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Oliver Wendell Holmes. (1809–1894)

6922

    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.

Old Ironsides.

6923

    Nail to the mast her holy flag,
  Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the god of storms,
  The lightning and the gale!

Old Ironsides.

6924

    The mossy marbles rest
On the lips that he has prest
    In their bloom;
And the names he loved to hear
Have been carved for many a year
    On the tomb.

The last Leaf.

6925

    I know it is a sin
For me to sit and grin
    At him here;
But the old three-cornered hat,
And the breeches, and all that,
    Are so queer!

The last Leaf.

6926

Thou say’st an undisputed thing
In such a solemn way.

To an Insect.

6927

And silence, like a poultice, comes
To heal the blows of sound.

To an Insect.

6928

    You think they are crusaders sent
  From some infernal clime,
To pluck the eyes of sentiment
  And dock the tail of Rhyme,
To crack the voice of Melody
  And break the legs of Time.

The Music Grinders.

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