Hymn After The Emancipation Proclamation
GIVER of all that crowns our days,
With grateful hearts we sing thy praise;
Through deep and desert led by Thee,
Our promised land at last we see.
Ruler of Nations, judge our cause!
If we have kept thy holy laws,
The sons of Belial curse in vain
The day that rends the captive's chain.
Thou God of vengeance! Israel's Lord!
Break in their grasp the shield and sword,
And make thy righteous judgments known
Till all thy foes are overthrown!
Then, Father, lay thy healing hand
In mercy on our stricken land;
Lead all its wanderers to the fold,
And be their Shepherd as of old.
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Hymn For The Celebration At The Laying Of The Cornerstone Of Harvard Memorial Hall, Cambridge, October 6, 1870
NOT with the anguish of hearts that are breaking
Come we as mourners to weep for our dead;
Grief in our breasts has grown weary of aching,
Green is the turf where our tears we have shed.
While o'er their marbles the mosses are creeping,
Stealing each name and its legend away,
Give their proud story to Memory's keeping,
Shrined in the temple we hallow to-day.
Hushed are their battle-fields, ended their marches,
Deaf are their ears to the drum-beat of morn,--
Rise from the sod, ye fair columns and arches
Tell their bright deeds to the ages unborn!
Emblem and legend may fade from the portal,
Keystone may crumble and pillar may fall;
They were the builders whose work is immortal,
Crowned with the dome that is over us all!
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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The Gray Chief
FOR THE MEETING OF THE MASSACHUSETTS
MEDICAL SOCIETY, 1859
'T is sweet to fight our battles o'er,
And crown with honest praise
The gray old chief, who strikes no more
The blow of better days.
Before the true and trusted sage
With willing hearts we bend,
When years have touched with hallowing age
Our Master, Guide, and Friend.
For all his manhood's labor past,
For love and faith long tried,
His age is honored to the last,
Though strength and will have died.
But when, untamed by toil and strife,
Full in our front he stands,
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Hymn For The Class-Meeting
THOU Gracious Power, whose mercy lends
The light of home, the smile of friends,
Our gathered flock thine arms infold
As in the peaceful days of old.
Wilt thou not hear us while we raise,
In sweet accord of solemn praise,
The voices that have mingled long
In joyous flow of mirth and song?
For all the blessings life has brought,
For all its sorrowing hours have taught,
For all we mourn, for all we keep,
The hands we clasp, the loved that sleep;
The noontide sunshine of the past,
These brief, bright moments fading fast,
The stars that gild our darkening years,
The twilight ray from holier spheres;
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Army Hymn
'OLD HUNDRED'
O LORD of Hosts! Almighty King!
Behold the sacrifice we bring
To every arm thy strength impart,
Thy spirit shed through every heart!
Wake in our breasts the living fires,
The holy faith that warmed our sires;
Thy hand hath made our Nation free;
To die for her is serving Thee.
Be Thou a pillared flame to show
The midnight snare, the silent foe;
And when the battle thunders loud,
Still guide us in its moving cloud.
God of all Nations! Sovereign Lord
In thy dread name we draw the sword,
We lift the starry flag on high
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Æstivation
An Unpublished Poem, by my late Latin Tutor.
In candent ire the solar splendor flames;
The foles, languescent, pend from arid rames;
His humid front the cive, anheling, wipes,
And dreams of erring on ventiferous ripes.
How dulce to vive occult to mortal eyes,
Dorm on the herb with none to supervise,
Carp the suave berries from thc crescent vine,
And bibe the flow from longicaudate kine!
To me, alas! no verdurous visions come,
Save yon exiguous pool's conferva-scum,--
No concave vast repeats the tender hue
That laves my milk-jug with celestial blue!
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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The Wasp And The Hornet
THE two proud sisters of the sea,
In glory and in doom!--
Well may the eternal waters be
Their broad, unsculptured tomb!
The wind that rings along the wave,
The clear, unshadowed sun,
Are torch and trumpet o'er the brave,
Whose last green wreath is won!
No stranger-hand their banners furled,
No victor's shout they heard;
Unseen, above them ocean curled,
Safe by his own pale bird;
The gnashing billows heaved and fell;
Wild shrieked the midnight gale;
Far, far beneath the morning swell
Were pennon, spar, and sail.
The land of Freedom! Sea and shore
Are guarded now, as when
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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The Girdle Of Friendship
SHE gathered at her slender waist
The beauteous robe she wore;
Its folds a golden belt embraced,
One rose-hued gem it bore.
The girdle shrank; its lessening round
Still kept the shining gem,
But now her flowing locks it bound,
A lustrous diadem.
And narrower still the circlet grew;
Behold! a glittering band,
Its roseate diamond set anew,
Her neck's white column spanned.
Suns rise and set; the straining clasp
The shortened links resist,
Yet flashes in a bracelet's grasp
The diamond, on her wrist.
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Hymn Written For The Twenty-Fifth Anniversary Of The Reorganization Of The Boston Young Men’s Christian Union
OUR Father! while our hearts unlearn
The creeds that wrong thy name,
Still let our hallowed altars burn
With Faith's undying flame!
Not by the lightning-gleams of wrath
Our souls thy face shall see,
The star of Love must light the path
That leads to Heaven and Thee.
Help us to read our Master's will
Through every darkening stain
That clouds his sacred image still,
And see Him once again,
The brother man, the pitying friend
Who weeps for human woes,
Whose pleading words of pardon blend
With cries of raging foes.
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Hymn At The Funeral Services Of Charles Sumner
APRIL 29, 1874
SUNG BY MALE VOICES TO A NATIONAL AIR OF HOLLAND
ONCE more, ye sacred towers,
Your solemn dirges sound;
Strew, loving hands, the April flowers,
Once more to deck his mound.
A nation mourns its dead,
Its sorrowing voices one,
As Israel's monarch bowed his head
And cried, 'My son! My son!'
Why mourn for him?--For him
The welcome angel came
Ere yet his eye with age was dim
Or bent his stately frame;
His weapon still was bright,
His shield was lifted high
To slay the wrong, to save the right,--
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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