1 The last of the poems written for the class of '29. See the letter from Samuel May to F. J. Garrison, quoted in Morse's Life of Holmes, vol. i, p. 78: ""After the Curfew" was positively the last. "Farewell! I let the curtain fall." The curtain never rose again for 29." We met once more-a year later-at Parker's. But three were present, Smith, Holmes, and myself. No poem-very quiet-something very like tears. The following meetings-all at Dr. H.'s house - were quiet, social, talking meetings - the Doctor of course doing the live talking.. At one of these meetings four were present, all the survivors but one; and there was more general talk. But never another Class Poem.' This poem, and the three following, appeared in Over the Teacups. 2 The personal reference is to our greatly beloved and honored classmate, James Freeman Clarke. (HOLMES.) 1 Look here! There are crowds of people whirled through our streets on these new-fashioned cars, with their witch-broomsticks overhead, if they don't come from Salem, they ought to, and not more than one in a dozen of these fish-eyed bipeds thinks or cares a nickel's worth about the miracle which is wrought for their convenience. They know that without hands or feet, without horses, without steam, so far as they can see, they are transported from place to place, and that there is nothing to account for it except the witchbroomstick and the iron or copper cobweb which they see stretched above them. What do they know or care about this last revelation of the omnipresent spirit of the material universe? We ought to go down on our knees when one of these mighty caravans, car after car, spins by us, under the mystic impulse which seems to know not whether its train is loaded or empty. (HOLMES, in Over the Teacups.) The first electric trolley-cars had just been introduced when this poem was written, in 1890. For he came from a place they knew full well, And many a tale he had to tell. They longed to visit the haunts of men, To see the old dwellings they knew again, And ride on their broomsticks all around Their wide domain of unhallowed ground. In Essex county there's many a roof On their well-trained broomsticks mounted high, Seen like shadows against the sky; Crossing the track of owls and bats, Hugging before them their coal-black cats. Well did they know, those gray old wives, Dusky nooks in the Essex woods, 30 Who would not, will not, if he can, Where is the Eden like to thee? 51 For that couple of hundred years, or so,' There had been no peace in the world below; The witches still grumbling, 'It is n't fair; Come, give us a taste of the upper air! For thee her wooing hour has passed, And winter comes with icy blast Yet, though the woods no longer thrill 1 I find the burden and restrictions of rhyme more and more troublesome as I grow older. There are times when it seems natural enough to employ that form of expression, but it is only occasionally; and the use of it as a vehicle of the commonplace is so prevalent that one is not much tempted to select it as the medium for his thoughts and emotions. The art of rhyming has almost become a part of a high-school education, and its practice is far from being an evidence of intellectual distinction. Mediocrity is as much forbidden to the poet in our days as it was in those of Horace, and the immense majority of the verses written are stamped with hopeless mediocrity. When one of the ancient poets found he was trying to grind out verses which came unwillingly, he said he was writing Invita Minerva. (HOLMES, in Over the Tea-Cups, introducing the poem.) |