LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 i^S 2. a 2^ 
 Chap.. i_ _. Copyright No. 
 
 Shelf ...,.(a_b • 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
W. B. CONKEY COMPANY IJW 
 
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39094 
 
 % 
 
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 t.ii,i^ry Of Congress 
 
 ■'wo Copies Received 
 AUG 27 1900 
 
 Copyright entry 
 
 SECOND copy. 
 
 Oetivered to 
 
 ORDER DIVISION, 
 
 1 1900 
 
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 COPYRIGHT, 1900, BY W. B, CONKEY COMPANY. 
 
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TABLE OF CONTENTS, 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Appledore 7 
 
 To the Dandelion 9 
 
 Dara 13 
 
 ToJ. F.H 16 
 
 Prometheus 18 
 
 Rosaline ; 31 
 
 Sonnet 35 
 
 A Glance behind the Curtain 36 
 
 A Song... 45 
 
 The Moon 46 
 
 The Fatherland ^ 48 
 
 A Parable 49 
 
 On the Death of a Friend's Child 51 
 
 An Incident in a Railroad Car 54 
 
 An Incident in the Fire at Hamburgh. 57 
 
 Sonnets 60 
 
 The Unhappy Lot of Mr. Knott 63 
 
 Hakon's Lay 90 
 
 To the Future . . 93 
 
 Out of Doors 96 
 
 A Reverie 98 
 
 In Sadness . . . 100 
 
 Farewell 102 
 
 A Dirge 106 
 
 Fancies about a Rosebud 112 
 
 New Year's Eve, 1844 114 
 
 A Mystical Ballad 120 
 
 Opening Poem to ' 'A Year's Life" 124 
 
 Dedication to *^A Year's Life" 125 
 
 Threnodia. . 125 
 
 The Serenade 127 
 
 Song 132 
 
 The Departed 133 
 
 3 
 
4 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 The Bobolink 137 
 
 Forgetfulness. , 140 
 
 Song 141 
 
 The Poet 142 
 
 Flowers 143 
 
 The Lover 148 
 
 To E. W. G 150 
 
 Isabel 152 
 
 Music -. 154 
 
 Song ,.,. . 158 
 
 lanthe - 161 
 
 Love's Altar. -, 167 
 
 My Love : . 168 
 
 With a Pressed Flower 171 
 
 Impartiality 172 
 
 Bellerophon 1 73 
 
 Something Natural 178 
 
 The Syrens i79 
 
 A Feeling 182 
 
 The Beggar.... 1S3 
 
 Serenade . 185 
 
 Irene ,., 1S6 
 
 The Lost Child 189 
 
 The Church 190 
 
 The Unlovely 192 
 
 Love-Song 194 
 
 Song 195 
 
 A Love-Dream i97 
 
 Fourth of July Ode 199 
 
 Sphmx 200 
 
 "Goe, Little Booke," 203 
 
 Sonnets : 
 
 I. Disappointment 204 
 
 II. Great Human Nature 205 
 
 III. To a Friend 205 
 
 IV. So may it be . 260 
 
 V. O Child of Nature 206 
 
 VL "For this true nobleness" 207 
 
 VIL To 207 
 
 VIII. Might I but be beloved 208 
 
 IX. Why should we ever weary? 209 
 
CONTENTS. 5 
 
 Sonnets; page. 
 
 X. Green Mountains 209 
 
 XI. My Friend, adown Life's Valley 210 
 
 XII. Verse cannot say 210 
 
 XIII. The soul would fain 211 
 
 XIV, I saw a gate 211 
 
 XV. I would not have this perfect love 212 
 
 XVI. To the dark, narrow house 212 
 
 XVII. I fain would give to thee ... .213 
 
 XVIII. Much I had mused of Love 213 
 
 XIX. Sayest thou, most beautiful 214 
 
 XX. Poet, who sittest in thy pleasant room. . .215 
 
 XXI. "No more but so?" 215 
 
 XXII. To a Voice heard in Mount Auburn 216 
 
 XXIII. On Reading Spenser agam 216 
 
 XXIV. Light of mine eyes! 217 
 
 XXV. Silent as one who treads 217 
 
 XXVI. A gentleness that grows. .. , 218 
 
 XXVII. When the glad soul 218 
 
 XXVIII. To the Evening-Star 21Q 
 
 XXIX. Reading 219 
 
 XXX. To , after a Snow-Storm 220 
 
 Sonnets on Names: 
 
 L Edith 221 
 
 II. Rose 221 
 
 III. Mary 222 
 
 IV. Caroline 222 
 
 V. Anne 223 
 
POEMS. 
 
 APPLEDORE. 
 
 How looks Appledore in a storm? 
 
 I have seen it when its crags seemed frantic. 
 Butting against the maddened Atlantic, 
 When surge after surge would heap enorme 
 Cliffs of Emerald topped with snow, 
 That lifted, and lifted and then let go 
 A great white avalanche of thunder, 
 
 A grinding, blinding, deafening ire 
 Monadnock might have trembled under; 
 And the island, whose rock-roots pierce 
 below 
 To where they are warmed with the central 
 
 fire. 
 You could feel its granite fibres racked, 
 
 As it seemed to plunge with a shudder and 
 
 thrill 
 Right at the breast of the swooping hill, 
 And to rise again, snorting a cataract 
 Of rage-froth from every cranny and ledge, 
 While the sea drew its breath in hoarse and 
 deep. 
 And the next vast breaker curled its edge, 
 Gathering itself for a mighty leap. 
 7 
 
8 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 North, east, and south there are reefs and 
 breakers, 
 
 You would never dream of in smooth 
 weather. 
 That toss and gore the sea for acres, 
 
 Bellowing and gnashing and snarling to- 
 gether ; 
 Look northward, where Duck Island lies, 
 And over its crown you will see arise, 
 Against a background of slaty skies, 
 
 A row of pillars, still and white. 
 
 That glimmer and then are out of sight, 
 As if the moon should suddenly kiss, 
 
 While you crossed the gusty desert by night, 
 The long colonnades of Persepolis, 
 And then as sudden a darkness should follow 
 To gulp the whole scene at a single swallow, 
 The city's ghost, the drear, brown waste, 
 And the string of camels, clumsy-paced: — 
 Look southward for White Island light, 
 
 The lantern stands ninety feet o'er the tide; 
 There is first a half-mile of tumult and fight, 
 Of dash and roar and tumble and fright, 
 
 And surging bewilderment wild and wide, 
 Where the breakers struggle left and right, 
 
 Then a mile or more of rushing sea. 
 And then the lighthouse slim and lone; 
 And whenever the whole weight of ocean is 
 
 thrown 
 Full and fair on White Island head, 
 
 A great mist-jotun you will see 
 
 Lifting himself up silently 
 High and huge o'er the lighthouse top, 
 With hands of wavering spray outspread. 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 9 
 
 Groping after the little tower, 
 That seems t') shrink, and shorten and 
 cower. 
 Till the monster's arms of a sudden drop, 
 And silently and fruitlessly 
 He sinks again into the sea. 
 
 You, meanwhile, where drenched you stand, 
 Awaken once more to the rush and roar 
 
 And on the rock-point tighten your hand, 
 
 As you turn and see a valley deep, 
 That was not there a moment before, 
 
 Suck rattling down between you and a heap 
 Of toppling billow, whose instant fall 
 Must sink the whole island once for all — 
 
 Or watch the silenter, stealthier seas 
 
 Feeling their way to you more and more; 
 
 If they once should clutch you high as the 
 knees 
 
 They would whirl you down like a sprig of 
 kelp. 
 
 Beyond all reach of hope or help ; — 
 And such in a storm is Appledore. 
 
 TO THE DANDELION. 
 
 Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the 
 way, 
 
 Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, 
 First pledge of blithesome May, 
 
 Which children pluck, and, full of pride, up- 
 hold, 
 
 High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they 
 
10 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 An Eldorado in the grass have found, 
 
 Which not the rich earth's amble round 
 May match in wealth — thou art more dear to 
 
 me 
 Than all the prouder Summer-blooms may be. 
 
 Gold such as thine ne*er drew the Spanish prow 
 Though the primeval hush of Indian seas, 
 
 Nor wrinkled the lean brow 
 Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease; 
 'Tis the Spring's largess, which she scatters 
 
 now 
 To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand, 
 
 Through most hearts never understand 
 To take it at God's value, but pass by 
 The offered wealth with unrewarded eye. 
 
 Thou art my tropics and mine Italy; 
 To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime ; 
 
 The eyes thou givest me 
 Are in the heart, and heed not space or time : 
 Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee 
 Peels a more Summer-like, warm ravishment 
 
 In the white lily's breezy tent. 
 His fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first 
 From the dark green thy yellow circles burst. 
 
 Then think I of deep shadows in the grass. 
 Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze. 
 
 Where, as the breezes pass. 
 The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways, 
 Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass. 
 Or whiten in the wind, of waters blue 
 
 That from the distance sparkle through 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 11 
 
 Some woodland gap, and of a sky above 
 Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth 
 move. 
 
 My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked 
 
 with thee ; 
 The sight of thee calls back the robin's song^ 
 
 W^ho from the dark old tree 
 Beside the door, sang clearly all day long, 
 And I, secure in childish piety, 
 Listened as if I heard an angel sing 
 
 With news from Heaven, which he did bring 
 Fresh every day to my untainted ears, 
 When birds and flowers and I were happy 
 peers. 
 
 Thou art the type of those meek charities 
 Which make up half the nobleness of life, 
 
 Those cheap delights the wise 
 Pluck from the dusty wayside of earth's strife; 
 Words of frank cheer, glances of friendly eyes, 
 Love's smallest coin, which yet to some may 
 give 
 
 The morsel that may keep alive 
 A starving heart, and teach it to behold 
 Some glimpse of God where all before was 
 cold. 
 
 Thy winged seeds, whereof the winds take 
 
 care, 
 Are like the words of poet and of sage 
 Which through the free heaven fare. 
 And, now unheeded, in another age 
 Take root, and to the gladdened future bear 
 
12 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 That witness which the present would not 
 heed, 
 Bringing forth many a thought and deed, 
 And, planted safely in the eternal sky. 
 Bloom into stars which earth is guided by. 
 
 Full of deep love thou art, yet not more full 
 Than all thy common brethren of the ground, 
 
 Wherein, were we not dull, 
 Some words of highest wisdom might be found ; 
 Yet earnest faith from day to day may cull 
 Some syllables, which, rightly joined, can 
 make 
 
 A spell to soothe life's bitterest ache, 
 And ope Heaven's portals, which are near us 
 
 still, 
 Yea, nearer ever than the gates of 111. 
 
 How like a prodigal doth nature seem. 
 When thou, for all thy gold, so common art! 
 
 Thou teachest me to deem 
 More sacredly of every human heart, 
 Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam 
 Of Heaven, and could some wondrous secret 
 
 show. 
 Did we but pay the love we owe. 
 And with a child's undoubting wisdom look 
 On all these living pages of God's book. 
 
 But let me read thy lesson right or no. 
 
 Of one good gift from thee my heart is sure; 
 
 Old I shall never grow 
 While thou each year dost come to keep me 
 pure 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 13 
 
 With leg-ends of my childhood ; ah, we owe 
 Well more than half life's holiness to these 
 
 Nature's first holy influences, 
 At thought of which the heart's glad doors 
 
 burst ope, 
 In dreariest days, to welcome peace and hope. 
 
 DARA. 
 
 When Persia's sceptre trembled in a hand 
 Wilted by harem-heats, and all the land 
 
 Was hovered over by those vulture ills 
 That snuff decaying empire from afar, 
 Then, with a nature balanced as a star, 
 
 Dara arose, a shepherd of the hills. 
 
 He, who had governed fleecy subjects well, 
 Made his own village, by the self-same spell. 
 
 Secure and peaceful as a guarded fold. 
 Till, gathering strength by slow and wise 
 
 degrees. 
 Under his sway, to neighbor villages 
 
 Order returned, and faith and justice old. 
 
 Now, when it fortuned that a king more wise 
 
 Endued the realm with brain and hands and 
 
 eyes, 
 
 He sought on every side men brave and just. 
 
 And having heard the mountain-shepherd's 
 
 praise. 
 How he rendered the mould of elder days. 
 To Dara gave a satrapy in trust. 
 
14 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 So Dara shepherded a province wide, 
 
 Nor in his viceroy's sceptre took more pride 
 
 Than in his crook before; but Envy finds 
 More soil in cities than on mountains bare, 
 And the frank sun of spirits clear and rare 
 
 Breeds poisonous fogs in low and marish 
 minds. 
 
 Soon it was whispered at the royal ear 
 That, though wise Dara's province, year by 
 year, 
 Like a great sponge, drew wealth and plenty 
 
 up, 
 Yet, when he squeezed it at the king's behest, 
 Some golden drops, more rich than all the rest. 
 Went to the filling of his private cup. 
 
 For proof, they said that wheresoe'er he went 
 A chest, beneath whose weight the camel bent, 
 
 Went guarded, and no other eye had seen 
 What was therein, save only Dara's own. 
 Yet, when 'twas opened, all his tent was known 
 
 To glow and lighten with heapt jewels' 
 sheen. 
 
 The king set forth for Dara's province straight, 
 Where, as was fit, outside his city's gate 
 
 That viceroy met him with a stately train ; 
 And there, with archers circled, close at hand, 
 A camel with the chest was seen to stand ; 
 
 The king grew red, for thus the guilt was 
 plain. 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 15 
 
 **Open me now," he cried, "yon treasure- 
 chest!" 
 'Twas done, and only a worn shepherd's vest 
 Was found within ; some blushed and hung 
 the head, 
 Not Dara ; open as the sky's blue roof 
 He stood, and **0, my lord, behold the proof 
 That I was worthy of my trust!" he said. 
 
 "For ruling men, lo! all the charm I had; 
 My soul, in those coarse vestments ever clad. 
 Still to the unstained past kept true and leal. 
 Still on these plains could breathe her mountain 
 
 air. 
 And Fortune's heaviest gifts serenely bear. 
 Which bend men from the truth, and make 
 them reeL 
 
 **To govern wisely I had shown small skill 
 Were I not lord of simple Dara still ; 
 
 That sceptre kept, I cannot lose my way!" 
 Strange dew in royal eyes grew round and 
 
 bright 
 And thrilled the trembling lids; before 'twas 
 night 
 Two added provinces blessed Dara's sway. 
 
16 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 TO J. F. H. 
 
 Nine years have slipped like hovir-glass sand 
 
 From life's fast emptying globe away, 
 Since last, dear friend, I clasped your hand, 
 And lingered on the impoverished land. 
 Watching the steamer down the bay. 
 
 I held the keepsake which you gave. 
 
 Until the dim smoke-pennon curled 
 O'er the vague rim 'tween sky and wave, 
 And closed the distance like a grave, 
 Leaving me to the outer world ; 
 
 The old worn world of hurry and heat, 
 
 The young, fresh world of thought and scope ; 
 While you, where silent surges fleet 
 Tow'rd far sky beaches still and swept, 
 Sunk wavering down the ocean-slope. 
 
 Come back our ancient walks to tread, 
 Old haunts of lost or scattered friends. 
 
 Amid the Muses' factories red. 
 
 Where song, and smoke, and laughter sped 
 The nights to proctor-hunted ends. 
 
 Our old familiars are not laid, 
 
 Though snapped our wands and sunk our 
 books, 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 17, 
 
 They beckon, not to be gainsaid, 
 Where, round broad meads which mowers wade, 
 Smooth Charles his steel-blue sickle crooks; 
 
 Where, as the cloudbergs eastward blow, 
 From glow to gloom the hillside shifts 
 
 Its lakes of rye that surge and flow, 
 
 Its plumps of orchard-trees arow. 
 
 Its snowy white-weeds summer drifts. 
 
 Or let us to Nantasket, there 
 
 To wander idly as we list. 
 Whether, on rocky hillocks bare. 
 Sharp cedar-points, like breakers, tear 
 
 The trailing fringes of gray mist. 
 
 Or whether, under skies clear-blown. 
 
 The heightening surfs with foamy din, 
 Their breeze-caught forelocks backward blown 
 Against old Neptune's yellow zone, 
 Curl slow, and plunge forever in. 
 
 For years thrice three, wise Horace said, 
 
 A poem rare let silence bind; 
 And love may ripen in the shade. 
 Like ours, for nine long seasons laid 
 
 In crypts and arches of the mind. 
 
 That right Falernian friendship old 
 
 Will we, to grace our feast, call up, 
 And freely pour the juice of gold. 
 That keeps life's pulses warm and bold, 
 Till Death shall break the empty cup. 
 
 2 Lowell 
 
18 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 PROMETHEUS. 
 
 One after one the stars have risen and set, 
 Sparkling upon the hoarfrost on my chain: 
 The Bear that prowled all night about the fold 
 Of the North-Star, hath shrunk into his den, 
 Scared by the blithesome footsteps of the Dawn, 
 Whose blushing smile floods all the Orient ; 
 And now bright Lucifer grows less and less. 
 Into the heaven's blue quiet deep withdrawn. 
 Sunless and starless all, the desert sky 
 Arches above me, empty as this heart 
 For ages hath been empty of all joy 
 Except to brood upon its silent hope, 
 As o'er its hope of day the sky doth now. 
 All night have I heard voices: deeper yet 
 The deep, low breathing of the silence grew, 
 While all about, muffled in awe, there stood 
 Shadows, or forms, or both, clear-felt at heart, 
 But, when I turned to front them, far along 
 Only a shudder through the midnight ran, 
 And the dense stillness walled me closer round, 
 But still I heard them wander up and down 
 That solitude, and flappings of dusk wings 
 Did mingle with them, whether of those hags 
 Let slip upon me once from Hades deep, 
 Or of yet direr torments, if such be, 
 I could but guess; and then toward me came 
 A shape as of a woman : very pale 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 19 
 
 It was, and calm ; its cold eyes did not move. 
 And mine moved not, but only stared on them 
 Their moveless awe went through my brain 
 
 like ice; 
 A skeleton hand seemed clutching at my hearty 
 And a sharp chill, as if a dank night fog- 
 Suddenly closed me in, was all I felt: 
 And then, methought, I heard a freezing sigh, 
 A long, deep, shivering sigh, as from blue lips 
 Stiffening in death, close to mine ear. I 
 
 thought 
 Some doom was close upon me, and I looked 
 And saw the red moon through the heavy mist. 
 Just setting, and it seemed as it were falling. 
 Or reeling to its fall, so dim and dead 
 And palsy-struck it looked. Then all sounds 
 
 merged 
 Into the rising surges of the pines. 
 Which, leagues below me, clothing the gaunt 
 
 loins 
 Of ancient Caucasus with hairy strength, 
 Sent up a murmur in the morning-wind. 
 Sad as the wail that from the populous earth 
 All day and night to high Olympus soars. 
 Fit incense to thy wicked throne, O Jove. 
 
 Thy hated name is tossed once more in scorn 
 From off my lips, for I will tell thy doom. 
 And are these tears? Nay, do no triumph, 
 
 Jove! 
 They are wrung from me but by the agonies 
 Of prophecy, like those sparse drops which fall 
 From clouds in travail of the lightning, when 
 
20 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 The great wave of the storm, high-curled and 
 
 black, 
 Rolls steadily onward to its thunderous break. 
 Why art thou made a god of, thou poor type 
 Of anger, and revenge, and cunning force? 
 True Power was never born of brutish Strength, 
 Nor sweet Truth suckled at the shaggy dugs 
 Of that old she-wolf. Are they thunderbolts. 
 That scare the darkness for a space, so strong 
 As the prevailing patience of meek Light, 
 Who, with the invincible tenderness of peace, 
 Wins it to be a portion of herself? 
 Why art thou made a god of, thou, who hast 
 The never-sleeping terror at thy heart. 
 That birthright of all tyrants, worse to bear 
 Than this thy ravening bird on which I 
 
 smile? 
 Thou swear'st to free me, if I will unfold 
 What kind of doom it is whose omen flits, 
 Across thy heart, as o'er a troop of doves 
 The fearful shadow of the kite. What need 
 To know that truth whose knowledge cannot 
 
 save? 
 Evil its errand hath, as well as Good ; 
 When thine is finished, thou art known no 
 
 more: 
 There is a higher purity than thou. 
 And higher purity is greater strength; 
 Thy nature is thy doom, at which thy heart 
 Trembles behind the thick wall of thy might. 
 Let man but hope, and thou art straightway 
 
 chilled 
 With thought of that drear silence and deep 
 
 night 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 21 
 
 Which, like a dream, shall swallow thee and 
 
 thine : 
 Let man but will, and thou art god no more ; 
 More capable of ruin than the gold 
 And ivory that image thee on earth. 
 He who hurled down the monstrous Titan- 
 brood 
 Blinded with lightnings, with rough thunders 
 
 stunned, 
 Is weaker than a simple human thought. 
 My slender voice can shake thee, as the breeze, 
 That seems but apt to stir a maiden's hair, 
 Sways huge Oceanus from pole to pole : 
 For I am still Prometheus, and foreknow 
 In my wise heart the end and doom of all. 
 
 Yes, I am still Prometheus, wiser grown 
 By years of solitude — that holds apart 
 The past and future, giving the soul room 
 To search into itself — and long commune 
 With this eternal silence — more a god 
 In my long-suffering and strength to meet 
 With equal front the direst shafts of fate. 
 Than thou in thy faint-hearted despotism, 
 Girt with thy baby-toys of force and wrath. 
 Yes, I am that Prometheus who brought down 
 The light to man which thou in selfish fear 
 Had' St to thyself usurped — his by sole right, 
 For Man hath right to all save Tyranny — 
 And which shall free him yet from thy frail 
 
 throne. 
 Tyrants are but the spawn of Ignorance, 
 Begotten by the slaves they trample on, 
 Who, could they win a glimmer of the light, 
 
22 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 And see that Tyranny is always weakness, 
 Or Fear with its own bosom ill at ease, 
 Would laugh away in scorn the sand-wove chain 
 Which their own blindness feigned for adamant. 
 Wrong ever builds on quicksands, but the Right 
 To the firm center lays its moveless base. 
 The tyrant trembles if the air but stirs 
 The innocent ringlets of a child's free hair, 
 And crouches, when the thought of some great 
 
 spirit, 
 With world-wide murmur, like a rising gale. 
 Over men's hearts, as over standing corn. 
 Rushes, and bends them to its own strong will. 
 So shall some thought of mine yet circle earth 
 And puff away thy crumbling altars, Jove. 
 And, would' St thou know of my supreme re- 
 venge. 
 Poor tyrant, even now dethroned in heart, 
 Realmless in soul, as tyrants ever are. 
 Listen ! and tell me if this bitter peak. 
 This never-glutted vulture, and these chains 
 Shrink not before it; for it shall befit 
 A sorrow-taught, unconquered Titan-heart. 
 Men, when their death is on them, seem to 
 
 stand 
 On a precipitous crag that overhangs 
 The abyss of doom, and in that depth to see, 
 As in a glass, the features dim and huge 
 Of things to come, the shadows, as it seems, 
 Of what have been. Death ever fronts the 
 
 wise. 
 Not fearfully, but with clear promises 
 Of larger life, on whose broad vans upborne, 
 Their out-look widens, and they see beyond 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 23 
 
 The horizon of the Present and the Past, 
 Even to the very source and end of things. 
 Such am I now : immortal woe hath made 
 My heart a seer, and my soul a judge 
 Between the substance and the shadow of 
 
 Truth. 
 The sure supremeness of the Beautiful, 
 By all the martyrdoms made doubly sure 
 Of such as I am, this is my revenge. 
 Which of my wrongs builds a triumphal arch, 
 Through which I see a scepter and a throne. 
 The pipings of glad shepherds on the hills, 
 Tending the flocks no more to bleed for thee — 
 The songs of maidens pressing with white 
 
 feet 
 The vintage of thine altars poured no more — 
 The murmurous bliss of lovers, underneath 
 Dim grape-vine bowers, whose rosy bunches 
 
 press 
 Not half so closely their warm cheeks, un- 
 
 scared 
 By thoughts of thy brute lusts — the hive-like 
 
 hum 
 Of peaceful commonwealths, where sunburnt 
 
 Toil 
 Reaps for itself the rich earth made its own, 
 By its own labor, lightened with glad hymns 
 To an omnipotence which thy mad bolts 
 Would cope with as a spark with the vast sea, 
 Even the spirit of free love and peace, 
 Duty's sure recompense through life and 
 
 death — 
 These are such harvests as all master-spirits 
 Reap, haply not on earth, but reap no less 
 
24 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Because their sheaves are bound by hands not 
 
 theirs ; 
 These are the bloodless daggers wherewithal 
 They stab fallen tyrants, this their high re- 
 venge: 
 For their best part of life on earth is when, 
 Long after death, prisoned and pent no more, 
 Their thoughts, their wild dreams even, have 
 
 become 
 Part of the necessary air men breathe; 
 When, like the moon, herself behind a cloud. 
 They shed down light before us on life's sea, 
 That cheers us to steer onward still in hope. 
 Earth with her twining memories ivies o'er 
 Their holy sepulchres, the chainless sea 
 In tempest or wide calm repeats their thoughts, 
 The lightning and the thunder, all free things, 
 Have legends of them for the ears of men. 
 All other glories are as falling stars, 
 But universal Nature watches theirs; 
 Such strength is won by love of human kind. 
 
 Not that I feel that hunger after fame, 
 
 Which souls of a half-greatness are beset with; 
 
 But that the memory of noble deeds 
 
 Cries shame upon the idle and the vile. 
 
 And keeps the heart ot Man forever up 
 
 To the heroic level of old time. 
 
 To be forgot at first is little pain 
 
 To a heart conscious of such high intent 
 
 As must be deathless on the lips of men; 
 
 But, having been a name, to sink and be 
 
 A something which the world can do without, 
 
 Which, having been or not, would never change 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 25 
 
 The lightest pulse of fate — this is indeed 
 A cup of bitterness the worse to taste, 
 And this thy heart shall empty to the dregs. 
 Oblivion is lonelier than this peak — 
 Behold thy destiny! Thou think'st it much 
 That I should brave thee, miserable god! 
 But I have braved a mightier than thou, 
 Even the temptings of this soaring heart 
 Which might have made me, scarcely less than 
 
 thou, 
 A god among thy brethren weak and blind 
 Scarce less than thou, a pitiable thing. 
 To be down-trodden into darkness soon. 
 But now I am above thee, for thou art 
 The bungling workmanship of fear, the block 
 That scarce the swart Barbarian ; but I 
 Am what myself have made, a nature wise 
 With finding in itself the types of all, — 
 With watching from the dim verge of the 
 
 time 
 What things to be are visible in the leams 
 Thrown forward on them from the luminous 
 
 past — 
 Wise with the history of its own frail heart, 
 With reverence and sorrow, and with love 
 Broad as the world for freedom and for man. 
 
 Thou and all strength shall crumble, except 
 
 Love, 
 By whom and for whose glory ye shall cease : 
 And, when thou art but a dim moaning heard 
 From out the pitiless glooms of Chaos, I 
 Shall be a power and a memory, 
 A name to scare all tyrants with, a light 
 
26 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Unsetting as the the pole-star, a great voice 
 
 Heard in the breathless pauses of the fight 
 
 By truth and freedom ever waged with wrong, 
 
 Clear as a silver trumpet, to awake 
 
 Huge echoes that from age to age live on 
 
 In kindred spirits, giving them a sense 
 
 Of boundless power from boundless suffering 
 
 wrung. 
 And many a glazing eye shall smile to see 
 The memory of my triumph (for to meet 
 Wrong with endurance, and to overcome 
 The present with a heart that looks beyond, 
 Are triumph), like a prophet eagle, perch 
 Upon the sacred banner of the right. 
 Evil springs up, and flowers, and bears no 
 
 seed. 
 And feeds the green earth with its swift 
 
 decay, 
 Leaving it richer for the growth of truth ; 
 But Good, once put in action or in thought, 
 Like a strong oak, doth from its boughs shed 
 
 down 
 The ripe germs of a forest. Thou, weak god, 
 Shalt fade and be forgotten ; but this soul, 
 Fresh-living still in the serene abyss, 
 In every heaving shall partake, that grows 
 From heart to heart among the sons of men — 
 As the ominous hum before the earthquake 
 
 runs 
 Far through the ^gean from roused isle to 
 
 isle — 
 Foreboding wreck to palaces and shrines, 
 And mighty rents in many a cavernous error 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 2T 
 
 That darkens the free light to man: — This 
 
 heart 
 Unscarred by the grim vulture, as the truth 
 Grows but more lovely 'neath the beaks and 
 
 claws 
 Of Harpies blind that fain would soil it, shall 
 In all the throbbing exultations share 
 That wait on freedom's triumphs, and in all 
 The glorious agonies of martyr-spirits — 
 Sharp lightning-throes to split the jagged 
 
 clouds 
 That veil the future, showing them the end — 
 Pain's thorny crown for constancy and truth, 
 Girding the temples like a wreath of stars. 
 This is a thought, that, like the fable laurel. 
 Makes my faith thunder-proof, and thy dread 
 
 bolts 
 Fall on me like the silent flakes of snow 
 On the hoar brows of an aged Caucasus : 
 But, O thought far more blissful, they can 
 
 rend 
 This cloud of flesh, and make my soul a star I 
 
 Unleash thy crouching thunders now, O Jove I 
 Free this high heart which, a poor captive 
 
 long. 
 Doth knock to be let forth, this heart which 
 
 still, 
 In its invincible manhood, overtops 
 Thy puny godship as this mountain doth 
 The pines that moss its roots. O even now. 
 While from my peak of suffering I look down^ 
 Beholding with a far-spread gush of hope 
 The sunrise of that Beauty in whose face, 
 
^8 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Shone all around with love, no man shall look 
 But straightway like a god he is uplift 
 Unto the throne long empty for his sake, 
 And clearly oft foreshadowed in wide dreams 
 By his free inward nature, which nor thou, 
 Nor any anarch after thee, can bind 
 From working its great doom — now, now set 
 
 free 
 This essence, not to die, but to become 
 Part of that awful Presence which doth haunt 
 The palaces of tyrants, to scare off, 
 With its grim eyes and fearful whisperings 
 And hideous sense of utter loneliness. 
 All hope of safety, all desire of peace. 
 All but the loathed forefeelings of blank 
 
 death — 
 Part of that spirit which doth ever brood 
 In patient calm on the unpilfered nest 
 Of man's deep heart, till mighty thoughts 
 
 grow fledged 
 To sail with darkening shadow o'er the world. 
 Until they swoop, and their pale quarry make 
 Of some o'erbloated wrong — that spirit which 
 Scatters great hopes in the seed-field of man, 
 Like acorns among grain, to grow and be 
 A roof of freedom in all coming time. 
 
 But no, this cannot be ; for ages yet, 
 
 In solitude unbroken, shall I hear 
 
 The angry Caspian to the Euxine shout, 
 
 And Euxine answer with a muffled roar. 
 
 On either side storming the giant walls 
 
 Of Caucasus with leagues of climbing foam, 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 29 
 
 (Less, from my height, than flakes of downy- 
 snow), 
 That draw back baffled but to hurl again, 
 Snatched up in wrath and horrible turmoil. 
 Mountain on mountain, as the Titans erst. 
 My brethren, scaling the high seat of Jove, 
 Heaved Pelion upon Ossa's shoulders broad. 
 In vain emprise. The moon will come and go 
 With her monotonous vicissitudes; 
 Once beautiful, when I was free to walk 
 Among my fellows and to interchange 
 The influence benign of loving eyes, 
 But now by aged use grown wearisome ; — 
 False thought! most false! for how could I 
 
 endure 
 These crawling centuries of lonely woe 
 Unshamed by weak complaining, but for thee, 
 Loneliest, save me, of all created things, 
 Mild-eyed Astarte, my best comforter. 
 With the pale smile of sad benignity? 
 Year after year will pass away and seem 
 To me, in mine eternal agony, 
 But as the shadows of dumb summer-clouds, 
 Which I have watched so often darkening- 
 
 o'er 
 The vast Sarmatian plain, league- wide at first, 
 But, with still swiftness, lessening on and on 
 Till cloud and shadow meet and mingle where 
 The gray horizon fades into the sky, 
 Far, far to northward. Yes, for ages yet 
 Must I lie here upon my altar huge, 
 A sacrifice for man. Sorrow will be, 
 As it hath been, his portion; endless doom, 
 While the immortal with the mortal linked 
 
30 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Dreams of its wings and pines for what it 
 
 dreams 
 With upward yearn unceasing. Better so : 
 For wisdom is meek sorrow's patient child, 
 And empire over self, and all the deep 
 Strong charities that make men seem like gods; 
 And love, that makes them be gods, from her 
 
 breasts 
 Sucks in the milk that makes mankind one 
 
 blood. 
 Good never comes unmixed, or so it seems, 
 Having two faces, as some images 
 Are carved, of foolish gods; one face is ill. 
 But one heart lies beneath, and that is good, 
 As are all hearts, when we explore their depths. 
 Therefore, great heart, bear up! thou art but 
 
 type 
 Of what all lofty spirits endure, that fain 
 Would win men back to strength and peace 
 
 through love : 
 Each hath his lonely peak, and on each heart 
 Envy, or scorn, or hatred, tears lifelong 
 With vulture beak ; yet the high soul is left. 
 And faith, which is but hope grown wise, and 
 
 love. 
 And patience which at last shall overcome. 
 Cambridge, Mass., June, 1843. 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 31 
 
 ROSALINE. 
 
 Thou look'd'st on me all yesternight, 
 Thine eyes were blue, thy hair was bright 
 As when we murmured our trothplight 
 Beneath the thick stars, Rosaline ! 
 Thy hair was braided on thy head 
 As on the day we two were wed, 
 Mine eyes scarce knew if thou wert dead — 
 But my shrunk heart knew, Rosaline ! 
 
 The deathwatch tickt behind the wall, 
 The blackness rustled like a pall, 
 The moaning wind did rise and fall 
 Among the bleak pines, Rosaline ! 
 My heart beat thickly in mine ears ; 
 The lids may shut out fleshly fears, 
 But still the spirit sees and hears, 
 Its eyes are lidless, Rosaline! 
 
 A wildness rushing suddenly, 
 
 A knowing some ill shape is nigh, 
 
 A wish for death, a fear to die — 
 
 Is not this vengeance, Rosaline ! 
 
 A loneliness that is not lone, 
 
 A love quite withered up and gone, 
 
 A strong soul trampled from its throne — 
 
 Whatwould'st thou further, Rosaline! 
 
32 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 'Tis lone such moonless nights as these. 
 Strange sounds are out upon the breeze, 
 And the leaves shiver in the trees, 
 And then thou comest, Rosaline! 
 I seem to hear the mourners go, 
 With long black garments trailing slow, 
 And plumes anodding to and fro, 
 As once I heard them, Rosaline! 
 
 Thy shroud it is of snowy white, 
 And, in the middle of the night. 
 Thou standest moveless and upright, 
 Gazing upon me, Rosaline ! 
 There is no sorrov\r in thine eyes. 
 But evermore that meek surprise — 
 Oh, God! her gentle spirit tries 
 To deem me guiltless, Rosaline! 
 
 Above thy grave the Robin sings. 
 
 And swarms of bright and happy things 
 
 Flit all about with sunlit v/ings — 
 
 But I am cheerless, Rosaline! 
 
 The violets on the hillock toss. 
 
 The gravestone is o'ergrown with moss, 
 
 For nature feels not any loss — 
 
 But I am cheerless, Rosaline ! 
 
 Ah! why wert thou so lowly bred? 
 Why was my pride galled on to wed 
 Her who brought lands and gold instead 
 Of thy heart's treasure, Rosaline! 
 Why did I fear to let thee stay 
 To look on me and pass away 
 Forgivingly, as in its May, 
 A broken flower, Rosaline! 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 33 
 
 I thought not, when my dagger strook, 
 
 Of thy blue eyes; I could not brook 
 
 The past all pleading in one look 
 
 Of utter sorrow, Rosaline ! 
 
 I did not know when thou wert dead : 
 
 A blackbird whistling overhead 
 
 Thrilled through my brain ; I would have fled 
 
 But dared not leave thee, Rosaline! 
 
 A low, low moan, a light twig stirred 
 
 By the upspringing of a bird, 
 
 A drip of blood — were all I heard — 
 
 Then deathly stillness, Rosaline! 
 
 The sun rolled down, and very soon, 
 
 Like a great fire, the awful moon 
 
 Rose, stained with blood, and then a swoon 
 
 Crept chilly o'er me, Rosaline! 
 
 The stars came out; and, one by one, 
 Each angel from his silver throne 
 Looked down and saw what I had done : 
 I dared not hide me, Rosaline ! 
 I crouched ; I feared thy corpse would cry 
 Against me to God's quiet sky, 
 I thought I saw the blue lips try 
 To utter something, Rosaline ! 
 
 I waited with a maddened grin 
 
 To hear that voice all icy thin 
 
 Slide forth and tell my deadly sin 
 
 To hell and Heaven, Rosaline! 
 
 But no voice came, and then it seemed 
 
 That if the very corpse had screamed 
 
 The sound like sunshine glad had streamed 
 
 Through that dark stillness, Rosaline ! 
 
 S Lowell 
 
34 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Dreams of old quiet glimmered by, 
 And faces loved in infancy- 
 Came and looked on me mournfully, 
 Till my heart melted, Rosaline ! 
 I saw my mother's dying bed, 
 I heard her bless me, and I shed 
 Cool tears — but lo! the ghastly dead 
 Stared me to madness, Rosaline ! 
 
 And then amid the silent night 
 
 I screamed with horrible delight, 
 
 And in my brain an awful light 
 
 Did seem to crackle, Rosaline ! 
 
 It is my curse! sweet mem'ries fall 
 
 From me like snow — and only all 
 
 Of that one night, like cold worms crawl 
 
 My doomed heart over, Rosaline ! 
 
 Thine eyes are shut: they nevermore 
 Will leap thy gentle words before 
 To tell the secret o'er and o'er 
 Thou could'st not smother, Rosaline! 
 Thine eyes are shut : they will not shine 
 With happy tears, or, through the vine 
 That hid thy casement, beam on mine 
 Sunfull with gladness, Rosaline! 
 
 Thy voice I nevermore shall hear, 
 Which in old times did seem so dear, 
 That, ere it trembled in mine ear. 
 My quick heart heard it, Rosaline ! 
 Would I might die ! I were as well, 
 Ay, better, at my home in Hell, 
 To set for aye a burning spell 
 'Twixt me and memory, Rosaline ! 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 35 
 
 Why wilt thou haunt me with thine eyes, 
 Wherein such blessed memories, 
 Such pitying forgiveness lies, 
 Than hate more bitter, Rosaline! 
 Woe 's me! I know that love so high 
 As thine, true soul, could never die, 
 And with mean clay in church-yard lie — 
 Would God it were so, Rosaline ! 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 If some small savor creep into my rhyme 
 Of the old poets, if some words I use. 
 Neglected long, which have the lusty thews 
 Of that gold-haired and earnest-hearted time, 
 Whose loving joy and sorrow all sublime 
 Have given our tongue its starry eminence, — 
 It is not pride, God knows, but reverence 
 Which hath grown in me since my childhood's 
 
 prime; 
 Wherein I feel that my poor lyre is strung 
 With soul- strings like to theirs, and that I have 
 No right to muse their holy graves among. 
 If I can be a custom-fettered slave. 
 And, in mine own true spirit, am not brave 
 To speak what rusheth upward to my tongue. 
 
36 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 
 
 We see but half the causes of our deeds, 
 Seeking them wholly in the outer life, 
 And heedless of the encircling spirit°world 
 Which, though unseen, is felt, and sows in us 
 All germs of pure and world-wide purposes. 
 From one stage of our being to the next 
 We pass unconscious o'er a slender bridge, 
 The momentary work of unseen hands, 
 Which crumbles down behind us ; looking back, 
 We see the other shore, the gulf between. 
 And, marveling how we won to where we stand, 
 Content ourselves to call the builder Chance. 
 We trace the wisdom to the apple's fall, 
 Not to the soul of Newton, ripe with all 
 The hoarded thoughtfulness of earnest years, 
 And waiting but one ray of sunlight more 
 To blossom fully. 
 
 But whence came that ray? 
 We call our sorrows destiny, but ought 
 Rather to name our high successes so. 
 Only the instincts of great souls are Fate, 
 And have predestined sway: all other things. 
 Except by leave of us, could never be. 
 For Destiny is but the breath of God 
 Still moving in us, the last fragment left 
 Of our unfallen nature, waking oft 
 
LOWELL'S POE?vIS. 37 
 
 Within our thought to beckon us beyond 
 The narrow circle of the seen and known, 
 And always tending- to a noble end, 
 A.S all things must that overrule the soul. 
 And for a space unseat the helmsman, Will. 
 The fate of England and of freedom once 
 Seemed wavering in the heart of one plain 
 
 man: 
 One step of his, and the great dial-hand 
 That marks the destined progress of the world 
 In the eternal round from wisdom on 
 To higher wisdom, had been made to pause 
 A hundred years. That step he did not take — 
 He knew not why, nor we, but only God — 
 And lived to make his simple oaken chair 
 More terrible and grandly beautiful. 
 More full of majesty, than any throne, 
 Before or after, of a British king. 
 
 Upon the pier stood two stern-visaged men, 
 Looking to where a little craft lay moored. 
 Swayed by the lazy current of the Thames 
 Which weltered by in muddy listlessness. 
 Grave men they wxre, and battlings of fierce 
 
 thought 
 Had scared away all softness from their brows. 
 And ploughed rough furrows there before their 
 
 time. 
 Care, not of self, but of the common weal. 
 Had robbed their eyes of youth, and left instead 
 A look of patient power and iron will, 
 And something fiercer, too, that gave broad 
 
 hint 
 Of the plain weapons girded at their sides. 
 
38 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 The younger had an aspect of command — 
 Not such as trickles down, a slender stream, 
 In the shrunk channel of a great descent — 
 But such as lies entowered in heart and head, 
 And an arm prompt to do the 'hests of both. 
 His was a brow where gold were out of place. 
 And yet it seemed right worthy of a crown 
 (Though he despised such), were it only made 
 Of iron, or some serviceable stuff 
 That would have matched his sinewy brown 
 
 face. 
 The elder, although such he hardly seemed 
 (Care makes so little of some five short years), 
 Bore a clear, honest face, where scholarship 
 Had mildened somewhat of its rougher 
 
 strength. 
 To sober courage, such as best befits 
 The unsullied temper of a well-taught mind, 
 Yet left it so as one could plainly guess 
 The pent volcano smouldering underneath. 
 He spoke: the other, hearing, kept his gaze 
 Still fixed, as on some problem in the sky. 
 
 **0, Cromwell, we are fallen on evil times! 
 There was a day when England had wide room 
 For honest men as well as foolish kings ; 
 But now the uneasy stomach of the time 
 Turns squeamish at them both. Therefore, 
 
 let us 
 Seek out that savage clime where men as yet 
 Are free : there sleeps the vessel on the tide. 
 Her languid sails but drooping for the wind : 
 All things are fitly cared for, and the Lord 
 Will watch as kindly o'er the Exodus 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 39 
 
 Of us His servants now, as in old time. 
 We have no cloud or fire, and haply we 
 May not pass dryshod through the ocean- 
 stream ; 
 But, saved or lost, all things are in His hand. " 
 So spake he, and meantime the other stood 
 With wide, grey eyes still reading the blank 
 
 air. 
 As if upon the sky's blue wall he saw 
 Some mystic sentence written by a hand 
 Such as of old did scare the Assyrian king. 
 Girt with his satraps in the blazing feast. 
 
 "Hampden, a moment since, my purpose was 
 To fly with thee— for I will call it flight, 
 Nor flatter it with any smoother name — 
 But something in me bids me not to go; 
 And I am one, thou knowest, who, unscared 
 By what the weak deem omens, yet give heed 
 And reverence due to whatsoe'er my soul 
 Whispers of warning to the inner ear. 
 Why should we fly? Nay, why not rather stay 
 And rear again our Zion's crumbled walls. 
 Not as of old the walls of Thebes were built 
 By minstrel twanging, but, if need should be, 
 With the more potent music of our swords? 
 Think'st thou that score of men beyond the 
 
 sea 
 Claim more God's care than all of England 
 
 here? 
 No: when He moves His arm, it is to aid 
 Whole peoples, heedless if a few be crushed, 
 As some are ever when the destiny 
 Of man takes one stride onward nearer home 
 
40 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Believe it, 'tis the mass of men He loves, 
 And where there is most sorrow and most want. 
 Where the high heart of man is trodden down 
 The most, 'tis not because He hides His face 
 From them in wrath, as purblind teachers 
 
 prate 
 Not so : there most is He, for there is He 
 Most needed. Men who seek for Fate abroad 
 Are not so near His heart as they who dare 
 Frankly to face her where she faces them. 
 On their own threshold, where their souls are 
 
 strong 
 To grapple with and throw her, as I once. 
 Being yet a boy, did throw this puny king, 
 Who now has grown so dotard as to deem 
 That he can wrestle with an angry realm. 
 And throw the brawned Antaeus of men's 
 
 rights. 
 No, Hampden ; they have half-way conquered 
 
 Fate 
 Who go half-way to meet her — as will I. 
 Freedom hath yet a work for me to do ; 
 So speaks that inward voice which never yet 
 Spake falsely, when it urged the spirit on 
 To noble deeds for country and mankind. 
 
 "What should we do in that small colony 
 Of pinched fanatics, who would rather choose 
 Freedom to clip an inch more from their hair 
 Than the great chance of setting England free? 
 Not there amid the stormy wilderness 
 Should we learn wisdom ; or, if learned, what 
 
 room 
 To put it into act — else worse than naught? 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 41 
 
 We learn our souls more, tossing for an hour 
 
 Upon this huge and ever vexed sea 
 
 Of human thought, where kingdoms go to 
 
 wreck 
 Like fragile bubbles yonder in the stream, 
 Than in a cycle of New England sloth, 
 Broke only by some petty Indian war, 
 Or quarrel for a letter, more or less. 
 In some hard word, which, spelt in either way, 
 Not their most learned clerks can understand. 
 New times demand new measures and new 
 
 men; 
 The world advances, and in time outgrows 
 The laws that in our father's day were best; 
 And, doubtless, after us, some purer scheme 
 Will be shaped out by wiser men than we, 
 Made wiser by the steady growth of truth. 
 We cannot bring Utopia at once ; 
 But better almost be at work in sin 
 Than in a brute inaction browse and sleep. 
 No man is born into the world whose work 
 Is not born with him; there is always work, 
 And tools to work withal, for those who will ; 
 And blessed are the horny hands of toil ! 
 The busy world shoves angrily aside 
 The man who stands with arms akimbo set, 
 Until occasion tells him what to do; 
 And he who waits to have his task marked out, 
 Shall die and leave his errand unfulfilled. 
 Our time is one that calls for earnest deeds. 
 Reason and Government, like two broad seas, 
 Yearn for each other with outstretched arms 
 Across this narrow isthmus of the throne, 
 And roll their white surf higher every day. 
 
42 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 The field lies wide before us, where to reap 
 The easy harvest of a deathless name, 
 Thouo^h with no better sickles than our swords, 
 My soul is not a palace of the past, 
 Where outworn creeds, like Rome's grey sen- 
 ate, quake, 
 Hearing afar the Vandal's trumpet hoarse, 
 That shakes old systems with a thunder-fit. 
 The time is ripe, and rotten-ripe, for change ; 
 Then let it come: I have no dread of what 
 Is called by the instinct of mankind. 
 Nor think I that God's world would fall apart 
 Because we tear a parchment more or less. 
 Truth is eternal, but her effluence, 
 With endless change, is fitted to the hour; 
 Her mirror is turned forward, to reflect 
 The promise of the future, not the past. 
 I do not fear to follow out the truth, 
 Albeit along the precipice's edge. 
 Let us speak plain: there is more force in 
 
 names 
 Than most men dream of; and a lie may keep 
 Its throne a whole age longer, if it skulk 
 Behind the shield of some fair-seeming name. 
 Let us call tyrants tyrants, and maintain 
 That only freedom comes by grace of God, 
 And all that comes not by His grace must fall; 
 For men in earnest have no time to waste 
 In patching fig-leaves for the naked truth. 
 
 "I will have one more grapple with the man 
 Charles Stuart: whom the boy o'ercame. 
 The man stands not in awe of. I perchance 
 Am one raised up by the Almighty arm 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 43 
 
 To witness some great truth to all the world. 
 Souls destined to o'erleap the vulgar lot, 
 And mould the world unto the scheme of God, 
 Have a foreconsciousness of their high doom, 
 As men are known to shiver at the heart, 
 When the cold shadow of some commg ill 
 Creeps slowly o'er their spirits unawares: 
 Hath Good less power of prophecy than 111? 
 How else could men whom God hath called to 
 
 sway 
 Earth's rudder, and to steer the barque of 
 
 Truth, 
 Beating against the wind toward her port, 
 Bear all the mean and buzzing grievances. 
 The petty martyrdoms wherewith Sin strives 
 To weary out the tethered hope of Faith, 
 The sneers, the unrecognizing look of friends. 
 Who worship the dead corpse of old king 
 
 Custom, 
 Where it doth lie in state within the Church, 
 Striving to cover up the mighty ocean 
 With a man's palm, and making even the truth 
 Lie for them, holding up the glass reversed, 
 To make the hope of man seem further off? 
 My God! when I read o'er the bitter lives 
 Of men whose eager hearts were quite too 
 
 great 
 To beat beneath the cramped mode of the 
 
 day, 
 And see them mocked at by the world they 
 
 love. 
 Haggling with prejudice for pennyworths 
 Of that reform which their hard toil will make 
 The common birthright of the age to come ; — 
 
44 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 When I see this, spite of my faith in God, 
 I marvel how their hearts bear up so long ; 
 Nor could they, but for this same prophecy, 
 This inward feeling of the glorious end. 
 
 *'Deem me not fond; but in my warmer youth, 
 Ere my heart's bloom was soiled and brushed 
 
 away, 
 I had got dreams of mighty things to come; 
 Of conquest ; whether by the sword or pen, 
 I knew not ; but some conquest I would have, 
 Or else swift death : now, wiser grown in years, 
 I find youth's dreams are but the flutterings 
 Of those strong wings whereon the soul shall 
 
 soar 
 In after time to win a starry throne ; 
 And therefore cherish them, for they were lots 
 Which I, a boy, cast in the helm of Fate. 
 Nor will I draw them, since a man's right 
 
 hand, 
 A right hand guided by an earnest soul, 
 With a true instinct, takes the golden prize 
 From out a thousand blanks. What men call 
 
 luck. 
 Is the prerogative of valiant souls. 
 The fealty life pays its rightful kings. 
 The helm is shaking now, and I will stay 
 To pluck my lot forth ; it were sin to flee ! 
 
 So they two turned together; one to die 
 Fighting for freedom on that bloody field; 
 The other, far more happy, to become 
 A name earth wears forever next her heart; 
 One of the few that have a right to rank 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 45 
 
 With the true Makers; for his spirit wrought 
 Order from Chaos ; proved that right divine 
 Dwelt only in the excellence of Truth; 
 And far within old Darkness' hostile lines 
 Advanced and pitched the shining tents of 
 
 Light. 
 Nor shall the grateful muse forget to tell, 
 That — not the least among his many claims 
 To deathless honor — he was Milton's friend, 
 A man not second among those who lived 
 To show us that the poet's lyre demands 
 An arm of tougher sinew than the sword. 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 Violet ! sweet violet ! 
 Thine eyes are full of tears; 
 Are they wet 
 Even yet 
 With the thought of other years, 
 Or with gladness are they full, 
 For the night so beautiful, 
 And longing for those far-off spheres? 
 
 Loved one of my youth thou wast, 
 Of my merry youth, 
 And I see. 
 Tearfully, 
 All the fair and sunny past, 
 All its openness and truth. 
 Ever fresh and green in thee 
 As the moss is in the sea. 
 
46 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Thy little heart, that hath with love 
 Grown colored like the sky above, 
 On which thou lookest ever, — 
 Can it know 
 All the woe 
 Of hope for what returneth never, 
 All the sorrow and the longing 
 To those hearts of ours belonging f 
 
 Out on it ! no foolish pining 
 
 For the sky 
 
 Dims thine eye, 
 Or for the stars so calmly shining; 
 Like thee let this soul of mine 
 Take hue from that wherefor I long, 
 Self-stayed and high, serene and strong, 
 Not satisfied with hoping — but divine. 
 
 Violet' dear violet! 
 
 Thy blue eyes are only wet 
 With joy and love of Him who sent thee, 
 And for the fulfilling sense 
 Of that glad obedience 
 Which made thee all which Nature meant thee! 
 
 THE MOON. 
 
 My soul was like the sea 
 Before the moon was made ; 
 Moaning in vague immensity. 
 Of its own strength afraid, 
 Unrestful and unstaid. 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 47 
 
 Through every rift it foamed in vain 
 About its earthly prison, 
 Seeking some unknown thing in pain 
 And sinking restless back again, 
 
 For yet no moon had risen : 
 Its only voice a vast dumb moan 
 Of utterless anguish speaking, 
 It lay unhopefully alone 
 And lived but an aimless seeking. 
 
 So was my soul: but when 't was full 
 
 Of unrest to o'erloading, 
 A voice of something beautiful 
 
 Whispered a dim foreboding. 
 And yet so soft, so sweet, so low. 
 It had not more of joy than woe : 
 And, as the sea doth oft lie still. 
 
 Making his waters meet. 
 As if by an unconscious will, 
 
 For the moon's silver feet. 
 Like some serne, unwinking eye 
 That waits a certain destiny, 
 So lay my soul within mine eyes 
 When thou its sovereign moon didst rise. 
 
 And now, howe'er its waves above 
 
 May toss and seem uneaseful. 
 One strong, eternal law of love 
 
 With guidance sure and peaceful, 
 As calm and natural as breath 
 Moves its great deeps through Life and Death. 
 
48 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 Where is the true man's fatherland? 
 
 Is it where he by chance is born? 
 
 Doth not the free-winged spirit scorn 
 In such pent borders to be spanned? 
 
 Oh yes, his fatherland must be 
 
 As the blue heavens wide and free ! 
 
 Is it alone where freedom is, 
 
 Where God is God and man is man? 
 Doth he not claim a broader span 
 
 For the soul's love of home than this? 
 Oh yes! his fatherland must be 
 As the blue heavens wide and free ! 
 
 Where'er a human heart doth wear 
 - Joy's myrtle wreath, or sorrow's gyves, 
 
 Where'er a human spirit strives 
 After a life more pure and fair, 
 
 There is the true man's birthplace grand! 
 
 His is a world-wide fatherland ! 
 
 Where'er a single slave doth pine. 
 
 Where'er one man may help another — 
 Thank God for such a birthright, brother! 
 
 That spot of earth is thine and mine ; 
 
 There is the true man's birthplace grand! 
 His is a world-wide fatherland ! 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 49 
 
 A PARABLE. 
 
 Worn and footsore was the Prophet 
 When he reached the holy hill ; 
 
 **God has left the earth," he murmured, 
 "Here his presence lingers still. 
 
 "God of all the olden prophets, 
 Wilt thou talk with me no more? 
 
 Have I not as truly loved thee 
 As thy chosen ones of yore? 
 
 "Hear me, guider of my fathers, 
 Lo, an humble heart is mine; 
 
 By thy mercy I beseech thee. 
 Grant thy servant but a sign!" 
 
 Bowing then his head, he listened 
 
 For an answer to his prayer ; 
 No loud burst of thunder followed, 
 
 Not a murmur stirred the air : 
 
 But the tuft of moss before him 
 
 Opened while he waited yet. 
 And from out the rock's hard bosom 
 
 Sprang a tender violet. 
 
 "God! I thank thee," said the Prophet, 
 "Hard of heart and blind was I, 
 
 Lowell 
 
50 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Looking to the holy mountain 
 For the gift of prophecy. 
 
 "Still thou speakest with thy children 
 
 Freely as in Eld sublime, 
 Humbleness and love and patience 
 
 Give dominion over Time. 
 
 "Had I trusted in my nature, 
 And had faith in lowly things, 
 
 Thou thyself wouldst then have sought me, 
 And set free my spirit's wings. 
 
 "But I looked for signs and wonders 
 That o'er men should give me sway; 
 
 Thirsting to be more than mortal, 
 I was even less than clay. 
 
 "Ere I entered on my journey, 
 
 As I girt my loins to start, 
 Ran to me my little daughter, 
 
 The beloved of my heart; 
 
 "In her hand she held a flower. 
 
 Like to this as like may be, 
 Which beside my very threshold 
 
 She had plucked and brought to me.*' 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 51 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND'S CHILD. 
 
 Death never came so nigh to me before, 
 Nor showed me his mild face : Oft I had mused 
 Of calm and peace and deep forgetfulness, 
 Of folded hands, closed eyes, and heart at rest. 
 And slumber sound beneath a flowery turf, 
 Of faults forgotten, and an inner place 
 Kept sacred for us in the heart of friends; 
 But these were idle fancies satisfied 
 With the mere husk of this great Mystery, 
 And dwelling in the outward shows of things. 
 Heaven is not mounted to on wings of dreams. 
 Nor doth the unthankful happiness of youth 
 Aim thitherward, but floats from bloom to 
 
 bloom. 
 With earth's warm patch of sunshine well con- 
 tent: 
 'Tis sorrow builds the shining ladder up 
 Whose golden rounds are our calamities. 
 Whereon our firm feet planting, nearer God 
 The spirit climbs, and hath its eyes unsealed. 
 True is it that Death's face seems stern and 
 
 cold. 
 When he is sent to summon those we love. 
 But all God's angels come to us disguised. 
 Sorrow and sickness, poverty and death. 
 One after other lift their frowning masks. 
 And we behold the seraph's face beneath, 
 
52 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 1 
 
 All radiant with the glory and the calm 
 Of having looked upon the smile of God 
 With every anguish of our earthly past 
 The spirit's sight grows clearer; this was 
 
 meant 
 When Jesus touched the blind man's lids with 
 
 clay. 
 Life is the jailor, Death the angel sent 
 To draw the unwilling bolts and set us free. 
 He flings not open the ivory gate of Rest — 
 Only the fallen spirit knocks at that — 
 But to benigner regions beckons us, 
 To destines of more rewarded toil. 
 
 In the hushed chamber, sitting by the dead, 
 It grates on us to hear the flood of life 
 Whirl rustling onward, senseless of our loss. 
 The bee hums on ; around the blossomed vine 
 Whirrs the light humming-bird; the cricket 
 
 chirps ; 
 The locust's shrill alarum stings the ear; 
 Hard by, the cock shouts lustily; from farm 
 
 to farm, 
 His cheery brothers, telling of the sun. 
 Answer, till far away the joyance dies; 
 We never knew before how God had filled 
 The summer air with happy living sounds ; 
 All around us seems an overplus of life, 
 And yet the one dear heart lies cold and still. 
 It is most strange, when the great Miracle 
 Hath for our sakes been done ; when we have 
 
 had 
 Our inwardest experience of God, 
 When with his presence still the room expands, 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 53 
 
 And is awed after him, that naught is changed, 
 
 That Nature's face looks unacknowledging, 
 
 And the mad world still dances heedless on 
 
 After its butterflies, and gives no sign. 
 
 'Tis hard at first to see it all aright; 
 
 In vain Faith blows her trump to summon back 
 
 Her scattered troop , yet, through the clouded 
 
 glass 
 Of our own bitter tears, we learn to look 
 Undazzled on the kindness of God's face; 
 Earth is too dark, and Heaven alone shines 
 
 through. 
 How changed, dear friend, are thy part and 
 
 thy child's! 
 He bends above thy cradle now, or holds 
 His warning finger out to be thy guide; 
 Thou art nursling now ; he watches thee 
 Slow learning, one by one, the secret things 
 Which are to him used sights of every day; 
 He smiles to see thy wondering glances con 
 The grass and pebbles of the spirit world, 
 To thee miraculous; and he will teach 
 Thy knees their due observances of prayer. 
 
 Children are God's apostles, day by day. 
 Sent forth to preach of love, and hope, and 
 peace ; 
 Nor hath thy babe his mission left undone. 
 To me, at least, his going hence hath given 
 Serener thoughts and nearer to the skies. 
 And opened a new fountain in my heart 
 For thee, my friend, and all: and oh, if Death 
 More near approaches, meditates, and clasps 
 Even now some dearer, more reluctant hand, 
 
54 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 God, strengthen thou my faith, that I may see 
 That 'tis thine angel who, with loving haste, 
 Unto the service of the inner shrine 
 Doth waken my beloved with a kiss ! 
 
 Cambridge, Mass., Sept. 3d, 1844. 
 
 AN INCIDENT IN A RAILROAD CAR. 
 
 He spoke of Burns; men rude and rough 
 Pressed round to hear the praise of one 
 
 Whose breast was made of manly, simple stuff, 
 As homespun as their own. 
 
 And when he read, they forward leaned 
 And heard, with eager hearts and ears. 
 
 His birdlike songs whom glory never weanedj 
 From humble smiles and tears. 
 
 Slowly there grew a tender awe. 
 Sunlike o'er faces brown and hard, 
 
 As if in him who reads they felt and saw 
 Some presence of the Bard. 
 
 It was a sight for sin and wrong 
 
 And slavish tyranny to see, 
 A sight to make our faith more pure and strong 
 
 In high Humanity. 
 
 I thought, these men will carry hence, 
 Promptings their former life above. 
 
 And something of a finer reverence 
 For beauty, truth, and love. 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 65 
 
 God scatters love on every side, 
 
 Freely among his children all, 
 And always hearts are lying open wide 
 
 Wherein some grains may fall. 
 
 There is no wind but sows some seeds 
 
 Of a more true and open life, 
 Which bursts unlooked for into high-souled 
 deeds 
 
 With wayside beauty rife. 
 
 We find within these souls of ours 
 Some wild germs of a higher birth. 
 
 Which in the poet's tropic heart bears flowers 
 Whose fragrance fills the earth. 
 
 Within the hearts of all men lie 
 
 These promises of wider bliss, 
 Which blossom into hopes that cannot die, 
 
 In sunny hours like this. 
 
 All that hath been majestical 
 
 In life or death since time began, 
 
 Is native in the simple heart of all, 
 The angel heart of man. 
 
 And thus among the untaught poor 
 Great deeds and feelings find a home 
 
 Which casts in shadow all the golden lore 
 Of classic Greece or Rome. 
 
 Oh ! mighty brother-soul of man. 
 Where'er thou art, in low or high. 
 
 Thy skyey arches with exulting span 
 O'er- roof infinity. 
 
56 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 All thoughts that mould the age begin 
 Deep down within the primitive soul, 
 
 And, from the many, slowly upward wing 
 To One who grasps the whole. 
 
 In His broad breast, the feeling deep 
 Which, struggled on the many's tongue, 
 
 Swells to a tide of Thought whose surges leap 
 O'er the weak throne of wrong. 
 
 Never did poesy appear 
 
 So full of Heav'n to me as when 
 I saw how it would pierce through pride and 
 fear, 
 
 To lives of coarsest men. 
 
 It may be glorious to write 
 
 Thoughts that shall glad the two or three 
 High souls like those far stars that come in 
 sight 
 
 Once in a century. 
 
 But better far it is to speak 
 
 One simple word which now and then 
 Shall waken their free nature in the weak 
 
 And friendless sons of men ; 
 
 To write some earnest verse or line 
 Which, seeking not the praise of Art, 
 
 Shall make a clearer faith and manhood shine 
 In the unlearned heart. 
 Boston, April, 1842. 
 
"And as the tower came crashing down."— Page 59. 
 
 Lowell's Poems. 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 67 
 
 AN INCIDENT OF THE FIRE AT 
 HAMBURG. 
 
 The tower of old Saint Nicholas soared up 
 
 ward to the skies, 
 Like some huge piece of nature's make, the 
 
 growth of centuries ; 
 You could not deem its crowding spires a work 
 
 of human art, 
 They seemed to struggle lightward so from a 
 
 sturdy living heart. 
 
 Not Nature's self more freely speaks in crystal 
 
 or in oak 
 Than, through the pious builder's hand, in 
 
 that gray pile she spoke ; 
 And as from acorn springs the oak, so, freely 
 
 and alone, 
 Sprang from his heart this hymn to God, sung 
 
 in obedient stone. 
 
 It seemed a wondrous freak of chance, so per- 
 fect, yet so rough, 
 
 A whim of Nature crystallized slowly in gran- 
 ite tough; 
 
 The thick spires yearned toward the sky in 
 quaint harmonious lines, 
 
 And in broad sunlight basked and slept, like a 
 grove of blasted pines. 
 
58 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Never did rock or stream or tree lay claim 
 
 with better right 
 To all the adorning sympathies of shadow and 
 
 of light; 
 And, in that forest petrified, as forester there 
 
 dwells 
 'Stout Herman, the old sacristan, sole lord of 
 
 all its bells. 
 
 Surge leaping after surge, the fire roared on- 
 ward, red as blood, 
 
 Till half of Hamburg lay engulfed beneath the 
 eddying flood ; 
 
 For miles away, the fiery spray poured down 
 its deadly rain. 
 
 And back and forth the billows drew, and 
 paused, and broke again. 
 
 From square to square, with tiger leaps, still 
 
 on and on it came ; 
 The air to leeward trembled with the pantings 
 
 of the flame. 
 And church and palace, which even now stood 
 
 whelmed but to the knee. 
 Lift their black roofs like breakers lone amid 
 
 the rushing sea. 
 
 Up in his tower old Herman sat and watched 
 
 with quiet look; 
 His soul had trusted God too long to be at last 
 
 forsook : 
 He could not fear, for surely God a pathway 
 
 would unfold 
 'Through this red sea, for faithful hearts, as 
 
 once he did of old. 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 59 
 
 But scarcely can he cross himself, or on his 
 
 good saint call, 
 Before the sacreligious flood o'erleaped the 
 
 churchyard wall. 
 And, ere a pater half, was said, 'mid smoke and 
 
 crackling glare. 
 His island tower scarce juts its head above the 
 
 wide despair. 
 
 Upon the peril's desperate peak his heart stood 
 
 up sublime; 
 His first thought was for God above, his next 
 
 was for his chime ; 
 "Sing now, and make your voices heard in 
 
 hymns of praise," cried he, 
 "As did the Israelites of old, safe- walking 
 
 through the sea!" 
 
 ''Through this red sea our God hath made our 
 
 pathway safe to shore ; 
 Our promised land stands full in sight ; shout 
 
 now as ne'er before." 
 And, as the tower came crashing down, the 
 
 bells, in clear accord, 
 Pealed forth the grand old German hymn — 
 "All good souls praise the Lord!" 
 
60 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 As the broad ocean endlessly upheaveth, 
 With the majestic beating of his heart, 
 The mighty tides, whereof its rightful part 
 Each sea- wide gulf and little weed receiveth — 
 So, through his soul who earnestly believeth, 
 Life from the universal Heart doth flow, 
 Whereby some conquest of the eternal woe 
 By instinct of God's nature he achieveth: 
 A fuller pulse of this all-powerful Beauty 
 Into the poet's gulf-like heart doth tide. 
 And he more keenly feels the glorious duty 
 Of serving Truth despised and crucified — 
 Happy, unknowing sect or creed, to rest 
 And feel God flow forever through his breast. 
 
 II. 
 
 Once hardly in a cycle blossometh 
 
 A flower-like soul ripe with the seeds of song, 
 
 A spirit foreordained to cope with wrong. 
 Whose divine thoughts are natural as breath. 
 Who the old Darkness thickly scattereth 
 
 With starry words which shoot prevailing 
 light 
 
 Into the deeps, and wither with the blight 
 Of serene Truth the coward heart of Death: 
 Wo if such spirit sell his birthright high, 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 61 
 
 And mock with lies the longing- soul of man! 
 Yet one age longer must true Culture lie, 
 
 Soothing her bitter fetters as she can, 
 Until new messages of -love outstart 
 At the next beatinsf of the infinite Heart. 
 
 III. 
 
 The love of all things springs from love of one ; 
 
 Wider the soul's horizon hourly grows, 
 
 And o'er it with fuller glory flows 
 The sky-like spirit of God ; a hope begun 
 In doubt and darkness, 'neath a fairer sun 
 
 Cometh to fruitage, if it be of Truth; 
 
 And to the law of meekness, faith, and ruth, 
 By invs^ard sympathy shall all be won; 
 This thou shouldst know, who from the painted 
 feature 
 
 Of shifting Fashion, couldst thy brethren 
 turn 
 Unto the love of ever youthful nature. 
 
 And of a beauty fadeless and eterne; 
 And always 'tis the saddest sight to see 
 An old man faithless in Humanity. 
 A poet cannot strive for despotism ; 
 
 His harp falls shattered; for it still must be 
 
 The instinct of great spirits to be free, 
 And the sworn foes of cunning barbarism. 
 He who has deepest searched the wide abysm 
 
 Of that life-giving Soul which men call fate. 
 
 Knows that he put more faith in lies and 
 hate 
 Than truth and love, is the worst atheism: 
 Upward the soul forever turns her eyes; 
 
62 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 The next hour always shames the hour 
 before ; 
 One beauty at its highest prophecies 
 
 That by whose side it shall seem mean and 
 poor; 
 No godlike thing knows aught of less and less, 
 But widens to the boundless Perfectness. 
 
 Therefore think not the Past is wise alone, 
 For Yesterday knows nothing of the Best, 
 And thou shalt love it only as the nest 
 
 Whence glory-winged things to Heaven have 
 flown. 
 
 To the great Soul alone are all things known, 
 Present and future are to her as past, 
 While she in glorious madness doth forecast 
 
 That perfect bud which seems a flower full- 
 blown 
 
 To each new Prophet, and yet always opes 
 Fuller and fuller with each day and hour, 
 
 Heartening the soul with odor of fresh hopes. 
 And longings high and gushings of wide 
 power. 
 
 Yet never is or shall be fully blown 
 
 Save in the forethought of the Eternal One. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Far 'yond this narrow parapet of Time, 
 
 With eyes uplift, the poet's soul should look 
 Into the Endless Promise, nor should brook 
 
 One prying doubt to shake his faith sublime; 
 
 To him the earth is ever in her prime 
 And dewiness of morning; he can see 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 63 
 
 Good lying hid, from all eternity, 
 Within the teeming womb of sin and crime; 
 His soul shall not be cramped by any bar — 
 
 His nobleness should be so God-like high 
 That his least deed is perfect as a star, 
 
 His common look majestic as the sky. 
 And all o'erflooded with a light from far, 
 Undimmed by clouds of weak mortality. 
 
 Boston, April 2, 1842. 
 
 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 Showing how he built his house and his wife moved 
 into it. 
 
 My worthy friend, A. Gordon Knott, 
 
 From business snug withdrawn, 
 Was much contented with a lot 
 Which would contain a Tudor cot 
 'Twixt twelve feet square of garden-plot, 
 • And twelve feet more of lawn. 
 
 He had laid business on the shelf 
 
 To give his taste expansion. 
 And, since no man, retired with pelf, 
 
 The building mania can shun, 
 Knott, being middle-aged himself, 
 Resolved to build (unhappy elf l) 
 
 A mediaeval mansion. 
 He called an architect in counsel ; 
 
 **I want,** said he, "a you know what, 
 
 (You are a builder, I am Knott.) 
 
64 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 A thing complete from chimney-pot 
 Down to the very groundsels ; 
 
 Here's a half-acre of good land; 
 
 Just have it nicely mapped and planned 
 And make your workmen drive on ; 
 
 Meadow there is, and upland too, 
 
 And I should like a water- view% 
 D' you think you could contrive one? 
 
 (Perhaps the pump and trough would do, 
 
 If painted a judicious blue?) 
 
 The woodland I've attended to;" 
 
 (He meant three pines stuck up askew, 
 Two dead ones and a live one.) 
 
 *'A pocket-full of rocks 'twould take 
 To build a house of free-stone, 
 
 But then it is not hard to make 
 What now-a-days is the stone; 
 
 The cunning painter in a trice 
 
 Your house's outside petrifies. 
 
 And people think it very gneiss 
 Without inquiring deeper ; 
 
 My money never shall be thrown 
 
 Away on such a deal of stone. 
 When stone of deal is cheaper." 
 
 And so the greenest of antiques 
 
 Was reared for Knott to dwell in ; 
 The architect worked hard for weeks 
 Inventing all his private peaks 
 Upon the roof, whose crop of leaks 
 
 Had satisfied Fluellen, 
 Whatever anybody had 
 Out of the common, good or bad, 
 Knott had it all worked well in, 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 65 
 
 A donjon-keep, where clothes might dry, 
 A porter's lodge that was a sty, 
 A campanile slim and high. 
 
 Too small to hang a bell in ; 
 All up and down and here and there, 
 With Lord-knows-whats of round and square 
 Stuck on at random everywhere, 
 It was a house to make one stare, 
 
 All corners and all gables ; 
 Like dogs let loose upon a bear, 
 Ten emulous styles staboyed with care, 
 The whole among them seemed to tear, 
 And all the oddities to spare 
 
 Were set upon the stables. 
 
 Knott was delighted with a pile 
 
 Approved by fashion's leaders; 
 (Only he made the builder smile 
 By asking every little while. 
 Why that was called the Twodoor style 
 
 Which certainly had three doors?) 
 Yet better for this luckless man 
 If he had put a downright ban 
 
 Upon the thing in limine; 
 For, though to quit affairs his plan, 
 Ere many days, poor Knott began 
 Perforce accepting draughts, that ran 
 
 All ways — except up chimney ; 
 The house, though painted stone to mock, 
 W^ith nice white lines round every block, 
 
 Some trepidation stood in, 
 When tempests (with petrific shock. 
 So to speak) made it really rock, 
 
 5 Lowell 
 
66 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Though not a whit less wooden ; 
 And painted stone, howe'er well done, 
 Will not take in the prodigal sun 
 Whose beams are never quite at one 
 
 With our terrestrial lumber; 
 So the wood shrank around the knots, 
 And gaped in disconcerting spots, 
 And there were lots of dots and rots \ 
 
 And crannies without number. 
 Wherethrough, as you may well presume, 
 The wind, like water through a flume, .' 
 
 Came rushing in ecstatic. j 
 
 Leaving, in all three floors no room ) 
 
 That was not a rheumatic ; 
 And, what with points and squares and rounds 
 
 Grown shaky on their poises. 
 The house at night was full of pounds. 
 Thumps, bumps, creaks, scratchings, raps — 
 
 till— "Zounds!" 
 Cried Knott, "this goes beyond all bounds, 
 I do not deal in tongues and sounds. 
 Nor have I let my house and grounds j 
 
 To a family of No3^eses!" J 
 
 But though Knott's house was full of airs. 
 
 He had but one — a daughter; 
 And, as he owned much stocks and shares, 
 Many who wished to render theirs 
 Such vam, unsatisfying cares, 
 And needed wives to sew their tears, 
 
 In matrimony sought her; 
 They vowed her gold they wanted not. 
 
 Their faith would never falter, 
 They longed to tie this single Knott 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 67 
 
 In the Hymeneal halter; 
 So daily at the door they rang, 
 
 Cards for the belle delivering, 
 Or in the choir at her they sang, 
 Achieving such a rapturous twang 
 
 As set her nerves a-shivering. 
 
 Now Knott had quite made up his mind 
 
 That Colonel Jones should have her; 
 No beauty he, but oft we find 
 Sweet kernels 'neath a roughish rind, 
 So hoped his Jenny 'd be resigned 
 
 And make no more palaver; 
 Glanced at the fact that love was blind, 
 That girls were ratherish inclined 
 
 To pet their little crosses. 
 Then nosologically defined 
 The rate at which the system pined 
 In those unfortunates who dined 
 Upon that metaphoric kind 
 
 Of dish — their own proboscis. 
 
 But she with many tears and moans. 
 
 Besought him not to mock her. 
 Said 'twas too much for flesh and bones. 
 To marry mortgages and loans. 
 That father's hearts were stocks and stones 
 And that she'd go, when Mrs. Jones, 
 
 To Davy Jones's locker; 
 Then gave her head a little toss 
 That said as plain as ever was, 
 If men are always at a loss 
 
 Mere womankind to bridle — 
 To try the thing on woman cross. 
 
68 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Were fifty times as idle; 
 For she a strict resolve had made 
 
 And registered in private. 
 That either she would die a maid, 
 Or else be Mrs. Dr. Slade, 
 
 If woman could contrive it ; 
 And, though the wedding-day was set, 
 
 Jenny was more so, rather. 
 Declaring, in a pretty pet, 
 That, howsoe'er they spread their net, 
 She would out-Jennyral them yet, \ 
 
 The colonel and her father. ■ 
 
 Just at this time the Public's eyes * 
 
 Were keenly on the watch, a stir j 
 
 Beginning slowly to arise | 
 
 About those questions and replies, | 
 
 Those raps that unwrapped mysteries 
 
 So rapidly at Rochester. 
 And, Knott, already nervous grown 
 By lying much awake alone. 
 And listening, sometimes to a moan, 
 
 And sometimes to a clatter, 
 Whene'er the wind at night would rouse 
 The ginger-bread-work on his house, 
 Or when some hasty-tempered mouse, 
 Behind the plastering, made a towse 
 
 About a family matter. 
 Began to wonder if his wife, 
 A paralytic half her life, 
 
 Which made it more surprising, 
 Might not, to rule him from her urn, 
 Have taken a peripatetic turn 
 
 For want of exorcising. 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 69 
 
 This thought, once nestled in his head, 
 
 Ere long contagions grew, and spread 
 
 Infecting all his mind with dread, 
 
 Until at last he lay in bed 
 
 And heard his wife, with well-known tread. 
 
 Entering the kitchen through the shed, 
 
 (Or was't his fancy mocking?) 
 Opening the pantry, cutting bread. 
 And then (she'd been some ten years dead) 
 
 Closets and drawers unlocking ; 
 Or, in his room (his breath grew thick), 
 He heard the long familiar click 
 Of slender needles flying quick, 
 
 As if she knit a stocking; — 
 For whom? — he prayed that years might flit 
 
 With pains rheumatic shooting. 
 Before those ghostly things she knit 
 Upon his unfleshed sole might fit. 
 He did not fancy it a bit, 
 
 To stand upon that footing ; 
 At other times, his frightened hairs 
 
 Above the bed-clothes trusting. 
 He heard her, full of household cares, 
 (No dream entrapped in supper's snares, 
 The foal of horrible nightmares, 
 But broad awake, as he declares,) 
 Go bustling up and down the stairs. 
 Or setting back last evening's chairs, 
 
 Or with the poker thrusting 
 The raked-up sea-coal's hardened crust — 
 And — what! impossible! it must! 
 He knew she had returned to dust, 
 And yet could scarce his senses trust, 
 
70 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Hearing her as she poked and fussed 
 About the parlor, dusting ! 
 
 Night after night he strove to sleep ; 
 
 And take his ease in spite of it; ^ 
 
 But still his flesh would chill and creep, 
 And, though two night-lamps he might keep, 
 
 He could not so make light of it. 
 At last, quite desperate, he goes ; 
 
 And tells his neighbors all his woes, ! 
 
 Which did but their amount enhance; t 
 
 They made such mockery of his fears, ■ 
 
 That soon his days were of all jeers, J 
 
 His nights of the rueful countenance ; I 
 
 "I thought most folks," one neighbor said, 
 ''Gave up the ghost when they were dead," 
 Another gravely shook his head, i 
 
 Adding, "from all we hear, it's I 
 
 Quite plain poor Knott is going mad — 
 For how can he at once be sad 
 
 And think he 's full of spirits?" 
 A third declared he knew a knife 
 
 Would cut this Knott much quicker, 
 "The surest way to end all strife, 
 And lay the spirit of a wife. 
 
 Is just to take and lick her!" 
 A temperance man caught up the word, 
 "Ah, yes," he groaned, "I've always heard 
 
 Our poor friend always slanted 
 Tow'rd taking liquor overmuch; 
 I fear these spirits may be Dutch, 
 (A sort of gins, or something such,) 
 
 With which his house is haunted; 
 I see the thing as clear as light— 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 71 
 
 If Knott would give np getting tight, 
 Naught farther would be wanted:" 
 
 So all his neighbors stood aloof 
 
 And, that the spirits 'neath his roof 
 
 Were not entirely up to proof, 
 Unanimously granted. 
 
 Knott knew that cocks and sprites were foes, 
 And so bought up, Heaven only knows 
 How many, though he wanted crows 
 To give ghosts cause, as I suppose, 
 
 To think that day was breaking ; 
 Moreover, what he called his park, 
 He turned into a kind of ark, 
 For dogs, because a little bark 
 Is a good tonic in the dark. 
 
 If one is given to waking ; 
 But things went on from bad to worse, 
 His curs were nothing but a curse. 
 
 And, what was still more shocking, 
 Foul ghosts of living fowl made scoff 
 And would not think of going off 
 
 In spite of all his cocking. 
 
 Shanghais, Bucks-counties, Dominiques, 
 Malays (that didn't lay for weeks), 
 
 Polanders, Bantams, Dorkings, 
 Waving the cost, no trifling ill, 
 (Since each brought in his little bill) 
 By day or night were never still. 
 But every thought of rest would kill 
 
 With cacklings and with quorkings; 
 Henry the Eighth of wives got free 
 
 By a way he had of axing; 
 
72 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 But poor Knott's Tudor henery 
 Was not so fortunate, and he 
 
 Still found his trouble waxing ; 
 As for the dogs, the rows they made, 
 And how they howled, snarled, barked, and 
 bayed, 
 
 Beyond all human knowledge is; 
 All night, as wide awake as gnats, j 
 
 The terriers rumpused after rats, I 
 
 Or, just for practice, taught their brats I 
 
 To worry cast-off shoes and hats, ? 
 
 The bull-dogs settled private spats, ; 
 
 All chased imaginary cats, | 
 
 Or raved behind the fence's slats ] 
 
 At real ones, or, from their mats, ! 
 
 With friends miles off, held pleasant chats, 
 Or, like some folks in white cravats, [ 
 
 Contemptuous of sharps and flats, 
 
 Sat up and sang dogsologies. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 Showing what is meant by a flow of Spirits. 
 
 At first the ghosts were somewhat shy. 
 Coming when none but Knott was nigh, 
 And people said 'twas all their eye, 
 (Or rather his) a flam, the sly 
 
 Digestion's machination; 
 Some recommended a wet sheet, 
 Some a nice broth of pounded peat, 
 Some a cold fiat-iron to the feet, 
 Some a decoction of lamb's- bleat; 
 Some a southwesterly grain of wheat ; 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 73 
 
 Meat was by some pronounced unmeet, 
 Others thought fish most indiscreet, 
 And that 'twas worse than all to eat 
 Of vegetables, sour or sweet, 
 (Except, perhaps, the skin of beet,) 
 
 In such a concatenation : 
 One quack his button gently plucks 
 And murmurs "biliary ducks!" 
 
 Says Knott, "I never ate one:" 
 But all, though brimming full of wrath, 
 Homeo, Alio, Hydropath, 
 Concurred in this — that t'other's path 
 
 To death's door was the straight one. 
 
 But, spite of medical advice. 
 
 The ghosts came thicker, and a spice 
 
 Of mischief grew apparent ; 
 Nor did they only come at night. 
 But seemed to fancy broad daylight, 
 Till Knott, in horror and affright, 
 
 His unoffending hair rent; • 
 
 Whene'er, with handkerchief on lap, 
 He made his elbow-chair a trap 
 To catch an after-dinner nap. 
 The spirits, always on the tap. 
 Would make a sudden rap, rap, rap, 
 The half-spun cord of life to snap, 
 (And what is life without its nap 
 But threadbareness and mere mishap?) 
 As 't were with a percussion cap 
 
 The trouble's climax capping; 
 It seemed a party dried and grim 
 Of mummies had come to visit him, 
 Each getting off from every limb 
 
74 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Its multitudinous wrapping; 
 Scratchings sometimes the walls ran round, 
 The merest penny-weights of sound; 
 Sometimes 't was only by the pound 
 
 They carried on their dealing, 
 A thumping 'neath the parlor floor 
 Thump — bump — thump — bumping o'er and 
 
 o'er, 
 As if the vegetables in store, 
 (Quiet and orderly before,) 
 
 Were all together pealing; 
 You would have thought the thing was done 
 By the Spirit of some son of a gun, 
 
 And that a forty-two pounder. 
 Or that the ghost which made such sounds 
 Could be none other than John Pounds, 
 
 Of Ragged Schools the founder. 
 
 Through three gradations of affright 
 The awful noises reached their height; 
 
 At first they knocked nocturnally, 
 Then, for some reason, changing quite, 
 (As mourners, after six months' flight, 
 Turn suddenly from dark to light,) 
 
 Began to knock diurnally. 
 And last, combining all their stocks, 
 (Scotland was ne'er so full of Knox,) 
 Into one Chaos, (father of Nox,) 
 Node plnit — they showered knocks. 
 
 And knocked, knocked, knocked eternally; 
 Ever upon the go, like buoys, 
 (Wooden sea-urchins,) all Knott's joys, 
 They turned to trouble and a noise 
 
 That preyed on him internally. 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 75 
 
 Soon they grew wider in their scope; 
 Whenever Knott a door would ope, 
 It would ope not, or else elope 
 And fly back (curbless as a trope 
 Once started down a stanza's slope 
 By a bard that gave it too much rope — ) 
 
 Like a clap of thunder slamming; 
 And, when kind Jenny brought his hat, 
 (She always, when he walked, did that,) 
 Just as upon his head it sat, 
 Submitted to his settling pat — 
 Some unseen hand would jam it flat, 
 Or give it such a furious bat 
 
 That eyes and nose went cramming 
 Up out of sight, and consequently, 
 As when in life it paddled free. 
 
 His beaver caused much damning; 
 If these things seem o'erstrained to be, 
 Read the account of Doctor Dee, 
 'Tis in our college library; 
 Read Wesley's circumstantial plea. 
 And Mrs. Crowe, more like a bee. 
 Sucking the nightshade's honied fee, 
 And Stilling's Pneumatology ; 
 Consult Scott, Glanvil, grave Wierus, and both 
 
 Mathers; further, see 
 Webster, Casaubon, James First's treatise, a 
 
 right royal Q. E. D 
 Writ with the moon in perigree, 
 
 Bodin de Demonomanie 
 
 (Accent that last line gingerly) 
 All full of learning as the sea 
 Of fishes, and all disagree, 
 Save in Sathanas apage! 
 
76 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Or, what will surely put a flea 
 
 In unbelieving ears — with glee, 
 
 Out of a paper (sent to me 
 
 By some friend who forgot to P . . . 
 
 A . . . Y . . . — I use cryptography 
 
 Lest I his vengeful pen should dree — 
 
 His P . . . O . . . S . . . T . . . A . . . G . . . E . . .) 
 
 Things to the same effect I cut, 
 About the tantrums of a ghost, 
 Not more than three weeks since, at most, 
 
 Near Stratford, in Connecticut. 
 
 [Heavens! what a sentence that isl 
 
 I throw it in, though, gratis, 
 
 And, taking breath, anew 
 
 Catch up my legend's clew.] 
 Knott's Upas daily spread its roots, 
 Sent up on all sides livelier shoots. 
 And bore more pestilential fruits; 
 The ghosts behaved like downright brutes, 
 They snipped holes in his Sunday suits, 
 Practiced all night on octave flutes. 
 Put peas (not peace) into his boots, 
 
 Whereof grew corns in season. 
 They scotched his sheets, and, what was worse, 
 Stuck his silk night-cap full of burs. 
 Till he, in language plain and terse, 
 (But much unlike a Bible verse,) 
 
 Swore he should lose his reason. 
 
 Of course such doings, far and wide, 
 With rumors filled the country-side, 
 And, (as it is our nation's pride, 
 To think a Truth's not verified 
 Till with majorities allied,) 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 77 
 
 Parties sprang up, affirmed, denied, 
 And candidates with questions plied, 
 Who, like the circus-riders, tried 
 At once both hobbies to bestride, 
 And each with his opponent vied 
 In being inexplicit. 
 Earnest inquirers multiplied; 
 Folks, whose tenth cousins lately died, 
 Wrote letters long, and Knott replied ; 
 All who could either walk or ride, 
 Gathered to wonder or deride, 
 
 And paid the house a visit; 
 Horses were at his pine-trees tied, 
 Mourners in every corner sighed, 
 Widows brought children there that cried, 
 Swarms of lean Seekers, eager-eyed, 
 (People Knott never could abide,) 
 Into each hole and cranny pried 
 With strings of questions cut and dried 
 From the Devout Inquirer's Guide, 
 For the wise spirits to decide — 
 
 As, for example, is it 
 True that the damned are fried or boiled? 
 Was the earth's axis greased or oiled? 
 Who cleaned the moon when it was soiled? 
 
 How heal diseased potatoes? 
 Did spirits have the sense of smell? 
 Where would departed spinsters dwell? 
 If the late Zenas Smith were well? 
 If Earth were solid or a shell? 
 Were spirits fond of Doctor Fell? 
 Did the bull toll Cock-Robin's knell? 
 What remedy w^ould bugs expel? 
 If Paine's inventions were a sell? 
 
78 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Did spirits by Webster's system spell? 
 Was it a sin to be a belle? 
 Did dancing sentence folks to hell 
 If so, then where most torture fell — 
 
 On little toes or great toes? 
 If life's true seat were in the brain? 
 Did Ensign mean to marry Jane? 
 By whom, in fact, was Morgan slain? 
 Could matter ever suffer pain? 
 What would take out a cherry stain? 
 Who picked the pocket of Seth Crane, 
 Of Waldo precinct, State of Maine? 
 AVas vSir John Franklin sought in vain? 
 Did primitive Christians ev9r train? 
 What was the family name of Cain? 
 Them spoons, were they by Betty ta'en? 
 W^ould earth-worm poultice cure a sprain? 
 Was Socrates so dreadful plain? 
 What teamster guided Charles's wain? 
 W^as Uncle Ethan mad or sane? 
 And could his will in force remain? 
 If not, what counsel to retain? 
 Did Le Sage steal Gil Bias from Spain? 
 Was Junius writ by Thomas Paine? 
 Were ducks discomfited by rain? 
 How did Britannia rule the main? 
 Was Jonas coming back again? 
 Was vital truth upon the wane? 
 Did ghosts, to scare folks, drag a chain? 
 Who was our Huldah's chosen swain? 
 Did none have teeth pulled without payin', 
 
 Ere ether was invented? 
 Whether mankind would not agree, 
 If the universe were tuned in C? 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 79 
 
 What was it ailed Lucindy's knee? 
 Whether folks eat folks in Feejee? 
 Whether his name would end with T? 
 If Saturn's rings were two or three? 
 And what bump in Phrenology 
 
 They truly represented? 
 These problems dark wherein they groped, 
 Wherewith man's reason vainly coped, 
 Now that the spirit-world was oped, 
 In all humility they hoped 
 
 Would be resolved instanter ; 
 Each of the miscellaneous rout 
 Brought his, or her, own little doubt. 
 And wished to pump the spirits out, 
 Through his, or her, own private spout. 
 
 Into his, or her» decanter. 
 
 PART in. 
 
 Wherein it is shown that the mosi. ardent Spirits are 
 more ornamental than useful. 
 
 Many a speculating wight 
 Came by express trains, day and night. 
 To see if Knott would "sell his right," 
 Meaning to make the ghosts a sight — 
 
 What they called a "meenaygerie;" 
 One threatened, if he would not "trade," 
 His run of custom to invade, 
 (He could not these sharp folks persuade 
 That he was not, in some way, paid,) 
 
 And stamp him as a plagiary, 
 By coming down, at one fell swoop. 
 With THE ORIGINAL knocking troupe, 
 
 Come recently from Hades, 
 
80 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Who (for a quarter-dollar heard) 
 Would ne'er rap out a hasty word 
 Whence any blame might be incurred 
 
 From the most fastidious ladies; 
 The late lamented Jesse Soule 
 To stir the ghosts up with a pole 
 And be director of the whole, 
 
 Who was engaged the rather 
 For the rare merits he'd combine, 
 Having been in the spirit line, 
 Which trade he only did resign 
 With general applause, to shine, 
 Awful in mail of cotton fine. 
 
 As ghost of Hamlet's father! 
 Another a fair plan reveals 
 Never yet hit on, which, he feels, 
 To Knott's religious sense appeals — 
 "We'll have your house set up on wheels, 
 
 A speculation pious; 
 For music we can shortly find 
 A barrel-organ that will grind 
 Psalm-tunes (an instrument designed 
 For the New England tour) refined 
 From secular drosses, and inclined 
 To an unworldly turn (combined 
 
 With no sectarian bias;) 
 Then, traveling by stages slow, 
 Under the style of Knott & Co., 
 I would accompany the show 
 As moral lecturer, the foe 
 Of Rationalism ; you could throw 
 The rappings in, and make them go 
 Strict Puritan principles, you know, 
 (How do you make 'em? with your toe?) 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 81 
 
 And the receipts which thence might flow, 
 
 We could divide between us; 
 Still more attractions to combine, 
 Beside these services of mine, 
 I will throw in a very fine 
 (It would do nicely for a sign) 
 
 Original Titian's Venus." 
 Another offered handsome fees 
 If Knott would get Demosthenes. 
 (Nay, his mere knuckles, for more ease,) 
 To rap a few short sentences; 
 Or if, for want of proper keys, 
 
 His Greek might make confusion, 
 Then, just to get a rap from Burke, 
 To recommend a little work 
 
 On Public Elocution. 
 {No'/inulla hie desnut 
 Meliora quae sunt. ) 
 
 Meanwhile the spirits made replies 
 To all the reverent whats and whys. 
 Resolving doubts of every size. 
 And giving seekers grave and wise. 
 Who came to know their destinies, 
 
 A rap-turous reception ; 
 When unbelievers void of grace 
 Came to investigate the place, 
 (Creatures of Sadducistic race, 
 With groveling intellects and base) 
 They could not find the vSlightest trace 
 
 To indicate deception ; 
 Indeed, it is declared by some 
 That spirits (of this sort) are glum. 
 Almost, or wholly, deaf and dumb, 
 
 6 Lowell 
 
82 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 And (out of self-respect) quite mum 
 To sceptic natures cold and numb, 
 Who of this kind of Kingdom Come, 
 
 Have not a just conception; 
 True, there were people who demurred 
 That, though the raps no doubt were heard 
 
 Both under them and o'er them, 
 Yet, somehow, when a search they made, 
 They found Miss Jenny sore afraid. 
 Or Jenny's lover. Doctor Slade, 
 Equally awe-struck and dismayed, 
 Or Deborah, the chamber-maid. 
 Whose terrors, not to be gainsaid, 
 In laughs hysteric were displayed. 
 
 Was always there before them ; 
 This had its due effect with some 
 Who straight departed, muttering, Hum! 
 
 Transparent hoax! and Gammon! 
 But these were few; believing souls 
 Came, day by day, in larger shoals, 
 As, the ancients to the windy holes 
 'Neath Delphi's tripod brought their doles, 
 
 Or to the shrine of Ammon. 
 The spirits seemed exceeding tame. 
 Call whom you fancied and he came; 
 The shades august of eldest fame 
 
 You summoned with an awful ease; 
 As grosser spirits gurgled out 
 PYom chair and table with a spout, 
 In Auerbach's cellar once, to flout 
 The senses of the rabble rout. 
 Where'er the gimlet twirled about 
 
 Of cunning Mephistophiles — 
 So did these spirits seem in store. 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 83 
 
 Behind the wainscot or the door, 
 Read)^ to thrill the being's core 
 Of every enterprising; bore 
 
 With their astounding glamour; 
 Whatever ghost one wished to hear, 
 By strange coincidence, was near 
 To make the past or future clear, 
 
 (Sometimes in shocking grammar,) 
 By raps and taps, now there, now here — 
 It seemed as if the spirit queer 
 Of some departed auctioneer 
 Were doomed to practice by the year 
 
 With the spirit of his hammer; 
 Whate'er you asked was answered, yet 
 One could not very deeply get 
 Into the obliging spirits' debt. 
 Because they used the alphabet 
 
 In all communications. 
 And new revealings (though sublime) 
 Rapped out, one letter at a time, 
 
 With boggles, hesitations. 
 Stoppings, beginnings o'er again, 
 And getting matters into train. 
 Could hardly overload the brain 
 
 With too excessive rations, 
 Since just to ask if two and two 
 Really make four? or. How d'ye do? 
 And get the fit replies thereto 
 In the tramundane rat-tat-too, 
 
 Might ask a whole day's patience. 
 
