nSure I can take my Bible oath,\\nI ve seen that face before.", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0140.jp2"}, "139": {"fulltext": "TO THE POKTEAIT OF A LADY.\\nIN THE ATHEN^UM GALLERY.\\nWell, Miss, I wonder where you live,\\nI Avonder what s your name,\\nI wonder how you came to be\\nIn such a stylish frame\\nPerhaps you were a favorite child,\\nPerhaps an only one\\nPerhaps your friends Avere not aware\\nYou had your portrait done\\nYet you must be a harmless soul\\nI cannot think that Sin\\nWould care to throw his loaded dice.\\nWith such a stake to win\\nI cannot think you would provoke\\nThe poet s wicked pen,\\nOr make young women bite their lips,\\nOr ruin fine young men.\\nPray, did you ever hear, my love.\\nOf boys that go about,\\nWho, for a very trifling sum\\nWill snip one s picture out\\n107", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0141.jp2"}, "140": {"fulltext": "108 TO THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.\\nI m not averse to red and white,\\nBut all things have their place,\\nI think a profile cut in black\\nWould suit your style of face\\nI love sweet features I will own\\nThat I should like myself\\nTo see my portrait on a wall,\\nOr bust upon a shelf\\nBut nature sometimes makes one up\\nOf such sad odds and ends,\\nIt really might be quite as well\\nHushed up among one s friends", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0142.jp2"}, "141": {"fulltext": "THE COMET.\\nThe Comet He is on his way,\\nAnd singing as he flies\\nThe whizzing planets shrink before\\nThe spectre of the skies\\nAh well may regal orbs burn blue,\\nAnd satellites turn pale,\\nTen million cubic miles of head,\\nTen billion leagues of tail\\nOn, on by whistling spheres of light.\\nHe flashes and he flames\\nHe turns not to the left nor right.\\nHe asks them not their names\\nOne spurn from his demoniac heel,\\nAway, away they fly.\\nWhere darkness might be bottled up\\nAnd sold for Tyrian dye.\\nAnd what would happen to the land,\\nAnd how would look the sea,\\nIf in the bearded devil s path\\nOur earth should chance to be\\nFull hot and high the sea would boil,\\nFull red the forests gleam\\nMethought I saw and heard it all\\nIn a dyspeptic dream\\n109", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0143.jp2"}, "142": {"fulltext": "110 THE COMET.\\nI saw a tutor take his tube\\nThe Comet s course to spy\\nI heard a scream, \u00e2\u0080\u0094the gathered rays\\nHad stewed the tutor s eye\\nI saAV a fort, the soldiers all\\nWere armed witli goggles green\\nPop cracked the giins Avhiz flew the balls\\nBang went the magazine\\nI saw a poet dip a scroll\\nEach moment in a tub,\\nI read upon the warping back,\\nThe Dream of Beelzebub\\nHe could not see his verses burn,\\nAlthough his brain was fried,\\nAnd ever and anon he bent\\nTo wet them as they dried.\\nI saw the scalding pitch roll down\\nThe crackling, sweating pines,\\nAnd streams of smoke, like water-spouts,\\nBurst through the rumbling mines\\nI asked the firemen why they made\\nSuch noise about the town\\nThey answered not, but all the while\\nThe brakes went up and down.\\nI saw a roasting pullet sit\\nUpon a baking egg\\nI saw a cripple scorch his hand\\nExtinguishing his leg", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0144.jp2"}, "143": {"fulltext": "THE COMET. Hi\\nI saw nine geese upon the wing\\nTowards the frozen pole,\\nAnd every mother s gosling fell\\nCrisped to a crackling coal.\\nI saw the ox that browsed the grass\\nWrithe in the blistering rays,\\nThe herbage in his shrinking jaws\\nWas all a fiery blaze\\nI saw huge fishes, boiled to rags,\\nBob through the bubbling brine\\nAnd thoughts of supper crossed my soul\\nI had been rash at mine.\\nStrange sights strange sounds O fearful dream\\nIts memory haunts me still,\\nThe steaming sea, the crimson glare.\\nThat wreathed each wooded hill\\nStranger if through thy reeling brain.\\nSuch midnight visions sweep.\\nSpare, spare, oh, spare thine evening meal,\\nAnd sweet shall be thy sleep", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0145.jp2"}, "144": {"fulltext": "A NOONTIDE LYEIC.\\nThe dinner-bell, the dinner-bell\\nIs ringing loud and clear\\nThrough hill and plain, through street and lane,\\nIt echoes far and near\\nFrom curtained hall, and whitewashed stall.\\nWherever men can hide,\\nLike bursting waves from ocean caves,\\nThey float upon the tide.\\nI smell the smell of roasted meat\\nI hear the hissing fr}^\\nThe beggars know where they can go,\\nBut where, oh, where shall I\\nAt twelve o clock men took my hand,\\nAt two they only stare.\\nAnd eye me with a fearful look.\\nAs if I were a bear\\nThe poet lays his laurels down\\nAnd hastens to his greens\\nThe happy tailor quits his goose,\\nTo riot on his beans\\nThe weary cobbler snaps his thread.\\nThe printer leaves his pi\\nHis very devil hath a home.\\nBut what, oh, w^hat have I\\n112", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0146.jp2"}, "145": {"fulltext": "A NOONTIDE LYRIC. II3\\nMethinlvs I bear an angel voice,\\nThat softly seems to say\\nPale stranger, all may yet be well,\\nThen wipe thy tears away\\nErect thy head, and cock thy hat,\\nAnd follow me afar.\\nAnd thou shalt have a jolly meal\\nAnd charge it at the bar.\\n1 hear the voice I go I go\\nPrepare your meat and wine\\nThey little, heed their future need.\\nWho pay not when they dine.\\nGive me to-day the rosy bowl,\\nGive me one golden dream,\\nTo-morrow kick away the stool.\\nAnd dangle from the beam", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0147.jp2"}, "146": {"fulltext": "THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTEEMAN.\\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\\nhim.\\nIt was the pensive oysterman that saw a lovely\\nmaid,\\nUpon a moonlight evening, a sitting in the shade\\nHe saw her wave her handkerchief, as much as if to\\nsay,^\\nI m wide awake, young oysterman, and all the\\nfolks away.\\nThen up arose the oysterman, and to himself said\\nhe,\\nI guess I ll leave the skiff at home, for fear that\\nfolks should see\\nI read it in the story-book, that, for to kiss his dear,\\nLeander swam the Hellespont, and I will swim\\nthis here.\\nTnd he has leaped into the waves, and crossed the\\nshining stream,\\n114", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0148.jp2"}, "147": {"fulltext": "THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN. II5\\nAnd be 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\\nTwas 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.\\nOut spoke the ancient fisherman, Now bring me\\nmy harpoon!\\nI ll get into my fishing-boat, and fix the fellow\\nsoon\\nDown fell that pretty innocent, as falls a snow-\\nAvhite 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 s wound,\\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.", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0149.jp2"}, "148": {"fulltext": "THE MUSIC-GEmDEES.\\nThere are three ways in which men take\\nOne s money from his purse,\\nAnd very hard it is to tell\\nWhich of the three is worse\\nBut all of them are bad enough\\nTo make a body curse.\\nYou re riding out some pleasant da}^,\\nAnd counting up your gains\\nA fellow jumps from out a bush,\\nAnd takes your horse s reins.\\nAnother bints some words about\\nA bullet in your brains.\\nIt s hard to met such pressing friends\\nIn such a lonely spot\\nIt s very hard to lose your cash.\\nBut harder to be shot\\nAnd so you take your wallet out.\\nThough you would rather not.\\nPerhaps you re going out to dine,\\nSome filthy creature begs\\nYou ll hear about the cannon-ball\\nThat carried off his pegs,\\nAnd says it is a dreadful thing\\nFor men to lose their legs.\\n116", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0150.jp2"}, "149": {"fulltext": "THE MUSIC-GRINDERS. 117\\nHe tells you of his starving wife,\\nHis children to be fed,\\nPoor little, lovely innocents,\\nAll clamorous for bread,\\nAnd so you kindly help to put\\nA bachelor to bed.\\nYou re sitting on your window-seat\\nBeneath a cloudless moon\\nYou hear a sound, that seems to wear\\nThe semblance of a tune.\\nAs if a broken fife should strive\\nTo drown a cracked bassoon.\\nAnd nearer, nearer still, the tide\\nOf music seems to come.\\nThere s something like a human voice,\\nAnd something like a drum\\nYou sit in speechless agony.\\nUntil your ear is numb.\\nPoor home, sweet home, should seem to be\\nA very dismal place\\nYour auld acquaintance, all at once.\\nIs altered in the face\\nTheir discords sting through Burns and Moore,\\nLike hedgehogs dressed in lace.\\nYou think they are crusaders, sent\\nFrom some infernal clime.\\nTo pluck the eyes of Sentiment,\\nAnd dock the tail of Ehyme,", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0151.jp2"}, "150": {"fulltext": "118 THE MUSIC-GRINDERS.\\nTo crack the voice of Melody,\\nAnd break the legs of Time.\\nBut hark the air again is still,\\nThe music all is ground.\\nAnd silence, like a poultice, comes\\nTo heal the blows of sound\\nIt cannot be, it is, it is,\\nA hat is going round\\nNo Pay the dentist when he leaves\\nA fracture in your jaw\\nAnd pay the owner of the bear.\\nThat stunned you with his paw,\\nAnd buy the lobster, that has had\\nYour knuckles in his claw\\nBut if you are a portly man.\\nPut on your fiercest frown,\\nAnd talk about a constable\\nTo turn them out of town\\nThen close your sentence with an oath,\\nAnd shut the window down\\nAnd if you are a slender man,\\nNot big enough for that,\\nOr, if you cannot make a speech.\\nBecause you are a flat.\\nGo very quietly and drop\\nA button in the hat", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0152.jp2"}, "151": {"fulltext": "THE TEEADMILL SONG.\\nThe stars are rolling in the sky,\\nThe earth rolls on below,\\nAnd we can feel the rattling wheel\\nEevolving as we go.\\nThen tread away, my gallant boys,\\nAnd make the axle fly\\nWhy should not wheels go round about,\\nLike planets in the sky\\nWake up, wake up, my duck-legged man,\\nAnd stir your solid pegs\\nArouse, arouse, my gawky friend,\\nAnd shake your spider legs\\nWhat though you re awkward at the trade,\\nThere s time enough to learn,\\nSo lean upon the rail, my lad,\\nAnd take another turn.\\nThey ve built us up a noble wall,\\nTo keep the vulgar out\\nWe ve nothing in the world to do.\\nBut just to walk about\\nSo faster, now, you middle men.\\nAnd try to beat the ends,\\nIt s pleasant work to ramble round\\nAmong one s honest friends.\\n119", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0153.jp2"}, "152": {"fulltext": "220 THE TREADMILL SONG.\\nHere, tread upon the long man s toes,\\nHe shan t be lazy here,\\nAnd punch the little fellow s ribs,\\nAnd tweak that lubber s ear,\\nHe s lost thera both, don t pull his hair,\\nBecause he wears a scratch,\\nBut poke him in the further eye.\\nThat isn t in the patch.\\nHark fellows, there s the supper-bell,\\nAnd so our work is done\\nIt s pretty sport, suppose we take\\nA round or two for fun\\nIf ever they should turn me out.\\nWhen I have better grown,\\nNow hang me, but I mean to have\\nA treadmill of my own", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0154.jp2"}, "153": {"fulltext": "THE SEPTEMBEE GALE.\\nI m not a chicken I have seen\\nFull many a chill September,\\nAnd though I was a youngster then,\\nThat gale I well remember\\nThe day before, my kite-string snapped,\\nAnd I, my kite pursuing,\\nThe wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat\\nFor me two storms were brewing\\nIt came as quarrels sometimes do.\\nWhen married folks get clashing\\nThere was a heavy sigh or two,\\nBefore the fire w^as flashing,\\nA little stir among the clouds.\\nBefore they rent asunder,\\nA little rocking of the trees.\\nAnd then came on the thunder.\\nLord how the ponds and rivers boiled.\\nAnd how the shingles rattled\\nAnd oaks were scattered on the ground\\nAs if the Titans battled\\nAnd all above was in a howl.\\nAnd all below a clatter,\\n121", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0155.jp2"}, "154": {"fulltext": "122 THE SEPTEMBER GALE.\\nThe earth was like a frying-pan,\\nOr some such hissing matter.\\nIt chanced to be our washing-day,\\nAnd all our things were drying\\nThe storm came roaring through the lines,\\nAnd set them all a flying\\nI saw the shirts and petticoats\\nGo riding off like witches\\nI lost, ah bitterly I wept,\\nI lost my Sunday breeches\\nI saw them straddling through the air,\\nAlas too late to win them\\nI saw them chase the clouds as if\\nThe devil had been in them\\nThey were my darlings and my pride.\\nMy boyhood s only riches,\\nFarewell, farewell, I faintly cried,\\nMy breeches O my breeches\\nThat night I saw them in my dreams.\\nHow chanofed from what I knew them\\nThe dews had steeped their faded threads,\\nThe winds had whistled through them\\nI saw the wide and ghastl}^ rents\\nWhere demon claws had torn them;\\nA hole was in their amplest part.\\nAs if an imp had worn them.\\nI have had many happy years.\\nAnd tailors kind and clever,", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0156.jp2"}, "155": {"fulltext": "THE SEPTEMBER GALE. 123\\nBut those young pantaloons have gone\\nForever and forever\\nAnd not till fate has cut the last\\nOf all my earthly stitches,\\nThis aching heart shall cease to mourn\\nMy loved, my long-lost breeches", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0157.jp2"}, "156": {"fulltext": "THE HEIGHT OF THE EIDICULOUS.\\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.\\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 ll 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.\\n124", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0158.jp2"}, "157": {"fulltext": "THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS. 125\\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": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0159.jp2"}, "158": {"fulltext": "THE 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\\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 Jolys 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\\n126", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0160.jp2"}, "159": {"fulltext": "THE HOT SEASON. 127\\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 grow^n 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 1\\nThe gas-light companies were mobbed,\\nThe bakers all w^ere shot.\\nThe penny press began to talk\\nOf Lynching Poctor 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,", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0161.jp2"}, "160": {"fulltext": "128 THE HOT SEASON.\\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.", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0162.jp2"}, "161": {"fulltext": "POEMS\\nADDED SINCE THE FIRST EDITION.", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0163.jp2"}, "162": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0164.jp2"}, "163": {"fulltext": "DEPAETED DAYS.\\nYes, dear departed, cherished days,\\nCould Memory-s hand restore\\nYour morning light, your evening rays,\\nFrom Time s gray urn once more,\\nThen might this restless heart be still.\\nThis straining eye might close.\\nAnd Hope her fainting pinions fold,\\nWhile the fair phantoms rose.\\nBut, like a child in ocean s arms,\\nWe strive against the stream.\\nEach moment farther from the shore\\nWhere life s young fountains gleam\\nEach moment fainter wave the fields.\\nAnd wider rolls the sea\\nThe mist grows dark, the sun goes down,-\\nDay breaks, and where are we\\n131", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0165.jp2"}, "164": {"fulltext": "THE STEAMBOAT.\\nSee how jon flaming herald treads\\nThe ridged and rolling waves,\\nAs, crashing o er their crested heads.\\nShe bows her surly slaves\\nWith foam before and fire behind,\\nShe rends the clinging sea,\\nThat flies before the roaring wind,\\nBeneath her hissing lee.\\nThe morning spray, like sea-born flowers,\\nWith heaped and glistening bells\\nFalls round her fast, in ringing showers,\\nWith every wave that swells\\nAnd, burning o er the midnight deep.\\nIn lurid fringes thrown,\\nThe living gems of ocean sweep\\nAlong her flashing zone.\\nWith clashing wheel, and lifting keel,\\nAnd smoking torch on high.\\nWhen winds are loud, and billows reel.\\nShe thunders foaming by\\nWhen seas are silent and serene.\\nWith even beam she glides,\\n132", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0166.jp2"}, "165": {"fulltext": "THE STEAMBOAT. 133\\nThe sunshine glimmering through the green\\nThat skirts her gleaming sides.\\nNow, like a wild nymph, far apart\\nShe veils her shadowy form,\\nThe beating of her restless heart\\nStill sounding through the storm\\nJSTow answers, like a courtly dame,\\nThe reddening surges o er,\\nWith flying scarf of spangled flame,\\nThe Pharos of the shore.\\nTo-night yon pilot shall not sleep.\\nWho trims his narrowed sail\\nTo-night yon frigate scarce shall keep\\nHer broad breast to the gale\\nAnd many a foresail, scooped and strained,\\nShall break from yard and stay.\\nBefore this smoky wreath has stained\\nThe rising mist of day.\\nHark hark I hear yon whistling shroud,\\nI see yon quivering mast\\nThe black throat of the hunted cloud\\nIs panting forth the blast\\nAn hour, and, whirled like winnowing chaff,\\nThe giant surge shall fling\\nHis tresses o er yon pennon staff.\\nWhite as the sea-bird s wing", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0167.jp2"}, "166": {"fulltext": "j^34: THE STEAMBOAT.\\nYet rest, ye wanderers of the deep\\nKor wind nor wave shall tire\\nThose fleshless arms, whose pulses leap\\nWith floods of living fire\\nSleep on, and, when the morning light\\nStreams o er the shining bay.\\nOh, think of those for whom the night\\nShall never wake in day", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0168.jp2"}, "167": {"fulltext": "THE PAETING WORD.\\nI MUST leave thee, lady sweet\\nMonths shall waste before w^e meet\\nWinds are fair, and sails are spread,\\nAnchors leave their ocean bed\\nEre this shining day grow dark.\\nSkies shall gird my shoreless bark;\\nThrough thy tears, O lady mine,\\nRead thy lover s parting line.\\nWhen the first sad sun shall set.\\nThou shalt tear thy locks of jet\\nWhen the morning star shall rise\\nThou shalt wake with weeping eyes\\nWhen the second sun goes down,\\nThou more tranquil shalt be grown,\\nTaught too w^ell that wild despair\\nDims thine eyes, and spoils thy hair.\\nAll the first unquiet week\\nThou shalt w^ear a smileless cheek\\nIn the first month s second half\\nThou shalt once attempt to laugh\\nThen in Pickwick thou shalt dip.\\nSlightly puckering round the lip,\\nTill at last, in sorrow s spite,\\nSamuel makes thee laugh outright.\\n135", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0169.jp2"}, "168": {"fulltext": "136 THE PARTING WORD.\\nWhile the first seven mornings last,\\nRound thy chamber bolted fast,\\nMany a youth shall fume and pout,\\nHang the girl, she s always out\\nWhile the second week goes round.\\nVainly shall they ring and pound\\nWhen the third week shall begin,\\nMartha, let the creature in.\\nNow once more the flattering throng\\nRound thee flock with smile and song,\\nBut thy lips, un weaned as j^et,\\nLisp, Ob, how can I forget\\nMen and devils both contrive\\nTraps for catching girls alive\\nEve was duped, and Helen kissed,\\nHow, oh, how can you resist?\\nFirst be careful of your fan,\\nTrust it not to youth or man\\nLove hias filled a pirate s sail\\nOften with its perfumed gale.\\nMind 3^our kerchief most of all,\\nFingers touch when kerchiefs fall\\nShorter ell than mercers clip,\\nIs the space from hand to lip.\\nTrust not such as talk in tropes.\\nFull of pistols, daggers, ropes\\nAll tbe hemp that Russia bears\\nScarce would answer lovers prayers", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0170.jp2"}, "169": {"fulltext": "THE PARTING WORD. 137\\nNever thread was spun so fine,\\nKever spider stretched the line,\\nWould not hold the lovers true\\nThat would really swing for 3^ou.\\nFiercely some shall storm and swear,\\nBeating breasts in black despair\\nOthers murmur with a sigh,\\nYou must melt or they will die\\nPainted words on empty lies,\\nGrubs with wings like butterflies;\\nLet tliem die, and welcome, too\\nPray what better could they do\\nFare thee well, if years efface\\nFrom thy heart love s burning trace,\\nKeep, oh keep that hallowed seat\\nFrom the tread of vulgar feet;\\nIf the blue lips of the sea\\nWait with icy kiss for me.\\nLet not thine forget the vow.\\nSealed how often. Love, as now", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0171.jp2"}, "170": {"fulltext": "SONG,\\nWRITTEN FOR THE DINNER GIVEN TO CHARLES DICKENS,\\nBY THE YOUNG MEN OF BOSTON, FEBRUARY 1, 1842.\\nThe stars their early vigils keep,\\nThe silent hours are near\\nWhen drooping eyes forget to weep,\\nYet still we linger here\\nAnd what, the passing churl may ask,\\nCan claim such wondrous power,\\nThat Toil forgets his wonted task.\\nAnd Love his promised hour\\nThe Irish harp no longer thrills.\\nOr breathes a fainter tone\\nThe clarion blast from Scotland s hills\\nAlas no more is blown\\nAnd Passion s burning lip bewails\\nHer Harold s wasted fire.\\nStill lingering o er the dust that veils\\nThe Lord of England s lyre.\\nBut grieve not o er its broken strings,\\nNor think its soul hath died.\\nWhile yet the lark at heaven s gate sings\\nAs once o er Avon s side\\n138", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0172.jp2"}, "171": {"fulltext": "SONG. 139\\nWhile gentle summer sheds her bloom,\\nAnd dewy blossoms wave,\\nAlike o er Juliet s storied tomb\\nAnd Nelly s nameless grave.\\nThou glorious island of the sea\\nThough wide the wasting flood\\nThat parts our distant land from thee,\\nWe claim thy generous blood\\nNor o er thy far horizon springs\\nOne hallowed star of fame.\\nBut kindles, like an angel s wings,\\nOur western skies in flame", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0173.jp2"}, "172": {"fulltext": "LIKES\\nRECITED AT THE BERKSHIRE FESTIVAL.\\nCome back to your mother, ye children, for shame,\\nWho have Avandered like truants, for riches or\\nfame\\nWith a smile on her face, and a sprig in her cap,\\n6he calls you to feast from her bountiful lap.\\nCome out from your alleys, your courts, and your\\nlanes,\\nAnd breathe, like young eagles, the air of our plains\\nTake a whiff from our fields, and your excellent wives\\nWill declare it s all nonsense insuring your lives.\\nCome you of the law, who can talk, if you please,\\nTill the man in the moon will allow it s a cheese.\\nAnd leave the old lady, that never tells lies,\\nTo sleep with her handkerchief over her eyes.\\nYe healers of men, for a moment decline\\nYour feats in the rhubarb and ipecac line\\nWhile you shut up your turnpike, your neighbors\\ncan go\\nThe old roundabout road, to the regions below.\\n140", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0174.jp2"}, "173": {"fulltext": "LINES. 141\\nYou clerk, on whose ears are a couple of pens,\\nAnd whose head is an ant-hill of units and tens\\nThough Plato denies you, we welcome you still\\nAs a featherless biped, in spite of your quill.\\nPoor drudge of the city how happy he feels,\\nWith the burs on his legs, and the grass at his\\nheels\\nE o dodger behind, his bandannas to share,\\nNo constable grumbling, You mustn t walk\\nthere\\nIn yonder green meadow, to memory dear.\\nHe slaps a mosquito and brushes a tear\\nThe dewdrops hang round him on blossoms and\\nshoots.\\nHe breathes but one sigh for his youth and his\\nboots.\\nThere stands the old schoolhouse, hard by the old\\nchurch\\nThat tree at its side had the flavor of birch\\nOh, sweet wei^e the days of his juvenile tricks.\\nThough the prarie of youth had so many big\\nlicks.\\nBy the side of yon river he weeps and he slumps,\\nThe boots fill with water, as if they were pumps\\nTill, sated with rapture, he steals to his bed,\\nWith a glow in his heart and a cold in his head.", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0175.jp2"}, "174": {"fulltext": "U2 LINES.\\nTis past, he is dreaming, I see him again\\nThe ledger returns as by legerdemain\\nHis neckcloth is damp with an easterly flaw,\\nAnd he holds in his fingers an omnibus straw.\\nHe dreams the chill gust is a blossomy gale.\\nThat the straw is a rose from his dear native vale\\nAnd murmurs, unconscious of space and of time,\\nA I. Extra-super. Ah, isn t it pkime\\nOh, what are the prizes we perish to win\\nTo the first little shiner we caught with a pin\\nNo soil upon earth is so dear to our eyes\\nAs the soil we first stirred in terrestrial pies\\nThen come from all parties, and parts, to our feast\\nThough not at the Astor, w^e ll give you at least\\nA bite at an apple, a seat on the grass,\\nAnd the best of old water at nothing a glass.", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0176.jp2"}, "175": {"fulltext": "YERSES FOR AFTER-DINKER.\\nB. K. SOCIETY, 18-i4:.\\nI WAS thinking last night, as I sat in the cars,\\nWith the charmingest prospect of cinders and stars,\\nJ^Iext Thursday is bless me how hard it will\\nbe,\\nIf that cannibal president calls upon me\\nThere is nothing on earth that he will not devour.\\nFrom a tutor in seed to a freshman in flower\\nNo sage is too gray, and no youth is too green.\\nAnd you can t be too plump, though you re never\\ntoo lean.\\nWhile others enlarge on the boiled and the roast.\\nHe serves a raw clergyman u]:) with a toast,\\nOr catches some doctor, quite tender and young.\\nAnd basely insists on a bit of his tongue.\\nPoor victim, prepared for his classical spit.\\nWith a stuffing of praise, and a basting of wit,\\nYou may twitch at your collar, and wrinkle your\\nbrow.\\nBut you re up on your legs, and you re in for it\\nnow.\\n143", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0177.jp2"}, "176": {"fulltext": "144 VERSES FOR AFTER-DINNER.\\nOh, think of j^our friends, they are waiting to\\nhear\\nThose jokes that are thought so remarkably queer\\nAnd all the Jack Horners of metrical buns\\nAre prying and fingering to pick out the puns.\\nThose thoughts which, like chickens, will always\\nthrive best\\nWhen reared by the heat of tlie natural nest,\\nWill perish if hatched from their embryo dream\\nIn the mist and the glow of convivial steam.\\nOh pardon me, then, if I meekly retire,\\nWith a very small flash of ethereal fire\\nNo rubbing will kindle your Lucifer match,\\nIf thej^ 5; does not follow the primitive scratch.\\nDear friends, who are listening so sweetly the while,\\nWith your lips double reefed in a snug little\\nsmile,\\nI leave you two fables, both dra\\\\Yn from the\\ndeep,\\nThe shells you can drop, but the pearls you may\\nkeep.\\nThe fish called the Flounder, perhaps you may know,\\nHas one side for use and another for show\\nOne side for the public, a delicate brown.\\nAnd one that is white, which he always keeps\\ndown.", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0178.jp2"}, "177": {"fulltext": "VERSES FOR AFTER-DINNER. 145\\nA very young flounder^ the flattest of flats\\n(And they re none of them thicker than opera hats),\\nWas speaking more freely than charity taught\\nOf a friend and relation that just had been caught.\\nMy what an exposure just see what a sight\\nI blush for my race, he is showing his white\\nSuch spinning and wriggling, why, what does he\\nwish\\nHow painfully small to respectable fish\\nThen said an old Sculpin, My freedom excuse.\\nBut you re playing the cobbler with holes in your\\nshoes\\nYour brown side is up, but just wait till you re\\ntried.\\nAnd you ll find that all flounders are white on one\\nside.\\nThere s a slice near the Pickerel s pectoral fins,\\nWhere the thorax leaves off and the venter begins\\nWhich his brother, survivor of fish-hooks and lines\\nThough fond of his family, never declines.\\nHe loves his relations he feels they ll be missed\\nBut that one little tit-bit he cannot resist\\nSo your bait may be swallowed, no matter how\\nfast.\\nFor you catch your next fish with a piece of the\\nlast.\\n10", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0179.jp2"}, "178": {"fulltext": "146 VERSES FOR AFTER-DINNER.\\nAnd thus, O survivor, whose merciless fate\\nIs to take the next hook Avith the president s bait,\\nYou are lost while you snatch from the end of his\\nline\\nThe morsel he rent from this bosom of mine", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0180.jp2"}, "179": {"fulltext": "SOI^G.\\nFOR A TEMPERANCE DINNER TO WHICH LADIES WERE\\nINVITED. (new YORK MERCANTILE LIBRARY ASSO-\\nCIATION, NOVEMBER, 1842.)\\nA HEALTH to dear woman She bids us untwine.\\nFrom the cup it encircles, the fast-clinging vine\\nBut her cheek in its crystal with pleasure will glow,\\nAnd mirror its bloom in the bright wave below.\\nA health to sweet woman Ahe days are no more\\nWhen she watched for her lord till the revel was o er.\\nAnd smoothed the white pillow, and blushed when\\nhe came.\\nAs she pressed her cold lips on his forehead ot\\nflame.\\nAlas for the loved one too spotless and fair\\nThe joys of his banquet to chasten and share\\nHer eye lost its light that his goblet might shine,\\nAnd the rose of her cheek was dissolved m his\\nwme.\\nJoy smiles in the fountain, health flows m the rills,\\nAs their ribands of silver unwind from the hills\\nThey breathe not the mist of the bacchanals\\ndream,\\nBut the lilies of innocence float on their stream.", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0181.jp2"}, "180": {"fulltext": "148 SONG.\\nThen a health and a welcome to woman once\\nmore\\nShe brings up a passport that laughs at our door\\nIt is written on crimson, its letters are pearls,\\nIt is countersigned Nature. So, room for the\\nGirls", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0182.jp2"}, "181": {"fulltext": "THE ONLY DAUGHTEK.\\n(illustration of a picture.)\\nThey bid me strike the idle strings,\\nAs if my summer days\\nHad shaken sunbeams from their wings,\\nTo warm my autumn lays\\nThey bring to me their painted urn.\\nAs if it were not time\\nTo lift my gauntlet and to spurn\\nThe lists of boyish rhyme\\nAnd, were it not that I have still\\nSome weakness in my heart\\nThat clings around my stronger will\\nAnd pleads for gentler art.\\nPerchance I had not turned away\\nThe thoughts grown tame with toil,\\nTo cheat this lone and pallid ray,\\nThat wastes the midnight oil.\\nAlas with every year I feel\\nSome roses leave my brow\\nToo young for wisdom s tardy seal,\\nToo old for garlands now\\nYet, while the dewy breath of spring\\nSteals o er the tingling air,\\n149", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0183.jp2"}, "182": {"fulltext": "150 THE ONLY DAUGHTER.\\nAnd spreads and fans each emerald wing\\nThe forest soon shall wear,\\nHow bright the opening year would seem,\\nHad I one look like thine,\\nTo meet me when the morning beam\\nUnseals these lids of mine\\nToo long I bear this lonely lot.\\nThat bids my heart run wild\\nTo press the lips that love me not.\\nTo clasp the stranger s child.\\nHow oft beyond the dashing seas.\\nAmidst those royal bovvers.\\nWhere danced the lilacs in the breeze.\\nAnd swung the chestnut flowers,\\nI wandered like a wearied slave\\nAVhose morning task is done,\\nTo watch the little hands that gave\\nTheir whiteness to the sun\\nTo revel in the bright young eyes,\\nWhose lustre sparkled through\\nThe sable fringe of southern skies.\\nOr gleamed in Saxon blue\\nHow oft I heard another s name\\nCalled in some truant s tone\\nSweet accents which I longed to claim,\\nTo learn and lisp my own\\nToo soon the gentle hands, that pressed\\nThe ringlets of the child,\\nAre folded on the faithful breast\\nWhere first he breathed and smiled", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0184.jp2"}, "183": {"fulltext": "THE ONLY DAUGHTER. 151\\nToo oft the clinging arms untwine,\\nThe melting lips forget,\\nAnd darkness veils the bridal shrine\\nWhere wreaths and torches met\\nIf Heaven but leaves a single thread\\nOf Hope s dissolving chain,\\nEven when her parting plumes are spread,\\nIt bids them fold again\\nThe cradle rocks beside the tomb\\nThe cheek now changed and chill,\\nSmiles on us in the mornino: bloom\\no\\nOf one that loves us still.\\nSweet image I have done thee wrong\\nTo claim this destined lay\\nThe leaf that asked an idle sono^\\nMust bear my tears away.\\nYet, in thy memory shouldst thou keep\\nThis else forgotten strain.\\nTill years have taught thine eyes to weep\\nAnd flattery s voice is vain\\nOh, then, thou fledgling of the nest.\\nLike the long-wandering dove.\\nThy weary heart may faint for rest.\\nAs mine, on changeless love\\nAnd, while tliese sculptured lines retrace\\nThe hours now dancing by.\\nThis vision of thy girlish grace\\nMay cost thee, too, a sigh.", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0185.jp2"}, "184": {"fulltext": "LEXINGTON.\\nSlowly the mist o er the meadow was creeping,\\nBright on the dewy buds glistened the sun,\\nWhen from his couch, while his children were\\nsleeping,\\nKose the bold rebel and shouldered his gun.\\nWaving her golden veil\\nOver the silent dale\\nBlithe looked the morning on cottage and spire\\nHushed was his parting sigh.\\nWhile from his noble eye\\nFlashed the last sparkle of liberty s fire.\\nOn the smooth green where the fresh leaf is spring-\\ning\\nCalmly the first-born of glory have met\\nHark the death-volley around them is ringing\\nLook! with their life-blood the young grass is\\nwet\\nFaint is the feeble breath.\\nMurmuring low in death,\\nTell to our sons how their fathers have died\\nNerveless the iron hand,\\nKaised for its native land,\\nLies by the weapon that gleams at its side.\\nOver the hillsides the wild knell is tolling,\\nFrom their far hamlets the yeomanry come\\n152", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0186.jp2"}, "185": {"fulltext": "LEXINGTON. I53\\nAs through the storm-clouds the thunder-burst roll-\\ning\\nCircles the beat of the mustering drum.\\nFast on the soldier s path\\nDarken the waves of wrath,\\nLong have they gathered and loud shall they fall;\\nEed glares the musket s flash,\\nSharp rings the rifle s crash.\\nBlazing and clanging from thicket and wall.\\nGayly the plume of the horseman was dancirg,\\n^ever to shadow his cold brow again\\nProudly at morning the war-steed was prancing,\\nKeeking and panting he droops on the rein\\nPale is the lip of scorn,\\nVoiceless the trumpet horn.\\nTorn is the silken-fringed red cross on high\\nMany a belted breast\\nLow on the turf shall rest.\\nEre the dark hunters the herd have past by.\\nSnow-girdled crags where the hoarse wind is raving,\\nPocks where the Aveary floods murmur and wail,\\nWilds w^here the fern by the furrow is waving.\\nPeeled with the echoes that rode on the gale\\nFar as the tempest thrills\\nOver the darkened bills,\\nFar as the sunshine streams over the plain,\\nPoused by the tyrant band.\\nWoke all the mighty land,\\nGirded for battle, from mountain to main.", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0187.jp2"}, "186": {"fulltext": "154: LEXINGTON.\\nGreen be the graves where her martyrs are lying\\nShroudless and tombless they sunk to their rest,-\\nWhile o er their ashes the starry fold flying\\nWraps the proud eagle they roused from his\\nnest.\\nBorne on her northern pine,\\nLong o er the foaming brine\\nSpread her broad banner to storm and to sun\\nHeaven keep her ever free,\\nWide as o er land and sea\\nFloats the fair emblem her heroes have won.", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0188.jp2"}, "187": {"fulltext": "THE ISLAND HUNTmG SONG.\\nNo more the summer floweret charms,\\nThe leaves will soon be sere,\\nAnd Autumn folds his jewelled arms\\nAround the dying year\\nSo, ere the waning seasons claim\\nOur leafless groves awhile,\\nTith golden wine and glowing flame\\nWe ll crown our lonely isle.\\nOnce more the merry voices sound\\nWithin the antlered hall,\\nAnd long and loud the baying hounds\\nEeturn the hunter s call\\nAnd through the woods, and o er the hill,\\nAnd far along the bay.\\nThe driver s horn is sounding shrill,\\nUp, sportsmen, and away!\\nNo bars of steel, or walls of stone,\\nOur little empire bound,\\nBut, circling with his azure zone.\\nThe sea runs foaming round\\nThe whitening wave, the purpled skies,\\nThe blue and lifted shore.\\nBraid with their dim and blending dyes\\nOur wide horizon o er.\\n155", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0189.jp2"}, "188": {"fulltext": "156 THE ISLAND HUNTING SONG.\\nAnd who will leave the grave debate\\nThat shakes the smoky town,\\nTo rule amid our island-state,\\nAnd wear our oak-leaf crown\\nAnd who will be awhile content\\nTo hunt our woodland game.\\nAnd leave the vulgar pack that scent\\nThe reeking track of fame\\nAh, who that shares in toils like these\\nWill sigh not to prolong\\nOur days beneath the broad-leaved trees,\\nOur nights of mirth and song\\nThen leave the dust of noisy streets.\\nYe outlaws of the wood.\\nAnd follow through his green retreats\\nYour noble Eobin Hood.", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0190.jp2"}, "189": {"fulltext": "QUESTIONS AND ANSWEES.\\nWhere, oh where are the visions of morning,\\nFresh as the dews of our prime\\nGone, like tenants that quit without warning,\\nDown the back entry of time.\\nWhere, oh where are life s lilies and roses,\\nNursed in the golden dawn s smile\\nDead as the bulrushes round Jittle Moses,\\nOn the old banks of the JSTile.\\nWhere are the Marys, and Anns, and Elizas,\\nLoving and lovely of yore\\nLook in the columns of old Advertisers,\\nMarried and dead by the score.\\nWhere the gray colts and the ten-year-old fillies,\\nSaturday s triumph and joy\\nGone like our friend r.6da^ wxu? Achilles,\\nHomer s ferocious old boy.\\nDie-away dreams of ecstatic emotion,\\nHopes like young eagles at play,\\nYows of unheard-of and endless devotion.\\nHow ye have faded away\\nYet, though the ebbing of Time s mighty river\\nLeave our young blossoms to die.\\nLet him roll smooth in his current forever.\\nTill the last pebble is dry.\\n157", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0191.jp2"}, "190": {"fulltext": "A SONG,\\nFOR THE CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION OF HARVARD\\nCOLLEGE, 1836.\\nWhen the Puritans came over,\\nOur hills and swamps to clear,\\nThe woods were full of catamounts,\\nAnd Indians red as deer,\\nWith tomahawks and scalping-knives,\\nThat make folks heads look queer\\nOh, the ship from England used to bring\\nA hundred wigs a year\\nThe crows came cawing through the air\\nTo pluck the pilgrims corn,\\nThe bears came snuffing round the door\\nWhene er a babe was born,\\nThe rattlesnakes were bigger round\\nThan the butt of the old ram s horn\\nThe deacon blew at meeting time\\nOn every Sabbath morn.\\nBut soon they knocked the wigwams down,\\nAnd pine-tree trunk and limb\\nBegan to sprout among the leaves\\nIn shape of steeples slim\\n158", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0192.jp2"}, "191": {"fulltext": "A SONG. 159\\nAnd out the little wharves were stretched\\nAlong the ocean s rim,\\nAnd up the little schoolhouse shot\\nTo keep the boys in trim.\\nAnd when, at length, the College rose,\\nThe sachem cocked his eye\\nAt every tutor s meagre ribs\\nWhose coat-tails whistled by\\nBut, when the Greek and Hebrew words\\nCame tumbling from their jaws.\\nThe copper-colored children all\\nEan screaming to the squaws.\\nAnd who was on the Catalogue\\nWhen college was begun\\nTwo nephews of the President,\\nAnd the Professor s son,\\n(They turned a little Indian by.\\nAs brown as any bun)\\nLord how the seniors knocked about\\nThe freshman class of one\\nThey had not then the dainty things\\nThat commons now afford,\\nBut succotash and hominy\\nWere smoking on the board\\nThey did not rattle round in gigs,\\nOr dash in long-tail blues.\\nBut always on Commencement Days\\nThe tutors blacked their shoes.", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0193.jp2"}, "192": {"fulltext": "160 A SONG.\\nGod bless the ancient Puritans\\nTheir lot was hard enough\\nBut honest hearts make iron arms,\\nAnd tender maids are tough\\nSo love and faith have formed and fed\\nOur true-born Yankee stuff,\\nAnd keep the kernel in the shell\\nThe British found so rough", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0194.jp2"}, "193": {"fulltext": "TERPSICHOEE.i\\nIn narrowest girdle, O reluctant Muse,\\nIn closest frock and Cinderella shoes,\\nBound to the foot-lights for thy brief display.\\nOne zephyr step, and then dissolve away\\nShort is the space that gods and men can spare\\nTo Song s twin brother when she is not there.\\nLet others water every lusty line,\\nAs Homer s heroes did their purple wine\\nPierian revellers Known in strains like these\\nThe native juice, the real honest squeeze,\\nStrains that, diluted to the twentieth power.\\nIn yon grave temple might have filled an hour.\\nSmall room for Fancy s many-chorded lyre.\\nFor Wit s bright rockets with their trains of fire,\\nFor Pathos, struggling vainly to surprise\\nThe iron tutor s tear denying eyes.\\nFor Mirth, whose finger with delusive wile\\n1 Read at the Annual Dinner of the B. K. Society, at\\nCambridge, August 24, 1843.\\n2 The Annual Poem is always delivered in the neighboring\\nchurch.\\nII 161", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0195.jp2"}, "194": {"fulltext": "102 TERPSICHORE.\\nTurns the grim key of many a rusty smile,\\nFor Satire, emptying his corrosive flood\\nOn hissing Folly s gas-exhaling brood,\\nThe pun, the fun, the moral and the joke,\\nThe hit, the thrust, the pugilistic poke,\\nSmall space for these, so pressed by niggard Time,\\nLike that false matron, known to nursery rhyme,\\nInsidious Morey, scarce her tale begun,\\nEre listening infants weep the story done.\\nO had we room to rip the mighty bags\\nThat Time, the harlequin, has stuffed with rags\\nGrant us one moment to unloose the strings,\\nWhile the old gray- beard shuts his leath-er wings.\\nBut what a heap of motley trash appears\\nCrammed in the bundles of successive years\\nAs the lost rustic on some festal day\\nStares through the concourse in its vast array,\\nWhere in one cake a throng of faces runs.\\nAll stuck together like a sheet of buns,\\nAnd throws the bait of some unheeded name,\\nOr shoots a wink with most uncertain aim.\\nSo roams my vision, wandering over all,\\nAnd strives to choose, but knows not where to fall.\\nSkins of flayed authors, husks of dead reviews,\\nThe turn-coat s clothes, the office-seeker s shoes,\\nScraps from cold feasts, where conversation runs\\nThrough mouldy toasts to oxidated puns,\\nAnd grating songs a listening crowd endures,\\nKasped from the throats of bellowing amateurs", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0196.jp2"}, "195": {"fulltext": "TERPSICHORE. 163\\nSermons, whose writers played such dangerous tricks\\nTheir own heresiarchs called them heretics\\n(Strange that one term such distant poles should\\nlink,\\nThe Priestley an s copper and the Puseyan s zinc)\\nPoems that shuffle with superfluous legs\\nA blindfold minuet over addled eo^o-s,\\nWhere all the syllables that end in ed,\\nLike old dragoons, have cuts across the head\\nEssays so dark Champollion might despair\\nTo guess what mummy of a thought was there.\\nWhere our poor English, striped with foreign phrase,\\nLooks like a Zebra in a parson s chaise\\nLectures that cut our dinners down to roots,\\nOr prove (by monkeys) men should stick to fruits\\nDelusive error, as at trifling- charire\\nProfessor Gripes will certify at large\\nMesmeric pamphlets, which to facts appeal,\\nEach fact as slippery as a fresh-caught eel\\nAnd figured heads, whose hieroglyphs invite\\nTo wandering knaves that discount fools at sight\\nSuch things as these, with heaps of unpaid bills,\\nAnd candy puffs and homoeopathic pills.\\nAnd ancient bell-crowns with contracted rim,\\nAnd bonnets hideous with expanded brim,\\nAnd coats whose memory turns the sartor pale,\\nTheir sequels tapering like a lizard s tail\\nHow might we spread them to the smiling day.\\nAnd toss them, fluttering like the new-mown hay,\\nTo laughter s light or sorrow s pitying shower,\\nWere these brief minutes lengthened to an hour.", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0197.jp2"}, "196": {"fulltext": "1C4 TERPSICHORE.\\nThe narrow moments fit like Sunday sboes,\\nHow vast the heap, how quickly must Ave choose;\\nA few small scraps from out his mountain mass\\nWe snatch in haste, and let the vagrant pass.\\nThis shrunken crust that Cerberus could not bite,\\nStamped (in one corner) Pickwick copyright,\\nKneaded by youngsters, raised by flattery s yeast,\\nWas once a loaf, and helped to make a feast.\\nHe for whose sake the glittering show appears\\nHas sown the world with laughter and with tears.\\nAnd they whose welcome wets the bumper s brim\\nHave wit and wisdom, for they all quote him.\\nSo, many a tongue the evening hour prolongs\\nWith spangled speeches, let alone the songs,\\nStatesmen grow merry, lean attorneys laugh.\\nAnd weak teetotals warm to half and half,\\nAnd beardless Tullys, new to festive scenes.\\nCut their first crop of youth s precocious greens,\\nAnd wits stand ready for impromptu claps,\\nWith loaded barrels and percussion caps,\\nAnd Pathos, cantering through the minor keys,\\nWaves all her onions to the trembling breeze\\nWhile the great A^easted views with silent glee\\nHis scattered limbs in Yankee fricassee.\\nSweet is the scene where genial friendship plays\\nThe pleasing game of interchanging praise\\nSelf-love, grimalkin of the human heart,\\nIs ever pliant to the master s art\\nSoothed with a word, she peacefully withdraws\\nAnd sheathes in velvet her obnoxious claws.", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0198.jp2"}, "197": {"fulltext": "TERPSICHORE. iq^\\nAnd thrills the hand that smooths her glossy fur\\nWith the light tremor of her grateful purr.\\nBut what sad music fills the quiet hall,\\nIf on her back a feline rival fall\\nAnd oh, what noises shake the tranquil house\\nIf old Self-interest cheats her of a mouse\\nThou, O my country, hast thy foolish ways,\\nToo apt to purr at every stranger s praise\\nBut, if the stranger touch thy modes or laws,\\nOff goes the velvet and out come the claws\\nAnd thou, Illustrious but too poorly paid\\nIn toasts from Pickwick for thy great crusade,\\nThough, while the echoes labored with thy name,\\nThe public trap denied thy little game.\\nLet other lips our jealous laws revile,\\nThe marble Talfourd or the rude Carlyle,\\nBut on thy lids, that Heaven forbids to close\\nWhere er the light of kindly nature glows,\\nLet not the dollars that a churl denies\\nWeigh like the shillings on a dead man s eyes\\nOr, if thou wilt, be more discreetly blind,\\nNor ask to see all wide extremes combined.\\nNot in our wastes the dainty blossoms smile,\\nThat crowd the gardens of thy scanty isle.\\nThere Avhite cheeked Luxury weaves a thousand\\ncharms\\nHere sun-browned Labor swings his naked arms.\\nLong are the furrows he must trace between\\nThe ocean s azure and the prairie s green", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0199.jp2"}, "198": {"fulltext": "1(56 TERPSICHORE.\\nFull many a blank Lis destined realm displays,\\nYet see the promise of bis riper days\\nFar tbrougb yon depths the panting engine moves,\\nHis chariots ringing in their steel-shod grooves\\nAnd Erie s naiad flings her diamond wave\\nO er the wild sea-nymph in her distant cave\\nWhile tasks like these employ bis anxious hours,\\nWhat if his corn-fields are not edged ^vith flowers?\\nThough bright as silver the meridian beams\\nShine through the crystal of thine English streams,\\nTurbid and dark the mighty wave is whirled\\nThat drains our Andes and divides a world\\nBut lo a PAKCHMENT Surcly it would seem\\nThe sculptured impress speaks of power supreme\\nSome grave design the solemn page must claim\\nThat shows so broadly an emblazoned name\\nA sovereign s promise Look, the lines afford\\nAll Honor gives Avhen Caution asks his word\\nThere sacred Faith has laid her snow-white hands.\\nAnd awful Justice knit her iron bands\\nYet every leaf is stained with treachery s dye.\\nAnd every letter crusted with a lie.\\nAlas no treason has degraded yet\\nThe Arab s salt, the Indian s calumet\\nA simple rite, that bears the wanderer s pledge.\\nBlunts the keen shaft and turns the dagger s edge\\nWhile jockeying senates stop to sign and seal.\\nAnd freeborn statesmen legislate to steal.\\nRise, Europe, tottering with thine Atlas load,\\nTurn thy proud eye to Freedom s blest abode.", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0200.jp2"}, "199": {"fulltext": "TERPSICHORE. 167\\nAnd round her forehead, wreathed with heavenly\\nflame,\\nBind the dark garland of her daughter s shame\\nYe ocean clouds, that wrap the angr}^ blast.\\nCoil her stained ensign round its haughty mast,\\nOr tear the fold that wears so foul a scar.\\nAnd drive a bolt through every blackened star!\\nOnce more, once only, we must stop so soon,\\nWhat have we here A Gekman-silver spoon\\nA cheap utensil, which we often see\\nUsed by the dabblers in aesthetic tea\\nOf slender fabric, somewhat light and thin.\\nMade of mixed metal, chiefly lead and tin\\nThe bowl is shallow, and the handle small\\nMarked in large letters with the name Jean Paul.\\nSmall as it is, its powers are passing strange.\\nFor all who use it show a wondrous change\\nAnd first, a fact to make the barbers stare,\\nIt beats Macassar for the growth of hair\\nSee those small youngsters whose expansive ears\\nMaternal kindness grazed with frequent shears\\nEach bristling crop a dangling mass becomes,\\nAnd all the spoonies turn to Absaloms\\nNor this alone its magic power displays.\\nIt alters strangely all their works and ways\\nWith uncouth words they tire their tender lungs,\\nThe same bald phrases on their hundred tongues;\\nEver The Ages in their page appear,\\nAlway the bedlamite is called a Seer", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0201.jp2"}, "200": {"fulltext": "168 TERPSICHORE.\\nOn every leaf the earnest sage may scan,\\nPortentous bore their many-sided man,\\nA weak eclectic, groping vague and dim.\\nWhose every angle is a half-starved whim,\\nBlind as a mole and curious as a lynx.\\nWho rides a beetle, which he calls a Sphinx.\\nAnd oh what questions asked in club-foot rhyme\\nOf Earth the tongueless and the deaf-mute Time\\nHere babbling Insight shouts in Nature s ears\\nHis last conundrum on the orbs and spheres\\nThere Self-inspection sucks its little thumb,\\nWith Whence am I? and Wherefore did I\\ncome\\nDeluded infants will they ever know\\nSome doubts must darken o er the world below.\\nThough all the Platos of the nursery trail\\nTheir clouds of glory at the go-cart s tail\\nO might these couplets their attention claim.\\nThat gain their author the Philistine s name;\\n(A stubborn race, that, spurning foreign law,\\nWas much belabored with an ass s jaw!)\\nMelodious Laura From the sad retreats\\nThat hold thee, smothered with excess of sweets,\\nShade of a shadow, spectre of a dream.\\nGlance thy wan eye across the Stygian stream\\nThe slip-shod dreamer treads thy fragrant halls,\\nThe sophist s cobwebs hang thy roseate walls.\\nAnd o er the crotchets of th}^ jingling tunes\\nThe bard of mystery scrawls his crooked runes.", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0202.jp2"}, "201": {"fulltext": "TERPSICHORE. 169\\nYes, thou art gone, with all the tuneful hordes\\nThat candied thoughts in amber-colored ^Yords,\\nAnd in the precincts of thy late abodes\\nThe clattering verse-wright hammers Orphic odes.\\nThou, soft as zephyr, wast content to fly\\nOn the gilt pinions of a balmy sigh\\nHe, vast as Phoebus on his burning wheels,\\nWould stride through ether at Orion s heels\\nThy emblem, Laura, was a perfume-jar,\\nAnd thine, young Orpheus, is a pewter star\\nThe balance trembles, be its verdict told\\nWhen the new jargon slumbers with the old\\nCease, j^layful goddess From thine airy bound\\nDrop like a feather softly to the ground\\nThis light bolero grows a ticklish dance.\\nAnd there is mischief in thy kindling glance.\\nTo-]norrow bids thee, with rebuking frown.\\nChange thy ganze tunic for a home-made gown,\\nToo blest by fortune, if the passing day\\nAdorn thy bosom with its frail bouquet.\\nBat oh still happier if the next forgets\\nThy daring steps and dangerous pirouettes", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0203.jp2"}, "202": {"fulltext": "UKANI A\\nA RHYMED LESSON.\\nYes, dear Enchantress, wandering far and long.\\nIn realms unperfumed by the breath of song,\\nWhere flowers ill-flavored shed their sweets around,\\nAnd bitterest roots invade the ungenial ground.\\nWhose gems are crystals from the Epsom mine.\\nWhose vineyards flow with antimonial wine.\\nWhose gates admit no mirthful feature in.\\nSave one gaunt mocker, the Sardonic grin.\\nWhose pangs are real, not the woes of rhyme\\nThat blue-eyed misses warble out of time\\nTruant, not recreant to thy sacred claim,\\nOlder by reckoning, but in heart the same,\\nEreed for a moment from the chains of toil,\\nI tread once more thy consecrated soil\\nHere at thy feet my old allegiance own,\\nThy subject still, and loyal to thy throne\\nMy dazzled glance explores the crowded hall\\nAlas, how vain to hope the smiles of all\\nI know my audience. All the gay and young\\nLove the light antics of a playful tongue\\n1 This poem was delivered before the Boston Mercantile\\nLibrary Association, October 14, 1846.\\n170", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0204.jp2"}, "203": {"fulltext": "URANIA A RHYMED LESSON. 17^\\nAnd these, remembering some expansive line\\nMy lips let loose among the nuts and wine,\\nAre all impatience till the opening pun\\nProclaim the witty shamfiglit is begun.\\nTwo fifths at least, if not the total half.\\nHave come infuriate for an eartliquake laugh\\nI know full well what alderman has tied\\nHis red bandanna tight about his side\\nI see the mother, who, aware that boys\\nPerform their laughter with superfluous noise,\\nBesides her kerchief, brought an extra one\\nTo stop the explosions of her bursting son\\nI know a tailor, once a friend of mine,\\nExpects great doings in the button line\\nFor mirth s concussions rip the outward case,\\nAnd plant the stitches in a tenderer place.\\nI know my audience these shall have their due\\nA smile awaits them ere my song is tli rough\\nI know myself. Not servile for applause,\\nMy Muse permits no deprecating clause\\nModest or vain, she will not be denied\\nOne bold confession, due to honest pride\\nAnd well she knows, the drooping veil of song\\nShall save her boldness from the caviller s wrong.\\nHer sweeter voice the Heavenly Maid imparts\\nTo tell the secrets of our aching hearts\\nFor this, a suppliant, captive, prostrate, bound,\\nShe kneels imploring at the feet of sound\\nFor this, convulsed in thought s maternal pains.\\nShe loads her arms with rhyme s resounding chains", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0205.jp2"}, "204": {"fulltext": "172 URANIA:\\nFaint though the music of her fetters be,\\nIt lends one charm her lips are ever free\\nThink not I come, in manhood s fiery noon,\\nTo steal his laurels from the stage buffoon\\nHis sword of lath the harlequin may wield\\nBehokl the star upon my lifted shield\\nThough the just critic pass my humble name,\\nAnd sweeter lips have drained the cup of fame.\\nWhile my gay stanza pleased the banquet s lords.\\nThe soul within was tuned to deeper chords\\nSay, shall my arms, in other conflicts taught\\nTo swing aloft the ponderous mace of thought.\\nLift, in obedience to a school-girl s law.\\nMirth s tinsel wand or laughter s tickling straw\\nSay, shall I wound with satire s rankling spear\\nThe pure, warm hearts that bid me welcome here\\nE^o while I wander through the land of dreams\\nTo strive Avith great and play with trifling themes.\\nLet some kind meaning fill the varied line\\nYou have your judgment will you trust to mine\\nBetween two breaths what crowded mysteries\\nlie-\\nThe first short gasp, the last and long-drawn sigh\\nLike phantoms painted on the magic slide.\\nForth from the darkness of the past we glide.\\nAs living shadows for a moment seen\\nIn airy pageant on tlie eternal screen,", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0206.jp2"}, "205": {"fulltext": "A RHYMED LESSON. I73\\nTraced by a ray from one unchanging flame,\\nThen seek the dust and stillness whence we came.\\nBut whence and why, our trembling souls in-\\nquire,\\nCaught these dim visions their awakening fire\\nOh, who forgets when first the piercing thought\\nThrough childhood s musings found its way un-\\nsought.\\nI AM I LIVE. The mystery and the fear\\nWhen the dread question What has brought me\\nHEEE\\nBurst through life s twilight, as before the sun\\nRoll the deep thunders of the morning gun\\nAre angel faces, silent and serene.\\nBent on the conflicts of this little scene.\\nWhose dreamlike efforts, whose unreal strife,\\nAre but the preludes to a larger life\\nOr does life s summer see the end of all.\\nThese leaves of being mouldering as they fall,\\nAs the old poet vaguely used to deem,\\nAs Wesley questioned in his youthful dream\\nO could such mockery reach our souls indeed.\\nGive back the Pharaohs or the Athenian s creed\\nBetter than this a heaven of man s device,\\nThe Indian s sports, the Moslem s paradise\\n1 O7;/ TTep (j)v?iXuv -yevei), roLrjde Kal avSpuv.\\nniad YJ., 146.\\nWesley quotes this line in his account of his early doubts\\nand perplexities. See Southey s Life of Wesley, vol. ii., p. 185.", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0207.jp2"}, "206": {"fulltext": "174 URANIA\\nOr is our being s only end and aim\\nTo add new glories to our Maker s name,\\nAs the poor insect, shrivelling m the blaze,\\nLends a faint sparkle to its streaming rays\\nDoes earth send upwards to the Eternal s ear\\nThe mingled discords of her jari ing sphere\\nTo swell his anthem, while Creation rings\\nWith notes of anguish from its shattered strings?\\nIs it for this the immortal Artist means\\nThese conscious, throbbing, agonized machines\\nDark is the soul whose sullen creed can bind\\nIn chains like these the all-embracing Mind\\nNo two-faced bigot, thou dost ill reprove\\nThe sensual, selfish, yet benignant Jove,\\nAnd praise a tyrant throned in lonely pride,\\nWho loves himself, and cares for naught beside\\nWho gave thee, summoned from primeval night,\\nA thousand laws, and not a single right,\\nA heart to feel and quivering nerves to thrill.\\nThe sense of wrong, the death-defying will\\nWho girt thy senses with this goodly frame,\\nIts earthly glories and its orbs of flame,\\nNot for thyself, unworthy of a thought.\\nPoor helpless victim of a life unsought.\\nBut all for him, unchanging and supreme.\\nThe heartless centre of thy frozen scheme\\nTrust not the teacher with his lying scroll,\\nWho tears the charter of thy shuddering soul\\nThe God of love, who gave the breath that warms\\nAll living dust in all its varied forms.", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0208.jp2"}, "207": {"fulltext": "A RHYMED LESSON. 175\\nAsks not the tribute of a world like this\\nTo fill the measure of his perfect bliss.\\nThough winged with life through all its radiant\\nsliores,\\nCreation flowed with unexhausted stores\\nCherub and seraph had not yet enjoyed\\nFor this he called thee from the quickening void\\nNor tliis alone a larger gift was thine,\\nA mightier purpose swelled his vast design\\nThought, conscience, will, to make them all\\nthine own.\\nHe rent a pillar from the eternal throne\\nMade in his image, thou must nobly dare\\nThe thorny crown of sovereignty to share.\\nWith eye uplifted it is thine to view.\\nFrom thine own centre, heaven s o er-arching blue\\nSo round thy heart a beaming circle lies\\nNo fiend can blot, no hypocrite disguise\\nFrom all its orbs one cheering voice is heard,\\nFull to thine ear it bears the Father s word,\\nNow, as in Eden where his first-born trod\\nSeek thine own welfare, true to man and God\\nThink not too meanly of thy low estate;\\nThou hast a choice to choose is to create\\nRemember whose the sacred lips that tell,\\nAngels approve thee when thy choice is well\\nRemember, One, a judge of righteous men.\\nSwore to spare Sodom if she held but ten\\nUse well the freedom which thy Master gave,\\n(Think st thou that Heaven can tolerate a slave", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0209.jp2"}, "208": {"fulltext": "176 URANIA\\nAnd He who made thee to be just and true\\nWill bless thee, love thee, ay, respect thee too\\nNature has placed thee on a changeful tide,\\nTo breast its waves, but not without a guide\\nYet, as the needle will forget its aim,\\nJarred by the fury of the electric flame.\\nAs the true current it will falsely feel.\\nWarped from its axis by a freight of steel\\nSo will thy CONSCIENCE lose its balanced truth,\\nIf passion s lightning fall upon thy youth\\nSo the pure effluence quit its sacred hold,\\nGirt round too deeply with magnetic gold.\\nGo to yon tower, where busy science plies\\nHer vast antennae, feeling through the skies\\nThat little vernier on whose slender lines\\nThe midnight taper trembles as it shines,\\nA silent index, tracks the planets march\\nIn all their wanderings through the ethereal arch,\\nTells through the mist where dazzled Mercury burns\\nAnd marks the spot where Uranus returns.\\nSo, till by wrong or negligence effaced,\\nThe living index which thy Maker traced\\nRepeats the line each starry Virtue draws\\nThrough the wide circuit of creation s laws\\nStill tracks unchanged the everlasting ray\\nWhere the dark shadows of temptation stray\\nBut, once defaced, forgets the orbs of light,\\nAnd leaves thee wandering o er the expanse of night!", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0210.jp2"}, "209": {"fulltext": "A RHYMED LESSON. 177\\nWhat is thy creed a hundred lips inquire\\nThou seekest God beneath what Christian spire\\nNor ask they idly, for uncounted lies\\nFloat upward on the smoke of sacrifice\\nWhen man s first incense rose above the plain,\\nOf earth s two altars one was built by Cain\\nUncursed by doubt, our earliest creed we take\\nWe love the precepts for the teacher s sake\\nThe simple lessons which the nursery taught\\nFell soft and stainless on the buds of thought,\\nAnd the full blossom owes its fairest hue\\nTo those sweet tear-drops of affection s dew.\\nToo oft the light that led our earlier liours\\nFades with the perfume of our cradle flowers\\nThe clear, cold question chills to frozen doubt\\nTired of beliefs, we dread to live without\\nOh, then, if reason waver at thj^ side.\\nLet humbler Memory be thy gentle guide\\nGo to thy birth-place, and, if faith was there,\\nEepeat thy father s creed, thy mother s prayer\\nFaith loves to lean on Time s destroying arm,\\nAnd age, like distance, lends a double charm\\nIn dim cathedrals, dark with vaulted gloom,\\nWhat holy aw^e invests the saintly tomb\\nThere pride will bow, and anxious care expand,\\nAnd creeping avarice come with open hand\\nThe gay can weep, the impious can adore.\\nFrom morn s first glimmerings on the chancel floor\\nTill dying sunset sheds his crimson stains\\nThrough the faint halos of the irised panes.\\n12", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0211.jp2"}, "210": {"fulltext": "178 URANIA\\nYet there are graves, whose rudely shapen sod\\nBears the fresh footprints where the sexton trod\\nGraves where the verdure has not dared to shoot,\\nWhere the chance wild-flower has not fixed its root,\\nWhose slumbering tenants, dead without a name,\\nThe eternal record shall at length proclaim\\nPure as the holiest in the long array\\nOf hooded, mitred, or tiaraed clay\\nCome, seek the air some pictures we may gain\\nWhose passing shadows shall not be in vain\\nNot from the scenes that crowd the stranger s soil,\\nNot from our own amidst the stir of toil,\\nBut when the Sabbath brings its kind release.\\nAnd Care lies slumbering on the lap of Peace.\\nThe air is hushed the street is holy ground\\nHark! The sweet bells renew their welcome sound;\\nAs one by one awakes each silent tongue,\\nIt tells the turret whence its voice is flung/\\nThe Chapel, last of sublunary things\\nThat shocks our echoes with the name of Kings,\\n1 The churches referred to in the lines which follow\\nare\\n1. King s Chapel, the foundation of which was laid by\\nGovernor Shirley in 1749.\\n2. The church in Brattle Square, consecrated in 1773. The\\ncompletion of this edifice, the design of which included a\\nspire, was prevented by the troubles of the Revolution, and\\nits plain square tower presents nothing more attractive than\\nits massive simplicity. In the front of this tower is still seen,\\nhalf embedded in the brick-work, a cannon-ball, which was\\nthrown from the American fortification at Cambridge, during", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0212.jp2"}, "211": {"fulltext": "A RHYMED LESSON. 179\\nWhose bell, just glistening from the font and forge,\\nRolled its proud requiem for the second George,\\nSolemn and swelling, as of old it rang,\\nFlings to the wind its deep, sonorous clang\\nThe simpler pile, that, mindful of the hour\\nWhen Howe s artillery shook its half-built tower,\\nWears on its bosom, as a bride might do.\\nThe iron breastpin which the Rebels threw.\\nWakes the sharp echoes with the quivering thrill\\nOf keen vibrations, tremulous and shrill\\nAloft, suspended in the morning s fire.