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AN EPISTLE TO DR. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES; ON HIS 75TH BIRTHDAY, by             Poem Explanation         Poet's Biography
First Line: Sir, / as age by age, thro' fell enchantment bound
Last Line: Edmund gosse.
Subject(s): Holmes, Oliver Wendell (1809-1894)


SIR,
As Age by Age, thro' fell Enchantment bound,
The Heroe of some antient Myth is found,
Wild Rocks about him, at the fierce Sea's Brim,
And all his World an Old-Wives' Tale but him,
His Garments, cast upon th' inclement Shoar,
Such as long since our Grandsires' Grandsires wore,
While all his Gestures and his Speech proclaim
Him great Revealer of forgotten Fame, --
Such, Oh! Musician, dost thou seem to be
To us who con th' Augustan Age by thee,
Who hearken to thy Verse, to learn thro' it
How DRYDEN to illustrious ORMOND writ,
Or in thy fil'd and polisht Numbers hope
To catch the Secret of the Art of POPE;
Ah! subtil Skill! Ah! Bard of dying Fires,
Let us but lose thee, and a Race expires;
So long as thou dost keep this Treasure thine
Great ANNA's Galaxy has Leave to shine.
Thou who do'st link us with that elder Day
When either QUEENSBERRY made Court to GAY,
Thro' all the Thunders of romantick Times,
Thro' Reefs of monstrous Quips and Shoals of Rhimes,
We've steer'd at last, and, like Ships long at Sea,
Our Latest-Born sail home to Grace and thee;
Home-ward they sail, and find the World they left
Of all but thee, yet not of thee bereft;
Still in thy pointed Wit their Souls explore
Familiar Fields where CONGREVE rul'd before;
Still in thy human Tenderness they feel
The honest Voice and beating Heart of STEELE.
Long be it so; may Sheaf be laid on Sheaf
Ere thy live Garland puts forth its Last Leaf;
As in old Prints, long may we see, in Air,
Thy Guardian Angel hover o'er thy Hair;
Still may the Table, where our Fathers sat
To eat of Manna, hold its Autocrat;
Since surely none of all the Blest can be
Home-sick in Heav'n, as we on Earth, for thee.
And Oh! whil'st o'er th' embattl'd Crags afar
Thy practis'd Eyes gaze down the Gorge of War,
Where thro' the blinding Dust and Heat we fight
Against the Brazen-Helm'd Amalekite,
At Height of Noon, Oh! lift up both those Hands
To urge new Virtue thro' our fainting Bands,
And when we feel our Sinews nerv'd to strike
Envy and Errour, Shame and Sloth, a-like,
We'll say 'tis well that, while we battle thus,
Our MOSES stands on high 'twixt Heav'n and us.
SIR,
Your Most Humble, Most Obedient Servant,
EDMUND GOSSE.





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