If aught like these, then thou must feel The rattling of that reckless wheel, That brings the bright or boding seal On every trembling thread
That strings thy heart, till morn appears, To crown thy hopes, or end thy fears, To light thy smile, or draw thy tears, As line on line is read.
Perhaps thy treasure 's in the deep, Thy lover in a dreamless sleep, Thy brother where thou canst not weep Upon his distant grave!
Thy parent's hoary head no more May shed a silver lustre o'er
His children grouped-nor death restore Thy son from out the wave!
Thy prattler's tongue, perhaps, is stilled, Thy sister's lip is pale and chilled, Thy blooming bride, perchance, has filled Her corner of the tomb.
May be, the home where all thy sweet And tender recollections meet, Has shown its flaming winding-sheet In midnight's awful gloom!
And while, alternate, o'er my soul Those cold or burning wheels will roll Their chill or heat, beyond control, Till morn shall bring relief- Father in heaven, whate'er may be The cup which thou hast sent for me, I know 'tis good, prepared by thee, Though filled with joy or grief.
There's a sad loneliness about my heart- A deep, deep solitude the spirit feels Amid this multitude. The things of art Pall on the senses-from its pageantry,
Loathing, my eye turns off; and my ear shrinks From the harsh dissonance that fills the air.
My soul is growing sick-I will away
And gather balm from a sweet forest walk!
There, as the breezes through the branches sweep, Is heard aerial minstrelsy, like harps
Untouched, unseen, that on the spirit's ear Pour out their numbers till they lull in peace
The tumult of the bosom. There's a voice
Of music in the rustling of the leaves:
And the green boughs are hung with living lutes, Whose strings will only vibrate to His hand
Who made them, while they sound his untaught praise!
The whole wild wood is one vast instrument
Of thousand, thousand keys; and all its notes Come in sweet harmony, while Nature plays To celebrate the presence of her God.
66 Now, if I fall, will it be my lot To be cast in some lone and lowly spot, To melt, and to sink unseen, or forgot? And there will my course be ended?" 'Twas this a feathery Snowflake said, As down through measureless space it strayed, Or as, half by dalliance, half afraid,
It seemed in mid air suspended.
"Oh, no!" said the Earth, "thou shalt not lie Neglected and lone on my lap to die, Thou pure and delicate child of the sky! For thou wilt be safe in my keeping.
But, then, I must give thee a lovelier form- Thou wilt not be a part of the wintry storm,
But revive, when the sunbeams are yellow and warm, And the flowers from my bosom are peeping!
"And then thou shalt have thy choice, to be Restored in the lily that decks the lea, In the jessamine bloom, the anemone, Or aught of thy spotless whiteness;
To melt, and be cast in a glittering bead
With the pearls that the night scatters over the mead, In the cup where the bee and the firefly feed, Regaining thy dazzling brightness.
"I'll let thee awake from thy transient sleep, When Viola's mild blue eye shall weep, In a tremulous tear; or, a diamond, leap In a drop from the unlocked fountain; Or, leaving the valley, the meadow, and heath, The streamlet, the flowers, and all beneath, Go up and be wove in the silvery wreath Encircling the brow of the mountain.
"Or wouldst thou return to a home in the skies,
To shine in the Iris I'll let thee arise,
And appear in the many and glorious dyes A pencil of sunbeams is blending!
But true, fair thing, as my name is Earth, I'll give thee a new and vernal birth, When thou shalt recover thy primal worth, And never regret descending!"
"Then I will drop," said the trusting Flake, "But, bear it in mind, that the choice I make Is not in the flowers nor the dew to awake;
Nor the mist, that shall pass with the morning: For, things of thyself, they will die with thee; But those that are lent from on high, like me, Must rise, and will live, from thy dust set free, To the regions above returning.
"And if true to thy word and just thou art, Like the spirit that dwells in the holiest heart, Unsullied by thee, thou wilt let me depart, And return to my native heaven.