\\nCrash the vast cymbals from the Southern spire\\nThe Giant, standing by the elm-clad green,\\nHis white lance lifted o er the silent scene.\\nWhirling in air his brazen goblet round,\\nSwings from its brim the swollen floods of sound\\nWhile, sad with memories of the olden time.\\nThe Northern Minstrel pours her tender chime.\\nFaint, single tones, that spell their ancient song.\\nBut tears still follow as they breathe along.\\nChild of the soil, whom fortune sends to range\\nWhere man and nature, faith and customs change.\\nBorne in thy memory, each familiar tone\\nMourns on the winds that sigh in every zone.\\nthe bombardment of the city, then occupied by the British-\\ntroops.\\n3. The Old South, first occupied for public worship in\\n1730.\\n4. Park Street Church, built in 1809, the tall, white steeple\\nof which is the most conspicuous of all the Boston spires.\\n5. Christ Church, opened for public worship in 1723, and\\ncontaining a set of eight bells, the only chime in Boston.", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0213.jp2"}, "212": {"fulltext": "180 URANIA\\nWhen Ceylon sweeps thee with her perfumed breeze\\nThrough the warm billows of the Indian seas\\nWhen, ship and shadow blended both in one,\\nFlames o er thy mast the equatorial sun,\\nFrom sparkling midnight to refulgent noon\\nThy canvas swelling with the still monsoon\\nWhen through thy shrouds the wild tornado sings.\\nAnd thy poor seabird folds her tattered wings,\\nOft will delusion o er thy senses steal,\\nAnd airy echoes ring the Sabbath peal\\nThen, dim with grateful tears, in long array\\nKise the fair town, the island-studded bay.\\nHome, with its smiling board, its cheering fire,\\nThe half-choked welcome of the expecting sire,\\nThe mother s kiss, and, still if aught remain,\\nOur whispering hearts shall aid the silent strain.\\nAh, let the dreamer o er the taffrail lean\\nTo muse unheeded, and to weep unseen\\nFear not the tropic s dews, the evening s chills,\\nHis heart lies warm among his triple hills\\nTurned from her path by this deceitful gleam,\\nMy wayward fancy half forgets her theme\\nSee through the streets that slumbered in repose\\nThe living current of devotion flows\\nIts varied forms in one harmonious band.\\nAge leading childhood by its dimpled hand,\\nWant, in the robe whose faded edges fall\\nTo tell of rags beneath the tartan shawl.\\nAnd wealth, in silks that, fluttering to appear.\\nLift the deep borders of the proud cashmere.", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0214.jp2"}, "213": {"fulltext": "A EHYMED LESSON. 181\\nSee, but glance briefly, sorrow-worn and pale,\\nThose sunken cheeks beneath the widow s veil\\nAlone she wanders where with him she trod,\\nE o arm to stay her, but she leans on God.\\nWhile other doublets deviate here and there,\\nWhat secret handcuff binds that pretty pair\\nCompactest couple pressing side to side,\\nAh, the white bonnet that reveals the bride\\nBy the white neckcloth, with its straitened tie,\\nThe sober hat, the Sabbath-speaking eye.\\nSevere and smileless, he that runs may read\\nThe stern disciple of Geneva s creed\\nDecent and slow, behold his solemn march\\nSilent he enters through yon cro^vded arch.\\nA livelier bearing of the outward man.\\nThe light-hued gloves, the undevout rattan,\\nNow smartly raised or ha If -profanely twirled,\\nA bright, fresh twinkle from the week-day world,\\nTell their plain story yes, thine eyes behold\\nA cheerful Christian from the liberal fold.\\nDow^n the chill street that curves in gloonxiest\\nshade.\\nWhat marks betray yon solitary maid\\nThe cheek s red rose, that speaks of balmier air\\nThe Celtic blackness of her braided hair\\n1 For the propriety of the term Celtic blackness, see\\nLaurence s Lectures (Salem, 1828), pp. 452, 453. But the\\nancient Celts appear to have been a xanthous, or fair-haired\\nrace. See Pritchard s iVaf. Hist, of Man (London, 1843), pp.\\n183, 193, 196.", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0215.jp2"}, "214": {"fulltext": "182 URANIA\\nThe gilded missal in her kerchief tied\\nPoor Kora, exile from Killarney s side\\nSister in toil, though blanched by colder skies,\\nThat left their azure in her downcast eyes,\\nSee pallid Margaret, Labor s patient child.\\nScarce weaned from home, the nursling of the wild\\nWhere white Katahdin o er the horizon shines.\\nAnd broad Penobscot dashes through the pines\\nStill, as she hastes, her careful fingers hold\\nThe unfailing hymn-book in its cambric fold.\\nSix days at drudgery s heavy wheel she stands,\\nThe seventh sweet morning folds her weary hands;\\nYes, child of suffering, thou may st well be sure\\nHe who ordained the Sabbath loves the poor\\nThis weekly picture faithful memory draws.\\nNor claims the noisy tribute of applause\\nFaint is the glow such barren hopes can lend,\\nAnd frail the line that asks no loftier end.\\nTrust me, kind listener, I will yet beguile\\nThy saddened features of the promised smile\\nThis magic mantle thou must well divide,\\nIt has its sable and its ermine side\\nYet, ere the lining of the robe appears.\\nTake thou in silence, what I give in tears.\\nDear listening soul, this transitory scene\\nOf murmuring stillness, busily serene\\nThis solemn pause, the breathing-space of man.\\nThe halt of toil s exhausted caravan.\\nComes sweet with music to thy wearied ear\\nKise with its anthems to a holier sphere", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0216.jp2"}, "215": {"fulltext": "A RHYMED LESSON. Ig3\\nDeal meekly, gently, with the hopes that guide\\nThe lowliest brother straying from thy side\\nIf right, they bid thee tremble for thine own,\\nIf wrong, the verdict is for God alone\\nWhat though the champions of thy faith esteem\\nThe sprinkled fountain or baptismal stream\\nShall jealous passions in unseemly strife\\nCross their dark weapons o er the waves of life?\\nLet my free soul, expanding as it can,\\nLeave to his scheme the thoughtful Puritan\\nBut Calvin s dogma shall my lips deride\\nIn that stern faith my angel Mary died\\nOr ask if mercy s milder creed can save.\\nSweet sister, risen from thy new-made grave\\nTrue, the harsh founders of thy church reviled\\nThat ancient faith, the trust of Erin s child\\nMust thou be raking in the crumbled past\\nFor racks and fagots in her teeth to cast\\nSee from the ashes of Helvetia s pile\\nThe whitened skull of old Servetus smile\\nRound her young heart thy Romish Upas threw\\nIts firm, deep fibres, strengthening as she grew\\nThy sneering voice may call them Popish\\ntricks,\\nHer Latin prayers, her dangling crucifix,\\nBut De Profimdis blessed her father s grave;\\nThat idol cross her dying mother gave\\nWhat if some angel looks with equal eyes\\nOn her and thee, the simple and the wise,", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0217.jp2"}, "216": {"fulltext": "184 URANIA\\nWrites each dark fault against thy brighter creed,\\nAnd drops a tear with every foolish bead\\nGrieve, as thou must, o er history s reeking page\\nBlush for the wrongs that stain thy happier age\\nStrive with the wanderer from the better path.\\nBearing thy message meekly, not in wrath\\nWeep for the frail that err, the weak that fall.\\nHave thine own faith, but hope and pray for all\\nFaith Conscience Love. A meaner task re-\\nmains.\\nAnd humbler thoughts must creep in lowlier strains\\nShalt thou be honest Ask the wordly schools.\\nAnd all will tell thee knaves are busier fools\\nPrudent Industrious Let not modern pens\\nInstruct Poor Kichard s fellow-citizens.\\nBe firm one constant element in luck\\nIs genuine, solid, old Teutonic j)luck\\nSee yon tall shaft it felt the earthquake s thrill,\\nClung to its base, and greets the sunrise still.\\nStick to your aim the mongrel s hold will slip,\\nBut only crowbars loose the bulldog s grip\\nSmall as he looks, the jaw that never yields\\nDrags down the bellowing monarch of the fields\\nYet in opinions look not always back\\nYour wake is nothing, mind the coming track\\nLeave what you ve done for what you have to do\\nDon t be consistent, but be simply true.", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0218.jp2"}, "217": {"fulltext": "A RHYMED LESSON. 185\\nDon t catch the fidgets; you have found your\\nplace\\nJust in the focus of a nervous race,\\nFretful to change, and rabid to discuss,\\nFull of excitements, always in a fuss\\nThink of the patriarchs then compare as men\\nThese lean-cheeked maniacs of the tongue and pen\\nKun, if you like, but try to keep your breath\\nWork like a man, but don t be worked to death\\nAnd with new notions, let me change the rule,\\nDon t strike the iron till it s slightly cool.\\nChoose well your set our feeble nature seeks\\nThe aid of clubs, the countenance of cliques;\\nAnd with this object settle first of all\\nYour weight of metal and your size of ball.\\nTrack not the steps of such as hold you cheap.\\nToo mean to prize, though good enough to keep\\nThe real, genuine, no-mistake Tom Thumbs\\nAre little people fed on great men s crumbs.\\nYet keep no followers of that hateful brood\\nThat basely mingles with its wholesome food\\nThe tumid reptile, which, the poet said,\\nDoth wear a precious jewel in his head.\\nIf the wild filly, Progress, thou would st ride,\\nHave young companions ever at thy side\\nBut, would st thou stride the stanch old mare,\\nSuccess,\\nGo with thine elders, though they please thee less.", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0219.jp2"}, "218": {"fulltext": "1S6 URANIA\\nShun such as lounge through afternoons and eves,\\nAnd on thy dial write Beware of thieves\\nFelon of minutes, never taught to feel\\nThe worth of treasures which thy lingers steal,\\nPick my left pocket of its silver dime,\\nBut spare the right, it holds my golden time\\nDoes praise delight thee? Choose some ultra\\nside\\nA sure old recipe, and often tried\\nBe its apostle, congressman, or bard,\\nSpokesman, or jokesman, only drive it hard\\nBut know the forfeit w^hich thy choice abides.\\nFor on two w^heels the poor reformer rides.\\nOne black wdth epithets the anti throws.\\nOne white with flattery, painted by the^)7 ^5.\\nThough books on manners are not out of print,\\nAn honest tongue may drop a harmless hint.\\nStop not, unthinking, every friend you meet.\\nTo spin your wordy fabric in the street\\nWhile you are emptying your colloquial pack.\\nThe fiend Lumhago jumps upon his back.\\nNor cloud his features wdth the unwelcome tale\\nOf how he looks, if haply thin and pale\\nHealth is a subject for his child, his wife.\\nAnd the rude office that insures his life.\\nLook in his face, to meet thy neighbor s soul.\\nNot on his garments, to detect a hole\\nHow to observe, is what thy pages show.\\nPride of thy sex. Miss Harriet Martineau", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0220.jp2"}, "219": {"fulltext": "A RHYMED LESSON. 187\\nOh, what a precious book the one would be\\nThat taught observers what they re not to see\\nI tell in verse, twere better done in prose,\\nOne curious trick that everybody knows;\\nOnce form this habit, and it s very strange\\nHow long it sticks, how hard it is to change.\\nTwo friendly people, both disposed to smile,\\nWho meet, like others, every little while.\\nInstead of passing with a pleasant bow,\\nAnd How d ye do or How s your uncle now?\\nImpelled by feelings in their nature kind,\\nBut slightly w^eak, and somewhat undefined,\\nRush at each other, make a sudden stand,\\nBegin to talk, expatiate, and expand\\nEach looks quite radiant, seems extremely struck,\\nTheir meeting so was such a piece of luck\\nEach thinks the other thinks he s greatly pleased\\nTo screw the vice in which they both are squeezed\\nSo there they talk, in dust, or mud, or snow.\\nBoth bored to death, and both afraid to go\\nYour hat once lifted, do not hang your fire,\\nNor, like slow Ajax, fighting still, retire\\nWhen your old castor on your crown you clap,\\nGo off; you ve mounted your percussion cap\\nSome words on language may be well applied.\\nAnd take them kindly, though they touch your\\npride\\nWords leads to things a scale is more precise,\\nCoarse speech, bad grammar, swearing, drinking,\\nvice.", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0221.jp2"}, "220": {"fulltext": "188 URANIA\\nOur cold Northeaster s icy fetter clips\\nThe native freedom of the Saxon lips\\nSee the brown peasant of the plastic South,\\nHow all his passions play about his mouth\\nWith us, the feature that transmits the soul,\\nA frozen, passive, palsied breathing-hole.\\nThe crampy shackles of the ploughboy s walk\\nTie the small muscles when he strives to talk\\nNot all the pumice of the polished town\\nCan smooth this roughness of the barnyard down\\nRich, honored, titled, he betrays his race\\nBy this one mark, he s awkward in the face;\\nNature s rude impress, long before he knew\\nThe sunny street that holds the sifted few.\\nIt can t be helped, though, if we re taken young.\\nWe gain some freedom of the lips and tongue\\nBut school and college often try in vain\\nTo break the padlock of our boyhood s chain\\nOne stubborn word will prove this axiom true\\nNo quondam rustic can enunciate view.\\nA few brief stanzas may be well employed\\nTo speak of errors we can all avoid.\\nLearning condemns beyond the reach of hope\\nThe careless lips that speak of soap for soap\\nHer edict exiles from her fair abode\\nThe clownish voice that utters road for road\\nLess stern to him who calls his coat a coat.\\nAnd steers his boat, believing it a boat,\\nShe pardoned one, our classic city s boast.\\nWho said at Cambridge, most instead of most,", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0222.jp2"}, "221": {"fulltext": "A RHYMED LESSON. 189\\nBut knit her brows and stamped her angry foot\\nTo hear a teacher call a root a root.\\nOnce more speak clearly, if you speak at all\\nCarve every word before you let it fall\\nDon t, like a lecturer or dramatic star,\\nTry over hard to roll the British K\\nDo put your accents in the proper spot\\nDon t,\u00e2\u0080\u0094 let me beg you, \u00e2\u0080\u0094don t say How for\\nWhat\\nAnd, when you stick on conversation s burs.\\nDon t strew your pathway with those dreadful urs.\\nFrom little matters let us pass to less.\\nAnd lightly touch the mysteries of dress\\nThe outward forms the inner man reveal,\\nWe guess the pulp before we cut the peel.\\nI leave the broadcloth, coats and all the rest,\\nThe dangerous waistcoat, called by cockneys vest,\\nThe things named pants in certain documents,\\nA word not made for gentlemen, but gents\\nOne single precept might the whole condense:\\nBe sure your tailor is a man of sense\\nBut add a little care, a decent pride.\\nAnd always err upon the sober side.\\nThree pairs of boots one pair of feet demands,\\nIf polished daily by the owner s hands\\nIf the dark menial s visit save from this.\\nHave twice the number, for he ll sometimes miss.\\nOne pair for critics of the nicer sex,\\nClose in the instep s clinging circumflex,", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0223.jp2"}, "222": {"fulltext": "190 URANIA\\nLong, narrow, light the Gallic boot of love,\\nA kind of cross between a boot and glove.\\nBut, not to tread on everlasting thorns,\\nAnd sow in suffering what is reaped in corns,\\nCompact, but easy, strong, substantial, square,\\nLet native art compile the medium pair.\\nThe third remains, and let your tasteful skill\\nHere show some relics of affection still\\nLet no stiff cowhide, reeking from the tan,\\nNo rough caoutchouc, no deformed brogan.\\nDisgrace the tapering outline of your feet.\\nThough yellow torrents gurgle through the street\\nBut the i?atclied calfskin arm against the flood\\nIn neat, light shoes, impervious to the mud.\\nWear seemly gloves not black, nor yet too\\nlight.\\nAnd least of all the pair that once was white\\nLet the dead party where \\\\^ou told your loves\\nBury in peace its dead bouquets and gloves\\nShave like the goat, if so your fancy bids.\\nBut be a parent, don t neglect your kids.\\nHave a good hat the secret of your looks\\nLives with the beaver in Canadian brooks\\nVirtue may flourish in an old cravat,\\nBut man and nature scorn the shocking hat.\\nDoes beauty slight you from her gay abodes\\nLike bright Apollo, you must take to EhoadeSy\\nMount the new castor, ice itself will melt\\nBoots, gloves may fail the hat is always felt", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0224.jp2"}, "223": {"fulltext": "A RHYMED LESSON. 191\\nBe shy of breast-pins plain, well-ironed white,\\nWith small pearl buttons, two of them in sight,\\nIs always genuine, while your gems may pass,\\nThough real diamonds, for ignoble glass\\nBut spurn those paltry cis-Atlantic lies,\\nThat round his breast the shabby rustic ties\\nBreathe not the name, profaned to hallow things\\nThe indignant laundress blushes when she brings\\nOur freeborn race, averse to every check.\\nHas tossed the yoke of Europe from its nech\\nFrom the green prairie to the sea-girt town.\\nThe whole wide nation turns its collars down.\\nThe stately neck is manhood s manliest part\\nIt takes the life-blood freshest from the heart\\nWith short, curled ringlets close around it spread,\\nHow light and strong it lifts the Grecian head\\nThine, fair Erectheus of Minerva s wall\\nOr thine, young athlete of the Louver s hall,\\nSmooth as the pillar flashing in the sun\\nThat filled the arena where thy wreaths were\\nwon,\\nFirm as the band that clasps the antlered spoil\\nStrained in the winding anaconda s coil\\nI spare the contrast it were only kind\\nTo be a little, nay, intensely blind\\nChoose for yourself I know it cuts your ear\\nI know the points will sometimes interfere\\nI know that often, like the filial John,\\nWhom sleep surprised with half his drapery on,", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0225.jp2"}, "224": {"fulltext": "192 URANIA\\nYou show jour features to the astonished town\\nWith one side standing and the other down\\nBut, O my friend my favorite fellow-man\\nIf Nature made you on her modern plan,\\nSooner than wander witli your windpipe bare,\\nThe fruit of Eden ripening in the air,\\nWith that lean head-stalk, that protruding chin,\\nWear standing collars, were the}^ made of tin!\\nAnd have a neck-cloth, by the throat of Jove!\\nCut from the funnel of a rusty stove\\nThe long-drawn lesson narrows to its close.\\nChill, slender, slow, the dwindled current flows\\nTired of the ripples on its feeble springs.,\\nOnce more the Muse unfolds her upward wings.\\nLand of my birth, with this unhallowed tongue,\\nThy hopes, thy dangers, I perchance had sung\\nBut who shall sing, in brutal disregard\\nOf all the essentials of the native bard\\nLake, sea, shore, prairie, forest, mountain, fall,\\nHis eye omnivorous must devour them all\\nThe tallest summits and the broadest tides\\nHis foot must compass with its giant strides,\\nWhere Ocean thunders, where Missouri rolls.\\nAnd tread at once the tropics and the poles\\nHis food all forms of earth, fire, water, air.\\nHis home all space, his birth-place everywhere.\\nSome grave compatriot, having seen perhaps\\nThe pictured page that goes in Worcester s Maps,", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0226.jp2"}, "225": {"fulltext": "A RHYMED LESSON. 193\\nAnd read in earnest what was said in jest,\\nWho drives fat oxen please to add the rest,\\nSprung the odd notion that the poet s dreams\\nGrow in the ratio of his hills and streams\\nAnd hence insisted that the aforesaid bard\\nPink of the future fancy s pattern-card,\\nThe babe of Nature in the giant West,\\nMust be of course her biggest and her best.\\nBut, were it true that ]N ature s fostering sun\\nSaves all its daylight for that favorite one,\\nIf for his forehead every wreath she means,\\nAnd we, poor children, must not touch the greens\\nSince rocks and rivers cannot take the road\\nTo seek the elected in his own abode.\\nSome voice must answer, for her precious heir,\\nOne solemn question Who shall pay his fare\\nOh, when at length the expected bard shall\\ncome.\\nLand of our pride, to strike thine echoes dumb\\n(And many a voice exclaims in prose and rhyme\\nIt s getting late, and he s behind his time),\\nWhen all thy mountains clap their hands in joy.\\nAnd all thy cataracts thunder That s the boy,\\nSay if with him the reign of song shall end,\\nAnd Heaven declare its final dividend\\nBe calm, dear brother 1 whose impassioned strain\\nComes from an alley watered by a drain\\nThe little Mincio, dribbling to the Po,\\nBeats all the epics of the Hoang Ho\\nIf loved in earnest by the tuneful maid,\\n3", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0227.jp2"}, "226": {"fulltext": "19i URANIA\\nDon t mind their nonsense, never be afraid\\nThe nurse of poets feeds her winged brood\\nBy common firesides, on familiar food\\nIn a low hamlet, by a narrow^ stream,\\nWhere bovine rustics used to doze and dream,\\nShe filled young William s fiery fancy full.\\nWhile old John Shakespeare talked of beeves and\\nwool\\nNo Alpine needle, with its climbing spire.\\nBrings down for mortals the Promethean fire.\\nIf careless Nature have forgot to frame\\nAn altar w^orthy of the sacred flame.\\nUnblest by any save the goat-herd s lines,\\nMont Blanc rose soaring through his sea of pines\\nIn vain the Arve and Arveiron dash.\\nNo hymn salutes them but the Ranz des Yaches,\\nTill lazy Coleridge, by the morning s light,\\nGazed for a moment on the fields of white.\\nAnd lo, the glaciers found at length a tongue,\\nMont Blanc was vocal, and Chamoimi sung\\nChildren of w^ealth or want, to each is given\\nOne spot of green, and all the blue of heaven\\nEnough, if these their outward shows impart\\nThe rest is thine, the scenery of the heart.\\nIf passion s hectic in thy stanzas glow\\nThy heart s best life-blood ebbing as tliey flow.\\nIf with thy verse thy strength and bloom distil,\\nDrained by the pulses of the fevered thrill\\nIf sound s sweet effluence polarize thy brain,", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0228.jp2"}, "227": {"fulltext": "A RHYMED LESSON. 195\\nAnd thoughts turn crystals in th} fluid strain,\\nNor rolling ocean, nor the prairie s bloom,\\nl^or streaming cliffs, nor rayless cavern s gloom,\\nJ^eed st thou, young poet, to inform thy line\\nThy own broad signet stamps thy song divine\\nLet others gaze where silvery streams are rolled,\\nAnd chase the rainbow for its cup of gold\\nTo thee all landscapes were a heavenly dye,\\nChanged in the glance of thy prismatic eye\\nNature evoked thee in sublimer throes.\\nFor thee her inmost Arethusa flows,\\nThe mighty mother s living depths are stirred,\\nThou art the starred Osiris of the herd\\nA few brief lines they touch on solemn chords,\\nAnd hearts may leap to hear their honest words\\nYet, ere the jarring bugle-blast is blown.\\nThe softer lyre shall breathe its soothing tone.\\nNew England proudly may thy children claim\\nTheir honored birthright by its humblest name\\nCold are thy skies, but, ever fresh and clear.\\nNo rank malaria stains thine atmosphere\\nNo fungous weeds invade thy scanty soil,\\nScarred by the ploughshares of unslumbering toil.\\nLong may the doctrines by thy sages taught,\\nKaised from the quarries where their sires have\\nwrought.\\nBe like the granite of thy rock-ribbed land,\\nAs slow to rear, as obdurate to stand\\nAnd as the ice, that leaves thy crystal mine,\\nChills the fierce alcohol in the Creole s wine.", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0229.jp2"}, "228": {"fulltext": "196 URANIA\\nSo may the doctrines of thy sober school\\nKeep the hot theories of thy neighbors cool\\nIf ever, trampling on her ancient path,\\nCankered by treachery, or inflamed by wrath,\\nWith smooth Kesolves, or with discordant cries,\\nThe mad Briareus of disunion rise.\\nChiefs of New England by 3^our sires renown,\\nDash the red torches of the rebel down\\nFlood his black hearth-stone till its flames expire,\\nThough your old Sachem fanned his council-fire\\nBut if at last, her fading cycle run,\\nThe tongue must forfeit what the arm has won,\\nThen rise, wild Ocean roll thy surging shock\\nFull on old Plymouth s desecrated rock\\nScale the proud shaft degenerate hands have hewn,\\nWhere bleeding Yalor stained the flowers of June\\nSweep in one tide her spires and turrets down.\\nAnd howl her dirge above Monadnoc s crown\\nList not the tale the Pilgrim s hallowed shore,\\nThough strewn with weeds, is granite at the core\\nOh, rather trust that He who made her free\\nWill keep her true, as long as faith shall be\\nFarewell yet lingering through the destined\\nhour,\\nLeave, sweet Enchantress, one memorial flower\\nAn Angel, floating o er the waste of snow\\nThat clad our western desert, long ago", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0230.jp2"}, "229": {"fulltext": "A RHYMED LESSON. 197\\n(The same fair spirit who, unseen by day,\\nShone as a star along the Mayflower s way),\\nSent, the first herald of the Heavenly plan.\\nTo choose on earth a resting-place for man,\\nTired with his flight along the unvaried field.\\nTurned to soar upwards, when his glance revealed\\nA calm, bright bay, enclosed in rocky bounds,\\nAnd at its entrance stood three sister mounds.\\nThe Angel spake This threefold hill shall be\\nThe home of Arts, the nurse of Liberty\\nOne stately summit from its shaft shall pour\\nIts deep-red blaze, along the darkened shore\\nEmblem of thoughts that, kindling far and wide.\\nIn danger s night shall be a nation s guide.\\nOne swelling crest the citadel shall crown.\\nIts slanted bastions black with battle s frown,\\nAnd bid the sons that tread its scowling heights\\nBare their strono^ arms for man and all his rig^hts\\no o\\n1 The name first given by tlie English to Boston was Tri-\\nMOUNTAIN. Tlie three hills upon and around which the city\\nis built are Beacon Hill, Fort Hill, and Copp s Hill.\\nIn the early records of the col on 3^ it is mentioned, under\\ndate of May 6, 1635, that A Beacon is to be set on the Sen-\\ntry hill, at Boston, to give notice to the country of any dan-\\nger to be guarded by one man stationed near, and fired as\\noccasion may be. The last beacon was blown down in 1789.\\nThe eastern side of Fort Hill was formerly a ragged cliff,\\nthat seemed placed by nature in front of the entrance to the\\nharbor for the purposes of defence, to which it was very soon\\napplied, and from which it obtained its present name. Its\\nsummit is now a beautiful green enclosure.\\nCopp s Hill was used as a burial-ground from a very early", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0231.jp2"}, "230": {"fulltext": "198 URANIA\\nOne silent steep along the northern wave\\nShall hold the patriarch s and the hero s grave\\nWhen fades the torch, when o er the peaceful scene\\nThe embattled fortress smiles in living green,\\nThe cross of Faith, the anchor staff of Hope,\\nShall stand eternal on its grassy slope\\nThere through all time shall faithful Memory tell:\\nHere Yirtue toiled, and Patriot Yalor fell\\nThy free, proud fathers slumber at thy side.\\nLive as they lived, or perish as they died\\nperiod. The part of it employed for this purpose slopes toward\\nthe water upon the northern side. From its many interest-\\ning records of the dead, I select the following, wiiich may\\nserve to show what kind of dust it holds\\nHere lies buried in a\\nStone Grave 10 feet deep,\\nCapt Daniel Malcolm Mercht\\nwho departed this Life\\nOctober 23d, 1769,\\nAged 44 years,\\na true son of Liberty,\\na Friend to the Publick,\\nan Enemy to oppression,\\nand one of the foremost\\nin opposing the Revenue Acts\\non America.\\nThe gravestone from which I copied this inscription is\\nbruised and splintered by the bullets of the British soldiers.", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0232.jp2"}, "231": {"fulltext": "THE PILGEIM S YISIOK\\nIn the hour of twilight shadows\\nThe Puritan looked out\\nHe thought of the bloudy Salvages\\nThat lurked all round about,\\nOf Wituwamet s pictured knife\\nAnd Pecksuot s whooping shout\\nFor the baby s limbs were feeble,\\nThough his father s arms were stout.\\nHis home was a freezing cabin\\nToo bare for the hungry rat.\\nIts roof was thatched with ragged grass\\nAnd bald enough of that\\nThe hole that served for casement\\nWas glazed with an ancient hat\\nAnd the ice was gently thawing\\nFrom the log whereon he sat.\\nAlong the dreary landscape\\nHis eyes went to and fro,\\nThe trees all clad in icicles.\\nThe streams that did not flow\\nA sudden thought flashed o er him,\\nA dream of Ions: ag-o,\\nHe smote his leathern jerkin\\nAnd murmured Even so\\n199", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0233.jp2"}, "232": {"fulltext": "200 THE PILGRIM S VISION.\\nCome hither, God-be-Glorified,\\nAnd sit upon my knee,\\nBehold the dream unfolding,\\nWhereof I spake to thee\\nBy the winter s hearth in Leyden\\nAnd on the stormy sea\\nTrue is the dream s beginning,\\nSo may its ending be\\nI saw in the naked forest\\nOur scattered remnant cast,\\nA screen of shivering branches\\nBetween them and the blast\\nThe snow was falling round them,\\nThe dying fell as fast\\nI looked to see them perish.\\nWhen lo, the vision passed.\\nAgain mine eyes were opened\\nThe feeble had waxed strong.\\nThe babes had grown to sturdy men,\\nThe remnant was a throng\\nBy shadowed lake and winding stream\\nAnd all the shores along,\\nThe howling demons quaked to hear\\nThe Christian s godly song.\\nThey slept, the village fathers,\\nBy river, lake, and shore.\\nWhen far adown the steep of Time\\nThe vision rose once more", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0234.jp2"}, "233": {"fulltext": "THE PILGRIM S VISION. 201\\nI saw along the winter snow\\nA spectral column pour,\\nAnd high above their broken ranks\\nA tattered flag they bore.\\nTheir Leader rode before them,\\nOf bearing calm and high,\\nThe light of Heaven s own kindling\\nThroned in his awful eye\\nThese were a E ation s champions\\nHer dread appeal to try\\nGod for the right I faltered,\\nAnd lo, the train passed by.\\nOnce more the strife is ended,\\nThe solemn issue tried.\\nThe Lord of Hosts, His mighty arm\\nHas helped our Israel s side\\nGray stone and grassy hillock\\nTell where our martyrs died,\\nBut peaceful smiles the harvest,\\nAnd stainless flows the tide.\\nA crash, as when some swollen cloud\\nCracks o er the tangled trees\\nWith side to side, and spar to spar.\\nWhose smoking decks are these\\nI know Saint George s blood-red cross,\\nThou Mistress of the Seas,\\nBut what is she, whose streaming bars\\nKoll out before the breeze", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0235.jp2"}, "234": {"fulltext": "202 THE PILGRIM S VISION.\\nAh, well her iron ribs are knit,\\nWhose thunders strive to quell\\nThe bellowing throats, the blazing lips,\\nThat pealed the Armada s knell\\nThe mist was cleared, a wreath of stars\\nEose o er the crimsoned swell.\\nAnd, wavering from its haughty peak,\\nThe cross of England fell\\nO trembling Faith though dark the morn,\\nA heavenly torch is thine\\nWhile feebler races melt away.\\nAnd paler orbs decline.\\nStill shall the fiery pillar s ray\\nAlong thy pathway shine.\\nTo light the chosen tribe that sought\\nThis Western Palestine\\nI see the living tide roll on\\nIt crowns with flaming towers\\nThe icy capes of Labrador,\\nThe Spaniard s land of flowers\\nIt streams beyond the splintered ridge\\nThat parts the Northern showers\\nFrom eastern rock to sunset wave\\nThe Continent is ours\\nHe ceased, the grim old Puritan,\\nThen softly bent to cheer\\nThe pilgrim-child, whose wasting face\\nWas meekly turned to hear", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0236.jp2"}, "235": {"fulltext": "THE PILGRIM S VISION. 203\\nAnd drew his toil-worn sleeve across,\\nTo brush the manly tear\\nFrom cheeks that never changed in woe,\\nAnd never blanched in fear.\\nThe weary pilgrim slumbers,\\nHis resting-place unknown\\nHis hands were crossed, his lids were closed,\\nThe dust was o er him strown\\nThe drifting soil, the mouldering leaf.\\nAlong the sod were blown\\nHis mound has melted into earth.\\nHis memory lives alone.\\nSo let it live unfading.\\nThe memor}^ of the dead.\\nLong as the pale anemone\\nSprings where their tears were shed.\\nOr, raining in the summer s wind\\nIn flakes of burning red,\\nThe wild rose sprinkles with its leaves\\nThe turf where once they bled\\nYea, when the frowning bulwarks\\nThat guard this holy strand\\nHave sunk beneath the trampling surge\\nIn beds of sparkling sand.\\nWhile in the waste of ocean\\nOne hoary rock shall stand\\nBe this its latest legend,\\nHere was the Pilgrim s land", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0237.jp2"}, "236": {"fulltext": "A MODEST EEQUEST.\\nCOMPLIED WITH AFTEE THE DINNER AT PEESIDENT\\nEVEEETT s INAUGrEATION.\\nScene, a back parlor in a certain square,\\nOr court, or lane, in short no matter where\\nTime, early morning, dear to simple souls\\nWho love its sunshine, and its fresh-baked rolls\\nPersons, take pity on this telltale blush.\\nThat, like the ^thiop, whispers Hush, oh hush\\nDelightful scene where smiling comfort broods,\\nNor business frets, nor anxious care intrudes\\nO si sic omnia w^ere it ever so\\nBut what is stable in this world below\\nMedio efonte, Virtue has her faults,\\nThe clearest fountains taste of Epsom salts\\nWe snatch the cup and lift to drain it dry,\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nIts central dimple holds a drowning fly\\nStrong is the pine by Maine s ambrosial streams,\\nBut stronger augers pierce its thickest beams\\nNo iron gate, no spiked and panelled door,\\nCan keep out death, the postman, or the bore\\nO for a world where peace and silence reign,\\nAnd blunted dulness terebrates in vain\\n204", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0238.jp2"}, "237": {"fulltext": "A MODEST REQUEST. 205\\n\u00e2\u0080\u0094The door bell jingles, enter Richard Fox,\\nAnd takes this letter from his leathern box.\\nDear Sir,\\nIn writing on a forn:ier day,\\nOne little matter I forgot to say\\nI now inform you in a single line,\\nOn Thursday next our purpose is to dine.\\nThe act of feeding, as you understand,\\nIs but a fraction of the work in hand\\nIts nobler half is that ethereal meat\\nThe papers call the intellectual treat\\nSongs, speeches, toasts, around the festive board,\\nDrowned in the juice the College pumps aiford\\nFor only water flanks our knives and forks,\\nSo, sink or float, we swim without the corks.\\nYours is the art, by native genius taught.\\nTo clothe in eloquence the naked thought\\nYours is the skill its music to prolong\\nThrough the sweet effluence of mellifluous song;\\nYours the quaint trick to cram the pithy line\\nThat cracks so crisply over bubbling wine\\nAnd since success your various gifts attends,\\nWe, that is I and all your numerous friends,\\nExpect from you, your single self a host,\\nA speech, a song, excuse me, and a toast\\nNay, not to haggle on so small a claim,\\nA few of each, or several of the same.\\n(Signed) Yours, most truly\\nNo my sight must fail,\\nIf that ain t Judas on the largest scale", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0239.jp2"}, "238": {"fulltext": "200 A MODEST REQUEST.\\nWell, this is modest nothing else than that?\\nMy coat my boots my pantaloons my hat\\nMy stick my gloves as well as all my wits,\\nLearning and linen, everything that fits!\\nJack, said my lady, is it grog you ll try,\\nOr punch, or toddy, if perhaps you re dry\\nAh, said the sailor, though I can t refuse.\\nYou know, my lady, tain t for me to choose\\nI ll take the grog to finish off my luncli,\\nAnd drink the toddy while 3^ou mix the punch.\\nThe Speech. (The speaker, rising to be seen,\\nLooks very red, because so very green.)\\nI rise I rise with unaffected fear,\\n(Louder speak louder who the deuce can hear\\nI rise I said with undisguised dismay\\nSuch are my feelings as I rise, I say\\nQuite unprepared to face this learned throng,\\nAlready gorged with eloquence and song\\nAround my view are ranged on either hand\\nThe genius, wisdom, virtue of the land\\nHands that the rod of empire might have swayed\\nClose at my elbow stir their lemonade\\nWould you like Homer learn to write and speak,\\nThat bench is groaning with its weight of Greek\\nBehold the naturalist that in his teens\\nFound six new species in a dish of greens\\nAnd lo, the master in a statelier walk,\\nWhose annual ciphering takes a ton of chalk", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0240.jp2"}, "239": {"fulltext": "A MODEST REQUEST. 207\\nAnd there the linguist, that by common roots\\nThrough all their nurseries tracks old Noah s\\nshoots,\\nHow Shem s proud children reared the Assyrian piles,\\nWhile Ham s were scattered through the Sandwich\\nIsles\\nFired at the thought of all the present shows,\\nMy kindling fancy down the future flows\\nI see the glory of the coming days\\nO er Time s horizon shoot its streaming rays\\nNear and more near the radiant morning draws\\nIn living lustre (rapturous applause)\\nFrom east to west the blazing heralds run,\\nLoosed from the chariot of the ascending sun.\\nThrough the long vista of uncounted years\\nIn cloudless splendor (three tremendous cheers).\\nMy eye prophetic, as the depths unfold,\\nSees a new advent of the age of gold\\nWhile o er the scene new generations press,\\nNew heroes rise the coming time to bless,\\nNot such as Homer s, who, we read in Pope,\\nDined without forks and never heard of soap,\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nNot such as May to Marlborough Cliapel brings,\\nLean, hungry, savage, anti-everythings.\\nCopies of Luther in the pasteboard style,\\nBut genuine articles,\u00e2\u0080\u0094 the true Carlyle\\nWhile far on high the blazing orb shall shed\\nIts central light on Harvard s holy head.\\nAnd Learning s ensigns ever float unfurled\\nHere in the focus of the new-born world", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0241.jp2"}, "240": {"fulltext": "208 A MODEST REQUEST.\\nThe speaker stops, and, trampling down the pause,\\nKoars through the hall the thunder of applause,\\nOne stormy gust of long suspended Ahs\\nOne whirlwind chaos of insane hurrahs\\nThe Sono. But this demands a briefer line,\\nA shorter muse and not the old long Nine\\nLong metre answers for a common song.\\nThough common metre does not answer long.\\nShe came beneath the forest dome\\nTo seek its peaceful shade.\\nAn exile from her ancient home,\\nA poor forsaken maid\\nNo banner, flaunting high above,\\nNo blazoned cross, she bore\\nOne holy book of light and love\\nWas all her worldly store.\\nThe dark brown shadows passed away,\\nAnd wider spread the green.\\nAnd, where the savage used to stray.\\nThe rising mart was seen\\nSo, when the laden winds had brought\\nTheir showers of golden rain.\\nHer lap some precious gleanings caught,\\nLike Ruth s amid the grain.\\nBut wrath soon gathered uncontrolled\\nAmong the baser churls.\\nTo see her ankles red with gold,\\nHer forehead white with pearls", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0242.jp2"}, "241": {"fulltext": "A MODEST REQUEST. 209\\nWho gave to thee the glittering bands\\nThat lace thine azure veins\\nWho bade thee lift those snow-white hands\\nWe bound in gilded chains?\\nThese are the gems my children gave,\\nThe stately dame replied\\nThe wise, the gentle, and the brave,\\nI nurtured at my side\\nIf envy still your bosom stings.\\nTake back their rims of gold\\nMy sons will melt their wedding rings,\\nAnd give a hundred-fold\\nThe Toast. Oh, tell me, ye who thoughtless ask\\nExhausted nature for a threefold task,\\nIn wit and pathos if one share remains,\\nA safe investment for an ounce of brains\\nHard is the job to launch the desperate pun,\\nA pan -job dangerous as the Indian one.\\nTurned by the current of some stronger wit\\nBack from the object that you mean to hit,\\nLike the strange missile which the Australian\\nthrows,\\nYour verbal hopmerang slaps you on the nose.\\nOne vague inflection spoils the whole with doubt,\\nOne trivial letter ruins all, left out\\nA knot can choke a felon into clay,\\nA not will save him, spelt without the k\\nThe smallest word has some unguarded spot.\\nAnd danger lurks in i without a dot.", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0243.jp2"}, "242": {"fulltext": "210 A MODEST REQUEST.\\nThus great Achilles, who had shown his zeal\\nIn healing Avounds, died of a wounded heel\\nUnhappy chief, who, when in childhood doused,\\nHad saved his bacon, had his feet been soused\\nAccursed heel that killed a hero stout\\nOh, had 3^our mother }vnown that you were out.\\nDeath had not entered at the trifling part\\nThat still defies the small chirurgeon s art\\nWith corns and bunions, not the glorious John\\nWho wrote the book we all have pondered on,\\nBut other bunions, bound in fleecy hose,\\nTo Pilgrim s Progress unrelenting foes\\nA health, unmingled with the reveller s wine.\\nTo him whose title is indeed divine\\nTruth s sleepless Avatchman on her midnight tower.\\nWhose lamp burns brightest when the tempests\\nlower.\\nOh, who can tell with w4iat a leaden flight\\nDrag the long watches of his weary night\\nWhile at his feet the hoarse and blinding gale\\nStrews the torn wreck and bursts the fragile sail.\\nWhen stars have faded, when the wave is dark.\\nWhen rocks and sands embrace the foundering\\nbark.\\nAnd still he pleads with unavailing cry.\\nBehold the light, O wanderer, look or die\\nA health, fair Themis Would the enchanted vine\\nWreathed its green tendrils round this cup of\\nthine", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0244.jp2"}, "243": {"fulltext": "_ A MODEST REQUEST. 211\\nIf Learning s radiance fill thy modern court,\\nIts glorious sunshine streams through Blackstone s\\nport\\nLawyers are thirsty, and their clients too,\\nWitness at least, if memory serve me true,\\nThose old tribunals, famed for dusty suits.\\nWhere men sought justice ere they brushed their\\nboots\\nAnd what can match, to solve a learned doubt,\\nThe warmth within that comes from cold with-\\nout\\nHealth to the art whose glory is to give\\nThe crowning boon that makes it life to live.\\nAsk not her home the rock where Nature flings\\nHer arctic lichen, last of living things.\\nThe gardens, fragrant with the Orient s balm,\\nFrom the low jasmine to the star-like palm.\\nHail her as mistress o er the distant waves,\\nAnd yield their tribute to her wandering slaves.\\nWherever, moistening the ungrateful soil,\\nThe tear of suffering tracks the path of toil.\\nThere, in the anguish of his fevered hours,\\nHer gracious finger points to healing flowers\\nWhere the lost felon steals away to die.\\nHer soft hand waves before his closing eye\\nWhere hunted misery finds his darkest lair,\\nThe midnight taper shows her kneeling there\\nVirtue,\u00e2\u0080\u0094 the guide that men and nations own\\nAnd Law, the bulwark that protects her throne", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0245.jp2"}, "244": {"fulltext": "212 A MODEST REQUEST.\\nAnd Health, to all its happiest charm that\\nlends\\nThese and their servants, man s untiring friends\\nPour the bright lymph that Heaven itself lets\\nfall,\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nIn one fair bumper let us toast them all", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0246.jp2"}, "245": {"fulltext": "NUX POSTCCENATICA.\\nI WAS sitting with my microscope, upon my parlor\\nrug,\\nWith a very heavy quarto and a very lively bug\\nThe true bug had been organized with only two\\nantennae.\\nBut the humbug in the copperplate would have\\nthem twice as many.\\nAnd I thought, like Dr. Faustus, of the emptiness\\nof art.\\nHow we take a fragment for the whole, and call\\nthe whole a part.\\nWhen I heard a heavy footstep that was loud\\nenough for two.