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These are thine enemies-thy worst;
They chain thee to thy lowly lot:
Thy labor and thy life accursed.

Oh, stand erect! and from them burst!
And longer suffer not!

Thou art thyself thine enemy!

The great!—what better they than thou? As theirs, is not thy will as free? Has God with equal favors thee Neglected to endow ?

True, wealth thou hast not-'tis but dust!
Nor place uncertain as the wind!
But that thou hast, which, with thy crust
And water, may despise the lust
Of both a noble mind!

With this, and passions under ban,
True faith, and holy trust in God,
Thou art the peer of any man.
Look up, then, that thy little span
Of life may be well trod!

Out in the woods of Autumn!-I have cast
Aside the shackles of the town, that vex
The fetterless soul, and come to hide myself,
Miami! in thy venerable shades.

Low on thy bank, where spreads the velvet moss,
My limbs recline. Beneath me, silver-bright,
Glide the clear waters, with a plaintive moan
For summer's parting glories. High o'erhead,
Seeking the sedgy lakes of the warm South,
Sails tireless the unerring water-fowl,
Screaming among the cloud-racks. Oft from where,
Erect on mossy trunk, the partridge stands,
Bursts suddenly the whistle clear and loud,
Far-echoing through the dim wood's fretted aisles.
Deep murmurs from the trees, bending with brown
And ripened mast, are interrupted now

By sounds of dropping nuts; and warily
The turkey from the thicket comes, and swift,
As flies an arrow, darts the pheasant down,
To batten on the autumn; and the air,
At times, is darkened by a sudden rush
Of myriad wings, as the wild pigeon leads
His squadrons to the banquet.

FROM "MIAMI WOODS."

The autumn-time is with us! Its approach
Was heralded, not many days ago,

By hazy skies that veiled the brazen sun,
Aud sea-like murmurs from the rustling corn,
And low-voiced brooks that wandered drowsily
By purpling clusters of the juicy grape,
Swinging upon the vine. And now 'tis here!
And what a change hath passed upon the face
Of Nature, where the waving forest spreads,
Then robed in deepest green! All through the night
The subtle frost hath plied its mystic art;
And in the day the golden sun hath wrought
True wonders; and the winds of morn and even
Have touched with magic breath the changing

leaves.

And now, as wanders the dilating eye
Athwart the varied landscape, circling far,
What gorgeousness, what blazonry, what pomp
Of colors bursts upon the ravished sight!
Here, where the maple rears its yellow crest,
A golden glory: yonder, where the oak
Stands monarch of the forest, and the ash
Is girt with flame-like parasite, and broad
The dog-wood spreads beneath, a rolling field
Of deepest crimson; and afar, where looms
The gnarléd gum, a cloud of bloodiest red!

Oliver Wendell Holmes.

AMERICAN.

Holmes was born in Cambridge, Mass., in 1809, and educated at Harvard College, where he graduated in 1829. His father, the Rev. Abdiel Holmes, was the author of "American Annals" (1805). Our poet studied medicine abroad some three years. He received his degree of M.D. in 1836, and in 1847 was appointed Professor of Anatomy in Harvard College-succeeding Dr. Warren. As a lecturer on medical science, he was distinguished and popular. Indeed his scientific tastes seem to have equalled | his literary. As a microscopist he has had few superiors in America. Holmes began to publish poetry in The Collegian (1830), a magazine somewhat on the plan of The Etonian, and containing pieces from John O. Sargent, William H. Simmons, and other undergraduates of Harvard; also from Epes Sargent. Here some of the wittiest of Holmes's early poems appeared. He contributed to the New England Magazine (1836) certain humorous papers, entitled "The Autocrat of the Breakfast-table." These he resumed, some twenty years afterward, in the Atlantic Monthly, and the result was the wittiest book by which American literature had yet been distinguished. It has been as much a favorite in England as in his own country, and has been translated into German. He subsequently contributed two novels, "Elsie Venner" and "The Guardian Angel," to the Atlantic Monthly.

The first collection of his poems was published in Boston in 1836; a second appeared in 1848; and collections were published in England in 1845, 1852, 1853, and 1878. A complete American collection appeared in 1877. Holmes's

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

strength lies in his lyrics and his short poems. Indeed, he has attempted no sustained flight of an epic or dramatic character. In his "Astræa" and other rhymed essays he shows a mastery of the heroic measure, not excelled by Pope or Goldsmith in its vigorous but mellifluous flow. He belongs, however, neither to the old nor the new school of verse. He has created a school of his own. In no poct of the day is the individuality more marked. In his poems of wit, humor, and pathos, which form the larger part of his productions, he reminds us of no predecessor or contemporary; and in his serious poems, like "The Nautilus," he is fresh and original, never imitative in style and thought. These qualities give to his verse enduring elements, which must commend them to a late posterity, equally with the works of the most cminent poets among his contemporaries, English and American. In his prose and in his poetry his wit has never a taint of coarseness or asperity. Brilliant, incisive, and delicate in style, it attains its end only by means the most pure and legitimate. Happy in his domestic and paternal relations, and in his host of friends, few poets have had so smooth a lot as Holmes, or such a foretaste of that posthumous fame which his writings must command. His seventieth birthday called forth a grand entertainment given by his Boston publishers, at which many of the leading men and women of letters in the country were present.

BILL AND JOE.

Come, dear old comrade, you and I
Will steal an hour from days gone by,-
The shining days when life was new,
And all was bright with morning dew,-
The lusty days of long ago,
When you were Bill and I was Joe.

Your name may flaunt a titled trail,
Proud as a cockerel's rainbow tail;
And mine as brief appendix wear
As Tam O'Shauter's luckless mare;
To-day, old friend, remember still
That I am Joe, and you are Bill.

You've won the great world's envied prize,
And grand you look in people's eyes,
With HON and LLD

In big brave letters, fair to see,-
Your fist, old fellow off they go!-
How are you, Bill? How are you, Joe?

You've won the judge's ermined robe;
You've taught your name to half the globe;
You've sung mankind a deathless strain;
You've made the dead past live again:
The world may call you what it will,
But you and I are Joe and Bill.

The chaffing young folks stare and say,
"See those old buffers, bent and gray,-
They talk like fellows in their teens!
Mad, poor old boys! That's what it means,"
And shake their heads; they little know
The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe!-

How Bill forgets his hour of pride,
While Joe sits smiling at his side;
How Joe, in spite of time's disguise,
Finds the old school-mate in his eyes,-
Those calm, stern eyes that melt and fill,
As Joe looks fondly up at Bill.

Ah, pensive scholar, what is fame?
A fitful tongue of leaping flame;
A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust,
That lifts a pinch of mortal dust;
A few swift years, and who can show
Which dust was Bill, and which was Joe?

The weary idol takes his stand,
Holds out his bruised and aching hand,
While gaping thousands come and go,—
How vain it seems, this empty show!-
Till all at once his pulses thrill;-
'Tis poor old Joe's "God bless you, Bill!"

And shall we breathe in happier spheres
The names that pleased our mortal ears,
In some sweet lull of harp and song
For earth-born spirits none too long,
Just whispering of the world below
Where this was Bill and that was Joe?

No matter; while our home is here,

No sounding name is half so dear;
When fades at length our lingering day,
Who cares what pompous tombstones say?
Read on the hearts that love us still,
Hic jacet Joe. Hic jacet Bill.

OLD IRONSIDES.

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky;
Beneath rung the battle-shout,
And burst the cannon's roar;-
The meteor of the ocean air

Shall sweep the clouds no more!

653

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,

Where knelt the vanquished foe, When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,

And waves were white below,

No more shall feel the victor's tread,
Or know the conquered knee ;-
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea!

Oh, better that her shattered hulk
Should 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!

RUDOLPH, THE HEADSMAN.

Rudolph, professor of the headsman's trade,
Alike was famous for his arm and blade.
One day, a prisoner justice had to kill
Knelt at the block to test the artist's skill.

Bare - armed, swart - visaged, gaunt and shaggybrowed,

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Rudolph the headsman rose above the crowd.
His falchion lightened with a sudden gleam,
As the pike's armor flashes in the stream.
He sheathed his blade; he turned as if to go;
The victim knelt, still waiting for the blow.
"Why strikest not? Perform thy murderous act,"
The prisoner said. (His voice was slightly cracked.)
Friend, I have struck," the artist straight replied;
"Wait but one moment, and yourself decide."
He held his snuff-box,-" Now, then, if you please!"
The prisoner sniffed, aud, with a crashing sneeze,
Off his head tumbled,-bowled along the floor,-
Bounced down the steps;-the prisoner said no more.

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NEARING THE SNOW-LINE.

Slow toiling upward from the misty vale,
I leave the bright enamelled zones below;
No more for me their beauteous bloom shall glow,
Their lingering sweetness load the morning gale;
Few are the slender flowerets, scentless, pale,
That on their ice-clad stems all trembling blow
Along the margin of unmelting snow;
Yet with unsaddened voice thy verge I hail,
White realm of peace above the flowering-line;

Welcome thy frozen domes, thy rocky spires! O'er thee undimmed the moon-girt planets shiue, On thy majestic altars fade the fires

That filled the air with smoke of vain desires, And all the unclouded blue of heaven is thine!

THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS.

During the growth of the nautilus, parts of its shell are progressively vacated, and these are successively partitioned off into air-tight chambers.

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,
Sails the unshadowed main,-

The venturous bark that flings

On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings
In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings,

And coral reefs lie bare,

Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their stream

ing hair.

Its webs of living ganze no more unfurl;
Wrecked is the ship of pearl!

And 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 toil
That 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 borne
Than ever Triton blew from wreathéd 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!

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!

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