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Oliver Wendell Holmes - For The Burns Centennial CelebrationOliver Wendell Holmes - For The Burns Centennial Celebration
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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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