Author: Oliver Wendell Holmes

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January 25, 1859

    His birthday. - Nay, we need not speak
    The name each heart is beating, - 
    Each glistening eye and flushing cheek
    In light and flame repeating!

    We come in one tumultuous tide, - 
    One surge of wild emotion, - 
    As crowding through the Frith of Clyde
    Rolls in the Western Ocean;

    As when yon cloudless, quartered moon
    Hangs o'er each storied river,
    The swelling breasts of Ayr and Doon
    With sea green wavelets quiver.

    The century shrivels like a scroll, - 
    The past becomes the present, - 
    And face to face, and soul to soul,
    We greet the monarch-peasant.

    While Shenstone strained in feeble flights
    With Corydon and Phillis, - 
    While Wolfe was climbing Abraham's heights
    To snatch the Bourbon lilies, - 

    Who heard the wailing infant's cry,
    The babe beneath the sheeliug,
    Whose song to-night in every sky
    Will shake earth's starry ceiling, - 

    Whose passion-breathing voice ascends
    And floats like incense o'er us,
    Whose ringing lay of friendship blends
    With labor's anvil chorus?

    We love him, not for sweetest song,
    Though never tone so tender;
    We love him, even in his wrong, - 
    His wasteful self-surrender.

    We praise him, not for gifts divine, - 
    His Muse was born of woman, - 
    His manhood breathes in every line, - 
    Was ever heart more human?

    We love him, praise him, just for this
    In every form and feature,
    Through wealth and want, through woe and bliss,
    He saw his fellow-creature!

    No soul could sink beneath his love, - 
    Not even angel blasted;
    No mortal power could soar above
    The pride that all outlasted!

    Ay! Heaven had set one living man
    Beyond the pedant's tether, - 
    His virtues, frailties, HE may scan,
    Who weighs them all together!

    I fling my pebble on the cairn
    Of him, though dead, undying;
    Sweet Nature's nursling, bonniest bairn
    Beneath her daisies lying.

    The waning suns, the wasting globe,
    Shall spare the minstrel's story, - 
    The centuries weave his purple robe,
    The mountain-mist of glory!

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Type of Poem: Elegy

Date Written:

Date Published:

Language: English

Keywords: Public Domain

Source: Public Domain Collection

Publisher:

Rights/Permissions: Public Domain

Comments/Notes: This poem excels in its rich exploration of the themes of time, memory, and reverence towards a significant figure, whose identity isn't directly mentioned but is subtly suggested. The poet employs a variety of literary devices to paint a vivid, emotional portrait of this figure. The use of the sea as a metaphor for overflowing emotion, the "tumultuous tide," and the "surge of wild emotion," lends an intensity to the celebration of the figure's birth.

The tone of the poem is one of deep respect, awe, and affection. The poet uses an interesting play of past and present, "The century shrivels like a scroll, - The past becomes the present," to suggest that in the hearts and minds of the admirers, this figure's spirit is timeless, transcending the bounds of mortality. The poet’s admiration is rooted not only in the figure’s talent, as expressed in lines such as "We love him, not for sweetest song, though never tone so tender," but also in his humanity and his ability to empathize with his fellow beings.

The structure of the poem, with its consistent rhythm and rhyme scheme, provides a solid framework for the poet's passionate tribute. The poem concludes with a dramatic symbol, the "purple robe," which suggests the figure’s majestic and enduring legacy. Overall, the poem is a masterful blend of emotional depth, vivid imagery, and thoughtful reflection on the nature of fame, legacy, and human connection.