 | The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes |  |
TO JULIA WARD HOWE
JANUARY 1, 1854
If I were one, O Minstrel wild,
That held “the golden cup”
Not unto thee, Art's stolen child,
My hand should yield it up;
That held “the golden cup”
Not unto thee, Art's stolen child,
My hand should yield it up;
Why should I waste its gold on one
That holds a guerdon bright—
A chalice, flashing in the sun
Of perfect chrysolite.
That holds a guerdon bright—
A chalice, flashing in the sun
Of perfect chrysolite.
And shaped on such a swelling sphere
As if some God has pressed
Its flowing crystal, soft and clear
On Hebe's virgin breast?
As if some God has pressed
Its flowing crystal, soft and clear
On Hebe's virgin breast?
What though the bitter grapes of earth
Have mingled in its wine,
The stolen fruits of heavenly birth
Have made its hue divine.
Have mingled in its wine,
The stolen fruits of heavenly birth
Have made its hue divine.
Oh, Lady, there are charms that win
Their way to magic bowers,
And they that weave them enter in
In spite of mortal powers;
Their way to magic bowers,
And they that weave them enter in
In spite of mortal powers;
And hearts that seek the chapel's floor
Will throb the long aisle through,
Though none are waiting at the door
To sprinkle holy dew!
Will throb the long aisle through,
Though none are waiting at the door
To sprinkle holy dew!
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I, sitting in the portal gray
Of Art's cathedral dim,
Can see thee, passing in to pray
And sing thy first-born hymn;—
Of Art's cathedral dim,
Can see thee, passing in to pray
And sing thy first-born hymn;—
Hold out thy hand! these scanty drops
Come from a hallowed stream,
Its sands, a poet's crumbling hopes,
Its mist, his fading dream.
Come from a hallowed stream,
Its sands, a poet's crumbling hopes,
Its mist, his fading dream.
Pass on. Around the inmost shrine
A few faint tapers burn;
This altar, priestess, shall be thine
To light and watch in turn;
A few faint tapers burn;
This altar, priestess, shall be thine
To light and watch in turn;
Above it smiles the Mother Maid,
It leans on Love and Art,
And in its glowing depth is laid
The first true woman's heart!
It leans on Love and Art,
And in its glowing depth is laid
The first true woman's heart!
| The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes | |