OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. (b 1809). LEXINGTON. Slowly the mist o'er the meadow was creeping, Over the silent dale, Blithe looked the morning on cottage and spire; While from his noble eye Flashed the last sparkle of liberty's fire. On the smooth green where the fresh leaf is springing Murmuring low in death, "Tell to our sons how their fathers have died;" Nerveless the iron hand, Raised for its native land, Lies by the weapon that gleams at its side. Over the hillsides the wild knell is tolling, From their far hamlets the yeomanry come; As through the storm-clouds the thunder-burst rolling, Circles the beat of the mustering drum. Fast on the soldier's path Darken the waves of wrath, Long have they gathered and loud shall they fall; Sharp rings the rifle's crash, Blazing and clanging from thicket and wall. Gaily the plume of the horseman was dancing, Proudly at morning the war-steed was prancing, Voiceless the trumpet horn, Torn is the silken-fringed red cross on high; Low on the turf shall rest, Ere the dark hunters the herd have passed by. Snow-girdled crags where the hoarse wind is raving, Over the darkened hills, Far as the sunshine streams over the plain, Woke all the mighty land, Girded for battle, from mountain to main. Green be the graves where her martyrs are lying! Wraps the proud eagle they roused from his nest. Long o'er the foaming brine Spread her broad banner to storm and to sun; Wide as o'er land and sea Floats the fair emblem her heroes have won! HOEKZEMA, Poetry. 4th Ed. 20 20 ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL: This ancient silver bowl of mine, it tells of good old times, A Spanish galleon brought the bar; so runs the ancient tale; 'Twas hammered by an Antwerp smith, whose arm was like a flail, And now and then between the strokes, for fear his strength should fail, He wiped his brow; and quaffed a cup of good old Flemish ale. 'Twas purchased by an English squire to please his loving dame, Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a longing for the same; And oft as on the ancient stock another twig was found, 'Twas filled with caudle spiced and hot, and handed smoking round. But, changing hands, it reached at length a Puritan divine, And then, of course, you know what's next, With those that in the Mayflower came, and more, a hundred souls Along with all the furniture, to fill their new abodes, "Twas on a dreary winter's eve, the night was closing dim, When brave Miles Standish took the bowl, and filled it to the brim; The little Captain stood and stirred the posset with his sword, And all his sturdy men-at-arms were ranged about the board. He poured the fiery Hollands in, the man that never feared, He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yellow beard; And one by one the musketeers prayed the men that fought and All drank as 'twere their mother's milk, and not a man afraid. That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming eagle flew, He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the soldier's wild halloo; And there the sachem learned the rule he taught to kith and kin, "Run from the white man when you find he smells of Hollands gin!" A hundred years, and fifty more, had spread their leaves and snows, A thousand rubs had flattened down each little cherub's nose, When once again the bowl was filled, but not in mirth or joy, 'Twas mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her parting boy. "Drink, John," she said, "twill do you good, you'll never bear poor child, This working in the dismal trench, out in the midnight air; And if God bless away the chill." So John did drink, Bunkers's Hill! me! you were hurt, 'twould keep and well he wrought that night at I tell you, there was generous warmth in good old English cheer; The moss that clothes its broken walls, its pressed yet fragrant the ivy on its towers; my eyes grow moist and dim, To think of all the vanished joys that danced around its brim. Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight to me; "QUI VIVE." "Qui vive!" The sentry's musket rings, Pass on; while steel-clad sentries keep Thy bare unguarded breast Asks not the unbroken, bristling zone That girds yon sceptred trembler's throne; "Qui vive!" How oft the midnight air How oft the evening breeze has fanned "Qui vive!" And is the sentry's cry, The sleepless soldier's hand, Are these the painted folds that fly And lift their emblems, printed high On morning mist and sunset sky The guardians of a land? No! If the patriot's pulses sleep, How vain the watch that hirelings keep, |