 'T was strange ('mongst other things) to find 
 In what odd sets the ghosts combined, 
 Happy forthwith to thump any 
 
84 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Piece of intelligence inspired, 
 
 The truth whereof had been inquired 
 
 By some one of the company; 
 For instance, Fielding, Mirabeau, 
 Orator Henley, Cicero, 
 Paley, John Zisca, Marivaux, 
 Melancthon, Robertson, Jimot, 
 vScaliger, Chesterfield, Rousseau, 
 Hakluyt, Boccaccio, South, De Foe, 
 Diaz, Josephus, Richard Roe, 
 Odin, Arminius, Charles le gros, 
 Tiresias, the late James Crow, 
 Casabianca, Grose, Prideaux, 
 Old Grimes, Young Norval, Swift, Brissot, 
 Maimonides, the Chevalier D 'O, 
 Socrates, Fenelon, Job, Stow, 
 The inventor of Elixir pro, 
 Euripides, Spinoza, Poe, 
 Confucius, Hiram Smith, and Fo, 
 Came (as it seemed, somewhat de trop) 
 With a disembodied Esquimaux, 
 To say that it was so and so 
 
 With Franklin's expedition; 
 One testified to ice and snow, 
 One that the mercury was low. 
 One that his progress was quite slow, 
 One that he much desired to go. 
 One that the cook had frozen his toe, 
 (Dissented from by Sandolo, 
 Wordsworth, Cynaegirus, Boileau, 
 La Hontan and Sir Thomas Roe,) 
 One saw twelve white bears in a row, 
 One saw eleven and a crow, 
 With other things we could not know 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 85 
 
 (Of great statistic value, though) 
 
 By our mere mortal vision, 
 Sometimes the spirits made mistakes. 
 And seemed to play at ducks and drakes, 
 With bold inquiry's heaviest stakes 
 
 In science or in mystery ; 
 They knew so little (and that wrong) 
 Yet rapped it out so bold and strong. 
 One would have said the entire throng 
 
 Had been Professors of History; 
 What made it odder was, that those 
 Who, you would naturally suppose, 
 Could solve a question, if they chose, 
 As easily as count their toes 
 
 Were just the ones that blundered; 
 One day, Ulysses happening down, 
 A reader of Sir Thomas Browne 
 
 And who (with him) had wondered 
 What song it was the Sirens sang, 
 Asked the shrewd Ithacan — bang! bang! 
 With this response the chamber rang, 
 
 "I guess it was Old Hundred." 
 And Franklin, being asked to name 
 The reason why the lightning came, 
 
 Replied, *' Because it thundered." 
 
 On one sole point the ghosts agreed. 
 One fearful point, than which, indeed, 
 
 Nothing could seem absurder; 
 Poor Colonel Jones they all abused, 
 And finally downright accused 
 
 The poor old man of murder; 
 'Twas thus; by dreadful raps was shown 
 Some spirit's longing to make known 
 
86 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 A bloody fact, which he alone 
 
 Was privy to, (such ghosts more prone 
 
 In Earth's affairs to meddle are;) 
 Who are you? with awe-stricken looks, 
 All ask: his airy knuckles he crooks, 
 And raps, "I was Eliab Snooks, 
 
 That used to be a pedler; 
 Some on ye still are on my books!" 
 Whereat, to inconspicuous nooks, 
 (More fearing this than common spooks,) 
 
 Shrank each indebted meddler; 
 Further the vengeful ghost declared 
 That while his earthly life was spared. 
 About the country he had fared, 
 
 A duly licensed follower 
 Of that much-wandering trade that wins 
 Slow profit from the sale of tins. 
 
 And various kinds of hollow-ware; 
 That Colonel Jones enticed him in 
 Pretending that he wanted tin. 
 There slew him with a rolling-pin. 
 Hid him in a potato-bin, 
 
 And (the same night) him ferried 
 Across Great Pond to t'other shore, 
 And there on land of Widow Moore, 
 Just where you turn to Larkin's store, 
 
 Under a rock him buried; 
 Some friends (who happened to be by) 
 He called upon to testify 
 That what he said was not a lie, 
 
 And that he did not stir this 
 Foul matter out of any spite 
 But from a simple love of right ; — 
 
 Which statement the Nine Worthies, 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 87 
 
 Rabbi Akiba, Charlemai^ne, 
 
 Seth, Colley Gibber, General Wayne, 
 
 Gambyses, Tasso, Tubal-Gain, 
 
 The owner of a castle in Spain, 
 
 Jehangire, and the Widow of Nain, 
 
 (The friends aforesaid) made more plain 
 
 And by loud raps attested ; 
 To the same purport testified 
 Plato, John Wilkes, and Golonel Pride 
 W^ho knew said Snooks before he died, 
 
 Had in his wares invested. 
 Thought him entitled to belief 
 And freely could concur, in brief 
 
 In every thing the rest did. 
 
 Eliab this occasion seized, 
 (Distinctly here the Spirit sneezed) 
 To say that he should ne'er be eased 
 Till Jenny married whom she pleased, 
 
 Free from all checks and urgin's, 
 (This spirit dropped his final g's,) 
 And that, unless Knott quickly sees 
 This done, the spirits to appease. 
 They would come back his life to tease 
 As thick as mites in ancient cheese, 
 And let his house on an endless lease 
 To the ghosts (terrific rappers these 
 And veritable Eumenides,) 
 
 Of the Eleven Thousand Virgins! 
 
 Knott was perplexed and shook his head, 
 He did not wish his child to wed 
 
 With a suspected murderer, 
 (For, true or false, the rumor spread,) 
 
88 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 But as for this riled life he led, 
 **It would not answer," so he said, 
 "To have it go no furderer." 
 
 At last, scarce knowing what it meant, 
 Reluctantly he gave consent 
 That Jenny, since 't was evident 
 That she would follow her own bent, 
 
 Should make her own election; 
 For that appeared the only way 
 These frightful noises to allay 
 Which had already turned him gray 
 
 And plunged him in dejection. 
 
 Accordingly, this artless maid 
 
 Her father's ordinance obeyed. 
 
 And, all in whitest crape arrayed, 
 
 (Miss Pulsifer the dresses made 
 
 And wishes here the fact displayed 
 
 That she still carries on the trade, 
 
 The third door south from Bagg's Arcade,) 
 
 A very faint "I do" essayed 
 
 And gave her hand to Hiram Slade, 
 
 From which time forth, the ghosts were laid ; 
 
 And ne'er gave trouble after; 
 But the Selectmen, be it known. 
 Dug underneath the aforesaid stone. 
 Where the poor pedler's corpse was thrown, 
 And found there-under a jaw-bone. 
 Though, when the crowner sat thereon, 
 He nothing hatched, except alone 
 
 Successive broods of laughter; 
 It was a frail and dingy thing, . 
 In which a grinder or two did cling, 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 89 
 
 In color like molasses, 
 Which surgeons, called from far and wide, 
 Upon the horror to decide, 
 
 Having put on their glasses, 
 Reported thus — "To judge by looks, 
 These bones, by some queer hooks or crooks, 
 May have belonged to Mr. Snooks, 
 But, as men deepest read in books 
 
 Are perfectly aware, bones, 
 If buried, fifty years or so. 
 Lose their identity and grow 
 
 From human bones to bare bones." 
 
 Still, if to Jaalam you go down. 
 You'll find two parties in the town. 
 One headed by Benaiah Brown, 
 
 And one by Perez Tinkham ; 
 The first believe the ghosts all through, 
 And vow that they shall never rue 
 The happy chance by which they knew 
 That people in Jupiter are blue. 
 And very fond of Irish stew. 
 Two curious facts when Prince Lee Boo 
 Rapped clearly to a chosen few — 
 
 Whereas the others think 'em 
 A trick got up b}' Doctor Slade 
 With Deborah the chamber-maid 
 
 And that sly cretur Jenny, 
 That all the revelations wise, 
 At which the Brownites made big eyes. 
 Might have been given by Jared Keyes, 
 
 A natural fool and ninny. 
 And, last week, didn't Eliab Snooks, 
 Come back with never better looks, 
 
90 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 As sharp as new bought mackerel hooks, 
 
 And bright as a new pin, eh? 
 
 Good Parson Wilbur, too, avers 
 
 ( Though to be mixed in parish stirs \ 
 
 Is worse than handling chestnut-burs) \ 
 
 That no case to his mind occurs } 
 
 Where spirits ever did converse 
 
 Save in a kind of guttural Erse, 
 
 (So say the best authorities;) 
 And that a charge by raps conveyed, 
 Should be most scrupulously weighed 
 
 And searched into before it is 
 Made public, since it may give pain 
 That cannot soon be cured again, 
 And one word may infix a stain 
 
 Which ten cannot gloss over. 
 Though speaking for his private part. 
 He is rejoiced with all his heart 
 
 Miss Knott missed not her lover: 
 December, 1850. 
 
 HAKON'S LAY. 
 
 Then Thorstein looked at Hakon, where he 
 
 sate, 
 Mute as a cloud amid the stormy hall, 
 And said: "O, Skald, sing now an olden song. 
 Such as our fathers heard who led great lives; 
 And, as the bravest on a shield is borne 
 Along the waving host that shouts him king. 
 So rode their thrones upon the thronging 
 
 seas!" 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 91 
 
 Then the old man arose, white-haired he stood, 
 White-bearded, and with eyes that looked afar 
 From their still region of perpetual snow. 
 Over the little smokes and stirs of men : 
 His head was bowed with gathered flakes of 
 
 years, 
 As winter bends the sea-foreboding pine, 
 But something triumphed in his brow and eye. 
 Which whoso saw it, could not see and crouch : 
 Loud rang the emptied beakers as he mused, 
 Brooding his eyried thoughts; then, as an eagle 
 Circles smooth-winged above the wind-vexed 
 
 woods, 
 So wheeled his soul into the air of song 
 High o'er the stormy hall; and thus he sang: 
 
 "The fletcher for his arrow-shaft picks out 
 Wood closest-grained, long-seasoned, straight 
 
 as light; 
 And, from a quiver full of such as these. 
 The wary bow-man, matched against his peers, 
 Long doubting, singles yet once more the best. 
 Who is it that can make such shafts as Fate? 
 What archer of his arrows is so choice. 
 Or hits the white so surely? They are men, 
 The chosen of her quiver ; nor for her 
 Will every reed suffice, or cross-grained stick 
 At random from life's vulgar fagor plucked: 
 Such answer household ends; but she will 
 
 have 
 Souls straight and clear, of toughest fibre, 
 
 sound 
 Down to the heart of heart; from these she 
 
 strips 
 
92 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 All needless stuff, all sapwood, hardens them, 
 From circumstance untoward feathers plucks 
 Crumpled and cheap, and barbs with iron will : 
 The hour that passes is her quiver-boy; 
 When she draws bow, 'tis not across the wind, 
 Nor 'gainst the sun, her haste-snatched arrow 
 
 sings, 
 For sun and wind have plighted faith to her: 
 Ere men have heard the sinew twang, behold, 
 In the butt's heart her trembling messenger! 
 
 *'The song is old and simple that I sing: 
 Good were the days of yore, when men were 
 
 tried 
 By ring of shields, as now by ring of gold ; 
 But, while the gods are left, and hearts of men, 
 And the free ocean, still the days are good ; 
 Through the broad Earth roams Opportunity 
 And knocks at every door of hut or hall, 
 Until she finds the brave soul that she wants." 
 
 He ceased, and instantly the frothy tide 
 Of interrupted wassail roared along ; 
 But Leif, the son of Eric, sat apart 
 Musing, and, with his eyes upon the fire, 
 Saw shapes of arrows, lost as soon as seen ; 
 But then with that resolve his heart was bent. 
 Which, like a humming shaft, through many 
 
 a strife 
 Of day and night across the unventured seas, 
 Shot the brave prow to cut on Vinland sands 
 The first rune in the Saga of the West. 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 93 
 
 TO THE FUTURE. 
 
 O, Land of Promise! from what Pisgah's height 
 Can I behold thy stretch of peaceful bowers? 
 Thy golden harvests flowing out of sight, 
 
 Thy nestled homes and sun-illumined towers 
 Gazing upon the sunset's high-heaped gold, 
 Its crags of opal and of chrysolite, 
 Its deeps on deeps of glory that unfold 
 Still brightening abysses, 
 And blazing precipices, 
 Whence but a scanty leap it seems to heaven, 
 
 Sometimes a glimpse is given, 
 Of thy more gorgeous realm, thy more 
 unstinted blisses. 
 
 O, Land of Quiet! to thy shore the surf 
 
 Of the perturbed Present rolls and sleeps; 
 Our storms breathe soft as June upon thy turf 
 And lure out blossoms; to thy bosom leaps, 
 As to a mother's, the o'er wearied heart. 
 Hearing far off and dim the toiling mart, 
 The hurrying feet, the curses without num- 
 ber. 
 And, circled with the glow Elysian, 
 Of thine exulting vision. 
 Out of its very cares wooes charms for peace 
 and slumber. 
 
94 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 To thee the Earth lifts up her fettered hands 
 And cries for vengeance ; with a pitying smile 
 Thou blessest her, and she forgets her bands, 
 And her old wo-worn face a little while 
 Grows young and noble; unto thee the 
 Oppressor 
 Looks, and is dumb with awe ; 
 The eternal law 
 Which makes the crime its own blindfold 
 redresser, 
 Shadows his heart with perilous foreboding, 
 And he can see the grim-eyed Doom 
 From out the trembling gloom 
 Its silent-footed steeds toward his palace 
 goading. 
 
 What promises hast thou for Poet's eyes, 
 Aweary of the turmoil and the wrong! 
 To all their hopes what over-joyed replies! 
 
 What undreamed ecstasies for blissful song! 
 Thy happy plains no war-trump's brawling 
 clangor 
 Disturbs, and fools the poor to hate the poor; 
 The humble glares not on the high with anger; 
 Love leaves no grudge at less, no greed for 
 more; 
 In vain strives Self the godlike sense to 
 smother. 
 From the soul's deeps 
 It throbs and leaps; 
 The noble 'neath foul rags beholds his long- 
 lost brother. 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 95 
 
 To thee the Martyr looketh, and his fires 
 
 Unlock their fangs and leave his spirit free; 
 To thee the Poet 'mid his toil aspires, 
 
 And grief and hunger climb about his knee 
 Welcome as children ; thou upholdest. 
 
 The lone Inventor by his demon haunted; 
 The Prophet cries to thee when hearts are 
 coldest, 
 And, gazing o'er the midnight's bleak 
 
 abyss, 
 Sees the drowsed soul awaken at thy kiss, 
 And stretch its happy arms and leap up disen- 
 chanted. 
 
 Thou bringest vengeance, but so loving kindly 
 
 The guilty thinks it pity; taught by thee 
 Fierce tyrants drop the scourges wherewith 
 blindly 
 Their own souls they were scarring; con- 
 querors see 
 With horror in their hands the accursed spear 
 That tore the meek One's side on Cavalry, 
 And from their trophies shrink with ghastly 
 fear ; 
 Thou, too, art the Forgiver, 
 The beauty of man's soul to man revealing; 
 
 The arrows from thy quiver 
 Pierce error's guilty heart, but only pierce for 
 healing. 
 
 O, whither, whither, glory-winged dreams, 
 From out Life's sweat and turmoil would ye 
 bear me? 
 Shut, gates of Fancy, on your golden gleams, 
 
96 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 This agony of hopeless contrast spare me! 
 
 Fade, cheating glow, and leave me to my i 
 
 night ! I 
 
 He is a coward who would borrow '. 
 
 A charm against the present sorrow ! 
 
 From the vague Future's promise of delight: i 
 
 As life's alarums nearer roll, |j 
 
 The ancestral buckler calls, 1' 
 
 Self -clanging, from the walls | 
 
 In the high temple of the soul ; I 
 
 Where are most sorrows, there the poet's j| 
 
 sphere is, | 
 
 To feed the soul with patience, | 
 
 To heal its desolations j' 
 
 With words of unshorn truth, with love that 
 
 never wearies. 
 
 OUT OF DOORS. 
 
 'Tis good to be abroad in the sun. 
 His gifts abide when day is done ; 
 Each thing in nature from his cup 
 Gathers a several virtue up ; 
 The grace within its being's reach 
 Becomes the nutriment of each, 
 And the same life imbibed by all 
 Makes each most individual ; 
 Here the twig-bending peaches seek 
 The glow that mantles in their cheek — 
 Hence comes the Indian-Summer bloom 
 That hazes round the basking plum. 
 And, from the same impartial light, 
 The grass sucks green, the lily white. 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 97 
 
 Like these the soul, for sunshine made, 
 Grows wan and gracile in the shade, 
 Her faculties, which God decreed 
 Various as Summer's datdal breed, 
 With one sad color are imbued. 
 Shut from the sun that tints their blood ; 
 The shadow of the poet's roof 
 Deadens the dyes of warp and woof; 
 Whate'er of ancient song remains 
 Has fresh air flowing in its veins, 
 For Greece and eldest Ind. knew welL 
 That out of doors, with world-wide swell 
 Arches the student's lawful cell. 
 
 Away, unfruitful lore of books, 
 
 For whose vain idiom we reject 
 
 The spirit's mother-dialect, 
 
 Aliens among the birds and brooks, 
 
 Dull to interpret or believe 
 
 What gospels lost the woods retrieve, 
 
 Or w^hat the eaves-dropping violet 
 
 Reports from God, who walketh yet 
 
 His garden in the hush of eve ! 
 
 Away, ye pedants city-bred, 
 
 Unwise of heart, too wise of head, 
 
 Who handcuff Art with thus and so. 
 
 And in each other's footsteps tread, 
 
 Like those who walk through drifted snow; 
 
 W^ho, from deep study of brick walls, 
 Conjecture of the water-falls, 
 By six square feet of smoke-stained sky 
 Compute those deeps that overlie 
 The still tarn's heaven-anointed eye, 
 
 7 Lowell 
 
98 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 i 
 
 And, in your earthen crucible, 
 
 With chemic tests essay to spell ) 
 
 How nature works in field and dell! i 
 
 Seek we where Shakespeare buried gold? | 
 
 Such hands no charmed witch-hazel hold; j 
 
 To beach and rock repeats the sea , 
 
 The mystic Open Sesame ; | 
 
 Old Greylock's voices not in vain j 
 
 Comment on Milton's mountain strain, i 
 
 And cunningly the various wind ; 
 
 Spenser's locked music can unbind. j 
 
 A REVERIE. j 
 
 In the twilight deep and silent \ 
 
 Comes thy spirit unto mine, j 
 
 When the moonlight and the starlight i 
 Over cliff and woodland shine, 
 
 And the quiver of the river 1 
 
 Seems a thrill of joy benign. -i 
 
 Then I rise and wander slowly '^■] 
 
 To the headland by the sea, j 
 
 When the evening star throbs setting ] 
 
 Through the cloudy cedar tree, j 
 
 And from under, mellow thunder j 
 
 Of the surf comes fitfully. ' 
 
 Then within my soul I feel thee 
 
 Like a gleam of other years, 
 
 Visions of my childhood murmur 
 
 Their old madness in my ears, i 
 
 Till the pleasance of thy presence i 
 
 Cools my heart with blissful tears. i 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 99 
 
 All the wondrous dreams of boyhood — 
 
 All youth's fiery thirst of praise — 
 
 All the surer hopes of manhood 
 
 Blossoming in sadder days — 
 
 Joys that bound me, griefs that crowned me 
 
 With a better wreath than bays — 
 
 All the longings after freedom — 
 The vague love of human kind, 
 Wandering far and near at random 
 Like a winged seed in the wind — 
 The dim yearnings and fierce burnings 
 Of an undirected mind — 
 
 All of these, oh, best beloved, 
 Happiest present dreams and past, 
 In thy love find safe fulfillment, 
 Ripened into truth at last ; 
 Faith and beauty, hope and duty. 
 To one center gather fast. 
 
 How my nature, like an ocean, 
 At the breath of thine awakes. 
 Leaps its shores in mad exulting 
 And in foamy thunder breaks. 
 Then downsinking, lieth shrinking 
 At the tumult that it makes ! 
 
 Blazing Hesperus hath sunken 
 Low within the pale-blue west, 
 And with golden splendor crowneth 
 The horizon's piny crest; 
 Thoughtful quiet stills the riot 
 Of wild longing in my breast. 
 
 Lire. 
 
100 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Home I loiter through the moonlight, 
 Underneath the quivering trees, 
 Which, as if a spirit stirred them, 
 Sway and bend, till by degrees 
 The far surge's murmur merges 
 In the rustle of the breeze. 
 
 IN SADNESS. 
 
 There is not in this life of ours 
 
 One bliss unmixed with fears, 
 The hope that wakes our deepest powers 
 
 A face of sadness wears. 
 And the dew that showers our dearest flowers 
 
 Is the bitter dew of tears. 
 
 Fame waiteth long, and lingereth 
 Through weary nights and morns — 
 
 And evermore the shadow Death 
 With mocking finger scorns 
 
 That underneath the laurel wreath 
 Should be a wreath of thorns. 
 
 The laurel leaves are cool and green, 
 But the thorns are hot and sharp. 
 
 Lean Hunger grins and stares between 
 The poet and his harp. 
 
 Though of Love's sunny sheen his woof have 
 been 
 Grim wan thrusts in the warp. 
 
 And if beyond this darksome clime 
 
 Some fair star Hope may see. 
 That keeps un jarred the blissful chime 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 101 
 
 Of its golden infancy — 
 Where the harvest-time of faith sublime 
 Not always is to be — 
 
 Yet wonld the true soul rather choose 
 
 Its home where sorrow is, 
 Than in a stated peace to lose 
 
 Its life's supremest bliss — 
 The rainbow hues that bend profuse 
 
 O'er cloudy spheres like this — 
 
 The want, the sorrow and the pain, 
 
 That are Love's right to cure — 
 The sunshine bursting after rain — 
 
 The gladness insecure 
 That makes us fain strong hearts to gain, 
 
 To do and to endure. 
 
 High natures must be thunder-scarred 
 
 With many a searing wrong; 
 From mother Sorrow's breasts the bard 
 
 Sucks gifts of deepest song, 
 Nor all unmarred with struggles hard 
 
 Wax the Soul's sinews strong. 
 
 Dear Patience, too, is born of wo, 
 
 Patience that opes the gate 
 Wherethrough the soul of man must go 
 Up to each nobler state, 
 Whose voice's flow so meek and low 
 
 Smooths the bent brows of Fate. 
 
 Though Fame be slow, yet Death is swift, 
 
 And' o'er the spirit's eyes. 
 Life after life doth change and shift 
 
 With larger destinies : 
 
102 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 As on we drift, some wider rift 
 Shows us serener skies. 
 
 And though naught falleth to us here 
 
 But gains the world counts loss, 
 Though all we hope of wisdom clear 
 
 When climbed to seems but dross, 
 Yet all, though ne'er Christ's faith they wear, 
 
 At least may share his cross. 
 
 FAREWELL. ■ 
 
 Farewell! as the bee round the blossom i 
 
 Doth murmur drowsily, -1 
 
 So murmureth round my bosom i 
 The memory of thee ; 
 
 Lingering, it seems to go, ] 
 
 When the wind more full doth flow, ; 
 
 Waving the flower to and fro, ^ 
 
 But still returneth, Marian ! •; 
 
 My hope no longer burneth, ' 
 
 Which did so fiercely burn, J 
 
 My joy to sorrow turneth, 'i 
 
 Although loath, loath to turn — i 
 
 I would forget — ^ 
 
 And yet — and yet ^ 
 
 My heart to thee still yearneth, Marian ! : 
 
 Fair as a single star thou shinest, | 
 
 And white as lilies are i 
 The slender hands wherewith thou twinest 
 
 Thy heavy auburn hair ; j 
 
 Thou art to me i 
 
 A memory vi 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 103 
 
 Of all that is divinest : 
 Thou art so fair and tall, 
 Thy looks so queenly are, 
 Thy very shadow on the wall, 
 Thy step upon the stair, 
 The thought that thou art nigh, 
 The chance look of thine eye 
 Are more to me than all, Marian, 
 And will be till I die ! 
 
 As the last quiver of a bell 
 
 Doth fade into the air, 
 
 With a subsiding swell 
 
 That dies we know not where. 
 
 So my hope melted and was gone: 
 
 I raised mine eyes to bless the star 
 
 That shared its light with me so far 
 
 Below its silver throne. 
 
 And gloom and chilling vacancy 
 
 Were all was left to me, 
 
 In the dark, bleak night I was alone! 
 
 Alone in the blessed Earth, Marian, 
 
 For what were all to me — 
 
 Its love, and light, and mirth, Marian, 
 
 If I were not with thee? 
 
 My heart will not forget thee 
 More than the moaning brine 
 Forgets the moon when she is set; 
 The gush when first I met thee 
 That thrilled my brain like wine, 
 Doth thrill as madly yet; 
 My heart cannot forget thee. 
 Though it may droop and pine, 
 
104 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Too deeply it had set thee 
 
 In every love of mine : 
 
 No new moon evercometh, 
 
 No flower ever bloometh, 
 
 No twilight ever gloometh 
 
 But I'm more only thine. 
 
 Oh, look not on me, Marian, 
 
 Thine eyes are wild and deep, 
 
 And they have won me, Marian, 
 
 From peacefulness and sleep ; 
 
 The sunlight doth not sun me. 
 
 The meek moonshine doth shun me, 
 
 All sweetest voices stun me — 
 
 There is no rest 
 
 Within my breast 
 
 And I can only weep, Marian! 
 
 As a landbird far at sea 
 
 Doth wander through the sleet 
 
 And drooping downward wearily 
 
 Finds no rest for her feet. 
 
 So wandereth my memory. 
 
 O'er the years when we did meet: 
 
 I used to say that everything 
 
 Partook a share of thee ; 
 
 That not a little bird could sing, 
 
 Or green leaf flutter on a tree. 
 
 That nothing could be beautiful 
 
 Save part of thee were there. 
 
 That from thy soul so clear and full 
 
 All bright and blessed things did cull 
 
 The charm to make them fair; 
 
 And now I know 
 
 That it was so. 
 
 Thy spirit through the earth doth flow 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 105 
 
 And face me wheresoe'er I go — 
 What right hath perfectness to give 
 Such weary weight of wo 
 Unto the soul which cannot live 
 On anything more low? 
 
 leave me, leave me, Marian, 
 There's no fair thing I see 
 But doth deceive me, Marian, 
 Into sad dreams of thee! 
 
 A cold snake gnaws my heart 
 
 And crushes round my brain, 
 
 And I should glory but to part 
 
 So bitterly again, 
 
 Feeling the slow tears start 
 
 And fall in fiery rain : 
 
 There's a wide ring round the moon, 
 
 The ghost-like clouds glide by. 
 
 And I hear the sad winds croon 
 
 A dirge to the lowering sky; 
 
 There's nothing soft or mild 
 
 In the pale moon's sickly light, 
 
 But all looks strange and wild 
 
 Through the dim, foreboding night; 
 
 1 think thou must be dead 
 
 In some dark and lonely place, 
 
 With candles at thy head, 
 
 And a pall above thee spread 
 
 To hide thy dead, cold face ; 
 
 But I can see thee underneath 
 
 So pale, and still, and fair. 
 
 Thine eyes closed smoothly and a wreath 
 
 Of flowers in thy hair; 
 
 I never saw thy face so clear 
 
 When thou wast with the living. 
 
106 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 As now beneath the pall, so drear, 
 
 And stiff, and unforgiving; 
 
 I cannot flee thee, Marian, 
 
 I cannot turn away, 
 
 Mine eyes must see thee, Marian, 
 
 Through salt tears night and day. 
 
 A DIRGE. 
 
 Poet! lonely is thy bed. 
 And the turf is overhead — 
 
 Cold earth is thy cover; 
 But thy heart hath found release, 
 And it slumbers full of peace 
 'Neath the rustle of green trees 
 And the warm hum of the bees, 
 
 'Mid the drowsy clover; 
 Through the chamber, still as death, 
 A smooth gurgle wandereth, 
 As the blue stream murmureth 
 
 To the blue sky over. 
 
 Three paces from the silver strand. 
 Gently in the fine, white sand, 
 With a lily in thy hand, 
 
 Pale as snow, they laid thee ; 
 In no coarse earth wast thou hid, 
 And no gloomy coffin-lid 
 
 Darkly overweighed thee. 
 Silently as snow-flakes drift, 
 The smooth sand did sift and sift 
 
 O'er the bed they made thee; 
 All sweet birds did come and sing 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 107 
 
 At thy sunny burying — 
 
 Choristers unbidden, 
 And, beloved of sun and dew. 
 Meek forget-me-nots upgrew 
 Where thine eyes so large and blue 
 
 'Neath the turf were hidden. 
 
 Where thy stainless clay doth lie, 
 Blue and open is the sky. 
 And the white clouds wander by, 
 Dreams of summer silently 
 
 Darkening the river ; • 
 
 Thou hearest the clear water run ; 
 And the ripples every one, 
 Scattering the golden sun. 
 
 Though thy silence quiver; 
 Vines trail down upon the stream, 
 Into its smooth and glassy dream 
 
 A green stillness spreading. 
 And the shiner, perch, and bream 
 Through the shadowed waters gleam 
 
 'Gainst the current heading. 
 
 White as snow, thy winding sheet 
 Shelters thee from head to feet, 
 
 Save thy pale face only; 
 Thy face is turned toward the skies. 
 The lids lie meekly o'er thine eyes, 
 And the low-voiced pine-tree sighs 
 
 O'er thy bed so lonely. 
 All thy life thou lov'dst its shade; 
 Underneath it thou art laid, 
 
 In an endless shelter; 
 Thou hearest it forever sigh 
 
108 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 As the wind's vain longings die 
 In its branches dim and high — 
 Thou hear'st the waters gliding by 
 Slumberously welter. 
 
 Thou wast full of love and truth, 
 
 Of forgiveness and ruth — 
 
 Thy great heart with hope and youth 
 
 Tided to o'erflowing. 
 Thou didst dwell in mysteries, 
 And there lingered on thine eyes 
 Shadows of serener skies. 
 Awfully wild memories, 
 
 That were like foreknowing; 
 Through the earth thou wouldst have gone, 
 Lighted from within alone, 
 Seeds from flowers in Heaven grown 
 
 With a free hand sowing. 
 
 Thou didst remember well and long 
 
 Some fragments of thine angel-song, 
 
 And strive, through want and wo and wrong 
 
 To win the world unto it ; 
 Thy sin it was to see and hear 
 Beyond To-day's dim atmosphere — 
 Beyond all mists of hope and fear, 
 Into a life more true and clear. 
 
 And dearly thou didst rue it ; 
 Light of the new world thou hadst won, 
 O'erflooded by a purer sun — 
 Slowly Fate's ship came drifting on, 
 And through the dark, save thou, not one 
 
 Caught of the land a token. 
 Thou stood'st upon the farthest prow. 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 109 
 
 Something within thy soul said "Now!" 
 And leaping forth with eager brow, 
 Thou fell'st on shore heart-broken. 
 
 Long time thy brethren stood in fear; 
 Only the breakers far and near, 
 White with their anger, they could hear; 
 The sounds of land, which thy quick ear 
 
 Caught long ago, they heard not. 
 And, when at last they reached the strand, 
 They found thee lying on the sand 
 With some wild flowers in thy hand, 
 
 But thy cold bosom stirred not ; 
 They listened, but they heard no sound 
 Save from the glad life all around 
 
 A low, contented murmur. 
 The long grass flowed adown the hill, 
 A hum rose from a hidden rill. 
 But thy glad heart, which knew no ill 
 But too much love, lay dead and still — 
 The only thing that sent a chill 
 
 Into the heart of summer. 
 
 Thou didst not seek the poet's wreath 
 
 But too soon didst win it ; 
 Without 'twas green, but underneath 
 Were scorn and loneliness and death. 
 Gnawing the brain with burning teeth, 
 
 And making mock within it. 
 Thou, who wast full of nobleness, 
 Whose very life-blood 'twas to bless. 
 
 Whose soul's one law was giving, 
 Must bandy words with wickedness. 
 Haggle with hunger and distress, 
 
110 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 To win that death which worldliness 
 Calls bitterly a living. 
 
 "Thou sow'st no gold, and shalt not reap!" 
 Muttered earth, turning in her sleep; 
 "Come home to the Eternal Deep!" 
 Murmured a voice, and a wide sweep 
 Of wings through thy soul's hush did creep, 
 
 As of thy doom o'erflying; 
 It seem'd that thy strong heart would leap 
 Out of thy breast, and thou didst weep. 
 
 But not with fear of dying; 
 Men could not fathom thy deep fears. 
 They could not understand thy tears. 
 The hoarded agony of years 
 
 Of bitter self-denying. 
 So once, when high above the spheres 
 Thy spirit sought its starry peers, 
 It came not back to face the jeers 
 
 Of brothers who denied it ; 
 Star-crowned, thou dost possess the deeps 
 Of God, and thy white body sleeps 
 Where the lone pine forever keeps 
 
 Patient watch beside it. 
 
 Poet! underneath the turf. 
 
 Soft thou sleepest, free from morrow, 
 Thou hast struggled through the surf 
 
 Of wild thoughts and want and sorrow. 
 Now, beneath the moaning pine. 
 
 Full of rest, thy body lieth. 
 While far up is clear sunshine, 
 Underneath a sky divine, 
 
 Her loosed wings thy spirit trieth ; 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. Ill 
 
 Oft she strove to spread them here, 
 But they were too white and clear 
 For our dingy atmosphere. 
 
 Thy body findeth ample room 
 In its still and grassy tomb 
 
 Bylhe silent river; 
 But thy spirit found the earth 
 Narrow for the mighty birth 
 
 Which it dreamed of ever; 
 Thou wast guilty of a rhyme 
 Learned in a benigner clime, 
 And of that more grievous crime, 
 An ideal too sublime 
 
 For the low-hung sky of Time. 
 
 The calm spot where thy body lies 
 Gladdens thy soul in Paradise, 
 
 It is so still and holy ; 
 Thy body sleeps serenely there, 
 And well for it thy soul may care, 
 It was so beautiful and fair, 
 
 Lily white so wholly. 
 
 From so pure and sweet a frame 
 Thy spirit parted as it came, 
 
 Gentle as a maiden; 
 Now it lieth full of rest — 
 Sods are lighter on its breast 
 Than the great, prophetic guest 
 
 Wherewith it was laden. 
 
112 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 FANCIES ABOUT A ROSEBUD, 
 
 PRESSED IN AN OLD COPY OF SPENSER. 
 
 Who prest you here? The Past can tell, 
 When summer skies were bright above. 
 
 And some full heart did leap and swell 
 Beneath the white new moon of love. 
 
 Some Poet, haply, when the world 
 
 Showed like a calm sea, grand and blue, 
 
 Ere its cold, inky waves had curled 
 
 O'er the numb heart once warm and true; 
 
 When, with his soul brimful of morn. 
 He looked beyond the vale of Time, 
 
 Nor saw therein the dullard scorn ^ 
 
 That made his heavenliness a crime ; { 
 
 When, musing o'er the Poets olden. 
 
 His soul did like a sun upstart 
 To shoot its arrows, clear and golden. 
 
 Through slavery's cold and darksome heart. 
 
 Alas! too soon the veil is lifted 
 
 That hangs between the soul and pain, 
 
 Too soon the morning-red hath drifted 
 Into dull cloud, or fallen in rain! 
 
Pressed here by two lovers."— Page 113. 
 
 Lowell's Foenis, 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 113 
 
 Or were you prest by one who rrnrst 
 
 Bleak memories of love gone by, 
 Whose heart, like a star fallen, burst 
 
 In dark and erring vacancy? 
 
 To him you still were fresh and green 
 As when you grew upon the stalk, 
 
 And many a breezy summer scene 
 
 Came back — and many a moonlit walk ; 
 
 And there would be a hum of bees, 
 
 A smell of childhood in the air, 
 And old, fresh feelings cooled the breeze 
 
 That, like loved fingers, stirred his hair. 
 
 Then would you suddenly be blasted 
 By the keen wind of one dark thought. 
 
 One nameless woe, that had outlasted 
 The sudden blow whereby 'twas brought. 
 
 Or were you pressed here by two lovers 
 Who seemed to read these verses rare, 
 
 But found between the antique covers 
 What Spenser could not prison there: 
 
 Songs which his glorious soul had heard, 
 But his dull pen could never write, 
 
 Which flew, like some gold- winged bird. 
 Through the blue heaven out of sight? 
 
 My heart is with them as they sit, 
 
 I see the rosebud in her breast, 
 I see her small hand taking it 
 
 From out its odorous, snowy nest ; 
 
 8 Lowell 
 
114 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 I hear him swear that he will keep it, 
 
 In memory of that blessed day, 
 To smile on it or over-weep it 
 
 When she and spring are far away. 
 
 Ah me! I needs must droop my head, 
 
 And brush away a happy tear, 
 For they are gone, and, dry and dead, 
 
 The rosebud lies before me here. 
 
 Yet is it no stranger's hand, 
 
 For I will guard it tenderly, 
 And it shall be a magic wand 
 
 To bring mine own true love to me. 
 
 My heart runs o'er v/ith sweet surmises, 
 The while my fancy weaves her rhyme. 
 
 Kind hopes and musical surprises 
 
 Throng round me from the olden time. 
 
 I do not care to know who prest you : 
 
 Enough for me to feel and know 
 That some heart's love and longing blest you, 
 
 Knitting to-day with long-ago. 
 
 NEW YEAR'S EVE, 1844. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 The night is calm and beautiful; the snow 
 Sparkles beneath the clear and frosty moon 
 And the cold stars, as if it took delight 
 In its own silent whiteness; the hushed earth 
 Sleeps in the soft arms of the embracing blue. 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 115 
 
 Secure as if angelic squadrons yet 
 
 Encamped about her, and each watching star 
 
 Gained double brightness from the flashing 
 
 arms 
 Of winged and unsleeping sentinels. 
 Upward the calm of infinite silence deepens, 
 The sea that flows between high heaven and 
 
 earth, 
 Musing by whose smooth brink we sometimes 
 
 find 
 A stray leaf floated from those happier shores, 
 And hope, perchance not vainly, that some 
 
 flower, 
 Which we had watered with our holiest tears, 
 Pale blooms, and yet our scanty garden's best. 
 O'er the same ocean piloted by love, 
 May find a haven at the feet of God, 
 And be not wholly worthless in his sight. 
 
 O, high dependence on a higher Power, 
 Sole stay for all these restless faculties 
 That wander, Ishmael-like, the desert bare 
 Wherein our human knowledge hath its home, 
 Shifting their light-framed tents from day to 
 
 day. 
 With each new-found oasis, wearied soon, 
 And only certain of uncertainty! 
 O, mighty humbleness that feels with awe, 
 Yet with a vast exulting feels, no less, 
 That this huge Minister of the Universe, 
 Whose smallest oratories are glorious worlds, 
 W^ith painted oriels of dawn and sunset; 
 Whose carved ornaments are systems grand, 
 Orion kneeling in his starry niche. 
 
116 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 The Lyre whose strings give music audible 
 To holy ears, and countless splendors more, 
 Crowned by the blazing Cross high-hung o'er 
 
 all; 
 Whose organ music is the solemn stops 
 Of endless Change breathed through by end- 
 less Good ; 
 Whose choristers are all the morning stars; 
 Whose altar is the sacred human heart 
 Whereon Love's candles burn unquenchably, 
 Trimmed day and night by gentle-handed 
 
 Peace ; 
 With all its arches and its pinnacles 
 That stretch forever and forever up. 
 Is founded on the silent heart of God, 
 Silent, yet pulsing forth exhaustless life 
 Through the least veins of all created things. 
 
 Fit musings these for the departing yea,T; 
 
 And God be thanked for such a crystal night 
 
 As fills the spirit with good store of thoughts, 
 
 That, like a cheering fire of walnut, crackle 
 
 Upon the hearthstone of the heart, and cast 
 
 A mild home-glow o'er all Humanity! 
 
 Yes, though the poisoned shafts of evil doubts 
 
 Assail the skyey panoply of Faith, 
 
 Though the great hopes which we have had 
 
 for man. 
 Foes in disguise, because they based belief 
 On man's endeavor, not on God's decree — 
 Though these proud- visaged hopes, once turned 
 
 to fly, 
 Hurl backward many a deadly Parthian dart 
 That rankles in the soul and makes it sick 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 117 
 
 With vain regret, nigh verging on despair — 
 
 Yet, in such calm and earnest hours as this, 
 
 We well can feel how every living heart 
 
 That sleeps to-night in palace or in cot, 
 
 Or unroofed hovel, or which need hath known 
 
 Of other homestead than the arching sky, 
 
 Is circled watchfully with seraph fires; 
 
 How our own erring will it that hangs 
 
 The flaming sword o'er Eden's unclosed gate, 
 
 Which gives free entrance to the pure in heart 
 
 And with its guarding walls doth fence the 
 
 meek. 
 Sleep then, O Earth, in thy blue-vaulted 
 
 cradle, 
 Bent over always by thy mother Heaven! 
 We are all tall enough to reach God's hand, 
 And angels are no taller; looking back 
 Upon the smooth wake of a year o'er past. 
 We see the black clouds furling, one by one, 
 From the advancing majesty of Truth, 
 And something won for Freedom, whose least 
 
 gain 
 Is as a firm and rock-built citadel 
 Wherefrom to launch fresh battle on her foes; 
 Or, leaning from the time's extremest prow, 
 If we gaze forward through the blending spray, 
 And dimly see how much of ill remains, 
 How many fetters to be sawn asunder 
 By the slow toil of individual zeal. 
 Or haply rusted by salt tears in twain, 
 We feel, with something of a sadder heart, 
 Yet bracing up our bruised mail the while, 
 And fronting the old foe with fresher spirit, 
 How great it is to breathe with human breath, 
 
118 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 To be but poor foot-soldiers in the ranks 
 Of our old exiled king, Humanity; 
 Encamping after every hard-won field 
 Nearer and nearer Heaven's happy plains. 
 
 Many great souls have gone to rest, and sleep 
 Under this armor, free and full of peace : 
 If these have left the earth, yet Truth remains, 
 Endurance, too, the crowning faculty 
 Of noble minds, and Love, invincible 
 By any weapons; and these hem us round 
 With silence such that all the groaning clank 
 Of this mad engine men have made of earth 
 Dulls not some ears for catching purer tones, 
 That wander from the dim surrounding vast, 
 Or far more clear melodious prophecies. 
 The natural music of the heart of man. 
 Which by kind Sorrow's ministry hath learned 
 That the true sceptre of all power is love 
 And humbleness the palace-gate of truth. 
 What man with soul so blind as sees not here 
 The first faint tremble of Hope's morning-star, 
 Foretelling how the God-forged shafts of dawn, 
 Fitted already on their golden string, 
 Shall soon leap earthward with exulting flight 
 To thrid the dark heart of that evil faith 
 Whose trust is in the clumsy arms of Force, 
 The ozier hauberk of a ruder age? 
 Freedom! thou other name for happy Truth, 
 Thou warrior-maid, whose steel-clad feet were 
 
 never 
 Out of the stirrup, nor thy lance uncouched, 
 Nor thy fierce eye enticed from its watch, 
 Thou hast learned now, bj^ hero-blood in vain 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 119 
 
 Poured to enrich the soil which tyrants reap ; 
 By wasted lives of prophets, and of those 
 Who, by the promise in their souls upheld, 
 Into the red arms of a fiery death 
 Went blithely as the golden-girdled bee 
 Sinks in the sleepy poppy's cup of flame; 
 By the long woes of nations set at war, 
 That so the swollen torrent of their wrath 
 May find a vent, else sweeping off like straws 
 The thousand cobweb threads, grown cable- 
 huge 
 By time's long gathered dust, but cobwebs 
 
 still, 
 Which bind the Many that the Few may gain 
 Leisure to wither by the drought of ease 
 What heavenly germs in their own souls were 
 
 pown ; — 
 By all these searching lessons thou hast 
 
 learned 
 To throw aside thy blood-stained helm and 
 
 spear 
 And with thy bare brow daunt the enemy's 
 
 front. 
 Knowing that God will make the lily stalk, 
 In the soft grasp of naked Gentleness, 
 Stronger than iron spear to shatter through 
 The sevenfold toughness of Wrong's idle 
 
 shield. 
 
120 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 A MYSTICAL BALLAD. 
 
 The sunset scarce had dimmed away 
 Into the twilight's doubtful gray; 
 One long cloud o'er the horizon lay, 
 'Neath which, a streak of bluish white, 
 Wavered between the day and night; 
 Over the pine trees on the hill 
 The trembly evening-star did thrill 
 And the new moon, with slender rim. 
 Through the elm arches gleaming dim, 
 Filled memory's chalice to the brim. 
 
 On such an eve the heart doth grow 
 
 Full of surmise, and scarce can know 
 
 If it be now or long ago. 
 
 Or if indeed it doth exist ;^ 
 
 A wonderful enchanted mist 
 
 From the new moon doth wander out. 
 
 Wrapping all things in mystic doubt. 
 
 So that this world doth seem untrue, 
 
 And all our fancies to take hue 
 
 From some life ages since gone through. 
 
 III. 
 
 The maiden sat and heard the flow 
 Of the west wind so soft and low 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 121 
 
 The leaves scarce quivered to and fro ; 
 Unbound, her heavy golden hair 
 Rippled across her bosom bare, 
 Which gleamed with thrilling snowy white 
 Far through the magical moonlight : 
 The breeze rose with a rustling swell, 
 And from afar there came the smell 
 Of a long-forgotten lily-bell. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The dim moon rested on the hill, 
 But silent, without thought or will, 
 Where sat the dreamy maiden still; 
 And now the moon's tip, like a star, 
 Drew down below the horizon's bar; 
 To her black noon the night hath grown, 
 Yet still the maiden sits alone, 
 Pale as a corpse beneath a stream 
 And her white bosom still doth gleam 
 Through the deep midnight like a dream. 
 
 V. 
 
 Cloudless the morning came and fair, 
 
 And lavishly the sun doth share 
 
 His gold among her golden hair, 
 
 Kindling it all, till slowly so 
 
 A glory round her head doth glow ; 
 
 A withered flower is in her hand, 
 
 That grew in some far distant land, 
 
 And, silently transfigured. 
 
 With wide calm eyes, and undrooped head, 
 
 They found the stranger-maiden dead. 
 
122 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 VI. 
 
 A youth, that morn, 'neath other skies, 
 Felt sudden tears burn in his eyes, 
 And his heart throng with memories; 
 All things Without him seemed to win 
 Strange brotherhood with things within, 
 And he forever felt that he 
 Walked in the midst of mystery, 
 And thenceforth, why, he could not tell, 
 His heart would curdle at the smell 
 Of his once-cherished lily-bell. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Something from him had passed away ; 
 Some shifting trembles of clear day. 
 Through starry crannies in his clay, 
 Grew bright and steadfast, more and more, 
 Where all had been dull earth before; 
 And, through these chinks, like him of old, 
 His spirit converse high did hold 
 With clearer loves and wider powers, 
 That brought him dewy fruits and flowers 
 From far Elysian groves and bowers. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Just on the farther bound of sense, 
 
 Unproved by outward evidence. 
 
 But known by deep influence 
 
 Which through our grosser clay doth shine 
 
 With light unwaning and divine. 
 
 Beyond where highest thought can fly 
 
 Stretcheth the world of Mystery — 
 
 And they not greatly overween 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 123 
 
 Who deem that nothing true hath been 
 Save the unspeakable Unseen. 
 
 IX. 
 
 One step beyond life's work-day things, 
 One more beat of the soul's broad wings, 
 One deeper sorrow sometimes brings 
 The spirit into that great Vast 
 Where neither future is nor past; 
 None knoweth how he entered there. 
 But, waking, finds his spirit where 
 He thought an angel could not soar. 
 And, what he called false dreams before 
 The very air about his door. 
 
 X. 
 
 These outward seemings are but shows 
 
 Whereby the body sees and knows; 
 
 Far down beneath, forever flows 
 
 A stream of subtlest sympathies 
 
 That make our spirits strangely wise 
 
 In awe, and fearful bodings dim 
 
 Which, from the sense's outer rim, 
 
 Stretch forth beyond our thought and sight, 
 
 Fine arteries of circling light, 
 
 Pulsed outward from the Infinite. 
 
121 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 OPENING POEM TO i 
 
 A YEAR'S LIFE. | 
 
 Hope first the youthful Poet leads, ,1 
 
 And he is glad to follow her; '] 
 Kind is she, and to all his needs 
 
 With a free hand doth minister. ^ 
 
 But, when sweet Hope at last hath fled, 
 Cometh her sister, Memory: 
 
 She wreaths Hope's garlands round her head, ■ 
 
 And strives to seem as fair as she. \ 
 
 Then Hope comes back, and by the hand \ 
 
 She leads a child most fair to see, \ 
 
 V/ho with a joyous face doth stand ^ 
 
 Uniting Hope and Memory. j 
 
 So brighter grew the Earth around, : 
 
 And bluer grew the sky above; \ 
 
 The Poet now is guide hath found, • [ 
 And follows in the steps of Love. 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 125 
 
 DEDICATION 
 
 TO VOLUME OF POEMS ENTITLED 
 
 A YEAR'S LIFE. 
 
 The ^^entle Una I have loved, 
 
 The snowy maiden, pure and mild 
 
 Since ever by her side I roved, 
 
 Through ventures strange, a wondering child, 
 
 In fantasy a Red Cross Knight, 
 
 Burning for her dear sake to fight. 
 
 If there be one who can, like her, 
 Make sunshine in life's shady places, 
 One in whose holy bosom stir 
 As many gentle household graces — 
 And such I think there needs must be — 
 Will she accept this book from me? 
 
 THRENODIA. 
 
 Gone, gone from us! and shall we see 
 
 Those sybil-leaves of destiny. 
 
 Those calm eyes, nevermore? 
 
 Those deep, dark eyes so warm and bright, 
 
 Wherein the fortunes of the man 
 
 Lay slumbering in prophetic light, 
 
 In characters a child might scan? 
 
126 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 So bright, and gone forth utterly? 
 O stern word— Nevermore! 
 
 The stars of those two gentle eyes 
 Will shine no more on earth; 
 Quenched are the hopes that had their birth, 
 As we watched them slowly rise, 
 Stars of a mother's fate; 
 And she would read them o'er and o'er, 
 Pondering, as she sate, 
 Over their dear astrology, 
 Which she had conned and conned before, 
 Deeming she needs must read aright 
 What was writ so passing bright. 
 And yet, alas! she knew not why, 
 Her voice would falter in its song, 
 And tears would slide from out her eye. 
 Silent, as they were doing wrong. 
 Her heart was like a windflower, bent 
 Even to breaking with the balmy dew, 
 Turning its heavenly nourishment 
 (That filled with tears its eyes of blue. 
 Like a sweet suppliant that weeps in prayer, 
 Making her innocency show more fair 
 Albeit unwitting of the ornament,) 
 Into a load too great for it to bear: 
 
 stern word — Nevermore ! 
 
 The tongue, that scarce had learned to claim 
 An entrance to a mother's heart 
 By that dear talisman, a mother's name, 
 Sleeps all forgetful of its art! 
 
 1 loved to see the infant soul 
 (How mighty in the weakness 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 127 
 
 Of its untutored meekness!) 
 
 Peep timidly from out its nest, 
 
 His lips, the while. 
 
 Fluttering with half-fledged words, 
 
 Or hushing to a smile 
 
 That more than words expressed. 
 
 When his glad mother on him stole 
 
 And snatched him to her breast! 
 
 O, thoughts were brooding in those eyes. 
 
 That would have soared like strong- winged 
 
 birds 
 Far, far into the skies, 
 Gladdening the earth with song 
 And gushing harmonies, 
 ■Had he but tarried with us long! 
 O stern word — Nevermore ! 
 
 How peacefully they rest, 
 Crossfolded there 
 Upon his little breast, 
 Those small, white hands that ne'er were still 
 
 before, 
 But ever sported with his mother's hair, 
 Or the plain cross that on her breast she wore? 
 Her heart no more will beat 
 To feel the touch of that soft palm, 
 That ever seemed a new surprise 
 Sending glad thoughts up to her eyes 
 To bless him with their holy calm — 
 Sweet thoughts ! they made her eyes as sweet. 
 How quiet are the hands 
 That wove those pleasant bands! 
 But that they do not rise and sink 
 With his calm breathing, I should think 
 
\ 
 i 
 
 128 LOWELL'S POEMS. ; 
 
 That he were dropped asleep; \ 
 
 Alas! too deep, too deep [ 
 
 Is this his slumber! j 
 
 Time scarce can number j 
 
 The years ere he will wake again — : 
 
 O, may we see his eyelids open then! s 
 
 O stern word — Nevermore ! 1 
 
 As the airy gossamere, 
 Floating in the sunlight clear, 
 Where'er it toucheth clinging tightly ; 
 
 Round glossy leaf or stump unsightly, ! 
 
 So from his spirit wandered out ] 
 
 Tendrils spreading all about, 
 Knitting all things to its thrall ■] 
 
 With a perfect love of all : 
 O stern word — Nevermore ! 
 
 He did but float a little way 
 Adown the stream of time, 
 
 With dreamy eyes watching the ripples play, j 
 Or listening to their fairy chime; ] 
 
 His slender sail j 
 
 Ne'er felt the gale; \ 
 
 He did but float a little way, j 
 
 And, putting to the shore j 
 
 While yet 't was early day, ; 
 
 Went calmly on his way, j 
 
 To dwell with us no more ! J 
 
 No jarring did he feel, i 
 
 No grating on his vessel's keel; 
 A strip of silver sand j 
 
 Mingled the waters with the land 
 Where he was seen no more : 1 
 
 O stem word — Nevermore ! 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 129 
 
 Full short his journey was: no dust 
 Of earth unto his sandals clave ; 
 The weary weight that old men must, 
 He bore not to the grave. 
 He seemed a cherub who had lost his way 
 And wandered hither, so his stay 
 With us was short, and 't was most meet 
 That he should be no delver in Earth's clod, 
 Nor need to pause and cleanse his feet 
 To stand before his God: 
 O blest word — Evermore ! 
 
 THE SERENADE. 
 
 Gentle, Lady, be thy sleeping, 
 Peaceful may thy dreamings be, 
 While around thy soul is sweeping, 
 Dreamy- winged, our melod}^; 
 Chant we. Brothers, sad and slow, 
 Let our song be soft and low 
 As the voice of other years. 
 Let our hearts within us melt, 
 To gentleness, as if we felt 
 The dropping of our mother's tears. 
 
 Lady! now our song is bringing 
 Back again thy childhood's hours — 
 Hearest thou the humbee singing 
 Drowsily among the flowers? 
 Sleepily, sleepily 
 In the noontide swa)^eth he, 
 Half rested on the slender stalks 
 That edge those well-known garden walks; 
 
 9 Lowell 
 
130 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Hearest thou the fitful whirring- 
 Of the humbird's viewless wings — 
 Feel'st not round thy heart the stirring 
 Of childhood's half-forgotten things? 
 
 Seest thou the dear old dwelling 
 With the woodbine round the door? 
 Brothers, soft! her breast is swelling 
 With the busy thoughts of yore ; 
 Lowly sing ye, sing ye mildly, 
 Rouse her spirit not so wildly, 
 Lest she sleep not any more. 
 'Tis the pleasant summertide, 
 Open stands the window wide — 
 Whose voices, Lady, art thou drinking? 
 Who sings that best beloved tune 
 In a clear note, rising, sinking. 
 Like a thrush's song in June? 
 Whose laugh is that which rings so clear 
 And joyous in thine eager ear? 
 
 Lower, Brothers, yet more low 
 Weave the song in mazy twines; 
 She heareth now the west wind blow 
 At evening through the clump of pines; 
 O ! mournful is their tone, 
 As of a crazed thing 
 Who, to herself alone, 
 Is ever murmuring. 
 
 Through the night and through the day, 
 For something that hath past away. 
 Often, Lady, hast thou listened, 
 Often have thy blue eyes glistened, 
 When the summer evening breeze 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 131 
 
 Moaned sadly through those lonely trees, 
 
 Or with the fierce wind from the north 
 
 Wrung their mournful music forth. 
 
 Ever the river floweth 
 
 In an unbroken stream, 
 
 Ever the west wind bloweth, 
 
 Murmuring as he goeth, 
 
 And mingling with her dream: 
 
 Onward still the river sweepeth 
 
 With a sound of long-agone; 
 
 Lowly, Brothers, lo! she weepeth, 
 
 She is now no more alone; 
 
 Long-loved forms and long-loved faces 
 
 Round about her pillow throng. 
 
 Through her memory's desert places 
 
 Flow the waters of our song. 
 
 Lady! if thy life be holy 
 
 As when thou wert yet a child. 
 
 Though our song be melancholy, 
 
 It will stir no anguish wild ; 
 
 For the soul that hath lived well. 
 
 For the soul that child-like is, 
 
 There is quiet in the spell 
 
 That brings back early memories. 
 
132 LOWELL'S POEMS 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Lift up the curtains of thine eyes 
 And let their light out-shine ! 
 
 Let me adore the mysteries 
 Of those mild orbs of thine, 
 
 Which ever queenly calm do roll, 
 
 Attuned to an ordered soul! 
 
 Open thy lips yet once again 
 And, while my soul doth hush 
 
 With awe, pour forth that holy strain 
 Which seemeth me to gush, 
 
 A fount of music, running o'er 
 
 From thy deep spirit's inmost core! 
 
 III. 
 
 The melody that dwells in thee 
 
 Begets in me as well 
 A spiritual harmony, 
 
 A mild and blessed spell; 
 Far, far above earth's atmosphere 
 I rise, whene'er thy voice I hear. 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 133 
 
 THE DEPARTED. 
 
 Not they alone are the departed, 
 Who have laid them down to sleep 
 In the grave narrow and lonely, 
 Not for them only do I vigils keep, 
 Not for them only am I heavy-hearted, 
 Not for them only ! 
 
 Many, many, there are many 
 Who no more are with me here. 
 As cherished, as beloved as any 
 Whom I have seen upon the bier. 
 I weep to think of those old faces. 
 To see them in their grief of mirth ; 
 I weep — for there are empty places 
 Around my heart's once crowded hearth; 
 The cold ground doth not cover them. 
 The grass hath not grown over them, 
 Yet are they gone from me on earth ; — 
 O ! how more bitter is this weeping. 
 Than for those lost ones who are sleeping 
 Where sun will shine and flowers blow. 
 Where gentle winds will whisper low, 
 And the stars have them in their keeping! 
 Wherefore from me who loved you so, 
 O! wherefore did ye go? 
 I have shed full many a tear, 
 I have wrestled oft in prayer — 
 
134 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 But ye do not come again ; 
 How could anything so dear, 
 How could anything so fair, 
 Vanish like the summer rain? 
 No, no, it cannot be, 
 But ye are still with me ! 
 
 And yet, O ! where art thou, 
 Childhood, with sunny brow 
 And floating hair? 
 Where art thou hiding now? 
 I have sought thee everywhere, 
 All among the shrubs and flowers 
 'Of those garden- walks of ours — 
 Thou art not there ! 
 When the shadow of Night's wings 
 Hath darkened all the Earth, 
 I listen for thy gambolings 
 Beside the cheerful hearth — 
 Thou art not there ! 
 I listen to the far-off bell, 
 I murmur o'er the little songs 
 Which thou didst love so well. 
 Pleasant memories come in throngs 
 And mine eyes are blurred with tears, 
 But no glimpse of thee appears : 
 Lonely am I in the Winter, lonely in the Spring, 
 Summer and Harvest bring no trace of thee — 
 Oh! whither, whither art thou wandering. 
 Thou who didst once so cleave to me? 
 
 And Love is gone, — 
 I have seen him come, 
 I have seen him, too, depart, 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 135 
 
 Leaving desolate his home, 
 
 His bright home in my heart. 
 
 I am alone ! 
 
 Cold, cold is his hearth-stone, 
 
 Wide open stands the door ; 
 
 The frolic and the gentle one 
 
 Shall I see no more, no more? 
 
 At the fount the bowl is broken, 
 
 I shall drink it not again, 
 
 All my longing prayers are spoken, 
 
 And felt, ah, woe is me, in vain! 
 
 Oh, childish hopes and childish fancies, 
 
 Whither have ye fled away? 
 
 I long for you in mournful trances, 
 
 I long for you by night and day; 
 
 Beautiful thoughts that once were mine. 
 
 Might I but win you back once more, 
 
 Might ye about my being twine 
 
 And cluster as ye did of yore! 
 
 O! do not let me pray in vain — 
 
 How good and happy I should be. 
 
 How free from every shade of pain, 
 
 If ye would come again to me ! 
 
 O, come again! come, come again! 
 
 Hath the sun forgot its brightness, 
 
 Have the stars forgot to shine, 
 
 That they bring not their wonted lightness 
 
 To this weary heart of mine? 
 
 'Tis not the sun that shone on thee, 
 
 Happy childhood, long ago — 
 
 Not the same stars silently 
 
 Looking on the same bright snow — 
 
 Not the same that Love and I 
 
136 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Together watched in days gone by ! 
 No, not the same, alas for me! 
 
 Would God that those who early went 
 To the house dark and low, 
 For whom our mourning heads were bent, 
 For whom our steps were slow ; 
 O, would that these alone had left us, 
 That Fate of these alone had reft us. 
 Would God indeed that it were so ! 
 Many leaves too soon must wither, 
 Many flowers too soon must die, 
 Many bright ones wandering hither. 
 We know not whence, we know not why, 
 Like the leaves and like the flowers. 
 Vanish, ere the summer hours, 
 That brought them to us, have gone by. 
 
 O for the hopes and for the feelings, 
 Childhood, that I stared with thee — 
 The high resolves, the bright revealings 
 Of the soul's might, which thou gav'st me. 
 Gentle love, woe worth the day. 
 Woe worth the hour when thou wert born, 
 Woe worth the day thou fled'st away — 
 A shade across the wind-waved corn — 
 A dewdrop falling from the leaves 
 Chance-shaken in a summer's morn! 
 Woe, woe is me ! my sick heart grieves, 
 Companionless and anguish-worn! 
 I know it well, our manly years 
 Must be baptized in bitter tears; 
 Full many fountains must run dry 
 That youth has dreamed for long hours by» 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 137 
 
 Choked by convention's siroc blast 
 Or drifting sands of many cares ; 
 Slowly they leave us all at last, 
 And cease their flowing unawares. 
 
 THE BOBOLINK. 
 
 Anacreon of the meadow, 
 Drunk with the joy of spring! 
 Beneath the tall pine's voiceful shadow 
 I lie and drink thy jargoning; 
 My soul is full with melodies, 
 One drop would overflow it, 
 And send the tears into mine eyes — 
 But what car'st thou to know it? 
 Thy heart is free as mountain air, 
 And of thy lays thou hast no care, 
 Scattering them gaily everywhere, 
 Happy, unconscious poet! 
 
 Upon a tuft of meadow grass. 
 While thy loved-one tends the nest, 
 Thou swayest as the breezes pass, 
 Unburthening thine o'erfuU breast 
 Of the crowded songs that fill it. 
 Just as joy may choose to will it. 
 Lord of thy love and liberty, 
 The blithest bird of merry May, 
 Thou turnest thy bright eyes on me. 
 That say as plain as eye can say — 
 "Here sit we, here in the summer weather, 
 I and my modest mate together ; 
 Whatever your wise thoughts may be, 
 
138 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Under that gloomy old pine tree, 
 We do not value them a feather " 
 
 Now, leaving earth and me behind, 
 
 Thou beatest up against the wind, 
 
 Or, floating slowly down before it. 
 
 Above thy grass-hid nest thou flutterest 
 
 And thy bridal love-song utterest. 
 
 Raining showers of music o'er it, 
 
 Weary never, still thou trillest. 
 
 Spring-gladsome lays, 
 
 As of moss-rimmed water-brooks 
 
 Murmuring through pebbly nooks 
 
 In quiet summer days. 
 
 My heart with happiness thou fillest, 
 
 I seem again to be a boy 
 
 Watching thee, gay, blithsome lover, 
 
 O'er the bending grass-tops hover, 
 
 Quivering thy wings for joy. 
 
 There's something in the apple blossom, 
 
 The greening grass and bobolink's song. 
 
 That wakes again within my bosom 
 
 Feelings which have slumbered long. 
 
 As long, long years ago I wandered, 
 
 I seem to wander even yet. 
 
 The hours the idle school-boy squandered, 
 
 The man would die ere he'd forget. 
 
 hours that frosty eld deemed wasted, 
 Nodding his gray head toward my books, 
 
 1 dearer prize the lore I tasted 
 
 With you, among the trees and brooks. 
 Than all that I have gained since then 
 From learned books or study-withered men ! 
 Nature, thy soul was one with mine. 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 139 
 
 And, as a sister by a younger brother 
 
 Is loved, each flowing to the other, 
 
 Such love from me was thine. 
 
 Or wert thou not more like a loving mother 
 
 With sympathy and loving power to heal, 
 
 Against whose heart my throbbing heart I'd 
 
 lay 
 And moan my childish sorrows all away, 
 Till calm and holiness would o'er me steal? 
 Was not the golden sunset a dear friend? 
 Found I no kindness in the silent moon, 
 And the green trees, whose tops did sway 
 
 and bend, 
 Low singing evermore their pleasant tune? 
 Felt I no heart in dim and solemn woods — 
 No loved-one's voice in lonely solitudes? 
 Yes, yes! unhoodwinked then my spirit's 
 
 eyes, 
 Blind leaders had not taught me to be wise. 
 
 Dear hours! which now again I o/er-live, 
 Hearing and seeing with ears and eyes 
 Of childhood, ye were bees, that to the hive 
 Of my young heart came laden with rich 
 
 prize. 
 Gathered in fields and woods and sunny 
 
 dells, to be 
 My spirit's food in days more wintery. 
 Yea, yet again ye come ! ye come ! 
 And, like a child once more at home 
 After long sojourning in alien climes, 
 I lie upon my mother's breast. 
 Feeling the blessedness of rest. 
 And dwelling in the light of other times. 
 
140 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 O ye whose living is not Life, 
 
 Whose dying is but death. 
 
 Song, empty toil and petty strife, 
 
 Rounded with loss of breath ! 
 
 Go, look on Nature's countenance, 
 
 Drink in the blessing of her glance; 
 
 Look on the sunset, hear the wind, 
 
 The cataract, the awful thunder; 
 
 Go, worship by the sea; 
 
 Then, and then only, shall ye find, 
 
 With ever-growing wonder, 
 
 Man is not all in all to ye ; 
 
 Go with a meek and humble soul, 
 
 Then shall the scales of self unroll 
 
 From off your eyes — the weary packs 
 
 Drop from your heavy-laden backs ; 
 
 And ye shall see. 
 
 With reverent and hopeful eyes. 
 
 Glowing with new-born energies, 
 
 How great a thing it is to be ! 
 
 FORGETFULNESS. 
 
 There's a haven of sure rest 
 
 From the loud world's bewildering stress; 
 As a bird dreaming on her nest. 
 As dew hid in a rose's breast. 
 As Hesper in the glowing West; 
 So the heart sleeps 
 In thy calm deeps. 
 Serene Forgetfulness ! 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 141 
 
 ^Jo sorrow in that place may be, 
 
 The noise of life grows less and less: 
 ^s moss far down within the sea, 
 \s, in white lily caves, a bee, 
 \s life in a hazy reverie ; 
 So the heart's wave 
 In thy dim cave. 
 Hushes, Forgetf ulness ! 
 
 Duty and care fade far away. 
 
 What toil may be we cannot guess; 
 \s a ship anchored in the bay, 
 ^s a cloud at summer-noon astray 
 \s water-blooms in a breezeless day, 
 So, 'neath thine eyes. 
 The full heart lies. 
 And dreams, Forgetf ulness ! 
 
 SONG. 
 
 What reck I of the stars, when I 
 
 May gaze into thine eyes. 
 O'er which the brown hair flowingly 
 
 Is parted maidenwise 
 From thy pale forehead, calm and bright, 
 Over thy cheek so rosy white? 
 
 II. 
 
 What care I for the red moon-rise? 
 
 Far liefer would I sit 
 And watch the joy within thine eyes 
 
142 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Gush up at sight of it; 
 
 Thyself my queenly moon shall be, 
 Ruling my heart's deep tides for me I 
 
 III. 
 
 What heed I if the sky be blue? 
 
 So are thy holy eyes, 
 And bright with shadows ever new 
 
 Of changeful sympathies, 
 Which in thy soul's unruffled deep 
 Rest evermore, but never sleep. 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 He who hath felt Life's mystery 
 
 Press on him like thick night, 
 Whose soul hath known no history 
 
 But struggling after light; — ■ 
 He who hath seen dim shapes arise 
 
 In the soundless depths of soul. 
 Which gaze on him with meaning eyes 
 
 Full of the mighty whole, 
 Yet will no word of healing sp^ak^ 
 
 Although he pray night-long, 
 *'0, help me, save me! I am weak^ 
 
 And ye are wondrous strong!" — 
 Who, in the midnight dark and deep, 
 
 Hath felt a voice of might 
 Come echoing through the halls of sleep 
 
 From the lone heart of Night, 
 And, starting from his restless bed,, 
 
 Hath watched and wept to know 
 What meant that oracle of dread 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 143 
 
 That stirred his beinof so ; 
 He who hath felt how strong and great 
 
 This Godlike soul of man, 
 And looked full in the eyes of Fate, 
 
 Since Life and Thought began; 
 The armor of whose mo\reless trust 
 
 Knoweth no spot of weakness, 
 Who hath trod fear into the dust 
 
 Beneath the feet of meekness; — 
 He who hath calmly borne his cross, 
 
 Knowing himself the king 
 Of time, nor counted it a loss 
 
 To learn by suffering; — 
 And who hath worshiped woman still 
 
 With a pure soul and lowly, 
 Nor ever hath in deed or will 
 
 Profaned her temple holy — 
 He is the Poet, him unto 
 
 The gift of song is given, 
 Whose life is lofty, strong, and true, 
 
 Who never fell from Heaven; 
 He is the Poet, from his lips 
 
 To live forevermore, 
 Majestical as full-sailed ships. 
 
 The words of Wisdom pour. 
 
 FLOWERS. 
 
 'Hail be thou, holie hearbe, 
 Grovv^ing on the ground, 
 
 All in the mount Calvary 
 First wert thou found ; 
 
144 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Thou art good for manie a sore, 
 Thou healest manie a wound, 
 In the name of sweete Jesus 
 I take thee from the ground." 
 
 — Ancient Charm-verse. 
 
 When, from a pleasant ramble, home 
 
 Fresh-stored with quiet thoughts, I come, 
 
 I pluck some wayside flower 
 
 And press it in the choicest nook 
 
 Of a much-loved and oft-read book ; 
 
 And, when upon its leaves I look 
 
 In a less happy hour, 
 
 Dear memory bears me far away 
 
 Unto her fairy bower. 
 
 And on her breast my head I lay, 
 
 While, in a motherly, sweet strain, 
 
 She sings me gently back again 
 
 To by-gone feelings, until they 
 
 Seem children born of yesterday. 
 
 II. 
 
 Yes, many story of past hours 
 
 I read in these dear withered flowers, 
 
 And once again I seem to be 
 
 Lying beneath the old oak tree, 
 
 And looking up into the sky. 
 
 Through thick leaves rifted fitfully. 
 
 Lulled by the rustling of the vine, 
 
 Or the faint low of far-off kine; 
 
 And once again I seem 
 
 To watch the whirling bubbles flee. 
 
 Through shade and gleam alternately, 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 145 
 
 Down the vine-bowered stream ; 
 Or 'neath the odorous linden trees, 
 When Slimmer twilight lingers long, 
 To hear the flowing of the breeze 
 And unseen insects' slumberous song, 
 That mingle into one and seem 
 Like dim murmurs of a dream ; 
 Fair faces, too, I seem to see, 
 Smiling, from pleasant eyes at me, 
 And voices sweet I hear, 
 That, like remembered melody, 
 Flow through my spirit's ear. 
 
 III. 
 
 A poem every flower is, 
 And every leaf a line, 
 And with delicious memories 
 They fill this heart of mine : 
 No living blossoms are so clear. 
 As these dead relics treasured here ; 
 One tells of love, of friendship one, 
 Love's quiet after-sunset time, 
 When the all-dazzling light is gone, 
 And, with the soul's low vesper-chime, 
 O'er half its heaven doth out-flow 
 A holy calm and steady glow. 
 Some are gay feast-song, some are dirges, 
 In some a joy with sorrow merges ; 
 One sings the shadowed woods, and one the 
 
 roar 
 Of ocean's everlasting surges, 
 Tumbling upon the beach's hard-beat floor, 
 Or sliding backward from the shore 
 
 10 Lowell 
 
146 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 To meet the landward waves and slowly plunge 
 
 once more. 
 O flowers of grace, I bless ye all 
 By the dear faces ye recall ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Upon the banks of Life's deep streams 
 
 Full many a flower groweth, 
 
 Which with a wondrous fragrance teems, 
 
 And in the silent water gleams, 
 
 And trembles as the water floweth, 
 
 Many a one the wave upteareth, 
 
 Washing ever the roots av/ay, 
 
 And far upon its bosom beareth, 
 
 To bloom no more in Youth's glad May; 
 
 As farther on the river runs, 
 
 Flowing more deep and strong, 
 
 Only a few pale, scattered ones 
 
 Are seen the dreary banks along; 
 
 And where those flowers do not grow, 
 
 The river floweth dark and chill. 
 
 Its voice is sad, and with its flow 
 
 Mingles ever a sense of ill; 
 
 Then, Poet, thou who gather dost 
 
 Of Life's best flowers the brightest, 
 
 O, take good heed they be not lost 
 
 While with the angry flood thou fightest! 
 
 v. 
 
 In the cool grottoes of the soul, 
 
 Whence flows thoug^ht's crystal river, 
 
 Wher^ce songs of joy forever roll 
 
 To Him who is the Giver — 
 
 There store thou them, where fresh and green 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 141 
 
 Their leaves and blossoms may be seen, 
 
 A spring of joy that faileth never ; 
 
 There store thou them, and they shall be 
 
 A blessing and a peace to thee. 
 
 And in their youth and purity 
 
 Thou shalt be young forever! 
 
 Then, with their fragrance rich and rare, 
 
 Thy living shall be rife, 
 
 Strength shall be thine thy cross to bear, 
 
 And they shall be a chaplet fair. 
 
 Breathing a pure and holy air, 
 
 To crown thy holy life. 
 
 VI. 
 
 O Poet! above all men blest. 
 
 Take heed that thus thou store them ; 
 
 Love, Hope and Faith shall ever rest, 
 
 Sweet birds (upon how sweet a nest!) 
 
 Watchfully brooding o'er them. 
 
 And from those flowers of Paradise 
 
 Scatter thou many a blessed seed, 
 
 Wherefrom an offspring may arise 
 
 To cheer the hearts and light the eyes 
 
 Of after-voyagers in their need. 
 
 They shall not fall on stony ground. 
 
 But, yielding all their hundred-fold. 
 
 Shall shed a peacefulness around, 
 
 Whose strengthening joy may not be told. 
 
 So shall thy name be blest of all. 
 
 And thy remembrance never die ; 
 
 For of that seed shall surely fall 
 
 In the fair garden of Eternity. 
 
 Exult then in the nobleness 
 
 Of this thy work so holy, 
 
148 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Yet be not thou one jot the less 
 
 Humble and meek and lowly, 
 
 But let thine exultation be 
 
 The reverence of a bended knee; 
 
 And by thy life a poem write, 
 
 Built strongly day by day — 
 
 And on the rock of Truth and Right 
 
 Its deep foundations lay. 
 
 VII. 
 
 It is thy duty! Guard it well! 
 
 For unto thee hath much been given, 
 
 And thou canst make this life a Hell, 
 
 Or Jacob's-ladder up to Heaven. 
 
 Let not thy baptism in Life's wave 
 
 Make thee like him whom Homer sings — I 
 
 A sleeper in a living grave, 
 
 Callous and hard to outward things; ' 
 
 But open all thy soul and sense 
 
 To every blessed influence 
 
 That from the heart of Nature springs: 
 
 Then shall thy Life-flowers be to thee, 
 
 When thy best years are told. 
 
 As much as these have been to me — 
 
 Yea, xHore, a thousand-fold! 
 
 THE LOVER. 
 
 Go roam the world from East to West, 
 Search every land beneath the sky, 
 You cannot find a man so blest, 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 149 
 
 A king so powerful as I, 
 
 Though you should seek eternally. 
 
 II. 
 
 For I a gentle lover be. 
 Sitting at my loved-one's side; 
 She giveth her whole soul to me 
 Without a wish or thought of pride, 
 And she shall be my cherished bride. 
 
 III. 
 
 No show of gaudiness hath she, 
 She doth not flash with jewels rare; 
 In beautiful simplicity 
 She weareth leafy garlands fair, 
 Or modest flowers in her hair. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Sometimes she dons a robe of green, 
 Sometimes a robe of snowy white. 
 But, in whatever garb she's seen. 
 It seems most beautiful and right. 
 And is the loveliest to my sight. 
 
 Not I her lover am alone. 
 Yet unto all she doth suffice, 
 None jealous is, and every one 
 Reads love and truth within her eyes, 
 And deemeth her his own dear prize. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And so thou art, Eternal Nature ! 
 Yes, bride of Heaven, so thou art; 
 
150 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Thou wholly lovest every creature, 
 Giving to each no stinted part, 
 But filling every peaceful heart. 
 
 TO E. W. G. 
 
 **Dear Child! dear happy Girl! if thou appear 
 Heedless — untouched with awe or serious 
 
 thought, 
 Thy nature is not therefore less divine: 
 Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year; 
 And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine, 
 God being with thee when we know it not." 
 
 — Wordsworth. 
 
 As throuo^h a strip of sunny light 
 
 A white dove flashes swiftly on. 
 
 So suddenly before my sight 
 
 Thou gleamed'st a moment and wert gone; 
 
 And yet I long shall bear in mind 
 
 The pleasant thoughts thou left'st behind. 
 
 Thou mad'st me happy with thine eyes, 
 And happy with thine open smile, 
 And, as I write, sweet memories 
 Come thronging round me all the while; 
 Thou mad'st me happy with thine eyes — 
 And gentle feelings long forgot 
 Looked up and oped their eyes, 
 Like violets when they see a spot 
 Of summer in the skies. 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 151 
 
 Around thy playful lips did glitter 
 Heat-lightnings of a girlish scorn; 
 Harmless they were, for nothing bitter 
 In thy dear heart was ever born — 
 That merry heart that could not lie 
 Within its warm nest quietly, 
 But ever from its each full, dark eye 
 Was looking kindly night and morn. 
 
 There was an archness in thine eyes, 
 Born of the gentlest mockeries, 
 And thy light laughter rang as clear 
 As water-drops I loved to hear 
 In days of boyhood, as they fell 
 Tinkling far down the dim, still well; 
 And with its sound come back once more 
 The feelings of my early years. 
 And half aloud I murmured o'er — 
 "Sure I have heard that sound before, 
 It is so pleasant in mine ears." 
 
 Whenever thou didst look on me 
 I thought of merry birds, 
 And something of spring's melody 
 Came to me in thy words; 
 Thy thoughts did dance and bound along 
 Like happy children in their play, 
 Whose hearts run over into song 
 For gladness of the summer's day; 
 And mine grew dizzy with the sight. 
 Still feeling lighter and more light. 
 Till, joining hands, they whirled away. 
 As blithe and merrily as they. 
 
152 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 I bound a larch-twig round with flowers, 
 Which thou didst twine among thy hair, 
 And gladsome were the few, short hours 
 When I was with thee there ; 
 So now that thou art far away. 
 Safe-nested in thy warmer clime, 
 In memory of a happier day 
 I twine this simple wreath of rhyme. 
 
 Dost mind how she, whom thou dost lov© 
 More than in light words may be said, 
 A coronal of amaranth wove 
 About thy duly-sobered head, 
 Which kept itself a moment still 
 That she might have her gentle will 
 Thy childlike grace and purity 
 O keep forevermore, 
 And as thou art, still strive to be. 
 That on the farther shore 
 Of Time's dark waters ye may meet, 
 And she may twine around thy brow 
 A wreath of those bright flowers that grow 
 Where blessed angels set their feet! 
 
 ISABEL. 
 
 As the leaf upon the tree, 
 
 Fluttering, gleaming constantly, 
 
 Such a lightsome thing was she, 
 
 My gay and gentle Isabel ! 
 
 Her heart was fed with love-springs sweet, 
 
 And in her face you'd see it beat 
 
 To hear the sound of welcome feet — 
 
 And were not mine so, Isabel? 
 
LOWELL S POEMS. 153 
 
 She knev/ it not, but she v/as fair, 
 And like a moonbeam was her hair, 
 That falls where flowing ripples are 
 In summer evenings, Isabel! 
 Her heart and tongue were scarce apart, 
 Unwittingly her lips would part, 
 And love came gushing from her heart. 
 The woman's heart of IsabeL 
 
 So pure her flesh-garb, and like dew. 
 That in her features glimmered through 
 Each working of her spirit true, 
 In wondrous beauty, Isabel! 
 A sunbeam struggling through thick leaves, 
 A reaper's song 'mid yellow sheaves. 
 Less gladsome were ; — my spirit grieves 
 To think of thee, mild Isabel! 
 
 I know not when I loved thee first; 
 Not loving, I had been accurst. 
 Yet, having loved, my heart will burst, 
 Longing for thee, dear Isabel! 
 With silent tears my cheeks are wet, 
 I would be calm, I would forget, 
 But thy blue eyes gaze on me yet. 
 When stars have risen, Isabel. 
 
 The winds mourn for thee, Isabel, 
 The flowers expect thee in the dell, 
 Thy gentle spirit loved them well, 
 And i for thy sake, Isabel! 
 The sunsets seem less lovely now 
 Than when, leaf checkered, on thy brow 
 They fell as lovingly as thou 
 Lingered'st till moon-rise, Isabel! 
 
154 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 At dead of night I seem to see 
 Thy fair, pale features constantly 
 Upturned in silent prayer for me, 
 O'er moveless clasped hands, Isabel! 
 I call thee, thou dost not reply; 
 The stars gleam coldly on thine eye, 
 As like a dream thou flittest by, 
 And leav'st me weeping, Isabel! 
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 I seem to lie with drooping eyes, 
 
 Dreaming sweet dreams. 
 Half longings and half memories, 
 
 In woods where streams 
 With trembling shades and whirling gleams, 
 
 Many and bright, 
 
 In song and light, 
 
 Are ever, ever flowing ; 
 While the wind, if we list to the rustling grass 
 Which numbers his footsteps as they pass, 
 
 Seems scarcely to be blowing; 
 And the far-heard voice of Spring, 
 From sunny slopes comes wandering. 
 Calling the violets from the sleep, 
 That bound them under the snow-drifts deep, 
 To open their childlike, asking eyes 
 ■On the new summer's paradise. 
 And mingled with the gurgling waters — 
 
 As the dreamy witchery 
 'Of Acheloiis' silver-voiced dauofhters 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 155 
 
 Rose and fell with the heaving sea, 
 Whose great heart swelled with ecstasy — 
 The song of many a floating bird, 
 
 Winding through the rifted trees, 
 Is dreamily half-heard — 
 
 A sister stream of melodies 
 Rippled by the flutterings 
 Of rapture-quivered wings. 
 
 II. 
 
 And now beside a cataract 
 I lie, and through my soul, 
 From over me and under, 
 The never-ceasing thunder 
 Arousingly doth roll; 
 Through the darkness all compact, 
 Through the trackless sea of gloom, 
 Sad and deep I hear it boom ; 
 At intervals the cloud is cracked 
 And a livid flesh doth hiss 
 
 Downward from its floating home. 
 Lighting up the precipice 
 
 And the never-resting foam 
 With a dim and ghastly glare, 
 Which, for a heart-beat, in the air, 
 
 Shows the sweeping shrouds 
 
 Of the midnight clouds 
 And their wildly-scattered hair. 
 
 III. 
 
 Now listening to a woman's tone, 
 In a wood I sit alone — 
 Alone because our souls are one • — 
 All around my heart it flows, 
 
158 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Lulling me in deep repose ; 
 
 I fear to speak, I fear to move, 
 
 Lest I should break the spell I love — 
 
 Low and gentle, calm and clear, 
 
 Into my inmost soul it goes, 
 
 As if my brother dear, 
 
 Who is no longer here, 
 
 Had bended from the sky 
 
 And murm.ured in my ear 
 
 A strain of that high harmony, 
 
 Which they may sing alone 
 
 Who worship round the throne. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Now in a fairy boat, 
 
 On the bright waves of song, 
 Full merrily I float. 
 
 Merrily float along; 
 My helm is veered, I care not how, 
 
 My white sail bellies o'er me. 
 
 And bright as gold the ripples be 
 That plash beneath the bow; 
 
 Before, behind. 
 
 They feel the wind, 
 
 And they are dancing joyously — 
 While, faintly heard, along the far-off shore 
 The surf goes plunging v/ith a lingering roar ; 
 
 Or anchored in a shadowy cove, 
 Entranced with harmonies, 
 Slowly I sink and rise 
 
 As the slow waves of music move 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 157 
 
 Now softly dashing, 
 Bubbling, plashing, 
 Mazy, dreamy, 
 Faint and streamy, 
 
 Ripples into ripples melt, 
 
 Not so strongly heard as felt ; 
 
 Now rapid and quick. 
 
 While the heart beats thick. 
 
 The music's silver wavelets crowd. 
 
 Distinct and clear, but never loud; 
 
 And now all solemnly and slow, 
 
 In mild, deep tones they warble low, 
 
 Like the glad song of angels, when 
 
 They sang good will and peace to men ; 
 
 Now faintly heard and far. 
 
 As if the spirit's ears 
 
 Had caught the anthem of a star 
 
 Chanting with his brother-spheres 
 In the midnight dark and deep. 
 When the body is asleep 
 And wondrous shadows pour in streams 
 From the two-fold gate of dreams ; 
 Now onward roll the billows, swelling 
 With a tempest-sound of might, 
 As of voices doom foretelling 
 
 To the silent ear of Night • 
 And now a mingled ecstasy 
 
 Of all sweet sounds it is; — 
 O ! who may tell the agony 
 Of rapture such as this? 
 
158 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 VI. 
 
 I have drunk of the drink of immortals, 
 
 I have drunk of the life-giving wine, 
 And now I may pass the bright portals 
 
 That open into a realm divine! 
 I have drunk it through mine ears 
 
 In the ecstasy of song, 
 Vv^hen mine eyes would fill with tears 
 
 That its life were not more long; 
 I have drunk it through mine eyes 
 
 In beauty's every shape. 
 And now around my soul it lies. 
 
 No juice of earthly grape ! 
 Wings! wings are given to me, 
 
 I can flutter, I can rise, 
 Like a new life gushing through me 
 
 Sweep the heavenly harmonies! 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Oh! I must look on that sweet face once more 
 
 before I die; 
 God grant that it may lighten up with joy when 
 
 I draw nigh ; 
 God grant that she may look on me as kindly 
 
 as she seems 
 In the long night, the restless night, i' the 
 
 sunny land of dreams! 
 
 I hoped, I thought, she loved me once, and yet, 
 
 I know not why. 
 There is coldness in her speech, and a coldness 
 
 in her eye. 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 159 
 
 Something that in another's look would not 
 
 seem cold to me, 
 And yet like ice I feel it chill the heart of 
 
 memory. 
 
 She does not come to greet me so frankly as 
 she did, 
 
 And in her utmost openness I feel there's some- 
 thing hid ; 
 
 She almost seems to shun me, as if ^he thought 
 that I 
 
 Might win her gentle heart again to feelings 
 long gone by. 
 
 I sought the first spring-buds for her, the fair- 
 est and the best, 
 
 And she wore them for their loveliness upon 
 her spotless breast. 
 
 The blood-root and the violet, the frail ane- 
 mone, 
 
 She wore them, and alas! I deemed it was for 
 love of me ! 
 
 As flowers in a darksome place stretch forward 
 
 to the light. 
 So to the mem.ory of her I turn by day and 
 
 night; 
 As flowers in a darksome place grow thin and 
 
 pale and wan. 
 So is it with my darkened heart, now that her 
 
 light is gone. 
 
 The thousand little things that love doth treas- 
 ure up for aye, 
 
160 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 And brood upon with moistened eyes when she 
 
 that's loved 's awa}^; 
 The word, the look, the smile, the blnsh, the 
 
 ribbon that she wore, 
 Each day they grow more dear to me, and pain 
 
 me more and more. 
 
 My face I cover with my hands, and bitterly I 
 
 weep. 
 That the quick-gathering sands of life should 
 
 choke a love so deep. 
 And that the stream, so pure and bright, must 
 
 turn it from its track. 
 Or to the heart-springs, whence it rose, roll its 
 
 full waters back ! 
 
 i 
 
 As calm as doth the lily float close by the lake- } 
 
 let's brim. 
 So calm and spotless, down time's stream, her 
 
 peaceful days did swim, 
 And I had longed, and dreamed, and prayed, j 
 
 that closely by her side, J 
 
 Down to a haven still and sure, my happy life 
 
 might glide. 
 
 But, now, alas ! those golden days of youth and 
 
 hope are o'er, 
 And I must dream those dreams of joy, those 
 
 guiltless dreams no more ; '^ 
 
 Yet there is something in my heart that whis- ^ 
 
 pers ceaselessly, i 
 
 **Would God that I might see that face once ^i 
 
 more before I die!" 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 161 
 
 lANTHE. 
 
 There is a light within her eyes, 
 
 Like gleams of wandering fire-flies; 
 
 From light to shade it leaps and moves 
 
 Whenever in her soul arise 
 
 The holy shapes of things she loves; 
 
 Fitful it shines and changes ever, 
 
 Like star-lit ripples on a river, 
 
 Or summer sunshine on the eaves 
 
 Of silver trembling poplar eaves. 
 
 Where the lingering dewdrops quiver. 
 
 I may not tell the blessedness 
 
 Her mild eyes send to mine. 
 
 The sunset-tinted haziness 
 
 Of their mysterious shine, 
 
 The dim and holy mournfulness 
 
 Of their mellow light divine; 
 
 The shadow of the lashes lie 
 
 Over them so lovingly, 
 
 That they seem to melt away 
 
 In a doubtful twilight-gray. 
 
 While I watch the stars arise 
 
 In the evening of her eyes. 
 
 I love it, yet I almost dread 
 
 To think what it foreshadoweth; 
 
 And, when I muse how I have read 
 
 That such strange light betokened death- 
 
 11 Lowell 
 
162 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Instead of fire-fly gleams, I see 
 
 Wild corpse-lights gliding waveringly. 
 
 II. 
 
 With wayward thoughts her eyes are bright, 
 Like shiftings of the northern-light, 
 Hither, thither, swiftly glance they. 
 In a mazy twining dance they, 
 Like ripply lights the sunshine weaves. 
 Thrown backward from a shaken nook, 
 Below some tumbling water-brook, 
 On the o'erarching platan-leaves, 
 All through her glowing face they flit, 
 And rest in their deep dwelling-place, 
 Those fathomless blue eyes of hers. 
 Till, from her burning soul re-lit. 
 While her upheaving bosom stirs, 
 They stream again across her face 
 And with such hope and glory fill it. 
 Death could not have the heart to chill it. {' 
 
 Yet when their wild light fades again, j 
 
 I feel a sudden sense of pain, -i 
 
 As if, while yet her eyes were gleaming, ^1 
 
 And like a shower of sun-lit rain j! 
 
 Bright fancies from her face were streaming, 
 Her trembling soul might flit away | 
 
 As swift and suddenly as they. Ji\ 
 
 h 
 III. ( 
 
 A wild, inspired earnestness \ ' 
 
 Her inmost being fills, 
 And eager self-forgetfulness, ' | 
 
 That speaks not what it wills, ] 
 
 But what unto her soul is given, 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 163 
 
 A living oracle from Heaven, 
 Which scarcely in her breast is born 
 When on her trembling- lips it thrills, 
 And, like a burst of golden skies 
 Through storm-clouds on a sudden torn, 
 Like a glory of the morn, 
 Beams marvelously from her eyes. 
 And then, like a Spring-swollen river, 
 
 Roll the deep waves of her full-hearted 
 thought 
 Crested with sun-lit spra}^ 
 Her wild lips curve and quiver, 
 
 And my rapt soul, on the strong tide up- 
 caught 
 Unwittingly is borne away. 
 Lulled by a dreamful music ever. 
 Far — through the solemn twilight-gray 
 
 Of hoary woods — through valleys green 
 Which the trailing vine embowers. 
 
 And where the purple-clustered grapes are 
 seen 
 
 Deep-glowing through rich clumps of waving 
 flowers — 
 Now over foaming rapids swept 
 And with maddening rapture shook — 
 
 Now gliding where the water-plants have 
 slept 
 For ages in a moss-rimmed nook — 
 Enwoven by a Vv^ild-eyed band 
 Of earth-forgetting dreams, 
 I float to a delicious land 
 By a sunset heaven spanned. 
 And musical with streams; — 
 Around, the calm, majestic forms 
 
164 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 And god-like eyes of early Greece I see, 
 Or listen, till my spirit warms. 
 To songs of courtly chivalry. 
 Or weep, unmindful if my tears be seen. 
 For the meek, suffering love of poor Undine. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Her thoughts are never memories, 
 But ever changeful, ever new, 
 Fresh and beautiful as dew 
 That in a dell at noontide lies. 
 Or, at the close of summer day, 
 The pleasant breath of new-mown hay: 
 Swiftly they come and pass 
 As golden birds across the sun. 
 As light-gleams on tall meadow-grass 
 Which the wind just breathes upon. 
 And when she speaks, her eyes I see 
 
 Down-gushing through their silken lattices. 
 Like stars that quiver tremblingly 
 Through leafy branches of the trees, 
 And her pale cheeks do flush and glow 
 With speaking flashes bright and rare 
 
 As crimson North-lights on new-fallen snow, 
 From out the veiling of her hair — 
 
 Her careless hair that scatters down 
 On either side her eyes, 
 
 A waterfall leaf-tinged with brown 
 And lit with the sunrise. 
 
 When first I saw her, not of earth. 
 But heavenly both in grief and mirtlj 
 I thought her; she did seem 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. IW 
 
 As fair and full of mystery, 
 
 As bodiless, as forms we see 
 
 In the rememberings of a dream ; 
 
 A moonlit mist, a strange, dim light, 
 
 Circled her spirit from my sight , — 
 
 Each day more beautiful she grew, 
 
 More earthly, every day, 
 ^et that mysterious, moony hue 
 
 Faded not all away; 
 She has a sister's sympathy 
 With all the wanderers of the sky. 
 But most I've seen her bosom stir 
 
 When moonlight round her fell, 
 For the mild moon it loveth her, 
 
 She loveth it as well. 
 And of their love perchance this grace 
 Was born into her wondrous face. 
 I cannot tell how it may be, 
 For both, methinks, can scarce be true, 
 Still, as she earthly grew to me, 
 She grew more heavenly too; 
 
 She seems one born in Heaven 
 With earthly feelings. 
 
 For, while unto her soul are given 
 More pure revealings 
 
 Of holiest love and truth. 
 Yet is the mildness of her eyes 
 Made up of quickest sympathies, 
 
 Of kindliness and ruth ; 
 So, though some shade of awe doth stir 
 Our souls for one so far above us, 
 We feel secure that she will love us, 
 And cannot keep from loving her. 
 She is a poem, which to me 
 
166 LOWELL S POEMS. 
 
 In speech and look is written bright, 
 And to her life's rich harmony- 
 Doth ever sing itself aright ; 
 Dear, glorious creature ' 
 With eyes so dewy bright, 
 
 And tenderest feeling 
 
 Itself revealing 
 In every look and feature, 
 Welcome as a homestead ligfht 
 To one long- wandering in a clouded night; 
 O, lovelier for her woman's weakness 
 
 Which yet is strongly mailed 
 In armor of courageous meekness 
 
 And faith that never failed ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Early and late, at her soul's gate. 
 Sits Chastity in warderwise. 
 No thoughts unchallenged, small or great, 
 Go thence into her eyes; 
 Nor may a low, unworthy thought 
 Beyond that virgin warder win, 
 Nor one, whose password is not * 'ought," 
 May go without or enter in. 
 I call her, seeing those pure eyes. 
 The Eve of a new Paradise, 
 Which she by gentle word and deed. 
 And look no less, doth still create 
 About her, for her great thoughts breed 
 A calm that lifts us from our fallen state. 
 And makes us while with her both good and 
 great — 
 Nor is their memory wanting in our need • 
 With stronger loving, every hour, 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 167 
 
 Turneth my heart to this frail flower, 
 Which, thoughtless of the world, hath 
 
 grown 
 To beauty and meek gentleness, 
 Here in a fair world of its own 
 By woman's instinct trained alone — 
 A lily fair which God did bless, 
 And which from Nature's heart did draw 
 Love, wisdom, peace, and Heaven's perfect 
 
 law. 
 
 LOVE'S ALTAR. 
 
 I built an altar in my soul, 
 
 I builded it to one alone ; 
 
 And ever silently I stole, 
 
 In happy days of long-agone, 
 
 To make rich offerings to that one. 
 
 'Twas garlanded with purest thought. 
 And crowned with fancy's flowers bright. 
 With choicest gems 'twas all inwrought 
 Of truth and feeling; in my sight 
 It seemed a spot of cloudless light. 
 
 III. 
 
 Yet when I made my offering there, 
 Like Cain's, the incense would not rise; 
 Back on my heart down-sank the prayer, 
 And altar-stone and sacrifice 
 Grew hateful in my tear-dimmed eyes. 
 
168 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 O'er- grown with age's mosses green, 
 The little altar firmly stands ; 
 It is not, as it once hath been, 
 A selfish shrine; — these time-taught hands 
 Bring incense now from many lands. 
 
 Knowledge doth only widen love ; 
 The stream, that lone and narrow rose, 
 Doth, deepening ever, onward move, 
 And with an even current flows 
 Calmer and calmer to the close. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The love, that in those early days 
 Girt round my spirit like a wall, 
 Hath faded like a morning haze, 
 And flames, unpent by self's mean thrall, 
 Rise clearly to the perfect all. 
 
 MY LOVE. 
 
 Not as all other women are 
 Is she that to my soul is dear ; 
 Her glorious fancies come from far 
 Beneath the silver evening-star. 
 And yet her heart is ever near. 
 
Some fair-haired German maid." — Page 171. 
 
 Lowell's Poems. 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 169 
 
 II. 
 
 Great feelings hath she of her own 
 Which lesser souls may never know ; 
 God giveth them to her alone, 
 And sweet they are as any tone 
 Wherewith the wind may choose to blow. 
 
 III. 
 
 Yet in herself she dwelleth not, 
 Although no home were half so fair, 
 No simplest duty is forgot, 
 Life hath no dim and lowly spot 
 That doth not in her sunshine share. 
 
 IV. 
 
 She doeth little kindnesses, 
 Which most leave undone, or despise, 
 For naught that sets one heart at ease, 
 Xnd giveth happiness or peace, 
 Is low-esteemed in her eyes. 
 
 V. 
 
 She hath no scorn of common things. 
 And, though she seem of other birth, 
 Round us her heart entwines and clings. 
 And patiently she folds her wings 
 To tread the humble paths of earth. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Blessing she is: God made her so, 
 And deeds of week-day holiness 
 Fall from her noiseless as the snow. 
 Nor hath she ever chanced to know 
 That aught were easier than to bless. 
 
170 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 VII. 
 
 She is most fair, and thereunto 
 Her life doth rightly harmonize; 
 Feeling or thought that was not true 
 Ne'er made less beautiful the blue 
 Unclouded heaven of her eyes. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 On Nature she doth muse and brood 
 With such a still and love-clear eye — 
 She is so gentle and so good — 
 The very flowers in the wood 
 Do bless her with their sympathy. 
 
 IX. 
 
 She is a woman : one in whom 
 The spring-time of her childish years 
 Hath never lost its fresh perfume, 
 Though knowing well that life hath room 
 For many blights and many tears. 
 
 X. 
 
 And youth in her a home will find, 
 Where he may dwell eternally; 
 Her soul is not of that weak kind 
 Which better love the life behind 
 Than that which is, or is to be. 
 
 XI. 
 
 I love her with a love as still 
 As a broad river's peaceful might, 
 Which, by high tower and lowly mill, 
 Goes wandering at its own will. 
 And yet doth ever flow aright. 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 171 
 
 XII. 
 
 And, on its full, deep breast serene, 
 Like quiet isles my duties lie , 
 It flows around them and between, 
 And makes them fresh and fair and green, 
 Sweet homes wherein to live and die. 
 
 WITH A PRESSED FLOWER. 
 
 This little flower from afar 
 Hath come from other lands to thine; 
 For, once, its white and drooping star 
 Could see its shadow in the Rhine. 
 
 Perchance some fair-haired German maid 
 Hath plucked one from the self- same stalk, 
 And numbered over, half afraid. 
 Its petals in her evening walk. 
 
 "He loves me, loves me not," she cries; 
 "He loves me more than earth or Heaven," 
 And then glad tears have filled her eyes 
 To find the number was uneven. 
 
 So, Love, my heart doth wander forth 
 To farthest lands beyond the sea. 
 And search the fairest spots of earth 
 To find sweet flowers of thought for thee. 
 
 A type this tiny blossom is 
 Of what my heart doth every day, 
 Seeking for pleasant fantasies 
 To brood upon when thou 'rt away. 
 
'2 LOWELUS POEMS. 
 
 And thou must count its petals well. 
 Because it is a gift from me* 
 And the last one of all shall tell 
 Something I've often told to thee. 
 
 But here at home, where we were born, 
 Thou wilt find flowers just as true, 
 Down bending every summer morn, 
 With freshness of New England dew. 
 
 For Nature, ever right in love, 
 Hath given them the same sweet tongue. 
 Whether with German skies above, 
 Or here our granite rocks among. 
 
 IMPARTIALITY. 
 
 I cannot say a scene is fair 
 Because it is beloved of thee, 
 But I shall love to linger there, 
 For sake of thy dear memory; 
 I would not be so coldly just 
 As to love only what I must. 
 
 II. 
 
 I cannot sa}^ a thought is good, 
 Because thou foundest joy in it; 
 Each soul must choose its proper food 
 Which Nature hath decreed most fit ; 
 But I shall ever deem it so 
 Because it made thv heart o'erflow. 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 173 
 
 III. 
 
 I love thee for that thou art fair ; 
 And that thy spirit joys in aught 
 Createth a new beauty there, 
 With thine own dearest image fraught; 
 And love, for others' sake that springs, 
 Gives half their charm to lovely things. 
 
 BELLEROPHON. 
 
 DEDICATED TO MY FRIEND, JOHN F. HEATH. 
 
 I feel the bandages unroll 
 
 That bound my inward seeing ; 
 Freed are the bright wings of my soul, 
 
 Types of my godlike being: 
 High thoughts are swelling in my heart 
 
 And rushing through my brain; 
 May I never more lose part 
 
 In my soul's realm again ! 
 All things fair, where'er they be, 
 In earth or air, in sky or sea, 
 I have loved them all, and taken 
 All within my throbbing breast, 
 No more my spirit can be shaken 
 From its calm and kingly rest ! 
 Love hath shed its light around me, 
 Love hath pierced the shades that bound me ; 
 Mine eyes are opened, I can see 
 The universe's mystery. 
 
 The mighty heart and core 
 
 Of After and Before 
 I see, and I am weak no more. 
 
174 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 II. 
 
 Upward! upward evermore, ■ 
 
 To Heaven's open gate I soar! 
 Little thoughts are far behind me, 
 Which, when custom weaves together, 
 All the nobler man can tether — 
 Cobwebs now no more can bind me! ; 
 
 ]Aow fold thy wings a little while, J 
 
 My tranced soul, and lie 
 At rest on this Calypso-isle 
 
 That floats in mellow sky, 
 A thousand isles with gentle motion 
 Rock upon the sunset ocean ; 
 A thousand isles of thousand hues. 
 How bright! how beautiful! how rare! 
 Into my spirit they infuse 
 A purer, a diviner air; 
 The earth is growing dimmer. 
 And now the last faint glimmer 
 
 Hath faded from the hill; 
 But in my higher atmosphere 
 The sunlight streameth red and clear, 
 
 Fringing the islets still ; — 
 Love lifts us to the sunlight. 
 Though the whole world be dark ; 
 Love, wide Love, is the one light, 
 All else is but a fading spark ; 
 Love is the nectar which doth fill 
 Our soul's cup even to overflowing, 
 And, warming heart, and thought, and vrill, 
 Doth lie within us mildly glowing. 
 From its own centre raying out 
 Beauty and Truth on all without. 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 175 
 
 III. 
 
 Each on his golden throne, 
 
 Full royally, alone, 
 
 I see the stars above me. 
 
 With scepter and with diadem; 
 
 Mildly they look down and love me. 
 
 For I have ever yet loved them, 
 
 I see their ever-sleepless eyes 
 Watching the growth of destinies; 
 Calm, sedate. 
 The eyes of Fate, 
 They wink not, nor do roll. 
 But search the depths of soul — 
 And in those mighty depths they see 
 The germs of all Futurity, . 
 Waiting but the fitting time 
 To burst and ripen into prime, 
 As in the womb of mother Earth 
 The seeds of plants and forests lie 
 Age upon age and never die — 
 So in the souls of all men wait, 
 Undyingly the seeds of Fate; 
 Chance breaks the clod and forth they spring, 
 Filling blind men with wondering. 
 Eternal stars! with holy awe. 
 As if a present God I saw, 
 I look into those mighty eyes 
 And see great destinies arise, 
 As in those of mortal men 
 Feelings glow and fade again! 
 All things below, all things above, 
 Are open to the eyes of Love. 
 
176 LOWELL'S POEMS. ; 
 
 ! 
 
 Of Knowledge Love is master-key, 
 
 Knowledge of Beauty; passing dear ' 
 
 Is each to each, and mutually • 
 
 Each one doth make the other clear; i 
 
 Beauty is Love, and what we love j 
 
 Straightway is beautiful, i 
 
 So is the circle round and full, i 
 
 And so dear Love doth live and move \ 
 
 And have his being, ] 
 
 Finding his proper food j 
 
 By sure inseeing, i 
 
 In all things pure and good, \ 
 
 Which he at will doth cull, i 
 Like a joyous butterfly 
 
 Hiving in the sunny bowers ' 
 
 Of the soul's fairest flowers, : 
 
 Or, between the earth and sky, ! 
 Wandering at liberty 
 
 For happy, happy hours. ; 
 
 The thoughts of Love are Poesy, 
 As this fair earth and all we see 
 Are the thoughts of Deity — 
 And Love is ours by our birthright! 
 He hath cleared mine inward sight; 
 Glorious shapes with glorious eyes 
 Round about my spirit glance, 
 Shedding a mild and golden light 
 On the shadowy face of Night; 
 To unearthly melodies, 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 177 
 
 Hand in hand, they weave their dance, 
 While a deep, ambrosial lustre 
 
 From their rounded limbs doth shine. 
 Through many a rich and golden cluster 
 
 Of streaming hair divine. 
 In our gross and earthly hours 
 We cannot see the Love-given powers 
 Which ever round the soul await 
 
 To do its sovereign will, 
 When, in its moments calm and still, 
 It re-assumes its royal state, 
 Nor longer sits with eyes downcast, 
 A beggar, dreaming of the past, 
 At its own palace-gate. 
 
 VI. 
 
 I too am a Maker and a Poet ; 
 Through my whole soul I feel it and know it; 
 My veins are fired with ecstasy! 
 All-mother Earth 
 Did ne'er give birth 
 To one who shall be matched with me; 
 The lustre of my coronal 
 Shall cast a dimness over all. — 
 Alas! alas! what have I spoken? 
 My strong, my eagle wings are broken, 
 And back again to earth I fall ! 
 
 12 LoweU 
 
178 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 SOMETHING NATURAL. 
 
 When first I saw thy soul-deep eyes, 
 My heart yearned to thee instantly, 
 Strange longing in my soul did rise ; 
 I cannot tell the reason why, 
 But I must love thee till I die. 
 
 II. 
 
 The sight of thee hath well-nigh grown 
 As needful to me as the light ; 
 I am unrestful when alone, 
 And my heart doth not beat aright 
 Except it dwell within thy sight. 
 
 III. 
 
 And yet — and yet — O selfish love! 
 I am not happy even with thee; 
 I see thee in thy brightness move, 
 And cannot well contented be, 
 Save thou should 'st shine alone for me. 
 
 IV. 
 
 We should love beauty even as flowers- 
 For all, 'tis said, they bud and blow. 
 They are the world's as well as ours — 
 But thou — alas ! God made thee grow 
 So fair, I cannot love thee so! 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 179 
 
 THE SYRENS. 
 
 The sea is lonely, the sea is dreary, . 
 The sea is restless and uneasy; 
 Thou seekest quiet, thou art weary. 
 Wandering thou knowestnot whither; — 
 Our little isle is groen and breezy, 
 Come and rest thee! O come hither, 
 Come to this peaceful home of ours. 
 
 Where evermore 
 The low west-wind creeps panting up the shore 
 To be at rest among the flowers ; 
 Full of rest, the green moss lifts, 
 
 As the dark waves of the sea 
 Draw in and out of rocky rifts 
 
 Calling solemnly to thee. 
 With voices deep and hollow — 
 To the shore 
 
 Follow! O follow! 
 To be at rest for evermore ! 
 For evermore ! 
 
 Look how the gray old Ocean 
 From the depths of his heart rejoices, 
 Heaving with a gentle motion, 
 When he hears our restful voices : 
 List how he sings in an undertone. 
 Chiming with our melody; 
 And all sweet sounds of earth and air 
 
180 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Melt into one low voice alone, 
 That murmurs over the weary sea — 
 And seems to sing from everywhere — 
 "Here mayest thou harbor peacefully, 
 Here mayest thou rest from the aching oar; 
 
 Turn thy curved prow ashore, 
 And in our green isle rest for evermore 
 
 For evermore ! 
 And Echo half wakes in the wooded hill, 
 And, to her heart so calm and deep, 
 Murmurs over in her sleep, 
 Doubtfully pausing and murmuring still, 
 "Evermore.'" 
 
 Thus, on Life's weary sea; 
 Heareth the marinere 
 Voices sweet, from far and near, 
 Ever singing low and clear. 
 Ever singing longingly. 
 
 Is it not better here to be. 
 Than to be toiling late and soon? 
 In the dreary night to see 
 Nothing but the blood-red moon 
 Go up and down into the sea; 
 Or, in the loneliness of day, 
 
 To see the still seas only. 
 Solemnly lift their faces gray, 
 
 Making it yet more lonely? 
 Is it not better, than to hear 
 Only the sliding of the wave 
 Beneath the plank, and feel so near 
 A cold and lonely grave, 
 A restless grave, where thou shalt lie 
 Even in death unquietly? 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 181 
 
 Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark, 
 
 Lean over the side and see 
 The leaden eye of the side-long shark 
 Upturned patiently, 
 Ever waiting there for thee : 
 Look down and see those shapeless forms, 
 Which ever keep their dreamless sleep 
 Far down within the gloomy deep, 
 And only stir themselves in storms, 
 Rising like islands from beneath, 
 And snorting through the angry spray. 
 As the frail vessel perisheth 
 In the whirls of their unwieldy play; 
 
 Look down! Look down! 
 Upon the seaweed, slimy and dark. 
 That waves its arms so lank and brown. 
 
 Beckoning for thee ! 
 Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark 
 Into the cold depth of the sea! 
 Look down ! Look down ! 
 Thus, on Life's lonely sea, 
 Heareth the marinere 
 Voices sad, from far and near, 
 Ever singing full of fear, 
 Ever singing drearfully. 
 
 Here all is pleasant as a dream ; 
 The mind scarce shaketh down the dew, 
 The green grass floweth like a stream 
 Into the ocean's blue: 
 Listen! O listen! 
 Here is a gush of many streams, 
 
 A song of many birds. 
 And every wish and longing seems 
 
182 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Lulled to a numbered flow of words — 
 
 Listen ! O listen ! 
 Here ever hum the golden bees 
 Underneath full-blossomed trees, 
 At once with glowing fruit and flower 
 
 crowned ; — 
 The sand is so smooth, the yellow sand. 
 That thy keel will not grate, as it touches the 
 
 land; 
 All around, with a slumberous sound, 
 The singing waves slide up the strand. 
 And there, where the smooth wet pebbles be, 
 The waters gurgle longingly, 
 As if they fain would seek the shore. 
 To be at rest from the ceaseless roar, 
 To be at rest for evermore — 
 For evermore. 
 
 Thus, on Life's gloomy sea, 
 
 Heareth the marinere 
 
 Voices sweet, far and near, 
 
 Ever singing in his ear, 
 
 "Here is rest and peace for thee!'* 
 Nantasket, July, 1840. 
 
 A FEELING. 
 
 The flowers and the grass to me 
 
 Are eloquent reproachfully; 
 
 For would they wave so pleasantly 
 
 Or look so fresh and fair, 
 
 If a man, cunning, hollow, mean, 
 
 Or one in anywise unclean. 
 
 Were looking on them there? 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 183 
 
 No; he hath grown so foolish-wise 
 He cannot see with childhood's eyes; 
 He hath forgot that purity 
 And lowliness which are the key 
 Of Nature's m3^steries; 
 No; he hath wandered off so long 
 From his own place of birth, 
 That he hath lost his mother-tongue, 
 And, like one come from far-off lands, 
 Forgetting and forgot, he stands 
 Beside his mother's hearth. 
 
 THE BEGGAR. 
 
 A beggar through the world am I, 
 From place to place I wander by; — 
 Fill up my pilgrim's scrip for me, 
 For Christ's sweet sake and charity. 
 
 A little of thy steadfastness, 
 Rounded with leafy gracefulness, 
 Old oak, give me — 
 
 That the world's blasts may round me blow. 
 And I yield gently to and fro, 
 While my stout-hearted trunk below 
 And firm-set roots unmoved be. 
 
 Some of thy stern, unyielding might, 
 Enduring still through day and night 
 Rude tempest-shock and withering blight — 
 That I may keep at bay 
 The changeful April sky of chance 
 And the strong tide of circumstance — 
 Give me, old granite gray. 
 
184 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Some of thy mournfulness serene, 
 Some of thy never-dying green, 
 Put in this scrip of mine — 
 That grief may fall like snowflakes light, 
 And deck me in a robe of white. 
 Ready to be an angel bright — 
 O sweetly=mournful pine. 
 
 A little of thy merriment, 
 Of thy sparkling, light content, 
 Give me my cheerful brook — 
 That I may still be full of glee 
 And gladsomeness, where'er I be, 
 Though fickle fate hath prisoned me 
 In some neglected nook. 
 
 Ye have been very kind and good 
 To me, since I've been in the wood; 
 Ye have gone nigh to fill my heart; 
 But good-bye, kind friends, every one, 
 I've far to go ere set of sun; 
 Of all good things I would have part, 
 The day was high ere I could start. 
 And so my journey's scarce begun. 
 
 Heaven help me ! how could I forget 
 To beg of thee, dear violet! 
 Some of thy modesty, 
 That flowers here as well, unseen. 
 As if before the world thou 'dst been, 
 O give, to strengthen me. 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 185 
 
 SERENADE. 
 
 From the close-shut windows gleams no spark, 
 The night is chilly, the night is dark, 
 The poplars shiver, the pine-trees moan. 
 My hair by the autumn breeze is blown, 
 Under thy window I sing alone. 
 Alone, alone, ah woe ! alone ! 
 
 The darkness is pressing coldly around, 
 The windows shake with a lonely sound, 
 The stars are hid and the night is drear. 
 The heart of silence throbs in thine ear, 
 In thy chamber thou sittest alone, 
 Alone, alone, ah woe! alone! 
 
 The world is happy, the world is wide. 
 Kind hearts are beating on every side ; 
 Ah, why should we lie so curled 
 Alone in the shell of this great world? 
 Why should we any more be alone? 
 Alone, alone, ah woe! alone! 
 
 O ! 'tis a bitter and dreary word, 
 The saddest by man's ear ever heard; 
 We each are young, we each have a heart, 
 Why stand we ever coldly apart? 
 Must we forever, then, be alone? 
 Alone, alone, ah woe! alone! 
 
186 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 IRENE. 
 
 Hers is a spirit deep and crystal-clear; 
 Calmly beneath her earnest face it lies, 
 Free without boldness, meek without a fear, 
 Quicker to look than speak its sympathies; 
 Far down into her large and patient eyes 
 I gaze, deep-drinking of the infinite, 
 As, in the mid-watch of a clear, still night, 
 I look into the fathomless blues kies. 
 
 So circled lives she with Love's holy light, 
 That from the shade of self she walketh free; 
 The garden of her soul still keepeth she 
 An Eden where the snake did never enter; 
 She hath a natural, wise sincerity, 
 A simple truthfulness, and these have lent her 
 A dignity as moveless as the centre ; 
 So that no influence of earth can stir 
 Her steadfast courage, or can take away 
 The holy peacefulness, which, night and day 
 Unto her queenly soul doth minister. 
 
 Most gentle is she ; her large charity 
 (An all unwitting, childlike gift in her) 
 Not freer is to give than meek to bear ; 
 And, though herself not unacquaint with care, 
 Hath in her heart wide room for all that be — 
 Her heart that hath no secrets of its own, 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 187 
 
 But open is as eglantine full-blown, 
 Cloudless forever is her brow serene, 
 Speaking calm hope and trust within her, 
 
 whence 
 Welleth a noiseless spring of patience 
 That keepeth all her life so fresh, so green 
 And full of holiness, that every look, 
 The greatness of her woman's soul revealing, 
 Unto me bringeth blessing, and a feeling 
 As when I read in God's own holy book. 
 
 A graciousness in giving that doth make 
 The small' St gift greatest, and a sense most 
 
 meek 
 Of worthiness, that doth not fear to take 
 From others, but which always fears to speak 
 Its thanks in utterance, for the giver's sake ; — 
 The deep religion of a thankful heart. 
 Which rests instinctively with Heaven's law; 
 With a full peace, that never can depart 
 From its own steadfastness; — a holy awe 
 For holy things, not those which men call holy, 
 But such as are revealed to the eyes 
 Of a true woman's soul bent down and lowly 
 Before the face of daily mysteries ; — 
 A love that blossoms soon, but ripens slowly 
 To the full goldenness of fruitful prime. 
 Enduring with a firmness that defies 
 All shallow tricks of circumstance and time, 
 By a sure insight knowing where to cling, 
 And where it clingeth never withering — 
 These are Irene's dowry — which no fate 
 Can shake from their serene, deep-builded state.. 
 
188 LOWELL'S POEiMS. 
 
 In-seeing sympathy is hers, which chasteneth 
 No less loveth, scorning to be bound 
 With fear of blame, and yet which ever hasten- 
 
 eth 
 To pour the balm of kind looks on the wound, 
 If they be wounds which such sweet teaching 
 
 makes, 
 Giving itself a pang for others' sakes; 
 No want of faith, that chills with side-long 
 
 eye, 
 Hath she ; no jealousy, no Levite pride 
 That passeth by upon the other side ; 
 For in her soul there never dwelt a lie, 
 Right from the hand of God her spirit came 
 Unstained, and she hath ne'er forgotten whence 
 It came, nor wandered far from thence, 
 But laboreth to keep her still the same. 
 Near to her place of birth, that she may not 
 Soil her white raiment with an earthly spot. 
 
 Yet sets she not her soul so steadily 
 Above, that she forgets her ties to earth. 
 But her whole thought would almost seem to 
 
 be 
 How to make glad one lowly human hearth- 
 For with a gentle courage she doth strive 
 In thought and word and feeling so to live 
 As to make earth next Heaven; and her heart 
 Herein doth show its most exceeding v/orth, 
 That, bearing in our frailty her just part. 
 She hath not shrunk from evils of this life, 
 But hath gone calmly forth into the strife, 
 And all its sins and sorrows hath withstood 
 With lofty strength of patient womanhood: 
 
LOWELLS POEMS. 189 
 
 For this I love her great soul more than all, 
 That, being bound, like us, with earthly thrall. 
 She walks so bright and Heaven-wise therein — 
 Too wise, too meek, too womanly to sm. 
 
 Exceeding pleasant to mine eyes is she ; 
 Like a lone star through riven storm-clouds 
 
 seen 
 By sailors, tempest- tost upon the sea, 
 Telling of rest and peaceful havens nigh. 
 Unto my soul her star-like soul hath been, 
 Her sight as full of hope and calm to me ; — 
 For she unto herself hath builded high, 
 A home serene, wherein to lay her head, 
 Earth's noblest thing — a Woman perfected. 
 
 THE LOST CHILD. 
 
 I wandered down the sunny glade 
 And ever mused, my love, of thee ; 
 
 My thoughts, like little children, played, 
 As gaily and as guilelessly. 
 
 If any chanced to go astray, 
 
 Moaning in fear of coming harms, 
 
 Hope brought the wanderer back alway, 
 Safe nestled in her snowy arms. 
 
 III. 
 
 From that soft nest the happy one 
 Looked up at me and calmly smiled; 
 
190 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Its hair shone golden in the sun, 
 And made it seem a heavenly child. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Dear Hope's blue eyes smiled mildly down. 
 And blest it with a love so deep, 
 
 That, like a nurseling of her own. 
 It clasped her neck and fell asleep. 
 
 THE CHURCH. 
 
 I love the rites of England's church; 
 
 I love to hear and see 
 The priest and people reading slow 
 
 The solemn Litany; 
 I love to hear the glorious swell 
 
 Of chanted psalm and prayer, 
 And the deep organ's bursting heart, 
 
 Throb through the shivering air. 
 
 II. 
 
 Chants, that a thousand years have heard 
 
 I love to hear again, 
 For visions of the olden time 
 
 Are wakened by the strain ; 
 With gorgeous hues the window-glass 
 
 Seems suddenly to glow 
 And rich and red the streams of light 
 
 Down through the chancel flow. 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 191 
 
 III. 
 
 And then I murmur, ''Surely, God 
 
 Delighteth here to dwell; 
 This is the temple of his Son 
 
 Whom he doth love so well;" 
 But, when I hear the creed which saith, 
 
 This church alone is His, 
 I feel within my soul that He 
 
 Hath purer shrines than this. 
 
 IV. 
 
 For his is not the builded church, 
 
 Nor organ-shaken dome ; 
 In everything that lovely is 
 
 He loves and hath his home; 
 And most in soul that loveth well 
 
 All things which he hath made, 
 Knowing no creed but simple faith 
 
 That may not be gainsaid. 
 
 V. 
 
 His church is universal Love, 
 
 And whoso dwells therein 
 Shall need no customed sacrifice 
 
 To wash away his sin ; 
 And music in its aisles shall swell, 
 
 Of lives upright and true, 
 Sweet as dreamed sounds of angel-harps 
 
 Down-quivering through the blue. 
 
 VI. 
 
 They shall not ask a litany. 
 
 The souls that worship there, 
 But every look shall be a hymn, 
 
192 LOWELLS POEMS. 
 
 And every word a prayer; 
 Their service shall be written bright 
 
 In calm and holy eyes, 
 And every day from fragrant hearts 
 
 Fit incense shall arise. 
 
 THE UNLOVELY. 
 
 The pretty things that others wear 
 Look strange and out of place on me, 
 I never seem dressed tastefully, 
 
 Because I am not fair; 
 And, when I would most pleasing seem, 
 And deck myself with joyful care, 
 I find it is an idle dream, 
 
 Because I am not fair. 
 
 If I put roses in my hair, 
 They bloom as if in mockery; 
 Nature denies her sympathy, 
 
 Because I am not fair; 
 Alas! I have a warm, true heart. 
 But when I show it people stare ; 
 1 must forever dwell apart. 
 
 Because I am not fair. 
 
 I am least happy being where 
 The hearts of others are most light, 
 And strive to keep me out of sight, 
 
 Because I am not fair; 
 The glad ones often give a glance, 
 As I am sitting lonely there, 
 That asks me why 1 do not dance — 
 
 Because I am not fail. 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 193 
 
 And if to smile on them I dare, 
 For that my heart with love runs o'er, 
 They say: "What is she laughing for?" — 
 
 Because I am not fair ; 
 Love scorned or misinterpreted — 
 It is the hardest thing to bear; 
 I often wish that I were dead, 
 
 Because I am not fair. 
 
 In joy or grief I must not share, 
 For neither smiles nor tears on me 
 Will ever look becomingly. 
 
 Because I am not fair; 
 Whole days I sit alone and cry. 
 And in my grave I wish I were — 
 Yet none will weep me if I die, 
 
 Because I am not fair. 
 
 My grave will be so lone and bare, 
 I fear to think of those dark hours. 
 For none will plant it o'er with flowers, 
 
 Because I am not fair; 
 They will not in the summer come 
 And speak kind words above me there ; 
 To me the grave will be no home, 
 
 Because I am not fair. 
 
 IS LoweU 
 
194 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 LOVE-SONG. 
 
 Nearer to thy mother-heart, 
 Simple Nature, press me. 
 Let me know thee as thou art, 
 Fill my soul and bless me ! 
 I have loved thee long- and well, 
 I have loved thee heartily; 
 Shall I never with thee dwell, 
 Never be at one with thee? 
 
 Inward, inward to thy heart, 
 Kindly Nature, take me. 
 Lovely even as thou art. 
 Full of loving make me ! 
 Thou knowest naught of dead-cold forms, 
 Knowest naught of littleness, 
 Lifeful Truth thy being warms, 
 Majesty and earnestness. 
 
 Homeward, homeward to thy heart, 
 Dearest Nature, call me ; 
 Let no halfness, no mean part, 
 Any longer thrall me ! 
 I will be thy lover true. 
 Will be a faithful soul, 
 Then circle me, then look me through, 
 Fill me with the mighty Whole. 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 195 
 
 SONG. 
 
 All things are sad: — 
 I go and ask of Memory, 
 That she tells sweet tales to me 
 
 To make me glad ; 
 And she takes me by the hand, 
 
 Leadeth to old places, 
 
 Showeth the old faces 
 In her hazy mirage-land; 
 O, her voice is sweet and low, 
 And her eyes are fresh to mine 
 As the dew 
 Gleaming through 
 The half-unfolded Eglantine, 
 Long ago, long ago! 
 But I feel that I am only 
 Yet more sad, and yet more lonely ! 
 
 Then I turn to blue-eyed Hope, 
 And beg of her that she will ope 
 Her golden gates for me ; 
 She is fair and fuM of grace, 
 But she hath the form and face 
 Of her mother Memory ; 
 Clear as air her glad voice ringeth. 
 Joyous are the songs she singeth, 
 Yet I hear them mournfully; — 
 They are songs her mother taught her, 
 
196 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Crooning to her infant daughter, 
 As she lay upon her knee. 
 Many little ones she bore me, 
 Woe is me ! in by-gone hours, 
 Who danced along and sang before me, 
 Scattered my way with flowers; 
 One by one 
 They are gone, 
 And their silent graves are seen. 
 Shining fresh with mosses green. 
 Where the rising sunbeams slope 
 O'er the dewy land of Hope. 
 
 But, when sweet Memory faileth, 
 And Hope looks strange and cold; 
 When youth no more availeth. 
 And grief grows over bold; — 
 When softest winds are dreary, 
 And summer sunlight weary. 
 And sweetest things uncheery 
 
 We know not why: — 
 When the crown of our desires 
 Weighs upon the brow and tires. 
 
