The latter poem is the dutiful tribute of a son to his father and his father's ancestors, residents of Woodstock from its first settlement.
THE Ship of State! above her skies are blue, But still she rocks a little, it is true, And there are passengers whose faces white Show they don't feel as happy as they might; Yet on the whole her crew are quite content, Since its wild fury the typhoon has spent, And willing, if her pilot thinks it best, To head a little nearer south by west.
And this they feel: the ship came too near wreck, In the long quarrel for the quarter-deck, Now when she glides serenely on her way,-- The shallows past where dread explosives lay,-- The stiff obstructive's churlish game to try Let sleeping dogs and still torpedoes lie! And so I give you all the Ship of State; Freedom's last venture is her priceless freight; God speed her, keep her, bless her, while she steers Amid the breakers of unsounded years; Lead her through danger's paths with even keel, And guide the honest hand that holds her wheel! WOODSTOCK, CONN., July 4, 1877.
A FAMILY RECORD WOODSTOCK, CONN., JULY 4, 1877 NOT to myself this breath of vesper song, Not to these patient friends, this kindly throng, Not to this hallowed morning, though it be Our summer Christmas, Freedom's jubilee, When every summit, topmast, steeple, tower, That owns her empire spreads her starry flower, Its blood-streaked leaves in heaven's benignant dew Washed clean from every crimson stain they knew,-- No, not to these the passing thrills belong That steal my breath to hush themselves with song.
These moments all are memory's; I have come To speak with lips that rather should be dumb; For what are words?
At every step I tread The dust that wore the footprints of the dead But for whose life my life had never known This faded vesture which it calls its own.
Here sleeps my father's sire, and they who gave That earlier life here found their peaceful grave.
In days gone by I sought the hallowed ground; Climbed yon long slope; the sacred spot I found Where all unsullied lies the winter snow, Where all ungathered spring's pale violets blow, And tracked from stone to stone the Saxon name That marks the blood I need not blush to claim, Blood such as warmed the Pilgrim sons of toil, Who held from God the charter of the soil.
I come an alien to your hills and plains, Yet feel your birthright tingling in my veins; Mine are this changing prospect's sun and shade, In full-blown summer's bridal pomp arrayed; Mine these fair hillsides and the vales between; Mine the sweet streams that lend their brightening green; I breathed your air--the sunlit landscape smiled; I touch your soil--it knows its children's child; Throned in my heart your heritage is mine; I claim it all by memory's right divine Waking, I dream.

Before my vacant eyes In long procession shadowy forms arise; Far through the vista of the silent years I see a venturous band; the pioneers, Who let the sunlight through the forest's gloom, Who bade the harvest wave, the garden bloom.
Hark! loud resounds the bare-armed settler's axe, See where the stealthy panther left his tracks! As fierce, as stealthy creeps the skulking foe With stone-tipped shaft and sinew-corded bow; Soon shall he vanish from his ancient reign, Leave his last cornfield to the coming train, Quit the green margin of the wave he drinks, For haunts that hide the wild-cat and the lynx.
But who the Youth his glistening axe that swings To smite the pine that shows a hundred rings?
His features ?--something in his look I find That calls the semblance of my race to mind.
His name ?--my own; and that which goes before The same that once the loved disciple bore.
Young, brave, discreet, the father of a line Whose voiceless lives have found a voice in mine; Thinned by unnumbered currents though they be, Thanks for the ruddy drops I claim from thee! The seasons pass; the roses come and go; Snows fall and melt; the waters freeze and flow; The boys are men; the girls, grown tall and fair, Have found their mates; a gravestone here and there Tells where the fathers lie; the silvered hair Of some bent patriarch yet recalls the time That saw his feet the northern hillside climb, A pilgrim from the pilgrims far away, The godly men, the dwellers by the bay.
On many a hearthstone burns the cheerful fire; The schoolhouse porch, the heavenward pointing spire Proclaim in letters every eye can read, Knowledge and Faith, the new world's simple creed.
Hush! 't is the Sabbath's silence-stricken morn No feet must wander through the tasselled corn; No merry children laugh around the door, No idle playthings strew the sanded floor; The law of Moses lays its awful ban On all that stirs; here comes the tithing-man At last the solemn hour of worship calls; Slowly they gather in the sacred walls; Man in his strength and age with knotted staff, And boyhood aching for its week-day laugh, The toil-worn mother with the child she leads, The maiden, lovely in her golden beads,-- The popish symbols round her neck she wears, But on them counts her lovers, not her prayers,-- Those youths in homespun suits and ribboned queues, Whose hearts are beating in the high-backed pews.
The pastor rises; looks along the seats With searching eye; each wonted face he meets; Asks heavenly guidance; finds the chapter's place That tells some tale of Israel's stubborn race; Gives out the sacred song; all voices join, For no quartette extorts their scanty coin; Then while both hands their black-gloved palms display, Lifts his gray head, and murmurs, "Let us pray!" And pray he does! as one that never fears To plead unanswered by the God that hears; What if he dwells on many a fact as though Some things Heaven knew not which it ought to know,-- Thanks God for all his favors past, and yet, Tells Him there's something He must not forget; Such are the prayers his people love to hear,-- See how the Deacon slants his listening ear! What! look once more! Nay, surely there I trace The hinted outlines of a well-known face! Not those the lips for laughter to beguile, Yet round their corners lurks an embryo smile, The same on other lips my childhood knew That scarce the Sabbath's mastery could subdue.
Him too my lineage gives me leave to claim,-- The good, grave man that bears the Psalmist's name.
And still in ceaseless round the seasons passed; Spring piped her carol; Autumn blew his blast; Babes waxed to manhood; manhood shrunk to age; Life's worn-out players tottered off the stage; The few are many; boys have grown to men Since Putnam dragged the wolf from Pomfret's den; Our new-old Woodstock is a thriving town; Brave are her children; faithful to the crown; Her soldiers' steel the savage redskin knows; Their blood has crimsoned his Canadian snows.
And now once more along the quiet vale Rings the dread call that turns the mothers pale; Full well they know the valorous heat that runs In every pulse-beat of their loyal sons; Who would not bleed in good King George's cause When England's lion shows his teeth and claws?
With glittering firelocks on the village green In proud array a martial band is seen; You know what names those ancient rosters hold,-- Whose belts were buckled when the drum-beat rolled,-- But mark their Captain! tell us, who is he?
On his brown face that same old look I see Yes! from the homestead's still retreat he came, Whose peaceful owner bore the Psalmist's name; The same his own.

Well, Israel's glorious king Who struck the harp could also whirl the sling,-- Breathe in his song a penitential sigh And smite the sons of Amalek hip and thigh: These shared their task; one deaconed out the psalm, One slashed the scalping hell-hounds of calm; The praying father's pious work is done, Now sword in hand steps forth the fighting son.
On many a field he fought in wilds afar; See on his swarthy cheek the bullet's scar! There hangs a murderous tomahawk; beneath, Without its blade, a knife's embroidered sheath; Save for the stroke his trusty weapon dealt His scalp had dangled at their owner's belt; But not for him such fate; he lived to see The bloodier strife that made our nation free, To serve with willing toil, with skilful hand, The war-worn saviors of the bleeding land.
His wasting life to others' needs he gave,-- Sought rest in home and found it in the grave.
See where the stones life's brief memorials keep, The tablet telling where he "fell on sleep,"-- Watched by a winged cherub's rayless eye,-- A scroll above that says we all must die,-- Those saddening lines beneath, the "Night-Thoughts" lent: So stands the Soldier's, Surgeon's monument.
Ah! at a glance my filial eye divines The scholar son in those remembered lines.
The Scholar Son.

His hand my footsteps led.
No more the dim unreal past I tread.
O thou whose breathing form was once so dear, Whose cheering voice was music to my ear, Art thou not with me as my feet pursue The village paths so well thy boyhood knew, Along the tangled margin of the stream Whose murmurs blended with thine infant dream, Or climb the hill, or thread the wooded vale, Or seek the wave where gleams yon distant sail, Or the old homestead's narrowed bounds explore, Where sloped the roof that sheds the rains no more, Where one last relic still remains to tell Here stood thy home,--the memory-haunted well, Whose waters quench a deeper thirst than thine, Changed at my lips to sacramental wine,-- Art thou not with me, as I fondly trace The scanty records of thine honored race, Call up the forms that earlier years have known, And spell the legend of each slanted stone?
With thoughts of thee my loving verse began, Not for the critic's curious eye to scan, Not for the many listeners, but the few Whose fathers trod the paths my fathers knew; Still in my heart thy loved remembrance burns; Still to my lips thy cherished name returns; Could I but feel thy gracious presence near Amid the groves that once to thee were dear Could but my trembling lips with mortal speech Thy listening ear for one brief moment reach! How vain the dream! The pallid voyager's track No sign betrays; he sends no message back.
No word from thee since evening's shadow fell On thy cold forehead with my long farewell,-- Now from the margin of the silent sea, Take my last offering ere I cross to thee! THE IRON GATE AND OTHER POEMS 1877-1881 THE IRON GATE Read at the Breakfast given in honor of Dr.Holmes's Seventieth Birthday by the publishers of the "Atlantic Monthly," Boston, December 3, 1879.
WHERE is this patriarch you are kindly greeting?
Not unfamiliar to my ear his name, Nor yet unknown to many a joyous meeting In days long vanished,--is he still the same, Or changed by years, forgotten and forgetting, Dull-eared, dim-sighted, slow of speech and thought, Still o'er the sad, degenerate present fretting, Where all goes wrong, and nothing as it ought?
Old age, the graybeard! Well, indeed, I know him,-- Shrunk, tottering, bent, of aches and ills the prey; In sermon, story, fable, picture, poem, Oft have I met him from my earliest day.
In my old AEsop, toiling with his bundle,-- His load of sticks,--politely asking Death, Who comes when called for,--would he lug or trundle His fagot for him ?--he was scant of breath.
And sad "Ecclesiastes, or the Preacher,"-- Has he not stamped the image on my soul, In that last chapter, where the worn-out Teacher Sighs o'er the loosened cord, the broken bowl?
Yes, long, indeed, I've known him at a distance, And now my lifted door-latch shows him here; I take his shrivelled hand without resistance, And find him smiling as his step draws near.
What though of gilded baubles he bereaves us, Dear to the heart of youth, to manhood's prime; Think of the calm he brings, the wealth he leaves us, The hoarded spoils, the legacies of time! Altars once flaming, still with incense fragrant, Passion's uneasy nurslings rocked asleep, Hope's anchor faster, wild desire less vagrant, Life's flow less noisy, but the stream how deep! Still as the silver cord gets worn and slender, Its lightened task-work tugs with lessening strain, Hands get more helpful, voices, grown more tender, Soothe with their softened tones the slumberous brain.
Youth longs and manhood strives, but age remembers, Sits by the raked-up ashes of the past, Spreads its thin hands above the whitening embers That warm its creeping life-blood till the last.
Dear to its heart is every loving token That comes unbidden ere its pulse grows cold, Ere the last lingering ties of life are broken, Its labors ended and its story told.
Ah, while around us rosy youth rejoices, For us the sorrow-laden breezes sigh, And through the chorus of its jocund voices Throbs the sharp note of misery's hopeless cry.
As on the gauzy wings of fancy flying From some far orb I track our watery sphere, Home of the struggling, suffering, doubting, dying, The silvered globule seems a glistening tear.
But Nature lends her mirror of illusion To win from saddening scenes our age-dimmed eyes, And misty day-dreams blend in sweet confusion The wintry landscape and the summer skies.
So when the iron portal shuts behind us, And life forgets us in its noise and whirl, Visions that shunned the glaring noonday find us, And glimmering starlight shows the gates of pearl.
I come not here your morning hour to sadden, A limping pilgrim, leaning on his staff,-- I, who have never deemed it sin to gladden This vale of sorrows with a wholesome laugh.
If word of mine another's gloom has brightened, Through my dumb lips the heaven-sent message came; If hand of mine another's task has lightened, It felt the guidance that it dares not claim.
But, O my gentle sisters, O my brothers, These thick-sown snow-flakes hint of toil's release; These feebler pulses bid me leave to others The tasks once welcome; evening asks for peace.
Time claims his tribute; silence now is golden; Let me not vex the too long suffering lyre; Though to your love untiring still beholden, The curfew tells me--cover up the fire.
And now with grateful smile and accents cheerful, And warmer heart than look or word can tell, In simplest phrase--these traitorous eyes are tearful-- Thanks, Brothers, Sisters,--Children,--and farewell! VESTIGIA QUINQUE RETRORSUM AN ACADEMIC POEM 1829-1879 Read at the Commencement Dinner of the Alumni of Harvard University, June 25, 1879.
WHILE fond, sad memories all around us throng, Silence were sweeter than the sweetest song; Yet when the leaves are green and heaven is blue, The choral tribute of the grove is due, And when the lengthening nights have chilled the skies, We fain would hear the song-bird ere be flies, And greet with kindly welcome, even as now, The lonely minstrel on his leafless bough.
This is our golden year,--its golden day; Its bridal memories soon must pass away; Soon shall its dying music cease to ring, And every year must loose some silver string, Till the last trembling chords no longer thrill,-- Hands all at rest and hearts forever still.
A few gray heads have joined the forming line; We hear our summons,--"Class of 'Twenty-Nine!" Close on the foremost, and, alas, how few! Are these "The Boys" our dear old Mother knew?
Sixty brave swimmers.

Twenty--something more-- Have passed the stream and reached this frosty shore! How near the banks these fifty years divide When memory crosses with a single stride! 'T is the first year of stern "Old Hickory" 's rule When our good Mother lets us out of school, Half glad, half sorrowing, it must be confessed, To leave her quiet lap, her bounteous breast, Armed with our dainty, ribbon-tied degrees, Pleased and yet pensive, exiles and A.B.'s.
Look back, O comrades, with your faded eyes, And see the phantoms as I bid them rise.
Whose smile is that?
Its pattern Nature gave, A sunbeam dancing in a dimpled wave; KIRKLAND alone such grace from Heaven could win, His features radiant as the soul within; That smile would let him through Saint Peter's gate While sad-eyed martyrs had to stand and wait.
Here flits mercurial _Farrar_; standing there, See mild, benignant, cautious, learned _Ware_, And sturdy, patient, faithful, honest _Hedge_, Whose grinding logic gave our wits their edge; _Ticknor_, with honeyed voice and courtly grace; And _Willard_, larynxed like a double bass; And _Channing_, with his bland, superior look, Cool as a moonbeam on a frozen brook, While the pale student, shivering in his shoes, Sees from his theme the turgid rhetoric ooze; And the born soldier, fate decreed to wreak His martial manhood on a class in Greek, _Popkin_! How that explosive name recalls The grand old Busby of our ancient halls Such faces looked from Skippon's grim platoons, Such figures rode with Ireton's stout dragoons: He gave his strength to learning's gentle charms, But every accent sounded "Shoulder arms!" Names,--empty names! Save only here and there Some white-haired listener, dozing in his chair, Starts at the sound he often used to hear, And upward slants his Sunday-sermon ear.
And we--our blooming manhood we regain; Smiling we join the long Commencement train, One point first battled in discussion hot,-- Shall we wear gowns?
and settled: We will not.
How strange the scene,--that noisy boy-debate Where embryo-speakers learn to rule the State! This broad-browed youth, sedate and sober-eyed, Shall wear the ermined robe at Taney's side; And he, the stripling, smooth of face and slight, Whose slender form scarce intercepts the light, Shall rule the Bench where Parsons gave the law, And sphinx-like sat uncouth, majestic Shaw Ah, many a star has shed its fatal ray On names we loved--our brothers--where are they?
Nor these alone; our hearts in silence claim Names not less dear, unsyllabled by fame.
How brief the space! and yet it sweeps us back Far, far along our new-born history's track Five strides like this;--the sachem rules the land; The Indian wigwams cluster where we stand.
The second.