 | The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes |  |
III
(DICK, solus.)Ay—if a viper coiled upon her doorstep—
If the broad river were a stream of fire
And I must cross it on a raft of tinder—
If Cerberus stood keeper of the toll,
And I were penniless—I'd see the girl.
A vixen and a jilt—but still I love her.
An arrant baggage, who would tear my letters
To paper up her hair—but still I love her.
Not that the rose is fairer on her cheek,
Not that the light is brighter in her eye,
Than half the seraph sisterhood can boast.
Where lurks the influence that thus can steal,
Like the sweet music of a prisoned lyre,
Through all the marble barriers of the heart?
So are we tempered, that we know not why
We love or hate, we follow or we shun.
Is it in outward seeming? do we stoop
To meet the bending statute? do we press
The lips that glow unbreathing on the canvas?
Nay, are there not a thousand living shapes
That are like shadows to the listless soul,
Lifeless and pulseless? yet we turn from them
To one less fair, and think her born of heaven.
Who sees the bow when Love lets loose the shaft?
A plague upon the nice anatomy
That cuts up feeling into curves and angles.
Her eye is blue—and so too is her bonnet—
Her forehead white—so is a sheet of paper—
Her hair is golden—I can buy enough
Of just such hair to fill a bushel basket—
Her voice is smooth—why so is milk and water;
And this is what you get for analyzing.
But take her in the whole, form, voice, and motion,
I love the compound.—If she loves not me,
Why, she has lost a—might pretty fellow;
A six-foot man, with most effulgent whiskers,
And two good hands to put in empty pockets.
I wonder how my grandam stood the frost.
How the old spider hangs upon her cobweb!
They say her will is made, and when she tumbles,
Perhaps a pension to her gray-beard tom-cat,
Some small post mortem acts of piety,
To crutch her poor rheumatic soul upon,
And I shall dust the dear old lady's guineas.
Ha! when we rattle in our own good tandem,
And crack the ivory-handled whip we paid for,
There'll be a stir among the plumes and ribbons!
Lightly he treads who steps on golden slippers—
Sweetly he speaks whose purse has music in it.
Pray die, dear grandam; we will have you buried
All nice and decent, and we'll have a sermon
To call you pretty names, and buy some kerchiefs
To soak up bitter tears, and feed your tomcat,
As if he never scratched us—curse upon him.
(Enter six BORES.)
All.
A pleasant evening—
Dick.
Yes a pleasant evening,
A devilish pleasant evening out of doors.
1st Bore.
What have you here to eat? I am not hungry,
But I might taste a pie; I am not thirsty,
But I might drink to please these honest fellows;
Or, as I mean to sit, I'll smoke a little.
Dick.
We're out of victual and we're out of wine,
There's water in the pail—smoke and be d---d.
2d Bore.
Lend me a book, I mean to sit a little,
And I am not in mood for conversation.
Dick.
Here's Worcester's Walker's Johnson's Dictionary;
Open at Ass—a very fitting subject.
3d Bore.
I saw your very worthy grandmother
A short time since; she seemed extremely hearty.
O what a blessing such a woman is!
In all the circle of domestic love
There is no greater—
Dick.
No, there is no greater—
Just as you say—a most eternal blessing.
4th Bore.
I'll take a nap—you'll wake me in an hour,
Or two at farthest—so I'll shut the door.
(Goes into the bedroom.)
Dick.
And I will lock it. Sleep till bedbugs wake you.
(Locks the door.)
5th Bore.
Come boy, let's have a game or two of chequers
Before we try the chess, and then backgammon,
Or else a little whist—just run along
And order up some claret and some oysters.
Dick.
My board is broken and my foot is lame.
6th Bore.
I think of making something of a call,
And so I'll take my coat and waistcoat off,
Wait a few hours until the rest are gone
And I will read you something I have written.
(Cry of fire.)
Five Bores.
O, there's a row—good night—we'll call again.
(Exeunt five BORES.)
Dick,
solus.
Go, blessed boobies, and the devil singe you—
398
Another step before the door is bolted!
(Enter TOM.)
Ah, soft Lothario, with thy lady cheek,
Didst thou exhale upon us from a dew-drop?
Or wast thou wafted on an evening zephyr?
Tom.
I hang myself to-morrow—Julia's bolted!
Off in a tangent with that ugly captain!
I did not care for Julia—I was tired
Of all her tricks and fancies—but to think
Of such a rocket tied to such a stick
Would make one hang himself for human folly.
So once again, for universal woman!
Does the new coat sit close about the waist?
Dick.
Ay, put a pismire's girdle on a porpoise,
It will sit closer than a sailor's jacket.
Now diet for a while on water-gruel,
And take a dose or two of bleaching salts,
And run a razor round the barren course,
And when you're hanged for stealing, men will say
He was a pale, thin pigmy, with a beard.
Tom.
Why, man you're biting as a seedling radish.
Did Clara pout? nay, do not look so rosy,
Her mother told me all about your love,
And asked me of your prospects and your standing;
I told her—but no matter what I told her.
Dick.
The wrinkled hag—and thou, infernal imp,
What didst thou say?
Tom.
I only now remember
Some general hints about your evil habits,
Your sad propensity to gin and water,
Your singular asperity of temper—
I did not call you absolutely dirty,
But only rather slovenly and careless—
For rank, that you was like a serpent's rattle,
That makes some noise, though very near the tail—
That as to money, save the bills you owed,
You had but little to remind you of it.
I did not like it, but it was my duty,
And I am honest, so I tell you all.
Dick.
Now, fellow, I will mash you to a pumice,
Or beat thee to a tumor—
Tom.
Hold a moment
It was all stuff—I never saw the woman;
But since you seemed in such a frosty mood,
I fired a squib at your philosophy
And laughed to see it catch—so keep your beating
To make your children grow.—Now come along
And drown your anger in a good potation.
Dick.
And you curry people down with lies,
And smooth it with a julep. But I'll go,
And leave that sleeping carrion in the bedroom,
Among his brother vermin,—peace be with him.
(Exeunt.)
| The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes | |