Poems of James Russell Lowell,: with biographical sketch by Nathan Haskell Dole.
Lowell, James Russell, 1819-1891., Dole, Nathan Haskell, 1852-1935.

Page  A JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Page  B (jb' ~ V J ~ EA~LY POEMS OF ~ JAMES RUSSELL ~ ) LOWELL 1)) NEW YORK AND BOSTON THOMAS Y. CROWELL AND COMPANY ~ 1 W?~ ~J 5

Page  i POEMS OF JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL WITH BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH BY NATllAN llASKELL DOLE NEW YORK: 46 EAST 14TH STREET TllOMAS Y. CROWELL & COMPANY BOSTON: 100 PURCHASE STREET

Page  ii COPYRIGHT, 1892, 1898, B~ T. Y. C~OW~LL & CO. ~ct~~oU 1prt~% J. S. Cunhing & Co. - Berwick & Smith Norwood MUL U~S.A.

Page  iii CONTENTS. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. ix EARLY POEMS. Sonnet 1 Hakon's Lay. 1 Out of Doors 3 A Reverie 4 In Sadness 6 Farewell 7 A Dirge 10 Fancies about a Rosebud 15 New Year's Eve, 1544 17 A Mystical Ballad 20 Opening Poem to A Year's Life 23 Dedication to Volume of Poems entitled A Year's Life 24 The Serenade 24 Song ~ 26 The Departed ~ 27 The Bobolink 30 Forgetfulness 32 Song. 3 The Poet 34 Flowers 35 The Lover 39 ToE. W.G 40 Isabel 42 iii

Page  iv iv CONTENTS. Music 43 Song 46 Ianthe 48 Love's Altar 52 Impartiality 54 Bellerophon 54 Something Natural 58 A Feeling 58 The Lost Child 59 The Church 60 The Unlovely 61 Love-Song 62 Song 63 A Love-Dream. 65 Fourth of July Ode 66 Sphinx 67 "Goe, Little Booke!" 69 Sonnets 71 Sonnets on Names 82 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Threnodia 85 The Sirens 87 fren~ 90 Serenade 93 With a Pressed Flower 93 The Beggar 94 My Love 95 Summer Storm 97 Love 100 To Perdita, Singing 101 The Moon 103 Remembered Music 104 Song..... -

Page  v CONTENTS. V Ailegra 105 The Fountain 106 Ode 107 The Fatherland 112 The Forlorn Midnight 114 A Prayer 115 The Heritage 116 The Rose: A Ballad 118 A Legend of Brittany 120 Prometheus 139 Song 147 Rosaline 148 The Shepherd of King Admetus 151 The Token 152 An Incident in a Railroad Car 153 Rhcecus 156 The Falcon 160 Trial 161 A Requiem 161 A Parable 162 A Glance behind the Curtain 164 Song 172 A Chippewa Legend 172 Stanzas on Freedom 176 Columbus 176 An Incident of the Fire at Hamburg 183 The Sower 185 Hunger and Cold 187 The Landlord 189 To a Pine-Tree 190 Si Descendero in Infernum, Ades 191 To the Past 192 To the Future 194

Page  vi vi CONTENTS. Hebe 196 The Search 197 The Present Crisis 199 An Indian-Summer Reverie 203 The Growth of the Legend 211 A Contrast 213 Extreme Unction 214 The Oak 216 Ambrose 217 Above and Below 219 The Captive 220 The Birch.Tree 223 An Interview with Miles Standish 224 On the Capture of Certain Fugitive Slaves near Washington 228 To the Dandelion 230 The Ghost-Seer 231 Studies for Two Heads 236 On a Portrait of Dante by Giotto 239 On the Death of a Friend's Child 240 Eurydice 242 She Came and Went 245 The Changeling 245 The Pioneer 247 Longing 248 Ode to France 249 A Parable 254 Ode 255 Lines 257 To 258 Freedom 259 Bibliolatres 261 Beaver Brook 262 Appledore 263

Page  vii CONTENTS. vii Dara 265 To J. F. H.. 267 MEMORIAL VERSES. Kossuth 268 To Lamartine 269 To John G. Paifrey 271 To W. L. Garrison 273 On the Deafl~ of C. T. Torrey 274 Elegy on the Death of Dr. Channing 275 To the Memory of Hood 277 Sonnets 278 L'envoi 289 The Vision of Sir Launfal 293 A Fable for Critics 303 The Biglow Papers 357 The Unhappy Lot of Mr. Knott 471

Page  viii

Page  ix JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. IN the year 1639 Percival Lowle, or Lowell, a merchant of Bristol, England, landed at the little seaport town of Newbury, Mass. N\~ generally speak of a man's descent. In the case of James Russell Lowell's ancestry it was rather an ascent through eight generations. Percival Lowle's son, John Lowell, was a worthy cooper in old Newbury; his great-grandson was a shoemaker, his great-great-grandson was the Rev. John Lowell of Newburyport, the father of the Hon. John Lowell, who is regarded as the author of the clause in the Massachusetts Constitntion abolishing slavery. Judge Lowell's son, Charles, was a Unitarian minister, "learned, saintly, and discreet." He married Miss Harriet Traill Spence, of Portsmouth, - a woman of superior mind, of great wit, vivacity, and an impetuosity that reached eccentricity. She was of Keltic blood, of a family that came from the Orkneys, and clainied descent from the Sir Patrick Spens of "the grand old ballad." Several of her family were connected with the American navy. Her father was Keith Speiice, purser of the frigate "Philadelphia," and a prisoiser at Tripoli. By ancestry on both sides, and by connections with the Russelis and other distinguished families, Lowell was a good type of the New England gentleman. He was born on the 22d of February, 1819, at Elmwood, not far from Brattle Street, Cambridge. This three-storied colonial mansion of wood was built in 1767 by Thomas Oliver, the last royal Lieutenant-Governor, before the Revolution.1 Like other houses in "Tory Row," 1 Thomas Oliver was graduated from Harvard College in the class of 1755. He was a gentleman of fortune, and lived first in Roxhury. He bought the property on ix

Page  x X JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. it was abandoned by its owners. Soon afterwards it came into possession of Elbridge Gerry, Governor of Massachusetts, and fifth Vice-President of the United States, whose in emory and name are kept alive by the terut "gers~mander." It iiext be caine the property of Dr. Lowell abont a year before the birth of his youngest child, and it was the hoitie of the poet until his death. Lowell's early education was obtained mainly at a school kept nearly opposite Elmwood by a retired publisher, an Englishman, Air. William Wells. He also studied in the classical school of Mr. Daisial G. Ingraham in Boston. He was graduated from Harvard College in the class of 1838. He is reportedas declaring that he read almost everything e~cept the classbooks prescribed by the faculty. Lowell says, in one of his early poems referring to Harvard, - "Tho' lightly prized the ribboned parcliments three, Yet collegissejuvot, I am glad That here what colieging was mine I had." He was secretary of the Hasty Pudding Society, and one of the editors of the college periodical Hc~vc~yiiana, to which he coiitributed various articles in prose and verse. His neglect of prescribed studies, and disregard of college discipline, resulted in his rustication just before commencement in 1838. He was sent to Concord, where he resided in the family of Barzillai Frost, and made the acquaintance of Emerson, then beginning to rouse the ire of conservative Unitarianism by his transcendental philosophy, of the brilliant but overestimated Margaret Fuller, who afterwards severely criticised Lowell's verse, and of 1~lmwood Avenue in 1~66. When he accepted the royal commission of Lieutenant~overnor, he became President of the Council appointed by the King. On Sept. 2, i7~4, about four thousand Middlesex freeholders assembled at Cambridge and compelled the mandamus councillors to resign. The President of the Council urged the propriety of delay, hut the committee would not spare him. He was forced to sign an agreement, "as a man of honor and a Christian, that he would never hereafter, upon any terms whatsoever, accept a seat at said Board on the present novel and oppressive form of government." He immediately quitted Cambridge; and when the British troops evacuated Boston he accompanied them. By an odd coincidence he went to reside at Bristol, England, where he died at the age of eighty-two years, in 1815, shortly before the Lowells, who were of Bristol origin, took possession of his former home. In Underwood's sketch of Lowell, Thomas Oliver is confused with Chief Justice Peter Oliver, a man of a very different type of character.

Page  xi BIOC~APiiiCAL SKETCH. Xi other well-known residents of the pretty town. He had been elected poet of his class. His removal froiji college prevented him from delivering the poem which was afterwards published anonymously for private distribution. It contaij~ed a satire on abolitionists and reformers. "I know the village," he writes long afterwards in the person of Hosea Biglow, Esquire. "I know the village though, was sent there once A-schoolin',`cause to home I played the dunce!" On his return to Cambridge he took up the study of law, and, in 1840, received the degree of LL.B. He even went so far as to open an office in Boston; but it is a question whether there was any actual basis of fact in a whimsical sketch of his entitled "My First Client," published iu the short-lived Boston ~lisce11any, edited by Nathan Hale. Several Ihings engrossed Lowell's attention to the exclusion of law. Society at Cambridge was particularly attractive at that time. Allston the painter was living at Cambridgeport. Judge Story's pleasant hoine was on Brattle Street. The Fays then occupied the house which has since become the seat of Radcliffe College. Longfellow, described as "a slender, blond young professor," was established in the Craigie House. The famous names of Dr. Palfrey, Professor Andrews Nortoii, father of Lowell's friend and biographer, the "saintly" Henry Ware, and others will occur to the reader. He was fond of walking and knew every inch of the beautiful ground then called "Sweet Auburn," now turned by the hand of misguided man into that most distressing of monstrosities - a modern cemetery. He haunted the poetic shades of the Waverley Oaks, heard the ch~xming music of Beaver Brook, and climbed the hills of Belmont and Arlington. He himself took his turn in establishing a magazine. In January, 1843, he started T1~e Pioneer, to which Hawthorne, John Neal, Miss Barrett, Poe, Whittier, Story, Parsons, and others contributed, and which, in spite of such an array of talent, perished untimely during the winds of March. He had already published, in 1841, a little volume of poems entitled "A Year's Life." They were marked by no great originality, betrayed little promise of future emineuce, a'~d Margaret Fuller, who reviewed them, was quite right in assert

Page  xii xii JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. ing that "neither the imagery nor the music of Lowell's verses was his own." The first sonnet in the present volume (page 1) practically acknowledges the force of this criticism. The influence of Wordsworth and Tennyson may be distinctly traced in most of them. But many of the lines were harsh and many of the rhymes were careless. Lowell's later and correcter taste omitted most of them from his collected works. Not far from Elmwood, but in the adjoining village of Watertown, lived one of Lowell's classmates, whose sister, Maria White, a slender, delicate girl, with a poetic genius in some respects more regulated a~d lofty than his own, early in spired him with a true and saving love. Speaking of the influences that moulded his life, George William Curtis says: - "The first and most enduring was an early and happy passion for a lovely and high-minded woman who became his wife - the Egeria who exalted his youth and confirmed his noblest aspirations; a heaven-eyed counsellor of the serener air, who filled his mind with peace and his life with joy." The young lady's prudent father objected to the marriage until the newly fledged lawyer should be in a position to snpport a wife. Shortly after the shipwreck of The Pioneer, Lowell was offered a hundred dollars by (;rchcm's Mon~hly for ten poems. When Pegasus is able to earn such princely sums, there seems no reason why Love should be kept waiting at the cottage doom In 1511 Lowell published a new edition of his poems, and married Miss MThite. It was her influence that decided him to cast in his lot with the abolitionists. It was her refined taste that shaped and tempered his impetuous verse. A volume of her poems was in 1855, in an edition of fifty copies, privately printed, and is now very rare. It is an odd circumstance that in Lowell's library, from which llarvard College was allowed to select any volumes not in Gore llall, neither this book nor any of Lowell's own early poems was to be found. -The young couple took up their residence at Elmwood, and here were born three daughters and a son. All but one of his children died in infancy. Many of the tenderest of his poems refer with touching pathos to his bereavement: such for instance are "The Changeling" and "The First Snowfall."

Page  xiii BJOUPAPHJCAL SKETCH. xiii In 1845 appeared "The Vision of Sir Launfal," - a' genuine inspiration composed in two days in a sort of ecstasy of poetic fervor. That more than anything established his fame. He recognized that he was dedicated to the Muses. In 1846 he wrote: - "If I have any vocation, it is the making of verse. When I take my pen for that, the world opens itself ungrudgingly before me; everything seems clear and easy, as it seems sinking to the bottom could he as one leans over the edge of his boat in one of those dear coves at Fresh Pond.... My true place is to serve the cause as a poet. Then my heart leaps before me into the conflict." The same year he began his "Biglow Papers" in the Boston Cou~ier. Such jeux d'esprit are apt to be ephemeral. Lowell's are immortal. They preserved in literary form a fast-fading dialect; they caught and embalmed the mighty issues of a tremendous world-problem. Their influence was incalculable. He gathered them into a volume in 1848, and became corresponding editor of the Anti-Slcvery Stanjard. Fortunate man who throws himself into an unpopular cause which is in harmony with the Right! How different from ~Vordsworth who attacked the ballot and took sides against reform! Lowell's penchant for satire was exemplified again the same year in his "Fable for Critics." In this Lowell with no sparing hand laid on his portraits most droll and amusing colors. It is a comic portrait gallery, a series of caricatures whose greatest value (as in all good caricatures) lies in the accurate presentation of characteristic features. He did not spare himself - "There is Lowell, who`s striving Parnassus to climb With a whole bale of isms tied together with rhyme. He might get on alone, spite of troubles and bowiders, But he can't with that bundle he has on his shoulders. The top of the hill he will ne'er come nigh reaching Till he learns the distinctions`twixt singing and preaching; His lyre has some chords that would ring pretty well, But he`d rather by half make a drum of the shell, And rattle away till he`s old as Methusalem At the head of a march to the last New Jerusalem." Some of his thrusts left embittered feelings, but in general the tone was so good-natured that only the thi'i-skiiiijed could

Page  xiv Xiv JAMES RUSSELL LOiVELL. object, and it must be confessed many of his judgments have been confirmed by Time. In 1851 Lowell visited Europe, and spent upwards of a year widening his acquaintance with the polite languages. But it is remarkable that Lowell gave the world almost no metrical translatious. Shortly after his return his wife died (Oct. 27, 1853) after a slow decline. In reference to this bereavement Longfellow wrote his beautiful poem, "The Two Angels." The following year Longfellow resigned the Smith Professorship of the French and Spanish Languages and Literature and Belles Lettres, and Lowell was appointed his successor with two years' leave of absence. He had won his spurs. He had collected his poems in two volumes, not including "A Year's Life," the "Biglow Papers," or the "Fable for Critics." He was knowii as one of the most brilliant contributors to Putnam's Monthly and other magazines. In 1854 he delivered a series of twelve lectures on Ei~glish poetry before the Lowell Institute. Ten years before he had published a volume of "Conversations on the Poets." The contrast between the two works is no less pronounced than that between his earlier and later poems. In both, however, there is a tendency toward a confusing over-elaboration - Metaphors trample on the heels of Similes, and quaint and often grotesque conceits sometimes pall upon the taste, just as in the poems a flash of incongruous wit sometimes disturbs the serenity that is desirable. On his return from Europe, ~li-. Lowell occupied the chair which he adorned by his brilliant attainnients and made memorable by his fame. He lectured on Dante, Shakespeare, Chaucer, and Cervantes, and delighted his audiences. At the same time he was editor of the A tlantic Monthly for several years. From 18(33 until 1872 he was associated with Professor Charles Eliot Norton in the conduct of the North A me rican Review. In 1857 he married Miss Frances Dun]ap of Portland, Me., a cultivated lady who had been the governess of his daughter. She had unerring literary taste and sound judgmei~t, and Mr. Lowell soon came to entrust to her the management of his financial affairs. She was enabled to make their comparatively small income more than meet the exigencies of an exacting position.

Page  xv BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xy The second series of the "Biglow Papers," relating to the War of the Rebellion, were first published in the A tiantic. They were collected into a volume in 1865. That year was rendered notable by his "Commemoration Ode," the worthy crowning of one of the grandest poetic opportunities ever granted to man. "Under the Willows" appeared in 1869; "The Cathedral" in 1870. In 1864 he had issued a collection of his early descriptive articles under the title, "Fireside Travels." In 1870 came "Among my Books." The second series followed in 1876. "My Study N\Tindows" was published in 1871. All these prose works were marked by an exuberant, vivid, poetic, impassioned style. The tropical efflorescence of imagery was characteristic of them all. He ought to have remembered his own words, - "Over-ornament ruins both poem and prose." In 1876 appeared three memorial poems: that read at Concord, April 19, 1875; that read at Cambridge under the Washington Elm, July 3, 1875; and the Fourth of July Ode of 1876. This year Mr. Lowell was appointed one of the presidential electors; and the following year President Hayes first offered him the Austrian mission, and, on his refusal of that, gave him the honorary post at Madrid, which had been adorned by Everett, Irving, and Prescott. He was there three years, and, on the retirement of Mr. Welsh in 1880, was transferred to the Court of St. James, or, as one of the English papers expressed it, he became "His Excellency the Ambassador of American Literature to the Court of Shakespeare." He was extremely popular. Known in private as "one of the most marvellous of story-tellers," he became the lion of many public occasions. The London News spoke of the "Extraordinary felicity of his occasional speeches." At Birmingham he delivered a noble address on Democracy. He was selected to deliver the oration at the dedication of the Dean Stanley Memorial. He spoke on Fielding at Taunton, on Coleridge at Westminster Abbey, on Gray at Cambridge. He was President of the N\~rdsworth Society. All sorts of honors were heaped upon him, both at home and abroad. He returned to America in 1885, and once more occupied the somewhat dilapidated historic mansion at Elmwood. Once

Page  xvi xvi JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. more lie moved amid his rare and precious books, and heard the birds singing in the elms that his father had planted, or in the clustered bushes back of the house. lie took a deep interest in the struggle for international copyright. lie was President of the American Copyright League, and wrote the memorable lines: - "In vain we call old notions fudge, And bend our conscience to our dealing; The Ten Commandments will not budge; And stealing will continue stealing." He used the leisure of his failing health in revising his works. His last volume of poems was entitled "Heart's Ease and Rue.' One of his latest poems, "My Book," appeared in the Christmas number of the New York Ledger in 1890. In the December number of the A Ilantic his hand was visible in the anonymous "Contributor's Club." During the last years his health was a matter of grave anxiety to his friends. In the spring of 1891 he seemed better. He was engaged in writing a life of Nathaniel Hawthorne. When the present writer call to see him one beautiful spring day, he found him in his library, at that moment engaged in making suggestions for the inscriptions on the new Boston Public Library. His manner was the perfection of courtesy and high breeding. His keen eyes seemed to read the very soul. Simplicity and beautiful dignity, tempered by evident feebleness of health, made him a memorable figure. Toward the end of the summer he suddenly grew more seriously ill. He suffered severely, and his last words were, "Oh! why don't you let me die?" He drew his last breath in the early morning of Aug. 12, 1891. He was buried at Mount Auburn, in the shadcsw of Indian Ridge, not far from Longfellow's grave, in a lot unenclosed and maA~ed by no monument. Memorial services were held in many places. Lord Tennyson cabled a message of sympathy: "England and America will mourn Mr. Lowell's death. They loved him and he loved them." The Queen publicly expressed her respect and sorrow. Few men have left a deeper in~press on their age. Pew men have used noble powers more nobly. In private life and p'il~lic

Page  xvii BIOCrRAPHJCAL SKETUlI. Xvii station there is not a shadow to stain the whiteness of his fame. As a poet he stands in the front rank of those who have yet appeared in America. As a critic he was generous and just; as a humorist he used his shafts of ridicule only to wound wrong; as a statesman and diplomat he was actuated by broad, farseeing views; as a man he was a type to be upheld and followed. America has just cause to reverence his memory; and the whole English-speaking world, without geographical distinction, claims him as its own. NATHAN llA5KI~LL DOLE.

Page  xviii

Page  1 EARLY POEMS'. 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. HAKON'S LAY. THEN Thorstein looked at Hakon, where he sate, Mute as a cloud amid the stormy hall, And said: "0, 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!" Then the old man arose: white-haired he stood, White-bearded, and with eyes that looked afar From their still region of perpetual s~ow, Over tlie 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 iii his brow and eye, Which who so saw it, could not see and crouch: B 1

Page  2 2 LOWELL'S POEMS. Loud rang the eniptied beakers as lie 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 fagot 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 All needless stuff, all sapwood, hardens them, From circnmstance untoward feathers plucks Crumpled and cheap, and barbs with iron will: The hour that passes is her quiver-boy; When she draws bow,`t is 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; Bnt Leif, the son of Eric, sate apart Musing, and, with his eyes upon the fire, Saw shapes of arrows, lost as soon as seen

Page  3 OUT OF DOORS. 3 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. OUT OF DOORS. is 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 niantles 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. Like these the soul, for sunshine made, Grows wan and gracile in the shade, Her faculties, which God decreed Various as Summer's d~dal breed, With one sad color are imbued, Shut liorn 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

Page  4 4 LOWELL'S POEMS. What gospels lost the woods retrieve, Or what 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 a~~U so, And in each other's footprints tread, Like those who walk through drifted snow; Who, 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, And, in your earthen crucible, With chemic tests essay to spell How nature works in field and dell! Seek we where Shakspeare buried gold? Such hands no charmed witch-hazel hold; To beach and rock repeats the sea The mystic Open Sesame; Old Greylock's voices not in vain Comment on Milton's mountain strain, And cunningly the various wind Spenser's locked music can unbind. A REVERIE. IN the twilight deep and silent Comes thy spirit unto mine, When the moonlight and the starlight Over cliff and woodland shine, And the quiver of the river Seems a thrill of joy benign. Then I rise and wander slowly To the headland by the sea, When the evening star throbs setting Thro~gh the doudy cedar tree, And from under, mellow thunder Of the surf comes fitfully.

Page  5 A REVERIE. 5 Then within my soul I feel thee Like a gleam of other years, Visions of my childhood murmur Their old madness in my ears, Till the pleasance of thy presence Cools my heart with blissful tears. All the wondrous dreams of boyhood - All youth's ~ery thirst of praise - All~the surer hopes of manhood Blossoming in sadd erdays Joys that bonud 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 fulfilment, Ripened into truths at last; Faith and beauty, hope and duty To one centre 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 do~v n sinking, lie th shrinking At the tuinnlt 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. ~ Home I loiter through the moonlight, Underneath the qnivering trees, Which, as if a spirit stirred them,

Page  6 6 LOWELL'S POEMS. 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 moms - 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 want thrusts in the warp. And if beyond this darksome clime Some fair star Hope may see, That keeps unjarred the blissful chime Of its golden infancy - Where the harvest4ime of faith sublime Not always is to be - Yet would the true soul rather choose Its home where sorrow is, Than in a sated 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 cnre -

Page  7 FAREWELL. 7 The sunshine bursting after rain - The gladness insecure That makes us fain strong hearts to gain, To do and to endure. lligh 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 woe, 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: As on we drift, some wider rift Shows us serener skies. And though nanght 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. F~~~w~~~! as the bee round the blossom Doth murmur drowsily, So murmureth round my bosom 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!

Page  8 8 LOWELL'S POEMS. My hope no longer burneth, Which did so fiercely burn, My joy to sorrow turneth, Although loath, loath to turn - 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 The slender hands wherewith thou twinest Thy heavy auburn hair Thou art to me A memory 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 ~ine 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

Page  9 FAREWELL. 9 That thrilled my brain like wine, Doth thrill as madly yet; My heart cannot forget thee, Though it may droop and pine, Too deeply it had set thee In every love of mine; No new moon ever cometh, No flower ever bloometh, No twilight ever gloometh But I`in 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 sunligbt 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 tbe 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 And face me wheresoe'er I go - What right hath perfectness to give Such weary weight of woe Unto the soul which cannot live

Page  10 10 LOWELL'S POEMS. On anything more low? Oh leave me, leave ine, Marian, There`5 no fair thing I see But doth deceive me, Marian, Into sad dreams of thee! A cold snake gnaws my heart And crushes roand my brain, And I should glory but to part So bitterly again, Feeling the slow tears start And fall in fiery rain: There`5 a wide ring round the moon, The ghostdike clouds glide by, And I hear the sad winds croon A dirge to the lowering sky; There`5 nothing soft or mild In the pale moon's sickly light, But all looks strange and wild Through the dim, foreboding night: I 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, 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 -

Page  11 A DThGE. 11 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 thy 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 tine, 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 At thy sunny burying - Choristers unbidden, And, beloved of sun and dew, Meek forget~ne-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 bearest the clear water run; And the ripples every one, Scattering the golden sun, Through thy silence quiver; Vines trail down upon the stream, Into its srnodh and glassy dream A green stillness spreading, And the shiner, perch, and bream Through the shadowed waters gleam `Gainst the current heading.

Page  12 12 LOWELL'S POE AiS. 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 lowwoiced pine-tree sighs O'er thy bed so lonely. All thy life thou lov'dst its shade: Underneath it thon art laid, In an endless shelter Thou hearest it forever`sigh As the wind's vague 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 would'st 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 of woe and wrong, To win the world unto it; Thy sin it was to see and hear Beyond To-day's dim hemisphere - Beyond all mists of hope and fear, Into a life more true and clear, And dearly thou didst rue it; Light of the new wor]d 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.

Page  13 A Dii? CE. 13 Thou stood'st upon tile farthest prow, 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 tbeir anger, they could hear; The souuds 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 tby 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, that knew no ill But too mucb 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`t was green, but underneath Were scorn and loneliness and death, Gnawing the brain with burning teeth, And making mock witbin it. Thou, who wast full of nobleness, Whose very life-blood`t was to bless, Whose soul's one law was giving, Must bandy words with wickedness, llaggle with hunger and distress, To win that death wbich worldliness Calls bitterly a living. "Tb on sow'st no gold, and shalt not reap!~~ Muttered earth, turning in her sleep; "Come home to the Ilternal Deep!" Murmured a voice, and a wide sweep Of wings through thy soul's hush did creep, As of thy doom o'erflying;

Page  14 14 LOWELL'S POEMS. 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, 11cr loosed wings thy spirit trieth; 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 By the silent river; But thy spirit found the earth Narrow for the mighty birth Which it dreain ed 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;

Page  15 FANCIES ABOUT A ROSEBUD. 15 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, Geutle as a maiden; Now it lieth full of rest - Sods are lighter on its breast Than the great, prophetic guest Wherewith it was laden. 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 u~oon 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 darksorne heart. Alas! too soon the veil is lifted That hangs between the soul and pain, Too soon the morning-red bath drifted Into dull cloud, or fallen in rain! Or were you prest by one who nurst Bleak memories of love gone by, Whose heart, like a star fallen, burst In dark and erring vacancy?

Page  16 16 LOWELL'S POffiffi. To hiin 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 wdnld be a huin of bees, A smell of childhood in the air, And old, fresh feelings cooled the breeze That, like loved fingers, stirred his bair! Then wonld yon snddeuly be blasted By the keen wind of one dark thought, One nameless woe, that had outlasted The sudden blow whereby`t was brought Or were yon prest 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; 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`Ac! 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 in 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

Page  17 NEJV YEAB'~ EVE. 17 My heart runs o'er with sweet surmises, The while my fancy weaves ber rhyme, Kind hopes and musical surprises Throng round me from the olden time. I do not care to know who p~est 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, Secure as if angelic squadrons yet Encamped about her, and each watching star Gained double brightness from the flashing arms Of winged and unsleeping sentiuels. 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 N\Thich we had watered with our holiest tears, P~le blooms, and yet our scanty garden's best, O'er the same ocean piloted by love, ~Iay find a haven at the feet of God, And be not wholly worthless in his sight. 0, hi'~i de1-~endence on a higher Power, Sole stay for all these restless faculties That w'-~nder, Ishmael-like, the desert bare Whereiu 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! 0, mighty huinbleness that feels with awe, Yet with a vast exulting feels, no less, Thatthis huge Minster of the Universe, C

Page  18 18 LOIVELL'S POEMS. Whose smallest oratoi4es are glorious worlds, With painted oriels of dawn and sunset; Whose carved ornaments are systems grand, Orion kneeling in his starry niche, 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 endless 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 year; And God be thanked for such a crystal night As fills the spirit with good store of thoughts, That, like a cheering fire of walunt, crackle Upon the hearthstone of the heart, and cast A mild home-glow o'er all llumanity! 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, llurl backward many a deadly Parthian dart That rankles in the soul and makes it sick 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 hoinestead than the arching sky, is circled watchfully with seraph fires; llow our own erring will it is that hangs The flaming sword o'er Eden's unclosed gate, Which gives free entrance to the pure in hcart, And. with its guarding walls doth fence the meek.

Page  19 NEW YEAR'S EVE. 19 Sleep then, 0 Earth, in thy blue-vaulted cradle, Bent over always by thy mother Heaven! We all are tall enough to reach God's hand, And angels are no taller: looking back Upon the smooth wake of a year o'erpast, We see the black clouds furling, one by one, From the advancing majesty of Truth And something won for Freedom, who'se 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 blinding 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, 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 remailis, 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 iuorning-star, Foretelling how the God-forged shafts of dawn,

Page  20 20 LOJVELL'S POEMS. 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 naiue for happy Truth, Thou warrior-maiQ 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, by hero-blood in vain 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 ~ery 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 sown; - 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. A MYSTICAL BALLAD. I. 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,

Page  21 A MYSTICAL B~1LLAD. 21 And tile new moon with slender rim, Through tile elm arches gleaming dim, Filled memory's chalice to the brim. II. On such an eve the beart 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 donbt, So that this world dotb seem untrue, And all our fancies to take hue From some life ages since gone through. "I. The maiden sat and heard the flow Of the west wind so soft and low The leaves scarce quivered to and fro; Unbound, her heavy golden hair Rippled across her bosom bare, Which gleamed with il~rilling snowy white Far through the magical moonlight: The breeze rose with a rustli~g swell, And from afar there came the smell Of a long-forgotten lily-bell. Iv. The dim moon rested on the hill, Bnt silent, without thought or will, Where sat the dreamy maiden still; And now the moon's tip, like a star, ~rew down below the horizon's bar; To her black noon the Mght hath grown, Yet still the niaiden sits alone, Pale as a corpse beneath a stream And her white bosom still doth gleam Through the deep midnight like a dream. y. Cloudless the morning came and fair, And lavishly the snn doth share

Page  22 22 LOWELL'S POEMS. 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. 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 witldn, And he forever felt that he Walked in the midst of mystery, And thenceforth, why, he conld 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 bad 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 a deep influence Which through onr 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 Who deem that nothing true hath been Save the unspeakable Unseen.

Page  23 A YEAR'S LIFE. 23 Ix. One step beyond life's work-day things, One more beat of the soul's broad wings, One deeper sorrow sometiines brings The spirit into that great Vast Where neither futiire 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. N. 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 fearfnl 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. OPENING POEM TO A YEAR'S LIFE. HOPE first the youthful Poet leads, 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 wreathes 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, Who with a joyous face doth stand Uniting Hope and Memory.

Page  24 24 LOWELL'S POEMS. So brighter grew the Earth around, And bluer grcw the sky above; The Poet now his guide hath found, And follows in the steps of Love. DEDICATION TO vOLUME OF POEMS ENTITLED A YEAR'S LIFE. THE gentle 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, - Bnrning for her dear sake to f~ght. If there be one who can, like her, Make snushine 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? TRE SERENADE. GENTLE, Lady, be thy sleeping, Peaceful may thy dreamings While around thy soul is sweeping, Dreamy~winged, our melody; 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 agaii~ thy childhood's hours - llearest thou the hunibee singing Drowsily among the flowers? Sleepily, sleepily

Page  25 7HE SERENADE. 25 In the noontide swayeth lie, Half rested on the slender stalks That edge those well-known garden walks; 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. `T is the pleasant summertide, Open stands the window wide - Whose voices, Lady, art thou drinking? Who sings the 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 fl~e west wind blow At evening through the clump of pines; O! mournful is their tune, As of a crazed thing Who, to herself alone, Is ever murmuring, Through the night and il~rough the day, For something that hath passed away. Often, Lady, hast thou listened, Often have thy blue eyes glistened, Where the summer evening breeze Moaned sadly through those lonely trees, Or wfth the fierce wind from the north Wrung their mournful music forth. Ever the river fioweth In an unbroken stream, Ever the west wind bloweth, Murmuring as he goeth,

Page  26 26 LOWELL'S POEMS. 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; Long4oved forms and long4oved faces Round about her pillow throng, Through her memory 5 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. SONG. I. LIFT up the curtains of thine eyes And let their light outshine! Let me adore the mysteries Of those mild orbs of thine, Which ever queenly calm do roll, Attuned to an ordered soul! II. 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, runni~ig 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 abo~e earth's atmosphere I rise, whene'er thy voice I hear.

Page  27 THE DEPARTED. 27 THE T)EPARTED. 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 in any 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 or mirth; I weep - for there are empty places Around my heart's once crowded hearth; The cold ground doth not cover the in, The grass hath not grown over them, Yet are they gone from ine on earth;0! 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 thein in their keeping! Wherefore from me who loved you so, 0! wherefore did ye go? I have shed full in any a tear, I have wrestled oft in prayer - But ye do not come again How could anything so dear, How could anything so fair, Vanish like the suininer rain? No, no, it cannot be, But ye are still with me! And yet, 0! 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 -

Page  28 28 LOWELL'S POEAfS. Thou art not there! When the shadow of Night's wings Hath darkened all the ~arth, I listen for thy gambolings Beside the cheerful hearth - Thou art not there! I listen to the far-off bell, I murmur o'er tbe 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 ~Vinter, lonely in the Spring, Summer and Harvest bring no trace of thee - Oh! whither, wbither art thou wandering, Thou who didst once so cleave to me? And Love is gone; - I h~ve seen him come, I have seen him, too, depart, 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 spokei~, And felt, ah, woe is Inc, 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; Beautifnl 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! 0! 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!

Page  29 THE DEPARTETh 29 0, 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? `T is 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 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 0, 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, crc the summer hours, That brought them to us, have gone by. 0 for the hopes and for the feelings, Childhood, that I shared with thee - The high resolves, the bright revealings Of the soul's iriight, which thou gav'st mc, 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 5 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 lon~ hours by,

Page  30 30 LOWELL'S POEMS. Choked by convention's siroc blast Or drifting sands of many cares; Slowly they leave ns all at last, And cease their flowing unawares. THE BOBOLINK. A~~cn~o~ of the meadow, Drunk with the joy of spring! Beneath the tall pine's voiceful shadow I lie and drink thy j argoning; 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 gayly everywhere, Happy, unconscious poet! Upon a tnft of meadow grass, While thy loved-one tends the nest, Thou swayest as the breezes pass, Unburthening thine o'erfull 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; Wbatever your wise thoughts may be, Under that gloomy old pine tree, We do not value them a feather." Now, Jeaving 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,

Page  31 THE BOBOLINK. 31 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, blithesome lover, O'er the bending grass-tops hover, Quivering thy wings for joy. There`5 something in the apple-blossom, The greening grass and bobolink's song, That wakes again withiii 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. O hours that frosty eld deemed wasted, Nodding his gray head toward my books, I dearer prize the lore I tasted With you, among the trees and brooks, Than all that I have gained since theit From learned books or stuQy-withered men! Nature, thy soul was one with mine, And, as a sister by a younger brother Is loved, each flowing to the other, Such love for 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 di~n and solemn woods - No loved-one's voice in lonely solitudes? Yes, yes! unhoodwinked then my spirit's eyes, Blind leaders had not ta~~g1~t me to be wise. 1)ear honrs! which now again I over-live, Hearing and seeiiig wifli the ears and eyes

Page  32 32 LOWELL'S POEMS. 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. O ye whose living is not Ltfe, 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 ey~es, Glowing with new-born energies, How great a thing it is to BE! FORGETFULNESS. THERE`5 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!

Page  33 SONG. 33 No sorrow in that place may be, The noise of life grows less and less: As moss far down within the sea, As, in white lily caves, a bee, As life in a hazy reYerie; So the heart's wave In thy dim cave, lInshes, Forgetfalness! Duty and care fade far away What toil may be we cannot guess: As a ship anchored in tlie bay, As a cloud at summer-noon astray, As water-blooms in a breezeless day; So,`neath thine eyes, The fall heart lies, And dreams, Forgetfulness! SONG. I. WHAT reck I of the stars, when I May gaze into thine eyes, O'er wbich the brown hair flowingly Is parted maidenwise From thy pale forehead, calm and bright, Over thy cheeks so rosy white? II. What care I for the red moon-rise? Far liefer would I sit And watch the joy within thine eyes Gush up at sight of it; Thyself my queedy moon shall be, Ruling my heart's deep tides for me! "I. 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. D

Page  34 34 LOWELL'S POEMS. 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 speak, Although he pray night-long, "0, help me, save me! I am weak, And ye are wondrous strong!" - Who, in the midnight dark aud 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 That stirred his being 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 inoveless trust Knoweth no spot of weakness, Who bath 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 worshipped 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 liom Heaven;

Page  35 FLOWERS. 35 He is the Poet, from his lips To live forevermore, Majestical as full-sailed ships, The words 0~ Wisdom pour. FLOWERS. "HAIL be thou, bolie hearbe, Growing on the ground, All in the mount Calvary First wert thou found; Thou art good for manie a sore, Thou healest manie a wound, In the name of sweete Jesus I take thee from the ground." - A~~cient Charni-verse. I. 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 a 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;

Page  36 LOWELL'S POEMS. And once again I seem To watch the whirling bubbles flee, Through shade and gleam alternately, Down the vine-bowered stream; Or`neath the odorous linden trees, When summer 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. "I. 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-songs, 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 To meet the laudward waves and slowly plunge once more. 0 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,

Page  37 FLOWERS. 37 And in the silent water gleams, And trembles as the water floweth, Many a one the wave upteareth, Washing ever the roots away, And far upon its bosom beareth, To bloom no more in Yonth'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, 0, take good heed they be not lost While with the angry flood thou fightest! V. in the cool grottos of the soul, Whence flows thought's crystal river, Whence songs of joy forever roll To llim who is the Giver - There store thou them, where fresh and green 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 inen blest, Take heed that thus thou store them; Love, llope, and Faith shall ever rest,

Page  38 38 LOWELL'S POEMS. Sweet birds (upon how sweet a nest!) Watchfiilly 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, Yet be not thou one jot the less Humble and meek and lowly, Bnt 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. VI'. 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 np to Heaven. Let not thy baptism in Life's wave Make thee like him whom Homer sings 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, ~~en thy best years are told, As much as these have been to me - Yea, more, a thousand-fold!

Page  39 THE LOVER. 39 TllE LOVER. I. Go from the world from East to West, Search every land beneath the sky, You cannot find a man so blest, 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`5 seen, It seems most beautiful and right, And is the loveliest to my sight. v. 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 lleaven, so thou art; Thou wholly lovest every creature, Giving to each no stinted part, But filling every peaceful heart.

Page  40 40 LOWELL'S POEMS. TO E. W. G. "DEAR Child! dear happy Girl! if thou appear Heedless - untouched with ~we or serious thought, Thy nature is not therefore ~ss 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 through 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 bappy 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. Around thy playful lips did glitter Heat4ightnings 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 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

Page  41 TO E. W. G. 41 The feelings of my early years, And half aloud I murmured o'er - "Sure I have beard that sound before, It is so pleasant in u~iue 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, joini~g hands, they whirled away, As blithe and merrily as they. 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-nestled in thy warmer clime, In memory of a happier day I twine this simple wreath of rhyme. Dost mind how she, whom thou dost love More than in light words may be said, A coronal of amaranth wove About thy duly-sobered bead, Which kept itself a momei~t 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!

Page  42 42 LOWELL'S POEMS ISABEL. As the leaf upon the tree, Fluttering, gleaming constantly, Such a lightsome tiling 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? She knew it not, but she was 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 giadsome 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 tbem well, And I for thy sake, Isabel! The sunsets seem less lovely now Than when, leaf checkered, on thy brow

Page  43 MUSIC. 43 They fell as lovingly as thou Lingered'st till moonaise, Isabel! At dead 0~ 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 n~t reply; The stars gleam coldly on thine eye, As like a dream thon flittest by, And leav'st me weeping, Isabel! MUSIC. I. 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 rnstling grass, Which nnmbers 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 bom~d them nnder 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 Achelous' silver-voiced daughters 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

Page  44 44 LOJVELL'S POEMS. 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 h~id flash 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. "I. Now listening to a woman's tone, In a wood I sit aloneAlone because our souls are one; - All around my heart it flows, 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 inniost soul it goes, As if my brother dear, Who is no longer here, Had bended from the sky And murmured 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,

Page  45 MUSIC. 45 Full merrily I float, Merrily float along; My helm is veered, I care not how, My white sail bellies over 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 with a lingering roar; Or anchored in a shadowy cove, Entranced with harmonies, Slowly I sink and rise As the slow waves of music move. v. 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 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 n~n; Now faintly heard and far, As if the spirit's ears llad 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 twofold gate of dream S; Now onward roll the billows, swelling With a tempest-sound of might, As of voices doom foretelling To the silent ear of Night;

Page  46 46 LOWELL'S POEMS. And now a mingled ecstasy Of all sweet sounds it is; - 0! who may tell the agony Of rapture such as this? 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, When mine eyes would fill with tears That its life were not more long; I have drnnk it through mine eyes In beauty's every shape, And now around my soul it lies, No jnice of earthly grape! Wings! wings are given to me, I can flutter, I can rise, Like a new life gushing throngh me Sweep the heavenly harmonies! SONG. 0! 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 graut that she may look on me as kindly as she seems In the long night, the restless night, i' the snuny land of dreams! I hoped, I thought, she loved me once, and yet, I know not why, There is a coldness in her speech, and a coldness in her eye. Something that in another's look wonld 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 something hid; She almost seems to shnn me, as if 5119 thought that I Might win her gentle heart again to feelings long gone by.

