Oliver Wendell Holmes
¶[1800-1804]
The Chambered Nautilus
¶THIS is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,Sails the unshadowed main,—The venturous bark that flingsOn the sweet summer wind its purpled wingsIn 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 1And 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 toilThat 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 bornThan ever Triton blew from wreathed 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![1366]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!
802. Old Ironsides1
¶AY, tear her tattered ensign down!Long has it waved on high,And many an eye has danced to seeThat banner in the sky;Beneath it rung the battle shout,And burst the cannon's roar;—The meteor of the ocean airShall sweep the clouds no more.
¶Her deck once red with heroes' blood,Where knelt the vanquished foe,When winds were hurrying o'er the floodAnd waves were white below,No more shall feel the victor's tread,Or know the conquered knee;—The harpies of the shore shall pluckThe eagle of the sea!
¶Oh, better that her shattered hulkShould 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!
803 the Last Leaf
¶I SAW him once before,As he passed by the door;And again[1367]The pavement stones resound,As he totters o'er the groundWith his cane.
p. 1367¶They say that in his prime,Ere the pruning-knife of TimeCut him down,Not a better man was foundBy the Crier on his roundThrough the town.
¶But now he walks the streets,And he looks at all he meetsSad and wan;And shakes his feeble head,That it seems as if he said,"They are gone."
¶The mossy marbles restOn the lips that he has prestIn their bloom;And the names he loved to hearHave been carved for many a yearOn the tomb.
¶My grandmamma has said—Poor old lady, she is deadLong ago—That he had a Roman nose,And his cheek was like a roseIn the snow.
¶But now his nose is thin,And it rests upon his chinLike a staff;And a crook is in his back,And a melancholy crackIn his laugh.
¶I know it is a sinFor me to sit and grinAt him here;[1368]But the old three-cornered hat,And the breeches and all that,Are so queer!
¶And if I should live to beThe last leaf upon the treeIn the spring,Let them smile, as I do now,At the old forsaken boughWhere I cling.
Contentment
¶'Man wants but little here below.'
¶LITTLE I ask; my wants are few;I only wish a hut of stone(A very plain brown stone will do)That I may call my o*n;—And close at hand is such a one,In yonder street that fronts the sun.
¶Plain food is quite enough for me;Three courses are as good as ten;—If Nature can subsist on three,Thank Heaven for three. Amen!I always thought cold victual nice;—My choice would be vanilla-ice.
¶I care not much for gold or land;—Give me a mortgage here and there,—Some good bank-stock, some note of hand,Or trifling railroad share,—I only ask that Fortune sendA little more than I shall spend.
¶Honors are silly toys, I know,And titles are but empty names;I would, perhaps, be Plenipo,—But only near St. James;I'm very sure I should not careTo fill our Gubernator's chair.[1369]Jewels are baubles; 'tis a sinTo care for such unfruitful things;—One good-sized diamond in a pin,—Some, not so large, in rings,—A ruby, and a pearl, or so,Will do for me;—I laugh at show.
¶My dame should dress in cheap attire(Good, heavy silks are never dear);—I own perhaps I might desireSome shawls of true Cashmere,—Some marrowy crapes of China silk,Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk.
¶I would not have the horse I driveSo fast that folks must stop and stare;An easy gait—two forty-five—Suits me; I do not care;—Perhaps, for just a single spurt,Some seconds less would do no hurt.
¶Of pictures, I should like to ownTitians and Raphaels three or four,—I love so much their style and tone,One Turner, and no more(A landscape,—foreground golden dirt,—The sunshine painted with a squirt).
¶Of books but few,—some fifty scoreFor daily use, and bound for wear;The rest upon an upper floor;—Some little luxury thereOf red morocco's gilded gleamAnd vellum rich as country cream.
¶Busts, cameos, gems,—such things as these,Which others often show for pride,/ value for their power to please,And selfish churls deride;—One Stradivarius, I confess,Two Meerschaums, I would fain possess.[1370]Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn,Nor ape the glittering upstart fool;—Shall not carved tables serve my turn,But all must be of buhl?Give grasping pomp its double share,—I ask but one recumbent chair.
¶Thus humble let me live and die,Nor long for Midas' golden touch;If Heaven more generous gifts deny,I shall not miss them much,—Too grateful for the blessing lentOf simple tastes and mind content!