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    The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Volume 04: Songs in Many Keys
    The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Volume 04: Songs in Many Keys
    The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Volume 04: Songs in Many Keys
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    The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Volume 04: Songs in Many Keys

    By Oliver Wendell Holmes

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 26, 2013
    The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Volume 04: Songs in Many Keys
    Author

    Oliver Wendell Holmes

    Oliver Wendell Holmes was an American physician, poet, and polymath based in Boston. A member of the Fireside Poets, he was acclaimed by his peers as one of the best writers of the day. His most famous prose works are the “Breakfast Table” series, which began with The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table.

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      The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Volume 04 - Oliver Wendell Holmes

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes, Vol. 4, by Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net

      Title: The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes, Vol. 4 Songs In Many Keys (1849-1861)

      Author: Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.

      Release Date: September 30, 2004 [EBook #7391]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POETRY OF HOLMES, VOL. 4 ***

      Produced by David Widger

      THE POETICAL WORKS

      OF

      OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

      [1893 three volume set]

      SONGS IN MANY KEYS

      1849-1861

      PROLOGUE AGNES THE PLOUGHMAN SPRING THE STUDY THE BELLS NON-RESISTANCE THE MORAL BULLY THE MIND'S DIET OUR LIMITATIONS THE OLD PLAYER A POEM DEDICATION OF THE PITTSFIELD CEMETERY, SEPTEMBER 9,1850 TO GOVERNOR SWAIN TO AN ENGLISH FRIEND AFTER A LECTURE ON WORDSWORTH AFTER A LECTURE ON MOORE AFTER A LECTURE ON KEATS AFTER A LECTURE ON SHELLEY AT THE CLOSE OF A COURSE OF LECTURES THE HUDSON THE NEW EDEN SEMI-CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION OF THE NEW ENGLAND SOCIETY, NEW YORK, DECEMBER 22,1855 FAREWELL TO J. R. LOWELL FOR THE MEETING OF THE BURNS CLUB, 1856 ODE FOR WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY BIRTHDAY OF DANIEL WEBSTER THE VOICELESS THE TWO STREAMS THE PROMISE AVIS THE LIVING TEMPLE AT A BIRTHDAY FESTIVAL: TO J. R. LOWELL A BIRTHDAY TRIBUTE TO J. F. CLARKE THE GRAY CHIEF THE LAST LOOK: W. W. SWAIN IN MEMORY OF CHARLES WENTWORTH UPHAM, JR. MARTHA MEETING OF THE ALUMNI OF HARVARD COLLEGE THE PARTING SONG FOR THE MEETING OF THE NATIONAL SANITARY ASSOCIATION FOR THE BURNS CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION, AT A MEETING OF FRIENDS BOSTON COMMON: THREE PICTURES THE OLD MAN OF THE SEA INTERNATIONAL ODE VIVE LA FRANCE BROTHER JONATHAN'S LAMENT FOR SISTER CAROLINE

      THE piping of our slender, peaceful reeds

      Whispers uncared for while the trumpets bray;

      Song is thin air; our hearts' exulting play

      Beats time but to the tread of marching deeds,

      Following the mighty van that Freedom leads,

      Her glorious standard flaming to the day!

      The crimsoned pavement where a hero bleeds

      Breathes nobler lessons than the poet's lay.

      Strong arms, broad breasts, brave hearts, are better worth

      Than strains that sing the ravished echoes dumb.

      Hark! 't is the loud reverberating drum

      Rolls o'er the prairied West, the rock-bound North

      The myriad-handed Future stretches forth

      Its shadowy palms. Behold, we come,—we come!

      Turn o'er these idle leaves. Such toys as these

      Were not unsought for, as, in languid dreams,

      We lay beside our lotus-feeding streams,

      And nursed our fancies in forgetful ease.

      It matters little if they pall or please,

      Dropping untimely, while the sudden gleams

      Glare from the mustering clouds whose blackness seems

      Too swollen to hold its lightning from the trees.

      Yet, in some lull of passion, when at last

      These calm revolving moons that come and go—

      Turning our months to years, they creep so slow—

      Have brought us rest, the not unwelcome past

      May flutter to thee through these leaflets, cast

      On the wild winds that all around us blow.

      May 1, 1861.

      AGNES

      The story of Sir Harry Frankland and Agnes Surriage is told in the ballad with a very strict adhesion to the facts. These were obtained from information afforded me by the Rev. Mr. Webster, of Hopkinton, in company with whom I visited the Frankland Mansion in that town, then standing; from a very interesting Memoir, by the Rev. Elias Nason, of Medford; and from the manuscript diary of Sir Harry, or more properly Sir Charles Henry Frankland, now in the library of the Massachusetts Historical Society.

      At the time of the visit referred to, old Julia was living, and on our return we called at the house where she resided.—[She was living June 10, 1861, when this ballad was published]—Her account is little more than paraphrased in the poem. If the incidents are treated with a certain liberality at the close of the fifth part, the essential fact that Agnes rescued Sir Harry from the ruins after the earthquake, and their subsequent marriage as related, may be accepted as literal truth. So with regard to most of the trifling details which are given; they are taken from the record. It is greatly to be regretted that the Frankland Mansion no longer exists. It was accidentally burned on the 23d of January, 1858, a year or two after the first sketch of this ballad was written. A visit to it was like stepping out of the century into the years before the Revolution. A new house, similar in plan and arrangements to the old one, has been built upon its site, and the terraces, the clump of box, and the lilacs doubtless remain to bear witness to the truth of this story.

      The story, which I have told literally in rhyme, has been made the subject of a carefully studied and interesting romance by Mr. E. L. Bynner.

      PART FIRST

      THE KNIGHT

      THE tale I tell is gospel true,

      As all the bookmen know,

      And pilgrims who have strayed to view

      The wrecks still left to show.

      The old, old story,—fair, and young,

      And fond,—and not too wise,—

      That matrons tell, with sharpened tongue,

      To maids with downcast eyes.

      Ah! maidens err and matrons warn

      Beneath the coldest sky;

      Love lurks amid the tasselled corn

      As in the bearded rye!

      But who would dream our sober sires

      Had learned the old world's ways,

      And warmed their hearths with lawless fires

      In Shirley's homespun days?

      'T is like some poet's pictured trance

      His idle rhymes recite,—

      This old New England-born romance

      Of Agnes and the Knight;

      Yet, known to all the country round,

      Their home is standing still,

      Between Wachusett's lonely mound

      And Shawmut's threefold hill.

      One hour we rumble on the rail,

      One half-hour guide the rein,

      We reach at last, o'er hill and dale,

      The village on the plain.

      With blackening wall and mossy roof,

      With stained and warping floor,

      A stately mansion stands aloof

      And bars its haughty door.

      This lowlier portal may be tried,

      That breaks the gable wall;

      And lo! with arches opening wide,

      Sir Harry Frankland's hall!

      'T was in the second George's day

      They sought the forest shade,

      The knotted trunks they cleared away,

      The massive beams they laid,

      They piled the rock-hewn chimney tall,

      They smoothed the terraced ground,

      They reared the marble-pillared wall

      That fenced the mansion round.

      Far stretched beyond the village bound

      The Master's broad domain;

      With page and valet, horse and hound,

      He kept a goodly train.

      And, all the midland county through,

      The ploughman stopped to gaze

      Whene'er his chariot swept in view

      Behind the shining bays,

      With mute obeisance, grave and slow,

      Repaid by nod polite,—

      For such the way with high and low

      Till after Concord

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