OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. [Born, 1809.] DOCTOR HOLMES is a son of the late Reverend ABIEL HOLMES, D. D., and was born at Cambridge, in Massachusetts, on the twenty-ninth day of August, 1809. He received his early education at the Phillips Exeter Academy, and entered Harvard University in 1825. On being graduated he commenced the study of the law, but relinquished it after one year's application, for the more congenial pursuit of medicine, to which he devoted himself with much ardour and industry. For the more successful prosecution of his studies, he visited Europe in the spring of 1833, passing the principal portion of his residence abroad at Paris, where he attended the hospitals, acquired an intimate knowledge of the language, and became personally acquainted with many of the most eminent physicians of France. He returned to Boston near the close of the year 1835, and in the following spring commenced the practice of medicine in that city. In the autumn of the same year he delivered a poem before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Harvard University, which was received with extraordinary and wellmerited applause. In 1838 he was elected Professor of Anatomy and Physiology in the medical institution connected with Dartmouth College; but, on being married, two years afterward, he resigned that office, and has since devoted himself entirely to the duties of his profession. The earlier poems of Doctor HOLMES appeared in "The Collegian." They were little less distinguished for correct and melodious versification than his more recent and most elaborate compositions. They attracted attention by their humour and originality, and were widely circulated and republished in contemporary periodicals. But a small portion of them have been printed under his proper signature. In 1831 a small volume appeared in Boston, entitled "Illustrations of the Athenæum Gallery of Paintings," and composed of metrical pieces, chiefly satirical, written by Doctor HOLMES and EPES SARGENT. It embraced many of our author's best humorous verses, afterward included in the edition of his acknowledged works. His principal production, "Poetry, a Metrical Essay," was delivered before a literary society at Cambridge. It is in the heroic measure, and in its versification it is not surpassed by any poem written in this country. "The Collegian” was a monthly miscellany published in 1830, by the undergraduates at Cambridge. Among the editors were HOLMES, the late WILLIAM H. SIMMONS, Who will long be remembered for his admirable lectures on the great poets and orators of England, and JOHN O. SARGENT, who distinguished himself as an able political writer in the long contest which resulted in the election of General HARRISON to the presidency, and is now engaged in the successful practice of the law in the city of New York. It relates to the nature and developments of poetry, He, whose thoughts differing not in shape, but dress, In another part of the essay he gives the following fine description of the different English measures: Poets, like painters, their machinery claim, For several years the attention of Doctor HOLMES, as I have before remarked, has been devoted to his professional business. He has obtained two or three prizes for dissertations on medical questions, and as a physician and as a lecturer on physiological subjects, he has become eminently popular in the city in which he resides. As a poet he has won an enduring reputation. He possesses a rich vein of humour, with learning and originality, and great skill as an artist. THE CAMBRIDGE CHURCHYARD. OUR ancient church! its lowly tower, Is shadow'd when the sunset hour Long ere the glittering vane, Like sentinel and nun, they keep Their vigil on the green; One seems to guard, and one to weep, And both roll out, so full and near, Their music's mingling waves, They shake the grass, whose pennon'd spear Leans on the narrow graves. The stranger parts the flaunting weeds, Whose seeds the winds have strown They shade the sculptured stone; But what to them the dirge, the knell? Rung on the coffin's lid. The slumberer's mound grows fresh and green, Then slowly disappears; The mosses creep, the gray stones lean, But, long before the once-loved name No lip the silent dust may claim, That press'd the breathing clay. Their smiling babes, their cherish'd brides, Hast thou a tear for buried love! All that a century left above, The Indian's shaft, the Briton's ball, The hot shell, shattering in its fall, The bayonet's rending wedge,— Here scatter'd death; yet seek the spot, Who leave their children free! Look where the turbid rain-drops stand The knightly crest, the shield, the brand Of honour'd names were there; Alas! for every tear is dried Those blazon'd tablets knew, Save when the icy marble's side Drips with the evening dew. Or gaze upon yon pillar'd stone,* Whose ashes press that nameless bed? Lean o'er the slender western wall, Ye ever-roaming girls; The breath that bids the blossom fall Who stood thy grave beside, I wander'd to thy buried mound, The level of the glaring ground, Choked to its gates with snow, And when with summer's flowery waves The lake of verdure roll'd, As if a sultan's white-robed slaves Had scatter'd pearls and gold. Nay, the soft pinions of the air, That lifts this trembling tone, May sweetest dews and warmest ray When damps beneath, and storms above, And I would ask no mouldering bust, *The