"THE AUTOCRAT."
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
Born 1809. Died October 7, 1894.
"The Last Leaf!" Can it be true,
We have turned it, and on you
Friend of all?
That the years at last have power?
That life's foliage and its flower
Fade and fall?
Was there one who ever took
From its shelf, by chance, a book
Penned by you,
But was fast your friend, for life,
With one refuge from its strife
Safe and true?
Even gentle Elia's self
Might be proud to share that shelf,
Leaf to leaf,
With a soul of kindred sort,
Who could bind strong sense and sport
In one sheaf.
From that Boston breakfast table
Wit and wisdom, fun and fable,
Radiated
Through all English-speaking places.
When were Science and the Graces
So well mated?
Of sweet singers the most sane,
Of keen wits the most humane,
Wide yet clear,
Like the blue, above us bent;
Giving sense and sentiment
Each its sphere;
With a manly breadth of soul,
And a fancy quaint and droll;
Ripe and mellow:
With a virile power of "hit,"
Finished scholar, poet, wit,
And good fellow!
Sturdy patriot, and yet;
True world's citizen! Regret
Dims our eyes
As we turn each well-thumbed leaf;
Yet a glory 'midst our grief
Will arise.
Years your spirit could not tame,
And they will not dim your fame;
England joys
In your songs all strength and ease,
And the "dreams" you "wrote to please
Grey-haired boys."
And of such were you not one?
Age chilled not your fire or fun.
Heart alive
Makes a boy of a grey bard,
Though his years be—"by the card"—
Eighty-five!