 And we would die, 
 Die for, ah ! we know not what. 
 Something we seem to have forgot. 
 Something we had, and now have not; — 
 When the present is a weight 
 And the future seems our foe, 
 And with shrinking eyes we wait, 
 As one who dreads a sudden blow 
 In the dark, he knows not whence; — 
 When Love at last his bright eye closes. 
 And the bloom upon his face. 
 That lends him such a living grace, 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 197 
 
 Is a shadow from the roses 
 Wherewith we have decked his bier, 
 Because he once was passing dear; — 
 When we feel a laden sense 
 Of nothingness and impotence, 
 Till we grow mad — 
 Then the body saith, 
 
 "There's but one true faith; 
 All things are sad!" 
 
 A LOVE-DREAM. 
 
 Pleasant thoughts come wandering, 
 
 When thou art far, from thee to me; 
 
 On the silver wings they bring 
 
 A very peaceful ecstasy, 
 
 A feeling of eternal spring; 
 
 So that Winter half forgets 
 
 Everything but that thou art. 
 
 And, in his bewildered heart, 
 
 Dreameth of the violets, 
 
 Or those bkier flowers that ope. 
 
 Flowers of steadfast love and hope, 
 
 Watered by the living wells, 
 
 Of memories dear, and dearer prophecies, 
 
 When young spring forever dwells 
 
 In the sunshine of thine eyes. 
 
 I have most holy dreams of thee, 
 
 All night I have such dreams; 
 And, when I awake, reality 
 
 No whit the darker seems; 
 Through the twin gates of Hope and Mem- 
 ory 
 
198 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 They pour in crystal streams 
 From out an angel's calmed eyes, 
 Who, from twilight till sunrise, 
 Far away in the upper deep, 
 Poised upon his shining wings. 
 Over us his watch doth keep, 
 And, as he watcheth, ever sings. 
 
 Through the still night I hear him sing, 
 
 Down-looking on our sleep; 
 I hear his clear, harp-strings ring, 
 And, as the golden notes take wing. 
 Gently downward hovering, 
 
 For very joy I weep; 
 He singeth songs of holy Love, 
 That quiver through the depths afar. 
 Where the blessed spirits are, 
 And lingeringly from above 
 Shower till the morning star 
 His silver shield hath buckled on 
 And sentinels the dawn alone, 
 Quivering his gleamy spear 
 Through the dusky atmosphere. 
 
 Almost, my love, I fear the morn, 
 When that blessed voice shall cease, 
 Lest it should leave me quite forlorn, 
 Stript of my snowy robe of peace ; 
 And yet the bright reality 
 Is fairer than all dreams can be. 
 For, through my spirit, all day long, 
 Ring echoes of that angel-song 
 In melodious thoughts of thee ; 
 And well I know it cannot die 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 199 
 
 Till eternal morn shall break, 
 
 For, through life's slumber, thou and I 
 
 Will keep it for each other's sake, 
 
 And it shall not be silent when we wake. 
 
 FOURTH OF JULY ODE. 
 
 Our fathers fought for Liberty, 
 They struggled long and well, 
 History of their deeds can tell — 
 But did they leave us free? 
 
 Are we free from vanity, 
 Free from pride, and free from self, 
 Free from love of power and self. 
 From everything that's beggarly? 
 
 III. 
 
 Are we free from stubborn will, 
 From low hate and malice small. 
 From opinion's tyrant thrall? 
 Are none of us our own slaves still? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Are we free to speak our thought, 
 To be happy, and be poor. 
 Free to enter Heaven's door, 
 To live and labor as we ought? 
 
200 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 V. 
 
 Are we then made free at last 
 From the fear of what men say, 
 Free to reverence To-day, 
 Free from the slavery of the Past? 
 
 VI. 
 
 Our fathers fought for liberty, 
 They struggled long and well. 
 History of their deeds can tell — 
 But ourselves must set us free. 
 
 SPHINX. 
 I. 
 
 Why mourn we for the golden prime 
 When our young souls were kingly, strong, and 
 true? 
 
 The soul is greater than all time, 
 It changes not, but yet is ever new. 
 
 But that the soul is noble, we 
 Could never know what nobleness had been ; 
 
 Be what ye dream ! and earth shall see 
 A greater greatness than she e'er hath seen. 
 
 III. 
 
 The flower pines not to be fair, 
 It never asketh to be sweet and dear, 
 
 But gives itself to sun and air, 
 And so is fresh and full from year to year. 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 201 
 
 IV. 
 
 Nothing in Nature weeps its lot, 
 Nothing, save man, abides in memory, 
 
 Forgetful that the Past is what 
 Ourselves may choose the coming time to be. 
 
 All things are circular; the Past 
 Was given us to make the Future great; 
 
 And the void Future shall at last 
 Be the strong rudder of an after fate. 
 
 VI. 
 
 We sit beside the Sphinx of Life, 
 We gaze into its void, unanswering eyes, 
 
 And spend ourselves in idle strife 
 To read the riddle of their mysteries. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Arise ' be earnest and be strong ! 
 The Sphinx's eyes shall suddenly grow clear, 
 
 And speak as plain to thee ere long. 
 As the dear maiden's who holds thee most dear. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The meaning of all things in us — 
 Yea, in the lives we give our souls — doth lie; 
 
 Make, then, their meaning glorious 
 By such a life as need not fear to die ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 There is no heart-beat in the day, 
 Which bears a record of the smallest deed. 
 
202 LOWELLS POEMS. I 
 
 But holds within its faith alway i 
 That which in doubt we vainly strive to read. 
 
 One seed contains another seed, i 
 And that a third, and so for evermore ; 
 
 And promise of as great a deed 
 
 Lies folded in the deed that went before. \ 
 
 XI. _ I 
 
 So ask not fitting space or time, j 
 
 Yet could not dream of things which could not | 
 
 be, i 
 
 Each day shall make the next sublime, ] 
 
 And Time be swallowed in Eternity. | 
 
 XII. { 
 
 God bless the Present! it is all; 1 
 
 It has been Future, and it shall be Past; ' 
 
 Awake and live! thy strength recall, \ 
 
 And in one trinity unite them fast. | 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Action and Life — lo! here the key 
 Of all on earth that seemeth dark and wrong; 
 
 Win this — and, with it, freely ye 
 May enter that bright realm for which ye long. 
 
 XIV. I 
 
 ] 
 
 Then all these bitter questionings j 
 
 Shall with a full and blessed answer meet; \ 
 
 Past worlds, whereof the Poet sings, j 
 
 Shall be the earth beneath his snow-white fleet. 
 
LOWELLS POEMS. 203 
 
 **GOE, LITTLE BOOKE!" 
 
 Go little book ! the world is wide, 
 There's room and verge enough for thee; 
 For thou hast learned that only pride 
 Lacketh fit opportunity, 
 Which comes unhid to modesty. 
 
 Go! win thy way with gentleness: 
 I send thee forth, my first-born child, 
 Quite, quite alone, to face the stress 
 Of fickle skies and pathways wild, 
 Where few can keep them undefiled. 
 
 Thou camest from a poet's heart, 
 A warm, still home, and full of rest; 
 Far from the pleasant eyes thou art 
 Of those who know and love thee best, 
 And by whose hearthstones thou wert-blest 
 
 Go ! knock thou softly at the door 
 Where any gentle spirit's bin, 
 Tell them thy tender feet are sore, 
 Wandering so far from all thy kin, 
 And ask if thou may enter in. 
 
 Beg thou a cup-full from the spring 
 Of Charity, in Christ's dear name; 
 Few will deny so small a thing. 
 Nor ask unkindly if thou came 
 Of one whose life might do thee shame. 
 
 We all are prone to go astray. 
 Our hopes are bright, our lives are dim; 
 
204 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 But thou art pure, and if they say, 
 "We know thy father, and our whim 
 He pleases not," — plead thou for him. 
 
 For many are by whom all truth, 
 That speaks not in their mother-tongue, 
 Is stoned to death with hands unruth, 
 Or hath its patient spirit wrung 
 Cold words and colder looks among. 
 
 Yet fear not ! for skies are fair 
 To all whose souls are fair within; 
 Thou wilt find shelter everywhere 
 With those to whom a different kin 
 Is not a damning proof of sin. 
 
 But, if all others are unkind, 
 There's one heart whither thou canst fly 
 For shelter from the biting wind; 
 And, in that home of purity. 
 It were no bitter thing to die. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 I. 
 
 DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 I pray thee call not this society; 
 
 I asked for bread, thou givest me a stone; 
 
 I am an hungered, and I find not one 
 
 To give me meat, to joy or grive with me; 
 
 I find not here what I went out to see — 
 
 Souls of true men, of women who can move 
 
 The deeper better part of us to love. 
 
 Souls that can hold with mine communion free. 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 205 
 
 Alas! must then these hopes, these longings 
 
 high, 
 This yearning of the soul for brotherhood, 
 And all that makes us pure, and wise, and 
 
 good, 
 Come broken-hearted, home again to die? 
 No, Hope is left, and prays with bended head, 
 "Give us this day, O God, our daily bread!" 
 
 II. 
 
 Great human nature, whither art thou fled? 
 Are these things creeping forth and back agen, 
 These hollow formalists and echoes, m.en? 
 Art thou entombed with the mighty dead? 
 In God's name, no! not yet hath all been said, 
 Or done, or longed for, that is truly great; 
 These pitiful dried crusts will never sate 
 Natures for which pure Truth is daily bread; 
 V/e were not meant to plod along the earth, 
 Strange to ourselves and to our fellows strange ; 
 Y/e were not meant to struggle from our birth, 
 To skulk and creep, and in mean pathways 
 
 range ; 
 Act! with stern truth, large faith, and loving 
 
 will! 
 Up and be doing! God is with us still. 
 
 III. 
 
 TO A FRIEND. 
 
 One strip of bark may feed the broken tree, 
 Giving to some few limbs a sickly green; 
 And one light shower on the hills, I ween, 
 May keep the spring from drying utterly. 
 
206 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Thus seemeth it with these our hearts to be ; 
 Hope is the strip of bark, the shower of rain, 
 And so they are not wholly crushed with pain. 
 But live and linger on, for sadder sight to see, 
 Much do they err, who tell us that the heart 
 May not be broken; what, then, can we call 
 A broken heart, if this may not be so, 
 This death in life when, shrouded in its pall, 
 Shunning and shunned it dwelleth all apart,. 
 Its power, its love, its sympathy laid low? 
 
 IV. 
 
 So may it be, but let it not be so, 
 
 O, let it not be so with thee, my friend; 
 
 Be of good courage, bear up to the end. 
 
 And on thine after way rejoicing go ! 
 
 We all must suffer, if we aught would know; 
 
 Life is a teacher stern, and v/isdom's crown 
 
 Is oft a crown of thorns, whence, trickling 
 
 down. 
 Blood, mixed with tears, blinding her eyes doth 
 
 flow; 
 But Time, a gentle nurse, shall v/ipe away 
 This bloody sweat, and thou shalt find on earth, 
 That woman is not all in all to Love, 
 But, living by a new and second birth. 
 Thy soul shall see all things below, above, 
 Grow bright and brighter to the perfect day. 
 
 O child of Nature ! O most meek and free. 
 Most gentle spirit of true nobleness! 
 Thou doest not a worthy deed the less 
 Pecause the world may not its greatness see; 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 207 
 
 What were a thousand triumphings to thee, 
 
 Who, in thyself, art as a perfect sphere 
 
 Wrapt in a bright and natural atmosphere 
 
 Of mighty-souledness and majesty? 
 
 Thy soul is not too high for lowly things, 
 
 Feels not its strength seeing its brother weak. 
 
 Not for itself unto itself is dear, 
 
 But for that it may guide the wanderings 
 
 Of fellow-men, and to their spirits speak 
 
 The lofty faith of heart that knows no fear. 
 
 VI. 
 
 "For this true nobleness T seek in vain, 
 In woman and in man I find it not, 
 I almost weary of my earthly lot. 
 My life-springs are dried up w4th burning 
 
 pain." — 
 Thou find'st it not? I pray thee look again. 
 Look inward through the depths of thine own 
 
 soul; 
 How is it with thee? Art thou sound and 
 
 whole 
 Doth narrow search show thee no earth stain? 
 Be noble I and the nobleness that lies 
 In other men, sleeping but never dead, 
 WnU rise in majesty to meet thine own; 
 Then wilt thou see it gleam in many eyes. 
 Then will pure light around thy path be shed, 
 And thou wilt nevermore be sad and lone. 
 
 VII. 
 
 TO - 
 
 Deem it no Sodon-fruit of vanity, 
 Or fickle fantasy of unripe youth 
 
208 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Which ever takes the fairest shows for truth, 
 That I should wish my verse beloved of thee ; 
 'Tis love's deep thirst which may not quenched 
 
 be. 
 There is a gulf of longing and unrest, 
 A wild love-craving not to be represt, 
 Whereto, in all our hearts, as to the sea. 
 The streams of feeling do forever flow. 
 Therefore it is that thy well-meted praise 
 Falleth so shower-like and fresh on me, 
 Filling those springs which else had sunk full 
 
 low. 
 Lost in the dreary desert-sands of woe, 
 Or parched by passion's fierce and withering 
 
 blaze. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Might I be beloved, and, O most fair 
 
 And perfect-ordered soul, beloved of thee, 
 
 How should I feel a cloud of earthly care, 
 
 If thy blue eyes were ever clear to me? 
 
 O woman's love! O flower most bright and 
 
 rare! 
 That blossom'st brightest inextremest need, 
 Woe, woe is me! that thy so precious seed 
 Is ever sown by Fancy's changeful air, 
 And grows sometimes in poor and barren hearts 
 Who can be little even in the light 
 Of thy meek holiness — v/hile souls more great 
 Are left to wonder on a starless night, 
 Praying unheard — and yet the hardest parts 
 Befit those best who best can cope with fate. 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. £09 
 
 IX. 
 
 Wh}^ should we ever weary of this life? 
 Our souls should widen ever, not contract, 
 Grow stronger, and not harder, in the strife, 
 Filling each moment with a noble act; 
 If we live thus, of vigor all compact, 
 Doing our duty to our fellow-men, 
 And striving rather to exalt our race 
 Than our poor selves, with earnest hand or pen 
 We shall erect our names a dwelling-place 
 Which not all ages shall cast down agen ; 
 Offspring of Time shall then be born each hour. 
 Which, as of old, earth lovingly shall guard, 
 To live forever in youth's perfect flower. 
 And guide her future children Heavenward. 
 
 X. 
 
 GREEN MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Ye mountains, that far off lift up your heads, 
 Seen dimly through their canopies of blue, 
 The shade of my unrestful spirit sheds 
 Distance-created beauty over you; 
 I am not well content with this far view ; 
 How may I know what foot of loved-one treads 
 Your rocks moss-grown and sun-dried forrent 
 
 beds? 
 We should love all things better, of we knew 
 What claims the meanest have upon our hearts; 
 Perchance even now some eye, that would be 
 
 bright 
 To meet my own, looks on your mist-robed 
 
 forms; 
 Perchance your grandeur a deep joy imparts 
 
 14 Lowell 
 
•210 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 To souls that have encircled mine with light — 
 O brother-heart, with thee my spirit warms! 
 
 XI. 
 
 My friend, adown Life's valley, hand in hand, 
 With grateful change of grave and merry 
 
 speech 
 Or song, our hearts unlocking each to each, 
 We'll journey onward to the silent land; 
 And when stern Death shall loose that loving 
 
 band, 
 Taking in his cold hand a hand of ours, 
 The one shall strew the other's grave with 
 
 flowers. 
 Nor shall his heart a moment be unmanned. 
 My friend and brother! if thou goest first, 
 Wilt thou no more re- visit me below? 
 Yea, when my heart seems happy causelessly 
 And swells, not dreaming why, as it would 
 
 burst 
 With joy unspeakable— my soul shall know 
 That thou, unseen, art bending over me. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Verse cannot say how beautiful thou art. 
 How glorious the calmness of thine eyes. 
 Full of unconquerable energies, 
 Telling that thou hast acted well thy part. 
 No doubt or fear thy steady faith can start. 
 No thought of evil dare come nigh to thee, 
 Who hast the courage meek of purity, 
 The self-stayed greatness of a loving heart, 
 Strong with serene, enduring fortitude; 
 Where'er thou art, that seems thy fitting place, 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 211 
 
 For not of forms but Nature art thou child ; 
 And lowest things put on a noble grace 
 When touched by ye, O patient, Ruth-like, 
 
 mild 
 And spotless hands of earnest womanhood. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 The soul would fain its loving kindness tell, 
 But custom hangs like lead upon the tongue ; 
 The heart is brimful, hollow crowds among, 
 When it finds one whose life and thought are 
 
 well; 
 Up to the eyes its gushing love doth swell. 
 The angel cometh and the waters move, 
 Yet it is fearful still to say "I love," 
 And words come grating as a jangled bell. 
 
 might we only speak but what we feel, 
 Might the tongue pay but what the heart doth 
 
 owe. 
 Not Heaven's great thunder, when, deep peal 
 
 on peal, 
 It shakes the earth, could rouse our spirits so. 
 Or to the soul such majesty reveal, 
 As two short words half-spoken faint and low! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 1 saw a gate : a harsh voice spake and said, 
 **This is the gate of Life;" above was writ, 
 *' Leave hope behind, all ye who enter it;" 
 Then shrank my heart within itself for dread; 
 But, softer than the summer rain is shed, 
 Words dropt upon my soul, and they did say, 
 **Fear nothing. Faith shall save thee, watch 
 
 and pray!" 
 
212 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 So, without fear I lifted up my head, 
 And lo! that writing was not, one fair word 
 Was carven in its stead, and it was "Love." 
 Then rained once more those sweet tones from 
 
 above 
 With healing on their wings: I humbly heard, 
 "I am the Life, ask and it shall be given! 
 I am the way, by me ye enter Heaven!" 
 
 XV. 
 
 i would not have this perfect love of ours 
 Grow from a single root, a single stem, 
 Bearing no goodly fruit, but only flowers 
 That idly hide Life's iron diadem: 
 It should grow alway like that Eastern tree 
 Whose limbs take root and spread forth con- 
 stantly ; 
 That love for one, from which there doth not 
 
 spring 
 Wide love for all, is but a worthless thing. 
 Not in another world, as poets prate. 
 Dwell we apart, above the tide of things, 
 High floating o'er earth's clouds on faery wings ; 
 But our pure love doth ever elevate 
 Into a holy bond of brotherhood 
 All earthly things, making them pure and good. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 •To the dark, narrow house where loved ones 
 
 Whence no steps outward turn, whose silent 
 
 door 
 None but the sexton knocks at any more. 
 Are they not sometimes with us yet below? 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 2i:j 
 
 The longings of the soul would tell us so ; 
 Although, so pure and fine their being's es- 
 sence, 
 Our bodily eyes are witless of their presence, 
 Yet not within the tomb their spirits glow. 
 Like wizard lamps pent up, but whensoever 
 With great thoughts worthy of their high be- 
 hests 
 Our souls are filled, those bright ones with us 
 
 be. 
 As, in the patriarch's tent, his angel guests; — 
 
 let us live so worthily, that never 
 We may be far from that blest company. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 1 fain would give to thee the loveliest things, 
 For lovely things belong to thee of right, 
 And thou hast been as peaceful to my sight. 
 As the still thoughts that summer twilight 
 
 brings; 
 Beneath the shadow of thine angel wings 
 O let me live ! O let me rest in thee, 
 Growing to thee more and more utterly, 
 Upbearing and upborn, till outward things 
 Are only as they share in thee a part! 
 Look kindly on me, let thy holy eyes 
 Bless me from the deep fulness of thy heart; 
 So shall my soul in its right strength arise, 
 And nevermore shall pine and shrink and start, 
 Safe-sheltered in thy full souled sympathies. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Much I had mused of Love, and in my soul 
 There was one chamber where I dared not look, 
 
214 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 So much its dark and dreary voidness shook 
 My spirit, feeling that I was not whole : 
 All my deep longings flowed toward one goal 
 For long, long years, but were not answered, 
 Till Hope was drooping, Faith well-nigh stone 
 
 dead, 
 And I was still a blind, earth-delving mole;. 
 Yet did I know that God was wise and good. 
 And would fulfill my being late or soon ; 
 Nor was such thought in v lin, for, seeing thee, 
 Great Love rose up, as, o'e r a black pine wood, 
 Round, bright, and clear, upstarteth the full 
 
 moon. 
 Filling my soul with glory utterly. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Sayest thou, most beautiful, that thou wilt 
 
 wear 
 Flowers and leafy crowns when thou art old, 
 And that thy heart shall never grow so cold 
 But they shall love to wreath thy silvered hair 
 And into age's snows the hope of spring-tide 
 
 bear? 
 O, in thy childlike wisdom's moveless hold 
 Dwell ever! still the blessings manifold 
 Of purity, of peace, and untaught care 
 For other's hearts, around thy pathway shed, 
 And thou shalt have a crown of deathless 
 
 flowers, 
 To glorify and guard thy blessed head 
 And give their freshness to thy life's last 
 
 hours; 
 And, when the Bridegroom calleth, they shall be 
 A wedding-garment white as snow for thee. 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. L'lo 
 
 XX. 
 
 Poet! who sittest in thy pleasant room, 
 Warming thy heart with idle thoughts of love, 
 And of a holy life that leads above. 
 Striving to keep life's spring-flower still in 
 
 bloom, 
 And lingering to snuff their fresh perfume — 
 O, there were other duties meant for thee, 
 Than to sit down in peacefulness and Be) 
 O, there are brother-hearts that dwell in gloom, 
 Souls loathsome, foul, and black with daily sin, 
 So crusted o'er with baseness, that no ray 
 Of heaven's blessed light may enter in! 
 Come down, then, to the hot and dusty way. 
 And lead them back to hope and peace again — 
 For, save in Act, thy Love is all in vain. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 "no more but so?" 
 No more but so? Only with uncold looks, 
 And with a hand not laggard to clasp mine, 
 Think'st thou to pay what debt of love is thine? 
 No more but so? Like gushing water-brooks, 
 Freshening and making green the dimmest 
 
 nooks 
 Of thy friend's soul thy kindliness should flow; 
 But, if't is bounded by not saying "no," 
 I can find more of friendship in my books, 
 All lifeless though they be, and more, far more 
 In every simplest moss, or flower, or tree ; 
 Open to me thy heart of hearts' deep core, 
 Or never say that I am dear to thee ; 
 Call me not Friend, if thou keep close the door 
 That leads into thine inmost sympath3\ 
 
216 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 XXII. 
 TO A VOICE HEARD IN MOUNT AUBURN. 
 
 Like the low warblings of a leaf-hid bird, 
 Thy voice came to me through tho screening 
 
 trees. 
 Singing the simplest, long-known melodies; 
 I had no glimpse of thee, and yet I heard 
 And blest thee for each clearly-carolled word; 
 I longed to thank thee, and my heart would 
 
 frame 
 Mary or Ruth, some sisterl}^ sweet name 
 For thee, yet could I not my lips have stirred; 
 I knew that thou wert lovely, that thine eyes 
 Were blue and downcast, and methought large 
 
 tears, 
 Unknown to thee, up to their lids must rise 
 With half-sad memories of other years, 
 As to th5^self alone thou sangest o'er 
 Words that to childhood seemed to say **No 
 
 More!" 
 
 XXIII. 
 ON READING SPENSER AGAIN. 
 
 Dear, gentle Spenser ! thou my soul dost lead, 
 
 A little child again, through Fairy land. 
 
 By many a bower and stream of golden sand. 
 
 And many a sunny plain whose light doth breed 
 
 A sunshine in my happy heart, and feed 
 
 My fancy with sweet visions; I become 
 
 A knight, and with my charmed arms would 
 
 roam 
 To seek for fame in many a wonderous deed 
 Of high emprize — for I have seen the light 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 217 
 
 Of Una's angels' face, the golden hair 
 And backward eyes of startled Florimel; 
 And, for their holy sake, I would outdare 
 A host of cruel Paynims in the fight, 
 Or Archimage and all the powers of Hell. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Light of mine eyes I with thy so trusting look, 
 And thy sweet smile of charity and love, 
 That from a treasure well uplaid above. 
 And from a hope in Christ its blessing took ; 
 Light of my heart) which, when it could not 
 
 brook 
 The coldness of another's sympathy, 
 Finds ever a deep peace and stay in thee, 
 Warm as the sunshine of a mossy nook; 
 Light of my soul ! who, by the saintliness 
 And faith that acts itself in daily life, 
 Canst raise me above weakness, and canst bless 
 The hardest thraldom of my earthly strife — 
 I dare not say how much thou art to me 
 Even to myself — and O, far less to thee ! 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Silent as one who treads on new-fallen snow, 
 
 Love came upon me ere I was aware ; 
 
 Not light of heart, for there was troublous care 
 
 LTpon his eyelids, drooping them full low. 
 
 As with sad memory of a healed woe ; 
 
 The cold rain shivered in his golden hair, 
 
 As if an outcast lot had been his share, 
 
 And he seemed doubtful whither he should go: 
 
 Then he fell on my neck, and, in my breast 
 
 Hiding his face, awhile sobbed bitterly, 
 
218 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 As half in grief to be so long distrest, 
 And half in joy at his security — 
 At last, uplooking from his place of rest, 
 His eyes shone blessedness and hope on me. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 A gentleness that grows of steady faith ; 
 A joy that sheds its sunshine everywhere; 
 A humble strength and readiness to bear 
 Those burthens which strict duty ever lay'th 
 Upon our souls; — which unto sorrow saith, 
 *'Here is no soil for thee to strike thy roots, 
 Here only grow those sweet and precious fruits 
 Which ripen for the soul that well obey'th, 
 A patience which the world can neither give 
 Nor take away; a courage strong and high, 
 That dares in simple usefulness to live, 
 And without one sad look behind to die 
 When that day comes; — these tell me that our 
 
 love 
 Is building for itself a home above. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 When the glad soul is full to overflow. 
 
 Unto the tongue all power it denies, 
 
 And only trusts its secret to the eyes; 
 
 For, by an inborn wisdom it doth know 
 
 There is no other eloquence but so; 
 
 And, when the tongue's weak utterance doth 
 
 suffice, 
 Prisoned within the body's cell it lies, 
 Remembering in tears its exiled woe: 
 That word which all mankind so long to hear, 
 "Which bears the spirit back to whence it came, 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 219 
 
 Maketh this sullen clay as crystal clear, 
 And will not be enclouded in a name; 
 It is a truth which we can feel and see, 
 But is as boundless at Eternity. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 TO THE EVENING-STAR. 
 
 When we have once said lowly '* Evening- 
 Star!" 
 Words give no more — for, in thy silver pride, 
 Thou shinest as nought else can shine beside: 
 The thick smoke, coiling round the sooty bar 
 Forever, and the customed lamp-light mar 
 The stillness of my thought — seeing things 
 
 glide 
 So samely: — then I ope my windows wide. 
 And gaze in peace to where thou shin'st afar, 
 The wind that comes across the faint-white 
 
 snow 
 So freshly, and the river dimly seen, 
 Seem like new things that never had been so. 
 Before ; and thou art bright as thou hast been 
 Since thy white rays put sweetness in the eyes 
 Of the first souls that loved in Paradise. 
 
 XXIX. 
 READING. 
 
 As one who on some well-known landscape 
 
 looks. 
 Be it alone, or with some dear friend nigh. 
 Each day beholdeth fresh variety. 
 New harmonies of hills, and trees, and brooks — 
 So is it with the worthiest choice of books, 
 
220 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 And oftenest read: if thou no meaning spy, 
 Deem there is meaning wanting in thine eyes; 
 We are so lured from judgment by the crooks 
 And winding ways of covert fantasy, 
 Or turned unwittingly down beaten tracks 
 Of our foregone conclusions, that we see. 
 In our own want, the writer's misdeemed lacks: 
 It is with true books as with Nature, each 
 New day of living doth new insight teach. 
 
 XXX. 
 TO , AFTER A SNOW-STORM. 
 
 Blue as thine eyes the river gently flows 
 Between his banks, which, far as eye can see, 
 Are whiter than aught else on earth may be, 
 Save inmost thoughts that in thy soul repose ; 
 The trees, all crystalled by the melted snows, 
 Sparkle with gems and silver, such as we 
 In childhood sav/ 'mong groves of Faerie, 
 And the dear skies are sunny-blue as those ; 
 Still as thy heart, when next mine own it lies 
 In love's full safety, is the bracing air; 
 The earth is all enwrapt with draperies 
 Snow-white as that pure love might choose to 
 
 wear — 
 O for one moment's look into thine eyes, 
 To share the joy such scene would kindle there! 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 221 
 
 SONNETS ON NAMES. 
 
 EDITH. 
 
 A Lily with its frail cup filled with dew, 
 Down-bending- modestly, snow-white and pale, 
 Shedding faint fragrance round its native vale, 
 Minds me of thee, sweet Edith, mild and true, 
 And of thy eyes so innocent and blue, 
 Thy heart is fearful as a startled hare, 
 Yet hath in it a fortitude to bear 
 For Love's sake, and a gentle faith which grew 
 Of Love: need of a stay whereon to lean, 
 Felt, in thyself, hath taught thee to uphold 
 And comfort others, and to give, unseen, 
 The kindness thy still love cannot withhold: 
 Maiden, I would my sister thou hadst been. 
 That round thee I my guarding arms might 
 fold. 
 
 II. 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 My ever-lightsome, ever-laughing Rose, 
 Who always speakest first and thinkest last, 
 Thy full voice is as clear as bugle-blast ; 
 Right from the ear down to the heart it goes 
 And says, "I'm beautiful! as who but knows?" 
 Thy name reminds me of old romping days, 
 Of kisses stolen in dark passage-ways, 
 
222 LOWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Or in the parlor, if the mother-nose 
 
 Gave sign of drowsy watch. I wonder where 
 
 Are gone thy tokens, given with a glance 
 
 So full of everlasting love till morrow, 
 
 Or a day's endless grieving for the dance 
 
 Last night denied, backed with a lock of hair, 
 
 That spake of broken hearts and deadly sorrow. 
 
 III. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Dark hair, dark eyes — not too dark to be deep 
 And full of feeling, yet enough to glow 
 With fire when angered; feelings never slow. 
 But which seem rather watching to forth leap 
 From her full breast ; a gently-flowing sweep 
 Of words in common talk, a torrent-rush, 
 Whenever through her soul swift feelings gush, 
 A heart less ready to be gay than weep, 
 Yet cheerful ever; a calm matron-smile, 
 That bids God bless you; a chaste simpleness, 
 With somewhat, too, of "proper pride," in 
 
 dress; — 
 This portrait to my mind's eye came, the while 
 I thought of thee, the well-grown woman Mary, 
 Whilome a gold-haired laughing little fairy. 
 
 IV. 
 CAROLINE. 
 
 A staidness sobers o'er her pretty face, 
 Which something but ill-hidden in her eyes, 
 And a quaint look about her lips denies; 
 A lingering love of girlhood you can trace 
 In her checked laugh and half-restrained pace; 
 
LOWELL'S POEMS. 223 
 
 And, when she bears herself most womanly, 
 
 It seems as if a watchful mother's eye 
 
 Kept down with sobering glance her childish 
 
 grace : 
 Yet oftentimes her nature gushes free 
 As water long held back by little hands, 
 Within a pump, and let forth suddenly, 
 Until, her task remembering, she stands 
 A moment silent, smiling doubtfully. 
 Then laughs aloud and scorns her hated band^. 
 
 V. 
 
 ANNE. 
 
 There is a pensiveness in quiet Anne, 
 
 A mournful drooping of the full gray eye, 
 
 As if she had shook hands with misery, 
 
 And known some care since her short life 
 
 began ; 
 Her cheek is seriously pale, nigh wan, 
 And, though of cheerfulness there is no lack, 
 You feel as if she must be dressed in black ; 
 Yet is she not of those who, all they can, 
 Strive to be gay, and striving, seem most sad — 
 Hers is not grief, but silent soberness; 
 You would be startled if you saw her glad, 
 And startled if you saw her weep, no less; 
 She walks through life, as, on the Sabbath day, 
 She decorously glides to church to pray. 
 
AUG 27 }m)U