\\nAnd a man of forty entered, exclaiming, How\\nd ye do\\nHe was not a ghost, my visitor, but solid flesh and\\nbone\\nHe wore a Palo Alto hat, his weight was twenty\\nstone\\n(It s odd how hats expand their brims as riper years\\ninvade.\\nAs if when life had reached its noon, it wanted them\\nfor shade\\n213", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0247.jp2"}, "246": {"fulltext": "21J, NUX POSTCCENATICA.\\nI lost my focus,\u00e2\u0080\u0094 dropped my book,\u00e2\u0080\u0094 the bug, who\\nwas a flea,\\nAt once exploded, and commenced experiments on\\nme.\\nThey have a certain heartiness that frequently ap-\\npalls,\\nThose mediaeval gentlemen in semilunar smalls\\nMy boy, he said (colloquial ways, the vast,\\nbroad-hatted man),\\nCome dine with us on Thursday next,\u00e2\u0080\u0094 you must,\\nyou know you can\\nWe re going to have a roaring time, with lots of fun\\nand noise.\\nDistinguished guests, et cetera, the Judge, and all\\nthe boys.\\nNot so, I said,\u00e2\u0080\u0094 my temporal bones are showing\\npretty clear\\nIt s time to stop, just look and see that hair above\\nthis ear\\nMy golden days are more than spent, and, what is\\nvery strange.\\nIf these are real silver hairs, I m getting lots of\\nchange.\\nBesides my prospects don t you know that people\\nwon t employ\\nA man that wrongs his manliness by laughing like\\na boy", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0248.jp2"}, "247": {"fulltext": "NUX POSTCCENATICA. 215\\nAnd suspect the azure blossom that unfolds upon a\\nshoot,\\nAs if wisdom s old potato could not flourish at its\\nroot\\nIt s a very fine reflection, when you re etching out\\na smile\\nOn a copper plate of faces that would stretch at\\nleast a mile,\\nThat, what with sneers from enemies, and cheapen-\\ning shrugs of friends,\\nIt will cost you all the earnings that a month of\\nlabor lends\\nIt s a vastly pleasing prospect, when you re screw-\\ning out a laugh,\\nThat your very next year s income is diminished by\\na half,\\nAnd a little boy trips barefoot that Pegasus may go.\\nAnd the baby s milk is watered that your Helicon\\nmay flow\\nNo the joke has been a good one, but I m get-\\nting fond of quiet.\\nAnd I don t like deviations from my customary\\ndiet\\nSo I think I will not go with you to hear the toasts\\nand speeches.\\nBut stick to old Montgomery Place, and have some\\npig and peaches.", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0249.jp2"}, "248": {"fulltext": "210 NUX POSTCCENATICA.\\nThe fat man answered Shut your mouth, and hear\\nthe genuine creed\\nThe true essentials of a feast are only fun and\\nfeed\\nThe force that wheels the planets round delights in\\nspinning tops,\\nAnd that young earthquake t other day was great\\nat shaking props.\\nI tell you what, philosopher, if all the longest heads\\nThat ever knocked their sinciputs in stretching on\\ntheir beds\\nWere round one great mahogany, I d beat those\\nfine old folks\\nWith twenty dishes, twenty fools, and twenty clever\\njokes\\nWhy, if Columbus should be there, the company\\nwould beg\\nHe d show that little trick of his of balancing the\\neggl\\nMilton to Stilton would give in, and Solomon to\\nSalmon,\\nAnd Koger Bacon be a bore, and Francis Bacon\\ngammon\\nAnd as for all the patronage of all the clowns\\nand boors\\nThat squint their little narrow eyes at any freak of\\nyours,", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0250.jp2"}, "249": {"fulltext": "NUX POSTCOENATICA. 217\\nDo leavo them to your prosier friends, such fel-\\nlows ought to die\\nWhen rhubarb is so very scarce and ipecac so high\\nAnd so I come, like Lochinvar, to tread a single\\nmeasure,\\nTo purchase with a loaf of bread a sugar- plum of\\npleasure,\\nTo enter for the cup of glass that s run for after\\ndinner,\\nWhich yields a single sparkling draught, then breaks\\nand cuts the winner.\\nAh, that s the way delusion comes, a glass of old\\nMadeira,\\nA pair of visual diaphragms revolved by Jane or\\nSarah,\\nAnd down go vows and promises without the slight-\\nest question\\nIf eating words w^on t compromise the organs of\\ndigestion\\nAnd yet, among my native shades, beside my nurs-\\ning mother,\\nWhere every stranger seems a friend, and every\\nfriend a brother,\\nI feel the old convivial glow (unaided) o er me steal-\\ning,\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nThe warm, charapagny, old-particular, brandy-\\npunchy feeling.", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0251.jp2"}, "250": {"fulltext": "218 NUX POSTCCENATICA.\\nWe re all alike Vesuvius flings the scoriae from\\nhis fountain,\\nBut down they come in volleying rain back to the\\nburning mountain\\nWe leave, like those volcanic stones, our precious\\nAlma Mater,\\nBut will keep dropping in again to see the dear old\\ncrater.", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0252.jp2"}, "251": {"fulltext": "ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL.\\nThis ancient silver bowl of mine, it tells of good\\nold times,\\nOf joyous days, and jolly nights, and merry Christ-\\nmas chimes\\nThey were a free and jovial race, but honest, brave,\\nand true,\\nThat dipped their ladle in the punch when this old\\nbowl was new.\\nA Spanish galleon brought the bar, so runs the\\nancient tale\\nTwas hammered by an Antwerp smith, whose arm\\nwas like a flail\\nAnd now and then between the strokes, for fear his\\nstrength should fail.\\nHe wiped his brow, and quaffed a cup of good old\\nFlemish ale.\\nTwas purchased by an English squire to please his\\nloving dame,\\nWho saw the cherubs, and conceived a longing for\\nthe same;\\nAnd oft, as on the ancient stock another twig was\\nfound,\\nTwas filled witli caudle spiced and hot, and handed\\nsmoking- round.\\n219", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0253.jp2"}, "252": {"fulltext": "^20 ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL.\\nBut, changing hands, it reached at length a Puritan\\ndivine,\\nWho used to follow Timothy, and take a little wine,\\nBut hated punch and prelacy and so it was, per-\\nhaps,\\nHe went to Leyden, where he found conventicles and\\nschnapps.\\nAnd then, of course, you know what s next, it left\\nthe Dutchman s shore\\nWith those that in the Mayflower came, a hundred\\nsouls and more,\\nAlong with all the furniture, to fill their new\\nabodes,\\nTo judge by what is still on hand, at least a hundred\\nloads.\\nTwas on a dreary winter s eve, the night was clos-\\ning dim.\\nWhen old Miles Standish took the bowl, and filled\\nit to the brim\\nThe little Captain stood and stirred the posset with\\nhis sword.\\nAnd all his sturdy men at arms were ranged about\\nthe board.\\nHe poured the fiery Hollands in, the man that\\nnever feared,\\nHe took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his\\nyellow beard", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0254.jp2"}, "253": {"fulltext": "ON LENDING A PUNCH BOWL. 221\\nAnd one by one the musketeers, the men that\\nfought and prayed,\\nAll drank as twere their mother s milk, and not a\\nman afraid.\\nThat night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming\\neagle flew.\\nHe heard the Pequot s ringing whoop, the soldier s\\nwild halloo\\nAnd there the sachem learned the rule he taught to\\nkith and kin,\\nEun from the white man when you find he smells\\nof Hollands gin\\nA hundred years, and fifty more, had spread their\\nleaves and snows,\\nA thousand rubs had flattened down each little\\ncherub s nose\\nWhen once again the bowl was filled, but not in\\nmirth or joy,\\nTwas mingled by a mother s hand to cheer her\\nparting boy.\\nDrink, John, she said, twill do you good,\u00e2\u0080\u0094 poor\\nchild, you ll never bear\\nThis working in the dismal trench, out in the mid-\\nnight air\\nAnd if, --God bless me,\u00e2\u0080\u0094 you were hurt, twould\\nkeep away the chill\\nSo John did drink,\u00e2\u0080\u0094 and well he wrought that\\nnight at Bunker s Hill", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0255.jp2"}, "254": {"fulltext": "222 ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL.\\nI tell you, there was generous warmth in good old\\nEnglish cheer\\nI tell you, twas a pleasant thought to bring its\\nsymbol here.\\nTis but the fool that loves excess hast thou a\\ndrunken soul\\nThy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver\\nbowl!\\nI love the memory of the past, its pressed yet\\nfragrant flowers,\\nThe moss that clothes its broken walls, the ivy on\\nits towers,\\n]^ay, this poor bauble it bequeathed, my eyes grow\\nmoist and dim.\\nTo think of all the vanished joys that danced around\\nits brim.\\nThen fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight\\nto me\\nThe goblet hallows all it holds, whate er the liquid\\nbe\\nAnd may the cherubs on its face protect me from\\nthe sin.\\nThat dooms one to those dreadful words, My\\ndear, where have you been", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0256.jp2"}, "255": {"fulltext": "THE STETHOSCOPE SOKG.\\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.\\nThe first was a bottle-fly, big and blue,\\nThe second was smaller, and thin and long\\nSo there Avas 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 hver was short of hile,\\nAnd some that his heart was over size.\\nWhile some kept arguing all the while\\nHe was crammed with tubercles up to his eyes,\\n223", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0257.jp2"}, "256": {"fulltext": "22-i THE STETHOSCOPE SONG.\\nThis fine young man tiien 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 autojpsy 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 hourdonnement is very clear,\\nAiri phoi ic huzzing^ as I m alive\\nFive doctors took their turn to hear\\nAmphoric huzzing^ said all the five.\\nThere s empyema beyond a doubt\\nWe ll 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, tho-ugh her tongue was quick\\nTo her this knowing youth must go.", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0258.jp2"}, "257": {"fulltext": "THE STETHOSCOPE SONG. 225\\nSo there the nice old Isidy 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\\nO ho the matter is clear, no doubt\\nAn aneurism there plainly is.\\nThe l)r^dt de rape and the hriiit de scie\\nAnd the hndt de diaUe are all combined\\nHow happy Bouillaud would be,\\nIf he a case like this could find\\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 rale sonore,\\n15", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0259.jp2"}, "258": {"fulltext": "226 THE STETHOSCOPE SONG.\\nHe shook his head there s grave disease,\\nI greatly fear you all must die\\nA slight post-7nortem, 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\\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.", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0260.jp2"}, "259": {"fulltext": "EXTEACTS FROM A MEDICAL POEM.\\nTHE STABILITY OF SCIENCE.\\nThe feeble seabircls, blinded in the storms,\\nOn some tall lighthouse dash their little forms,\\nAnd the rude granite scatters for their pains\\nThose small deposits that were meant for brains.\\nYet the proud fabric in the morning s sun\\nStands all unconscious of the mischief done\\nStill the red beacon pours its evening rays\\nFor the lost pilot with as full a blaze,\\nNay, shines, all radiance, o er the scattered fleet\\nOf gulls and boobies brainless at its feet.\\nI tell their fate, though courtesy disclaims\\nTo call our kind by such ungentle names\\nYet, if your rashness bid you vainly dare.\\nThink of their doom, ye simple, and beware\\nSee where aloft its hoary forehead rears\\nThe towering pride of twice a thousand years\\nFar, far below the vast incumbent pile\\nSleeps the gray rock from art s ^gean isle,\\nIts massive courses, circling as they rise.\\nSwell from the waves to mingle with the skies\\nThere every quarry lends its marble spoil,\\nAnd clustering ages blend their common toil", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0261.jp2"}, "260": {"fulltext": "228 EXTRACTS FROM A MEDICAL POEM.\\nThe Greek, the Roman, reared its ancient walls,\\nThe silent Arab arched its mystic halls\\nIn that fair niche, by countless billows laved,\\nTrace the deep lines that Sydenham engraved\\nOn yon broad front that breasts the changing swell,\\nMark where the ponderous sledge of Hunter fell\\nBy that square buttress look where Louis stands,\\nThe stone yet warm from his uplifted hands\\nAnd say, O Science, shall thy life-blood freeze\\nWhen fluttering folly flaps on walls like these\\nA P0RTRA.IT.\\nSimple in youth, but not austere in age\\nCalm, but not cold, and cheerful though a sage\\nToo true to flatter, and too kind to sneer.\\nAnd only just when seemingly severe\\nSo gently blending courtesy and art.\\nThat wisdom s lips seemed borrowing friendship s\\nheart\\nTaught by the sorrows that his age had known\\nIn others trials to forget his own.\\nAs hour by hour his lengthened day declined,\\nThe sweeter radiance lingered o er his mind.\\nCold were the lisp that spoke his early praise,\\nAnd hushed the voices of his morning days.\\nYet the same accents dwelt on every tongue,\\nAnd love renewing kept him ever young.\\nA SENTIMENT.\\n0 /3:o9 (Spaxo? life is but a song\\nH rexvrj /xaxprj art is wondrous long", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0262.jp2"}, "261": {"fulltext": "EXTRACTS FROM A MEDICAL POEM. 220\\nYet to the wise her paths are ever fair,\\nAnd Patience smiles, though Genius may despair.\\nGive us but knowledge, though by slow degrees,\\nAnd blend our toil with moments bright as these\\nLet Friendship s accents cheer our doubtful way,\\nAnd Love s pure planet lend its guiding ray,\\nOur tardy Art shall w^ear an angel s wings.\\nAnd life shall lengthen with the joy it brings", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0263.jp2"}, "262": {"fulltext": "A SONG OF OTHEK DAYS.\\nAs o er the glacier s frozen sheet\\nBreathes soft the Alpine rose,\\nSo, through life s desert springing sweet,\\nThe flower of friendship grows\\nAnd as, where er the roses grow.\\nSome rain or dew descends,\\nTis nature s law that wine should flow\\nTo wet the lips of friends.\\nThen once again, before we part.\\nMy empty glass shall ring\\nAnd he that has the warmest heart\\nShall loudest laugh and sing.\\nThey say we were not born to eat\\nBut gray-haired sages think\\nIt means, Be moderate in your meat,\\nAnd partly live to drink\\nFor baser tribes the rivers flow\\nThat know not wine or song\\nMan wants but little drink below,\\nBut wants that little strong.\\nThen once again, etc.\\n230", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0264.jp2"}, "263": {"fulltext": "A SONG OF OTHER DAYS. 231\\nIf one bright drop is like the gem\\nThat decks a monarch s crown,\\nOne goblet holds a diadem\\nOf rubies melted down\\nA fig for Caesar s blazing brow,\\nBut, like the Egyptian Queen,\\nBid each dissolving jewel glow\\nMy thirsty lips between.\\nThen once again, etc.\\nThe Grecian s mound, the Roman s urn.\\nAre silent when w^e call,\\nYet still the purple grapes return\\nTo cluster on the wall\\nIt was a bright Immortal s head\\nThey circled with the vine.\\nAnd o er their best and bravest dead\\nThey poured the dark- red wine.\\nThen once again, etc.\\nMe thinks o er every sparkling glass\\nYoung Eros waves his wings.\\nAnd echoes o er its dimples pass\\nFrom dead Anacreon s strings\\nAnd, tossing round its beaded brim\\nTheir locks of floating gold.\\nWith bacchant dance and choral hymn\\nReturn the nymphs of old.\\nThen once again, etc.", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0265.jp2"}, "264": {"fulltext": "232 A SONG OF OTHER DAYS.\\nA welcome then to joy and mirth,\\nFrom hearts as fresh as ours,\\nTo scatter o er the dust of earth\\nTheir sweetly mingled flowers\\nTis Wisdom s self the cup that fills\\nIn spite of Folly s frown.\\nAnd Nature, from her vine-clad hills,\\nThat rains her life-blood down\\nThen once again, etc.", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0266.jp2"}, "265": {"fulltext": "A SENTIMENT.\\nThe pledge of Friendship it is still divine,\\nThough watery floods have quenched its burning\\nwine\\nWhatever vase the sacred drops may hold,\\nThe gourd, the shell, the cup of beaten gold.\\nAround its brim the hand of Nature throws\\nA garland sweeter than the banquet s rose.\\nBright are the blushes of the vine-wreathed bowl.\\nWarm with the sunshine of Anacreon s soul.\\nBut dearer memories gild the tasteless wave\\nThat fainting Sidney perished as he gave.\\nTis the heart s current lends the cup its glow,\\nWhate er the fountain whence the draught may\\nflow,\\nThe diamond dew-drops sparkling through the sand.\\nScooped by the Arab in his sunburnt hand.\\nOr the dark streamlet oozing from the snow.\\nWhere creep and crouch the shuddering Esqui-\\nmaux\\nAy, in the stream that ere again w^e meet.\\nShall burst the pavement, glistening at our feet.\\nAnd, stealing silent from its leafy hills,\\nThread all our alleys with its thousand rills,\\nIn each pale draught if generous feeling blend.\\nAnd o er the goblet friend shall smile on friend,\\nEven cold Cochituate every heart shall warm.\\nAnd genial Nature still defy reform\\n233", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0267.jp2"}, "266": {"fulltext": "TO AN ENGLISH FEIEND.\\nThe seed that wasteful Autumn cast\\nTo waver on its stormy blast.\\nLong o er the wintry desert tost,\\nIts living germ has never lost\\nDropped by the weary tempest s wing,\\nIt feels the kindling ray of spring,\\nAnd starting from its dream of death,\\nPours on the air its perfumed breath.\\nSo, parted by the rolling flood.\\nThe love that springs from common blood\\nNeeds but a single sunlit hour\\nOf mingling smiles to bud and flower\\nUnharmed its slumbering life has flown\\nFrom shore to shore, from zone to zone,\\nWhere summer s falling roses stain\\nThe tepid waves of Pontchartrain,\\nOr where the lichen creeps below\\nKatahdin s wreaths of whirling snow\\nThough fiery sun and stiffening cold\\nMay warp the fair ancestral mould.\\nNo winter chills, no summer drains\\nThe life-blood drawn from English veins,\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nStill bearing, wheresoe er it flows.\\nThe love that with its fountain rose.\\nUnchanged by space, unwronged by time,\\nFrom age to kge, from clime to clime\\n234", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0268.jp2"}, "267": {"fulltext": "THE PLOUGHMAK\\n(anniversary of the BERKSHIRE AGRICTJLTUKAL\\nSOCIETY, OCT. 4th, 1849.)\\nClear the brown path, to meet his coulter s gleam\\nLo on he comes, behind his smoking team,\\nWith toil s bright dew-drops on his sun-burnt brow,\\nThe lord of Earth, the hero of the plough\\nFirst in the field before the reddening sun,\\nLast in the shadows when the day is done,\\nLine after line, along the bursting sod,\\nMarks the broad acres where his feet have trod\\nStill, where he treads the stubborn clods divide.\\nThe smooth fresh furrow opens deep and wide\\nMatted and dense the tangled turf upheaves,\\nMellow and dark the ridgy cornfield cleaves\\nUp the steep hill-side, Avhere the laboring train\\nSlants the long track that scores the level plain\\nThrough the moist valley, clogged with oozing clay,\\nThe patient convoy breaks its destined way\\nAt every turn the loosening chains resound.\\nThe swinging ploughshare circles glistening round,\\nTill the wide field one billowy waste appears,\\nAnd wearied hands unbind the panting steers.\\nThese are the hands whose sturdy labor brings\\nThe peasant s food, the golden pomp of kings\\n235", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0269.jp2"}, "268": {"fulltext": "236 THE PLOUGHMAN.\\nThis is the page, whose letters shall be seen\\nChanged by the sun to words of living green\\nThis is the scholar, w^hose immortal pen\\nSpells the first lesson hunger taught to men\\nThese are the lines, O heaven-commanded toil.\\nThat fill thy deed, the charter of the soil\\nO gracious Mother, whose benignant breast\\nWakes us to life, and lulls us all to rest,\\nHoAV thy sweet features, kind to every clime,\\nMock with their smile the wrinkled front of time\\nWe stain thy flowers, they blossom o er the dead;\\nWe rend thy bosom, and it gives us bread\\nO er the red field that trampling strife has torn.\\nWaves the green plumage of thy tasselled corn\\nOur maddening conflicts scar thy fairest plain.\\nStill thy soft answer is the growing grain.\\nYet, O our Mother, Avhile uncounted charms\\nRound the fresh clasp of thine embracing arms.\\nLet not our virtues in thy love decay.\\nAnd thy fond weakness waste our strength away.\\nNo by these hills, whose banners now displayed,\\nIn blazing cohorts Autumn has arrayed\\nBy yon twin crest, amid the sinking sphere\\nLast to dissolve, and first to reappear\\nBy these fair plains the mountain circle screens.\\nAnd feeds in silence from its dark ravines\\nTrue to their home, these faithful nrms shall toil\\nTo crown with peace their own untainted soil;", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0270.jp2"}, "269": {"fulltext": "THE PLOUGHMAN. 237\\nAnd, true to God, to freedom, to mankind,\\nIf her chained bandogs Faction shall unbind.\\nThese stately forms, that bending even now\\nBowed their strong manhood to the humble plough,\\nShall rise erect, the guardians of the land.\\nThe same stern iron in the same right hand,\\nTill Gray lock thunders to the parting sun.\\nThe sword has rescued what the ploughshare won", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0271.jp2"}, "270": {"fulltext": "A POEM\\nDELIVERED AT THE DEDICATION OF THE\\nPITTSFIELD CEMETEEY.\\nSeptember 9, 1850.