 | The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes |  |
THE TAIL-PIECE
For The Collegian
Kind world, sweet world, on every earthly shore,
From Boston's dome to China's porcelain tower,
We bend our knee in lowly guise once more,
To ask a blessing on our parting hour.
Our bud was nursed in Winter's tempest roar,
The dews of spring fell on the opened flower;
The stem is snapped, and blue-eyed Summer sees
Our lilac leaflets scattered to the breeze.
From Boston's dome to China's porcelain tower,
We bend our knee in lowly guise once more,
To ask a blessing on our parting hour.
Our bud was nursed in Winter's tempest roar,
The dews of spring fell on the opened flower;
The stem is snapped, and blue-eyed Summer sees
Our lilac leaflets scattered to the breeze.
No more we float upon the tide of time,
That fills the chalice of the star-girt moon;
The sober essay and the sounding rhyme
Are as the echoes of a ceasing tune;
From neighboring village and from distant clime,
From bare-walled study and from gay saloon,
We softly sink to dark oblivion's shade,
Unwept, unblest, unhonored, and unpaid.
That fills the chalice of the star-girt moon;
The sober essay and the sounding rhyme
Are as the echoes of a ceasing tune;
From neighboring village and from distant clime,
From bare-walled study and from gay saloon,
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Unwept, unblest, unhonored, and unpaid.
The vagrant printer may resume his quill,
To scribble school-boy on the nameless tomb;
The hard-eyed pedant call us, if he will,
Precocious children, nursed to fruitless bloom;
The sad subscriber eye his tardy bill,
And knit his brows in unavailing gloom—
The printer's satire and the pedant's frown,
The debtor's sigh, we swallow boldly down.
To scribble school-boy on the nameless tomb;
The hard-eyed pedant call us, if he will,
Precocious children, nursed to fruitless bloom;
The sad subscriber eye his tardy bill,
And knit his brows in unavailing gloom—
The printer's satire and the pedant's frown,
The debtor's sigh, we swallow boldly down.
But thou, sweet maiden, as thy fingers turn
The last poor leaf that claims thine idle glance,
If there was aught to feel or aught to learn
In ode or treatise, vision, dream, or trance,—
If the cold dust of the neglected urn
Has ever warmed thee, by some happy chance,
Should aunts look grim, or fathers shake the head,
Plead for the harmless ashes of the dead.
The last poor leaf that claims thine idle glance,
If there was aught to feel or aught to learn
In ode or treatise, vision, dream, or trance,—
If the cold dust of the neglected urn
Has ever warmed thee, by some happy chance,
Should aunts look grim, or fathers shake the head,
Plead for the harmless ashes of the dead.
Ethereal being, thou whose melting eye
Looks down like heaven where'er its glances fall,
On noiseless slipper, gliding softly by,
So sweetly drest, so proper, and so tall,
The dew-fed offspring of the summer sky,
Beau, critic, poet, soldier, each and all,
From the dormeuse, where thy soft limbs recline,
Sigh out a requiem o'er our broken shrine.
Looks down like heaven where'er its glances fall,
On noiseless slipper, gliding softly by,
So sweetly drest, so proper, and so tall,
The dew-fed offspring of the summer sky,
Beau, critic, poet, soldier, each and all,
From the dormeuse, where thy soft limbs recline,
Sigh out a requiem o'er our broken shrine.
The fire is out—the incense all has fled;
And will thy gentle heart refuse to grieve?
Forget the horrors of the cap-crowned head,
The fatal symbol on a student's sleeve,
Think that a boy may grow if he is fed,
And stroke us softly as we take our leave;
Say we were clever, knowing, smart, or wise,
But do say something, if you d---n our eyes.
And will thy gentle heart refuse to grieve?
Forget the horrors of the cap-crowned head,
The fatal symbol on a student's sleeve,
Think that a boy may grow if he is fed,
And stroke us softly as we take our leave;
Say we were clever, knowing, smart, or wise,
But do say something, if you d---n our eyes.
Ye who have shrunk not, dangerous though it seem,
To lay your hands on yet unlaureled brows,
If e'er we meet—and frown not if we deem
Fame yet may smile on boyhood's burning vows—
Bound in the garlands that we fondly dream
May yet be gathered from Parnassian boughs;
Yours be the praise, who led our doubtful way,
Till harmless Hatred threw his brick away.
To lay your hands on yet unlaureled brows,
If e'er we meet—and frown not if we deem
Fame yet may smile on boyhood's burning vows—
Bound in the garlands that we fondly dream
May yet be gathered from Parnassian boughs;
Yours be the praise, who led our doubtful way,
Till harmless Hatred threw his brick away.
Perchance we greet you, not as late we came,
In meagre pamphlet, bound in flimsy fold,
But from a page that bears a prouder name,
With silken covers and with edge of gold;
Look then in kindness on our higher claim
And bid us welcome as ye did of old;
So may your lives in pleasure glide along,
In meagre pamphlet, bound in flimsy fold,
But from a page that bears a prouder name,
With silken covers and with edge of gold;
Look then in kindness on our higher claim
And bid us welcome as ye did of old;
So may your lives in pleasure glide along,
Rich as our prose, and sweeter than our song.
Peace with you all—the summer sun will rise
Not less resplendent that we are no more;
The evening stars will gird the arching skies,
The winds will murmur, and the waters roar—
Our faded way is lost to mortal eyes,
Our wave has broken on the silent shore—
One whisper rises from the weeping spray—
Farewell, dear readers—and be sure to pay.
Peace with you all—the summer sun will rise
Not less resplendent that we are no more;
The evening stars will gird the arching skies,
The winds will murmur, and the waters roar—
Our faded way is lost to mortal eyes,
Our wave has broken on the silent shore—
One whisper rises from the weeping spray—
Farewell, dear readers—and be sure to pay.
| The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes | |