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| Oliver Wendell Holmes |
Oliver Wendell Holmes
(1809–1894), Selected Poems.
Vol. 42, pp. 1365-1370
of The Harvard Classics
One of America's
famous New Englanders, Oliver Wendell Holmes, devoted his life
principally to medicine. His name, however, was made famous through
his poem, "Old Ironsides," by which he saved America's most
famous battleship from destruction when her fighting days were
ended.
The
Chambered Nautilus
THIS is the ship of
pearl, which, poets feign,
Sails
the unshadowed main,—
The
venturous bark that flings
On the sweet summer wind
its purpled wings
In gulfs enchanted, where
the siren sings,
And
coral reefs lie bare,
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their
streaming hair.
Its webs of living gauze
no more unfurl;
Wrecked
is the ship of pearl!
And
every chambered cell,
Where its dim dreaming
life was wont to dwell,
As
the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,
Before
thee lies revealed,—
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt
unsealed!
Year after year beheld the
silent toil
That
spread his lustrous coil;
Still,
as the spiral grew,
He left the past year’s
dwelling for the new,
Stole
with soft step its shining archway through,
Built
up its idle door,
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old
no more.
Thanks for the heavenly
message brought by thee,
Child
of the wandering sea,
Cast
from her lap, forlorn!
From thy dead lips a
clearer note is born
Than
ever Triton blew from wreathèd horn!
While
on mine ear it rings,
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice
that sings:—
Build thee more stately
mansions, O my soul,
As
the swift seasons roll!
Leave
thy low-vaulted past!
Let each new temple,
nobler than the last,
Shut
thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
Till
thou at length art free,
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting
sea!
Old Ironsides
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky;
Beneath it rung the battle shout,
And burst the cannon’s roar;—
The meteor of the ocean air
Shall sweep the clouds no more.
Her deck once red with heroes’ blood,
Where knelt the vanquished foe,
When winds were hurrying o’er the flood
And waves were white below,
No more shall feel the victor’s tread,
Or know the conquered knee;—
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea!
Oh, better that her shattered hulk
Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave:
Nail to the mast her holy flag,
Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the god of storms,
The lightning and the gale!
The
Last Leaf
I SAW him once
before,
As he passed by the door;
And again
The pavement stones resound,
As he totters o’er the ground
With his cane.
They say that in his prime,
Ere the pruning-knife of Time
Cut him down,
Not a better man was found
By the Crier on his round
Through the
town.
But now he walks the streets,
And he looks at all he meets
Sad and wan;
And shakes his feeble head,
That it seems as if he said,
“They are
gone.”
The mossy marbles rest
On the lips that he has prest
In their
bloom;
And the names he loved to hear
Have been carved for many a year
On the tomb.
My grandmamma has said—
Poor old lady, she is dead
Long ago—
That he had a Roman nose,
And his cheek was like a rose
In the snow.
But now his nose is thin,
And it rests upon his chin
Like a staff;
And a crook is in his back,
And a melancholy crack
In his laugh.
I know it is a sin
For me to sit and grin
At him here;
But the old three-cornered hat,
And the breeches and all that,
Are so queer!
And if I should live to be
The last leaf upon the tree
In the spring,
Let them smile, as I do now,
At the old forsaken bough
Where I cling.
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