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    The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Volume 08 Bunker Hill and Other Poems
    The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Volume 08 Bunker Hill and Other Poems
    The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Volume 08 Bunker Hill and Other Poems
    Ebook82 pages46 minutes

    The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Volume 08 Bunker Hill and Other Poems

    By Oliver Wendell Holmes

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 25, 2013
    The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Volume 08 Bunker Hill and Other Poems
    Author

    Oliver Wendell Holmes

    Oliver Wendell Holmes was an American physician, poet, and polymath based in Boston. A member of the Fireside Poets, he was acclaimed by his peers as one of the best writers of the day. His most famous prose works are the “Breakfast Table” series, which began with The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table.

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      Book preview

      The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Volume 08 Bunker Hill and Other Poems - Oliver Wendell Holmes

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes, Vol. 8, by Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net

      Title: The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes, Vol. 8 Bunker-Hill Battle And Other Poems (1874-1877)

      Author: Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.

      Release Date: September 30, 2004 [EBook #7395]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POETRY OF HOLMES, VOL. 8 ***

      Produced by David Widger

      THE POETICAL WORKS

      OF

      OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

      [Volume 3 of the 1893 three volume set]

      BUNKER-HILL BATTLE

      AND OTHER POEMS

      1874-1877

           GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER-HILL BATTLE

           AT THE ATLANTIC DINNER, DECEMBER 15, 1874

           LUCY. FOR HER GOLDEN WEDDING, OCTOBER 18, 1875

           HYMN FOR THE INAUGURATION OF THE STATUE OF GOVERNOR ANDREW, HINGHAM,

                OCTOBER 7, 1875

           A MEMORIAL TRIBUTE TO DR. SAMUEL G. HOWE

           JOSEPH WARREN, M. D.

           OLD CAMBRIDGE, JULY 3, 1875

           WELCOME TO THE NATIONS, PHILADELPHIA, JULY 4, 1876

           A FAMILIAR LETTER

           UNSATISFIED

           HOW THE OLD HORSE WON THE BET

           AN APPEAL FOR THE OLD SOUTH

           THE FIRST FAN

           To R. B. H.

           THE SHIP OF STATE

           A FAMILY RECORD

      GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER-HILL BATTLE

      AS SHE SAW IT FROM THE BELFRY

      'T is like stirring living embers when, at eighty, one remembers

      All the achings and the quakings of the times that tried men's souls;

      When I talk of Whig and Tory, when I tell the Rebel story,

      To you the words are ashes, but to me they're burning coals.

      I had heard the muskets' rattle of the April running battle;

      Lord Percy's hunted soldiers, I can see their red-coats still;

      But a deadly chill comes o'er me, as the day looms up before me,

      When a thousand men lay bleeding on the slopes of Bunker's Hill.

      'T was a peaceful summer's morning, when the first thing gave us warning

      Was the booming of the cannon from the river and the shore:

      Child, says grandma, "what 's the matter, what is all this noise and

           clatter?

      Have those scalping Indian devils come to murder us once more?"

      Poor old soul! my sides were shaking in the midst of all my quaking,

      To hear her talk of Indians when the guns began to roar:

      She had seen the burning village, and the slaughter and the pillage,

      When the Mohawks killed her father with their bullets through his door.

      Then I said, "Now, dear old granny, don't you fret and worry any,

      For I'll soon come back and tell you whether this is work or play;

      There can't be mischief in it, so I won't be gone a minute"—

      For a minute then I started. I was gone the live-long day.

      No time for bodice-lacing or for looking-glass grimacing;

      Down my hair went as I hurried, tumbling half-way to my heels;

      God forbid your ever knowing, when there's blood around her flowing,

      How the lonely, helpless daughter of a quiet house-hold feels!

      In the street I heard a thumping; and I knew it was the stumping

      Of the Corporal, our old neighbor, on that wooden leg he wore,

      With a knot of women round him,-it was lucky I had found him,

      So I followed with the others, and the Corporal marched before.

      They were making for the steeple,—the old soldier and his people;

      The pigeons circled round us as we climbed the creaking stair.

      Just across the narrow river—oh, so close it made me shiver!—

      Stood a fortress on the hill-top that but yesterday was bare.

      Not slow our eyes to find it; well we knew who stood behind it,

      Though the earthwork hid them from us, and the stubborn walls were

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