\\nAngel of Death extend thy silent reign\\nStretch thy dark sceptre o er this new domain\\nNo sable car along the winding road\\nHas borne to earth its unresisting load\\n]S o sudden mound has risen yet to show\\nWhere the pale slumberer folds his arms below;\\nNo marble gleams to bid his memory live\\nIn the brief lines that hurrying Time can give\\nYet, O Destroyer from thy shrouded throne\\nLook on our gift this realm is all thine own\\nFair is the scene its sweetness oft beguiled\\nFrom their dim paths the children of the wild;\\nThe dark-haired maiden loved its grassy dells,\\nThe feathered warrior claimed its wooded swells,\\nStill on its slopes the ploughman s ridges show\\nThe pointed flints that left his fatal bow^.\\nChipped with rough art and slow barbarian toil,\\nLast of his wrecks that strews the alien soil\\n238", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0272.jp2"}, "271": {"fulltext": "PITTSFIELD CEMETERY. ^39\\nHere spread the fields that waved the ripened\\nstore\\nTill the brown arms of Labor held no more\\nThe scythe s broad meadow with its dusky blush\\nThe sickle s harvest with its velvet flush\\nThe green-haired maize, her silken tresses laid,\\nIn soft luxuriance, on her harsh brocade\\nThe gourd that swells beneath her tossing plume\\nThe coarser wheat that rolls in lakes of bloom,\\nIts coral stems and milk-white flowers alive\\nWith the wide murmurs of the scattered hive\\nThe glossy apple with the pencilled streak\\nOf morning painted on its southern cheek\\nThe pear s long necklace strung with golden drops.\\nArched, like the banyan, o er its hasty props\\nThe humble roots that paid the laborer s care\\nWith the cheap luxuries wealth consents to spare\\nThe healing herbs whose virtues could not save\\nThe hand that reared them from the neighboring\\ngrave.\\nYet all its varied charms, forever free\\nFrom task and tribute. Labor yields to thee\\nNo more when April sheds her fitful rain\\nThe sower s hand shall cast its flying grain\\nNo more when Autumn strews the flaming leaves\\nThe reaper s band shall gird its yellow sheaves\\nFor thee alike the circling seasons flow\\nTill the first blossoms heave the latest snow.\\nIn the stiff clod below the whirling drifts,\\nIn the loose soil the springing herbage lifts,", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0273.jp2"}, "272": {"fulltext": "240 PITTSFIELD CEMETERY.\\nIn the hot dust beneath the parching weeds\\nLife s wilting flower shall drop its shrivelled seeds\\nIts germ entranced in thy unbreathing sleep\\nTill what thou sowest mightier angels reap\\nSpirit of Beauty let thy graces blend\\nWith loveliest Nature all that Art can lend.\\nCome from the bowers where Summer s life-blood\\nflows\\nThrough the red lips of June s half-open rose,\\nDressed in bright hues, the loving sunshine s dower\\nFor tranquil [NTature owns no mourning flower.\\nCome from the forest where the beech s screen\\nBars the fierce noonbeams with its flakes of green\\nStay the rude axe that bares the shadowy plains.\\nStanch the deep wound that dries the maple s veins.\\nCome with the stream whose silver-braided rills\\nFling their unclasping bracelets from the hills.\\nTill in one gleam, beneath the forest s wings.\\nMelts the white glitter of a hundred springs.\\nCome from the steeps where look majestic forth\\nFrom their twin thrones the Giants of the North\\nOn the huge shapes that, crouching at their knees,\\nStretch their broad shoulders, rough with shaggy\\ntrees.\\nThrough the wide waste of ether, not in vain.\\nTheir softened gaze shall reach our distant plain\\nThere, while the mourner turns his aching eyes\\nOn the blue mounds that print the bluer skies,\\nNature shall whisper that the fading view\\nOf mightiest grief may wear a heavenly hue.", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0274.jp2"}, "273": {"fulltext": "PITTSFIELD CEMETERY. 241\\nCherub of Wisdom let thy marble page\\nLeave its sad lesson, new to every age\\nTeach us to live, not grudging every breath\\nTo the chill winds that waft us on to death,\\nBut ruling calmly every pulse it warms.\\nAnd tempering gently every word it forms.\\nSeraph of Love in heaven s adoring zone,\\nNearest of all around the central throne.\\nWhile with soft hands the pillowed turf we spread\\nThat soon shall hold us in its dreamless bed.\\nWith the low whisper Who shall first be laid\\nIn the dark chamber s yet unbroken shade?\\nLet thy sweet radiance shine rekindled here.\\nAnd all we cherish grow more truly dear.\\nHere in the gates of Death s o erhanging vault,\\nOh, teach us kindness for our brother s fault\\nLay all our wrongs beneath this peaceful sod,\\nAnd lead our hearts to Mercy and its God.\\nFather of all in Death s relentless claim\\nWe read Thy mercy by its sterner name\\nIn the bright flower that decks the solemn bier,\\nWe see Thy glory in its narrowed sphere\\nIn the deep lessons that affliction draws,\\nWe trace the curves of Thy encircling laws\\nIn the long sigh that sets our spirits free,\\nWe own the love that calls us back to Thee\\nThrough the hushed street, along the silent plain.\\nThe spectra] future leads its mourning train,\\ni6", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0275.jp2"}, "274": {"fulltext": "242 PITTSFIELD CEMETERY.\\nDark with the shadows of uncounted bands,\\nWhere man s white lips and woman s wringing\\nhands\\nTrack the still burden, rolling slow before,\\nThat love and kindness can protect no more\\nThe smiling babe that, called to mortal strife.\\nShuts its meek eyes and drops its little life\\nThe (h ooping child that prays in vain to live.\\nAnd pleads for help its parent cannot give\\nThe pride of beauty stricken in its flower\\nThe strength of manhood broken in an hour\\nAge in its weakness, bowed by toil and care.\\nTraced in sad lines beneath its silvered hair.\\nThe sun shall set, and heaven s resplendent\\nspheres\\nGild the smooth turf unhallowed yet by tears.\\nBut ah, how soon the evening stars Avill shed\\nTheir sleepless light around the slumbering dead\\nTal^e them, O Father, in immortal trust\\nAshes to ashes, dust to kindred dust.\\nTill the last angel rolls the stone away,\\nAnd a new morning brings eternal day", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0276.jp2"}, "275": {"fulltext": "ASTR^A\\nTHE BALANCE OF ILLUSIONS.^\\nWhat secret charm, long whispering in mine ear,\\nAllures, attracts, compels, and chains me here,\\nWhere murmuring echoes call me to resign\\nTheir sacred haunts to sweeter lips than mine\\nWhere silent pathways pierce the solemn shade,\\nIn whose still depths my feet have never strayed\\nHere, in the home where grateful children meet,\\nAnd I, half alien, take the stranger s seat.\\nDoubting, yet hoping that the gift I bear\\nMay keep its bloom in this unwonted air\\nHush, idle fancy, with thy needless art,\\nSpeak from thy fountains, O my throbbing heart\\nSay, shall I trust these trembling lips to tell\\nThe fireside tale that memory knows so well\\nHow, in the days of Freedom s dread campaign,\\nA home-bred school-boy left his village plain,\\nSlow faring southward, till his wearied feet\\nPressed the worn threshold of this fair retreat\\nHow, with his comely face and gracious mien.\\nHe joined the concourse of the classic green,\\n1 A poem delivered befoi-e the Phi Beta Kappa Society\\nof Yale College, August 14, 1850.\\n243", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0277.jp2"}, "276": {"fulltext": "244 ASTRiEA\\nIN ameless, unfriended, yet by Nature blest\\nWith the rich tokens that she loves the best\\nThe flowing locks, his youth s redundant crown,\\nSmoothed o er a brow unfurrowed by a frown\\nThe untaught smile that speaks so passing plain\\nA world all hope, a past without a stain\\nThe clear-hued cheek, whose burning current glows\\nCrimson in action, carmine in repose\\nGifts such as purchase, with unminted gold.\\nSmiles from the young and blessings from the old.\\nSay, shall my hand with pious love restore\\nThe faint, far pictures time beholds no more\\nHow the grave Senior, he whose later fame\\nStamps on our laws his own undying name,\\nSaw from on high, with half-paternal joy.\\nSome spark of promise in the studious boy.\\nAnd bade him enter, with benignant tone.\\nThose stately precincts which he called his own,\\nWhere the fresh student and the youthful sage\\nEead by one taper from the common page\\nHow the true comrade, whose maturer date\\nGraced the large honors of his ancient State,\\nSought his young friendship, which through every\\nchange\\nXo time could weaken, no remove estrange\\nHow the great Master, reverend, solemn, wise,\\nFixed on his face those calm, majestic eyes,\\nFull of grave meaning, where a child might read\\nThe Hebraist s patience and the Pilgrim s creed.\\nBut warm with flashes of parental fire\\nThat drew the stripling to his second sire;", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0278.jp2"}, "277": {"fulltext": "THE BALANCE OF ILLUSIONS. 245\\nHow kindness ripened, till the youth might dare\\nTake the low seat beside his sacred chair,\\nWhile the gra}^ scholar, bending o er the young.\\nSpelled the square types of Abraham s ancient\\ntongue.\\nOr with mild rapture stooped devoutly o er\\nHis small coarse leaf, alive with curious lore\\nTales of grim judges, at whose awful beck\\nFlashed the broad blade across a royal neck\\nOr learned dreams of Israel s long-lost child\\nFound in the wanderer of the western wild.\\nDear to his age were memories such as these,\\nLeaves of his June in life s autumnal breeze\\nSuch were the tales that won my boyish ear,\\nTold in low tones that evening loves to hear.\\nThus in the scene I pass so lightly o er.\\nTrod for a moment, then beheld no more.\\nStrange shapes and dim, unseen by other eyes,\\nThrough the dark portals of the past arise\\nI see no more the fair embracing throng,\\nI hear no echo to my saddened song,\\nNo more I heed the kind or curious gaze.\\nThe voice of blame, the rustling thrill of praise\\nAlone, alone, the awful past I tread\\nWhite with the marbles of the slumbering dead\\nOne shadowy form my dreaming eyes behold\\nThat leads my footsteps as it led of old.\\nOne floating voice, amid the silence heard.\\nBreathes in my ear love s long unspoken word", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0279.jp2"}, "278": {"fulltext": "246 ASTR^A\\nThese are the scenes thy youthful eyes have known;\\nMy heart s warm pulses claim them as its own\\nThe sapling compassed in thy fingers clasp,\\nMy arms scarce circle in their twice-told grasp,\\nYet in each leaf of yon o ershadowing tree\\nI read a legend that was traced by thee.\\nYear after year the living wave has beat\\nThese smooth- worn channels with its trampling feet,\\nYet in each line that scores the grassy sod\\nI see the pathway where thy feet have trod.\\nThough from the scene that hears my faltering lay,\\nThe few that loved thee long have passed away.\\nThy sacred presence all the landscape fills,\\nIts groves and plains and adamantine hills\\nYe who have known the sudden tears that flow,\\nSad tears, yet sweet, the dews of twilight woe,\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nWhen, led by chance, your wandering eye has\\ncrossed\\nSome poor memorial of the loved and lost,\\nBear with my weakness as I look around\\nOn the dear relics of this holy ground.\\nThese bowery cloisters, shadowed and serene.\\nMy dreams have pictured ere mine e^^es have seen.\\nAnd oh, forgive me, if the flower I brought\\nDroops in my hand beside this burning thought\\nThe hopes and fears that marked this destined hour,\\nThe chill of doubt, the startled throb of power.\\nThe flush of pride, the trembling glow of shame,\\nAll fade away and leave my Fathek s name", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0280.jp2"}, "279": {"fulltext": "THE BALANCE OF ILLUSIONS. 247\\nWiNTEK is past the heart of Nature warms\\nBeneath the wrecks of unresisted storms\\nDoubtful at first, suspected more than seen,\\nThe southern slopes are fringed with tender green\\nOn sheltered banks, beneath the dripping eaves,\\nSpring s earliest nurslings spread their glowing\\nleaves.\\nBright with the hues from wider pictures won,\\nWhite, azure, golden, drift, or sky, or sun\\nThe snowdrop, bearing on her patient breast\\nThe frozen trophy torn fi om winter s crest\\nThe violet, gazing on the arch of blue\\nTill her own iris wears its deepened hue\\nThe spendthrift crocus, bursting through the mould\\nNaked and shivering with his cup of gold.\\nSwelled with new life, the darkening elm on high\\nPrints her thick buds against the spotted sky\\nOn all her boughs the stately chestnut cleaves\\nThe gummy shroud that wraps her embryo leaves\\nThe housefly, stealing from his narrow grave,\\nDrugged Avith the opiate that November gave,\\nBeats with faint wing against the sunny pane,\\nOr crawls, tenacious, o er its lucid plain\\nFrom shaded chinks of lichen-crusted walls,\\nIn languid curves, the gliding serpent crawls\\nThe bog s green harper, thawing from his sleep,\\nTwangs a hoarse note and tries a shortened leap\\nOn floating rails that face the softening noons\\nThe still shy turtles range their dark platoons,\\nOr toiling, aimless, o er the mellowing fields.\\nTrails through the grass their tessellated shields.", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0281.jp2"}, "280": {"fulltext": "248 ASTR^A\\nAt last young April, ever frail and fair,\\nWooed by her playmate with the golden hair.\\nChased to the margin of receding floods\\nO er the soft meadows starred with opening buds.\\nIn tears and blushes sighs herself away,\\nAnd hides her cheek beneath the flowers of May,\\nThen the proud tulip lights her beacon blaze.\\nHer clustering curls the hyacinth displays.\\nO er her tall blades the crested fleur-de-lis,\\nLike blue-eyed Pallas, towers erect and free\\nWith yellower flames the lengthened sunshine\\nglows.\\nAnd love lays bare the passion-breathing rose\\nQueen of the lake, along its reedy verge\\nThe rival lily hastens to emerge,\\nHer snowy shoulders glistening as she strips.\\nTill morn is sultan of her parted lips.\\nThen bursts the song from every leafy glade.\\nThe yielding season s bridal serenade\\nThen flash the wings returning summer calls\\nThrough the deep arches of her forest halls\\nThe bluebird breathing from his azure plumes\\nThe fragrance borrowed where the myrtle blooms\\nThe thrush, poor wanderer, dropping meekly down,\\nClad in his remnant of autumnal brown\\nThe oriole, drifting like a flake of fire\\nEent by the whirlwind from a blazing spire\\nThe robin, jerking his spasmodic throat,\\nEepeats, staccato, his peremptory note", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0282.jp2"}, "281": {"fulltext": "THE BALANCE OF ILLUSIONS. 249\\nThe crackbrained bobolink courts his crazy mate,\\nPoised on a bulrush tipsy with his weight\\nISTay, in his cage the lone canary sings,\\nFeels the soft air and spreads his idle wings\\nWhy dream I here within these caging walls,\\nDeaf to her voice while blooming JSTature calls\\nPeering and gazing with insatiate looks\\nThrough blinding lenses, or in wearying books\\nOff, gloomy spectres of the shrivelled past,\\nFly with the leaves that filled the Autumn blast\\nYe imps of Science, w^hose relentless chains\\nLock the warm tides within these living veins.\\nClose your dim cavern, while its captive strays\\nDazzled and giddy in the morning s blaze\\nWhat life is this, that spreads in sudden birth\\nIts plumes of light around a new-born earth\\nIs this the sun that brought the unwelcome day.\\nPallid and glimmering with his lifeless ray,\\nOr through the sash that bars yon narrow cage\\nSlanted, intrusive, on the opened page\\nIs this soft breath the same complaining gale\\nThat filled my slumbers with its murmuring wail\\nIs this green mantle of elastic sod\\nThe same brown desert with its frozen clod,\\nWhere the last ridges of the dingy snow\\nLie till the windflower blooms unstained below\\nThus to my heart its w^onted tides return\\nWhen sullen Winter breaks his crystal urn,", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0283.jp2"}, "282": {"fulltext": "250 ASTHMA\\nAnd o er the turf in wild profusion showers\\nIts dewy leaflets and ambrosial flowers.\\nIn vacant rapture for a while I range\\nThrough the wide scene of universal change,\\nTill, as the statue in its nerves of stone\\nFelt the new senses wakening one by one.\\nEach long-closed inlet finds its destined ray\\nThrough the dark curtain Spring has rent away.\\nI crush the buds the clustering lilacs bear\\nThe same sweet fragrance that I loved is there\\nThe same fresh hues each opening disk reveals\\nSoft as of old each silken petal feels\\nThe birch s rind its flavor still retains,\\nIts boughs still ringing with the selfsame strains\\nAbove, around, rekindling Nature claims\\nHer glorious altars wreathed in living flames\\nUndimrned, unshadowed, far as morning shines.\\nFeeds with fresh incense her eternal shrines.\\nLost in her arms, her burning life I share.\\nBreathe the wild freedom of her perfumed air.\\nFrom Heaven s fair face the long-drawn shadows\\nroll,\\nAnd all its sunshine floods my opening soul\\nYet in the darksome crypt I left so late,\\nWhose only altar is its rusted grate,\\nSepulchral, rayless, joyless, as it seems.\\nShamed by the glare of May s refulgent beams,\\nWhile the dim seasons dragged their shrouded\\ntrain.\\nIts paler splendors were not quite in vain.", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0284.jp2"}, "283": {"fulltext": "THE BALANCE OF ILLUSIONS. 251\\nFrom these dull bars the cheerful firelight s glow\\nStreamed through the casement o er the spectral\\nsnow\\nHere, while the night-wind wreaked its frantic will\\nOn the loose ocean and the rock-bound hill,\\nKent the cracked topsail from its quivering yard.\\nAnd rived the oak a thousand storms had scarred,\\nFenced by these walls the peaceful taper shone,\\nKor felt a breath to swerve its trembling cone.\\nNot all unblest the mild interior scene\\nWhen the red curtain spread its folded screen\\nO er some light task the lonely hours Avere past,\\nAnd the long evening only flew too fast\\nOr the wide chair its leathern arms would lend,\\nIn genial welcome to some easy friend,\\nStretched on its bosom with relaxing nerves,\\nSlow moulding, plastic, to its hollow curves\\nPerchance indulging, if of generous creed.\\nIn brave Sir Walter s dream-compelling weed.\\nOr, happier still, the evening hour would bring\\nTo the round table its expected ring,\\nAnd while the punch bowl s sounding depths were\\nstirred,\\nIts silver cherubs smiling as they heard,\\nO er caution s head the blinding hood was flung,\\nAnd friendship loosed the jesses of the tongue.\\nSuch the warm life this dim retreat has known,\\nNot quite deserted when its guests were flown", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0285.jp2"}, "284": {"fulltext": "252 ASTHMA\\nISTay, filled with friends, an unobtrusive set,\\nGuiltless of calls and cards and etiquette,\\nEeady to answer, never known to ask,\\nClaiming no service, prompt for every task.\\nOn those dark shelves no housewife tool profanes,\\nO er his mute files the monarch folio reigns\\nA mingled race, the wreck of chance and time.\\nThat talk all tongues and breathe of every clime\\nEach knows his place, and each may claim his part\\nIn some quaint corner of his master s heart.\\nThis old Decretal, won from Kloss s hoards,\\nThick-leafed, brass-cornered, ribbed with oaken\\nboards.\\nStands the gray patriarch of the graver rows.\\nIts fourth ripe century narrowing to its close\\nIS ot daily conned, but glorious still to view\\nWith glistening letters wrought in red and blue.\\nThere towers Stagira s all-embracing sage.\\nThe Aldine anchor on his opening page\\nThere sleep the births of Plato s heavenly mind\\nIn yon dark tome by jealous clasps confined,\\nOlim e libris (dare I call it mine\\nOf Yale s great Head and Killing worth s divine\\nIn those square sheets the songs of Maro fill\\nThe silvery types of smooth-leafed Baskerville\\nHigh over all, in compact close arra}^.\\nTheir classic wealth the Elzevirs display.\\nIn lower regions of the sacred space\\nBange the dense volumes of a humbler race", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0286.jp2"}, "285": {"fulltext": "THE BALANCE OF ILLUSIONS, 253\\nThere grim chirurgeons all their mysteries teach\\nIn spectral pictures, or in crabbed speech\\nHarvey and Haller, fresh from Nature s page,\\nShoulder the dreamers of an earlier age,\\nLully and Geber, and the learned crew\\nThat loved to talk of all they could not do.\\nWhy count the rest, those names of later days\\nThat many love, and all agree to praise,\\nOr point the titles, where a glance may read\\nThe dangerous lines of party or of creed\\nToo well, perchance, the chosen list would show\\nWhat few may care and none can claim to know.\\nEach has his features, whose exterior seal\\nA brush may copy, or a sunbeam seal\\nGo to his study, on the nearest shelf\\nStands the mosaic portrait of himself.\\nWhat though for months the tranquil dust de-\\nscends.\\nWhitening the heads of these mine ancient friends,\\nWhile the damp offspring of the modern press\\nFlaunts on my table with its pictured dress\\nNot less I love each dull familiar face,\\nNot less should miss it from the appointed place\\nI snatch the book, along whose burning leaves\\nHis scarlet web our wild romancer weaves.\\nYet, while proud Hester s fiery pangs I share,\\nMy old Maonalia must be standing there\\nSee, while I speak my fireside joys return.\\nThe lamp rekindles and the ashes burn,", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0287.jp2"}, "286": {"fulltext": "254 ASTR^A\\nThe dream of summer fades before their ray,\\nAs in red firelight sunshine dies away.\\nA twofold picture ere the first was gone,\\nThe deepening outline of the next was drawn,\\nAnd wavering fancy hardly dares to choose\\nThe first or last of her dissolving views.\\n]No Delphic sage is wanted to divine\\nThe shape of Truth beneath my gauzy line\\nYet there are truths, like schoolmates, once well\\nknown.