 | The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes |  |
CONFESSIONS OF A COCOANUT
Far from these shores where sweeps the tempests' wing,
And winter tramples on the flowers of spring,
There rose a Palm upon the mountain's brow—
My infant cradle was its topmost bough.
Day smiled upon me with its eye of blue,
And Evening fed me with her fragrant dew;
The howling blast that chills your mother air,
Dies to a Zephyr ere it whispers there;
Your clouds, that frown from many a sable fold,
Melt into air or brighten into gold.
And winter tramples on the flowers of spring,
There rose a Palm upon the mountain's brow—
My infant cradle was its topmost bough.
Day smiled upon me with its eye of blue,
And Evening fed me with her fragrant dew;
The howling blast that chills your mother air,
Dies to a Zephyr ere it whispers there;
Your clouds, that frown from many a sable fold,
Melt into air or brighten into gold.
There had I lived, through changing sun and shade,
And known no grief but what myself had made.
How can I bear unshrinking to proclaim
The tale that scorches like the breath of shame?
Spare, gentle maiden, spare a wretch the pain
That wakes a pulse in every withered vein—
Yet to conceal is harder than to tell—
I pined for freedom—broke my stem—and fell.—
And known no grief but what myself had made.
How can I bear unshrinking to proclaim
The tale that scorches like the breath of shame?
Spare, gentle maiden, spare a wretch the pain
That wakes a pulse in every withered vein—
Yet to conceal is harder than to tell—
I pined for freedom—broke my stem—and fell.—
—Forgive my tears—I will not ask of thee
To track my wandering through the restless sea;
Those days have past—but still the sounds of fear
Ring wild and maddening on my dying ear.
When the strained ship stood tottering on the wave
An atom hanging o'er a boundless grave,
The tossing billow and the deafening roar
Yet thrill and echo on the silent shore.—
—And must I tell the petty griefs that wind
Their serpent coils around the prostrate mind;
How long, in contact with the meaner hoard,
I lay unpurchased on the huckster's board,
Watched by the knave, and stared at by the fool,
And eyed by children as they passed from school;
How ladies ogled, and how servants sighed,
With look all wistful and with mouth all wide—
How the thin dandy in his tailor's coat,
Felt in his pockets, guileless of a groat;
How lawyers saw me with dilated eye,
Too proud to cheapen, and too poor to buy;
How doctors blessed me, as the welcome sign
Of sickly seasons, when the doctors dine,
And fancy smiled at heaps of coming ills,
And viewed with joy my progeny of pills;
How sage old women called me worse than lead,
How witlings laughed and thought of ---'s head;
The skull so thick—the hair so sadly thin—
All hard without, but oh! how soft within!
To track my wandering through the restless sea;
Those days have past—but still the sounds of fear
Ring wild and maddening on my dying ear.
When the strained ship stood tottering on the wave
An atom hanging o'er a boundless grave,
The tossing billow and the deafening roar
Yet thrill and echo on the silent shore.—
—And must I tell the petty griefs that wind
Their serpent coils around the prostrate mind;
How long, in contact with the meaner hoard,
I lay unpurchased on the huckster's board,
Watched by the knave, and stared at by the fool,
And eyed by children as they passed from school;
How ladies ogled, and how servants sighed,
With look all wistful and with mouth all wide—
405
Felt in his pockets, guileless of a groat;
How lawyers saw me with dilated eye,
Too proud to cheapen, and too poor to buy;
How doctors blessed me, as the welcome sign
Of sickly seasons, when the doctors dine,
And fancy smiled at heaps of coming ills,
And viewed with joy my progeny of pills;
How sage old women called me worse than lead,
How witlings laughed and thought of ---'s head;
The skull so thick—the hair so sadly thin—
All hard without, but oh! how soft within!
—But all is over—every shade is past,
Here I have rolled to die in place at last.
No vulgar parent watched my opening bloom—
No host Plebian dared to seal my doom.
The early radiance of my native skies
Once more is kindled in thy beaming eyes.
Long—long hath ceased the wild-bird's melting strain—
I hear thee speak—its music breathes again—
My woes are ended, and my tale is o'er
Thy lip shall press me, and I ask no more.
Here I have rolled to die in place at last.
No vulgar parent watched my opening bloom—
No host Plebian dared to seal my doom.
The early radiance of my native skies
Once more is kindled in thy beaming eyes.
Long—long hath ceased the wild-bird's melting strain—
I hear thee speak—its music breathes again—
My woes are ended, and my tale is o'er
Thy lip shall press me, and I ask no more.
| The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes | |