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 | The complete poetical works of Oliver Wendell Holmes |  |
“Lies! naught but lies!” so Number Seven began,—
No harm was known of that secluded man.
He lived alone,—who would n't if he might,
And leave the rogues and idiots out of sight?
A foolish story,—still, I'll do my best,—
The house was real,—don't believe the rest.
How could a ruined dwelling last so long
Without its legends shaped in tale and song?
Who was this man of whom they tell the lies?
Perhaps—why not?—Napoleon! in disguise,—
So some said, kidnapped from his ocean coop,
Brought to this island in a coasting sloop,—
Meanwhile a sham Napoleon in his place
Played Nap. and saved Sir Hudson from disgrace.
Such was one story; others used to say,
“No,—not Napoleon,—it was Marshal Ney.”
“Shot?” Yes, no doubt, but not with balls of lead,
But balls of pith that never shoot folks dead.
He wandered round, lived South for many a year,
At last came North and fixed his dwelling here.
Choose which you will of all the tales that pile
Their mingling fables on the tree-crowned isle.
No harm was known of that secluded man.
He lived alone,—who would n't if he might,
And leave the rogues and idiots out of sight?
A foolish story,—still, I'll do my best,—
The house was real,—don't believe the rest.
How could a ruined dwelling last so long
Without its legends shaped in tale and song?
Who was this man of whom they tell the lies?
Perhaps—why not?—Napoleon! in disguise,—
So some said, kidnapped from his ocean coop,
Brought to this island in a coasting sloop,—
Meanwhile a sham Napoleon in his place
Played Nap. and saved Sir Hudson from disgrace.
Such was one story; others used to say,
“No,—not Napoleon,—it was Marshal Ney.”
“Shot?” Yes, no doubt, but not with balls of lead,
But balls of pith that never shoot folks dead.
He wandered round, lived South for many a year,
At last came North and fixed his dwelling here.
Choose which you will of all the tales that pile
Their mingling fables on the tree-crowned isle.
Who wrote this modest version I suppose
That truthful Teacup, our Dictator, knows;
Made up of various legends, it would seem,
The sailor's yarn, the crazy poet's dream.
Such tales as this, by simple souls received,
At first are stared at and at last believed;
From threads like this the grave historians try
To weave their webs, and never know they lie.
Hear, then, the fables that have gathered round
The lonely home an exiled stranger found.
That truthful Teacup, our Dictator, knows;
Made up of various legends, it would seem,
The sailor's yarn, the crazy poet's dream.
311
At first are stared at and at last believed;
From threads like this the grave historians try
To weave their webs, and never know they lie.
Hear, then, the fables that have gathered round
The lonely home an exiled stranger found.
| The complete poetical works of Oliver Wendell Holmes | |