tomb of the VASSALL family is marked by a freestone tablet, supported by five pillars, and bearing nothing but the sculptured reliefs of the goblet and the sun,— VasSol,-which designated a powerful family, now almost forgotten. + The exile referred to in this stanza was a native of Honfleur, in Normandy. OLIVER W. HOLMES. AN EVENING THOUGHT. WRITTEN AT SEA. Ir sometimes in the dark-blue eye, Still warms this heart of mine, And calmer in the brain, Have whisper'd that my youth's bright flood If by Helvetia's azure lake, Or Arno's yellow stream, Each star of memory could awake, As in my first young dream, I know that when mine eye shall greet That gird my home, it will not meet O, when love's first, sweet, stolen kiss Was that flush'd cheek as now? Alas! the morning dew is gone, Life's iron fetter still is on, Its wreaths all torn away; Happy if still some casual hour Can warm the fading shrine, LA GRISETTE. AH, CLEMENCE! when I saw thee last And turning, when thy form had pass'd, I dream'd not in that idle glance And only left to memory's trance A shadow and a name. The few strange words my lips had taught Thy timid voice to speak; Their gentler sighs, which often brought Bent o'er my couch of pain, All, all return'd, more sweet, more fair; I walk'd where saint and virgin keep I knew that thou hadst woes to weep, I watch'd where GENEVIEVE was laid, Beside me low, soft voices pray'd; Alas! but where was thine? And when the morning sun was bright, I wander'd through the haunts of men, In vain, in vain; we meet no more, My voice on thee may call, And wither'd, on thy simple cross, THE TREADMILL SONG. THE stars are rolling in the sky, The earth rolls on below, Then tread away, my gallant boys, And make the axle fly; Why should not wheels go round about Like planets in the sky? Wake up, wake up, my duck-legg❜d man, And stir your solid pegs; Arouse, arouse, my gawky friend, And shake your spider-legs; What though you're awkward at the trade? So lean upon the rail, my lad, And take another turn. They've built us up a noble wall, Here, tread upon the long man's toes, And punch the little fellow's ribs, But poke him in the farther eye, Hark! fellows, there's the supper-bell, If ever they should turn me out, *Circular-stained windows are called roses. DEPARTED DAYS. YES, dear, departed, cherish'd days, This straining eye might close, We strive against the stream, Each moment farther from the shore, Where life's young fountains gleamEach moment fainter wave the fields, And wilder rolls the sea; The mist grows dark-the sun goes downDay breaks-and where are we? THE DILEMMA. Now, by the bless'd Paphian queen, I had a vision in my dreams; I ask'd a matron, which she deem'd I ask'd a maiden; back she flung Well, both might make a martyr break That wears for us the sweetest smile. THE STAR AND THE WATER-LILY. THE Sun stepp'd down from his golden throne, And the Lily had folded her satin leaves, Why crisp the waters blue? Her white leaves are glistening through! That would lie by the Rose's side; How fast will thy summer glide, Or flourish a blooming bride? But what if the stormy cloud should come, Would he turn his eye from the distant sky, O, no! fair Lily, he will not send One ray from his far-off throne; The winds shall blow and the waves shall flow, And thou wilt be left alone. There is not a leaf on the mountain-top, Nor a drop of evening dew, Nor a golden sand on the sparkling shore, That floats on the quiet stream? And bared her breast to the trembling ray She look'd in vain through the beating rain, THE MUSIC-GRINDERS. THERE are three ways in which men take And very hard it is to tell Which of the three is worse; To make a body curse. And takes your horse's reins, A bullet in your brains. It's hard to meet such pressing friends It's very hard to lose your cash, And so you take your wallet out, Though you would rather not. Perhaps you're going out to dine,- For men to lose their legs. He tells you of his starving wife, Poor, little, lovely innocents, All clamorous for bread,- You're sitting on your window-seat You hear a sound, that seems to wear As if a broken fife should strive And nearer, nearer still, the tide Of music seems to come, There's something like a human voice, And something like a drum; You sit, in speechless agony, Until your ear is numb. Poor Home, sweet home" should seem to be 66 A very dismal place; Your "Auld acquaintance," all at once, Is alter'd in the face; Their discords sting through BURNS and Moore, Like hedgehogs dress'd in lace. You think they are crusaders, sent From some infernal clime, To pluck the eyes of Sentiment, And dock the tail of Rhyme, To crack the voice of Melody, And break the legs of Time. The music all is ground, It cannot be,-it is,—it is, A hat is going round! No! Pay the dentist when he leaves And pay the owner of the bear, That stunn'd you with his paw, And buy the lobster, that has had Your knuckles in his claw; But if you are a portly man, Put on your fiercest frown, And talk about a constable To turn them out of town; Then close your sentence with an oath, And shut the window down! And if you are a slender man, Not big enough for that, Go very quietly and drop THE PHILOSOPHER TO HIS LOVE. DEAREST, a look is but a ray The very flowers that bend and meet, How few that love us have we found! Our course unknown, our hope to be Yet mingled in the distant sea. But ocean coils and heaves in vain, Alas! one narrow line is drawn, |