Page  47 SQY&. 47 I sought the first spriug-buds for her, the fairest and the best, And she wore them for their loveliness npon her spotless breast, The blood~oot and the violet, the frail anemone, She wore them, and alas! I deemed it was for love of me! As flowers ill a darksorne place stretch forward to the light, So to the memory of her I turn by day and night; As flowers in a dark some place grow thin and pale and wan, So is it wfth my darkened heart, now that her light is gone. The thousand little things that love doth treasure up for aye, And brood upon with moistened eyes when she that`5 loved`5 away, The word, the look, the smile, the blush, 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! As calm as doth the lily float close by the lakelet's brim, So calm and spotless, down time's stream, her peaceful days did swim, And I had longed, and dreamed, and prayed, that closely by her side, bown to a haven sti)l and sure, my hap~~y life might glide. But now, alas! those golden days of youth and hope are 0 Ci, And I m~~st dream il~ose dreanis of joy, those guiltless dreanis ilo more;

Page  48 48 LOWELL'S POEMS. Yet there is something in my heart that whispers cease lessly, "~Vonld God that I might see that face once more before I die!" IANTllE. I. THERE is u light within her eyes, Like gleams of wandering fire-flies From light to shade it l$aps and moves ~Vhenever ill her soul arise The holy shapes of thiags she loves; Fitful it shines and changes ever, Like star-lit ripples on a river, Or summer sunshine on the eaves Of silver4rembling poplar leaves, Where the lingering dew -drops quiver. I may not tell the blessedness Her mild eyes send to nbne, The sunset4inted haziness Of 4~eir mysterious shine, The dim and holy mournfulness Of their mellow light divine; The shadow of the lashes lie Over thein 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 - Instead of fire-fly gleams, I see Wild corpse4ights gliding waveringly. II. N\flH~ wayward thoughts her eyes are bright, Like shiftings of the nouthernAight, Hither, thither, swiftly glance they, In a mazy twiMug dance they,

Page  49 kINTHE. 49 Like ripply lights the sunshi~e weaves, Thrown backward from a shaken nook, Below some tnmbling water-brook, On the o'erarching platanAcaves, All through her glowing face they flit, And rest ill their deep dwelling-place, Those fathomless blue eyes of hers, Till, from her burnii~g 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, I feel a sudden sense of pain, As if, while yet her eyes were gleaming, And like a shower of sun-lit rain Bright fancies from her face were streaming, ller trembling soul might flit away As swift and snddenly as they. "I. A wild, inspired earnestness 11cr inmost being fills, And eager self-forgetfiilness, That speaks not what it wills, But what unto her soul is given, 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 marvellously from her eyes. And then, like a Spring-swollen river, Roll the deep waves of her full-hearted thought Crested with sun-lit spray, Her wild lips curve and quiver, And my rapt soul, on the strong tide upcaught, Unwittingly is borne away, Lulled by a dreamftil music ever, Far - Hirough the solemn twilight-gray Of hoary woods - through valleys green E

Page  50 60 LOWELL'S POEMS. 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-rhumed nook - Enwoven by a wild-eyed band Of earth-forgetting dreams, I float to a delicious land By a sunset beaven spanned, And musical with streams - Around, the calm, majestic forms And god4ike 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 tboughts are never memories, But ever changeful, ever new, Fresh and beautiful as dew That iii 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.

Page  51 `AN THE. 51 V. When first I saw her, not of earth, But heavenly both in grief and mirth, I thought her; she did seem As fair and fu~l of mystery, As bodiless, as forms we see In the rememberings of a dream; A moon-lit mist, a strange, dim light, Circled her spirit from my sight; - Each day more beauhful she grew, More earthly every day, Yet 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 b~ For both, methinks, can scarce be true, Still, as she earthly grew to me, She grew more l~eavenly 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, wiiich to me In speech and look is written bright, And to her life's rich harmony Doth ever sing itself aright; Dear, glorious creature!

Page  52 52 LOWELL'S POEMS. With eyes so dewy bright, And tenderest feeling Itself revealing In every look and feature, Welcome as a homestead light To one long-wandering in a clouded night; 0, lovelier for her woman's weakness, Which yet is strongly mailed In armor of courageous meekness Aiid 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 ~~ood and great - Nor is their memory wanting in our need: With stronger loving, every hour, Turneth iny heart to this frail flower, Which, thoughtless of the world, hath grown To beauty and meek gentleiiess, Here iii a fair world of its owii - By woman 5 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. I BUILT an altar in my soul, I builded it to one alone;

Page  53 LOIfE'S ALTAR. 53 And ever silently I stole, In happy days of long-agone, To make rich offerings to that ONE. II. `T was garlanded with purest thought, And crowned with fancy's flowers bright, ~Vith choicest gems`t was all inwrought Of truth and feeling; in my sight It seemed a spot of cloudless light. "I. 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-dimin~ed eyes. 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 time4aught hands Bring incense now from many lands. V. Knowledge doth only widen love; The stream, that lone and narrow rose, Doth, deepening ever, onward move, And with an even current flows Calnier and calmer to the close. vi. The love, that in those early days Girt round my spirit like a wall, ilath faded like a morning haze, And flames, unpent by self's mean thrall, Rise clearly to the perfect ALL.

Page  54 54 LOWELL'S POEMS. IMPARTIALITY. I. 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 say 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 thy heart o'erfiow. 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. I FEEL the bandages unroll That bound my inward seeing; Freed are the bright wings of my soul, Types of my god-like 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 sea9 I have loved them all, and taken All within my throbbing breast;

Page  55 BELLEROPHON. 55 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! II. Upward! upward evermore, To Reaven'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! Now fold thy wings a little while, 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, Row 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 Rath faded from the hill; But in my higher atmosphere The sun-light streameth red and clear, Fringing the islets still; - Love lifts us to the sun-light, Though the whole world would 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 will, Doth lie within us mildly glowing, From its own centre raying out Beauty and Truth on all without.

Page  56 56 LOWELL'S POEMS. "I. Each on his golden throne, Full royally, alone, I see the stars above me, With sceptre 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 i~ipon 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. ISternal 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. I~. Of Knowledge Love is master~key, Knowledge of Beauty; passing dear Is each to each, and mutually Each one doth make tbe other clear Beauty is Love, and what we love Straightway is beautiful So is the circle round an'd full, And so dear Love doth Jive and move And have his being,

Page  57 BELLEROPHON. 57 Finding his propel' food By sure inseeing, In all things pure and good, Which he at will doth cull, 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! v. 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`nine 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, Hand in hand, they weave their dance, While a deep, ambrosial lustre From their rounded limbs doth shine, Throi~gh 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-assuines 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 sonl I feel it and know it; My veins are fired with ecstasy! All-mother Farth Did ne'er give birth

Page  58 58 LOWELL'S POEMS. 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! SOMETRING NATURAL. I. 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. IL. 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. "I. And yet - and yet -0 selfish love! I ani 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,`t is 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! A FEELING. THE flowers and the grass to me Are eloquent reproachfully; For would they wave so pleasantly

Page  59 THE LOST CHILD. 59 Or look so fresh and fair, If a man, cunning, hollow, mean, Or one in anywise unclean, ~Yere looking on them there? No; lie bath 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 mysteries; 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 LOST CHILI). I. I WANDERED down the sunny glade And ever muscA, my love, of thee; My thoughts, like little children, played, As gayly and as guilelessly. II. If any chanced to go astray, Moaning in fear of coming harms, Hope brought the wanderer back alway, Safe nestled in her snowy arms. "I. From that soft nest the happy one Looked up at me and calmly smiled; 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 nursling of her own, It clasped her neck and fell asleep.

Page  60 60 LOWELL'S POEAJS. THE CHURCH. I. I LOVE the rites o~ 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. "I. 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 withh~ my soul that He Hath purer shrines than this. Iv. For his is not the builded church, Nor organ-shaken dome; In every thing that lovely is He loves and hath his home; And most in soul thW loveth well All things which he hath made, Knowing no creed but simple faith That may not be gain said.

Page  61 THE UXLOJ~LY. 61 V. llis church is universal Love, And who so dwells therein Sb all need no customed sacrifice To wash away his sin; And music in its aisles sball 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, 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. TllE pretty things that others wear Look strange and out of place on me, I never see in dressed tastefully, Because I ain 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, tr~ie heart, But when I show it people stare; -I must forever dwell apart, Because I am not fair. I ain least happy being where The hearts of others are most light,

Page  62 62 LOWELL'5 POEM& And strive to keep me out of sight, Because I ain not fair; The glad ones often give a glance, As I ain sitting lonely there, That asks inc why I do not dance - Because I am not fair. And if to smile on the in I dare, For that my heart with love runs o'er, They say: "What is she laughing for? " Because I ain 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 aiid cry, And in iny grave I wish I were - Yet none will weep nie if I die, Becanse 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 ain not fair; They will not iii the summer come And speak kind words above me there; To me the grave will be no home, Because I am not fair. LOVE-SONG. NEARER to thy mother-heaft, Simple N ature, press inc, Let inc know thee as thot~ art, Fill my soul and bless inc! I have loved thee long and well, I have loved thee heartily;

Page  63 SONG. 63 Shall I never wfth thee dwell, Never be at one with thee? Inward, inward to thy lie art, Kindly Natnre, 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 halfuess, no mean part, Any longer thrall me! I will be tby lover true, I will be a faithful soul, Then cirCle me, then look me through, Fill me with the mighty Whole. SONG. ALL things are sad: - I go and ask of Memory, That she tell 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; 0, her voice is sweet and low, And her eyes are fresh to mine A 5 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;

Page  64 64 LOWELL'S POEMS. She is fair and full 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, 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, Scattering 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 suinmer 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, Is a shadow from the roses

Page  65 A LOVE-DREAJIL 65 Wherewith we have decked his bier, Because lie once was passing dear; - When we feel a leaden sense Of nothingness and impotence, Till we grow mad - Then the body saith, "There's but one true faitb All things are sad!" A LOVE-1)REAM. PLEAS ANT thoughts come wandering, When thou art far, from thee to me; On their silver wings they bring A very peaceful ecstasy, A feeling of eternal spring; So that Winter half forgets Everything but tbat thou art, And, in bis bewildered heart, Dreameth of the violets, Or those bluer 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 Memory 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, Down4ooking on our sleep; P

Page  66 66 LOWELL'S POEMS. I hear his clear, 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, Quiveriug 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 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. I. Oun fathers fought for Liberty, They struggled long and well, History of their deeds can tell - But did they leave us free? II. Are we free from vanity, Free from pride, and free from self, Free from love of power and pelf, From everything that`5 beggarly?

Page  67 SPHINX. 67 "I. Are we free froni stubborn will, From low hate and malice sin all, 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? y. 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 prinie When onr young souls zvere kingly, strong, and true? The soul is greater than all time, It changes not, but yet is ever new. II. 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. "I. 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.

Page  68 68 LOWELL'S POEMS. 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. v. 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, unansweriug 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 crc long, As the dear maiden's who holds thee most dear. viii. The meaning of all things in?tS - Yea, in the lives we give our sonls - doth lie; Make, then, their i~eaning 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, But holds within its faith alway That which in doubt we vainly strive to read. x. One seed contains another seed, And that a third, and so for evermore; And promise of as great a deed Lies folded in the deed that went before.

Page  69 "U OF, LITTLE BOOKE!" 69 XI. So ask not fitting space or time, Yetcould not dream of things which could liot be; Each day shall make the next sublime, And Time be swallowed in Eternity. XII. God bless the Present! it is ALL; It has been Future, and it shall be Past Awake and live! thy streugth 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. Then all these bitter questionings Shall with a full and blessed answer raeet Past woAds, whereof the Poet sings, Shall be the earth beneath his snow-white fleet. "GOE, LITTLE BOOKE!" Go little book! the world is wide, There`5 room and verge enough for thee For thou hast learned that only pride Lacketh fit opportunity, Which comes unbid 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 il~ern undefiled. Thou camest from a poet's heart, A warm, still home, and full of rest;

Page  70 70 LOrVELL'S POEAiS. 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 spirits 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; But thou art pure, and if they say, "We know thy father, and our whim lle 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 skin 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.

Page  71 SONNETS. 71 SONNETS. I. DISAPPOINTMENT. I PRAY thee call not this society; I asked for bread, thou givest me a stone; I am an hnngered, and I find not one To give me meat, to joy or grieve 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. 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 witb bended head, "Give us this day, 0 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, men? Art thou entombed with the mighty dead? In God's name, no! not yet hath all been said, Or done, or longed for, tbat is truly great; These pitiful dried crusts will never sate Natures for which pure Truth is daily bread; We were not meant to plod along the earth, Strange to ourselves and to our fellows strange; We 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 sonic few limbs a sickly green;

Page  72 72 LOWELL'S POEMS. And one light shower on the hills, I we en, May keep the spring from drying utterly. 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, far 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? IY. So ~niay it be, but let it not be so, 0, 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 wisdom'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 wipe 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. V. O child of Nature! 0 most meek and free, Most gentle spirit of true nobleness! Thou doest not a worthy deed the less Because the world may not its greatness see; 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

Page  73 SONNETS. 73 Of fellow-men, and to their spirits speak The lofty faith of heart that knows no fear. VI. TO Deem it no Sodom-fruit of vanity, Or fickle fantasy of unripe yonth Which ever takes the fairest shows for truth, That I should wish my verse beloved of thee; `T is 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. VII. Might I but be beloved, and, 0 most fair And perfec~ordered soul, beloved of thee, llow shodd I feel a cloud of earthly care, If thy blue eyes were ever clear to me? O woman's love! 0 flower most bright and rare! That blossom'st brightest in extremest 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 - while souls more great Are left to wander in a starless night, Praying unheard - and yet the hardest parts Befit those best who best can cope with Fate. VIII. Why shonld 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;

Page  74 74 LOWELL'S POEMS. 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 east 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. Ix. 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 torrent beds? We should love all thiugs better, if 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 To souls that have encircled mine with light - O brother-heart, with thee my spirit warms! x. 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`11 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 inc below? Yea, when iny heart seems happy, causelessly And swells, not dreaming why, as it would burst

Page  75 SONNETS. 75 With joy unspeakable - my soul shall know That thou, unseen, art bending over me. XI. Verse cannot say how beautiful thou art, How glorious the calmness 0~ thine eyes, Full 0~ 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, 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. XII. 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. O 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! XIII. I 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,

Page  76 76 LOlVELL'S POEMS. Words dropt upon my soul, and they did say, "Fear nothing, Faith shall save thee, watch and pray!" 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!" XIV. To the dark, narrow house where loved ones go, Whence no steps outward turn, whose silent door None but the sexton knocks at any more, Are they not sometimes with us yet below? The longings of the soul would tell us so Although, so pure and fine their being's essence, Oar 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 behests Our souls are filled, those bright ones with us be, As, in the patriarch's tent, his angel guests; - O let us live so worthily, that never We may be far from that blest c~mpany. XV. I 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! 0 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.

Page  77 SONNETS. 77 XVI. Much I had mused of Love, and in my soul There was one chamber where I dared not look, 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 answere'Q 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 fulfil my being late or soon; Nor was such thought in vain, for, seeing thee, Great Love rose up, as, o'er a black pine wood, Round, bright, and clear, upstarteth the full moon, Filling my s6ul with glory utterly. XVII. 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 ~. 0, in thy child-like wisdom's moveless hold Dwell ever! still the blessings manifold Of purity, of peace, and untaught care For other's hearts, aromid 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. XVIII. 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-flowers still in bloom, And lingering to snuff their fresh perfume - 0, there were other duties meant for thee, Than to sit down in peacefulness and Be! 0, there are brother-hearts that dwell in gloom,

Page  78 75 LOWELL'S POEJiS. So uls 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. XIX. ~`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 m~ 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 sympathy. xx. TO A voic~ REARD IN MOUNT AUBURN. Like the low warblings of a leaf-hid bird, Thy voice caine to me through the 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 sisterly, sweet name For thee, yet could I not my lips have stirred; I knew that thou wert lovely, that thine eyes ~Vere blue and downcast, and methought large tea~, ~Tnkuown to thee, up to their lids must rise With half-sad memories of other years, As to thyself alone thou sangest o'er Words that to childhood seemed to say "No More!"

Page  79 sONI\rETS. 79 XXI. 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 dofli breed A sunshine in my happy heart, and feed My fancy with sweet visions; I ~ecome A knight, and with my charmed arms would roam To seek for fame in many a wondrous deed Of high emprize - for I have seea the light Of Una's angel's 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 ~ght, Or Arehimage and all the powers of Hell. XXII. Light of mine eyes! 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 iu thee, Warm as the sunshine of a mossy nook; Light of my soul! who, by thy saintliness And faith that acts itself in daily life, Caust 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 0, far less to thee! XXIII. 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 Upon his eyelids, drooping them full low. As with sad memory of a healed woe; The cold rain shivered in his golden hair,

Page  80 80 LO WELL'S POEMS. As if an outcast lot had been his share, And he seeined doubtful whither he should go: Then he fell on my neck, and, in my breast Hiding his face, awhile sobbed bitterly, As half in grief to be so long distrest, And half in joy at his securityAt last, uplooking ftom his place of rest, His eyes shone blessedness and hope on me. XXIV. A gentleness that grows of steady faith; A joy that sheds its snnshine 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 sw~et 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. xxv. When the glad soul is full to overflow, Unto the tongiie 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, Maketh this sullen clay as crystal clear, And will not be euclouded in a name; It is a truth which we can feel and see, But is as boundless as Eternity.

Page  81 SONNETS. 81 XXVI. TO THE EvENING-STAR. When we. have once said lowly "Evening-Star!" Words give no more - for, in thy silver pride, Thou shinest as nangbt else can shine beside: The thick smoke, coiling round the sooty bar Forever, and the customed lamp-light mar The stillness 0~ my thought - seeing things gli~e 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. XXVII. 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, 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. XXVIII. 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, G

Page  82 82 LOWELL'S POEMS. 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 saw`mong groves of Fae~rie, And the dear skies are sunny-blue as those; Still as thy heart, whcn 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! 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. ROSE. M~ ever-lightsome, ever4augbing 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, Or in the parlor, if the mother-nose (4ave sign of drowsy watch. I wonder where

Page  83 SONNETS ON NAilIES. 83 Are gone tby 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. MARY. DARK hair, dark eyes - not too dark to be deep And full of feeling, yet enough to glow With fire when angered; feelings ne~~er slow, But wbich seem rather watching to forthleap 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. cAROLINE. A STAIDNESS sobers o'er her pretty face, Which soinething but ill-hidden in her eyes, And a quaint look about her lips denies; A lingering love of girl hood you can trace In her checked laugh and halfq~estraine'd pace; And, when she bears h~rself most womanly, It seems as if a watchful mother's eye Kept down with sobering glance her childish grace: Yet oftentimes her ~ature 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 bands. ANNE. THERE is a pensiveness in quiet Anne, A mournful drooping of the full gray eye, As if she had shook hands with misery,

Page  84 84 LOIVELL'S POEATS. 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.

Page  85 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. TllREN ODIA. GoNE, gone from us! and shall we see These sibyl-leaves of destiny, Those calm eyes, nevermore? Those deep, dark eyes so warm and bright, ~Yherein the fortunes of the man Lay slumbering in prophetic light, In characters a child might sean? So bright, and gone forth utterly! O stern word - Nevermore! The stars of those two gentle eyes ~Vill 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, ~Yhich she had conned and conned before, Deeming she needs must read aright AYhat was writ so passing bright. And yet, alas! she knew not why, 11cr voice would falter in its song, And tears would slide from out her eye, Silent, as they were doing wrong. Ostern word - Nevermore! The tongue that scarce bad learned to claim An entrance to a mother's heart By that dear talisman, a mother's ~ame, Sleeps all forgetful of its art! I loved to see the infant soul (How mighty in the weakness Of its untutored meekness! ) 85

Page  86 86 LOWELL'S POEMS. 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, ~Vhen his glad mother on him stole And snatched him to her breast! 0, thoughts were brooding in those eyes, That would have soared like strong-winged birds Far, far, into the skies, ~ladding 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 wfth 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 That he were dropped asleep. Alas! too deep, too deep Is this his slumber! Time scarce can number The years cre he will wake again. 0, may we see his eyelids open then! O stern word - Nevermore! As the airy gossamere, Floating in the sun~ight clear, Where'cr it toucheth clingeth tightly, Round glossy leaf or stump unsightly,

Page  87 THE SiJ~~ENS. 87 So from his spirit wandered out Tendrils spreading all about, 1~nftting all things to its thrall With a perfect love of all: O stern word-Nevermore! He did but float a ~iftle way Adown the stream of time, With dreamy eyes watching the ripples play, Or listening their fairy chime; His slender sail Ne'er felt the gale; lie did but float a little way, And, putting to the shore Wbile yet`t was early day, Went calmly on his way, To dwell wfth us no more! No jarring did he feel, No grating on his vessel's keel, A strip of silver sand Mingled the waters with the land Where he was seen no more: O stern word - Nevermore! Full short his journey was; no dust Of earth unto his sandals dave; The weary weight il~at old men must, He bore not to tlie 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 Uod: Oblest word - Evermore! 1839. T~HE SIRENS. THE sea is lonely, the sea is dreary, The sea is restless and uneasy; Thou seekest quiet thou art weary,

Page  88 88 LOWELL'S POEMS. Wandering thou kuowest not whither Our little isle is green and breezy, Come and rest thee! 0 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 oat of rocky rifts, Calling solemnly to thee With voices deep and hollow, - "To the shore Follow! 0, follow! To be at rest forevermore! Forevermore!" Look how the gray old Ocean From the depth of his heart rejoices, Heaving with a gentle motion, When he hears our restful voices; List how he sings in an under-tone, Chiming with our melody; And all sweet sounds of earth and air Melt into one low voice alone, That murmurs over the weary sea, And seeins to sing from everywhere, - "Here mayst thou harbor peacefully, Here mayst thou rest from the aching oar; Turn thy curved prow ashore, And in our green isle rest for evermore! Forevermore!" And Echo half wakes in the wooded hill, And, to her heart so calm and deep, Murmurs over in her sleep, Doubtfully pausing and murinuring 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.

Page  89 THE SIRENS. 89 Is it not better here to be, Than to be toiling late and soon? In the dreary night to see Ndhing but the blood-red moon Go up and down into tbe sea; Or, in the loneliness of day, To see the still seals 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? L6ok down beneath thy wav&worn bark, Lean over the side and see The leaden eye of the sidelong shark Upturned patiently, Ever waiting there for thee: Look down and see those shapeless forms, ~Yhich 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, Reareth the marinere Voices sad, from far and near, Ever singing full of fear, Ever singing drearfully. liere all is pleasant as a dream; The wind scarce shaketh down the dew,

Page  90 90 LOWELL'S POEMS. The green grass floweth like a stream Into the ocean's blue; Listen! 0, listen Here is a gush of many streams, A song of many birds, And every wish and longing seems Lulled to a numbered flow of words, Listen! 0, listen! Here ever hum the golden bees Underneath full-blossomed trees, At once with glowing fruit and flowers 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 forevermore, - Forevermore. Thus, on Life's gloomy sea, Heareth the marinere Voices sweet,~from far and near, Ever singing in his ear, "Here is rest and peace for thee." NANTAsKET, July, 1840. IREN~. 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 iiiflnite, As, in the mid-watch of a clear, still night, - I look into the fathoniless blue skies. 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

Page  91 IRENE. 91 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, nor 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 nuwifting, child-like gift ill her) Not freer is to give than meek to bear; And, though herself not unacquaint wfth care, Hath in her heart wide room for all il~at be, - Her heart that hath no secrets of its own, 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 ()f 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 in 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, Bnt 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 ripeus 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,

Page  92 92 LOWELL'S POEAiS. And where it clingeth never withering; - These are Irene's dowry, which no fate ~~an shake from their serene, deep-builded state. In-seeing sympathy is hers, which chasteneth No less than loveth, scorning to be bound With fear of blanie, and yet which ever hasteneth To ponr 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 sidelong 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 sbe hatli ne'er forgotten whence It came, nor wandered far from 4~ence, 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 worth, 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 liath withstood With lofty strength of patient womanhood: For this I love her great soul more than all, That, being bound, like us, with earthly thrall, She walks so bright and heaven-like therein, - Too wise, too meek, too womanly, to sin. Like a lone star through riven storm-clouds seen By sailors, tempest4oss'd upon the sea, Telling of rest and peaceful heavens nigh, Unto my soul her star-like soul hath been,

Page  93 WITH A PRESSED FLOWER. 93 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. 1840. 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 chainber thou sittest alone, Alone, alone, ah woe! alone! The world is happy, the world is wide, Kind hearts are beating on every side; Ab, wby should we lie so coldly c~irled Alone in the shell of this great world? Why should we any more be alone? Alone, alone, ah woe! alone! 0,`t is a bitter and dreary word, The saddest by`nan'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! 1840. WITH A PRESSED FLOWER. Tuis 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.

Page  94 94 LOWELL'S POEMS. Perchance some fair-haired German maid Hath plucked one froni the self-same stalk, And nunibered over, half afraid, Its petals in her evening walk. "He loves me, loves me not," slie cries; "He loves me more than earth or heaven!" And then glad tears have filled her eyes To find the number was uneven. 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 kind to love, Hath granted them the same sweet tongue, Whether with German skies above, Or here our granite rocks among. 1840. THE BEGGAR. A BEGGAR through the world am I, - From place to place I wander by. Fill np my pilgrim's scrip for me, For Christ's sweet sake aiid 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 iny stout-hearted trunk below And firm-set roots unshaken be. Some of thy stern, unyicldii~ might, Endnring still through day and night Rude tempest-shock and withering blight, -

Page  95 31Y LOVE. 95 That I may keep at bay The changeful April sky of chance And the strong tide of circumstance, - Give me, old granite gray. Some of thy pensiveness serene, Sonie of thy never-dying green, Put in this scrip of m~ne, - That griefs may fall like snow-flakes light, And deck me in a robe of white, Ready to be an angel bright, - o sweetly~nournful pine. A little of thy merriment, Of thy sparkling, light content, Give me, my cheerful brook, - That I may still be fnll 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 ftiends, every one, I`ve far to go crc set of sun; Of all good things I would have part, The day was high ere I could start, And so my jouu~ey`5 scarce begnn. Heaven help me! how could I forget To beg of thee, dear violet! Some of thy modesty, That blossoms here as well, unseen, As if before the world thou`dst been, 0, give, to strengthen me. 1839. MY LOVE. I. NOT as all other women are Is she that to my soul is dear; Her glorious fancies come from far,

Page  96 LOWELL'S POEMS. Beneath the silver evening-star, And yet her heart is ever near. 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, And 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 ~s 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 weekday holiness Fall from her noiseless as the snow, Nor hath she ever chanced to know That aught were easier than to bless. vii. She is most fair, and thereunto Rer life doth rightly harmonize; Feeling or thought that was not true Ne'er made less beautiful the blue Unclouded heaven of her eyes.

Page  97 SUMAlER STORAL 97 VIII. She is a won) an: one in whom The spring-time of her childish years liath never lost its fresh perfume, Though knowing well that life hath room For many blights and many tears. Ix. 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. x. And, on its full, deep breast serene, Like quiet isles my duties lie; It flows around them and between, And makes them fresb and fair and green, Sweet homes wherein to live and die. 1840. SUMMER STORM. U~~n~~u~ous in the river clear Toward the sky's image, hangs the im'aged bridge So still 4~e air that I can hear The slender clarion of the unseen midge; Out of the stillness, with a gail~ering creep, Like rising wind in leaves, which now decreases, Now lulls, now swells, and all the while increases, The huddling trample of a drove of sheep Tilts the loose planks, and then as gradually ceases In dust on the other side; life's emblem deep, A confused noise between two silences, Finding at last in dust precarious peace. On the wide marsh the purple-blossomed grasses Soak up the sunshine; sleeps the brimming tide Save ~hen the wedge-shaped wake in silence passes Of some slow water-rat, whose sinuous glide Wavers the long green sedge's shade from side to side; But up the west, like a rock-shivered surge, Climbs a great cloud edged with sun-whitened spray;

Page  98 95 LOIVELL'S POEMS. lluge whirls of foam boil toppling o'er its verge, And falling still it seenis, and yet it climbs aiway. Suddenly all the sky is hid As with the shutting of a lid, One by one great drops are falling Doubtful aud slow, Down the pane they are crookedly crawling, And the wind breathes low Slowly the circles widen on the river, Widen and mingle, one and all; llere and there the slenderer flowers shiver, Struck by an icy rain-drop's fall. Now on the hills I hear the thunder mutter, The wind is gathering in the west; The upturned leaves first whiten and flutter, Then droop to a fitful rest Up from the stream wfth sluggish flap Struggles the gull and floats away; Nearer and nearer rolls the thnnder-clap, - We shall not see the sun go down to-day: Now leaps the wind on the sleepy marsh, And tramples the grass with terrifled feet, The startled river turns leaden and harsh. You can hear the quick heart of the tenipest beat. Look! look! that livid flash! And instantly follows the rattling thunder, As if some cloud-crag, split asunder, Fell, splintering with a ruinous crash, On the Larth, which crouches in silence under; And now a solid gray wall of rain Shuts off the landscape, mile by mile; For a breath's space I see the blne wood again, And, crc the next heart-beat, the wind-hurled pile, That seemed but now a league aloof, Bursts crackling o'er the sun-parched roof; Against the windows the storin comes dashing, Through tattered foliage the hail tears crashing, The blue lightning flashes, The rapid hail clashes,

Page  99 SUMAlER STORAL 99 The white waves are tumbling, And, in one battled roar, Like the toothless sea mumbling A rock-bristled shore, The ilmnder is rumbling And crashing and crumbling, - Will silence return never more? llush! Still as death, The tempest holds his breath As from a sudden will; The rain stops short, but from the eaves You see it drop, and hear it from the leaves, All is so bodingly still; Again, now, now, again Plasbes the rain in heavy gouts, The crinkled lightning Seems ever brightening, And loud and long Again the thunder shouts llis battle-song, - One quivering flash, One wildering crash, Followed by silence dead and dull, As if the clouQ let go, Leapt bodily below To whelm the earth in one mad overthrow, And then a total lull. Gone, gone, so soon! No more my half-crazed fancy there Can shape a giant in the air, No more I see his streaming hair, The writhing portent of his form; - The pale and quiet moon Makes her calm forehead bare, And the last fragments of the storm, Like shattered rigging from a fight at sea, Silent and few, are drifting over me. 1839.

Page  100 100 LOWELL'S POEMS. LOVE. TRUE Love is but a humble, low-born thing, And hath its food served up in earthen ware; It is a thing to walk with, hand in hand, Through the everydayness of this work-day world, Baring its tender feet to every roughness, Yet letting not one heart-beat go astray From Beauty's law of plainness and content. A simple, fireside thing, whose quiet smile ~an warm earth's poorest hovel to a hoi~e Which, when our autumn cometh, as it must, And life in the chill wind shivers bare and leafless, Shall still be blest with Indian-summer youth In bleak November, and, with thankful heart, Smile on its ample stores of garnered fruit, As full of sunshine to ou~ aged eyes As when it nursed the blossoms of our spring. Such is true Love, which steals into the heart Wfth feet as silent as the lightsome dawn That kisses smooth the rough brows of the dark, And hath its will through blissful gentleness, Not like a rocket, which, with savage glare, Whirrs suddenly up, then bursts, and leaves the night Painfully quivering on the dazed eyes; A love that gives and takes, that seeth faults, Not with flaw-seeking eyes like needle points, But loving-kindly ever looks them down With the 0 ercoming faith of meek forgiveness; A love that shall be new and fresh each hour, As is the golden mystery of sunset Or the sweet coming of the evening star, Alike, and yet most unlike, every day, And seeming ever best and fairest now; A love that doth not kneel for what it seeks, But faces Truth and Beauty as their peer, Showing its worthiness of noble thoughts By a clear sense of inward nobleness; A love that in its object findeth not All grace and beauty, and enough to sate Its thirst of blessing, but, in all of good Found there, it sees but Heaven-granted types Of good and beauty in the soul of man,

Page  101 TO PEBDITA, SINChYC. 101 And traces, in the simplest heart tbat beats, A family-likeness to its chosen one, That claims of it the rights of brotheAiood. For love is blind but with the fleshly eye, That so its inner sight may be more clear; And outward shows of beauty only so Are needful at the first, as is a hand To guide and to nphold an infant's steps: Great spirits need thein not: their earnest look Pierces the body's mask of thin disguise, And beauty ever is to them revealed, Behind the unshapeliest, meanest lu~np of clay, With arms outstretched and eager face ablaze, Yearning to be but understood and loved. 1840. TO PERDITA, SINGING. TllY voice is like a fountain, Leaping up in clear moonshine; Silver, silver, ever mounting, Ever sinking, Without thinking, To that brimful heart of thine. Every sad and happy feeling, Thou hast had in bygone years, Through thy lips come stealing, stealing, Clear and low; All thy smiles and all thy tears In thy voice awaken, And sweetness, wove of joy and woe, From their teaching it hath taken Feeling and music move together, Like a swan and shadow ever Heaving on a sky-blue river In a day of cloudless weather. It hath caught a touch of sadness, Yet it is not sad; It liath tones of clearest gladness, Yet it is not glad;

Page  102 102 LOJVELL'S PO~ffS. A dim, sweet, twilight voice it is Where to-day's accustou~ ed blue Isover%rayed with memories, With starry feelings quivered through. Thy voice is like a fountain Leaping up in sunshine bright, And I never weaiw counting Its clear droppings, lone and single, Or when in one full gush they mingle, Shooting in melodious light. Thine is music such as yields Feelings of old brooks and fields, And, around this pent-up room, Sheds a ~oodland, free perfume; 0,thus forever sing to me! 0, thus forever! The green, bright grass of childhood bring to me, Flowing like an emerald river, And the bright blue skies above! 0, sing them back, as fresh as ever, Into the bosom of iny love, - The sunshine and the merriment, The unsought, evergreen content, Of that never cold time, The joy, that, like a clear breeze, went Through and through the old time! Peace sits within fl~ine eyes, With white hands crossed in joyful rest, While, through thy lips and face, arise The melodies from out thy breast; She sits and sings, With folded wings And white arms crost, "Weep not for passed things, They are not lost: -The beauty which the summer time O'er thine opening spirit shed, The forest oracles sublime That filled thy soul with joyous dread, The scent of every smallest flower

Page  103 THE MOON. 103 That made thy heart sweet for an hour, - Yea, every holy influence, Flowing to thee, thoti knewest not whence, In thine eyes to-day is seen, Fresh as it hath ever been; Promptings of Nature, beckonings sweet, Whatever led thy childish feet, Still will linger unawares The guiders of thy silver hairs; Every look and every word Which thou givest forth to-day, Tell of the singing of the bird Whose music stilled thy boyish play." Thy voice is like a fountain, Twinkling up in sharp starlight, When the moon behind the mountain Dims the low East with faintest white, Ever darkling, Ever sparkling, We know not if`t is dark or bright; But, when the great moon hath rolled round, And, sudden-slow, its solen~n power Grows from behind its black, clearedged bound, No spot of dark the fountain keepeth, But, swift as opening eyelids, leapeth Into a waving silver flower. 1841. TllE MOON. M~ soul was like the sea, Before the moon was made, Moaning in vague irnmensfty, Of its own strength afraid, Unrestful and unstaid. Through every rift it foamed in vain, About its earthly prison, Seeking some m~known thing iii pain, And sinking restless back again, For yet no moon had risen:

Page  104 104 LOWELL'S POEAIS. Its only voice a vast dumb moan, Of utterless anguish speaking, Itlay unhopefully alone, And lived but in an aimless seeking. Sowas 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 its waters meet, As if by an unconscious will, For the moon's silver feet, So lay my soul within mine eyes When thou, its guardian 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. REMEMBERED MUSIC. A FRAGMENT. THic~-nusni~~, like an ocean vast Of bisons the far prairie shaking, The notes crowd heavily and fast As surfs, one plunging while the last Draws seaward from its foamy breaking. Or in low murmurs they began, Rising and rising momently, As o'er a harp )Eolian -A fitful breeze, until they ran Up to a sudden ecstasy. And then, like minute drops of rain Ringing in water silvery,

Page  105 ALLEGRA. 105 They lingering dropped and dropped again, Till it was almost like a pain To listen when the next would be. 1840. SONG. TO M. L. A LILY thou wast when I saw thee first, A lily-bud not opened quite, That hourly grew more pure and white, By mormug, and noontide, and evening nursed: In all 0~ nature thou hadst thy share; Thou wast waited on By the wind and sun; The rain and the dew for thee took care; It seemed thou never couldst be more fair. A lily thou wast when I saw tbee first, A lily-bud; but 0, how strange, How full 0~ wonder was the change, When, ripe with all sweetness, thy full bloom bnrst! How did the tears to my glad eyes start, When the woman-flower Reached its blossoming hour, And I saw the warm deeps of thy golden heart! Glad death may pluck thee, but never before The gold dust of thy bloom divine liath dropped from thy heart ~uto mine, To quicken its faint germs of heavenly lore; For no breeze comes nigh thee but carries away Some bupulses bright Of fragrance and light, Which fall upon souls that are lone and astray, To plant fruitful hopes of the flower of day. ALLE GRA. I WOULD more natures were like thine, That never casts a glance before, - Thou Hebe, who thy heart's bright wine So lavishly to all dost pour,

Page  106 106 LOWELL'S POEMS. That we who drink forget to pine, And can but dream of bliss in store. Thou canst not see a shade in life; With sunward instinct thou dost rise, And, leaving clouds below at strife, Gazest undazzled at the skies, Wfth all their blazing splendors rife, A songful lark with eagle's eyes. Thou wast some foundling whom the Hours Nursed, laughing, with the milk of Mirth Some influence niore gay than ours Hath ruled thy nature liom its birth, As if thy natal stars were flowers That shook their seeds round thee on earth. And thou, to lull thine infant rest, Wast cradled like an Indian child; All pleasant winds liom south and west With lullabies thine ears beguiled, Rocking thee in thine oriole's nest, Till Nature looked at thee and smiled. Thine every fancy seems to borrow A sunlight from thy childish years, Making a golden cloud of sorrow, A hope-lit rainbow out of tears, - Thy heart i~ certain of to-morrow, Though`yond to-day it never peers. I would more natures were like thine, So innocently wild and free, Whose sad thoughts, even, leap and shine, Like sunny wavelets in the sea, Making us mindless of the brine, In gazing on the brilliancy. THE FOUNTAIN. INTO the sunshine, Full of the light, Leaping and flashing From morn till night!

Page  107 ODE. 107 Into tbe moonlight, Whiter than Snow, Waving so flower-like When the winds blow! Into the starlight, Rushing in spray, Happy at midnight, Happy by day! Ever in motion, Blfthesome and cheery. Still climbing heavenward, Never aweary; - Glad of all weathers, Still seeming best, Upward or downward, Motion il~y rest; - Full of a nature Nothing can tame, Changed every moment, Ever the same - Ceaseless aspiring, Ceaseless content, Darkness or sunshine Thy element - Glorious fountain! Let my heart be Fresb, changeful, constant, Upward, like thee! ODE. I. IN the~ old days of awe and keen-eyed wonder, The Poet's song with blood-warm truth was rife; He saw flie mysteries which circle under The outward shell and skin of daily life. Nothing to him were fleeting time and fashion,

Page  108 108 LOWELL'S POEMS. liis soul was led by the eternal law; There was in him no hope of fame, no passion, But, with calm, god-like eyes, he only saw. lie did not sigh o'er heroes dead and biiried, Chief-mourner at the Golden Age's hearse, Nor deem that souls whom Charon grim had ferried Alone were fitting themes of epic verse: He could believe the promise of to-morrow, And feel the wondrous meamug of to-day; lie had a deeper faith in holy sorrow Than the world's seeming loss could take away. To know the heart of all things was his duty, All things did sing to him to make him wise, And, with a sorrowful and conquering beauty, The soul of all looked grandly from Jiis eyes. He gazed on all within hini and without him, lie watched the flowing of Time's steady tide, And shapes of glory floated all about hiin And whispered to him, and he prophesied. Than all men he more fearless was and freer, And all his brethren cried with one accord, - "Behold the holy man! Behold the Seer! liim who hath spoken with the unseen Lord!" lie to his heart with large em brace had taken The universal sorrow of mankind, And, liom that root, a shelter never shaken, The tree of wisdom grew with sturdy rind. lie could interpret well the wondrous voices Which to the calm and silent spirit come; lie knew that the One Soul no more rejoices In the star's anthem than the insect's hum. lie in his heart was ever meek and humble, And yet with kingly pomp his numbers ran, As he foresaw how all things false should crumble Before the free, uplifted soul of man: And, when he was made full to overflowing With all the loveliness of heaven and earth, Out rushed his song, like molten iron glowing, -To show God sitting by the humblest hearth. With calmest courage he was ever ready To t~ach that action was the truth of thought, And, with strong arm and purpose firm and steady, An anchor for the drifting world he wrought.

Page  109 ODE. 109 So did he make the meanest man partaker Of all his brother-gods unto hiin gave All souls did reverence hiin and name bim Maker, And when he died heaped temples on his grave. And still his deathless words of light are swimming Serene throughout the great, deep infinite Of human soul, unwaning and undimming, To cheer and guide the mariner at night. II. But now the Poet is an empty rhymer Who lies with idle elbow on the grass, And fits his singing, like a cunning timer, To all men's prides and fancies as they pass. Not his the song, which, in its metre holy, Chimes with the music of the eternal stars, Humbling the tyrant, lifting up the lowly, And sending sun through the soul's prison-bars. Maker no more, -0, no! unmaker rather, For he unmakes who doth not all put forth The power given by our loving Father To show the body's dross, the spirit's worth. Awake! great spirit of the ages olden! Shiver the mists that hide thy starry lyre, And let man's soul be yet again beholden To thee for wings to soar to her desire. 0, prophesy no more to-morrow's splendor, Be no more shame-faced to speak out for Truth, Lay on her altar all the gushings tender, The hope, the ~re, the loving faith of youth! 0, prophesy no in ore the Maker's coming, Say not his onward footsteps thou canst hear In the dim void, like to the awful humming Of the great wings of some new-lighted sphere. 0, prophesy no more, but be the Poet! This longing was but granted unto thee That, when all beauty thou couldst feel and know it, That beauty in its highest thou couldst be. 0, thou who moanest tost with sea-like longings, Who dimly hearest voices call on thee, Whose soul is overfilled with mighty throngings Of love, and fear, and glorious agony,

Page  110 110 LOWELL'S POEMS. Thou of the toil-strung hands and iron sinews And soul by Mother-Earth with freedom fed, In whom the hero-spirit yet coutiuues, The old free nature is not chained or dead, Arouse! let thy soul break ill music-thunder, Let loose the ocean that is in thee pent, Pour forth thy hope, thy fear, thy love, thy wonder And tell the age what all its signs have meant, Where'er thy wildered crowd of brethren jostles, Where'er there lingers bnt a shade of wrong, There still is need of martyrs and apostles, There still are texts for never-dying song: From age to age man's still aspiring spirit Finds wider scope and sees with clearer eyes, And thou in larger measure dost inherit What made thy gi~eat forerunners free and wise. Sit thou enthroned where the Poet's mountain Above the thunder lifts its silent peak, And roll thy songs down like a gathering fountain, That all may drink and find the rest they seek. Sing! there shall silence grow in earth and heaven, A silence of deep awe and wondering; For, listening gladly, bend the angels, even, To hear a mortal like an angel sing. "I. Among the toil-worn poor my soul is seeking For one to bring the Maker's name to light, To be the voice of that almighty speaking Which every age demands to do it right. Proprieties our silken bards environ; He who would be il~e tongue of this wide land Must string his harp with chords of sturdy iron And strike it with a toil-embrowned hand; One who hath dwelt with Nature well-attended, Who hath learnt wisdom liom her mystic books, Whose soul with all her countless lives bath blended, -So that all beauty awes us in his looks Who not with body's waste his soul hath pampered, \Yho as the clear northwestern wind is free, Who walks with Form's observances unhampered, And follows the One Will obediently;

Page  111 ODE. 111 Whose eyes, like windows on a breezy summit; Control a lovely prospect every way; Who doth not sound God's sea with eafthly plummet, And find a bottoin still of worthless clay; Who heeds not how the lower gusts are working, Knowing that one sure wind blows on above, And sees, beneath the foulest faces lurking, One God-bnilt shrine of reverence and love; Who sees all stars that wheel their shining marches Around the centre fixed of Destiny, Where the encircling soul serene o'erarches The moving globe of being lifre a sky; Who feels that God and Heaven's great deeps are nearer Him to whose heart his fellow-man is nigh, Who doth not bold his soul's own licedom dearer Than that of all his brethren, low or high; Who to the Right can feel l~imself the truer For being gently patient with the wrong, Who sees a brother in the evil-doer, And finds in Love the heart'sThlood of his song; - This, this is he for whom the woild is waiting To sing the beatings of its mighty lie art, Too long bath it been patient with the grating Of scrannel-pipes, and heard it misnamed Art. To him U~e smiling soul of man shall listen, Laying awhile its crown of thorns aside, And once again in every eye shall glisten The glory of a nature satisfied. His verse shall have a grea%, commanding motion, Heaving and swelling with a melody Learnt of the sky, the river, and the ocean, And all the pure, majestic tbings that be. Awake, then, thou! we pine for thy great presence To make us feel the soul once ~nore sublime, We are of far too infinite an essence To rest contented wfth the lies of Time. Speak out! and, lo! a hnsh of deepest wonder Shall sink o'er all 4~is many-voiced scene, As when a sudden burst of rattling thunder Shatters the blueness of a sky serene. 1841.

Page  112 112 LOWELL'S POEM& THE FATHERLAND. WHERE is the true man's fathei4and? Is it where he by cbance is born? Dofl~ not the yearning spirit scorn In such scant borders to be spanned? 0, yes! his fatherland must be As the blue heaven wide and free! Is it alone where freedom is, Where God is God and man is nian? Doth he not claim a broader span For the soul's love of home than this? 0, yes! his fatherland inust be As the blue heaven 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 true 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! THE FORLORN. THE night is dark, the stinging sleet, Swept by the bitter gusts of air, Drives whistling down the lonely street, And stiffens on the pavement bare. The street4amps flare and struggle dim Through the white sleet-clouds as they pass, Or, governed by a boisterous whim, Drop down and rattle on the glass.

Page  113 THE FORLORN. 113 One poor, heart-broken, outcast girl Faces the east-wind's searching flaws, And, as about her heart they whirl, Her taftered cloak more tightly draws. The flat brick walls look cold and bleak, Her bare feet to the sidewalk freeze; Yet dares she not a shelter seek, Though faint with hunger and disease. The sharp storm cuts her forehead bare, And, piercing through her garments thin, Beats on her shrunken breast, and there Makes colder the cold heart within. She lingers where a ruddy glow Streams outward through an open shutter, Adding more bitterness to woe, More loneness to desertion utter. One half the cold she had not felt, Until she saw this gush of light Spread warmly forth, and seem to melt Its slow way through the deadening night. She hears a woman's voice within, Singing sweet words her childhood knew, And years of misery and sin Furl off, and leave her heaven blue. Her freezing heart, like one who sinks Outwearied in the drifting snow, Drowses to deadly sleep and thinks No longer of its hopeless woe: Old fields, and clear blue summer days, Old meadows, green with grass and trees, That shimmer through the trembling haze And whiten in the western breeze, - Old faces, - all the friendly past Rises within her heart again, And sunshine from her childhood cast Makes summer of the icy rain.

Page  114 114 LOlVELL'S POEMS. Enhaloed by a mild, warm glow, From all humanity apart, She hears old footsteps wandering slow Through the lone chambers of her heart. Outside the porch before the door, 11cr cheek upon the cold, hard stone, She lies, uo longer foul and poor, No longer dreary and alone. Next morning something heavily Against the opening door did weigh, And there, from sin and sorrow free, A woman on the threshold lay. A smile upon the wan lips told That she had found a calm release, And that, from out the want and cold, The song had borne her soul in peace. -For, whom the heart of man shuts out, Sometimes the heart of God takes in, And fences them all round about With silence mid the world's loud din; And one of his great charities Is Mnsic, and it doth not scorn To close the lids upon the eyes Of the polluted and forlorn; Far was she from her childhood's home, Farther in guilt had wandered thence, Yet thither it had bid her come To die in maiden innocence. 1842. MIDNI GllT. THE moon shines white and silent On the mist, which, like a tide Of some enchanted ocean, O'er the wide marsh doth glide, Spreading its ghost4ike billows Silently far and wide.

Page  115 A PRAYER. 115 A vague and starry magic Makes all things mysteries, And l~res the earth's dumb spirit Up to the longing skies, - I seem to hear dim whispers, And tremulous replies. The fireflies o'er the meadow In pulses come and go; The elm-trees' heavy shadow ~Veighs on the grass below; And faintly from the distance The dreaniing cock doth crow. All things look strange and mystic, The very bushes swell And take wild shapes and motions, As if beneath a spell, - They seem not the same lilacs From childhood known so well. The snow of deepest silence O'er everything doth fall, So beautiful and quiet, And yet so like a pall, - As if all life were ended, And rest were come to all. O wild and wondrous midnight, There is a might in thee To make the charmed body Almost like spirit be, And give it some faint glimpses Of immortality! 1842. A PRAYER. GoD! do not let my loved one die, But rafl~er wait until the time That I am grown in purity Enough to enter fl~y pure clime Then take me, I will gladly go, So that my love remain below!

Page  116 116 LOlVELL'S POE ills. O, let her stay! She is by birth What I through death must learn to be, We need her inore on our poor earth, Than thou canst need in heaven with thee: She hath her wings already, I Must burst this earth-shell ere I fly. Then, ~od, take me! We shall be near, More near than ever, each to each: 11cr angel ears will find more clear My heavenly than my earthly speech; And still, as I draw nigh to thee, 11cr soul and mine shall closer be. 1841. THE HERITAGE. THE rich man's son inherits lands, And piles 0~ brick, and stone, and gold, And lie inherits soft white hands, And tender flesh il~at fears the cold, Nor dares to wear a garment old; A heritage, it seems to me, One ~carce would wish to hold in fee. The rich man's son inherits cares The bank may break, the factory burn, A breath may burst his bubble shares, And soft white hands could hardly earn A living that would serve his turn A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee. The rich man's son inherits wants, His stomach craves for dainty fare; With sated heart, he hears the pants Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare, And wearies in his easy chair; -A heritage, it seems to inc One scarce would wish to hold in fee. What doth the poor man's son inherit? Stout muscles and a siiicwy heart,

Page  117 THE HERITA&E. 117 A hardy frame, a hardier spirit; King of two hands, he does his part In every useful toil and art; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee. What doth the poor man 5 son inherit? Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things, A rank adjudged by toil-won ment, Content that from employment springs, A heart that in his labor sings; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee. What doth the poor man's son inherit? A patience learned of being poor, Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it, A fellow-feeling that is sure To make the outcast bless his door; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee. 0,rich man's son! there is a toil, That wfth all others level stands; Large charity doth never soil, But only whiteu, soft white bands, - This is the best crop from thy lands; A heritage, it seems to be, Wofth being rich to hold iu fee. 0, poor man's son! scorn not thy state; There is worse weariness than thine, Inmerely being rich and great; Toil only gives the soul to shine, And makes rest fragrant and benign, A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being poor to hold in fee. Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, Are equal in the earth at last Both, children of the same dear God, Prove title to your heirship vast By record of a wel~filled past; A heritage, it seems to me, Well worth a life to hold in fee.

Page  118 11S LOWELL'S POEMS. THE ROSE: A BALLAD. I. IN his tower sat the poet Gazing on the roaring sea, "Take this rose," he sighed, "and throw it Where there's none that lo~eth me. On the rock the billow bursteth And sinks back into the seas, But in vain my spirit thirsteth So to burst and be at ease. Take, 0, sea! the tender blossom That hath lain against my breast; On thy black and angry bosom It will find a surer rest. Life is vain, and love is hollow, Ugly death stands there behind, Hate and scorn and hunger follow Him that toileth for his kind." Forth into the night lie hni'led it, And with bitter smile did mark How the surly tempest whirled it Swift into the hungry dark. Foam and spray drive back to leeward, And the gale, with dreary moan, Drifts the helpless blossom seaward, Through the breakers all alone. II. Stands a maiden, on the morrow, Mn sing by the wave-beat strand, Half in hope and half in sorrow, Tracing words upon the sand: "Sb all I ever then behold hi~ Who hath been my life so long, - Ever to this sick heart fold him, - Be the spirit of his song? Touch not, sea, the blessed letters I have traced upon thy shore, Spare his name whose spirit fetters Mine with love forevermore!" Swells the tide and overflows it,

Page  119 THE P~OSE: A BALLAD. 119 But, with omen pui'e and meet, Bi4ngs a little rose, and throws it Humbly at the maiden's feet. Full of bliss she takes the token, And, upon her snowy breast, Soothes the ruflled petals broken With the ocean's fierce unrest. "Love is thine, 0 heart! and surely Peace shall also be il~ine own, For the heart that trusteth purely Never long can pine alone." "I. In bis tower sits the poet, Blisses new and strange to him Fill his heart and overflow it With a wonder sweet and dim. Up the beach the ocean slideth With a whisper of delight, And the noon in silence glideth Through the peaceful blue of night. Rippling o'er the poet's shoulder Flows a maiden's golden hair, Maiden-lips, with love grown bolder, ~iss his moon-lit forehead bare. "Life is joy, and love is power, Death all fetters doth unbind, Strength and wisdom only flower When we toil for all our kind. Hope is trutli, - the future giveth More than present takes away, And the soul forever liveth Nearer God from day to day." Not a word the maiden uttered, Fullest hearts are slow to speak, But a withered rose-leaf flnttered Down upon the poet's cheek. 1842.

Page  120 120 LOIVELL'S POEMS. A LEGEND OF BRITTANY. PART FIRST. I. FAIR as a summer dream was Margaret, - Such dream as ill a poet's soul might start, Musing of old loves while the moon doth set: Her hair was not more sunny than her heart, Though like a natural golden coronet It circled ~her dear head with careless art, Mocking the sunshine, that would fain have lent To its frank grace a richer ornament. II. His loved one's eyes could poet ever speak, So kind, so dewy, and so deep were hers, - But, while he strives, the choicest phrase, too weak Their glad reflection in his spirit blurs As one may see a dream dissolve and break Out of his grasp when he to tell it stirs, Like that sad Dryad doomed no more to bless The mortal who revealed her loveliness. III. She dwelt forever in a region bright, Peopled with living fancies of her own, ~Vhere naught could come but visions of delight, Far, far aloof from earth's eternal moan: Asummer cloud thrilled through with rosy light, Floating beneath the blue sky all alone, Her spirit wandered by itself, and won A golden edge from some unsetting sun. IV. The heart grows richer that its lot is poor, - God blesses want with larger sympathies, - Love enters gladliest at the humble door, And makes the cot a palace with his eyes; So Margaret's heart a softer beauty wore, And grew in gentleness and patience wise, For she was but a simple herdsman's chi}d, A lily chance-sown in the rugged wild.

Page  121 A LEGEND OF BRITTANY 121 V. There was no beauty of the wood or field But she its fragrant bosom-secret knew, Nor any but to her would freely yield Some grace that ill her soul took root and grew: Nature to her glowed ever new-revealed, All rosy fresh wfth innocent morning dew, And looked into her heart with dim, sweet eyes That left it full of sylvan memories. vi. 0, what a face was hers to brighten light, And give back sunshine with an added glow, To wile each moment with a fresh delight, And part of memory's best contentment grow! 0, bow her voice, as with an inmate's right, Into the strangest heart would welcome go, And make it sweet, and ready to become Of white and gracious thonghts the chosen home! vii. None looked upon her but he straightway thought Of all the greenest depths of country cheer, And into each one's heart was freshly brought ~Vhat was to him the sweetest time of year, So was her every look and motion fraught ~Viil~ out-of-door delights and forest lere: Not the first violet on a woodland lea Seemed a more visible gift of Spring than she. viii. Is love learned only out of poets' books? Is there not somewhat in the dropping flood, And in the nunneries of silent nooks, And in the murmured longing of the wood, That could make Margaret dream of lovelorn looks, And stir a thrilling mystery in her blood More trembly secret than Aurora's tear Shed in the bosom of an eglatere? ix. Fall many a sweet forewarning hath the mind, Full many a whispering of vague desire,

Page  122 122 LOWELL'S POEMS. Ere comes the nature destined to unbind Its virgin zone, and all its deeps inspire, - Low stirrings in the leaves, before the wind Wakes all the green strings of the forest lyre, Faint heatings in the calyx, ere the rose Its warm voluptuous breast doth all unclose. x. Long in its dim recesses pines the spirit, Wildered and dark, despairingly alone; Though many a shape of beauty wander near it, And many a wild and half-remembered tone Tremble liom the divine abyss to cheer it, Yet still it knows that there is olily one Before whom it can kneel and tribute bring, At once a happy vassal and a king. XI. To feel a want, yet scarce know what it is, To seek one nature that is always new, Whose glance is warmer than another's kiss, Whom we can bare our inmost beauty to, Nor feel deserted afterwards, - for this But with our destined co-mate we can do, - Such longing instinct fills the mighty scope Of the young soul with one mysterious hope. XII. So Margaret's heart grew brimming with the lore Of love's enticing secrets; and although She had found none to cast it down before, Yet oft to Fancy's chapel she would go To pay her vows, and count the rosary o'er Of her love's promised graces: - haply so Miranda's hope bad pictured Ferdinaud Long crc the gaunt wave tossed him on the strand. XIII. A new-made star that swims the lonely gloom, Un wedded yet and longing for the sun, ~Yhosc beams, the bride-gifts of the lavish groom Blithely to crown the virgin planet run, 11cr being was, watching to see the bloom

Page  123 A LECjEND OF B1?ITMN~Th 123 Of love's fresh sunrise roofing one by one Its clouds with gold, a triniuph-areli to b& For him who came to hold her heart in fee. xly. Not far from Margaret's cottage dwelt a knight Of the proud Templars, a sworn celibate, ~Vhose heart in secret fed upon the light And dew of her ripe beauty, through the grate Of his close vow catching what gleams he might Of the free heaven, and cursing all too late - The cruel faith whose black walls hemmed him in, And turned life's crowning bliss to deadly sin. xv. For he had met her in the wood by chance, And, having drnnk her beauty's wildering spell, His heart shook like the penn on of a lance That quivers in a breeze's sudden swell, And theuceforth, in a close-enfolded trance, From mishly golden deep to deep he fell; Till earth did waver and fade far away Beneath the hope in whose warm arms he lay. xvi. A dark, proud mau he was, whose half-blown youth Had shed its blossoms even in opening, Leaving a few tbat with more winning ruth Trembling aronud grave manhood's stem might cling, More sad than cheery, making, in good sooth, Like the fringed gentian, a late autumn spring: - A twilight nature, braided light and gloom, A youth half-smiling by an open tomb. xv". Fair as an angel, who yet inly wore A wrinkled heart foreboding his near fall; N\~o saw him always wished to know him more, As if he were some fate's defiant thrall And nursed a dreaded secret at its core; Little he loved, bnt power most of all, And that he seemed to scorn, as one who knew By what foul paths men choose to crawl thereto.

Page  124 124 LO}VELL'S POEMS. Xv"'. He had been noble, but some great deceit Had turned his better instinct to a vice: He strove to think the world was all a cheat, That power and fame were cheap at any price, That the sure way of being shortly great Was even to play life's game with loaded dice, Since he had tried the honest play and found That vice and virtue differed but in sound. xix. Yet ~fargaret's sight redeemed him for a space From his own thraldom; man could never be A hypocrite when first such maiden grace Smiled in upon his heart; the agony Of wearing all day long a lying face Fell lightly from him, and, a moment free, Erect with wakened faith his spirit stood And scorned the weakness of its demon-mood. xx. Like a sweet wind-harp to him was her thought, Which would not let the common air come near, Till from its dim enchantment it had caught -~ musical tenderness that brimmed his ear With sweetness more ethereal than aught Save silver-dropping snatches that whilere Rained down from some sad angel's faithful harp To cool her fallen lover's anguish sharp. xxi. Deep in the forest was a little dell High overarched with the leafy sweep Of a broad oak, through whose gnarled roots there fell A slender rill that sung itself asleep, Where its continuous toil had scooped a well To please the fairy folk; breathlessly deep The stillness was, save when the dreaming brook From its small urn a drizzly murmur shook. xxii. The wooded hills sloped upward all around With gradual rise, and made an even rim,

Page  125 A LEGEND OF BRITTANY. - 125 So that it sceined a mighty casque unbound From some huge Titan's brow to lighten him, Ages ago, and left upon the ground, AVhere the slow soil had mossed it to the brim, Till after countless centuries it grew Into this dell, the haunt of noontide dew. xxiii. Dim vistas, sprinkled o'er with sun-flecked green, ~Yonnd through the thickset trunks on every side, And, toward the west, in fancy might be seen A gothic window in its blazing pride, ~Vheu the low sun, two arching elms between, Lit up the leaves beyond, which, autumn-dyed With lavish hues, would into splendor start, Shaming the labored panes of richest art. xxiv. Here, leaning once against the old oak's trunk, i~Iordred, for such was fl~e young Templar's name, Saw Margaret come; unseen, the falcon shrunk From the meek dove; sharp thrills of tingling flame Made him forget that he was vowed a monk, And all the outworks of his pride o'ereame: Flooded he seemed with bright delieious pain, As if a star had burst wfthin his brain. xxv. Sueh power hath beauty and ftank innocence: A flower bloomed forth, that sunshine glad to bless, Lve~i from his love's long leafless stein; the sense Of exile from Hope's happy realm grew less, And thonghts of childish peace, lie knew not whence, Ti~ronged round his heart with many an old caress, Melting the frost there into pearly dew That mirrored back his nature's morning-blue. xxvi. She turned and saw him, but she felt no dread, Her purity, like adamantine mail, Did so encircle her; and yet her head She drooped, and made her golden hair her veil,

Page  126 12~ LU WELL'S POEMS. Through which a glow of rosiest lustre spread, Then faded, and anon she stood all pale, As snow o'er which a blush of northern-light Suddenly reddens, and as soon grows white. Xxv". She thought of Tristrem and of Lancilot, ~f all ber dre~ms, and of kind fairies' might, And how that dell was deemed a haunted spot, Vutil there grew a mist before her sight, And where the present was she half forgot Borne backward through the realms of old delight, - Then, starting up awake, she would have gone, Yet almost wished it might not be alone. Xxv"'. How they went honie together through the wood, And how all life seemed focussed into one Thoiight-dazzling spot that set ablaze the blood, What need to tell? Fit language there is none For tlie heart's deepest things. Who ever wooed As in his boyish hope lie would have done? For, when the soul is fullest, the hushed tongue Voicelessly trenibJes like a lute unstrung. XXIX. But all things carry the heart's messages And know it not, nor doth the heart well know, But nature hath her will; even as the bees, Blithe go-betweens, fly singing to and fro With the fruit-quickening pollen; - hard if these Fomid not sonic all unthought-of way to show Their secret each to each; and so they did, And one heart's flower-dust into the other slid. XXX. Young hearts are free; the selfish world it is That turns theni niiserly and cold as stone, And makes theiii clutch their fingers on the bliss Which but in giving truly is their own; - She had no dreams of barter, asked not his, But gave hers freely as she would have thrown A rose to him, or as that rose gives forth Its generous fragrance, iliougbtless of its worth.

Page  127 A LECEND O~ BA J7~TA NY. 127 Xxxi. ller summer nature felt a need to bless, And a like longing to be blest again; So, from her sky-like spirit, gentleness bropt ever like a sunlit fall of rain, Ai~d his beneath drank in the bright caress As thirstily as would a parched plain, That long hath watched the showers of sloping gray Forever, ever, falling far away. XXXII. llow should she dream of ill? the heart filled quite ~Yith sunshine, like the shepherd's-clock at noon, Closes its leaves around its warm delight; ~Vliate'er in life is harsh or out 0~ tune Is all shut out, no boding shade of light (Jan pierce the opiate ether of its swoon: Love is but blind as thoughtfnl justice is, But naught can be so wanton-blind as bliss. XXXIII. All beauty and all life he was to her; She queshoned not his love, she only knew That she loved him, and not a pnlse could stir In her whole frame but quivered through and through NYith this glad thought, and was a minister To do him fealty and service true, Like golden ripples hasting to the land To wreck their freight of sunshine on the strand. XXXIy. ~ dewy dawn of love! O hopes that are 11aug high, like the cliff-swallow's perilous nest, ~Iost like to fall when fullest, and that jar NVith every heavier billow! O i~nrest Than balmiest deeps of quiet sweeter far! liow did ye triumph now in Margaret's breast, M akin g it readier to shrink and start Than quivering gold of the pond-lily's heart. Xxxv. 11ere let us pause: O, would the soul might ever Achieve its immortality in youth,

Page  128 128 LOlVELL'S POEMS. When nothing yet hath damped its high endeavor After the starry energy of truth! Here let us pause, and for a moment sever This gleam of sunshine from the days unruth That sometime come to all, for it is good To lengthen to the last a sunny mood. PART SEcOND. I. As one who, from the sunshine and the green, Enters the solid darkness of a cave, Nor knows what precipice or pit unseen May yawn before him with its sudden grave, And, witb hushed breath, doth often forward lean, Dreaming he hears the plashing of a wave Dimly below, or feels a damper air From out some dreary chasm, lie knows not where; - II. So, from the sunshine and the green of love, We enter on our story's darker part; And, though the horror of it well may move An impulse of repugnance in the heart, Yet let us think, that, as there's naught above The all-enibracing atmosphere of Art, So also there is naught that falls below Her generous reach, though grimed with guilt and woe. "I. Her fittest triumph is to show that good Lurks in tlie heart of evil evermore, That love, though scorned, and outcast, and withstood, (an without end forgive, and yet have store; God's love and man's are of the self-same blood, And He can see that always at the door Of foulest hearts the angel-nature yet Knocks to return and cancel all its debt. iv. It ever is weak falsehood's destiny That her thick mask turns crystal to let through

Page  129 A LEGEND OF BRITTANY. 129 The unsuspicions eyes of honesty; But Margaret's heart was too sincere and true Aught but plain truth and faithfnlness to see, And Mordred's for a time a little grew To be like hers, won by the mild reproof Of those kind eyes that kept all doubt aloof. V. Full oft they met, as dawn and twilight meet In northern climes; she full of growing day As he of darkness, which before her feet Shrank gradual, and faded quite away, Soon to return; for power bad made love sweet To hiin, and, when his will had gained full sway, The taste began to pall; for never power Can sate the hungry soul beyond an hour. vi. He fell as doth the tempter ever fall, Lven ii~ the gaining of his loathsome end; God doth not work as man works, but makes all The crooked paths of ill to goodness tend; Let him judge Margaret! If to be the thrall Of love, and faith too generous to defend Its very life from him she loved, be sin, What hope of grace may the seducer win? vi'. Grim-hearted world, that look'st with Levite eyes On those poor fallen by too much faith in man. She that upon thy freezing threshold lies, Starved to more sinning by thy savage ban, - Seeking that refuge because foulest vice More god-like than thy virtue is, whose span Shuts out the wretched only, - is more free To enter Heaven than thon wilt ever be! viii. Thou wilt not let her wash thy dainty feet ~Vith such salt things as tears, or with rude hair Dry them, soft Pharisee, that sit'st at meat With him who made her such, and speak'st him fair, K

Page  130 130 L()tJWLL'~ 1~OEAIS. Leaving God's wandering lamb the while to bleat Unheeded, shivering in the pitiless air: Thou hast made prisoned virtue show more wan And haggard than a vice to look upon. Ix. Now many months flew by, and weary grew To ~~argaret the sight of happy things; Blight fell on all her flowers, instead of dew; Shi~t ronnd her heart were now the joyous wings ~Vberewith it wont to soar; yet not untrue, Though tempted much, her woman's nature clings To its first pure belief, and with sad eyes Looks backward o'er the gate of Paradise. x. And so, though altered Mordred came less oft, And winter frowned where spring had laughed before, In his strange eyes, yet half her sadness doffeQ And in her silent patience loved him more: Sorrow had made her soft heart yet more soft, And a new life within her own she bore ~Vhieh made her tenderer, as she felt it move Beneath her breast, a refuge for her love. XI. This babe, she thought, would snrely bring bim back, And be a bond forever them between; Before its eyes the sullen tempest-rack AVonld fade, aiid leave the face of heaven serene; And love's retnrn doth more than fill the lack, ~Vhieh in`his absence withered the heart's green; And yet a dim foreboding still would flit Between her and her hope to darken it. XII. She could not figure forth a happy fate, Even for this life from heaven so newly come; The earth n~ust needs be doubly desolate To him searee parted from a fairer home: Such boding beavier on her bosom sate One night, as, standing in the twilight gloam,

Page  131 A LEGEND OF BRITTANY. 131 She strained her eyes beyond fl~at dizzy verge At whose foot faintly breaks the future's surge. XIII. Poor little spirit! naught but shame and woe N~u~se the sick heart whose lifebjood nurses thine Yet not those only; love hath triumphed so, As for thy sake makes sorrow more divine: And yet, though thou be pure, the world is foe To purity, if born in such a shrine Aiid, having trampled it for struggling thence, Smiles to itself, and calls it Providence. xIy. As thus she mused, a shadow seemed to rise From out her thought, and turn to dreariness All blissful hopes and sunny men~ories, And the quick blood doth curdle j~p and press About her heart, which seemed to shut its eyes And hush itself, as who with shuddering guess liarks through the gloom and dreads e'eu now to feel Through his hot breast the icy slid~ of steel. xv. But, at the heart-beat, while in dread she was, In the low wh~d the honey suckles gleam, A dewy thrill flits through the heavy grass, And, looking forth, she saw, as in a dream, Within the wood the moonlight's shadowy mass: Night's starry heart yearning to hers doth seem, And the deep sky, full4~earted with the moon, Folds round her all the happiness of June. xvi. What fear could face a heaven and earth like this? What silveriest cloud could hang`~~eath such a sky? A tide of woi~drous aud unwonted bliss Rolls back through all her pulses suddenly, As if some seraph, who bad learned to kiss From the fair daughters of the world gone by, Rad wedded so his fallen light with hers, Such sweet, strange joy through soul and body stirs.

Page  132 132 LOlVELL'S POEMS. Xv". Now seek we Mordred: He who did not fear The criiue, yet fears the latent consequence: If it should reach a brother Templar's ear, It hapiy might be made a good pretence To cheat hiiu of the hope be held most dear; For he had spared no thought's or deed's expense, That, by-and-by might help his wish to clip Its darling bride, - the high grand mastership. Xv"'. The apathy, ere a crime resolved is done, Is scarce less dreadful than remorse for crime; By no allurement can the soul be won From brooding o'er the weary creep of time: Mordred stole forth into the happy sun, Striving to hum a scrap of Breton rhyme, But the sky struck him speechless, and he tried In vain to summon up his callcfus pride. XIX. In the court-yard a fountain leaped alw'ay, A Triton blowing jewels through his shell Into the sunshine; M ordred turned away, ~Veary because the stone face did not tell Of weariness, nor conld he bear to-day, Heartsick, to hear the patient sink and swell Of winds amoug the leaves, or golden bees Drowsily humming in the orange-trees. XX. All happy sights and sounds now came to him Like a reproach: he wandered far and wide, Following the lead of his unquiet whim, But still there went a something at his side That made the cool breeze hot, the sunshine dim; It would not flee, it could not be defied, He could not see it, but he felt it there, By the damp chill that crept among his hair. XXI. Day wore at last; the evening star arose, And throbbing in the sky grew red and set

Page  133 A LI?. GEXD OF Li? JTTANY. 133 Then with a guilty, wavering step he goes To the hid nook where il~ey so oft had met Tn happier season, for his heart well knows That he is sure to find po6r Margaret N\Tatching and waiting there with lovelorn breast Around her young dream's rudely scattered nest. XXII. ~Vby follow here that grim old chronicle ~Vhich counts the dagger-strokes and drops of blood? Enough that Margaret by his mad steel fell, Unmoved by murder from her trusting mood, Smiling on him as Hea~en smiles on Hell, N\Tith a sad love, remembering when he stood Not fallen yet, the unsealer of her heart, Of all her holy dreams the holiest part. XXIII. His crime complete, scarce knowing what he did, (So goes the tale,) beneath the altar there Iii tlie high church the stiffening corpse he hid, And then, to`scape that suffocating air, Like a scared ghoul out of the porch he slid; But his strained eyes saw bloodspots everywhere, And ghastly faces thrust themselves between His soul and hopes of peace wfth blasfii~g mien. XXIV. His heart went qut within him, like a spark Dropt ill the sea; wherever he made bold To tnrn his eyes, he saw, all stiff and stark, Pale Margaret lying dead; the lavish gold Of her loose hair seenied in the cloudy dark To spread a glory, and a thousandfold ~~ ore strangely pale and beautiful she grew: Her silence stabbed his conscience through and through: XXV. Or visions of past days, - a mother's eyes That smiled down on the fair boy at her knee, ~Vhose happy upturned face to hers replies, - He saw sometimes: or Margaret mournfnlly

Page  134 134 LOWELL'S POEMS. Gazed 011 him full of doubt, as one who tries To crush belief that does love injury; Then she would wring her hands, but soon again Love's patience glimmered out through cloudy pain. xxvi. Meauwbile he dared not go and steal away The sileiit, dead-cold witness of his sin; He had not feared the life, but that dull clay, Those open eyes that showed the death within, Would surely stare him mad; yet all the day A dreadful impulse, whence his will could win No refuge, made him linger in the aisle, Freezing with his wan look each greeting smile. xxvii. Now, on the second day there was to be A festival in church: from far and near Caine flocking in the sunburnt peasantry, ~nd knights and dames with stately antique cheer, Blazing with pomp, as if all fae~rie Had emptied her quaint halls, or, as it were, The illuminated marge of some old book, While we were gazing, life and motion took. xxviii. When all were entered, and the roving eyes Of all were staid, some upon faces bright, Some 011 the priests, some on the traceries That decked the slumber of a marble knight, And all the rustlings over that arise From recognizing tokens of delight, When friendly glances meet, - then silent ease Spread o'er the multitude by slow degrees. xxix. Then swelled the organ: up through choir and nave The music trembled with an inward thrill Of bliss at its own grandeur: wave on wave Its flood of mellow thunder rose, until The bushed air shivered with the throb it gave, Then, poising for a moment, it stood still, And sank and rose again, to burst in spray That wandered into silence far away.

Page  135 A LECEXI) OF BRITTANY. 135 xxx. Like to a mighty~heaft fl~e music seemed, That yearns with melodies it cannot speak, Until, in grand despair of what it dreameQ In the agony of effort it doth break, Yet triumphs breaking; on it rushed and streamed And wantoned in its might, as when a lake, Long pent among the mountains, bursts its walls And in one crowding gush leaps forth and falls. XXXI. Deeper and deeper shudders shook the air, As the huge bass kept gathering heavily, Like thunder when it rouses in its lair, And with its hoarse growl shakes the low-hung sky, It grew up like a darkness everywhere, Filling the vast cathedral; - suddenly, From the dense mass a boy's clear treble broke Like lightning, and the full-toned choir awoke. XXXII. Through gorgeous windows shone the sun aslant, Brimming the church with gold and purple mist, Meet atmosphere to bosom that rich chant, N\There fifty voices in one strand did twist - Their varicolored tones, and left no want To the delighted soul, which sank abyssed In the warm music cloud, while, far below, The organ heaved its surges to and fro. XXXIII. As if a lark should suddenly drop dead ~Vhile the blue air yet trembled with its song, So snapped at once that music's golden thread, Struck by a nameless fear that leapt along From heart to heart, and like a shadow spread ~Vith instantaneous shiver through the throng, So that some glanced behind, as half aware A hideous shape of dread were standing there. XXXIV. As when a crowd of pale men gather round, ~Vatching an eddy in the leaden deep,

Page  136 136 LOIVELL'S POEMS. From which they dee in the body of one drowned Will be cast forth, from face to face doth creep An eager dread that holds all tongues fast bound Until the horror, with a ghastly leap, Starts up, its dead blue arms stretched aimlessly, lleaved with the swinging of the careless sea, - xxxv. So in the faces of all these there grew, As by one impulse, a dark, freezing awe, Which, with a fearful fascination drew All eyes toward the altar; damp and raw The air grew suddenly, and no man knew Whether perchance his silent neighbor saw The dreadful thing which all were sure would rise To scare the strained lids wider from their eyes. xxxvi. The incense trembled as it upward sent Its slow, uncertain thread of wandering blue, As`t were the only living element In aJl the church, so deep the stillness grew, It seemed one might have heard it, as it went, Give out an audible rustle, curling through The midnight silence of that awe-struck air, More hushed than death, though so much life was there. xxxvii. Nothing they saw, but a low voice was heard Threading the ominous silence of that fear, Gentle and terrorless as if a bird, Wakened by some volcano's glare, should cheer Tbe murk air with his song; yet every word In the cathedral's farthest arch seemed near As if it spoke to every one apart, Like the clear voice of conscience in each heart. xxxviii. "0 Rest, to weary hearts thou art most dear! 0 Silence, after life's bewildering din, Thou art most welcome, whether in the sear Days of our age thou comest, or we win

Page  137 A LEGEND OF BRITTANY. 137 r! liy poppy-wreath in youth! then wherefore here Linger I yet, once free to enter in At that wished gate which gentle Death doth ope, Into the boundless realm of strength and hope? XXXIX. "Think not in death my love could ever cease; If thou wast false, in ore need tl~ere is for me Still to be trne that slumber were not peace, If`t were unvisited with dreams of thee: And thou hadst never heard such words as these, Save that in heaven I must ever be Most comfortless and wretched, seeing this Our unbaptized babe shut out from bliss. XL. "This little spirit with imploring eyes Wanders alone the dreary wild of space; The shadow of his pain forever lies Upon my soul in this new dwelling-place; His loneliness makes inc in Paradise More lonely, and, unless I see his face, Even here for grief could I lie down and die, Save for my cnrse of immortality. XLI. "World after world he sees around him swim Crowded with happy souls, that take no heed Of the sad eyes that from the night's faint rim Gaze sick with longing on them as they speed With golden gates, that only shut out him; And shapes sometimes from Hell's abysses freed Flap darkly by him, with enorinons sweep Of wings that roughen wide the pitchy deep. XLII. "I am a mother, - spirits do not shake This much of earth fto~u theni, - and I must pine Till I can feel his little hands, and take His weary head upon this heart of mine; And, might it be, full gladly for his sake Would I this solitude of bliss resign,

Page  138 138 LOWELL'S POEMS. And be shut out of Heaven to dwell with him Forever in that silence drear and dim. XLIII. "I strove to hush my soul, and would not speak At first, ~01. thy dear sake; a woman's love Is mighty, but a mother's heart is weak, And by its weakness overcomes; I strove To sin other bitter thoughts with patience meek, Biit still in the abyss iny soul would rove, Seeking iny child, and drove me here to claim The rite that gives him peace in Christ's dear name. XLIY. "I sit and weep while blessed spirfts sing; I can but long and piiie the while they praise, And, leaning o'er the wall of Heaven, I fling My voice to where I deem my infant strays, Like a robbed bird that cries in vain to bring Her nestlings back beneath her wings' embrace; But still he answers not, and I but know That Heaven and earth are both alike in woe." xLv. Then the pale priests, with ceremony due, Baptized the child within its dreadful tomb Beneath that mother's heart, whose instinct true Star4ike had battled down the triple gloom Of sorrow, love, and death: young maidens, too, Strewed the pale corpse with many a iuilkwhite bloom, And parted the bright hair, and on th~ breast Crossed the unconscious hands in sign of rest. xLvI. Some said, that, when the priest had sprinkled o'er The consecrated drops, they seemed to hear A sigh, as of some heart from travail sore - Released, and then two voices singing clear, Misereatur De~ts, more and more Fading far upward, and their ghastly fear Fell from them with that sound, as bodies fall From souls upspringiiig to celestial hall.

Page  139 PR Q~E THE US. 139 PROMETllEUS. ONE after one the stars have risen and set, Sparkling upon the hoarliost on my chain: The Bear, that prowled all night about the fold Of the Norfli-star, hath shrunk into his den, Scared by the blithesome footsteps of the Dawn, ~Vhose 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, muftI~d 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 It was, and calm; its cold eyes did not move, And mine moved not, but only stared on them. Their fixe4 awe went through my brain like ice, A skeleton hand seemed clutching at my heart, 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 sigb, A long, deep, shivering sigh, as from blue lips Stiffening in death, close to mine ear. I thougbt Some doom was close upon me, and I looked And saw the red moon through the heavy mist, Just setting, and it seemed as if it were falling, Or reeling to its fall, so dim and dead

Page  140 140 LOWELL'S POEMS. And palsy-struck it looked. Then all sounds merged Into the rising surges of the pines, Which, leagues below me, clothing tbe 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, 0 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 not triumph, Jove, They are wrung from me but by the agonies Of prophecy, like those sparse drops which fall From clouds iii travail of the lightuii~g, when 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, a~d cunning force? True Power was never born of brutish Strength, Nor sweet Truth suckled at the shaggy dugs Of that old she-wolf. Are thy thanderbolts, That quell 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: Tbere is a higher purity than tl~ou, 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

Page  141 PR OME THE US. 141 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 lightuings, 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 0~ solitude, - that i~olds apart The past and future, givin g 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 tbe 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, Hadst 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, 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 centre 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.

Page  142 142 LOWELL'~ POEMS. So shall some thought 0~ mine yet circle earth, And puff away thy crumbling altars, Jove! And, wouldst thou know 0~ my s~preme revenge. Poor tyrant, even now dethroned in heart, Rea~mless in soul, as tyrants ever are, Listen! and tell me if this bitter ~~eak, This never-glutted vulture, and these chains Shrink not before it; for it shall befit A s orrow4aught, unconquered Tit au-he art. Men, when their death is on them, seem to stand On a precipitous crag that overhaugs The abyss of doom, and in that depth to see, As in a glass, the features dim and vast 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 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 martyrdoins made doubly sure Of such as I am, this is my revenge, ~Yhich of my wrongs builds a triumphal arch, Tb rough whid~ I see a sceptre 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 on thine altars poured no more, - The murmurous bliss of lovers, underneath Dim grapewine bowers, whose rosy bunches press Not half so closely their warm cheeks, unpaled By thoughts of thy brute lust, - the hive-like hum Of peaceful commonwealths, wbere 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 ~Vould cupe with as a spaA~ with the vast sea, - Even the spirit of free love and peace,

Page  143 PROME7'HEU~. 143 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 Because the sheaves are bound by hands not theirs These are the bloodless daggers wherewithal They stab fallen tyrants, ilAs their high revenge: For their best part of life on eailh is when, Long after death, prisoned and pent no n~ore, Their thoughts, their wild dreams cven, have become Pail of the uecessary air men breathe; ~N~lien,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, Iu tempest or wide calm, repeats their thoughts; The lightning and the thunder, all free things, Rave legends of them for the ears of inen. 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, ~Vbich 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 of 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 hftent 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, ~Vhich, having been or not, would never change The lightest pulse of fate, - this is indeed A cup of bitterness the worst to taste, And this thy heart shall empty to the dregs. Endless despair shall be thy Caucasus, And memory fl~y vulture; il~ou wilt find ()blivion far lonelier than this peak, - Behold thy destiny! Thou tbink'st it much That I should brave thee, iniserable god! But I have braved a mightier than thou,

Page  144 144 LOWELL'S POEMS. Even the tempting of this soaring heart, Which might have made me, scarcely less il~an thou, A god among iny brethren weak and blind, Scarce less than tho'~, a pitiable thing To be down-trodden into darkness soon. But now I am above thee, for thou art The bnngling workmanship 0~ fear, the block That awes the swart Barbarian but I Am what myself have made, - a nature wise With finding in itself the types 0~ all, - With watching from the dim verge of the time What things to be are visible in the gleams Thrown forward on theni 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 crnmble, except Love, By whom and for whose glory, ye shall cease: And, when thou art bnt a dim moaning heard From out the pitiless glooms of Chaos, I Shall be a power and a memory, A name to fright all tyrants with, a light Unsetting as 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 trnmpet, to awake Huge echoes that from age to age live on In kindred spirits, giving them a sense Of bonudless power from boundless suffering wrung: And many a glazing eye sbail 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 fl}e Right. LAl 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 ftom its boughs shed down The ripe germs of a forest. Thou, weak god, Shalt fade and be forgotten! but this soul,

Page  145 PR 031E THE US. 145 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 That darkens the free light to man: - This heart, Unscarred by thy grim vulture, as the truth Grows but more lovely`neath the beaks and claws Of liarpies 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 fu~urc, showing il~em the end, - Pain's thorny crown for constancy and truth, Girding thc temples like a wreath of stars. This is a tho~~ght, that, like a fabled laurel, ~Iakcs my faith thunder-proof; and thy dread bolts Fall on me like the silent flakes of snow On the hoar brows of aged Caucasus: But, 0 il~ought far more blissfnl, they can rend This cloud of flesh, and make my soul a star! Unleash thy crouching thunders now, 0 Jove! Free this high heart, which, a poor captive long, Doth knock to be let forth, il~is heart which still, In its invincible manhood, overtops Thy pully godship, as this mountain doth The pines that moss its roots. 0, even now, ~Vhile from my peak of suffering I look down, Bcholdiug with a far-spread gush of hope Ti~c sunrise of that Beauty, in whose face, Shone all aroiu~d with love no man shall look But straigl~tway like a god he is uplift Unto the ilirone long empty for his sake, And clearly oft foreshadowed in wide dreams By liis free inward iiature, which nor thou, Nor any auarch 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 L

Page  146 146 LOIVELL'S POEAlS. The palaces of tyrants, to hunt off, ~Yith its grim eyes and fearful whisperings And hideous sense of ufter loneliness, All hope of safety, all desire of peace, All but the loathed forefeeliug 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, Filling with dread such souls as dare not trust In the unfailing energy of Good, Until they swoop, and their pale quarry make Of some o'erbloated wrong, - that spirit which Scatters great hopes in the seed-field of inan, Like acorns ainong grain, to grow and be A roof for freedom in all coining 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, (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 coine and go With her monotonous vicissitude; 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, $oneliest, save inc, of all created things, Mild-eyed Astarte, my best comforter, With thy pale smile of sad benignity? Year after year will pass away and seein To me, in mine eternal agony,

Page  147 SONC~~. 147 But as the shadows of dumb summer clouds, Which I have watched so often darkeuiiig o'er The vast Sarmatian plain, league-wide at first, But, with still swiftuess lessening on and on Till cloud and shadow meet and mingle where The gray horizon fades into tbe sky, Far, far to the northward. Yes, for ages yet Must I lie here upon my altar huge, A sacrifice for in an. Sorrow will be, As it hath been, his portion; endless doom, While the immortal with the mortal linked Breams 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, llavlng 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. 1843. 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 beautiftil, And longing for those far-off spheres?

Page  148 148' LOWELL'S POEMS. 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 111055 is iu the sea. 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 sonow and the longing To these hearts of ours belonging? 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 niine 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 fi~lfilling sense Of tbat glad obedience Which made thee all that Nature meant thee! 1841. ROSALINE. THoU look'dst on me all yesternight, Thine eyes were blue, thy hair was bright As when ~ve murmured our troth-plight Beneath the thick stars, Rosaline! Thy hair was braidcd on t1~y head, As on the day we two were wed,

Page  149 ROSALTXE. 149 ~Iine eyes scarce knew if thon wert dead, But my shrunk heart knew, Rosaline! The death-~ateh ticked behind the wall, The blackness rustled like a pall, The moaning wind did rise and fall Among the bleak pines, Rosaline! ~fy heart beat thickly in mine ears; The lids niay 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 nQt this vengeance, P~osaline? A loneliness that is not lone, A love quite withered up and gone, A strong soul trampled from its throne, - ~Vhat wouldst iliou further, Rosaline? `T is drear 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, \Yith long black garments trailing slow, And plumes anodding to and fro, As once I heard them, Rosaline! Thy shroud is all of snowy white, And, in the middle of the night, Thou standest moveless and upright, (~azing upon me, Rosaline! There is no sorrow in thh~e eyes, But evermore that meek surprise, - 0, ~od! thy gentle spirit tries To deem me guiltless, Rosaline! Above tby grave the robin sings, And swarms of bright and happy things Flit all about wfth sunlit wings, - But I am cheerless, Rosaline! The violets on the hillock toss,

Page  150 150 LOWELL'~ POEAIS. The gravestoue is o'ergrown with moss; For natare feels not any loss, - But I am cheerless, Rosaline! I did not know when thou wast dead A blackbird whistling ovei4iead Thrilled through my brain; I wotild have fled, But dared not leave thee, Rosaline! The sun rolled down, and very soon, Like a great fire, the awftil inoon Rose, stained with blood, and then a swoon Crept chilly o'er me, Rosaline! The stars came ont; and, one by one, Each angel from his silver throne Looked down and saw what I liad 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 caine, and then it seemed That, if the very corpse had screamed, The sound like sunshine glad had streamed Through that dark stillness, Rosaline! And then, amid the silent night, I screamed with horrible delight, And in iny brain an awful light Did seein to crackle, Rosaline! It is iny curse! sweet memories fall From inc like snow, - and only all ~f that one night, like cold worms crawl My doomed heart over, R osaline! Why wilt thou haunt me with thine eyes, Wherein such blessed memories, Such pitying forgiveness lies, Than hate in ore bitter, Rosaline?

Page  151 7'HE ~fFPiikPD OF KINC ADMETUS. 151 ~Voe`5 me! I know that love so high As thine, true soul, could never die, And with mean clay in churchyard lie, - Would it might be so, Rosaline! 1841. THE SHEPHERD OF KING ADMETUS. TllEnE came a youth upon the earth, Some thousand years ago, Whose slender hands were nothing worth, ~Yhether to plough, or reap, or sow. Upon an empty tortoise-sbell He stretched some chords, and drew Music that made men's bosoms swell Fearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew. Then King Admetus, one who had Pure taste by right divine, Decreed his singing not too bad To hear between fl~e cups of wine: And so, well~~leased with being soothed Into a sweet halt-sleep, Three times his kingly beard lie smoothed, And made him viceroy o'er his sheep. His words were simple words enough, And yet he used them so, That what in oil~er mouths was rough In his seeme(I musical and low. Men called him but a shiftless youth, In whom no good they saw; And yet, unwittingly, in truth, They made his careless words their law. They knew not how he learned at all, For idly, hour by hour, He sat and watched the dcad leaves fall, Or mused upon a common flower.

Page  152 152 LOWELL'S POE3IS. It seemed the loveliness of things Did teach liim all their use, For, in mere weeds, and stones, and springs, He found a healing power profuse. ~1en granted that his speech was wise, But, when a glance they caught Of his slim grace and woman's eyes, They langhed, and called him good-for-naught. Yet after he was dead and gone, A nd e'en his memory dim, Earth seemed more sweet to live upon, More full of love, because of him. And day by day more holy grew Each spot where he had trod, Till after-poets only knew Their first-born brother as a god. 1842. THE TOKEN. IT is a mere wild rosebud Qnite sallow now, and dry, Yet there`5 something wondrous in it, - Some ~leams of days gone by, - Dear sights and sounds that are to me The very moons of memory, And stir my heart's blood far below Its short4ived waves of joy and woe. Lips must fade and roses wither, All sweet times be o'er, - They only smile, and, murmuring "Thither!" Stay wfth us no more: And yet ofttimes a look or smile, Forgotten iii a kiss's while, Years after from the dark will start, And flash across the trembling heart. Thou hast given me many roses, But never one, like this,

Page  153 AX ThCiDL~XT IN A RAILROAD CAR. 153 O'erfloods both sense and spirit With such a deep, wild bliss; We must have i~stiuds that glean up Sparse drops of this life ill the cup, Whose taste shall give us all that we Can prove of immortality. Earth's stablest things are shadows, And, in the life to come, Haply some chance-saved trifle May tell 0~ this old home: As now sometimes we seem to find, In a dark crevice of the mind, Some relic, which, long pondered o'er, Hints faintly at a life before. AN INCIDENT IN A RAILROAD CAR. His spoke of Burns: men rude and rough Pressed round to hear the praise of one Whose beart was made of manly, simple stuff, As homespun as fl~eir own. And, when he read, they forward leaned, Drinking, with thirsty hearts and ears, His brook-like songs whom glory never weaned From humble smiles and tears. Slowly there grew a tender awe, Sun-like, o'er faces brown and hard, As if in him who read 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 fornier life above, And something of a ~ner reverence For beauty, truth, and love.

Page  154 154 LOWELL'S POEMS. God scatters love on every side, Freely among his children all, And always heafts are lying open wide, ~Yherein some grains may fall. There is no wind but soweth seeds Of a more true and open life, Which burst, unlooked-for, into high-sonled 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 bear 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, Tn sunny hours like this. All that hath been majestical Tn life or death, since time began, Is native in il~e simple heart of all, The angel heart of man. And thus, among the untaught poor, Great deeds and feelings find a home, That cast in shadow all the golden lore Of classic Greece and Rome. 0, mighty brother-soul of man, Wherc'er thou art, ill low or high, Thy skicy arches with exulting span O'er-roof infinity! All thoughts that mould the age begin ~eep down within the primitive soul, And from the many slowly upward win To one who grasps the whole: In his wide brain the feeling deep That struggled on the many's tongue Swells to a tide of thought, whose surges leap O'er the weak thrones of wrong.

Page  155 AX kVCIDEX7' k~\W A RAILP&OAD CAR. 155 All thought begins in feeling, - wide In the great mass its base is hid, And, narrowing up to thought, stands glorified, A moveless pyramid. Nor is he far astray wbo deems That every hope, which rises and grows broad In the world's heart, by ordered impulse streams From the great heart of God. God wills, man hopes: in common souls Hope is but vague and nndefined Till from the poet's tongue the me;sage rolls A blessing to his kind. Never did Poesy appear So full of heaven to me, as when I saw bow it would pierce through pride and fear To the 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 tbeir free nature in the weak And friendless sons of men To write some earnest verse or line, ~Yhich, seeking not the praise of art, Shall make a clearer faith and manhood shine In the untutored heart. He who doth this, in verse or prose, May be forgotten in his day, But surely shall be crowned at last with those Who live and speak for aye. 1842.

Page  156 I5~ LOWELL'S POEAIS. RH(1~CUS. GOD sends his teachers unto every age, To every clime, and every race of men, ~Vith revelations fitted to their growth And shape of mind, nor gives the realm of Truth Into the selfish rule of one sole race: Therefore each forn~ of worship that hath swayed The life of man, and given it to grasp The master-key of knowledge, reverence, Enfolds some germs of goodness and of right; Else never had the eager soul, which loathes The slothfnl down of pampered ignorance, ~`ound in it even a moment's fitful rest. There is an instinct ill the human heart Which makes that all the fables it hath coined, To justify the reign of its belief And strengthen it by beauty's right divine, Veil in their inner cells a mystic gift, Which, like the hazel twig, in faithful hands, Points surely to the hidden springs of truth. For, as in nature naught is n~ade in vain, But all things have within their hull of use A wisdom and a meaning which may speak Of spiritnal secrets to the ear Of spirit; so, in whatsoe'er the heart Hath fashioned for a solace to itself, To make its inspirations suit its creed, And from the niggard hands of falsehood wring Its needfnl food of trnth, there ever is A sympathy with Nature, which reveals, Not less than her own works, pure gleams of light And earnest parables of inward lore. Hear now this fairy legend of old Greece, As full of freedom, youth, and beauty still As the immortal freshness of that grace Carved for all ages on some Attic frieze. A youth named Rhoecus, wandering in the wood, Saw an old oak just trembling to its fall, AnQ feeling pity of so fair a tree, He propped its gray trunk with admiring care,

Page  157 RH(ECUS. 157 And with a thoughtless footstep loitered on. Bnt, as he turned, he heard a voice behind That murmured "-Rhcecus!"`T was as if the leaves, Stirred by a passing breath, had murmured it, And, while be paused bewildered, yet again It murmured "Rhcecus!" softer than a breeze. lle started and beheld with dizzy eyes What seemed the substance of a happy dream Stand there before him, spreading a warm glow Within the green glooms of the shadowy oak. It seemed a woman's shape, yet all too fair To be a woman, and with eyes too meek For any that were wont to mate wfth gods. All naked like a goddess stood she there, And like a goddess all too beautiful To feel the guiltborn earthliness of shame. "Rhcecus, I am the Dryad of this tree," Thus she began, dropping her low-toned words Sereuc, and full, and clear, as drops of dew, "And wfth it I am doomed to live and die; The rain and sunshine are my caterers, Nor liave I other bliss than simple life; Now ask me wbat thou wilt, that I can give, And with a thankful joy it shall be thine." Then Rhcecus, with a flutter at the heart, Yet, by the prompting of such beauty, bold, Answered: "What is there that can satisfy The endless craving of the soul but love? Give me thy love, or but the hope of that Which must be evermore my spirit's goal." After a little pause she said again, But with a glimpse of sadness in her tone, "I give it, Rheccus, though a perilous gift; An hour before the sunset meet me here." And straightway there was nothing he could see But green glooms beneath the shadowy oak, And not a sound caine to his straining ears But the low trickling rustle of the leaves, And far away upon an emerald slope The falter of an idle shepherd's pipe. Now, in those days of simpleness and faith, Men did not think that happy things were dreams

Page  158 15S LOWELL'5 POEJiS. Because they overstepped the narrow bourne Of likelihood, but reverently deemed Nothing too wondrous or too beautiful To be tbe guerdon of a daring heart. So Rheecus inade no doubt that he was blest, Aiid all aloug unto the city's gate Earth seeiiied to spriug beueath hiin as he walked, The clear, broad sky looked bluer than its wont, And he could scarce believe he had not wings Such suiisbine seemed to glitter through his veins Instead of blood, so light he felt and strange. Young Rheecus had a faithful heart enough, But one that in the present dwelt too much, And, taking wifi~ blithe welcome whatsoe'er Chance gave of joy, was wholly bound ill ti;at, Like the contented peasant of a vale, T)eenied it the world, and never looked beyond. So, haply meeting in the afternoon Some comrades who were playing at tlie dice lle joined them and forgot all else beside. The dice were rattling at the merriest, And Rhcecus, who had inet but sorry luck, Just laughed in triumph at a happy throw, When through the room there huinmed a yellow bee That buzzed about his ear with down-dropped legs As if to light. And Rheecus laughed and said, Feeling how red and flushed he was with loss, "By Venus! does lie take me for a rose And brushed him off with rough, iinpatieiit hand. But still the bee caine back, and thrice again Rheecus did beat hiin off with growing wrath. Then through the window flew the wounded bee, And Rhcecus, tracking him with angry eyes, Saw a sharp mountain~~eak of Thessaly Against the red disc of the setting sun, - And instantly the blood sank from his heart, As if its very walls liad caved away. Wi4~out a word he turned, and, rushing forth, Ran madly through the city and the gate, And o'er the plain, which now the wood's long shade, By the low sun thrown forward broad and dini, Darkened welluigh unto tlie city's wall.

Page  159 i?H~(7US. 159 Quite spent and out 0~ breath he reaclted the tree, And, listening fearfully, lie heard ouee more The low voice niarn~ur "1~hceeus!" close at hand: Whereat he looked around hiin, but coald see Naught but il~e deepeniug glooms beiieath the oak. Then sighed the voice, "Oh, Rhceeus! nevermore Shalt thou behold me or by day or iiight, Me, who would fain have blessed thee wifl~ a love More ripe and bouuteous than ever yet Filled up with nectar any mortal heart: But thou didst scorn my humble messenger, And sent'st him back to u0e with bruised wings. We spirits only show to geutle eyes. We ever ask an undivided love, And he who scorns il~e least of Nature's works Is thenceforth exiled and shut out from a}l. Farewell! for thou caust never see me more." Then Rheecus beat his breast, and groaned aloud And cried, "Be pitiful! forgive me yet This once, and I shall never need it more! "Alas! " fl~e voice returned, "`t is thou art blind, Not I unmerciful; I can forgive, But have no skill to heal thy spirit's eyes; Only the soul bath power o'er itself." With that again there murmured "Nevermore! And Rhcecus after heard no other sound, Lxcept the rattling of the oak's crisp leaves, Like the long surf upon a distant shore, Raking the sea-worn pebbles up and down. The night had gathered round hiiu: o'er the plain The city sparkled with its thousand lights, And sounds of revel fell upon his ear llarshly and like a curse; above, the sky, ~Nrith all its bright sublimity of stars, ~eepened, and on h~s forehead smote the breeze; Beauty was all around him and delight, But from that eve he was alone on earth..

Page  160 160 LOWELL'S POEM& TllE FALCON. I KNOW a falcon swift and peerless As e'er was cradled in the pine; No bird had ever eye so fearless, Or wings so strong as this of mine. The winds not better love to pilot A cloud with molten gold o'errun, Than him, a little burning islet, A star above the coming sun. For with a lark's heart he doth tower, By a glorious, upward instin~t drawn; No bee nestles deeper iu the ~ower Than he in the bursting rose of dawn. No harmless dove, no bird that singeth, Shudders to see him overhead; The rush of his fierce swooping bringeth To innocent hearts no thrill of dread. Let fraud and Wrong and baseness shiver, For still between them and the sky The falcon Truth hangs poised forever And marks them with his vengeful eye. TRIAL. I. WHETHER the idle prisoner through his grate Watches the waving of the grass-tuft small, Which, ~aving colonized its rift i' the wall, Takes its free risk of good or evil fate, And, from the sky's just helmet draws its lot Baily of shower or sunshine, cold or hot; - Whether the closer captive of a creed, Cooped up from birth to grind out endless chaff, Sees through his treadmill-bars the noonday laugh, And feels in vain his crumpled pinions breed; - Whether the Georgian slave look up and in ark, With bellying sails puffed full, the tall cloud-bark

Page  161 A REQUlEAL 161 Sink northward slowly, -thou alone seeni'st good, Fair only thou, 0 Freedom, Whose desire Can light in muddiest souls quick seeds of ~re, And strain life's chords to the old heroic mood. II. Yet are there other gifts more fair than thine, Nor can I count him happiest who has never Been forced with his own hand his chains to sever, And for bimself find out the way divine; lie never knew the aspirer's glorious pains, lie never earned the struggle's priceless gains. 0, block by block, with sore and sharp endeavor, Lifelong we build these timnan natures up Into a temple fit for freedom's shrine, And Trial ever consecrates the cup Whereliom we pour tier sacrificial wine. A REQUIEM. Ay, pale and silent maide~ Cold as thou liest there, Thine was the sunniest nature That ever drew tbe air, The wildest and most wayward, And yet so gently kind, Thou seeinedst but to body A breath of summer wind. Into the eternal shadow That girds our life around, Into the infinite silence Wherewith Death's shore is bound, Thou hast gone foi~th, beloved! And I were mean to weep, That thou hast left Life's shallows, And dost possess the Deep. Thou liest low and silent, Thy heart is cold and still, Thine eyes are shut forever, And Death hath had his will

Page  162 162 LOIVELL'S POEMS. He loved and would have taken, - I loved and would have kept, We strove, - and he was stronger, And I have never wept. Let him possess thy body, Thy so~l is still with me, More sunny and more gladsome Than it was wont to be: Thy body was a fetter That bound me to the flesh, Thank God that it is broken, And now I live aliesh! Now I can see thee clearly The dusky cloud of clay, That bid thy starry spirit, Is rent and blown away: To earth I give thy body, Thy spirit to the sky, I saw its bright wings growing, And kue w that thou must fly. Now I can love thee truly, For nothing comes between The senses and the spirit, The seen and the unseen; Lifts the eternal shadow, The silence bursts apart, And the soul's bouiidless future Is present in my heart. A PARABLE. WORN and footsore was the Prophet, When he gained the holy hill; "God has left the earth," lie murmured, "Here his presence lingers still. "God of all the olden prophets, Wilt thou speak with men no more? Have I not as truly served thee, As thy chosen ones of yore?

Page  163 A PARABLE. 163 "Hear me, guider 0~ my fathers, Lo! a hiiu~ble heart is mine; By thy mercy I beseech thee, Grant thy servant bi~t a sigii! Bowing then his head, he listened For an answer to his ~~rayer; No loud burst of thunder followed, Not a murmur stirred the air: - But the tuft 0~ moss before him Opened while he waited yet, And, from out the rock's hard bosom, Sprang a ten dci' violet. "God! I thank thee," said the Prophet "Hard of heart and blind was I, Looking to the holy mountain For the gift of prophecy. "StiJl thou speakest with thy children Freely as in eld sublime Humbleness, and love, and patience, Still give empire 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, Thirstiug 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." 1842.

Page  164 164 LOlVELL'S POEMS. A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. WE see but half the causes of our deeds, Seeking them wholly in tbe 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. Froin one stage of our being to the next We pass unconscious 0 er a slender bridge, The momentary work of unseen hands, Which crumbles down behind us; looking back, We see the other shore, the gnlf betwee~ And, marvelling how we won to where we stand, Content ourselves to call the builder Chance, We trace the wisdom to tlie apple's fail, Not to the birth-throes of a mighty Truth Which, for long ages in blank Chaos dumb, Yet yearned to be incarnate, and had found At last a spirit meet to be the womb From which it might be born to bless mankiiid, - 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 caine 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 Within our thought, to beckon us beyond The narrow circle of the seen and known, And always tending to a noble end, As 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 iii the heart of one plain iuan, One step of his and the great dial-hand, That marks the destined progress of the world

Page  165 A GLANCE BEHIND 7'HE CURTAJN. 165 In the eternal round from wisdom on To higher wisdom, had been made to panse A hundred years. That step he did not take, - lie 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 tban 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 Tbames, ~Vhich weltered by in muddy listlessness. Grave men they were, and battlings of fierce thought Had trampled out all softness from their brows, And ploughed rough furrows there before their time, For another crop than such as homebred Peace Sows broadcast in the willing soil of Youth. Care, not of self, but of the commonweal, 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. 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 ar~n prompt to do the`hests of both. His was a brow where gold were out of place, And yet it seeined 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 he hardly seemed, (Care makes so little of some five short years,) Had a clear, honest face, whose rough-hewn strength ~Vas mildened by the scholar's wiser heart To sober courage, such as best befits The unsullied temper of a well-taught mind, Yet so reinained that one could plainly guess The hushed volcano smouldering underneath. He spoke: the other, hearing, kept his gaze Still fixed, as on some problem in the sky.

Page  166 166 LOIVELL'S POEJiS. "0, C~o~w~~~, we are fallen 011 evil times! There was a day wiiea Lugland had wide room For honest men as well as foolish kings; But 110W the mi easy stomach of the time Turns squeamish at them both. Therefore let us Seek out that savage clime, where men as yet Are ftee: there sleeps the vessel on the tide, Her languid canvas drooping for the wind; Give us but that, and what need we to fear This Order of tbe Council? The free waves ~Vill not say, No, to please a wayward king, Nor will the winds turn traitors at his beck All things are fitly cared for, and the Lord ~Nflll watch as kindly o'er the exodus Of us his servaiits now, as in old time. ~Ve have no cloud or fire, and liaply we May not pass dry-shod through the ocean-stream But, saved or lost, all things are in His hand." So spake be, and nicantinie tlie other stood ~Yith wide gray eyes still reac{ing the blank air, As if upon the sky's blue wall he saw Sonic mystic sentence, written by a hand Such as of old made pale the Assyrian king, Girt with his satraps in the blazing feast. "llAMPDEN! 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 inc bids me not to go; And I am one, thou knowest, who, unmoved By what the weak deem omens, yet give heed And reverence due to whatsoe'er my soul ~Vhispers of warning to the inner ear. Moreover, as I know that God bAngs round His purposes in ways undreamed by iis, And makes ilie wicked but his instruments To hasten on their swift and sudden fall, I see the beauty of his providence In the King's order: blind, he will not let His doom part froni him, but must bid it stay As`t were a cricket, whose enlivening chirp He loved to hear beneath his very hearth. AVhy should we fly? Nay, why not rather stay

Page  167 A GLANCE hEHEYL JYlE CUR TA IX. 1(37 And rear again our Zion's crumbled walls, Not, as 0~ old the walls of Thebes were built, By minstrel twanging, but, if need should be, ~Vith the more l~otent music of our swords? Think'st thou that score 0~ men beyond the sea Claim more God's care than all of Lu gland here? No: when be moves llis arm, it is to aid ~~hole peoples, heedless if a few be crushed, As some are ever, when il~e destiny Of man takes one stride onward nearer home. Believe it,`t is the mass of men lie loves; And, where il~ere is most sorrow and most want, ~Yhere the bigh heart of inan is trodden down The most,`t is not because lie hides his face From them in wrath, as purblind teachers prate: Not so: there most is lie, for there is lie ~1ost needed. ~Ien who seek for Fate abroad Are iiot so near his heart as they who dare Frankly to face her where she faces them, On ti~eir own threshold, where their souls are strong To grapple with and throw her; as T once, Being yet a boy, did cast 4~is p~~uy king, ~Yho now has grown so dotard as to deem That be can wrestle with an angry realm, And throw the brawned Ant~us of men's rights. No, liampden! they have half-way conquered Fate NYho go half-way to meet her, - as will I. Freedom ha4~ yet a work for me to do; So speaks that inward voice which never yet Spake falsely, when it urged il~e spirft on To noble deeds for country and mankind. And, for success, I ask no more than this, - To bear nullinching witness to the truth. All true, whole men succeed: for what is worth Success 5 name, unless it be the thought, Tlie inward surety, to have carried out -A noble purpose to a noble end, Although it be the gallows or the block? `T is only Falsehood that doth ever need These outward shows of gain to bolster her. Be it we prove the weaker with our swerds; Truth only needs to be for once spoke out, And there's such music in her, such straiige rhythm,

Page  168 1(38 LOWELL'S POE VS. As makes men's memories her joyous slaves, And clings around the soul, as the sky clings Round the mute earth, forever beautiful, And, if o'erclouded, only to burst forth More all-embracingly divine and clear: Get but the truth once uttered, and`t is like A star new-born, that drops into its place, And which, once circling in its placid round, Not all the tumult of the earth can shake. "What should we do in that small colony Of pinched fanatics, wlio would rather choose Freedom to clip an inch more from their hair, Than the great chance of sefting 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? We learn oiir souls more, tossing for an hour Upon this huge and everwexed 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 soine 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 de in and new ~neasures and new men; The world advances, and in time outgrows The laws that in our fathers' day were best; And, doubtless, after us, sonic purer scheme Will be shaped out by wiser men than we, Made wiser by the steady growth of truth. We cannot bring Utopia by force; 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 wbo will; And blessed are the horny hands of toil! The busy world shoves angrily aside The man wbo stands with arms akimbo set, Until occasion tells him what to do; And he who waits to have his task marked out

Page  169 A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 169 Shall die and leave his errand unThlfilled. 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 isthin us of tbe throne, And roll their white surf higher every day. One age moves onward, and tbe next builds up Cities and gorgeous palaces, where stood The rude log huts of those wbo tamed the wild, Rearing from out the forests they had felled The goodly framework of a fairer state; The builder's trowel and the settler's axe Are seldom wielded by the selfsame band; Ours is the harder task, yet not the less Shall we receive the blessing for our toil From the choice spirits of the aftertiine. My soul is not a palace of the past, Where outworn creeds, like Rome's gray senate quake, Hearing afar the Vandal's trumpet hoarse, That shakes old systems wfth a thunder-fit. The time is ripe, and rotten-ripe, for change; Then let it come: I have no dread of what Is called for by the instinct of mankind; Nor think I that God's world will fall apart, Because we tear a parchment more or less. Truth is eternal, but her efiluence, With endless change is fitted to the hour; 11cr mirror is turned forward to reflect The promise of the future, not the past. He who would win the name of truly great Must understand his own age and the next, And make the present ready to fulfil Its prophecy, and with the future merge Gently and peacefully, as wave with wave. The future works out great men's destinies; The present is enough for common souls, Who, never looking forward, are indeed Mere clay, wherein the footprints of their age Are petrified forever: better those Who lead the blind old giant by the hand From out the pathless desert where he gropes, And set him onward in his dark some way. I do not fear to follow out the truth,

Page  170 170 LOWELL'S POEllIS. 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 115 call tyrants, tj~~'a~~ts, and maintain, That only freedom comes by grace of God, And all that comes not by his grace must fall For men ill 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 ill awe of. I, perchance, Am one raised lip by the Almighty arm 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 fore-consciousness of their high doom, As men are known to shiver at the heart, When the cold sbadow of some coining ill Creeps slowly o'er their spirits unawares. Hath Good less power of prophecy than Ill? How else could men whom God hath called to sway Earth's rudder, and to steer the bark of Truth, Beating against the tempest tow'rd her port, Bear all the mean and buzzing grievances, The petty martyrdoins, wherewith Sin strives To weary out the tethered hope of Faith, The sneers, the unrecognizin g 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 see in farther off? My God! when I read o'er the bitter lives Of men whose eager hearts were quite too great To beat beneath the cranfl~ed 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, -

Page  171 A ~LAXCE BEHiX]) lylE CUP~ TA IX. 171 ~Yhen I see this, s~ite of my faith in God, I marvel bow their hearts bear ui~ so long; Nor could they, but for this same ~rophecy, This inward feeling of the glorions cud. ~eem me not fond; but in my warmer youth, ~re u~y heart's bloom was soiled a~id brushed away, I had great 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 tlie flutterings Of those strong wings ~d~ereou the soul shall soar In aftertinie to win a starry throne; ]Ynd so I cherish them, for U~ey were lots, ~Vhicli I, a boy, east in the helm of Fate. Now will I draw then~, since a n~un's right hand, A right band guided by an earnest soul, ~Vith a true instinct, takes the golden prize From out a thousa~id blanks. ~Yhat 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 sh~ to flee!" So they two turned together; one to die, Fighting for freedom cii the bloody field; The other, far more happy, to become A nanie earth wears forever next her heart; One of the few that have a right to rank With the true ~Iakers: for his spirit wrought Order liom Chaos; proved that right divine Dwelt only in the excellence of truth; And far wlihin old Darkness' hostile lines Advanced and pliched the shining tents of Light. Nor shall the grateful ~Iuse forget to tell, That - not the least among his in any claims To deathless honor - he was ~Ii~ro~'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. 1843.

Page  172 172 LOWELL'S POEMS. SONG. 0, MOONLIGHT deep and tender, A year and more agone, Your mist of golden splendor Round my betrothal shone! 0, elm-leaves dark and dewy, The very same ye seem, The low wind trembles through ye, Ye murmur in my dream! 0, river, dim with distance, Flow thus forever by: A part of my existence Within your heart doth lie! 0, stars, ye saw our meefing, Two beings and one soul, Two hearts so madly beating To mingle and be whole! 0, happy night, deliver 11cr kisses back to me Or keep them all, and give her A blissful dream of me! 1842. A CllIPPEWA LEGEND.* ~~P g~' KaL' X~~e~p e'~r~p ra'~e ~~ ~sd~y1us, Prom. Vinet. 197. THE old Chief, feeling now well~~igh his end, Called his two eldest children to his side, And gave them, in few words, bis parting charge: - son and daughter, me ye see no more; The happy h~inting-giounds await me, green With change of spring and sum~ner through the year: But, for rem em ~ranee, after I am gone, Be kind to little Sheemak for my sake: *For the leading incidents in this tale, I am indebted to the very valuable "Algic Researches" of Henry R. Schoolcraft, Esq.

Page  173 A CHIPPEW4 LE&END. 173 Weakling he is and young, and knows not yet To set the trap, or draw the seasoned bow; Therefore of both your loves he bath more need, And he, who needeth love, to love hath right; It is not like our furs and stores of corn, Whereto we claim sole title by onr toil, But the Great Spirit plants it in our hearts, And waters it, and gives it sun, to be The common stock and heritage 0~ all: Therefore be kind to Sheemab, that yourselves May not be left deserted in your need." Alone, beside a lake, their wigwam stood, Far from the other dwellings of their tribe; And, after many moons, the lonelii~ess Wearied the elder brother, and he said, "Why should I dwell here all alone, shut out From the free, natural joys that fit my age? Lo, I am tall and strong, well skilled to hunt, Patient of toil and hunger, and not yet Have seen the danger which I dared not look Full in the face; ~vhat hinders 110C to be A mighty Brave and Cbief among my kin?" So, taking up his arrows and his bow, As if to hunt, he journeyed swiftly on, Until he gained the wigwams of his tribe, Where, choosing out a bride, he soon forgot, In all the fret and bustle of new life, The little Sheemah and his father's charge. Now when the sister found her brother gone, And that, for many days, he came not back, She wept for Sheemah ~~ore than for herself; For Love bides longest in a woman's heart, And flutters in any times before be flies, And then doth perch so nearly, that a word May lure him back, as swift and glad as light; And Duty lingers even when Love is gone Oft looking out in hope of his return; And, after Duty hath been driven forth, Then Selfishness creeps iii the last of all, AVarming her lean hands at the lonely hearth, And crouching o'er the embers, to shut out

Page  174 174 LOWELL'~ POEM~. Whatever ~altry warmth a~d light are left, With avaricious greed, from all beside. So, for long months, the sister hunted wide, And cared for little Sheemak tenderly; But, daily more and more, the loucliness Grew wearisome, and to hersclf she sighed, " km I not fair? at least the glassy pool, That hath no cause to flatter, tells ine so; But, 0, how flat and meaningless the tale, Unless it tremble on a lover's tongue Beauty liath no true glass, except it be In the sweet privacy of loving eyes." Thus deen~ed she idly, and forgot tlie lore Which she had learned of nature and the woods, That beauty's chief rewar~t is to itself, And that tlie eyes of Love reflect alone Tile inward fairness, which is blurred and lost Unless kept clear and white by 1)uty's care. So she went forth and sought the haunts of iii cii, An ci, being wedded, in her household cares, Soon, like the elder brother, quite forgot The little Sheeniak and tier father's charge. But Sheemah, left alone within the lodge, Waited and waited, with a shriuking heart, Thinking each rustle was his sister's step, Till hope grew less and less, and then weiit out, And every sound was changed from hope to fear. Few sounds there were: - the dropping of a nut, The squirrel's chirrup, und tlie jay's harsh scream, Autuu~n's sad remnants of blithe Summer's cheer, Ileard at long intervals, seen~ed b~[t to niake The dreadful void of silence silenter. Soon what su~all store Jils sister left was gone, And, through the Autumn, he made shift to live On roots and berrics, gathered in n~iich fear Of wolves, whose ~()~ha5tly howl lie heard ofttimes, llollow and hun{;ry, at the dead of night. But Winter came at last, and, when the snow, Thickflicaped for gte aming 1 eagues o'er hill and plain, Spread its unbroken silence over all, Made bold by hunger, lie was fain to glean, (More sick at heart tliaii I~iitii, and all alone,)

Page  175 A CHIPPElVA LEUENJ). 175 After the harvest of the merciless wolf, ~rim Boaz, who, sharp-ribbed and gaunt, yet feared A thing more wild and starving than hii~self; Till, by degrees, the wolf and he grew friends, And shared together all the winter through. Late in the Spring, when all the ice was gone, The elder brother, fishing in the lake, Upon whose edge his father's wigw am stood, lleard a low moaning noise upon the shore: llalf like a ~hild it seemed, half like a wolf, And straightway there was something in his heart That said, "It is thy brother Sheemah's voice." So, paddling swiftly to the bank, he saw, Wfthin a little thicket close at hand, A child that seemed fast changing to a wolf, From the neck downward, gray with shaggy hair That still crept on and upward as he looked. The face was turned away, but well he knew That it was Sheemah's, even his brother's face. Then with his trembling hands he hid his eyes, And bowed his head, so that be might not see The first look of his brother's eyes, and cried, "0, Sheemah! 0, my brother, speak to me! Dost thou not know me, that I am thy brother? Come to me, little Sheemah, thou shalt dwell With me henceforth, and know 110 care or want!" Sheemah was silent for a space, as if were hard to summon up a human voice, And, when he spake, the sound was of a wolf's: "I know thee not, nor art thou what thou say'st; I have none other brethren than the wolves, And, till thy heart be changed from what it is, Thou art not worthy to be called their kin." Then groaned the other, with a choking tongue, Alas! my heart is changed right bitterly; `T is shrunk and parched within me even now!" And, looking upward fearfully, he saw -Only a wolf that shrank away and ran, Ugly and fierce, to hide among the woods.

Page  176 176 LOWELL'S POEMS STANZAS ON FREEDOM. MEN! whose boast it is that ye Come 0~ fathers brave and free, If there breathe 011 earth a slave, Are ye truly free and brave? If ye do not feel the chain, When it works a brother's pain, Are ye not base slaves indeed, Slaves unworthy to be freed? Women! who shall one day bear Sons to breathe New England air, If ye bear, without a blush, Deeds to make the roused blood rush Like red lava through your veins, For your sisters now in chains, - Answer! are ye fit to be Mothers of the brave and free? Is true Freedom but to break Fetters for our own dear sake, And, with leathern hearts, forget That we owe in unkind a debt? No! true freedom is to share All the chains o~r brothers wear, And, with heart and hand, to be Earnest to make others free! They are slaves who fear to speak For the fallen and the weak, They are slaves who will not choose Ilatred, scoffing, and abuse, Rather than in silence shrink From the tr~th they needs mu St think; They are slaves who dare not be In the right with two or fl~ree. COLUMBUS. THE cordage creaks and rattles in the wind, With freaks of sudden hush; the reeling sea Now thumps like solid rock beneath the stern,

Page  177 COLUAlBUS. 177 Now leaps with clumsy wrath, strikes short, and, falling CrumUed to whispery foam, slips nisiling down The broad backs of the waves, which jostle and crowd To fliug themselves upon that unknown shore, Their used familiar since the dawn of time, Whither this foredoomed life is guided on To sway on triumph's hushed, aspiring poise (-)nc glittering moment, then to break fulfilled. How lonely is the sea's perpetual swing, The melancholy wash of endless waves, The sigh of some grim monster undescried, Feartainted on the canvas of the dark, Shifting on his uneasy pillow of brine! Yet night brings more companions than the day To this drear waste new constellations bun~, And fairer stars, with whose calm height my soul Finds nearer sympathy than with my herd Cf earthen souls, whose vision's scanty ring AIakes me its prisoner to beat my wings Against the cold bars of their unbelief, Knowing in vain my own free heaven beyond. o God! this woAd, so crammed with eager life, That comes and goes and wanders back to silence Like the idle wind, which yet man's shaping mind Can make his drudge to swell the longing sails Cf highest endeavor, - this in ad, unthrift world, Which, every hour, throws life enough away To make her deserts kind and hospitable, Lets her great destinies be waved aside By smooth, lip-reverent, formal infidels Who weigh the God they not believe with gold, And find no spot in Judas, save that he, J)riving a duller bargain fl~an he ought, Saddled bis guild with too cheap precedent. C Faith! if thou art strong, thine opposite Is mighty also, and the dull fool's sneer Hath ofttimes shot chill palsy through the arm, Just lifted to achieve its crowning deed And made the firm-based heart, that wo'dd have quailed The rack or fagot, shudder like a leaf Wrinkled wifli frost, and loose upon its stem. The wicked and the weak, by some dark law,

Page  178 178 LOWELL'S POEMS. llave a strange power to shut and rivet down Their own horizon round us, to unwing Our heaven-aspiring visions, and to blur With surly clouds the Future's gleaming peaks, Far seen across the brine of thankless years. If the chosen soul could never be alone In deep iuid-silence, open-doored to God, No greatness ever had been dreamed or done; Among dull hearts a prophet never grew; The nurse of full-grown souls is solitude. The old world is effete; there man with man Jostles, and, in the brawl for means to live, Life is trod under-foot, - Life, the one block Of marble that`5 vouchsafed wherefrom to carve Our great thoughts, white and god4ike, to shine down The future, Life, the irredecinabie block, Which one o'er-hasty chisel-dint oft mars, Scanting our room to ciit the features out Of our full hope, so forcing us to crown With a mean head the perfect limbs, or leave The god's face glowing o'er a satyr's trunk, Failure's brief epitaph. Yes, Europe's world Reels on to judgment; there the common need, Losing God's sacred use, to be a bond `Twixt Me and Thee, sets each one scowlingly O'er his own selfish hoard at bay; no state, Knit strongly with eternal fibres up Of all men's separate and united weals, Self-poised and sole as stars, yet one as light. Holds up a shape of large Huin aiiity To which by natural instinct every man Pays loyalty exulting, by which all Mould their own lives, and feel their pulses filled With tlie red fiery blood of the general life, Making them mighty in peace, as now in war They are, even in the flush of victory, weak, Conquering that manhood which should them subdue. And what gift bring I to this untried world? Shall the same tragedy be played anew, And the same lurid curtaiii drop at last On one dread desolation, one fierce crash

Page  179 COLU)~BUS. 1~9 Of that recoil which on its makers God Lets Ignorance and Sin and Hunger make, Early or late? Or sball that commonwealth ~Vhose potent unity and concentric force Can draw these scattered joints and parts of men Into a whole ideal man once more, Whieb sucks not froiu its limbs the life away, But sends it flood-tide and creates itself Over again in every citizen, Be there built up? For me, I have no choice I might turn back to other destinies, For one sincere key opes all Fortune's doors; But whoso answers not God's earliest call, Forfeits or dulls that faculty supreme Of lying open to his genius Which makes the wise heart certain of its ends. Here am I; for what end God knows, not I; Westward still points the inexorable soul: Here am I, with no friend but the sad sea, The beating heart of this great enterprise, Which, without me, would stiffen in swift death; This bave I mused on, since mine eye could first Among the stars distinguish and with joy Rest on that God-fed Pharos of the north, On some blue promontory of heaven lighted That juts far out into the upper sea; To this one hope my heart bath clung for years, As would a foundling to the talisman Hung round his neck by bands he knew not whose. A poor, vile thing and dross to all beside, Yet he therein can feel a virtue left By the sad pressure of a mother's hand, And unto him it still is tremulous With palpitating haste and wet with tears, The key to him of hope and humanness, Tlte coarse shell of life's pearl, Expectancy. This hope bath been to me for love and fame, Hatb made me wholly lonely on the earth, Building me up as in a thick-ribbed tower, Wherewith enwalled my watching spirit burned, Conquering its little island from the Bark, Sole as a scholar's lamp, and heard iuen's steps,

Page  180 180 LOWELL'S POEAiS. In the far hurry of the outward world, Pass dimly forth and back, sounds heard ill dream As Ganymede by the eagle was snatched up From the gross sod to be Jove's cupbearer, So was I lifted by my great design: And who hath trod Olympus, liom his eye Fades not that broader outlook of the gods; His life's low valleys overbrow earth's clouds, And that Olympian spectre of the past Looms towering up in sovereign memory, Beckoning his so~il liom meaner heights of doom. Had bat the shadow of the Thunderer's bird, Flashing athwart my spirit, made of me A swift-betraying vision's Ganymede, Yet to have greatly dreamed precludes low ends Great days have ever such a morning-red, On such a base great futures are built up, And aspiration, though not put in act, Comes back to ask its plighted troth again, Still watches round its grave the unlaid ghost Of a dead virtue, and makes other hopes, Save that i~uplacable one, seem thin and bleak As shadows of bare trees upon the snow, Bound freezing there by the unpitying moon. While other youths perplexed their mandolins, Praying that Thetis would her fingers twine In the loose glories of her lover's hair, And wile another kiss to keep back day, I, stretched beneath the many-centuried shade Of some writhed oak, the woo&s Laoco6n, Did of my hope a dryad mistress make, Whom I would woo to meet me privily, Or underneath the stars, or when the moon Flecked all the forest floor with scattered pearls. O days whose memory tames to fawning down The surly fell of Ocean's bristled neck! I know not when this hope enthralled ine first, But from my boyhood up I loved to hear The tall-pine-forests of the Apennine Murmur their hoary legends of tlie sea, Which hearing, I in vision clear beheld;

Page  181 COLUMBUS. 181 The sudden dark of tropic night stint down O'er the huge whisper of great watery wastes, Tlie while a pair of herons trailingly Flapped inland, where soiue leagne-wide river burled Tlie yellow spoil of unconjectured realms Far through a gulf's green silence, never scarred By any but the Northwind's hurrying keels. And not the pines alone; all sights and sounds To lily world-seeking heart paid fealty, And catered for it as the Cretan bees Bronght honey to the baby Jupiter, ~Yho in his soft hand crushed a violet, God-like foremusing the rough thunder's gripe; Then did I entertain the poet's song, My great Idea's guest, ~nd, passing o'er That iron bridge the Tuscan built to hell, I heard Ulysses tell of mountaiii-chains ~Vhose adanianfine links, his manacles, The western main shook growling, and still gnawed. I brooded on the wise Athenian's tale Of happy Atlantis, and heard Bjo~rue's keel Crunch the gray pebbles of the Vinlaud shore: For I believed the poets; it is they ~Vho utter wisdom from the central deep, And,listening to the inner flow of tliings, Speak to the age out of eternity. Ah me! old hermits sought for solitude In caves and desert places of the earth, ~Vhere their own heart-beat was the only stir Of living thing that comforted the year; But the bald pillar-top of Simeon, In midnight's blankest waste, were populous, Matched wi4~ the isolation drear and deep Of hiiu who pines among the swarm of men, At once a new thought's king and prisoner, Feeling the truer life within his life, The fountain of l~is spirit's prophecy, Sinking away and wasting, drop by drop, In fl~e ungrateful sands of sceptic ears. lle in the palace-aisles of untrod woods I)oth walk a king; for him the pent-up cell ~Videns beyond the circles of the stars,

Page  182 182 LOIVELL'S POEMS. Aud all the sceptred spirits of the past Come thronging in to greet him as their peer; But in the market-place's glare and throng He sits apart, an exile, and his brow Aches with the mocking memory of its crown. But to the spirit select there is no choice; He cauuot say, This will I do, or that, For the cheap means putting Heaven's ends in pawn, And bartering his bleak rocks, the freehold stern Of destiny's first-born, for smoother fields That yield no crop of self-denying will; A band is stretched to him from out the dark, Which grasping without question, he is led Where there is work that he must do for God. The trial still is the strength's complement, And the uncertain, dizzy path that scales The sheer heights of supremest purposes Is steeper to the angel than the child. Chances have laws as fixed as planets have, And disappointment's dry and bitter root, Envy's harsh berries, and the choking pool Of the world's scorn, are the right mother-milk To the tough hearts that pioneer their kind, And break a pathway to those unknown realms That in the earth's broad shadow lie enthralled; Endurance is the crowning quality, And patience all the passion of great hearts; These are their stay, and when the leaden world Sets its hard face against their fateful thought, And brute strength, like a scornful conqueror, Clangs his huge mace down in the other scale, The inspired soul but flings his patience in, And slowly that outweighs the ponderous globe, - One faith against a whole earth's unbelief, One soul against the flesh of all mankind. Thus ever seems it when my soul can hear The voice that errs not; then my triumph gleams, O'er the blank ocean beckoning, and all night My heart flies onbeforemeasl sail; Far on I see my lifelong enterprise, Which rose like Ganges mid the freezing snows Of a world's sordidness, sweep broadening down,

Page  183 THE FIRE AT HAMBURq. 183 And, gathering to itself a thousand streams, Grow sacred ere it mingle with the sea; I see the ungated wall of chaos old, ~Vith blocks Cyclopean hewn of solid night, Fade like a wreath of nnreturning mist Before the irreversible feet of light; - And lo, with what clear omen in the east On day's gray threshold stands the eager dawn, Like young Leander rosy from the sea Glowing at Hero's lattice! One day more These muttering shoalbrains leave the helm to me. God, let me not in their dull ooze be stranded; Let not this one frail bark, to hollow which I have dug out the pith and sinewy heart Of my aspiring life's fair trunk, be so Cast up to warp and blacken in the sun, Just as the opposing wind`gins whistle off His cheek-swollen mates, and from the leaning mast Fortune's full sail strains forward! One poor day - Remember whose and not how short it is! It is God's day, it is Columbus's. A lavish day! One day, with life and heart, Is more than time enough to find a world. 1844. AN INCIDENT OF THE FIRE AT HAMBURG. TllE tower of old Saint Nicholas soared upward 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 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;

Page  184 184 LOWELL'S POEMS. And as from acorn springs the oak, so, fteely and alone, Sprang from his heart this hymn to God, sung in obedient stone. It seemed a wondrous freak of chance, so perfect, yet so rou~h A whini of Nature crystallized slowly in graiiite tough The thick spires yearned towards the sky in quaint, liarnionious lines, And in broad sunlight basked and slept, like a grove of blasted pines. Never did rock or streani or tree lay claini 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 onward 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 sucked, and paused, and burst again. From square to square with tiger leaps panted the lustful fire The air to leeWard shuddered with the gasps of its desire; And church and palace, which even now stood whelined bnt to the knee, Lift their black roofs like breakers lone aniid the whirl ing sea. Up in his tower old Hernian 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 oiice he did of old. But scarcely can he cross himself, or on his good saint call,

Page  185 THE SOWER. 185 Before the sacrilegious flood o'erleaped the churchyard wall; And, crc a 1)ater half was said, mid smoke and crackling glare, His island tower scarce juts its head above il~e wide despair. Upon the peril's desperate peak his heart stood up sub lime; 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 the pathway safe to shore; Our promised land stands full in sight; shout now as ne'er before!" And as the tower came crushing down, the bells, in clear accord, Pealed forth the grand old German hymn, - "All good souls, praise the Lord!" THE SOWER. I sAw a Sower walking slow Across the earth, from east to west; His hair was white as mountain snow, His head drooped forward on his breast. With shrivelled hands he flung his seed, Nor ever turned to look behind; Of sight or sound he took no heed; It seemed lie was both deaf and blind. His dim face showed no soul beneath, Yet in my heart I felt a stir, As if I looked upon the sheath That once had cl~sped Excalibur.

Page  186 186 LOJVELL'S POEMS. I heard, as still the seed he cast, How, crooning to himself, he sung, - "I sow again the holy Past, The happy days when I was young. "Then all was wheat without a tare, Then all was righteous, fair, and true; And I am he whose thoughtful care Shall plant the Old World in the New. "The fruitful germs I scatter free, With busy hand, while all men sleep; In Europe now, from sea to sea, The nations bless me as they reap." Then I looked back along his path, And heard the clash of steel on steel, Where man faced man, in deadly wrath, While clanged the tocsin's hurrying peal. The sky with burning towns flared red, Nearer the noise of fighting rolled, And brothers' blood, by brothers shed, Crept, curdling, over pavements cold. Then marked I how each germ of truth Which through the dotard's fingers ran Was mated with a dragon's tooth Whence there sprang up an armed man. I shouted, but he could not hear; Made signs, but these he could not see And still, without a doubt or fear, Broadcast he scattered anarchy. Long to my straining ears the blast Brought faintly back the words he sung: - "I sow again the holy Past, The happy days when I was young."

Page  187 HUNGER AND COLD. 187 HUNGER ANT) COLT). SISTERS two, all praise to you, With your faces pinched and blue; To the poor man you`ve been true From of old: You can speak the keenest word, You are sure of being heard, From the point you re never stirred, Hunger and Cold! Let sleek statesmen temporize; Palsied are their shifts and lies When they meet yo~r bloodshot eyes, Grim and bold; Policy you set at naught, In their traps you`11 not be caught, You`re too honest to be bought, Hunger and Cold! Bolt and bar the palace-door; While the inass of men are poor, Naked truth grows more and more Uncontrolled; You had never yet, I guess, Any praise for bashfulness, You can visit sans court-dress, Hunger and Cold! While the music fell and rose, And the dance reeled to its close, Where her round of costly woes Fashion strolled, I beheld with shuddering fear Wolves' eyes through the windows peer; Little dream they you are near, Hunger and Cold! When the toiler's heart you clutch, Conscience is not valued much, He reeks not a bloody smutch On his gold: Everything to you defers,

Page  188 188 LOWELL'S POEMS. You are potent reasoners, At your whisper Treason stirs, Hunger and Cold! Rude comparisons you draw, `Words refuse to sate your maw, Your gaunt limbs the cobweb law Cannot hold: You`re not clogged with foolish pride, But can seize a right denied; Somehow God is on your side, Hunger and Cold! You respect no hoary wrong More for having triumphed long; Its past victims, haggard throng, From the mould You unbury: swords and spears Weaker are than poor men's tears, Weaker than your silent years, Huiiger and Cold! Let them guard both hall and bower; Through the window you will glower, Patient till your reckoning hour Shall be tolled: Cheeks are pale, but hands are red, Guiltless blood may chance be shed, But ye must and will be fed, Hunger and Cold! God has plans man must not spoil, Some were made to starve and toil, Some to share the wine and oil, We are told: Devil's theories are these, Stifling hope and love and peace, Framed your hideous lusts to please, Hunger and Cold! Scatter ashes on thy head, Tears of burning sorrow shed, Lafth! and be by pity led To Love's fold;

Page  189 THE LANDLORD. 189 Ere they block the very door With lean corpses of the poor, And will hush for naught but gore, - Hunger and Cold! 1844. THE LANDLORD. WHAT boot your houses and your lands? In spite of close-drawn deed aud fence, Like water,`twixt your cheated hands, They slip into the graveyard's sands And mock your ownership's pretence. How shall you speak to urge your right, Choked with that soil for which you lust The bit of clay, for whose delight You grasp, is mortgaged, too; Death might Foreclose this very day in dust. Fence as you please, this plain poor man, Whose only fields are in his wit, Who shapes the world, as best he can, According to GoQs higher plan, Owns you and fences as is fit. Though yoars the rents, his incomes wax By right of eminent domain; From factory tall to woodman's axe, All things on earth must pay their tax, To feed his hungry heart and brain. He takes you from your easy-chair, And what he plans, that you must do. You sleep in down, eat dainty fare, - He mounts his crazy garret-stair And starves the landlord over you. Feeding the clods your idlesse drains, You make more green six feet of soil; His fruitful word, like suns and rains, Partakes the seasons' bounteous pains, And tQils to lighten human toil.

Page  190 190 LO WELL'S POEMS. Your lands, with force or cunning got, Shrink to the measure of the grave; But Death himself abridges not The tenures of almighty thought, The titles of the wise and brave. TO A PINE-TREE. FAR up on Katahdin thou towerest, Purple-blue with the distance and vast Like a cloud o'er the lowlands thou lowerest, That hangs poised on a lull in the blast, To its fall leaning awful. In the storm, like a prophet o'ermaddened, Thou singest and tossest thy branches; Thy heart with the terror is gladdened, Thou forebodest the dread avaiauches, When whole mountains swoop valeward, In the calm thou o'erstretchest the valleys With thine arms, as if blessings imploring, Like an old king led forth from his palace, When his people to battle are pouring From the city beneath hini. To the lumberer asleep`neath thy glooming Thou dost sing of wild billows in motion, Till he longs to be swung mid their booming In the tents of the Arabs of ocean, Whose finned isles are their cattle. For the gale snatches thee for his lyre, With mad hand crashing melody frantic, While he pours forth his mighty desire To leap down on the eager Atlantic, Whose arms stretch to his playmate. The wild storm makes his lair in thy branches, Preying thence on the continent under; Like a lion, crouched close oii his haunches, There awaiteth his leap the fierce thunder, Growling low with impatience.

Page  191 SI DESCENDERO IN IN FERN Wil, iDES. 191 Spite of winter, thou keep'st thy green glory, Lusty father 0~ Titans past nuinber! The snow-flakes alone make thee hoary, Nestling close to thy branches in slumber, And thee mantling wiil~ silence. Thou alone know'st the splendor of winter, ~Iid thy snow-silvered, hushed precipices, lleai'ing crags of green ice groan and splinter, And then plunge down the muffled abysses In the ~uiet of midnight. Thou alone know'st the glory of summer, Gazing down on thy broad seas of forest, On thy subjects that send a proud murmur Up to thee, to their sachein, who towerest From thy bleak throne to heaven. SI DESCENDERO IN INFERNUM, ADES. 0, wANDERING dim on the extremest edge Of God's bright providence, whose spirits sigh 1)rearily in you, like the winter sedge That shivers o'er the dead pool stiff and dry, A thin, sad voice, when the bold wh~d roars by From the clear North of Duty, - Still by cracked arch and broken shaft I trace That here was once a shrine and holy place Of the supernal Beauty, - A child's play-altar reared of stones and moss, NVith wilted flowers for offering laid across, Mute recognition of the all-ruling Grace. ilow far are ye from the innocent, from those NVhose hearts are as a little lane serene, SmoothA~eaped from wall to wall with nubroke snows, Or in the summer blithe with lamb-cropped green, Save the one track, where naught more rude is seen Than the plump wain at even Bringing home four months' sunshine bonnd in sheaves! - llow far are ye from th~se! yet who believes That ye can shut out heaven?

Page  192 192 LOWELL'S POEMS. Your souls partake its influence, not in vain Nor all unconscious, as that silent lane Its drift of noiseless apple-blooms receives. Looking within myself, I note how thin A plank of station, chance, or prosperous fate, Doth fence ine from the clutching waves of sin; - In my own heart I find the worst man's mate, And see not dimly the smooth4iinge'd gate That opes to those abysses Where ye grope darkly, - ye wlio never knew On your young hearts love's consecrating dew, Or felt a mother's kisses, Or home's restraining tendrils round you curled. Ah, side by side with heart's-ease in this world Tbe fatal night-shade grows and bitter rue! One band ye cannot break, - the force that clips And grasps your circles to the central light; Yours is the prodigal comet's long ellipse, Self-exiled to the farthest verge of night; ~ Yet strives with you no less that inward iiiigbt No sin hath e'er iinbrnted; The god in you the creed-dimmed eye eludes; The Law brooks not to have its solitudes By bigot feet polluted; - Yet they who watch your god-compelled return May see your happy perihelion burn Where the calm sun his unfledged planets broods. TO TllE PAST. WoNDPous and awful are thy silent halls, 0 kingdom of the past! There lie the bygone ages in their palls, ~uarded by shadows vast, - There all is hushed and breathless, Save when some image of old error falls Earth worshipped once as deathless. There sits drear Egypt, i;nid beleaguering sands, Half woman and half beast,

Page  193 TO THE PAST. 193 The burnt-out torch within her mouldering hands That once lit all the East; A dotard bleared and hoary, There Asser crouches o'er the blackened brands Of Asia's long-quenched glory. Still as a city buried`neath the sea, Thy courts and temples stand; Idle as forms on wind-waved tapestry Of saints and heroes grand, Thy phantasms grope and shiver, Or watch the loose shores crumbling silently Into Time's gnawing river. Titanic shapes with faces blank and dun, Of their old godhead lorn, Gaze on the enibers of the sn~ken sun, Which they misdeeni for morn; And yet the eternal sorrow In`their unmonarched eyes says day is done Wfthout the hope of inorrow. O realm of silence and of swart eclipse, The shapes that haunt thy gloom Make signs to us and move their withered lips Across the gnlf of doom; Yet all their sound and motion Bri~g no more freight to us than wrafths of ships On the mirage's ocean. And if sometimes a moaning wandereth From out thy desolate halls If some grim shadow of thy liviu'g death Across our sunshine falls And scares the world to error The eternal life sends forth melo'dious breath To chase the misty terror. Thy mighty clamors, wars, and world-noised deeds Are sile~t now in dust, Gone like a tremble of the huddling reeds Beneath soine sudden gust' Thy forms and creeds ha~e vanished, 0

Page  194 194 LOWELL'S POEMS. Tossed out to wither like uusightly weeds From the world's garden banished. Whatever of true life there was ill thee Leaps in our age's veins; Wield still thy bent and wrinkled empery, And shake thine idle chains; To thee thy dross is clinging, For us thy martyrs die, thy prophets see, Thy poets still are singing. Here, mid the bleak waves of our strife and care, Float the green Fortunate Isles, Where all thy hero-spirits dwell, and share Our martyrdoms and toils; The present moves attended With ail of brave and excellent and fair That made the old time splendid. 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 inore un~tinted blisses. O Land of Quiet! to thy shore the surf Of the perlitrbe'd 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'erwearied heart, II earing far off and dim the toiling mart, The h~~rrying feet, the curses without number,

Page  195 TO THE FUTURE. 195 And, circled with the glow Elysian, Of thine exulting vision, Out of its very cares woocs charms for peace and slumber. To thee the Earth lifts up her fettered hands And cries for vengeance; wlih a pitying smile Thou blessest her, and she forgets her bands, And her old woe-worn faee 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 Loom From out the trembling gloom Its silent-footed steeds toward his palace goading. What promises hast thou for Poets' eyes, Aweary of the turmoil and the wrong! To all their hopes what overjoyed replies! What undreamed ecstasies for blissful song! Thy happy plains no war4rump's brawling clangor Disturbs, and fools the poor to bate the poor; The humble glares not on the high with anger; Love leaves no grudge at less, no greed f6r more; In vain strives Self the god-like sense to smother; From the soul's deeps It throbs and leaps; The noble`neath foul rags beholds his long-lost brother. 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 wben 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 disenchanted. Thou bringest vengeance, but so loving-kindly ~he guilty thinks it pity; taught by thee,

Page  196 ~96 LOWELL'S POEMS. Fierce tyrants drop the scourges wherewith blindly Their own souls they were scarring; conquerors see ~Yith horror in their bands the accursed spear Tbat tore the meek One's side ou Calvary, And from their trophies shrink with ghastly fear; Tb on, too, art the Forgiver, The beauty of luau's soul to mau revealing; The arrows from thy quiver Pierce Error's guilty heart, but only pierce for healing. 0, whither, whither, glory-winged dreams, From out Life's sweat and turmoil wonld ye bear me? Shut, gates of Fancy, on your golden gleams, - This agony of hopeless contrast spare inc! Fade, cheating glow, and leave me to my night! lle is a coward, who would borrow A charm against the present sorrow From tlie vague Future's promise of delight: As life's alarums nearer roll, The ancestral buckler calls, Self-clanging from the walls In the high temple of the soul; ~Yhere are most sorrows, there the poet's sphere is, To feed the soul with patience, To heal its desolations ~Yfth words of unshorn truth, with love that never wearies. HEBE. I SAW the twinkle of white feet, I saw the flash of robes descending; Before her ran an influence fleet, That bowed my heart like barley bending. As, in bare fields, the searching bee~ Pilot to blooms beyond our finding, It led me on, by sweet degrees, Joy's simple honey-cells unbinding. Those Graces were that seemed grim Fates; ~Vith nearer love the sky leaned o'er me; Tbe long-sought Secret's golden gates On musical hinges swung before inc.

Page  197 TJIE SE;tRCH. 197 I saw the brimmed bowl ill her grasp Thrilling with godhood; like a lover I sprang the proffered life to clasp; - The beaker fell; the luck was over. The Earth has drunk the vintage up; What boots it patch the goblet's splinters? Can Sun~mer fill the icy cup, Whose treacherous crystal is bnt Winter's? o spendthrift, haste! await the Gods; Their nectar crowns the lips of Patience; Haste scatters on unthankful sods The in~mortal gift in vain libations. Coy Hebe flies from those that woo, And shuns the hands would seize upon her, Follow thy life, and she will sue To ponr for thee the cup of honor. THE SEARCH. I WENT to seek for Christ, And Nature seeined so fair That first the woods and fields my youth enticed, And I was sure to find him there: The temple I forsook, And to the solitude Allegiance paid; but winter came and shook The crown and pnrple from my wood; His snows, like desert sands, with scornful drift, Besieged the columned aisle and palace-gate; ~Iy Thebes, cut deep with many a solemn rift, But epitaphed her own sepulchred state: Then I reinembered whom I went to seek, And blessed blunt Winter for his counsel bleak. Back to the world I turned, For Christ, I said, is king; So the cramped alley and the hut I spurned, As far beneath his sojourning: ~Iid power and wealth I sought, But found no trace of him,

Page  198 198 LOWELL'S POEiiiS. And all the costly offerings I had brought NVith sudden rust and mould grew dim: I found his tomb, indeed, where, by their laws, All must on stated days themselves imprison, Mocking with bread a dead creed's grinning jaws, Witless how long the life had thence arisen; bue sacrifice to this they set apart, Prizing it more than Christ's own living heart. So from my feet the dust Of the proud World I shook; Then caine dear Love and shared with me his crust, And half my sorrow's burden took. After the World's soft bed, Its rich and dainty fare, Like down seemed Love's coarse pillow to my head, His cheap food seeiued as manna rare; Fresh-trodden prints. of bare and bleeding feet, Turned to the heedless city whence I came, Hard by I saw, and springs of worship sweet Gushed from my cleft heart smitten by the same; Love looked me in the face and spake no words, But straight I knew those footprints were the Lord's. I followed where they led And in a hovel rude, With naught to fence the weather from his head, The King I sought for meekly stood A naked, hungry child Clung round his gracious knee, And a poor hunted slave looked up and smile~ To bless the smile that set him free; New iniracles I saw his presence do, - No more I knew the hovel bare and poor, The gathered chips into a woodpile grew, The broken morsel swelled to goodly store; I knelt and wept: iny Christ no more I seek, His throne is with the outcast and the weak.

Page  199 THE PR~SENT CRISIS. 199 TRE PRESENT CRISIS. WHEN a deed is done for Freedom, through the broad earth's aching breast Runs a thrill of joy prophetic, trembling on from east to west, And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels the soul wiiliin him climb To the awful verge 0~ manhood, as the energy sublime Of a century bursts full-blossomed on the thorny stem of Time. Through the walls of hut and palace shoots the instan taneous throe, When the travail of the Ages wrings earth's systems to and fro; At the birth of each new Era, with a recognizing start, Nation wildly looks at nation, standing with mute lips apart, And glad Truth's yet mightier man-child leaps beneath the Future's heart. So the Evil's triumph sendeth, with a terror and a chill, Under continent to continent, the sense of co1uing ill, And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels his sympathies with God In hot tear-drops ebbing earthward, to be drunk up by the sod, Till a corpse crawls round unburied, delving in the nobler clod. For mankind are one in spirit, and an instinct bears along, Round the earth's electric circle, the swift flush of right or wrong; Whether conscious or unconscious, yet Rumanity's vast frame Through its ocean-sundered fibres feels the gush of joy or shame; In the gain or loss of one race all the rest have equal claim.

Page  200 200 LOWELL'S POEAiS. Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide, In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side; Some great cause, God's new Messiah, offering each the bloom or blight, Parts the goats upon the left hand, and the sheep upon the right, And the choiee goes by forever`twixt that darkness and that light. Hast thou chosen, 0 my people, on whose party thou shalt stand, Ere the Doom from its worn sandals shakes the dust against our land? Though the cause of Evil prosper, yet`t is Truth alone is strong, And, albeit she wander outcast now, I see around her tbrong Troops of beautiful, tall angels, to enshield her from all wrong. Backward look across the ages and the beacon~noments see, That, like peaks of some sunk continent, jut through Oblivion's sea Not an ear in court or market for the low foreboding cry Of those Crises, God's stern winnowers, from whose feet earth's chaff must fly; Never shows the choice momentous till the judgment hath passed by. Careless seems the great Avenger; history's pages but record One death-grapple in the darkness`twixt old systems and the ~Yord Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the throne, - Yet that scaffold sways the Future, and, behind the dim unkn own, Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above lris own.

Page  201 THE PRESENT CRISIS. 201 We see dimly in the Present what is small and what is great, Slow of faith, how weak an arm may turn the iron helm of fate, But the soul is still oracular; amid the market's din, List the ominous stern whisper from the I)elphic cave within, - "They enslave their children's children who make com promise with sin." Slavery, the earthborn Cyclops, fellest of the giant brood, Sons of brutish Force and Darkness, who have drenched the earth with blood, Famished in his self-made desert, blinded by our purer day, Gropes in yet unblasted regions for his miserable prey;Shall we guide his gory fingers where our helpless chil dren play? Then to side with Truth is noble when we share her wretched crust, Ere her cause bring fame and profit, and`t is prosperons to be just; Then it is the brave man cho~ses, while the coward stands aside, Doubting in his abject spirit, till his Lord is crucified, And the multitude make virtue of the faith they had denied. Count me o'er earth's chosen heroes, - they were souls that stood alone, While the men they agonized for hurled the contume lious stone, Stood serene, and down the future saw the golden beam incline To the side of perfect justice, mastered by their faith divine, By one man's plain truth to manhood and to God's supreme design. By the light of burning heretics Christ's bleeding feet I track,

Page  202 202 LOWELL'S POEJiS. Toiling up flew Calvai4es ever with the cross that turns not back, And these mounts of anguish number how each genera tion learned One new word of that grand Cre~o which in prophet hearts hath burned Since the first man stood God-conquered with his face to heaven upturned. For Humanity sweeps onward: where to-day the martyr stands, On the morrow crouches Judas with the silver in his hands; Far in front the cross stands ready and the crackling fagots burn, While the hooting mob of yesterday in silent awe return To glean up the scattered ashes into History's golden urn. `T is as easy to be heroes as to sit the idle slaves Of a legendary virtue carved upon our fathers' graves, Worshippers of light ancestral make the present light a crime; - Was the Mayflower launebed by cowards, steered by men behind their time? Turn those tracks toward Past or Future, that make Plymouth rock sublime? Tbey were men of present valor, stalwart old iconociasts, Unconvinced by axe or gibbet that all virtue was the Past's; But we make their truth our falsehood, thinking that hath made us free, Hoarding it in mouldy parchinents, while our tender spirits flee The rude grasp of that great Impulse which drove them across the sea. They have rights who dare maintain them; we are traitors to our sires, Smothering in their holy ashes Freedom's new-lit altar fires; Shall we make their creed our jailer? Shall we, in our haste to slay,

Page  203 AN INDiA N-S U]~iAiER REJ7ERIE. 203 From the tombs of the old prophets steal the funeral lamps away To light up the martyr-fagots round the prophets of to-day? New occasions teach new duties; Time makes ancient good uucouil~ They must upward still, and onward, who would keep abreast of Truth; Lo, before us gleam her camp-fires! we ourselves must Pilgrims be, Launch our Mayflower, and steer boldly through the desperate winter sea, Nor attempt the Future's portal with the Past's blood rusted key. Deceniber, 1845. AN INDIAN-SUMMER REVERIE. WllAT visionary tints the year puts on, N\Then falling leaves falter through motionless air Or numbly cling and shiver to be gone! llow shimmer the low fiats and pastures bare, As with her nectar llebe Autumn fills The bowl betmveen me and those distant hills, And smiles and shakes abroad her misty, tremulous hair! No more the landscape holds its wealth apart. Making me poorer in my poverty, But mingles with my senses and my heart; My own projected spirit seems to me In her own reverie the world to steep; `T is she that waves to sympathetic sleep, Moving, as she is moved, each field and hill, and tree. llow fuse and mix, with what unfelt degrees, Clasped by the faint horizon's languid arms, Each into each, the hazy distances! The softened season all the landscape charms; Those hills, my native village that embay, In waves of dreamier purple roll away, And floating in mirage seem all the glimmering farms.

Page  204 204 LOIVELL'S POEMS. Far distant sounds the hidden chickadee Close at my side; far distant sound the leaves; The fields seem fields of dream, where Memory Wanders like gleaning Ruth; and as the sheaves Of wheat and barley wavered in the eye Of Boaz as the maiden's glow went by, So tremble and seem remote all things the sense receives. The cock's shrill trump that tells of scattered corn, Passed breezily on by all his flapping mates, Faint and more faint, from barn to barn is borne, Southward, perhaps to far Magellan's Straits' Dimly I catch the throb of distant flails; Silently overhead the henhawk sails, With watchful, measuring eye, and for his quarry waits. The sobered robin, hunger-silent now, Seeks cedar-berries blue, his autumn cheer; The squirrel on the shingly shagbark's bough, Now saws, now lists with downward eye and ear, Then drops his nut, and, with a chipping bound, Whisks to his winding fastness underground; The clouds like swans drift down the streaming atmosphere. O'er yon bare knoll the pointed cedar shadows Drowse on the crisp, gray moss; the ploughman's call Creeps faint as smoke from black, fresh-furrowed meadows; The single crow a single caw lets fall; And all around me every bush and tree Says Autumn`5 here, and Winter soon will be N\Tho snows his soft, white sleep and silence over all. The birch, most shy and lady-like of trees, Her poverty, as best she may, retrieves, And hints at her foregone gentilities With some saved relics of her wealth of leaves; The swamp-oak, with his royal purple on, Glares red as blood across the sinking sun, As one who proudlier to a falling fortune cleaves. He looks a sachem, in red blanket wrapt, Who, mid some council of the sad-garbed whites,

Page  205 AN LYDIA N-S UMMEP~ REJ'~i?IE. 205 Erect and stern, in his own memories lapt, With distant eye broods over other sights, Sees the hushed wood the city's flai~e replace, The wounded turf heal o'er tile railway's trace, And roams the savage Past 0~ his undwindled rights. The red-oak, softer-grained, yields all for lost, And, with his erniupled foliage stiff and dry, After the first betrayal 0~ the frost, Rebuffs the kiss of the relenting sky; The chestnuts, lavish of their long-h id gold, To the faint Summer, beggared now and old, Pour back the sunshine hoard~ed`neath her favoring eye. The ash her purple drops forgivingly And sadly, breaking not the general hush; The maple-swamps glow like a sni~set sea, Each leaf a ripple with its separate flush; All round the wood's edge creeps the skirting blaze Of bushes low, as when, on cloudy days, Ere the rain falls, the cautious farmer burns his brush. O'er you low wall, which guards one unkempt zone, Where vines, and weeds, and scrub-oaks intertwine Safe from the plough, wbose rough, discordant stone Is massed to one soft gray by lichens fine, The tangled blackberry, crossed and recrossed, weaves A prickly network of eusanguined leaves; Hard by, with coral beads, the prim black-alders shine. Pillaring with flame this crumbling boundary, Whose loose blocks topple`neath the ploughboy's foot, Who, with each sense shut fast except the eye, Creeps close and scares the jay he hoped to shoot, Tlie woodbine ~ip the elm's straight stein aspires. Coiling it, harmless, with autumnal fires; In the ivy's paler blaze the martyr oak stands mute. Below, the Charles - a stripe of nether sky, Now hid by rounded apple-trees between, Whose gaps the misplaced sail sweeps bellying by, Now flickering golden through a woodland screen, Then spreading out at his next turn beyond,

Page  206 206 LOWELL'S POEMS. A silver circle like an inland pond - Slips seaward silently through marshes purple and gr~en. Dear marshes! vain to him the gift of sight Who cannot in their various incomes share, From every season drawn, of shade and light, Who sees in them but levels brown and bare; Each change of storm or sunshine scatters free On them its largesse of variety, For nature with cheap means still works her wonders rare. In Spring they lie one broad expanse of green, O'er which the light winds run with glimmering feet; llere, yellower stripes track out the creek unseen, Therc, darker growths o'er hidden ditches meet; And purpler stains show where the blossoms crowd, As if the silent shadow of a cloud llung there becalmed, with the next breath to fleet. All round, upon the river's slippery edge, Witching to deeper calm the drowsy tide, Whispers and leans the breezc-entangling sedge; Throngh emerald glooms the lingering waters slide, Or, sometimes wavering, th row back the sun, And the stiff banks in eddies melt and run Of dimpling light, and with the current seem to glide. In Summer`t is a blithesome sight to see, As, step by step, with measured swing, they pass, The wide-ranked mowers wading to the knee, Their sharp scythes panting through the thick-set grass; Then, stretched beneath a rick's shade in a ring, Their nooning take, while one begins to sing A stave that droops and dies`neath the close sky of brass. Meanwhile the devil-may-care, the bobolink, Remembering duty, in mid-quaver stops Just ere he sweeps o'er rapture's tremulous brink, And`twixt the winrows most demurely drops, A decorous bird of business, who provides For his brown mate and fledglings six besides, And looks from right to left, a farmer mid his crops.

Page  207 AX hVDTAX-SUMM~R RE JWPJL. 207 Another change subdues them in the Fall, But saddeus not; they still show merrier tints, Though sober russet seems to cover all; When the first sunshine through tbeir dew-drops glints, Look bow the yellow clearness, streamed across, Redeems with rarer hues the season's loss, As Dawn's feet there had touched and left their rosy prints. Or conic when sunset gives its freshened zest, Lean o'er the bridge and let the ruddy thrill, While the shorn sun swells down tbc hazy west, Glow opposite; - the marshes drink their fill Aud swoon with purple veins, then slowly fade Through pink to brown, as eastward moves the shade, Lengthening with stealthy creep, of Simond's darkening hill. Later, and yet crc Winter wholly sbuts, Ere through the first dry snow the runner grates, And the loath cart-wheel screams in slippery rut~, While firmer ice the eager boy awaits, Trying each buckle and strap beside the fire, And until bed-time plays with his desire, Twenty times putting on and off his new-bought skates; - Then, every morn, the river's banks shine bright With sinooth plate-armor, treacherous and frail, By the frost's clinking hammers forged at night, `Gainst which the lances of the sun prevail, Giving a pretty emblem of the day When guiltier arms in light shall melt away, And states shall move free-limbed, loosed from war's cramping mail. And now those waterfalls the ebbing river Twice every day creates on either side Tinkle, as through their fresh-sparred grots they shiver In grass-arched channels to the sun denied; Righ flaps in sparkling blue the far-heard crow, The silvered fiats gleam frostily below, Suddenly drops the gull and breaks tile glassy tide.

Page  208 208 LOIVELL'S POEMS. But, crowned in turn by vying seasons three, Their winter halo hath a fuller ring; This glory seems to rest immovably, - The others were too fleet and vanishing; When the hid tide is at its highest flow, O'er marsh and stream one breathless trance of snow With brooding fulness awes and hushes everything. The sunshine seems blown off by the bleak wind, As pale as formal candles lit by day; Gropes to the sea the river dumb and blind; The brown ricks, snow4hatched by the storm in play, Show pearly breakers combing o'er their lee, ~Vhite crests as of some just enchanted sea, Checked in their maddest leap and hanging poised mid way. But when the eastern blow, with rain aslant, From mid-sea's prairies green and rolling plains Drives in his wallowing herds of billows gaunt, And the roused Charles remembers in his veins Old Ocean's blood and snaps his gyves of frost, That tyrannous silence on the shores is tost In dreary wreck, and crmu~bling desolation reigns. Edgewise or flat, in Druiddike device, With leaden pools between or gullies bare, The blocks lie strewn, a bleak Stonehenge of ice; No life, no sound to break the grim despair, Save sullen piu'nge, as through the sedges stiff Down crackles riverward some thaw-sapped cliff, Or when the close-wedged fields of ice crunch here and there. But let me turn from fancy-pictured scenes To that whose pastoral calm before me lies: Here nothing harsh or rugged intervenes; The early evening with her misty dyes Smooths off the ravelled edges of the nigh, Relieves the distant with her cooler sky, And tones the landscape down, and soothes the wearied eyes.

Page  209 AN INDIA N-S UMMER REVERIE. 209 There gleams my native village, dear to me, Though higher change's waves each day are seen, Whelming fields famed in boyhood's history, Sanding with houses the diminished green; There, in red brick, which softeni~ig time defies, Stand square and stiff the Muses' factories; - llow with my life knit up is every well-known scene! Flow on, dear river! not alone you flow To outward sight, and through your marshes wind; Fed from the mystic springs of long-ago, Your twin flows silent through my world of mind: Grow dim, dear marshes, in the evening's gray! Before my inner sight ye stretch away, And will forever, though these fleshly eyes grow blind. Beyond that hillock's house~bespotted swell, Where Gothic chapels house the horse and chaise, Where quiet cits in Grecian temples dwell, Where Coptic tombs resound with prayer and praise, Where dust and mud the equal year divide, There gentle Allston lived, and wrought, and died, Transfiguring street and shop with his illumined gaze. VirgiUum vidi tant~tm, - I have seen But as a boy, who looks alike on all, That misty hair, tbat fine Undine-like mien, Tremulous as down to feeling's faintest call; - Ah, dear old homestead! count it to thy fame That thither many times the Painter came; - One elm yet bears his name, a feathery tree and tall. Swiftly the present fades in memory's glow, - Our only sure possession is the past; The village blacksmfth died a month ago, And dim to me the forge's roaring blast; Soon fire-new medi~vals we shall see Oust the black smithy from its chestnut tree, And that hewn down, perhaps, the beehive green and vast. llow many times, prouder than king on throne, Loosed from the village school-dame's A's and B's, Panting have I the creaky bellows blown,

Page  210 210 LOWELL'S POEMS. And watched the pent volcano's red increase, Then paused to see the ponderous sledge, brought down By that hard arm voluminous and brown, From the white iron swarm its golden vanishing bees. Dear native town! whose choking elms each year With eddying dust before their time turn gray, Pining for rain, - to me thy dust is dear; It glorifies the eve of summer day, And when the westering sun half-sunken burns, The mote-thick air to deepest orange turns, The westward horseman rides through clouds of gold away, So palpable, I've seen those unshorn few, The six old willows at the causey's end, (Stich trees Paul Potter never dreamed nor drew,) Through this dry mist their checkeriug shadows send, Striped, here and there, with many a long-drawn thread, Where streamed through leafy chinks the trembling red, Past which, in one bright trail, the hangbird's flashes blend. Yes, dearer far thy dust than all that e'er, Beneath the awarded crown of victory, Gilded the blown Olympic charioteer; Though lightly prized the ribboned parchments three, Yet coilegisse juvat, I am glad That here what colleging was mine I had, - It linked another tie, dear native town, with thee! Nearer art thou than simply native earth, My dust with thine concedes a deeper tie; A closer claim thy soil may well put forth, Something of kindred more than sympathy; For in thy bounds I reverently laid away That blinding anguish of forsaken clay, That title I seemed to have in earth and sea and sky, That portion of my life more choice to me (Though brief, yet in itself so round and whole) Than all the imperfect residue can be; -

Page  211 THE Gi?OWTH OF THE LEGEND. 211 The Artist saw his statue of the soul Was perfect so, with one regretful stroke, The earthen model into fragments broke, And without her the impoverished seasons roll. THE GROWTH OF THE LEGEND. A FRAGMENT. A LEGEND that grew in the forest's hush Slowly as tear-drops gather and gush, When a word some poet chanced to say Ages ago, in his careless way, Brings our youth back to us out of its shroud Clearly as under you thunder-cloud I see that white sea-gull. It grew and grew, From the pine-trees gathering a sombre hue, Till it seems a mere murmur out of the vast Norwegian forests of the past; And it ~rew itself like a true Northern pine, First a little slender line, Like a mermaid's green eyelash, and then anon A stem that a tower might rest upon, - Standing spear-straight in the waist-deep moss, Its bony roots clutching around and across, As if they would tear up earth's heart in their grasp Ere the storm should uproot them or make them unclasp; Its cloudy boughs singing, as suiteth the pine, To shrunk snow-bearded sea-kings old songs of the brine, Till they straightened and let their staves fall to the floor, Hearing waves moan again on the perilous shore Of Vinland, perhaps, while their prow groped its way `Twixt the frothy gnashed tusks of some ship-crunching bay. So, pine-like, the legend grew, strong-limbed and tall, As the Gipsy child grows that eats crusts in the hall; It sucked the whole strength of the earth and the sky, Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter, all brought it supply; `T was a natural growth, and stood fearlessly there, A true part of the landscape as sea, land, and air; For it grew in good times, crc the fashion it was

Page  212 212 LOWELL'S POEMS. To force up fl~ese wild births of the woods under glass, And so, if`t is told as it should be told, Though`t were snug under Venice's moonlight of gold, You would hear the old voice of its mother, the pine, Murmur sea-like and northern through every line, And the verses should hang, self-sustained and free, Round the vibrating stem of the melody, Like the lithe sun-steeped limbs of the parent tree. Yes, the pine is the mother of legends; what food For their grim roots is left when the thousand-yeared wood - The dim-aisled cathedral, whose tall arches spring Light, sinewy, graceful, firm-set as the wing From Michael's white shoulder - is hewn and defaced By iconoclast axes in desperate waste, And its wrecks seek the ocean it prophesied long, Cassaudra4ike, crooning its mystical song? Tben the legends go with them, - even yet on the sea A wild virtue is left in the touch of the tree, And the sailor's night-watches are thrilled to the core With the lineal offspring of Odin and Thor. Yes, wherever the pine-wood has never let in, Since the day of creation, the light and the din Of manifold life, but has safely conveyed From the midnight primeval its armful of shade, And has kept the weird Past with its sagas alive Mid the hum and the stir of To-day's busy hive, There the legend takes root in the age-gathered gloom, And its murmurous boughs for their tossing find room. ~YIiere Aroostook, far-heard, seems to sob as he goes Groping down to the sea`neath his mountainous snows; Where the lake's frore Sahara of never-tracked white, When the crack shoots across it, complains to the night With a long, lonely moan, that leagues northward is lost, As the ice shrinks away frotn the tread of the frost; Where the lumberers sit by the log-fires which throw Their own threatening shadows far round o'er the snow, When the wolf howls aloof, and the wavering glare Flashes out from the blackncss the eyes of the bear, Whc}i the wood's huge recesses, h alf4ighted, supply

Page  213 A CONTRAST. 213 A canvas where Fancy her mad brush may try, Blotting in giant Horrors that venture not down Through the right-angled sheets of the brisk, white washed town, But skulk in the depths of the measureless wood Mid the Dark's creeping whispers that curdle the blood, When the eye, glauced in dread o'er the shoulder, may dream, Ere it shrinks to the camp-fire's companioning gleam, That it saw the fierce ghost of the Red Man crouch back To the shroud of the tree-trunk's invincible black; - There the old shapes crowd thick round the pine-shadowed ca~np, Which shun the keen gleam of the scholarly lamp, And the seed of the legend finds true Norland ground, While the border-tale`5 told and the canteen flits round. A CONTRAST. TllY love thou sentest oft to me, And still as oft I thrust it back; Thy messengers I could not see In those who everything did lack, - The poor the outcast, and the black. Pride held his hand before mine eyes, The world with flattery stuffed mine ears; I looked to see a monarch's guise, Nor dreamed thy love would knock for years, Poor, naked, fettered, full of tears. Yet, when I sent my love to thee, Thou with a smile didst take it in, And entertain'dst it royally, Though grimed with earth, with hunger thin, And leprous with the taint of sin. Now every day thy love I meet, As o'er the earth it wanders wide, With weary step and bleeding feet, Still knocking at the heart of pride And offering grace, though still denied.

Page  214 214 LOWELL'S POEMS. EXTREME UNCTION. Go! leave me, PHest; my soul would be Alone with the consoler, Death; Far sadder eyes than thine will see This crumbling clay yield up its breath; These shrivelled hands have deeper stains Than holy oil can cleanse away, - Hands that have plucked the world's coarse gains As erst they plucked the flowers of May. Call, if thou caust, to these gray eyes Some faith from youth's traditions wrung; This fruitless husk which dustward dries Has been a heart once, has been young; On this bowed head the awful Past Once laid its consecrating hands; The Future in its purpose vast Paused, waiting my supreme commands. But look! whose shadows block the door? ~Vho are those two that stand aloof? See! on my hands this freshening gore Writes o'er again its crimson proof! My looked-for death-bed guests are met - There my dead Youth doth wring its hands, And there, with eyes that goad me yet, The ghost of my Ideal stands! God bends from out the deep and says, - "I gave thee the great gift of life; Wast thou not called in many ways? Are not my earth and heaven at strife? I gave thee of my seed to sow, Bringest thou me my hundred-fold?" Can I look up with face aglow, And answer, "Father, here is gold?" I have been innocent; God knows When first this wasted life began, Not grape with grape more kindly grows, Than I with every brother-man: Now here I gasp; what lose my kind, When this fast-ebbing breath shall part?

Page  215 EX Ti? EAlE UNCTION. 215 What bands 0~ love and service bind This being to the worl&s sad heart? Christ still was wandering o'er the earth, Without a place to lay his head; He found free welcome at my hearth, He shared my cup and broke my bread: Now, when I hear those steps s~blime, That bring the other world to this, My snake4urned nature, sunk in slime, Starts sideway with defiant hiss. Upon the hour when I was born, God said, "Another man shall be," And the great Maker did not scorn Out of himself to fashion me; He sunned me with his ripening looks, And lleaven's rich instincts in me grew, As effortless as woodland nooks Send violets up and paint them blue. Yes, I who now, with a~gry tears, Am exiled back to brutish clod, Have borne unquenched for fourscore years A spark of the eternal G9d; And to what end? How yield I back The trust for such high uses given? Heaven's light hath but revealed a track Whereby to crawl away from heaven. Men think it is an awful sight To see a soul just set adrift On that drear voyage from whose night The ominous shadows never lift; But`t is more awful to behold A helpless infant, newly born Whose little hands unconscious`hold The keys of darkness and of morn. Mine held them once; I flung away Those keys that might have open set The golden sluices of the day, But clutch the keys of darkness yet; -

Page  216 216 LOWELL'S POEAIS. I hear the reapers singing go Into God's harvest; I, that might With thein have chosen, here below Grope shuddering at the gates of night. O glorious Youth, that once wast mine! O high ideal! all ill vain Ye enter at this ruined shrine Whence worship ne'er shall rise again, The bat and owl inhabit here, The snake nests in the altar-stone, The sacred vessels moulder near, The image of the God is gone. THE OAK. WHAT gnarled stretch, what depth of shade, is his! There needs no crown to mark the forest's king; How in his leaves outshines full summer's bliss! Sun, storm, rain, dew, to him their tribute bring, Which he with such benignant royalty Accepts, as overpayeth what is lent; All natnre seems his vassal prond to be, And cunning only for his ornament. How towers he, too, amid the billowed snows, An unquelled exile froiu the summer's throue, Whose plain, nncinctured front more kingly shows, Now that the obscuring courtier leaves are flown. His boughs make music of the winter air, Jewelled with sleet, like some cathedral front Where clinging snow-flakes with quaint art repair The dints and furrows of time's envious brunt. How doth his patient strength the rude ~Iarch wind Persuade to seem glad breaths of summer breeze, And win fl~e soil il~at fain would be unkind, To swell his revenues with proud increase He is the gem; and all the landscape wide (So doil~ his grandeur isolate the sense) Sceins but the setting, worthless all beside, Au empty socket, were he fallen thence.

Page  217 AMBROSE. 217 So, ftom off converse with life's wintry gales, Si~ould man learn how to clasp with tougher roots The inspiring earth -how otherwise avails The leaf-creating sap that sunward shoots? So every year that falls with noiseless flake Should fill old scars upon the storinward side, And make hoar age revered for age's sake, Not for traditions of youth's leafy pride. So from the pinched soil of a churlish fate, True hearts compel the sap of sturdier growth, So between earth and heaven stand simply great, That these shall seem but their attendants both; For nature's forces with obedient zeal Wait on the rooted faith and oaken will; As quickly the pretender's cheat they feel, And turn mad Pucks to flout and moek him still. Lord! all thy works are lessons, - each contains Some emblem of man's all-containing soul; Shall he make ~ruitless all thy glorious pains, Delving within thy grace an eyeless mole? Make me the least of thy Dodoiia-grove, Cause me some message of thy truth to bring, Speak but a word through me, nor let thy love Among my boughs disdain to perch and sing. AMBROSE. N~v~n, surely, was holier man Than Ambrose, since the world began; With diet spare and raiment thin, He shielded himself from the father of sin; With bed of iron and scourgings oft, His heart to God's hand as wax made soft. Through earnest prayer and watchings long He sought to know`twixt right and wrong, Much wrestling with the blessed Word To make it yield the sense of the Lord, That he might build a storm-proof creed To fold the floek in at their need.

Page  218 218 LOWELL'S POBIlIS. At last lie builded a perfect faith, Fenced round about with The Lor~ thus saith; To himself he fitted the doorway's size, Meted the light to the need of his eyes, And knew, by a sure and inward sign, That the work of his fingers was divine. Then Ambrose said, "All those shall die The eternal death who believe not as I;" And some were boiled, some burned in fire, Some sawn in twain, that his heart's desire, For the good of men's souls, might be satisfied, By the drawing of all to the righteous side. One day, as Ambrose was seeking the truth In his lonely walk, he saw a youth Resting himself ill the shade of a tree; It had never been given him to see So shining a face, and the good man thought `T were pity he should not believe as he ought. So he set himself by the young man's side, And the state of his soul wfth questions tried; But the heart of the stranger was hardened indeed Nor received the stamp of the one true creed, And the spirit of Ambrose waxed sore to find Such face the porch of so narrow a mind. "As each beholds in cloud and fire The shape that answers his own desire, So each," said the youth, "in the Law shall find The figure and features of his mind; And to each in his mercy hath God allowed llis several pillar of fire and cloud." The sotil of Ambrose burned with zeal And holy wrath for the young man's weal: "Believest thou then, most wretched youth," Cried he," a dividual essence in Truth? I fear me thy heart is too cramped with sin To take the Lord in his glory in." Now there bubbled beside them where they stood, A fountain of waters sweet and good;

Page  219 ABOVE AXD BELOW. 219 The youth to the streamlet's brink drew near Saying, "Ambrose, thou maker 0~ creeds, look here!" Six vases 0~ crystal then he took, And set them along the edge 0~ the brook. "As into these vessels the water I pour, There shall one hold less, another more, And the water unchanged, in every case, Shall put on the figure 0~ the vase; 0 thou, who wouldst unity make through stri~e, Canst thou fit this sign to the Water 0~ Li~c?" When Ambrose looked up, he stood alone, The youth and the stream and the vases were gone; But he knew, by a sense 0~ humbled grace, lle had talked with an angel ~ace to ~ace, And ~elt his heart change inwardly, As he ~ell on his knees beneath the tree. ABOVE AND BELOW. I. O DWELLERS in the valley-land, Who in deep twilight grope and cower, Till the slow mountain's dial-hand Shortens to noon's triumphal hour, - While ye sit idle, do ye think The Lord's great work sits idle too? That light dare not o'erleap the brink 0~ morn, because`t is dark with you? Though yet your valleys skulk in night, In God's ripe fields the day is cried, And reapers with their sickles bright, Troop, singing, down the inom~tain side. Come up, and ~eel what health there is In the ~rank Dawn's delighted eyes, As, bending with a pitying kiss, The night-shed tears 0~ Earth she dries! The Lord wants reapers: 0, mount up, Be~ore night comes, and says,-" Too late!"

Page  220 220 LOWELL'S POEMS. Stay not for taking scrip or cup, The Master hui~gers while ye wait; `T is from these heights alone your eyes Tlie advancing spears of day can see, ~Vhich o'er the eastern hill-tops rise, To break your long captivity. II. Lone watcher on the mountain-height! It is right precious to behold The first long surf of cliinbing light Flood all the thirsty east with gold; But we, who ill the shadow sit, Know also when the day is nigh, Seeing thy shining forehead lit With his inspiring prophecy. Thou hast thine office; we have ours; God lacks not early service here, But what are thine eleventh hours He counts with us for morning cheer Our day, for Him, is long enough, Aud when he giveth work to do,. The bruised reed is amply tough To pierce the shield of error through. But not the less do thou aspire Light's earlier messages to preach; Keep back no syllable of fire, Plnnge deep the rowels of thy speech. Yet God deems not thine ae~ried sight More worthy than our twilight dim, For nieek Obedience, too, is Light, And following that is finding Him. THE CAPTIVE. IT was past the hour of trysting, But she lingered for hini still; Like a child, the eager streainlet Leaped and laughed adown the hill,

Page  221 TflE CAPTiVE. 221 llappy to be free at twilight From its toiling at the mill. Then the great moon on a sudden Ominous, and red as blood, Startling as a new creation, O'er the eastern hill4op stood, Casting deep and deeper shadows Through the mystery of the wood. Dread closed huge and vague about her, And her thoughts turned fearfully To her heart, if there some shelter From the silence there might be, Like bare cedars leaning inland From the blighting of tbe sea. Yet he came not, and the stillness Dampened round her like a tomb; She could feel cold eyes of spirits Looking on her through the gloom, She could hear the groping footsteps Of some blind, gigantic doom. Suddenly the silence wavered Like a light mist in the wind For a voice broke gently throug'h it, Felt like sunshine by the blind, And the dread, like mist in sunshine, Furled serenely from her mind. "Once my love, my love forever, - Flesh or spirit still the same; If I missed the hour of try sting, Do not think my faith to blame. I, alas, was made a captive, As from lloly Land I came. "On a green spot in the desert, Gleaming like an emerald star, Where a pal in-tree, in lone silence, Yearning for its mate afar, Droops above a silver runnel, Slender as a scimitar, -

Page  222 222 LOWELL'S POEMS. "There thou`it find the humble postern To the castle 0~ my foe; 1~ thy love burn clear and faithful, Strike the gateway, green and low, Ask to enter, and the warder Surely will not say thee no." Slept again the aspen silence, But her loneliness was o'er; Round her heart a motherly patience Wrapt its arms for evermore; From her soul ebbed back the sorrow, Leaving smooth the golden shore. Donned she now the pilgi4m scallop, Took the pilgrim staff in hand; Like a cloud-shade, flitting eastward, Wandered she o'er sea and 1 and And her footsteps in the desert Fell like cool rain on the sand. Soon, beneath the palm-tree's shadow, Knelt she at the postern low; And thereat she knocketh gently, Fearing much the warder's no; All her heart stood still and listened As the door swung backward slow. There she saw no surly warder With an eye like bolt and bar; Through her soul a sense of music Throbbed, - an d, like a guardian Lar, On the threshold stood an angel, Bright and silent as a star. Fairest seemed he of God's seraphs, And her spirit, lily-wise, Blossomed when he turned upon her The deep welcome of his eyes, -Sending upward to that sunlight All its dew for sacrifice. Then she heard a voice come onward Singing with a rapture new,

Page  223 THE BThCH-TRLE. 223 As Eve heard the songs in Eden, Dropping earthward with the dew; Well she knew the happy singer, Well the happy song she knew. Forward leaped she o'er the threshold, Eager as a glancing surf; Fell from her the spirit's langnor, Fell from her the body's scurf; - `Neath the palm next day some Arabs Found a corpse upon the turf. THE BIRCH-TREE. RIPPLING through thy branches goes the sunshine, Among thy leaves that palpitate forever; Ovid in thee a pining Nymph had prisoned, The soul once of sonie tremulous inland river, Quivering to tell her woe, but, ah! dumb, dumb forever! Wbile all the forest, witched with slumberous moonshine, Holds up its leaves in happy, happy silence, Waiting the dew, with breath and pulse suspended, - I hear afar thy whispering, gleamy islands, And track thee wakeful still amid the wide-hung silence. Upon the brink of some wood-nestled lakelet, Thy foliage, like the tresses of a Dry ad, Dripping about thy slim white stem, whose shadow Slopes quivering down the water's dusky quiet, Thou shrink'st as on her bath's edge would some startled Dryad. Thou art the go-between of rustic lovers; Thy whfte bark has their secrets in its keeping; Reuben writes here the happy name of ratience, And thy lithe boughs hang murmuring and weeping Above her, as she steals the mystery from thy keeping. Thou art to me like my beloved maiden, So ftankly coy, so full of trembly confidences; Thy shadow scarce seems shade, thy pattering leaflets

Page  224 224 LOWELL'S POEMS. Sprinkle their gathered sunshine o'er my senses, And Nature gives me all her summer confidences. Whether my heart with hope or sorrow tremble, Thou sympathizest still; wild and unquiet, I fling ine down; thy ripple, like a river Flows valleyward, where calmness is, an'd by it My heart is floated down into the land of quiet. AN INTERVIEW WITH MILES STANDISH. I sAr one evening in my room, In that sweet hour of twilight When blended thoughts, half light, half gloom, Throng through the spirit's skylight; The flames by fits curled round the bars, Or up the chimney crinkled, While embers dropped like falling stars, And in the ashes tinkled. I sat and mused; the fire burned low, And, o'er my senses stealing, Crept something of the ruddy glow That bloomed on wall and ceiling; My pictures (they are very few, The heads of ancient wise men) Smoothed down their knotted fronts, and grew As rosy as excisemen. My antique high-backed Spanish chair Felt thrills through wood and leather, That had been strangers since whilere, Mid Andalusian heather The oak that made its stnr'dy frame His happy arms stretched over The ox whose fortunate hide became The bottom's polished cover. It came out in that famous bark That brought our sires intrepid, Capacious as another ark For furniture decrepit; -

Page  225 AN INTER VIE Iv WITH MILES S7~ANMSH. 225 For, as that saved of bird and beast A pair for propagation, So has the seed of these increased And furnished half the nation. Kings sit, they say, in slippery seats; But those slant precipices Of ice the northern voyager meets Less slippery are than this is; To cling therein wou~d pass the wit Of royal man or woinan, And whatsoe'er can stay in it Is more or less than human. I offer to all bores this perch, Dear well-intentioned people With heads as void as week-day church, Tougnes longer than the steeple; To folks wfth missions, whose gaunt eyes See golden ages rising, - Salt of the earth! in what queer ~uys Thou'rt fond of crystallizing! My wonder, then, was not unmixed With merciful suggestion, When, as my roving eyes grew fixed Upon the chair in question, I saw its trembling arms enclose A figure grim and rusty, Whose doublet plain and plainer hose Were something worn and dusty. Now even such men as Nature forms Merely to fill the street with, Once turned to ghosts by hungry worms, Are serious things to meet with Your penitent spirits are no jokes, And, though I'm not averse to A quiet shade, even they are folks One cares not to speak first to. Who knows, thought I, but he has come, By Charon kindly ferried, To tell me of a mighty sum Behind my wainscot buried? Q

Page  226 22(3 LO WELL'S POEMS. There is a buccaneerish air About that garb outlandish Just then the ghost drew up his chair And said "My nanie is Standish. "I come from Plymouth, deadly bored Wfth toasts, and songs, and speeches, As long and flat as my old sword, As threadbare as my breeches: They understand us Pilgrims! they, Smooth men with rosy faces, Strength's knots and gnarls all pared away, And varnish in their places! "We had some toughness in our grain, The eye to rightly see us is Not just the one tbat lights the brain Of drawing-room Tyrt~uses: They talk about their Pilgrim blood, Their birthright high and holy! - A mountain-stream that ends in mud Methinks is melancholy. "He had stiff knees, the Puritan, That were not good at bending; The homespun dignity of man He thought was worth defending; He did not, with his pinchbeck ore, His country's shame forgotten, Gild Freedom's coffin o'er and o'er, When all within was rotten. "These loud ancestral boasts of yours, How can they else than vex iis? Where were your dinner orators When slavery grasped at Texas? Dumb on his knees was every one That now is bold as C~sar, - Mere pegs to hang an office on Such stalwart men as these are." "Good Sir," I said, "you seem much stirred The sacred compromises,` "Now God confound the dastard word! My gall thereat arises:

Page  227 AN JNTERVIEW WITH MILES STANDISH. 227 Northward it bath this sense alone, That you, your conscience blinding, Shall bow your fool's nose to th? stone, When slavery feels like grinding. "`T is sbame to see such painted sticks Tn Vane's and Winthrop's places, To see your spirit of Seventy-six Drag humbly in the traces, With slavery's lash upon her back, And herds of office-holders To ~hout applause, as, with a crack, It peels her patient shoulders. "We forefathers to such a rout! - No, by my faith in God's word!" Half rose the ghost, and half drew out The ghost of his old broadsword, Then thrust it slowly back again, And said, with reverent gesture, "No, Freedom, no! blood should not stain The hem of thy white vesture. "I feel the soul in me draw near The mount of prophesying; In this bleak wilderness I hear A John the Baptist crying; Far in the east I see upleap The streaks of first forewarning, And they who sowed the light shal] reap The golden sheaves of morning. "Child of our travail and our woe, Light in our day of sorrow, Through my rapt spirit I foreknow The glory of thy morrow; I hear great steps, that through the shade Draw nigher still and nigher, And voices call like that which bade The prophet come up higher." I looked, no form mine eyes could find, I heard the red cock crowing, And through my window-chinks the wind A dismal tune was blowing;

Page  228 228 LOWELL'S POEMS. Thought I, My neighbor Buckingliam Hath somewhat in him gritty, Some Pilgrim-stuff that hates all sham, And he will print my ditty. ON THE CAPTURE OF CERTAIN FUGITIVE SLAVES NEAR WASHINGTON. LOOK on who will in apathy, and stifle they who can, The sympathies, the hopes, the words, that make man truly man; Let those whose hearts are dungeoned up with interest or with ease Consent to hear with quiet pulse of loathsome deeds like these! I first drew ill New England's air, and from her hardy breast Sucked in the tyrant-hating milk that will not let me rest And if my words seem treason to the dullard and the tame, `T is but my Bay-State dialect, - our fathers spake the same! Shame on the costly mockery of piling stone on stone To those who won our liberty, the heroes dead and gone, While we look coldly on, and see law-shielded ruffians slay The men who fain would win their own, the heroes of to-day! Are we pledged to craven silence? 0 fling it to the wind, The parchment wall that bars us from the least of human kind, - -That makes us cringe and temporize, and dumbly stand - at rest, While Pity's burning flood of words is red-hot in the breast! Though we break our fathers' promise, we have nobler duties first;

Page  229 THE CAPTURE. 229 The traitor to liumanity is the traitor most accursed; Man is more than Constitutions; better rot beneath the sod, Than be true to Church and State while we are doubly falsetoGod! We owe allegiance to the State; but deeper, ftuer, more, To the sympathies that God hath set within our spirit's core; - Our country claims our fealty; we grant it so, but il~en Before Man made us citizens, great Nature made ~ 5 men. lie`5 true to God who`5 true to man; wherever wrong is done, To the humblest and the weakest,~neath the all-behold ing sun, That wrong is also done to us; and they are slaves mOSt base, Whose love of right is for themselves, and not for all their race. God works for all. Ye cannot hein the hope of being free With parallels of latitude, with mountain-range or sea. Put golden padlocks on Truth's lips, be callous as ye will, From soul to soul o'er all the world, leaps one electric thrill. Chain down your slaves with ignorance, ye cannot keep apart, With all your craft of tyranny, the human heart from heart: When first the Pilgrims landed on the Bay-State's iron shore, The word went forth that slavery should one day be no more. Out from the land of bondage`t is decreed our slaves shall go, And signs to us are offered, as erst to Pharaoh; If we are blind, their exodus, like Israel's of yore, Through a Red Sea is doomed to be, whose surges are of gore.

Page  230 230 LOWELL'S POEMS. `T is ours to save our brethren, with peace and love to win Theirdarkened hearts from error, ere they harden it to sin; 1~ut if before his duty man with listless spirit stands, Ere long the Great Avenger takes the work from out his hands. TO TllE 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, uphold, lligh-hearted buccaneers, o'erj oyed that they An Eldorado in the grass have found, Which not the rich earth's ample 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 Through the primeval hush of Indian seas, Nor wrinkled the lean~brow Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease; `T is the spHng's largess, which she scatters now To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand, Though most hearts never understand To take it at God's value, but pass by The offered wealth with mirewarded eye. Thon~art my tropics and mine Italy; To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime; The 4es thou givest me Are in the heart, and heed not space or time: Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee Feels a more summer-like warm ravishment In the white lily's breezy tent, llis fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first From the dark green thy yellow circles burst. Then think I of deep shadows on the grass, - Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze,

Page  231 THE qijOST-SEER. 231 Where, as fl~e breezes pass, The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways, - Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass, Or whften in the wind, - of waters blue That from the distance sparkle through Some woodland gap, - and 0~ a sky above, Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move. My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked wfth thee; The sight 0~ thee calls back the robin's song, Who, 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 could bring Fresh every day to my untainted ears, When birds and flowers and I were happy peers. How like a prodigal doth nature seem, ~Viien tbou, 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 conld 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. THE GHOST-SEER. YF who, passing graves by night, Glance not to the left or right, Lest a spirit should arise, Cold and white, to freeze yo~r eyes, Some weak phantom, which your doubt Shapes upon the dark without From the dark within, a guess - At the spirit's deathlessness, Which ye entertain with fear In your self-built dungeon here, Where ye sell your God-given lives Just for gold to buy you gyves, -

Page  232 232 LOWELL'S POEMS. Ye without a shudder meet In the city's noonday street, Spirits sadder and more dread Than from out the clay have fled, Buried, beyond hope of light, In the body's haunted night! See ye not that woman pale? There are bloodhounds on her trail! Bloodhounds two, all gaunt and lean,For the soul their scent is keen, - Want and Sin, and Sin is last, - They have followed far and fast, Want gave tongue, and, at her howl, Sin awakened with a growl. Ah, poor girl! she had a right To a blessing from the light, Title-deeds to sky and earth God gave to her at her birth, But, before they were enjoyed, Poverty had made them void, And had drunk the sunshine up From all natnre's ample cup, Leaving her a first-born's share In the dregs of darkness there. Often, on the sidewalk bleak, llungry, all a~one, and weak, She has seen, in night and storm, I~ooms o'erflow with firelight warm, Which, outside the window-glass, Doubled all the cold, alas! Till each ray that on her fell Stabbed her like an icicle, And she almost loved the wail Of the bloodhounds on her trail. Till the floor becomes her bier, She shall feel their pantings near, Close upon her very heels, Spite of all the din of wheels; Shivering on her pallet poor, -She shall hear them at the door Whine and scratch to be let in, Sister bloodhounds, Want and Sin!

Page  233 THE &HOST~SEER 233 Hark! that rustle of a dress, Stiff with lavish costliness! Here comes one whose cheek would flush But to have her garment brush `Gainst the girl whose fingers thin Wove the weary broidery in, Bending backward from her toil, Lest her tears the silk might soil, And, in midnight's chill and murk, Stitched her life into the work, Shaping from her bitter thought Heart's-ease and forget-me-not, Satirizing her despair With the emblems woven there. Little doth the wearer heed Of the heart-break in the brede; A hyena by her side Skulks, down-looking, - it is Pride. He digs for her in the earth, Where lie all her claims of birth, With his foul paws rooting o'er Some long-buried ancestor, Who, perhaps, a statue won By the ill deeds he had done, By the innocent blood he shed, By the desolation spread Over happy villages, Blotting out the smile of peace. There walks Judas, he who sold Yesterday his Lord for gold, Sold God's presence in his heart For a proud step in the mart; He hath dealt in flesh and blood, At the hank his name is good, At the bank, and only there, `T is a marketable ware. In his eyes that stealthy gleam Was not learned of sky or stream, But it has the cold, hard glint Of new dollars from the mint. Open now your spirit's eyes, Look through that poor clay disguise

Page  234 234 LOWELL'S POEMS. Which has thickened, day by day, Till it keeps all light at bay, And his soul in pitchy gloom Gropes about its narrow tomb, From whose dank and slimy walls Drop by drop the horror falls. Look! a serpent lank and cold Hugs his spirit fold on fold; From his heart, all day and night, It doth suck God's blessed light. Drink it will, and drink it must, Till the cup holds naught but dust; All day long he hears it hiss, Writhing in its fiendish bliss; All night long he sees its eyes Flicker with foul ecstasies, As the spirit ebbs away Into the absorbing clay. Who is he that skulks, afraid Of the trust he has betrayed, Shuddering if perchance a gleam Of old nobleness should stream Through the pent, unwholesome room, Where his shrunk soul cowers in gloom, - Spirit sad beyond the rest By more instinct for the best? `T is a poet who was sent For a bad world's punishment, By compelling it to see Golden glimpses of To Be, By compelling it to hear Songs tbat proye the angels near; Who was sent to be the tongue Of the weak and spirit-wrung, Whence the fiery-winged Despair In men's shrinking eyes might flare. `T is our hope doth fashion us To base use or glorious: He who might have been a lark Of Truth's morning, from the dark Raining down melodious hope Of a freer, broader scope,

Page  235 ~ THE qHOsT-SEER. 235 Aspirations, prophecies, Of the spirit's ~nll sunrise, Chose to be a bird 0~ night, Which with eyes refusing light, Hooted from some hollow tree 0~ the woAd's idolatry. `T is his punishment to hear Flutterings 0~ pinions near, And his own vain wings to ~eel Drooping downward to his heel, All their grace and import lost, Burdening his weary ghost: Ever walking by his side He must see his angel guide, Who at intervals doth turn Looks on him so sadly stern, With such ever-new suiprise Of hushed anguish in her eyes, That it seems the light of day From aro~nd him shrinks away, Or drops blunted from the wall Built around him by his fall. Then the mountains, whose white peaks Catch the morning's earliest streaks, He must see, where prophets sit, Turning east their faces lit, Whence, with footsteps beautiful, To the earth, yet dim and dull, They the gladsome tidings bring, Of the sunlight's hastening: Never can those hills of bliss Be o'erclimbed by feet like his! But enough! 0, do not dare From the next the veil to tear, Woven of station, trade, or dress, More obscene than nakedness, Wherewith plansible culture drapes -Fallen Nature's myriad shapes! Let us rather love to mark How the unextinguished spark Will shine through the thin disguise Of our customs, pomps, and lies,

Page  236 236 LOWELL'S POEAIS. And, not seldom blown to flame, Vindicate its ancient claim. 1844. STUDIES FOR TWO llEADS. I. SOME sort of heart I know is hers, - I chanced to feel her pulse one night; A brain she has that never errs, And yet is never nobly right; Itdoes not leap to great results, Bnt in some corner out of sight, Suspects a spot of latent blight, And, o'er the impatient infinite, She bargains, haggles, and consnlts. 11cr eye, - it seems a chemic test And drops upon yon like an acid; Itbites you with unconscious zest, So clear and bright, so coldly placid; Itholds you quietly aloof, It holds, - and yet it does not win you; It merely puts you to the proof And sorts what qualities are in you; It smiles, but never brings you nearer, It lights, - her nature draws not nigh; `Tis but that yours is growing clearer To her assays;-yes, try and try, You`11 get no deeper than her eye. There, you are classified: she`5 gone Far, far away into herself' Each with its Latin label on, Your poor components, one by one, Are laid upon their proper shelf In her compact and ordered mind, And what of you is left behind Is no more to her than the wind; In that clear brain, which, day and night, No movement of the heart e'er jostles, 11cr friends are ranged on left and right, -

Page  237 STUDIES FOR TWO HEADS. 237 Here, silex, horublende, sienite; There, animal remains and fossils. And yet, 0 subtile analyst, That canst each property detect Of mood or grain, that caust untwist Each tangled skein of intellect, And with thy scalpel eyes lay bare Each mental nerve more fine than air, - O brain exact, that in thy scales Canst weigh the sun and never err, For once thy patient science fails, One problem still defies thy art; - T1&iou never canst compute for her The distance and diameter Of any simple human heart. II. HEAR him but speak, and you will feel The shadows of the Portico Over your tranquil spirit steal, To modulate all joy and woe To one subdued, subduing glow; Above our squabbling business-hours, Like Phidian Jove's, his beauty lowers, His nature satirizes ours; A form and front of Attic grace, He shames the higgli~g market-place, And dwarfs our more mechanic powers. What throbbing verse can fitly render That face, - so pure, so tre~bling4ender? Sensation glimmers through its rest, It speaks unmanacled by words, As full of motion as a nest That palpitates with unfledged birds `T is likest to Bethesda's stream, Forewarned through all its thrilling springs, - White with the angel's coining gleam, And rippled with his fanning wings. ilear him nufold his plots and,plans, And larger destinies seem man 5;

Page  238 238 LOWELL'S POEMS. You conjure froin his glowing face The omen of a fairer race; With one grand trope he boldly spans The gulf ~herein so many fall, `Twixt possible and actual; His first swift word, talaria-shod, Exuberant with conscious God, Out of the choir of planets blots The present earth with all its spots. Himself unshaken as the sky, His words, like whirlwinds, spin on high Systems and creeds pellmell together; `T is strange as to a deaf man's eye, While trees uprooted splinter by, The dumb turmoil of stormy weather; Less of iconoclast than shaper, His spirit, safe behind the reach Of the toruado of his speecb, Burns calmly as a glowworm's taper. So great in speech, but, ah! in act So overrun with vermin troubles, The coarse, sharp-cornered, ugly fact Of life collapses all his bubbles: Had he but lived in Plato's day, He might, unless my fancy errs, Have shared that golden voice's sway O'er barefooted philosophers. Our nipping climate hardly suits The ripening of ideal fruits: His theories vauquish us all summer, But winter makes hiin dumb and dumber To see him mid life's needful things Is something painfully bewildering; He seems an angel with clipt wings Tied to a mortal wife and children, And by a brother seraph taken In the act of eating eggs and bacon. Like a clear fountaiu, his desire Exults and leaps toward the light, In every drop it says "Aspire!" Striving for more ideal height;

Page  239 ON A PORTRAIT OF Th4N7~ i;Y UIOi'TO. 239 And as the fountain, falling thence, Crawls baffled through the common gatter So, from his speech's eminence, He' shrinks into the present tense, Unkinged by foolish bread and bufter. Yet smile not, woi4dling, for in deeds Not all of life that`5 brave and wise is; He strews an ampler futare's seeds, `T is your fault if no harvest rises; Smooth back the sneer; for is it naught That all he is and has is Beauty's? By soul the soul's gains must be wrought, The Actual claims our coarser thought, The Ideal hath its higher duties. ON A PORTRAIT OF DANTE BY GIOTTO. CAN this be thou who, lean and pale, With such immitigable eye Didst look upon those writhing souls in bale, And note each vengeance, and pass by Unmoved, save when thy heart by chance Cast backward one forbidden glance, And saw Francesca, with child's glee, Subdue and mount thy wildd~orse knee And with proud hands control its fiery prance? With half-drooped lids, and smooth, round brow, And eye remote, that inly sees Fair Beatrice's spirit wandering' now In some sea4ulled Hesperides, Thou movest through the jarring street, Secluded from the noise of feet By her gift-blossom in thy hand, Thy branch of palni from Holy Land; - No trace is hcre of ruin's fiery sleet. Yet there is something round thy lips That prophesics the con~ing doom, The soft, gray horald-shadow crc the eclipse Notches tho perfect disk with gloom;

Page  240 240 LOWELL'S POEAiS. A something that would banish thee, And thine untamed pursuer be, From men and their unworthy fates, Though Florence had not shut her gates, And grief had loosed her clutch and let thee free. Ah! he wbo follows fearlessly The beckonings of a poet-heart Shall wander, and witliout the world's decree, A banished man in field and mart; Harder than Florence' walls the bar Which with deaf sternness holds him far From hpme and frieiids, till death's release, And makes his only prayer for peace, Like thine, scarred veteran of a lifelong war! ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND'S CHILD. DEATll never caine so nigh to me before, Nor showed me his mild face: oft had I mused Of calm and peace and deep forgetfulness, Of folded hands, closed eye, and heart at rest, And slumber sound beneath a flowery turf, Of faults forgotten, and an inner place Kept sacred for 115 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 thitherwarQ but floats fro~u blooni to bloom, With earth's warm patch of sunshine well content. `T is 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,

Page  241 ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND'S CHILTh 241 One after other lift their frowning masks, And we behold the serapWs face beneath, All radiant with the glory and the calm Of having looked upon the front of God. With every anguish of our earthly part The spirit's sight grows clearer; this was meant When Jesus touched the blind man's lids with clay. Life is the jailer, Death the angel sent To draw the unwilling bolts and set us free. He flings not ope the ivory gate of Rest, - Only the fallen spirit knocks at that, But to benigner regions beckons us, To destinies 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 Whirs the ligbt humming-bird; the cricket chirps; The locust's shrill alaruin 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 round 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, 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, a~d gives no sign. `T is 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 TYndazzled on the kindness of God's face; Earth is too dark, and Heaven alone shines through. It is no little thing, when a fresh soul -And a fresh heart, with their unineasured scope For gooQ not gravitating earthward yet,

Page  242 242 LOWELL'S POEMS. But circling in diviner periods, Are sent into the world, no little thing, When this unbounded possibility Into the outer silence is withdrawn. Ah, ill this world, where every guiding thread Ends suddenly in the one sure centre, death, The visionary hand 0~ Might-have-been Alone can fill Desire's cup to the brim! llow changed, dear friend, are thy part and thy child's! lle bends above thy cradle now, or holds llis warning finger out to be thy guide; Thou art the nurseling now; he watches thee Slow learning, one by one, the secret things Which are to him used sights 0~ 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, O, if Death More near approaches meditates, and clasps Even now some dearer, more reluc~ant hand, God, strengthen thou my faith, that I may see That`t is thine angel, who, with loving haste, Unto the service of the inner shrine Doth waken thy beloved with a kiss! 1844. EURYDICE. ll~~v~~'s cup held down to me I drain, The sunshine mounts and spurs my brain; Bathing in grass, with thirsty eye I suck the last drop of the sky; With each hot sense I draw to the lees The q~iickeniug out-door influences,

Page  243 EURYDICE. 243 And empty to each radiant coiner A supernaculum of summer: Not, Bacehus, all thy grosser juice Could bring enchantment so profuse, Though for its press each grape-bunch had The white feet of an Oread. Through our coarse art gleam, now and then, The features of angelic men; `Neath the lewd Satyr's veiling paint Glows forth the Sibyl, Muse, or Saint; The dauber's botch no more obscures The mighty Master's portraitures. And who can say mvhat luckier beam The hidden glory shall redeem, For what chance clod the soul may wait To stumble on its nobler fate, Or why, to his unwarned abode, Still by surprises comes the God? Some moment, nailed on sorrow 5 cross, May mediate a whole youth's loss, Some windfall joy, we know not whence, Redeem a lifetime's rash expense, And, suddenly wise, the soul may mark, Stripped of their simulated dark, Mountaius of gold that pierce the sky, Girdling its valleyed poverty. I feel ye, childhood's hopes, return, Wfth olden heats my pulses burn, - Mine be the self-forgetting sweep, The torrent impulse swift and wild, Wherewith T aghkanic' 5 rockborn child Dares gloriously the dangerous leap, And, in his sky-descended mood, Transmutes each drop of sluggish blood, By touch of bravery's simple wand, -To amethyst and diamond, Proving himself no bastard slip, But the true granite-cradled one, Nursed with the rock's primeval drip, The cloud-embracing mountain's son!

Page  244 244 LOWELL'S POEMS. Prayer breathed ill vain! no wish's sway Rebuilds the vanished yesterday; For plated wares of Sheffield stamp We gave the old Aladdin's lamp; `T is we are changed; ah, whither went That undesigued abandonment, That wise, unquestioning content, Which could erect its microcosm Out of a weed's neglected blossom, Could call up Arthur and his peers By a low moss's clump of spears, Or, in its shingle triren~e launched, Where Charles in some green inlet branched, Could venture for the golden fleece And dragon-watched Hesperides, Or, from its ripple-shattered fate, Ulysses' chances recreate? When, heralding life's every phase, There glowed a goddess-veiling haze, A plenteous, forewarning grace, Like that more tender dawn that flies Before the full moon's ample rise? Methinks thy parting glory shines Through yonder grove of singing pines; At that elmwista's end I trace Dimly thy sad leave4aking face, Eurydice! Eurydice! The tremulous leaves repeat to me Eurydice! Eurydice! No gloomier Orcus swallows thee Than the unclouded sunset's glow; Thine is at least Elysian woe; Thou hast Good's natural decay, And fadest like a star away Into an atmosphere whose shine With fuller day o'ermasters thine, Entering defeat as`t were a shrine; For us, - we turn life's diary o'er To find but one word, - Nevermore. 1845.

