Oliver Wendell Holmes, 1809-1894, was the son of Abiel Holmes, D.D. He was
born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and graduated at Harvard in 1829, having
for classmates several men who have since become distinguished. After
graduating, he studied law for about one year, and then turned his
attention to medicine. He studied his profession in Paris, and elsewhere
in Europe, and took his degree at Cambridge in 1836. In 1838 he was
appointed Professor of Anatomy and Physiology in Dartmouth College. He
remained here but a short time, and then returned to Boston and entered on
the practice of medicine. In 1847 he was appointed professor at Harvard,
filling a similar position to the one held at Dartmouth. He discharged the
duties of his professorship for more than thirty years, with great
success. Literature was never his profession; yet few American authors
attained higher success, both as a poet and as a prose writer. His poems
are lively and sparkling, abound in wit and humor, but are not wanting in
genuine pathos. Many of them were composed for special occasions. His
prose writings include works on medicine, essays, and novels; several
appeared first as contributions to the "Atlantic Monthly." He gained
reputation, also, as it popular lecturer. In person, Dr. Holmes was small
and active, with a face expressive of thought and vivacity.
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Come, dear old comrade, you and I
Will steal an hour from days gone by--
The shining days when life was new,
And all was bright as morning dew,
The lusty days of long ago,
When you were Bill and I was Joe.
Your name may flaunt a titled trail
Proud as a cockerel's rainbow tail,
And mine as brief appendix wear
As Tam O'Shanter's luckless mare;
To-day, old friend, remember still
That I am Joe and you are Bill.
You've won the great world's envied prize,
And grand you look in people's eyes,
With HON. and LL. D.,
In big, brave letters fair to see,--
Your fist, old fellow! Off they go!--
How are you, Bill? How are you, Joe?
You've worn the judge's ermined robe;
You've taught your name to half the globe;
You've sung mankind a deathless strain;
You've made the dead past live again:
The world may call you what it will,
But you and I are Joe and Bill.
The chaffing young folks stare and say,
"See those old buffers, bent and gray;
They talk like fellows in their teens;
Mad, poor old boys! That's what it means"
And shake their heads; they little know
The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe--
How Bill forgets his hour of pride,
While Joe sits smiling at his side;
How Joe, in spite of time's disguise,
Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes,--
Those calm, stern eyes, that melt and fill,
As Joe looks fondly up to Bill.
Ah! pensive scholar, what is fame?
A fitful tongue of leaping flame;
A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust,
That lifts a pinch of mortal dust;
A few swift years, and who can show
Which dust was Bill, and which was Joe.
The weary idol takes his stand,
Holds out his bruised and aching hand,
While gaping thousands come and go--
How vain it seems, this empty show!--
Till all at once his pulses thrill:
'T is poor old Joe's, "God bless you, Bill!"
And shall we breathe in happier spheres
The names that pleased our mortal ears;
In some sweet lull of heart and song
For earth born spirits none too long,
Just whispering of the world below
When this was Bill, and that was Joe?
No matter; while our home is here,
No sounding name is half so dear;
When fades at length our lingering day,
Who cares what pompous tombstones say?
Read on the hearts that love us still,
Hic jacet Joe. Hic jacet Bill.
NOTE.--Hic jacet (pro. hic ja'cet) is a Latin phrase, meaning here lies.
It is frequently used in epitaphs.