Poetry of Oliver Wendell Holmes | Page 6

shall worry his sleep,
And constables cluster around
him,
And he shall creep from the wood-hole deep
Where their
spectre eyes have found him!
Ay! gather your reins, and crack your thong,
And bid your steed go
faster;
He does not know, as he scrambles along,
That he has a fool
for his master;
And hurry away on your lonely ride,
Nor deign from the mire to save
me;
I will paddle it stoutly at your side
With the tandem that nature
gave me!
DAILY TRIALS
BY A SENSITIVE MAN
OH, there are times
When all this fret and tumult that we hear
Do
seem more stale than to the sexton's ear
His own dull chimes.
Ding dong! ding dong!
The world is in a simmer like a sea
Over a
pent volcano,--woe is me
All the day long!
From crib to shroud!
Nurse o'er our cradles screameth lullaby,
And
friends in boots tramp round us as we die,
Snuffling aloud.
At morning's call
The small-voiced pug-dog welcomes in the sun,


And flea-bit mongrels, wakening one by one,
Give answer all.
When evening dim
Draws round us, then the lonely caterwaul,
Tart
solo, sour duet, and general squall,--
These are our hymn.
Women, with tongues
Like polar needles, ever on the jar;
Men,
plugless word-spouts, whose deep fountains are
Within their lungs.
Children, with drums
Strapped round them by the fond paternal ass;

Peripatetics with a blade of grass
Between their thumbs.
Vagrants, whose arts
Have caged some devil in their mad machine,

Which grinding, squeaks, with husky groans between,
Come out by
starts.
Cockneys that kill
Thin horses of a Sunday,--men, with clams,

Hoarse as young bisons roaring for their dams
From hill to hill.
Soldiers, with guns,
Making a nuisance of the blessed air,

Child-crying bellmen, children in despair,
Screeching for buns.
Storms, thunders, waves!
Howl, crash, and bellow till ye get your fill;

Ye sometimes rest; men never can be still
But in their graves.
EVENING
BY A TAILOR
DAY hath put on his jacket, and around
His burning bosom buttoned
it with stars.
Here will I lay me on the velvet grass,
That is like
padding to earth's meagre ribs,
And hold communion with the things
about me.
Ah me! how lovely is the golden braid
That binds the
skirt of night's descending robe!
The thin leaves, quivering on their
silken threads,
Do make a music like to rustling satin,
As the light
breezes smooth their downy nap.

Ha! what is this that rises to my touch,
So like a cushion? Can it be a
cabbage?
It is, it is that deeply injured flower,
Which boys do flout
us with;--but yet I love thee,
Thou giant rose, wrapped in a green
surtout.
Doubtless in Eden thou didst blush as bright
As these, thy
puny brethren; and thy breath
Sweetened the fragrance of her spicy
air;
But now thou seemest like a bankrupt beau,
Stripped of his
gaudy hues and essences,
And growing portly in his sober garments.
Is that a swan that rides upon the water?
Oh no, it is that other gentle
bird,
Which is the patron of our noble calling.
I well remember, in
my early years,
When these young hands first closed upon a goose;

I have a scar upon my thimble finger,
Which chronicles the hour of
young ambition.
My father was a tailor, and his father,
And my
sire's grandsire, all of them were tailors;
They had an ancient
goose,--it was an heirloom
From some remoter tailor of our race.
It
happened I did see it on a time
When none was near, and I did deal
with it,
And it did burn me,--oh, most fearfully!
It is a joy to straighten out one's limbs,
And leap elastic from the level
counter,
Leaving the petty grievances of earth,
The breaking thread,
the din of clashing shears,
And all the needles that do wound the
spirit,
For such a pensive hour of soothing silence.
Kind Nature,
shuffling in her loose undress,
Lays bare her shady bosom;--I can feel

With all around me;--I can hail the flowers
That sprig earth's
mantle,--and yon quiet bird,
That rides the stream, is to me as a
brother.
The vulgar know not all the hidden pockets,
Where Nature
stows away her loveliness.
But this unnatural posture of the legs

Cramps my extended calves, and I must go
Where I can coil them in
their wonted fashion.
THE DORCHESTER GIANT

The "pudding-stone" is a remarkable conglomerate found very
abundantly in the towns mentioned, all of which are in the

neighborhood of Boston. We used in those primitive days to ask friends
to ride with us when we meant to take them to drive with us.
THERE was a giant in time of old,
A mighty one was he;
He had a
wife, but she was a scold,
So he kept her shut in his mammoth fold;

And he had children three.
It happened to be an election day,
And the giants were choosing a
king
The people were not democrats then,
They did not talk of the
rights of men,
And all that sort of thing.
Then the giant took his children three,
And fastened them in the pen;

The children roared; quoth the giant, "Be still!"
And Dorchester
Heights and Milton Hill
Rolled back the sound again.
Then he brought them a pudding stuffed with plums,
As big as the
State-House