OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. But a sudden change came o'er his heart And Tubal Cain was filled with pain He saw that men, with rage and hate, In their lust for carnage blind. And he said, "Alas! that ever I made, Or that skill of mine should plan, The spear and the sword for men whose joy Is to slay their fellow-man." And for many a day old Tubal Cain And the red sparks lit the air; "Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made"; And he fashioned the first ploughshare. 219 | No rest that throbbing slave may ask, But warmed with that unchanging flame See how yon beam of seeming white Then mark the cloven sphere that holds O Father! grant thy love divine DOROTHY Q. A FAMILY PORTRAIT. GRANDMOTHER's mother; her age, I guess, Lips that lover has never kissed, F Hanging sleeves of stiff brocade, So they painted the little maid. On her hand a parrot green Dark with a century's fringe of dust, - Who the painter was none may tell, Look not on her with eyes of scorn, O damsel Dorothy! Dorothy Q. ! What if a hundred years ago Those close-shut lips had answered, No, When forth the tremulous question came That cost the maiden her Norman name; And under the folds that look so still The bodice swelled with the bosom's thrill? Should I be I, or would it be One tenth another to nine tenths me? Soft is the breath of a maiden's Yes: Not the light gossamer stirs with less; But never a cable that holds so fast Through all the battles of wave and blast, And never an echo of speech or song That lives in the babbling air so long! There were tones in the voice that whispered then You may hear to-day in a hundred men! story, Weep for the voiceless, who have known The cross without the crown of glory! Not where Leucadian's breezes sweep O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow, But where the glistening night-dews weep On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow. O hearts that break and give no sign Save whitening lip and fading tresses, Till Death pours out his cordial wine Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses, If singing breath or echoing chord To every hidden pang were given, What endless melodies were poured, As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven! OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. ROBINSON OF LEYDEN. He sleeps not here; in hope and prayer His wandering flock had gone before, But he, the shepherd, might not share Their sorrows on the wintry shore. 221 Still cry them, and the world shall hear, Ye dwellers by the storm-swept sea! Ye have not built by Haerlem Meer, Nor on the land-locked Zuyder-Zee! Before the Speedwell's anchor swung, THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE; : 66 ONE-HOSS SHAY.' Seventeen hundred and fifty-five. Now in building of chaises, I tell you what, There is always somewhere a weakest spot, In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, Find it somewhere you must and will, Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the Little of all we value here Never an axe had seen their chips, Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips; Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide Do! I tell you, I rather guess She was a wonder, and nothing less! Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, Deacon and deaconess dropped away, Children and grandchildren,—where were they? But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day! EIGHTEEN HUNDRED;-it came and found The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. Eighteen hundred increased by ten;- Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year Without both feeling and looking queer. In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth, The parson was working his Sunday's text, Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed - First a shiver, and then a thrill, Then something decidedly like a spill, And the parson was sitting upon a rock, At half past nine by the meet'n'-house clock, Just the hour of the Earthquake shock! What do you think the parson found, When he got up and stared around? The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, As if it had been to the mill and ground! You see, of course, if you 're not a dunce, How it went to pieces all at once, — |