\\nBut half remembered, not enough to own,\\nThat lost from sight in life s bewildering train,\\nMay be, like strangers, introduced again.\\nDressed in new feathers, as from time to time\\nMay please our friends, the milliners of rhyme.\\nTrust not, it says, the momentar}^ hue\\nWhose false complexion paints the present view\\nKed, yellow, violet, stain the rainbow s light,\\nThe prism dissolves, and all again is white.\\nWhen o er the street the morning peal is flung\\nFrom yon tall belfry with the brazen tongue,\\nIts wide vibrations, wafted by the gale.\\nTo each far listener tell a different tale.\\nThe sexton, stooping to the quivering floor\\nTill the great caldron spills its brassy roar.\\nWhirls the hot axle, counting, one by one.\\nEach dull concussion, till his task is done.\\nToil s patient daughter, when the Avelcome note\\nClangs through the silence from the steeple s throat,", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0288.jp2"}, "287": {"fulltext": "THE BALANCE OF ILLUSIONS. ^55\\nStreams, a \\\\Yhite unit, to the checkered street.\\nDemure, but guessing whom she soon shall meet\\nThe bell, responsive to her secret flame.\\nWith every note repeats her lover s name.\\nThe lover, tenant of the neighboring lane,\\nSighing, and fearing lest he sigh in vain,\\nHears the stern accents, as they come and go,\\nTheir only burden one despairing No\\nOcean s rough child, whom many a shore has\\nknown\\nEre homeward breezes swept him to his own,\\nStarts at the echo as it circles round,\\nA thousand memories kindling with the sound\\nThe early favorite s unforgotten charms.\\nWhose blue initials stain his tawny arms\\nHis first farewell, the flapping canvas spread.\\nThe seaward streamers crackling o er his head,\\nHis kind, pale mother, not ashamed to weep\\nHer first-born s bridal Avith the haggard deep,\\nWhile the brave father stood with tearless eye,\\nSmiling and choking with his last good-by.\\nTis but a wave, whose spreading circle beats,\\nWith the same impulse, every nerve it meets,\\nYet who shall count the varied shapes that ride\\nOn the round surge of that aerial tide\\nO child of earth If floating sounds like these\\nSteal from thyself their power to wound or please,\\nIf here or there thy changing will inclines.\\nAs the bright zodiac shifts its rolling signs,", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0289.jp2"}, "288": {"fulltext": "256 ASTR^A\\nLook at thy heart, and when its depths are known,\\nThen trj^ thy brother s, judging by thine own,\\nBut keep thy wisdom to the narrow range.\\nWhile its own standards are the sport of change,\\nNor ask mankind to tremble, and obey\\nThe passing breath that holds thy passion s sway.\\nBut how, alas among our eager race.\\nShall smiling candor show her girlish face\\nWhat place is secret to the meddling crew,\\nWhose trade is settling what we all shall do\\nWhat verdict sacred from the busy fools,\\nThat sell the jargon of their outlaw schools\\nWhat pulpit certain to be never vexed\\nA\u00c2\u00a5ith libels sanctioned by a holy text\\nWhere, O my country, is the spot that yields\\nThe freedom fought for on a hundred fields\\nNot one strong tyrant holds the servile chain.\\nWhere all may vote, and each may hope to reign\\nOne sturdy cord a single limb may bind.\\nAnd leave the captive only half confined.\\nBut the free spirit finds its legs and wings\\nTied with unnumbered Liliputian strings.\\nWhich, like the spider s undiscovered fold.\\nIn countless meshes round the prisoner rolled,\\nWith silken pressure that he scarce can feel,\\nClamp every fibre as in bands of steel\\nHard is the task to point in civil phrase\\nOne s own dear people s foolish works or ways", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0290.jp2"}, "289": {"fulltext": "THE BALANCE OF ILLUSIONS. 257\\nWoe to the friend that marks a touchy fault,\\nHimself obnoxious to the world s assault\\nThink what an earthquake is a nation s hiss,\\nThat takes its circuit through a land like this\\nCount with the census, would you be precise.\\nFrom sea to sea, from oranges to ice\\nA thousand myriads are its virile lung-s,\\nA thousand myriads its contralto tongues\\nAnd oh, remember the indignant press\\nHoney is bitter to its fond caress,\\nBut the black venom that its hate lets fall\\nWould shame to sweetness the hyena s gall\\nBriefly and gently let the task be tried\\nTo touch some frailties on their tender side\\nNot to dilate on each imagined wrong,\\nAnd spoil at once our temper and our song.\\nBut once or twice a passing gleam to throw\\nOn some rank failings ripe enough to show.\\nPatterns of others, made of common stuff,\\nThe world will furnish parallels enough,\\nSuch as bewilder their contracted view,\\nWho make one pupil do the work of two\\nWho following Nature, where her tracks divide,\\nDrive all their passions on the narrower side.\\nAnd pour the phials of their virtuous wrath\\nOn half mankind that take the wider path.\\nNature is liberal to her inmost soul.\\nShe loves alike the tropic and the pole.\\nThe storm s wild anthem, and the sunshine s calm,\\n17", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0291.jp2"}, "290": {"fulltext": "258 ASTR^A\\nThe arctic fungus, and the desert palm\\nLoves them alike, and wills that each maintain\\nIts destined share of her divided reign\\nNo creeping moss refuse her crystal gem,\\nNo soaring pine her cloudy diadem\\nAlas her children, borrowing but in part\\nThe flowing pulses of her generous heart,\\nShame their kind mother with eternal strife\\nAt all the crossings of their mmgled life\\nEach age, each people, finds its ready shifts\\nTo quarrel stoutly o er her choicest gifts.\\nHistory can tell of early ages dim.\\nWhen man s chief glory was in strength of limb\\nThen the best patriot gave the hardest knocks,\\nThe height of virtue was to fell an ox\\n111 fared the babe of questionable mould,\\nWhom its stern father happened to behold\\nIn vain the mother with her ample vest\\nHid the poor nursling on her throbbing breast\\nNo tears could save him from the kitten s fate,\\nTo live an insult to the warlike state.\\nThis weakness passed, and nations owned once\\nmore,\\nMan was still human, measuring five feet four,\\nThe anti-cripples ceased to domineer.\\nAnd owned Napleon worth a grenadier.\\nIn these mild times the ancient bully s sport\\nWould lead its hero to a well-known court", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0292.jp2"}, "291": {"fulltext": "THE BALANCE OF ILLUSIONS. 259\\nOlympian athletes, though the pride of Greece,\\nMust face the Justice if they broke the peace,\\nAnd valor find some inconvenient checks,\\nIf strolling Theseus met Policeman X.\\nPerhaps too far in these considerate days\\nHas Patience carried her submissive ways\\nWisdom has taught us to be calm and meek.\\nTo take one blow and turn the other cheek\\nIt is not written what a man shall do,\\nIf the rude caitiff strike the other too\\nLand of our fathers, in thine hour of need\\nGod helped thee, guarded by the passive creed\\nAs the lone pilgrim trusts to beads and cowl.\\nWhen through the forest rings the gray wolf s howl\\nAs the deep galleon trusts her gilded prow\\nWhen the black corsair slants athwart her bow\\nAs the poor pheasant, with his peaceful mien.\\nTrusts to his feathers, shining golden-green.\\nWhen the dark plumage with the crimson beak\\nHas rustled shadowy from its splintered peak\\nSo trust thy friends, whose idle tongues would charm\\nThe lifted sabre from thy foeman s arm,\\nThy torches ready for the answering peal\\nFrom bellowing fort and thunder-freighted keel!\\nYet when thy champion s stormy task is done,\\nThe frigate silenced and the fortress won.\\nWhen toil-worn valor claims his laurel wreath,\\nHis reeking cutlass slumbering in its sheath,", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0293.jp2"}, "292": {"fulltext": "260 ASTR^A\\nThe fierce declaimer shall be heard once more,\\nWhose twang was smothered by the conflict s roar\\nHeroes shall fall that strode unharmed away\\nThrough the red heaps of many a doubtful day,\\nHacked in his sermons, riddled in his prayers,\\nThe broadcloth slashing what the broadsword\\nspares\\nUntaught by trial, ignorance might suppose\\nThat all our fighting must be done with blows\\nAlas! not so between the lips and brain\\nA dread artillery masks its loaded train\\nThe smooth portcullis of the smiling face\\nYeils the grim battery with deceptive grace,\\nBut in the flashes of its opened fire,\\nTruth, Honor, Justice, Peace, and Love expire.\\nYon whey-faced brother, who delights to wear\\nA weedy flux of ill-conditioned hair.\\nSeems of the sort that in a crowded place\\nOne elbows freely into smallest space\\nA timid creature, lax of knee and hip.\\nWhom small disturbance whitens round the lip\\nOne of those harmless spectacled machines.\\nIgnored by waiters when they call for greens.\\nWhom schoolboys question if their walk transcends\\nThe last advices of maternal friends,\\nWhom John, obedient to his master s sign.\\nConducts, laborious, up to ninety-nine.\\nWhile Peter, glistening Avith luxurious scorn,\\nHusks his white ivories like an ear of corn", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0294.jp2"}, "293": {"fulltext": "THE BALANCE OF ILLUSIONS. 261\\nDark in the brow and bilious in the cheek,\\nWhose yellowish linen flowers but once a week,\\nConspicuous, annual, in their threadbare suits.\\nAnd the laced high-loAvs which they call their boots.\\nWell mayst thou shun that dingy front severe.\\nBut him, O stranger, him thou canst not fea7\\nBe slow to judge, and slower to despise,\\nMan of broad shoulders and heroic size\\nThe tiger, writhing from the boa s rings,\\nDrops at the fountain where the cobra stings.\\nIn that lean phantom, whose extended glove\\nPoints to the text of universal love.\\nBehold the master that can tame thee down\\nTo crouch, the vassal of his Sunday frown\\nHis velvet throat against thy corded wrist,\\nHis loosened tongue against thy doubled fist\\nThe Moral Bully, though he never swears,\\nNor kicks intruders down his entry stairs.\\nThough meekness plants his backward sloping hat,\\nAnd non-resistance ties his white cravat.\\nThough his black broadcloth glories to be seen\\nIn the same plight with Shylock s gabardine.\\nHugs the same passion to his narrow breast,\\nThat heaves the cuirass on the trooper s chest,\\nHears the same hell-hounds yelling in his rear.\\nThat chase from port the maddened buccaneer,\\nFeels the same comfort while his acrid words\\nTurn the sweet milk of kindness into curds.\\nOr with grim logic prove, beyond debate.\\nThat all we love is worthiest of our hate.", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0295.jp2"}, "294": {"fulltext": "2G2 ASTRJEA\\nAs the scarred ruffian of the pirates deck,\\nWhen his long swivel rakes the staggering wreck\\nHeaven keep us all Is every rascal clown,\\nWhose arm is stronger, free to knock us down\\nHas every scarecrow, whose cachectic soul\\nSeems fresh from Bedlam, airing on parole.\\nWho, though he carries but a doubtful trace\\nOf angel visits on his hungry face,\\nFrom lack of marrow or the coin to pay,\\nHas dogged some vices in a shabby Avay,\\nThe right to stick us with his cut-throat terms,\\nAnd bait his homilies with his brother worms\\nIf generous fortune give me leave to choose\\nMy saucy neighbors barefoot or in shoes,\\nI leave the hero blustering while he dares\\nOn platforms furnished with posterior stairs,\\nTill prudence drives him to his earnest legs\\nWith large bequest of disappointed eggs.\\nAnd take the brawler whose unstudied dress\\nBecomes him better, and protects him less\\nGive me the bullying of the scoundrel crew.\\nIf swaggering virtue won t insult me too\\nCome, let us breathe a something not divine\\nHas mingled, bitter, with the flowing line.\\nPause for a moment, while our soul forgets\\nThe noisy tribe in panta-loons or -lets\\nNor pass, ungrateful, by the debt we owe\\nTo those who teach us half of all we know,\\nNot in rude license, or unchristian scorn.\\nBut hoping, loving, pitying, while they warn", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0296.jp2"}, "295": {"fulltext": "THE BALANCE OF ILLUSIONS. 263\\nSweep out the pieces Bound a careless room\\nThe feather duster follows up the broom\\nIf the last target took a round of grape\\nTo knock its beauty something out of shape,\\nThe next asks only, if the listener please,\\nA schoolboy s blowpipe and a gill of peas.\\nThis creeping object, caught upon the brink\\nOf an old teacup, filled with muddy ink,\\nLives on a leaf that buds from time to time\\nIn certain districts of a temperate clime.\\nO er this he toils in silent corners snug.\\nAnd leaves a track behind him, like a slug\\nThe leaves he stains a humbler tribe devours.\\nThrown off in monthly or in weekly showers\\nHimself kept savage on a starving fare.\\nOf such exuviie as his friends can spare.\\nLet the bug drop, and view him if we can\\nIn his true aspect as a quasi man.\\nThe little wretch, whose terebrating powers\\nWould bore a Paixhan in a dozen hours.\\nIs called a critic b}^ the heavy friends\\nThat help to pay his minus dividends.\\nThe pseudo-critic-editorial race\\nOwns no allegiance but the law of place\\nEach to his region sticks through thick and thin,\\nStiff as a beetle spiked upon a pin.\\nPlant him in Boston, and his sheet be fills\\nWith all the slipslop of his threefold hills,", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0297.jp2"}, "296": {"fulltext": "264 ASTR^A:\\nTalks as if Nature kept her choicest smiles\\nWithin his radius of a dozen miles,\\nAnd nations waited till his next Keview\\nHad made it plain what Providence must do.\\nWould you believe him, water is not damp\\nExcept in buckets with the Hingham stamp,\\nAnd Heaven should build the walls of Paradise\\nOf Quincy granite lined with Wenham ice.\\nBut Hudson s banks, with more congenial skies\\nSwell the small creature to alarming size\\nA gayer pattern wraps his flowery chest,\\nA sham more brilliant sparkles on his breast,\\nAn eyeglass, hanging from a gilded chain.\\nTaps the white leg that trips his rakish cane\\nStrings of new names, the glories of the age,\\nHang up to dry on his exterior page.\\nTitanic pygmies, shining lights obscure.\\nHis favored sheets have managed to secure.\\nWhose wide renown beyond their own abode\\nExtends for miles along the Harlaem road\\nNew radiance lights his patronizing smile.\\nNew airs distinguish his patrician style.\\nNew sounds are mingled with his fatal hiss,\\nOftenest, provincial and metrojpolis.\\nHe cry provincial,^ with imperious brow!\\nThe half-bred rogue, that groomed his mother s cow\\nFed on coarse tubers and ^olian beans\\nTill clownish manhood crept among his teens,\\nWhen, after washing and unheard-of pains\\nTo lard with phrases his refractory brains,", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0298.jp2"}, "297": {"fulltext": "THE BALANCE OF ILLUSIONS. 265\\nA third-rate college licked him to the shape,\\nNot of the scholar, but the scholar s ape\\nGod bless Manhattan Let her fairly claim,\\nWith all the honors due her ancient name,\\nWorth, wisdom, wealth, abounding and to spare,\\nRags, riots, rogues, at least her honest share\\nBut not presume, because, by sad mischance,\\nThe mobs of Paris wring the neck of France,\\nFortune has ordered she shall turn the poise\\nOf thirty Empires with her Bowery boys\\nThe poorest hamlet on the mountain s side\\nLooks on her glories with a sister s pride\\nWhen the first babes her fruitful ship-yards wean.\\nPlay round the breasts of Ocean s conquered queen.\\nThe shout of millions, borne on every breeze.\\nSweeps with Excelsior o er the enfranchised seas\\nYet not too rashly let her think to bind\\nBeneath her circlet all the nation s mind\\nOur star-crowned mother, whose informing soul\\nClings to no fragment, but pervades the whole.\\nViews with a smile the clerk of Maiden Lane,\\nWho takes her ventral ganglion for her brain I\\nNo fables tell us of Minervas born\\nFrom bags of cotton or from sacks of corn\\nThe halls of Leyden Science used to cram.\\nWhile dulness snored in purse-proud Amsterdam\\nBut those old burghers had a foggy clime,\\nAnd better luck may come the second time", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0299.jp2"}, "298": {"fulltext": "266 ASTR^A\\nWhat though some churls of doubtful sense declare\\nThat poison lurks in her commercial air,\\nHer buds of genius dying premature,\\nFrom some malaria draining cannot cure\\nKay, that so dangerous is her golden soil,\\nWhate er she borrows, she contrives to spoil\\nThat drooping minstrels in a few brief years\\nLose their sweet voice, the gift of other spheres\\nThat wafted singing from their native shore,\\nThey touch the Battery, and are heard no more\\nBy those twinned waves that wear the varied gleams\\nBeryl or sapphire mingles in their streams.\\nTill the fair sisters o er her yellow sands,\\nClasping their soft and snowy ruffled hands,\\nLay on her footstool with their silver keys\\nStrength from the mountains, freedom from the\\nseas,\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nSome future day may see her rise sublime\\nAbove her counters, only give her time\\nWhen our first Soldiers swords of honor gild\\nThe stately mansions that her tradesmen build\\nWhen our first Statesmen take the Broadway\\ntrack\\nOur first Historians following at their back\\nWhen our first Painters, dying, leave behind\\nOn her proud walls the shadows of their mind\\nWhen our first Poets flock from farthest scenes\\nTo take in hand her pictured Magazines\\nWhen our first Scholars are content to dwell\\nWhere their own printers teach them how to spell", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0300.jp2"}, "299": {"fulltext": "THE BALANCE OF ILLUSIONS. 267\\nWhen world-known Science crowds toward her\\ngates,\\nThen shall the children of our hundred States\\nHail her a true Metropolis of men,\\nThe nation s centre. Then, and not till then\\nThe song is failing. Yonder changing tower\\nShakes in its cup the more than brimming hour\\nThe full-length gallery which the fates deny,\\nA colored Moral briefly must supply.\\nNo life worth naming ever comes to good\\nIf always nourished on the selfsame food\\nThe creeping mite may live so if he please,\\nAnd feed on Stilton till he turns to cheese.\\nBut cool Magendie proves ibeyond a doubt.\\nIf mammals try it, that their eyes drop out.\\nNo reasoning natures find it safe to feed\\nFor their sole diet on a single creed\\nIt chills their hearts, alas it fills their lungs,\\nAnd spoils their eyeballs Avhile it spares their\\ntongues.\\nWhen the first larvae on the elm are seen.\\nThe crawling wretches, like its leaves, are green\\nEre chill October shakes the latest down.\\nThey, like the foliage, change their tint to brown\\nOn the blue flower a bluer flower you spy.\\nYou stretch to pluck it\u00e2\u0080\u0094 tis a butterfly\\nThe flattened tree-toads so resemble bark.\\nThey re hard to find as Ethiops in the dark", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0301.jp2"}, "300": {"fulltext": "268 ASTR^A\\nThe woodcock, stiffening to fictitious mud,\\nCheats tJie young sportsman thirsting for his blood.\\nSo by long living on a single lie,\\nNay, on one truth, will creatures get its dye\\nEed, yellow, green, they take their subject s hue,\\nExcept when squabbling turns them black and blue\\nThe song is passing. Let its meaning rise\\nTo loftier notes before its echo dies,\\nNor leave, ungracious, in its parting train\\nA trivial flourish or discordant strain.\\nThese lines may teach, rough-spoken though they\\nbe.\\nThy gentle creed, divinest Charity\\nTruth is at heart not always as she seems.\\nJudged by our sleeping or our waking dreams.\\nWe trust and doubt, we question and believe.\\nFrom life s dark threads a trembling faith to weave.\\nFrail as the web that misty night has spun.\\nWhose dew-gemmed awnings glitter in the sun.\\nThough Sovereign Wisdom, at His creatures call,\\nHas taught us much. He has not taught us all\\nWhen Sinai s summit was Jehovah s throne,\\nThe chosen Prophet knew His voice alone\\nWhen Pilate s hall that awful question heard.\\nThe Heavenly Captive answered not a word.\\nEternal Truth Beyond our hopes and fears\\nSweep the vast orbits of thy myriad spheres", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0302.jp2"}, "301": {"fulltext": "THE BALANCE OF ILLUSIONS. 269\\nFrom age to age while History carves sublime\\nOn her waste rock the flaming curves of time,\\nHow the wild swayings of our planet show\\nThat worlds unseen surround the world we know\\nThe song is hushed. Another moment parts\\nThis breathing zone, this belt of living hearts\\nAh, think not thus the parting moment ends\\nThe soul s embrace of new-discovered friends.\\nSleep on my heart, thou long-expected hour.\\nTime s new-born daughter, with thine infant dower,\\nOne sad, sweet look from those expiring charms\\nThe clasping centuries strangle in their arms.\\nDreams of old halls, and shadowy arches green,\\nAnd kindly faces loved as soon as seen\\nSleep, till the fires of manhood fade away,\\nThe sprinkled locks have saddened into gray,\\nAnd age, oblivious, blends thy memories old\\nWith hoary legends that his sire has told", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0303.jp2"}, "302": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0304.jp2"}, "303": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0305.jp2"}, "304": {"fulltext": "JUN 271900", "height": "3377", "width": "2092", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0306.jp2"}, "305": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3393", "width": "2077", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0307.jp2"}, "306": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3523", "width": "2248", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofoliv00holm_0308.jp2"}}