Page  245 TRE CHANUELING. 245 SHE CAME AND WENT. As a twig treinbles, which a bird Lights on to sing, then leaves unbent, So is iny memory thrilled and stirred; - I only know she caine and went. As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven, The blue dome's measureless content, So my soul held tbat moment's heaven; - I only know she came and went. As, at one bound, our swift spring heaps The orchards full of bloom and scent, So clove her May my wintry sleeps; - I only know she came and went. An angel stood and met iny gaze, Through the low doorway of my tent; The tent is struck, the vision stays; - I only know she caine and went. 0, when the room grows slowly dim, And life's last oil is nearly spent, One gush of light these eyes will brim, Only to think she came and went. THE CHANGELING. I HAD a little daughter, And she was given to me To lead inc gently backward To the Heavenly Father's knee, That I, by the force of nature, Might in some dim wise divine The depth of his infinite patience To this wayward soul of mine. I know not how others saw her, But to me she was wholly fair, And the light of the heaven she came from Still lingered and gleamed in her hair;

Page  246 2~6 LOTVELL'S POEMS. For it was as wavy and golden, And as many changes took, As the shadows of sun-gilt ripples On the yelJow bed of a brook. To what can I liken her smiling Upon me, her kneeling lover, Row it leaped from her lips to her eyelids, And dimpled her wholly over, Till her outstretched hands smiled also, And I almost seeined to see The very heart of her mother Sending sun through her veins to me! She had been with us scarce a twelvemonth, And it hardly seemed a day, When a troop of wandering angels Stole my little daughter away; Or perhaps those heavenly Zingari But loosed the hampering strings, And when they had opened her cage-door My little bird used her wings. But they left in her stead a changeling, A little angel child, That seems like her bud in full blossom, And smiles as she never smiled: When I wake in the morning, I see it Where she always used to lie, And I feel as weak as a violet Alone`neath the awful sky. As weak, yet as trustful also; For the whole year long I see All the wonders of faithful Nature Still worked for the love of me; Winds wander, and dews drip earthward, Rain falls, suns rise and set, Earth whirls, and all but to prosper A poor little violet. This child is not mine as the first was, I cannot sing it to rest, I cannot lift it up fatherly And bliss it upon my breast

Page  247 THE PIONEER. 217 Yet it lies in my little one's cradle And sits in my little one's chair, And the light of the heaven she`5 gone to Transfigures its golden hair. TllE PIONEER. WHAT man would live coflined with brick and stone, Imprisoned from the influences of air, And cramped with selfish land~~arks everywhere, When all before him stretches, furrowless and lone, The unmapped prairie none can fence or own? What man would read and read the selfsame faces, And, like the marbles which the windmill grinds, Rub smodh forever with the same smooth minds, This year retracing last year's, every year's, dull traces, When there are woods and un-man-stifled places? What man o'er one old thought would pore and pore, Shut like a book between its covers thin For every fool to leave his dog's-ears in, When solitude is his, and God for evermore, Just for the opening of a paltry door? What man would watch life's oozy element Creep Letheward forever, when he might Down some great river drift beyond men's sight, To where the undethrone'd forest's royal tent Broods with its hush o'er half a continent? What man with men would pnsh and altercate, Piecing out crooked means for crooked ends, When he can have the skies and woods for friends, Snatch back the rndder of his undismantled fate, And in himself be ruler, church, and state? Cast leaves and feathers rot in last year's nest, The winged brood, flown thence, new dwellings plan; The serf of his own Past is not a man; To change and change is life, to move and never rest - Not what we are, but what we hope, is best.

Page  248 248 LO JVELL'S POEMS. The wild, free woods make no man halt or blind; Cities rob men of eyes and hands and feet, Patching one whole of many incomplete; The general preys upon the individual mind, And each alone is helpless as the wind. Each man is some man's servant; every soul Is by some other's presence quite discrowned; Each owes the next through all the imperfect round, Yet not with mutual help; each man is his own goal, And the whole earth must stop to pay his toll. Here, life the undiminished man demands; New faculties stretch out to meet new wants ~Vhat Nature asks, that Nature also grants Here man is lord, not drudge, of eyes and feet and hands, And to his life is knit with hourly bands. Come out, then, from the old thoughts and old ways, Before you harden to a crystal cold Which the new life can shatter, but not mould; Freedom for you still waits, still, looking backward, stays, But widens still the irretrievable space. LONGING. OF all the myriad moods of mind That through \he soul come thronging, Which one was e er so dear, so kind, So beautiful as Longing? The thing we long for, that we are For one transcendent momeut, Before the Present poor and bare Can make its sneering comment. Still, through our paltry stir and strife, Glows down the wished Ideal, And Longing moulds in clay what Life Carves in the marble Real; To let the new life in, we know, Desire inust ope the portal; Perhaps the longing to be so Helps make the soul immortal.

Page  249 ODE TO Fi~LANCE. 249 Longing is God's fresh heavenward will With our poor earthward striving; We quench it that we may be still Content with merely living; But, would we learn that l~eart's full scope Which we are hourly wronging, Our lives must climb from hope to hope And realize our longing. Ah! let us hope that to our praise Good God not only reckons The moments when we tread his ways, But when the spirit beckons, - That some slight good is also wrought Beyond self-satisfaction, When we are simply good in thought, Howe'er we fail in action. ODE TO FRANCE. FEBRUARY, 1848. I. As, flake by flake, the beetling avalanches Build up their imminent crags of noiseless snow, Till some chance thrill the loosened r~in launches And the blind havoc leaps unwarued below, So grew and gathered through the silent years The madness of a People, wrong l~y wrong. There seemed no strength in the dumb toiler's tears, No strength in suffering; - but the Past was strong: The brute despair of trampled centuries Leaped up with one hoarse yell and snapped its bands, Groped for its right with horny, callous hands, And stared around for God with bloodshot eyes. What wonder if those palms were all too hard For nice distinctions, - if that m~nad throng - They whose thick atmosphere no bard Had shivered with the lightning of his song, Brutes with the memories and desires of men, Whose chronicles were writ with iron pen, In the crooked shoulder and the forehead low -

Page  250 250 LOWELL'S POEMS. Set wrong to balance wrong, And physicked woe with woe? II. They did as they were taught; not fl~eirs the blame, If nien who scattered firebrands reaped the flame: They trampled Peace beneath their savage feet, And by her golden tresses drew Mercy along the pavement of the street. 0, Freedom! Freedom! is thy morning-dew So gory red? Alas, thy light had ne'er Shone in upon the chaos of their lair! They reared to thee such symbol as they knew, And worshipped it with flame and blood, A Vengeance, axe in hand, that stood Holding a tyrant's head up by the clotted hair. "I. What wrongs the Oppressor suffered, these we know; These have found piteous voice in song and prose; But for the Oppressed, their darkness and their woe, Their grinding centuries, - what Muse had those? Though hall and palace had nor eyes nor ears, Hardening a people's heart to senseless stone, Thou knowest them, 0 Earth, that drank their tears, 0 Heaven, that heard their inarticulate moan! They noted down their fetters, link by link; Coarse was the hand that scrawled, and red the ink; Rude was their score, as suits unlettered men, - Notched with a headman 5 axe upon a block: What marvel if, when came the avenging shock, was Ate, not Urania, held the pen? Iv. With eye averted and an anguished frown, Loathingly glides the Muse through scenes of strife, Where, like the heart of Vengeance up and down, Throbs in its framework the blood-muffled knife; Slow are the steps of Freedom, but her feet Turn never backward: hers no bloody glare; Her light is calm, and innocent, and sweet, And where it enters there is no despair:

Page  251 ODE TO FRANCE. 251 Not first on. palace and cathedral spire Quivers and gleams that unconsuming fire; While these stand black against her morning skies, The peasant sees it leap from peak to peak Along his hills; the craftsman's burning eyes Own with cool tears its influence mother-meek; It lights the poet's heart up like a star; - Ah! while the tyrant deemed it still afar, And twined with golden threads his futile snare, Thatswift, convicting glow all ro~nd him ran; was close beside him there, Sunrise whose Memnon is the soul of man. V. O Broker-King, is this thy wisdom's fruit? A dynasty plucked out as`t were a weed Grown rankly in a night, that leaves no seed! Could eighteen years strike down no deeper root? But now thy vulture eye was turned on Spain, - A shout from Paris, and thy crown falls off, Thy race has ceased to reign, And thou become a fugitive and scoff: Slippery the feet that mount by stairs of gold, And weakest of all fences one of steel; - Go and keep school again like him of old, The Syracusan tyrant; - thou mayst feel Royal amid a birch-swayed commonweal! vi. Not long can he be ruler who allows llis time to run before him; thou wast naught Soon as the strip of gold about thy brows Was no more emblem of the People's thought: Vain were thy bayonets against the foe Thou hadst to cope with; thou didst wage War not with Frenchmen merely; - no, Thy strife was with the Spirit of the Age, The invisible Spirit whose first breath divine Scattered thy frail endeavor, And, like poor last year's leaves, whirled thee and thine Into the Dark forever!

Page  252 252 LO WELL'S POEMS. yII. Is here no triumph? Nay, what though The yellow blood of Trade meanwhile should pour Along its arteries a shrunken flow, And the idle canvas droop around the shore? These do not make a state, Nor keep it great; I think God made The earth for man, not trade; And where each humblest human creature Can stand, no more suspicious or afraid, Erect and king]y in his right of nature, To heaven and earth knit with harmonious ties, - N\rhere I behold the exultation Of manhood glowing in those eyes That had been dark for ages, - Or only lit with bestial loves and rages - There I behold a Nation: The France which lies Between the Pyrenees and Rhine Is the least part of France; I see her rather in the soul whose shine Burns through the craftsman's grimy countenance, In the new energy divine Of Toil's enfranchised glance. yIII. And if it be a dream, - If the great Future be the little Past `Neath a new mask, which drops and shows at last The same weird, mocking face to balk and blast, - Yet, Muse, a gladder measure suits the theme, And the Tyrt~an harp Loves notes more resolute and sharp, Throbbing, as throbs the bosom hot and fast: Such visions are of morning, Theirs is no vague forewarning, -The dreams which nations dream come true, And shape the world anew; If this be a sleep, Make it long, make it deep, 0 Father, who sendest the harvests men reap!

Page  253 ODE TO PRANCE. 253 While Labor so sleepeth His sorrow is gone, No longer be weepeth, But smileth and steepeth His thoughts in tlie dawn; He heareth Hope yonder Rain, lark-like, her fancies, His dreaming hands wander Mid heart's-ease and pansies; "`T is a dream!`T is a vision!" Shrieks Mammon aghast; "The day's broad derision Wilt chase it at last; Ye are mad, ye have taken, A slumbering kraken For firm land 0~ the Past!" Ah! if he awaken, God shield 115 all then, 1~ this dream rudely shaken Shall cheat him again! Ix. Since first I heard our North wind blow, Since first I saw Atlantic throw On our fierce rocks his thnnderous snow, I loved thee, Freedom; as a boy Therattle 0~ thy shield at Marathon T)id with a Grecian joy Through all my pulses run; But I have learned to love thee now Without the helm upon thy gleaming brow, A maiden mild and undefiled Like her who bore the world's redeeming child; And surely never did thy altars glance With purer fires than now in France; While, in their bright white flashes, ~Vrong's shadow, backward cast, Waves cowering o'er the ashes - 0~ the dead, blaspheming Past, O'er the shapes of fallen giants, His own unburied brood, Whose dead hands clench defiance At the overpowering Good:

Page  254 254 LOWELL'S POEMS. And down the h%py future runs a flood Of prophesying light; It shows an Earth no longer stained with blood, Blossom and fruft where now we see the bud Of Brotherhood and Right. A PARABLE. SAID Christ our Lord, "I will go and see How the men, my brethren, believe in me." He passed not again through the gate of birth, But made himself known to the children of earth. Then said the chief priests, and rulers, and kings, "Behold, now, the Giver of all good things; Go to, let us welcome with pomp and state Him who alone is mighty and great." With carpets of gold the ground they spread Wherever the Son of Man should tread, And in palace~chambers lofty and rare They lodged him, and served him with kingly fare. Great organs surged through arches dim Their jnbilant floods in praise of him, And in church and palace, a~d judgment-hall, He saw his image high over all. But still, wherever his steps they led, The Lord in sorrow bent down his head, And from under the heavy foundation-stones, The son of Mary heard bitter groans. And in church and palace, and judgment-hall, He marked great fissures that rent the wall, And opened wider and yet more wide As the living foundation heaved and sighed. "Have ye founded your thrones and altars, then, On the bodies and sonls of living men? And think ye that bailding shall endure, Which shelters the noble and crushes the poor?

Page  255 ODE. 255 "With gates of silver and bars 0~ gold, Ye have fenced niy sheep from their Father's fold: I have heard the dropping of their tears In heaven, these eighteen hundred years." "0 Lord and Master, not ours the guilt, We build but as our fathers built; - Behold thine images, how they stand, Sovereign and sole, through all our land. "Our task is hard, - with sword and flame To hold thy earth forever the same, And with sharp crooks of steel to Still, as thou leftest them, thy sheep. Then Christ sought out an artisan, A low-browed, stunted, haggard man, And a motherless girl, whose fl~gers thin Pushed from her faintly want and sin. These set he in the midst of them, And as they drew back their garment-hem, For fear of defilement, "Lo, here," said he, "The images ye have made of me!" ODE WRITTEN FOR THE CELEBRATION OF THE INTRODUCTION OF THE cOCHITUATE WATER INTO THE CITY OF BOSTON. M~ name is Water: I have sped Through strange, dark ways, uutried before, By pure desire of friendship led, Cochituate's ambassador; lle sends four royal gifts by me: Long life, health, peace, and purity. I`in Ceres' cup~bearer; I pour, - For flowers and fruits and all their kin, 11cr crystal vintage, from of yore Stored in old Earth's selectest bin, Flora's Falernian ripe, since God The wine-press of the deluge trod.

Page  256 256 LOWELL'S POEMS. In that far isle whence, iron-willed, The New World's sires their bark unmoored, The fairies' acorn-cups I filled Upon the toadstool's silver board, And,`neath Herne's oak, for Shakspeare's sight, Strewed moss and grass with diamonds bright. No fairies in the Mayflower came, And, lightsome as I sparkle here, For Mother Bay-State, busy dame, I`ve toiled and drudged this many a year, Throbbed in her engines' iron veins, Twirled myriad spindles for her gains. I, too, can weave; the warp I set Through which the sun his shuttle throws, And, bright as Noah saw it, yet For you the arching rainbow glows, A sight in Paradise denied To unfallen Adam and his bride. When Winter held me in his grip, You seized and sent me o'er the wave, Ungrateful! in a prison-ship; But I forgive, not long a slave, For, soon as summer south-winds blew, Homeward I fled, disguised as dew. For countless services I`m fit, Of use, of pleasnre, and of gain, But lightly from all bonds I flit, Nor lose my mirth, nor feel a stain; From mill and wash-tub I escape, And take in heaven my proper shape. So, free myself, to-day, elate I come from far o'er hill and inead, And here, Cochituate's envoy, wait To be your blithesome Ganymede, -And brim your cups with nectar true That never will make slaves of you.

Page  257 LINES. 257 LINES SUGGESTED By THE GRAVES OF TWO ENGLISH SOLDIERS ON CONCORD BATTLE-GROUND. THE same good blood that now refills The dotard Orient's shrunken veins, Tbe sanie whose vigor westward thrills, Bursting Nevada's silver chains, Poured here upon the ApAl grass, Freckled with red the herbage new; On reeled the battle's trampling mass, Back to the ash the bluebird flew. Poured here in vain; - that sturdy blood Was meant to make the earth more green, But in a higber, gentler mood Than broke this April noon serene; Two graves are here; to mark the place, At head and foot, an unhewn stone, O'er which the herald lichens trace The blazon of Oblivion. These men were brave enough, and true To the hired soldier's bull-dog creed; What brought them here they never knew, They fought as suits the English breed; They came three thousand miles, and died, To keep the Past upon its throne; Unheard, beyond the ocean tide, Their English mother made her moan. The turf that covers them no thrill Sends up to fire the heart and brain; No stronger purpose nerves the will, No hope renews its youth again: From farm to farm the Concord glides, And trails my fancy with its flow; O'erhead the balanced henhawk slides, Twinned in the river's heaven below. But go, whose Bay-State bosom stirs, Proud of thy birth and neighbor's right, Where sleep the heroic villagers Borne red and stiff from Concord fight;

Page  258 258 LOWELL'S POEMS. Thought Reuben, snatching down his gun, Or Seth, as ebbed the life away, What earthquake rifts would shoot and run Woild-wide from that short April fray? What then? With heart and hand they wrought According to their village light; `T was for the Future that they fought, Their rustic faith in what was right. Upon earth's tragic stage they burst Unsummoned, in the humble sock; Theirs the fifth act; the curtain first Rose long ago 011 Charles's block. Their graves have voices; if they threw Dice charged with fates beyond their ken, Yet to their instincts they were true, And had the genius to be men. Fine privilege of Freedom's host, Of even foot-soldiers for the Right! - For centuries dead, ye are not lost, Your graves send courage forth, and might. TO WE, too, have autumns, when our leaves Drop loosely through the dampened air, When all our good seems bound in sheaves, And we stand reaped and bare. Our seasons have 110 fixed returns, Without our will they come and go; At noon our sudden summer burns, Ere sunset all is snow. But each day brings less summer cheer, Crimps more our ineffectual spring, And something earlier every year Our singing birds take wing. As less the olden glow abides, And less the chillier heart aspires, With drift-wood beached in past spring-tides We light our sullen fires.

Page  259 FREEDOilI. 259 By the pinched rushlight's starving beam We cower ~~d strain our Wasted sight, To stitch youth's shroud up, seam by seam, In the long arctic night. It was not so - we once were young - When Spring, to womanly Summer turning, Her dew-drops on each grass-blade strung, In the red sunrise burning. We,trusted then, aspired, believed That earth could be remade to-morrow; - Ah, why be ever undeceived? Why give up faith for sorrow? O thou, whose days are yet all spring, Faith, blighted once, is past retrieving; Experience is a dumb, dead thing; The victory`5 in believing. FREEDOM. ARE we, then, wholly fallen? Can it be That thou, North wind, that fiom thy mountains bringest Their spirit to our plains, and thou, blue sea, Who on our rocks thy wreaths of freedom flingest, As on an altar, - can it be tbat ye Rave wasted inspiration on dead ears, Dulled with the too familiar clank of chains? The people's heart is like a harp for years Hung where some petrifying torrent rains Its slow~ncrusfing spray: the stiffened chords Faint and more faint make answer to the tears That drip npon them: idle are all words Only a silver plectrum wakes the tone Deep buried`neath that ever-thickening stone. We are not free: Freedom doth not consist In musing with our faces toward the Past, While petty cares, and crawling interests, twist Their spider-threads about us, which at last

Page  260 2(30 LOWELL'S POEAIS. Grow strong as iron chains, to cramp and bind In formal narrowness heart, soul, and mind. Freedom is recreated year by year, In hearts wide open on the God ward side, In souls caim-cadenced as the whirling sphere, In minds that sway the future like a tide. No broadest creeds can hold her, and no codes; She chooses men for her august abodes, Building them fair and fronting to the dawn; Yet, when we seek her, we but find a few Light footprints, leading morn-ward through the dew; Before the day had risen, she was gone. And we must follow: swiftly runs she on, And, if our steps should slacken in despair, Half turns her face, half smiles through golden hair, Forever yielding, never wholly won: That is not love which pauses in the race Two close-linked names on fleeting sand to trace Freedom gained yesterday is no more ours; Men gather but dry seeds of last year's flowers: Still there`5 a charm ungranted, still a grace, Still rosy Hope, the free, the unattained, Makes us Possession's languid hand let fall; `T is but a fragment of ourselves is gained, - The Future brings us more, but never all. And, as the finder of some unknown realm, Mounting a summit whence he thinks to see On either side of him the imprisoning sea, Beholds, above the clouds that overwhelm The valley-laud, peak after snowy peak Stretch out of sight, each like a silver helm Beneath its plume of smoke, suHime and bleak, And what he thought an island finds to be A continent to him flrst oped, - so we Can from our height of Freedom look along A boundless future, ours if we be strong; Or if we shrink, better remount our ships And, fleeing God's express design, trace back The hero-freighted Mayflower's prophet-track To Europe, entering her blood-red eclipse.

Page  261 BIBLIOLA 1~i?ES. 261 BIBLIOLATRE S. Bowi~~ thyself in dust before a Book, And thinking the great God is thine alone, 0 rash iconoclast, thou wilt not brook What gods the heathen carves in wood a~d stone, As if the Shepherd who from outer cold Leads all his shivering lambs to one sure fold Were careful for the fashion of his crook. There is ~o broken reed so poor and base, No rush, the bending tilt of swamp-fly blue, But he thcrewith the ravening wolf can chase, And guide his flock to springs and pastures new; Through ways unlooked for, and through many lands, Far from the rich folds built with human hands, The gracious footprints of his love I trace. And what art thou, own brother of the clod, That from his hand the crook wouldst snatch away And shake instead thy dry and sapless rod, To scare the sheep out of the wholesome day? Yea, what art thou~ blind, unconverted Jew, That with thy idol-vohime's covers two Wouldst make a jail to coop the living God? Thou hear'st ~iot well the mountain organ4ones By prophet ears from ilor and Siuai caught, Thinking the cisterns of those Rebrew brains Drew dry the springs of the All-knower's thought, Nor shall thy lips be toucbed with living fire, Who blow'st old altar-coals with sole desire To weld anew the spirit's broken chains. God is not dumb, that he should speak no more; If thou hast wanderings in the wilderness And find'st not Sinai,`t is thy soul is poor; There towers the mountain of the Voice no less, Which whoso seeks shall find, but he who bends, Intent on manna still and mortal ends, Sees it not, neither hears its thundered lore. Slowly the Bible of the race is writ, And not on paper leaves nor leaves of stone;

Page  262 262 LOWELL'S POEMS. Each age, each kindred adds a verse to it, Texts of despair or hope, of joy or moan. While swings the sea, while mists the mountains shroud, While thunder's surges burst on cliffs of cloud, Still at the prophets' feet the nations sit. BEAYER BROOK. HUsHED with broad sunlight lies the hill, And, minuting the long day's loss, The cedar's shadow, slow and still, Creeps o'er its dial of gray moss. Warm noon brims full the valley's cup, The aspen's leaves are scarce astir, Only the little mill sends up Its busy, never-ceasing burr. Climbing the loose-piled wall that hems The road along the in ill-pond's brink, From`neath the arching barberry-stems, My footstep scares the shy chewink. Beneath a bony buttonwood The mill's red door lets forth the din; The whitened miller, dust4mbued, Flits past the square of dark within. No mountain torrent's strength is here; Sweet Beaver, child of forest still, Heaps its small pitcher to the ear, And gently waits the miller's will. Swift slips Undine along the race Unheard, and then, with flashing bound, Floods the dull wheel with light and grace, And, laughing, hunts the loath drudge round. The miller dreams not at what cost The quivering mill-stones hum and whirl, Nor how for every turn, are tost Armfuls of diamond and of pearl.

Page  263 A PPLEDORE. 263 But Summer cleared my bappier eyes With drops of some celestial juice, To see how Beauty underlies For evermore each form of Use. And more: inethought I saw that flood, Which now so dull and darkling steals, Thick, here and there, with human blood, To turn the world's laborious wheels. No more than doth the miller there, Shut in our several cells, do we Know with what waste of beauty rare Moves every day's machinery. Surely the wiser time shall come When this fine overplus of might, No longer sullen, slow, and dumb, Shall leap to music and to light. In that new childhood of the Earth Life of itself shall dance and play, Fresh blood in Time's shrunk veins make mirth, ~nd labor meet delight half-way. APPLEl) ORE. How looks Appledore in a storm? I have seen it when its crags seemed frantic, Butting against the inaddened Atlantic, When surge after surge would heap enorme, Cliffs of Emerald topped with ~now, 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, ~Vhile the sea drew its breath in hoarse and deep,

Page  264 264 LOWELL'S POEMS. And the next vast breaker cuided its edge, Gathering itself for a mighty leap. 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 together; 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 guJp the whole scene at 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 the ii the light-house 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 light-house top, With hands of wavering spray outspread, Groping after the little tower, That seems to 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,

Page  265 DARA. 265 That was not there a moment before, Suck rattling down between you and a heap Of toppling billow, wbose 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. 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. lle, 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 bands 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. 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.

Page  266 2(36 LOWELL'S POEMS. 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 whereso'er he went A cliest, beneath whose weight the camel bent, Went guarded, and no other eye had seen What was therein, save only Dara's own, Yet, when`t was opened, all his tent was known To glow and lighten with heapt jewels' sheen. The king set forth for Darn's province straight, Where, as was fit, outside his city's gate The viceroy met him with a stately train; And there, with archers circled, close at hand, A camel with the chest was seen to ~taud, The king grew red, for thus the guilt was plain. "Open me now," he cried, "you treasure-chest!" was done, and only a worn shepherd's vest Was found within; some blushed and hung the head, Not Darn; open as the sky's blue roof ile 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 conld 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 Darn still; That sceptre kept, I cannot lose my way!" - Strange dew in royal eyes grew round and bright And thrilled the trembling lids; before`t was night Two added provinces blest Darn's sway. -

Page  267 TO J. F. H. 267 TO J. F. H. NINE years have slipped like hour-glass sand From life's fast-emptying globe away, Since last, dear fi4end, 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-penn on 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 Toward far sky beaches still and sweet, Sunk wavering down the ocean-slope. Come back our ancient waWs 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, They beckon, not to be gainsaid, Where, round broad nieads 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 plmnps of orchard-trees aroW, Its snowy white-weed's 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.

Page  268 268 LOWELL'S POEMS. 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. MEMORIAL VERSES. KOSSUTH. A RACE of nobles may die out, A royal line may leave no heir; Wise Nature sets no guards about Her pewter plate and wooden ware. But they fail not, the kinglier breed, Who starry diadems attain; To dungeon, axe, and stake succeed Heirs of the old heroic strain. The zeal of Nature never cools, Nor is she thwarted of lier ends; When gapped and dulled her cheaper tools, Then she a saint and prophet spends. Land of the Magyars! though it be The tyrant may relink his chain, Already thine the victory, As the j nst Future measures gain.

Page  269 TO LAAIARTkVE. 269 Thou hast succeeded, tbou hast won The deathly travail's amplest worth; A nation's duty thou hast done, Giving a hero to our earth. And he, let come what will 0~ woe, Has saved the laud he strove to save; No Cossack hordes, no traitor's blow, Can ~uench the voice shall haunt his grave. "I Kossuth am: O Future, thou That clear'st tbe just and blott'st the vile, O'er this small dust in reverence bow, Remembering, what I was erewhile. "I was the chosen trump wherethrough Our God sent forth awakening breath; Came chains? Caine death? The strain He blew Sounds on, outliving chains and death." TO LAMARTINE. 1848. I DID not praise thee when the crowd, `Witched with the moment's inspiration, Vexed thy still ether with hosannas loud, And stamped their dusty adoration; I but looked upward with the rest And, when they shouted Greatest, w'hispered Best. They raised thee not, but rose to thee, Their fickle wreaths about thee flinging; So on some marble Phoebus the high sea Might leave his worthless sea-weed clinging, But pious hands, with reverent care, Make the pure limbs once more sublimely bare. Now thou`rt thy plain, grand self again, Thou art secure from panegyric, Thou who gav'st politics an epic strain, And actedst Freedom's noblest lyric: This side the Blessed Isles, no tree Grows green enough to make a wreath for thee.

Page  270 270 LOWELL'S POEMS. Nor can blame cling to thee; the snow From swinish foot-prints takes no staining, But, leaving the gross soils of earth below, Its spirit mounts, the skies regaining, And unresenting falls again, To beautify the world with dews and rain. The highest dnty to mere man vouchsafed Was laid on thee, - out of wild chaos, When the roused popular ocean foamed and chafed, And vulture War from his Imaus Snuffed blood, to summon homely Peace, And show that only order is release. To carve thy fullest thought, what though Time was not granted? Aye in history, Like that Dawn's face which baffled A~ngelo, Left shapeless, grander for its mystery, Thy great Design shall stand, and day Flood its blind front from Orients far away. Who says thy day is o'er? Control, My lie art, that bitter first emotion; While men shall reverence the steadfast soul, The heart in silent self-devotion Breaking, the mild, heroic mien, Thou`lt need no prop of marble, Lamartine. If France reject thee,`t is not thine, But her own, exile that she utters; Ideal France, the deathless, the divine, Will be where thy white pennon flutters, As once the nobler Athens went With Aristides into banishment. No fitting metewand hath To-day For measuring spirits of thy stature, - Only the Future can reach up to lay The laurel on that lofty nature, - -Bard, who with some diyiner art llas touched the bard's true lyre, a nation's heart. Swept by thy hand, the gladdened chords, Crashed now in discords fierce by others,

Page  271 TO JOHX U. Th4LP~REY~ 271 Gave forth one note beyond all skill of words, And chimed together, We are brothers. O poem unsurpassed! it ran All round the world, unlocking man to man. France is too poor to pay alone The service of that ample spirit; Paltry seem lowAictatorship and throne, If balanced with thy simple merft. They had to thee been rust and loss; Thy aiiu was higher, - thou hast climbed a Cross. TO JOllN G. PALFREY. THERE are who triumph in a losing cause, Who can put on defeat, as`t were a wreath Unwitbering in the adverse popular breath, Safe from the blasting demagogue's applause; `T is tbey who stand for Freedom and God's laws. And so stands Palfrey now, as Marvell stood, Loyal to Truth dethroned, nor could be wooed To trust the playful tiger's velvet paws: And if the second Charles brought in decay Of ancient virtue, if it well might wring Souls that had broadened`neath a nobler day, To see a losel, marketable king Fearfully watering with his realm's best blood Cromwell's quenched bolts, that erst had cracked and flanied, Scaring, through all their depths of courtier mud, Europe's crowned bloodsuckers, - how more ashamed Ought we to be, who see Corruption's flood Still rise o'er last year's mark, to nilne away Our brazen idols' feet of treacherous clay! O utter degradation! Freedom turned Slavery's vile bawd, to cozen and betray To the old lecher's clutd~ a maiden prey, Ifso a loathsome pander's fee be earned! And we are silent, - we who daily trcad

Page  272 272 LOWELL'S POEMS. A soil sublime, at least, with heroes' graves! - Beckon no more, shades of the noble dead! Be dumb, ye heaven-touched lips of winds and waves! Or hope to rouse some Coptic dullard, hid Ages ago, wrapt stiffly, fold on fold, ~Vith cerements close, to wither in the cold Forever hushed, and sunless pyramid! Beauty and Truth, and all that these contain, Drop not like ripened fruit about our feet; We climb to them through years of sweat and pain; Without long struggle, none did e'er attain The downward look from Quiet's blissful seat: Though present loss may be the hero's part, Yet none can rob him of the victor heart Whereby the broad-realmed future is subdued, And Wrong, which now insults from triumph's car, Sending her vulture hope to raven far, Is made unwilling tributary of Good. O Mother State, how quenched thy Sinai fires! Is there none left of thy staunch Mayflower breed? No spark among the ashes of thy sires, Of Virtue's altar-flame the kindling seed? Are these thy great men, these that cringe and creep, And writhe through slimy ways to place and power? - llow long, 0 Lord, before thy wrath shall reap Our frail-stemmed summer prosperings in their flower? O for one hour of that undaunted stock That went with Vane and Sydney to the block! O for a whiff of Naseby, that would sweep, ~Vith its stern Puritan besom, all this chaff From the Lord's threshing-floor! Yet more than half The victory is attained, when one or two, Through the fool's laughter and the traitor's scorn, Beside thy sepulchre can abide the morn, Crucified Truth, when thou shalt rise anew.

Page  273 TO W. L. GARRISON. 273 TO W. L. GARRISON. "Some time afterward, it was reported to me by the city officers that they had ferreted out the paper and its editor; that his office was an obscure hole, his only visible auxiliary a ne~ro boy, and his supporters a few very insignificant persons of all colors." - Lette~' qf II. q Otis. IN a small chamber, friendless and unseen, Toiled o'er his types one poor, unlearned young man; The place was dark, unfurnitured, and mean; - Yet there the freedom of a race began. Help came but slowly; surely no man yet Put lever to the heavy world with less: ~Vhat need of help? He knew how types were set, He had a dauntless spirit, and a press. Such earnest natures are the fiery pith, The compact nucleus round which systems grow! Mass after mass becomes inspired therewith, And whirls impregnate with the central glow O Truth! 0 Freedom! how are ye still born In the rude stable, in the manger nursed! ~Vhat huinble hands unbar those gates of morn Through which the splendors of the New Day burst! ~Vhat! shall one monk, scarce known beyond his cell, Front Rome's far-reaching bolts, and scorn her frown? Brave Luther answered Y~~ that thunder's swell Rocked Lurope, and discharined the triple crown. N\rhatever can be known of earth we know, Sneered Lurope's wise men, in their snail-shells curled; No! said one man in Genoa, and that No Out of the dark created this New World. Who is it will not dare himself to trust? Who is it hath not strength to stand alone? Who is it thwarts and bilks the inward MUST? He and his works, like sand, from earth are blown. T

Page  274 274 LOWELL'S POEMS. Men of a thousand shifts and wiles, look here! See one straightforward conscience put in pawn To win a world; see the obedient sphere By bravery's simple gravitation drawn! Shall we not heed the lesson taught of old, And by the Present's lips repeated still, In our own single manhood to be bold, Fortressed in conscience and impregnable will? We stride the river daily at its spring, Nor, in our childish thoughtlessness, foresee What myriad vassal streams shall tribute bring, How like an equal it shall greet the sea. O small beginnings, ye are great and strong, Based on a faithful heart and weariless brain! Ye build the future fair, ye conquer wrong, Ye earn the crown, and wear it not in vain. ON THE DEATH OF C. T. TORREY. WOE worth the hour when it is crime To plead the poor dumb bondman's cause, When all that makes the heart sublime, The glorious throbs that conquer time, Are traitors to our cruel laws He strove among God's suffering poor One gleam of brotherhood to send; The dungeon oped its hungry door To give the truth one martyr more, Then shut, and here behold the end! O Mother State! when this was done, No pitying throc thy bosom gave; Silent thou saw'st the death-shroud spun, -And now thou givest to thy son The stranger's charity - a grave. Must it be thus forever? No! The hand of God sows not in vain;

Page  275 ~LE(;y ON THE DEATH OF DR. CHANNING. 2~5 Long sleeps the darkling seed below, The seasons come, and change, and go, And all the fields are deep with grain. Although our brother lie asleep, Man's heart still struggles, still aspires; His grave shall quiver yet, while deep Through the brave Bay State's pulses leap Her ancient energies and fires. When hours like this the senses' gush Have stilled, and left the spirit room, It hears aniid the eternal hush The swooping pinion S' dreadful rush, That brings the vengeance and the doom; - Not man's brnte vengeance, such as rends What rivets man to man apart, - God doth not so bring round his ends, But waits the ripeiied time, and sends His mercy to the oppressor's heart. ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF DR. CHANNING. I DO not come to weep above thy pall, And mourn the dying-out 0~ noble powers; The poet's clearer eye should see, in all Earth's seeming woe, the seed of Heaven's flowers. Truth needs no champions: in the infinite deep Of everlasting Soul her strength abides, From Nature's heart her iuighty pulses leap, Through Nature 5 veins her strength, undying, tides. Peace is more strong than war, and gentleness, Where force were vain, makes conquest o'er the wave; And love lives on and hath a power to bless, When they who loved are hidden in the grave. The sculptured marNe brags of death-strewn fields, And Glory's epitaph is writ in blood; But Alexander now to Plato yields, Clarkson will stand where NVellington hatli stood.

Page  276 276 LOWELL'S POEMS. I watch the circle of the eternal years, And read forever in the storied page One lengthened roll of blood, and wrong, and tears, - One onward step of Truth from age to age. The poor are crushed; the tyrants link their chain; The poet sings through narrow dungeon-grates; Man's hope lies quenched; - and, lo! with steadfast gain Freedom doth forge her mail of adverse fates. Men slay the prophets; fagot, rack, and cross Make up the groaning record of the past; Bnt Evil's triumphs are her endless loss, And sovereign Beauty wins the soul at last. No power can die that ever wrought for Truth; Thereby a law of Nature it became, And lives unwithered in its sinewy youth, When he who called it forth is but a name. Therefore I cannot think thee wholly gone; The better part of thee is with us still; Thy soul its hampering clay aside hath thrown, And only freer wrestles with the ~l. Thou livest in the life of all good things; What words thou spak'st for Freedom shall not die; Thou sleepest not, for now thy Love hath wings To soar where hence thy Hope could hardly fly. And often, from that other world, on this Some gleams from great souls gone before may shine, To sbed on struggling hearts a clearer bliss, And clothe the Right with lustre more divine. Thou art not idle: in thy higher sphere Thy spirit bends itself to loving tasks, And strength, to perfect what it dreamed of here {[s all the crown and glory that it asks. For sure, in Heaven's wide chambers, there is room For love and pity, and for helpful deeds; Else were our summons thither but a doom To life more vain than this in clayey weeds.

Page  277 TO THE MEMORI or HOOD. 277 From off the starry mountain peak 0~ song, Thy spirit shows me, in the coining time, An earth unwithered by the foot 0~ wrong, A race revering its own soul sublime. ~Vhat wars, what martyrdoms, what crimes, may come, Thou knowest not, nor I; but God will lead The prodigal soul from want and sorrow home, And Eden ope her gates to Adam's seed. Farewell! good man, gbod angel now! this hand Soon, like thine own, shall lose its cunning, too; Soon shall this soul, like thine, bewildered stand, Then leap to thread the free, unfathomed blue: NVhen that day comes, O, may this hand grow cold, Busy, like thine, for Freedom and the Right; O, may this soul, like thine, be ever bold To face dark Slavery's encroaching blight! This laurel-leaf I cast upon thy bier; Let worthier hands than these thy wreath entwine; Upon thy hearse I shed no useless tear, - For us weep rather thou in calm divine. 1842. TO THE MEMORY OF HOOD. ANoTnER star`neath Time's horizon dropped, To gleam o'er unknown lands and seas; - Another heart that beat for freedom stopped, - What mournful words are these! O Love Divine, that claspest our tired earth, And lullest it upon thy heart, Thou knowest bow much a gentle soul is worth To teach men what thou art! His was a spirit that to all thy poor Was kind as slumber after pain: Why ope so soon thy heaven-deep Quiet's door And call him home again?

Page  278 278 LOWELL'S POEMS. Freedom needs all her poets: it is they Who give her aspirations wings, And to the wiser law of music sway Her wild imaginings. Yet thou hast called him, nor art thou unkind, 0 Love Divine, for`t is thy will That gracious natures leave their love behind To work for Freedom still. Let laurelled marbles weigh on other toinbs, Let anthems peal for other dead, Rnstling the bannered depth of minster-glooms With their exalting spread. His epitaph shall mock the short-lived stone, No lichen shall its lines efface, He needs these few and simple lines alone To mark his resting-place: - "Here lies a Poet. Stranger, if to thee His claim to memory be obscnre, If thou wouldst learn how truly great was he, Go, ask it of the poor." SONNETS. I. TO A. c. L. THROUGH suffering and sorrow thou hast passed To show us what a woman true may be: They have not taken sympathy from thee, Nor made thee any other than thou wast, Save as some tree, which, in a sudden blast, Sheddeth those blossoms, that are weakly grown, -Upon the air, but keepeth every one Whose strength gives warrant of good fruit at last: So thon hast shed some blooms 0~ gayety, But never one of steadfast cheerfulness Nor hath thy knowledge of adversity

Page  279 SONNETS. 279 Robbed thee of any faith in happiness, B~tt rather cleared thy inner eyes to see Row many simple ways there are to bless. 1840. II. What were I, Love, if I were stripped of thee, If thine eyes shut me out whereby I live, Thou, who unto my calmer soul dost give Knowledge, and Truth, and holy Mystery, Wherein Truth mainly lies for those who see Beyond the earthly and the fugitive, Who in the grandeur of the soul believe, And only in the Infinite are free ~ Without thee I were naked, bleak, and bare As you dead cedar on the sea-cliff's brow; And Nature's teachings, which conic to me now, Common and beautiful as light and air, Would be as fruitless as a stream which still Slips through the wheel of some old ruined mill. 1841. III. 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 constantly; That love for one, from which there doth not spring Wide love for all, it is but a worthless thing. Not in another woAd, as poets prate, lflwell we apart above the tide of things, ll~gh floating o'er earth's clouds on faery wings; But our pure love doth ever elevate Into a holy bond of brotherhood Allearthly things, making them pure and good. 1840. IV. "For this true nobleness I seek in vain, In woman and in man I find it not; I almost weary of my earthly lot,

Page  280 280 LOJVELL'S POE IllS. My life-springs are dried up with burning pain." Thou flnd'st it not? I pray thee look again, Look i~'~war~ through the depths of thine own soul. How is it with thee? Art thou sound and wl~ole? Doth narrow search show thee no earthly stain? BE NOBLE! and the nobleness that lies In other men, sleeping, but iiever dead, Will 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 ne~er more be sad and lone. 1840. y. TO THE SPIRIT OF KEATS. Great soul, thou sittest with me in my room, Uplifting mc with thy vast, quiet eyes, On whose full orbs, with kindly lustre, lies The twilight warmth of ruddy ember-gloom: Thy clear, strong tones will oft bring sudden bloom Of hope secure, to him who lonely cries, Wrestling with the young poet's agonies, Neglect and scorn, which seem a certain doom: Yes! the few words which, like great thunderdrops, Thy large heart down to earth shook doubtfully, Thrilled by the inward lightning of its might, Serene and pure, like gushing joy of light, Shall track the eternal chords of Destiny, After the moon-led pulse of ocean stops. 1841. VI. Great Truths are portions of the soul of man; Great souls are portions of Eternity; Each drop of blood that e'er through true heart ran With lofty message, ran for thee and me; For God's law, since the starry song began, -Hath been, and still for evermore must be, That every deed which shall outlast Time's span Must goad the soul to be erect and free; Slave is no word of deathless lineage sprung, - Too many noble souls have thought and died,

Page  281 SONNETS. 281 Too many mighty poets have lived and sung, And our good Saxon, from lips pnrifled ~Vith martyr-fire, throughout the world hath rung Too long to have God's holy cause denied. 1841. VII. I ask not for those thougbts, that sudden leap Froni being's sea, like the isle-seeming Kraken, ~Vith whose great rise tbe ocean all is shaken And a heart4remble quivers through the deep; Give me that growth which some perchance deem sleep, ~Vherewith the steadfast coral-stems uprise, ~Vhich, by the toil of gathering energies, Their upward way into clear sunshine keep, Uiitil, by Heaven's sweetest influences, Slowly and slowly spreads a speck of green Into a pleasant island in the seas, ~Vhere, mid tall palms, the cane-roofed home is seen, And wearied men shall sit at sunset's hour, Hearing the leaves and loving God's dear power. 1841. VIII. TO M. W. ON HER BIRTHDAY. ~Iaiden, when such a soul as thine is born, The morning stars their ancient music make, And, joyful, once again their song awake, Long silent now with melancholy scorn; And thou, not mindless of so blest a morn, By no least deed its harmony shalt break, But shalt to that high chime thy footsteps take, Through life's most darksome passes unforlorn; Therefore from thy pure faith thou shalt not fall, Therefore shalt thou be ever fair and free, And in thine e~ery motion musical As summer air, majestic as the sea, A mystery to.those who creep and crawl Through Time, and part it from Eternity. 1841.