For I would be placed in the beautiful bow From time to time, in thy sight to glow; So thou mayst remember the Flake of Snow By the promise that God hath given!"
We come! we come! and ye feel our might, As we're hastening on in our boundless flight, And over the mountains and over the deep Our broad, invisible pinions sweep, Like the spirit of Liberty, wild and free! And ye look on our works, and own 'tis we; Ye call us the Winds: but can ye tell Whither we go, or where we dwell?
Ye mark, as we vary our forms of power,
And fell the forests, or fan the flower,
When the harebell moves, and the rush is bent, When the tower 's o'erthrown, and the oak is rent, As we waft the bark o'er the slumbering wave, Or hurry its crew to a watery grave; And ye say it is we!-but can ye trace The wandering winds to their secret place?
And, whether our breath be loud or high,
Or come in a soft and balmy sigh, Our threatenings fill the soul with fear, Or our gentle whisperings woo the ear With music aerial, still 'tis we.
And ye list and ye look; but what do ye see? Can ye hush one sound of our voice to peace, Or waken one note when our numbers cease?
Our dwelling is in the Almighty's hand; We come and we go at his command. Though joy or sorrow may mark our track, His will is our guide, and we look not back: And if in our wrath ye would turn us away, Or win us in gentle airs to play,
Then lift up your hearts to Him who binds Or frees, as he will, the obedient winds.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, M. D., the poet-physician, is the son of the Rev. Abiel Holmes, D. D., of Cambridge, Massachusetts, the author of the "Annals of America." He was born on the 29th of August, 1809, and entered Harvard University in 1825. After graduating, he studied medicine. In 1833, he went to Europe, returned home in 1835, and commenced the practice of medicine in Boston the following year. In 1838, he was elected Professor of Anatomy and Physiology in the Medical School of Dartmouth College. This professorship he resigned on his marriage in 1840, and, in 1847, he was elected to the chair of Anatomy in Harvard University, vacated by the resignation of Dr. John C. Warren, which he still fills. In 1849, he relinquished practice, and fixed his summer residence in Pittsfield, Berkshire County, Massachusetts.
Dr. Holmes has written a number of prize medical essays, and has contributed occasionally to medical journals, but he is far better known to the public by his poems, which, by the exuberance of their wit, have made his name universally popular. He has been not unaptly called the Hood of America, for while he has quite as much humor and playful fancy as his transatlantic prototype, he has shown that, like Hood, he can write in a serious and pathetic vein that stirs the depths of the soul. The following are among his best humorous pieces :
My aunt! my dear unmarried aunt! Long years have o'er her flown; Yet still she strains the aching clasp That binds her virgin zone
I know it hurts her-though she looks As cheerful as she can; Her waist is ampler than her life, For life is but a span.
My aunt, my poor deluded aunt! Her hair is almost gray;
Why will she train that winter curl In such a spring-like way? How can she lay her glasses down, And say she reads as well, When, through a double convex lens, She just makes out to spell?
Her father-grandpapa! forgive This erring lip its smiles-
Vowed she should make the finest girl Within a hundred miles.
He sent her to a stylish school;
'Twas in her thirteenth June; And with her, as the rules required, "Two towels and a spoon.”
They braced my aunt against a board, To make her straight and tall;
They laced her up, they starved her down, To make her light and small;
They pinched her feet, they singed her hair, They screwed it up with pins-
O never mortal suffered more In penance for her sins.
So, when my precious aunt was done, My grandsire brought her back; (By daylight, lest some rabid youth Might follow on the track;)
"Ah!" said my grandsire, as he shook Some powder in his pan, "What could this lovely creature do Against a desperate man?"
Alas! nor chariot, nor barouche, Nor bandit cavalcade
Tore from the trembling father's arms His all-accomplished maid.
For her how happy had it been!
And Heaven had spared to me To see one sad, ungathered rose On my ancestral tree.
« ПредыдущаяПродолжить » |