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Oliver Wendell Holmes - Two Poems To Harriet Beecher StoweOliver Wendell Holmes - Two Poems To Harriet Beecher Stowe
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ON HER SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY, JUNE 14, 1882 I. AT THE SUMMIT SISTER, we bid you welcome,--we who stand On the high table-land; We who have climbed life`s slippery Alpine slope, And rest, still leaning on the staff of hope, Looking along the silent Mer de Glace, Leading our footsteps where the dark crevasse Yawns in the frozen sea we all must pass,-- Sister, we clasp your hand! Rest with us in the hour that Heaven has lent Before the swift descent. Look! the warm sunbeams kiss the glittering ice; See! next the snow-drift blooms the edelweiss; The mated eagles fan the frosty air; Life, beauty, love, around us everywhere, And, in their time, the darkening hours that bear Sweet memories, peace, content. Thrice welcome! shining names our missals show Amid their rubrics` glow, But search the blazoned record`s starry line, What halo`s radiance fills the page like thine? Thou who by some celestial clue couldst find The way to all the hearts of all mankind, On thee, already canonized, enshrined, What more can Heaven bestow! II. THE WORLD`S HOMAGE IF every tongue that speaks her praise For whom I shape my tinkling phrase Were summoned to the table, The vocal chorus that would meet Of mingling accents harsh or sweet, From every land and tribe, would beat The polyglots at Babel. Briton and Frenchman, Swede and Dane, Turk, Spaniard, Tartar of Ukraine, Hidalgo, Cossack, Cadi, High Dutchman and Low Dutchman, too, The Russian serf, the Polish Jew, Arab, Armenian, and Mantchoo, Would shout, "We know the lady!" Know her! Who knows not Uncle Tom And her he learned his gospel from Has never heard of Moses; Full well the brave black hand we know That gave to freedom`s grasp the hoe That killed the weed that used to grow Among the Southern roses. When Archimedes, long ago, Spoke out so grandly, "_dos pou sto_-- Give me a place to stand on, I`ll move your planet for you, now,"-- He little dreamed or fancied how The _sto_ at last should find its _pou_ For woman`s faith to land on. Her lever was the wand of art, Her fulcrum was the human heart, Whence all unfailing aid is; She moved the earth! Its thunders pealed, Its mountains shook, its temples reeled, The blood-red fountains were unsealed, And Moloch sunk to Hades. All through the conflict, up and down Marched Uncle Tom and Old John Brown, One ghost, one form ideal; And which was false and which was true, And which was mightier of the two, The wisest sibyl never knew, For both alike were real. Sister, the holy maid does well Who counts her beads in convent cell, Where pale devotion lingers; But she who serves the sufferer`s needs, Whose prayers are spelt in loving deeds, May trust the Lord will count her beads As well as human fingers. When Truth herself was Slavery`s slave, Thy hand the prisoned suppliant gave The rainbow wings of fiction. And Truth who soared descends to-day Bearing an angel`s wreath away, Its lilies at thy feet to lay With Heaven`s own benediction.
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