Page  282 282 LOWELL'S POEMS. Ix. My Love, I have no fear that thou shouldst die; Albeit I ask 110 fairer life than this, Whose numbering-clock is still thy gentle kiss, While Time and Peace with hands enlocked fly, - Yet care I not where in Eternity We live and love, well knowing that there is No backward step for those who feel the bliss Of Faith as their most lofty yearnings high: Love hath so purified my being's core, Me seems I scarcely should be startled, even, To find, some morn, that thou hadst gone before; Since, with thy love, this knowledge too was give ii, Which each calm day doth strengthen more and ii0OP(. That they who love are but one step from Heave ii. 1841. x. I cannot think that thou shouldst pass away, Whose life to mine is an eternal law, A piece of nature that can have no flaw, A new and certain sunrise every day; But, if thou art to bo another ray About the Sun of Life, and art to live Free from all of thee that was fugitive, The debt of Love I will more fully pay, Not downcast with the thought of thee so high, But rather raised to be a nobler man, And more divine in i~y humanity, As knowing that the waiting eyes which scan My life are lighted by a purer being, And ask meek, calm-browed deeds, with it agreeing. - 1841. XI. There never yet was flower fair in vain, Let classic poets rhyme it as they will; Ihe seasons toil that it may blow again, And summer's heart doth feel its every ill; Nor is a true soul ever born for naught; Wherever any such hath lived and died, There hath been something for true fi~eedorn wrought,

Page  283 SONNTh'TS. 283 Some bulwark levelled on the evil side: Toil on, then, Greatness! thou art in the right, However narrow souls may call thee wrong; Be as thou wouldst be in thine own clear sight, And so thou wilt in all the world's ere long; For worldlings cannot, struggle as they may, From man's great soul one great thought hide away. 1841. XII. SUB PONDERE cREscIT. The hope of Truth grows stronger, day by day; I hear the soul of Man around me waking, Like a great sea, its frozen fetters breaking, And flinging up to heaven its sunlit spray, Tossing huge continents in scornful play, And crushing them, with din 0~ grinding thunder, That makes old emptinesses stare in wonder; The memory of a glory passed away Lingers in every heart, as, in the shell, Resounds the bygone freedom of the sea, And, every hour new signs of promise tell That the great soul shall once again be free, For high, and yet more higb, the murmurs swell Of inward strife for truth and liberty. 1841. XIII. Belove'd, in the noisy city here, The thought of thee can make all turmoil cease; Around my spirit, folds thy spirit clear Its still, soft arms, and circles it with peace; There is no room for any doubt or fear In souls so overfilled with love's increase, There is no memory of the bygone year But growth in heart's and spirit's perfect ease; How hath our love, half nebulous at first, Romided itself into a full-orbed sun How have our lives and wills (as haply erst They were, ere this forgetfulness begun,) Through all their earthly distantness outburst, And melted, like two rays of light, in one! 1842.

Page  284 284 LOWELL'S POEMS. xlv. ON READING WORDSWORTH' S SONNETS IN DEFENCE OF CAPITAL PUNISHMENT. As the broad ocean endlessly upheaveth, Wfth the niajestic beating of his heart, The mighty tides, whereof its rightful part Each sea-wide bay 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. 1842. xv. THE SAME CONTINUED. Once hardly in a cycle blossometh A flower4ike soul ripe with the seeds of song, A spirit fore-ordained to cope with wrong, Whose divine thoughts are natural as breath, Who the old Darkness thickly scattdrcth With starry words, that shoot prevailing light Into the deeps, and wither, with the blight Of serene Truth, fl~e coward hcart of Death: Woe, if such spirit thwart its errand high, 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 beating of the infinite Heart. xv'. THE SAME CONTINUED. The love of all things springs from love of one; Wider the soul's horizon hourly grows, And over it with fuller glory flows

Page  285 SONNETS. 285 The sky-like spirit of God; a hope begun In doubt and darkness`neath a fairer sun Cometh to fruitage, if it be 0~ Trnth; And to the law of meekness, faith, and ruth, By inward sympathy, shall all be won: This thou sbouldst 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`t is the saddest sight to see An old man faithless in Humanity. XVII. THE SAME CONTINUED. 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 cuniling barbarism: He, who has deepest searched the wide abysm Of that life-giving Soul which men call fate, Xnows that to put more faith in lies and hate Than truth and love is the true atheism: Upward the soul forever turns her eyes; The next hour always shames the hour before; One beauty, at its highest, prophesies That by whose side it shall seem mean and poor; No God-like thing knows aught of less and less, But widens to the boundless Perfectness. XVIII. THE SAME CONTINUED. Therefore think not the Past is wise alone, For Yesterday knows nothing of the Best, And thou shalt love it only as the nest \Vhence 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 fnll-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,

Page  286 28(3 LOWELL'S POEMS. And longings high, and gushings 0~ wide power, Yet never is or shall be fully blown Save in the foretbought 0~ the Eternal One. XIX. THE SAME CONCLUDED. Far`yond this narrow parapet 0~ Time, With eyes nplift, 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 Good lying hid, from all eternity, Within the teeming womb of sin and crime; His soul should not be cramped by any bar, His nobleness should be so God4ike 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. xx. TO M. 0. 5. Mary, since first I knew thee, to this hour, My love hath deepened, with my wiser sense Of what in Woinan is to reverence; Thy clear heart, fresh as e'er was forest-flower, Still opens more to me its beauteous dower; - But let praise hush, - Love asks no evidence To prove itself well-placed; we know not whence It gleans the straws that thatch its humble bower: We can but say we found it in the heart, Spring of all sweetest thoughts, arch foe of blame, Sower of flowers in the dusty in art, Pure vestal of the poet's holy flame, - This is enough, and we have done our part If we but keep it spotless as it came. 1842. XXI. Our love is not a fading, earthly flower: Its winged seed dropped down from Paradise,

Page  287 SONNET5~. 287 And, ~nursed by day and night, by sun and shower, Doth momently to fresher beauty rise: To us the leafless autumn is not bare, Nor winter's rattling boughs lack lusty green. Our summer hearts make suinmer's flilness, where No leaf, or bud, or blossom may be seen: For nature's life in love's deep life doth lie, Love, - whose forgetftilness is beauty's death, Whose mystic key these cells of Thou and I Into the infinite freedom openeth, And makes the body's dark and narrow grate The wide-flung leaves of Heaven's palace-gate. 1842. XXII. IN ABsENcE. These rugged, wintry days I scarce could bear, Did I not know, that, in the early spring, When wild March winds upon their errands siug, Thou wouldst return, bursting 011 this still air, Like those same winds, when, startled froiu their lair, They hunt up violets, and frce swift brooks, From icy cares, even as thy clear looks Bid my heart bloom, and sing, and breah all care: When drops with welcome rain the April day, My flowers shall find their April in thine eyes, Save there the rain in dreamy clouds doth stay, As loath to fall out of those happy skies; Yet sure, my love, thou art most like to May, That comes with steady sun when April dies. 1843. XXIII. WENDELL PHILLIPS. He stood upon the world's broad threshold; wide The din of battle and of slaughter rose; He saw God stand upon the weaker side, That sank in seeming loss before its foes; Many there were who made great haste and sold Unto the cunniug enemy their swords, He scorned their gifts of fame, and power, and gold,

Page  288 288 LOWELL'S POEMS. And, underneath their soft and flowery words, Heard the cold serpent hiss; therefore he went And humbly joined him to the weaker part, Fanatic named, and fool, yet well content So he could be the nearer to God's heart, And feel its solemn pulses sending blood Through all the wide-spread veins of endless good. XXIV THE STREET. They pass me by like shadows, crowds on crowds, Dim ghosts of men, that hover to and fro, Hugging their bodies round them, like thin shrouds Wherein their souls were buried long ago: They trampled on their youth, and faith, and love, They cast their hope of human-kind away, With Heaven's clear messages they madly strove, And conquered, - and their spirits turned to clay: Lo! how they wander round the world, their grave, Whose ever-gaping maw by such is fed, Gibbering at living men, and idly rave, "We, only, truly live, but ye are dead." Alas! poor fools, the anointed eye may trace A dead soul's epitaph in every face! XXV. I grieve not that ripe Knowledge takes away The charm that Nature to my childhood wore, For, with that insight, cometh, day by day, A greater bliss than wonder was before; The real doth not clip the poet's wings, - To win the secret of a weed's plain heart Reveals some clue to spiritual things, And stumbling guess becomes firm-footed art: Flowers are not flowers unto the poet's eyes, Their beauty thrills him by an inward sense; He knows that outward seemings are but lies, Or, at the most, but earthly shadows, whence The soul that looks within for truth may guess The presence of some wondrous heavenliness.

Page  289 L'EN VOL 289 XXVI. TO J. R. GIDDINGS. Giddings, far rougher names than thine have grown Siaoother than honey on the lips of men; And thou shalt aye be honorably known, As one who bravely used his tongue and pen, As best befits a freeman, - even for those, To whom our Law's unblushing front denies A right to plead against the life-long woes Which are the Negro's glimpse of Freedom's skies. Fear nothing, and hope all things, as the Right Alone may do securely; every hour The thrones of Ignorance and ancient Night Lose somewhat of their long-usurped power, And Freedom's lightest word can make them shiver Wfth a base dread that clings to them forever. XXVII. I thought our love at full, but I did err; Joy's wreath drooped o'er mine eyes; I could not see That sorrow in our happy world must be Love's deepest spokesman and interpreter; But, as a mother feels her child ~rst stir Under her heart, so felt I instantly 1)eep in my soul another bond to thee Thrill with that life we saw depart from her; o mother of our angel-child! twice dear! Death knits as well as parts, and still, I wis, 11cr tender radiance shall enfold us here, Even as the light, borne up by inward bliss, Threads the void glooms of space without a fear, To print on farthest stars her pitying kiss. L'ENVOI. WllE~HER my heart hath Wiser grown or not, In these three years, since I to thee inscribed, ~Iine own betrothed, the firstlings of my muse, - Poor windfalls of unripe experience, Young buds plucked hastily by childish hands U

Page  290 290 LO~VELL'S POEJIS. Not patient to await more full-blown flowers, - At least it hail~ seen more of life and men, And pondered lucre, and grown a shade more sad, Yet with no loss of hope or settled trust In the benignness of that Providence, ~Vhich shapes from out our elements awry The grace and order that we wonder at, The mystic harmony of right and wrong, Both workiiig out His wisdom and our good: A trust, Beloved, chiefly learned of thee, Who hast that gift of patient tenderness, The instinctive wisdom of a woman's heart. They tell us that our land was made for song, With its huge rivers and sky-piercing peaks, Its sea4ike lakes and mighty cataracts, Its forests vast and hoar, and prairies wide, And mounds that tell of wondrous tribes extinct. But Poesy springs not from rocks and woods; Her womb and cradle are the human heart, And she can find a nobler theme for song In the most loathsome man that blasts the sight, Than in the broad expanse of sea and shore Between the frozen deserts of the poles. All nations have their message from on high, Lach the messiah of some central thought, For the fulfilment and delight of Man: ()ne has to teach that labor is divine; Another Freedom; and another Mind; And all, that God is open-eyed and just, The happy centre and calm heart of all. Are, then, our woods, our mountains, and our streams, Needful to teach our poets how to sing? (), maiden rare, far other thoughts were ours, \Vhen we have sat by ocean's foaming marge, Vud watched the waves leap roaring on the rocks, Than young Leander and his Hero had, Gazing from Sestos to the other shore. The moon looks down and ocean worships her, Stars rise and set, and seasons come and go i~ven as they did in Homer's elder time, But we behold them not with Grecian eyes:

Page  291 L'EN~~OI. 291 Then they were types of beauty and of strength, But now of freedom, unconfined and pure, Subject alone to Order's higher law. What cares the Russian serf or Southern slave Though we should speak as man spake never yet Of gleaming Hudson's broad magnificence, Or green Niagara's never-ending roar? Our country hath a gospel of her own To preach and practise before all the world, - The freedom and divinity of man, The glorious claims of human brotherhood, - Which to pay nobly, as a freeman should, Gains the sole wealth that will not fly away, - And the soul's fealty to none but God. These are realities, which make the shows Of outward Nature, be they ne'er so grand, Seem small, and worthless, and contemptible. These are the mountain-summits for our bards, Which stretch far upward into heaven itself, And give such wide-spread and exulting view Of hope, and faith, and onward destiny, That shrunk Parnassus to a molehill dwindles. Our new Atlantis, like a morning-star, Silvers the murk face of slow-yielding Night, The herald of a fuller truth than yet Hath gleamed upon the iipraise'd face of Man Since the earth glittered in her stainless prime, - Of a inore glorious sunrise than of old Drew wondrous melodies from Memnon huge, Yea, draws them still, though now he sits waist-deep In the engulfing flood of whirling sand, And looks across the wastes of endless gray, Sole wreck, where once his hundred-gated Thebes Pained with her mighty huin the calm, blue heaven. Shall the dull stone pay grateful orisons, And we till noonday bar the splendor out, Lest it reproach and chide our sluggard hearts, Warm-nestled in the down of Prejudice, And be content, though clad with angel-wings, Close-clipped, to hop about from perch to perch, In paltry cages of dead men's dead thoughts? 0, rather like the sky-lark, soar and sing, And let our gushing songs befit the dawn

Page  292 292 LOWELL'S POEMS. And sunrise, and the yet unshaken dew Brimmiug the chalice of each full-blown hope, Whose blithe front turns to greet the growing day. Never had poets such high call before, Never can poets hope for higher one, And, if they be but faithful to their trnst, Earth will remember them with love and joy, And 0, far better, God will not forget. For he who settles Freedom's principles Writes the death-warrant of all tyranny; Who speaks the truth stabs Falsehood to the heart, And his mere word makes despots tremble more Than ever Brutus with his dagger could. Wait for no hints liom waterfails or woods, Nor dream that tales of red men, brute and fierce, Repay the finding of this Western World, Or needed half the globe to give them birth: Spirit snpreme of Freedom! not for this Did great Columbus tame his eagle soul To jostle with the daws that perch in courts Not for this, friendless, on an unknown sea, Coping with mad waves and more mutinous spirits, Battled he with the dreadful ache at heart Which tempts, with devilish subtleties of doubt, The herrnft of that loneliest solitude, The silent desert of a great New Thought; Though loud Niagara were to-day struck dumb, Yet would this cataract of boiling life, Rush plunging on and on to endless deeps And utter thunder till the world shall cease, - A thunder worthy of the poet's soug, And which alone can fill it with true life. The high evangel to our country granted Could inake apostles, yea, with tongues of fire, Of hearts half-darkened back again to clay! `T is the soul only that is national, And he who pays true loyalty to that Alone can claim the wreath of patriotism. Beloved! if I wander far and oft From that which I believe, and feel, and know, Thou wilt forgive, not with a sorrow lug heart, But with a strengthened hope of better things;

Page  293 THE VISION' OF SIR LA UNFAL. 293 Knowing that I, tbough often blind and false To those I love, and 0, more false than all Unto myself, have been most true to thee, And that whoso in one thing hath been true Can be as true in all. Therefore thy hope May yet not prove unfruitful, and thy love Meet, day by day, with less unworthy thanks Whether, as now, we journey hand ia hand Or, parted in the body, yet are one In spirit and the love of holy things. TllE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. PRELUDE TO PART FIRST. OVER his keys the musing organist, Beginning doubtfully and far away, First lets his fingers wander as they list, And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay: Then, as the touch of his loved instrument Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme, First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent Along the wavering vista of his dream. Not only around our infancy Doth heaven with all its splendors lie, Daily, with souls that cringe and plot, We Sinais climb and know it not. Over our manhood bend the skies; Against our fallen and traitor lives The great winds utter prophecies; With our faint hearts the mountain strives, Its arms outstretched, the druid wood Wafts with its benedicite; And to our age's drowsy blood Still shouts the inspiring sea. Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us; The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in, The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us, We bargain for the graves we lie in;

Page  294 294 LOWELL'S POEMS. At the devil's booth are all things sold, Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold; For a cap and bells our lives we pay, Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking: `T is heaven alone that is given away, `T is only God may be had for the asking, No price is set on the lavish suinmer; June may be had by the poorest coiner. And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays: Whether we look, or whether we listen, We hear life murniur, or see it glisten; Every clod feels a stir of might, An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And, groping blindly above it for light, Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; The flush of life may well be seen Thrilling back over hills and valleys; The cowslip startles in meadows green, Tbe buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, And there`5 never a leaf nor a blade too mean To be some happy creature's palace; The little bird sits at his door in the sun, Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, And lets his illumined being o'erllln With tbe deluge of sumiuer it receives; His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, - In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best? Now is the high4ide of the year, And whatever of life hath ebbed away Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer, Into every bare inlet and creek and bay Now the heart is so full that a drop overfl~ls it, We are happy now because God wills it; No matter how barren the past may have been, `T is enough for us now that the leaves are green; We sit in the warm shade and feel right well

Page  295 THE J~~OX OF SIR LA UNFAL. 295 How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell; We may shut our eyes but we cannot help knowing That skies are eJear and grass is growing; The breeze comes whispering in our ear, That dandelions are blossoming near, That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, That the river is bluer than the sky, That the robin is plastering his house hard by; And if the breeze kept the good news back, For other couriers we should not lack; We could guess it all by you heifer's lowing, And hark! how clear bold chanticleer, Warmed with the new wine of the year, Tells all in his lusty crowing! Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; Everything is happy now, Everything is upward striving; `T is as easy now for the heart to be true As for grass to be green or skies to be blue, - `T is the natural way of living: Who knows whither the clouds have fled? In the nuscarred heaven they leave no wake; And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, The heart forgets its sorrow and ache; The soul partakes the season's youth, And the snlphurous rifts of passion and woe Lie deep`neath a silence pure and smooth, Like burnt-out craters healed with snow. What wonder if Sir Launfal now Remembered the keeping of his vow? PART FIRST. I. "My golden spurs now bring to me, And bring to me my richest mail, For to-morrow I go over land and sea In search of the Holy Grail; Shall never a bed for me be spread, Nor shall a pillow be under my head, Till I begin my vow to keep;

Page  296 296 LOlVELL'S POFAlS. Here on the rushes will I sleep, And perchance there may conic a vision true Ere day create the world anew. Slowly Sir Launfal's eyes grew dim, Slumber fell like a cloud on him, And into his soul the vision flew. II. The crows flapped over by twos and threes, In the pool drowsed the cattle up to their knees, The little birds sang as if it were The one day of summer in all the year, And the very leaves seemed to sing on the trees, The castle alone in the laudscape lay Like an outpost of winter, dull and gray; was the proudest hall in the North Countree, And never its gates might opened be, Save to lord or lady of high degree; Summer besieged it on every side, Bat the churlish stone her assaults defied; She could not scale the chilly wall, Though round it for leagues her pavilious tall Stretched left and right, Over the hills and out of sight; Green and broad was every tent, And out of each a murmur went Till the breeze fell off at night. "I. The drawbridge dropped with a surly clang, And through the dark arch a charger sprang, Bearing Sir Launfal, the maiden knight, In his gilded mail, that flained so bright It seemed the dark castle had gathered all Those shafts the flerce sun had shot over its wall In his siege of three hundred suinmers long, And, biuding them all in one blazing sheaf, Had cast them forth: so, young and strong, And lightsome as a locust-leaf, Sir Launfal flashed forth in his unscarred mail, To seek in all climes for the Holy Grail.

Page  297 THE VISION OF SIR LA UNFAL. 297 Iv. It was morning on bill and stream and tree, And morning in the young knight's heart; Only the castle moodily Rebuffed the gifts of the sunshine free, And gloomed by itself apart; The season brimmed all other tbings up Full as tbe rain fills tbe pitcher-plant's cup. V. As Sir Launfal made morn through tbe darksoine gate, Re was`ware of a leper, crouched by the same, Who begged witb his band and inoaned as be sate; And a loathing over Sir Launfal came; The sunshine went out of his soul with a thrill, The flesh`neath his armor`gan shrink and crawl, And midway its leap his heart stood still Like a frozen waterfall; For this man, so foul and bent of stature, Rasped harshly against his dainty nature, And seemed the one blot on the summer morn, - So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn. vi. The leper raised not the gold from the dust: Better to me the poor man's crust, Better the blessing of the poor, Though I turn inc empty from his door; That is no true alms which the hand can hold; Re gives nothing but worthless gold Who gives from a sense of duty; But he who gives a slender mite, And gives to that which is out of sight, That thread of the all-sustaining Beauty Which runs through all and doth all unite, - The hand cannot clasp the whole of his alms, The heart outstretches its eager palms, For a god goes with it and makes it store To the soul that was starving in darkness before."

Page  298 298 LOlVELL'S POEJiS. PRELUDE TO PART SECOND. Down swept the chill wind from the mountain peak, From the snow five thousand summers old; On open wold and hill-top bleak It had gathered all the cold, And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek It carried a shiver everywhere From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare; The little brook heard it and built a roof `Neath which he could house him, winter-proof; All night by the white stars' frosty gleams lie groined his arches and matched his beams; Slender and clear were his crystal spars As the lashes of light that trim the stars: lie sculptured every suinmer delight In his halls and chambers out of sight; Sometimes his tinkling waters slipt Down through a frost-leaved forest-crypt, Long, sparkling aisles of steel-stemmed trees Bending to counterfeit a breeze Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew But silvery mosses that downward grew; Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief With quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf; Sometimes it was simply smooth and clear For the gladness of heaven to shine through, and here lie had caught the nodding bulrush-tops And hung them thickly with diamond drops, That crystalled the beams of moon and sun, And made a star of every one: No mortal builder's most rare device Could match this winter-palace of ice; was as if every image that mirrored lay In his depths serene through the summer day, Each fleeting shadow of earth and sky, Lest the happy model should be lost, liad been mimicked in fairy masonry -_ By the elfin builders of the frost. Within the hall are song and laughter, The cheeks of Christmas glow red and jolly, And sprouting is every corbel and raftei

Page  299 71JiJ I~JSION OF Sli? LA UNi%lL. 299 AVifl lig~itsome green of ivy and holly; Through the deep gulf of the chimney wide ~Yallows the Yule-log's roaring tide; The broad flame-pennons droop and flap And belly and tug as a flag in the wind; Like a locust shrills the imprisoned sap, Hunted to death in its galleries blind; And swift little troops of silent sparks, Now pausing, now scattering away as in fear, Go threading the soot-forest's tangled darks Like herds of startled deer. But the wind without was eager and sharp, Of Sir Launfal's gray hair it makes a harp, And rattles and wrings The icy strings, Singing, in dreary monotone, A Christmas carol of its own, Whose burden still, as he might guess, Was -" Shelterless, shelterless, shelterless!" The voice of the seneschal flared like a torch As he shouted the wanderer away from the porch, And he sat in the gateway and saw all night The great hall-fire, so cheery and bold, Through the window-slits of the castle old, Build out its piers of ruddy light Against the drift of the cold. PART S~co~~. I. There was never a leaf on bii sh or tree, The bare boughs rattled shudderingly; The river was numb and could not speak, For the weaver Winter its shroud had spun; A single crow on the tree-top bleak From his shining feathers shed off the cold sun. Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold, As if her veins were sapless and old, And she rose up decrepitly For a last dim look at earth and sea.

Page  300 300 LOWELL'S POEMS. II. Sir Launfal turned from his own hard gate, For another heir in his earidom sate An old, bent man, worn out and frail, He came back from seeking the Holy Grail; Little he recked of his earldom's loss, No more on his surcoat was blazoned the cross, But deep ill his soul the sign he wore, The badge of the suffering and the poor. "I. Sir Launfal's raiment thin and spare Was idle mail`gainst the barbed air, For it was just at the Christmas time; So he mused, as he sat, of a snunier clime, And sought for a shelter from cold and snow In the light and warmth of long-ago; He sees the snake-like caravan crawl O'er the edge of the desert, black and small, Then nearer and nearer, till, one by one, He can count the camels in the sun, As over the red-hot sands they pass To where, in its slender necklace of grass, The little spring laughed and leapt in the shade, And with its own self like an infant played, And waved its signal of palms. iv. "For Christ's sweet sake, I beg an alms; " The happy camels may reach the spi4ng, But Sir Launfal sees only the grewsome thing, The leper, lank as the rain-blanched bone, That cowers beside him, a thing as lone And white as the ice-isles of Northern seas In the desolate horror of his disease. v. And Sir Launfal said, - "I behold in thee -An image of Him who died on the tree; Thou also hast had thy crown of thorns, - Thou also hast had the world's buffets and scorns, - And to thy life were not denied The wounds in the hands and feet and side:

Page  301 THE VISION OF SIR LA UNFAL. 301 WIild Mary's Son, acknowledge me; Behold, through him, I give to thee!" vi. Then the soul of the leper stood up in his eyes And looked at Sir Launfal, and straightway he Remembered in what a haughtier guise He had flung an alms to leprosie, When he girt his young life up in gilded mail And set forth in search of the Holy Grail. The heart within him was ashes and dust; He parted in twain his single crust, He broke the ice on the streamlet's brink, And gave the leper to eat and drink, `T was a mouldy crust of coarse brown bread, `T was water out of a wooden bowl, - Yet with fine wheaten bread was the leper fed, And`t was red wine he drank with his thirsty soul. vii. As Sir Launfal mused with a downcast face, A light sbone round about the place; The leper no longer crouched at his side, But stood before him glorified, Shining and tall and fair and straight As the pillar that stood by the Beautiful Gate, - Himself the Gate whereby men can Enter the temple of God in Man. vui. His words were shed softer than leaves from the pine, And they fell on Sir Launfal as snows on the brine, Which mingle their softness and quiet in one With the shaggy unrest they float down upon; And the voice that was calmer than silence said, "Lo, it is I, be not afraid! In many climes, without avail, Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail; Behold it is here, - this cup which thou I)idst fill at the streamlet for me but now; This crust is my body broken for thee, This water His blood that died on the tree The Holy $upper is kept, indeed,

Page  302 302 LOWELL'S POEMS. In whatso we share with another's need; Not what we give, but what we share, - For the gift without the giver is bare; Who gives himself with his alms feeds three, - Himself, his hungering neighbor, and me." Ix. Sir Launfal awoke as from a swound: - "The Grail in my castle here is found! Hang my idle armor up on the wall, Let it be the spider's banquet hall; He must be fenced with stronger mail Who would seek and find the Holy Grail." x. The castle gate stands open now, And the wanderer is welcome to the hall As the hangbird is to the elm4ree bough; No longer scowl the turrets tall, The Summer's long siege at last is o'er; When the first poor outcast went in at the door, She entered with hiin in disguise, And mastered the fortress by surprise; There is no spot she loves so well on ground, She lingers and smiles there the whole year round; The meanest serf on Sir Launfal's land Has hall and bower at his command; And there`5 no poor man in the North Countree But is lord of the earldom as much as he. NOTE. - According to the mythology of the Romancers, the San Greal, or Holy Grail, was the cnp out of which Jesus partook of the last supper with his disciples. It was brought into E~gland bv Joseph of Arimathea, and remained there, an object of pilgrimage and adoration, for many years in the keeping of his lineal descendants. It was incu'nbent upon those who had charge of it to be chaste in thought, word, and deed; but one of the keepers having broken this condition, the Holy Grail disappeared. From that time it was a favorite enterprise of the knights of Arthur's court to go in search of it. Sir Galahad was at last successful in finding it, as we may read in the seventeenth book of the Romance of K~ng Arthnr. Tennyson has made Sir Galahad the subject of one of the most exquisite of his poems. The plot (if I may give that name to anything so slight) of the foregoing poem is my own, and, to serve its purpuses, I have enlar~ed the circle of competition in search of the miraculous cup in such a manner as to include, not only other persons than the heroes of the Round Table, but also a period of time subsequent to the date of King Arthur's reign.

Page  303 READER! walk up at once (it will soon be too late) and buy at a perftctly ruinous rate A FABLE FOR CRITICS: OR, BETTER, (I like, as a thing that the reader's Arst fancy may strike, an old-fashioned title-page, snch as presents a tabular view of the volume's contents) A GLANCE AT A FEW OF OUR LITERARY PROGENIES (Mrs. Malaprop's word) FROM THE TUB OF DJO~EXES; A VOCAL AND MUSICAL MEDLEY, THAT IS, A SERIFS OF JOKES ~ ~nnb~tfiiI ~tti~, who accompanies himself?cith a r~~b-a-dnb-dub, full of spirit and grace, on the top of the tub. SET FORTH iN Oc~o~u~, THE 31ST DAY, THE YEAR`48, G. P. PUTNAM, BROADWAY.

Page  304

Page  305 Itbeing the commonest mode of procedure, I premise a few caiidid remarks To TllE This trifle, begun to please only myself and my own private fancy, was laid on the shelf. But some friends, who had seen it, hiduced me, by dint of saying they liked it, to put it in print. That is, having come to that very conclusion, I coi~sulted them whet it could make no confusion. For, (though ii~ the gentlest of ways,) they had hinted it was scarce worth the while, I should doubtless have printed it. I began it, intending a Fable, a' frail, slender thing, rhymeywinged with a sting in its tail. But, by addings and alterings not previonsly planned, - digressions chance-batched, like birds' eggs in the sand, -and dawdlings to suit every whimsy's demand, (always freeing the bird which I held in my hand, for the two perched, perhaps out of reach, in the tree,) -it grew by degrees to the size which you see. I was like tlie old womait that carried the calf, and my neighbors, like hers, no doubt, wonder and laugh, and when, my strained arms with their grown burthen full, I call it my Fable, they call it a bull. llaving scrawled at fnll gallop (as far as that goes) in a style that is neither good verse nor bad prose, and beiitg a person whom nobody knows, some people will say I am rather more free with my readers than it is becoming to be, tit at I seem to expect them to wait on mv leisure in following wherever I wander at pleasure, that, in sh~rt, I take more than a young author's lawful ease, and laugh in a qneer way so like Mephistopheles, that the public will doubt, as they grope through my rhythm, if in truth I am making fun at them or with them. So the excellent Public is hereby assured that the sale of my book is already secured. For there is not a poet throughout the whole land, but will purchase a copy or two out of hand, in the fond expectation of being amused in it, by seeing Itis betters cut-np and abused in it. Now, I find, by a pretty exact calculation, there are someddug like ten thousand bards in the nation, of that special variety whom the Review and Magazine critics call lofty and true, and about thirty thousand (tbis tribe is itt cre asing) of the kinds who are termed full of promise and pleasing. The Public will see by a glance at this schedule, that they cannot expect me to be over-sedulous about courting them, since it seen's I have got enough fuel made sure of for boiling my pot. As for such of our poets as find not their names mentioned once in my pages, with praises or blarn~s, let them SEND I~ THE IR CARDS, without further DELAY, to my friend ~. P. PUTNAM, Esquire, in Broadway, where a LIST will be kept with x 305

Page  306 306 LOWELL'S POEMS. the strictest regard to the day and the hour of receiving the card. Then, taking them up as I chance to have time, (that is, if their names can be twisted in rhyme,) I will hoiiestly give each his PROPER POSITION, at the rate of ONE AUTHOR to each NEW EfITION. Thus a PREMIUM is offered sufficiently IliGri (as the magazines say when they tell their best lie) to induce bards to CLUB their resources and buy the balance of evel'y edition, until they have all of them fairly been run through the mill. One word to such readers (judicious and wise) as read books with something behind the mere eyes, of whom in the country, perhaps, there are two, including myself, gentle reader, and you. All the characters sketched in this slight je~t (I'esp~~jt, though, it may be, they seem, here and there, rather free, ai~d drawn fi~iu a Mephistophelian stand-point, are meant to be faithful, and that is the grand point, and none but an owl would feel sore at a rub from a jester who tells you, without any subterfuge, that he sits in Diogenes' tub. A PRELIMINARY NOTE TO THE SECOND EDITION, though it well may be reckoned, of all composition, the species at once most delightful and healthy, is a thing which an author, unless he be wealthy and willing to pay for that kind of delight, is not, in all instances, called oil to write. Though there are, it is said, who, their spirits to cheer, slip in a new title-page three times a year, and in this way snuff up an imaginary savor of that sweetest of dishes, the popular favor, - much as if a starved painter should fall to and treat the Ugolino inside to a picture of `neat. You remember (if' not, pray turn over and look) that, in writing the preface which ushered my book, I treated you, excellent Public, not merely with a cool disregard, but downright cavalierly. Now I would not take back the least thiiig I then said, though I thereby could butter both sides of my bread, for I never could see that aii author owed aught to the people he solaced, diverted, or taught; aiid, as for mere fame, I have bug ago learned that the persons by whom it is finally earned, are those with whom your verdict weighed not a pin, unsustained by the higher court sitting within. Biit f wander from what I intended to say-that you have, namely, shown such a liberal way of thinking, and so niuch ~sthetic perception of anonymous worth in the handsome reception you gave to my book, spite of some private piques, (having bought the first thousand in barely two weeks,) that I

Page  307 A PRELIMINARY NOTE. 307 thijik, past a doubt, if you measured the phiz of your's most devotedly, Wonderful Quiz, you would find that its vertical section was shorter, by an inch and two tenths, or`twixt that and a quarter. You have watclied a child playing - in those wondrous years when belief is not bonnd to the eyes and the ears, and the vision divine is so clear and unmarred, that each baker of pies in the dirt is a bard? Give a knife and a shingle, he fits out a fleet, and, on that little mudpuddle over the street, his inventio~o, in purest good faith, will make sail round the globe with a pnif of his breath for a gale, will visit, in barely ten minutes, all climes, niod find Northwestern passages hundreds of times. Or, suppose the youiig Poet fresh stored with delights from that Bible of childhood the Arabian Nights, he will turn to a crony and cry, "Jack, let`5 play that I am a Genius!" Jacky straightway makes Aladdin's lanip ont of a stone, and, for hours, they enjoy each his own s~pernatmal powers. This is all very pretty and pleasant, but then suppose our two urchins have grown into men, and both have tnrned authors, -one says to his brother, "Let`5 play we`re the American somethings or other, (only let them be big enough, no matter what.) Come, you shall be Goethe or Pope, which you choose; I`11 be Coleridge, and both shall write mutual reviews. So they both (as mere strangers) before m~~y days, send each other a cord of anonymous bays. Lach, in piling his epithets, smiles in his sleeve to see what his friend can be made to believe; each, in reading the other's uiibiased review, thinks-Here`5 pretty high praise, but no noore than is true. Well, we laugh at them both, and yet make 100 great fuss when the same farce is acted to benefit us. i~ven 1, who, if asked, scarce a month since, what Fudge useant, should have answered, the dear Public's critical judgment, begin to thiiik sharpwitted Horace spoke sooth when he said, that the Public sooeetiooes hit the truth. In reading these lines, you perhaps have a vision of a person iii pretty good health and condition, and yet, since I put forth my primary edition, I have been crushed, scorched, withered, used up and put down, (by Smith with the cordial assistance of Brown,) in all, if you put any faith in iny rhymes, to the number of niiiety-five several times; and, while I am writing - I tremble to think of it, for I may at this inomeiot be just on the brink of it-Molybdostom, angry at being oniitted, has begun a critique, - am I not to be pitied? * Now I shall not crush theni since, indeed, for that matter, no pressure I know of could render them flatter; nor wither, nor scorch them,-no action of fire could make either them or their The wise Scandinavians probably called their bards by the queer4ooking title of Scald, in a delicate way, as it were, just to hint to the world the loot water they always get into.

Page  308 308 LOWELL'S POEAiS. articles drier; nor waste time in putting them down - I am thiiiking not their own self-inflation will keep thet~ from sinking; for there`5 this contradiction about the whole bevy - though without the least weight, they are awfully heavy. No, my dear honest bore, surdo fabularn norrus, they are no more to me than a rat in the arras. I can walk with the Doctor, get facts from the Don, or draw out the Lambish quintessence of John, and feel nothiiig more than a half-comic sorrow, to tliiiik that they all will he lying to-morrow tossed carelessly up oli the waste-paper shelves, and forgotten by all but their half-dozen selves. Once siiug in my attic, iny fire in a roar, I leave the whole pack of theni outside the door. ~Vith llakluyt or Purchas I wander away to the black northern seas or barbaric Cathay; get fi)u with O'$hanter, and sober me the ii with that builder of brick-kilnish dramas, rare Ben; snuff llerbert, as holy as a flower on a grave; with Fletcher wax tetider, o'er Chapman grow brave; with Marlowe or 1~yd take a fine poetrave; in Very, most llebrew of Saxons, find peace; with Lycidas welter on vext Irish seas; with Webster grow wild, and climb earthward again, down by mystical Browne's Jacob'sladd~r4ike brain, to that spiritual Pepys (Cotton's versioii) Montaigne; find a new depth in Wordswoi~th, uiidreaiiied of before, - that diviuely4iisph~d, wise, deep, tender, grand, - bore. Or, out of my study, the scholar thrown off, nature holds up her shield`gainst the sneer and the scoff; the landscape, forever consoling and kind, pours her wine and her oil on the smarts of the mind. The waterfall, scattering its vaiiishing gems; the tall grove of hemlocks, with moss on their stems, like plashes of sunlight; the pond in the woods, where no foot but miiie and the bittern's intrudes; these are all my kind neighbors, and leave me no wish to say aught to you all, my poor critics, but - pish! I have buried the hatchet; I am twisting an allumette out of one of you now, and religbtiiig my calumet. In your private capacities, come when you please, I will give you my hand and a fresh pipe a-piece. As I ran through the leaves of my poor little book, to take a fond author's first tremulous look, it was quite an excitemeiit to hunt the errata, sprawled in as birds' tracks are iJi some kiiids of strata, (only these maae things crookeder.) Fa~icy an heir, that a father had seen born well-featured and fair, tui'ning suddenly wry~nosed, club-footed, squint-eyed, hare-lipped, wapper~awed, carrot-haired, from a pride become an aversion, - my case was yet woi'se. A club-foot (by way of a change) iii a verse, I might have forgiven, an 0'5 being wry, a limp in an e, or a cock iii an i, - but to have the sweet babe of my brain served in ])i! I am not queasy-stomached, but such a Thycstean bai~quet as that was quite out of the question. In the edition now issued, no pains are ieglec ted, and my verses, as orators say, stand corrected. Yet some blunders

Page  309 A PRELIMflVARY NOTE. 309 rentail of the public's own make, which I wish to correct for iny personal sake. For instance, a character drawn in pure fun and con den shig the traits of a dozen in one, has been, as I hear by some persons applied to a good friend of milie, whom to stab in tlie side, as we walked along chatting and joking togefl~er, woild not be?C~ way. I can hardly tell whether a q'iestion will ever arise in which he and I should by any strange fortuiie agl'ee, but meanwhile my esteem for him grows as I know him, and, though not the best judge upon earth of a poem, he knows what it is he is saying and why, and is honest and fearless, two good points which I have not found so rife I can easily smother my love for the iii, whether on my side or t' other. For my other ceonyrni, you`nay be sure that I know what is meant by a caricature, and what~%y a portrait. There are those who think it is capital fun to be spattering their ink on quiet unquarreisome folk, but the minute the game changes sides and the others begin it, they see something savage and horrible in it. As for ne I respect neither women nor men for their gender, nor own any sex in a pea. I choose just to hint to some causeless unfriends that, as far as I know, there are always two ends (and one of them heaviest, too) to a staff, and two parties also to every good laugh.

Page  310 310 LOWELL'S POEMS. A FABLE FOR CRITICS. PH(EBUs, sitting one day in a laurel-tree's shade, Was reminded of Daphne, of whom it was made For the god being one day too warm in his wooing, She took to the tree to escape his pursuing; Be the cause what it might, from his offers she shrunk, And, Ginevra-like, shut herself up in a trunk; And, though`t was a step into which be had driven her, He somehow or other had never forgiven her; Her memory he nursed as a kind of a tonic, Something bitter to chew when he`d play the Byronic, And I can't count the obstinate nymphs that he brought over, By a strange kind of smile he put on when he thought of her. "My case is like Dido's," he sometimes remark'd, "When I last saw my love, she was fairly embark'd, In a laurel, as she thought - but (ah how Fate mocks!) She has found it by this time a very bad box; Let hunters from me take this saw when they need it, -You're not always sure of your game when you`ve treed it. Just conceive such a change taking place in one's mistress! What romance would be left? - who can flatter or kiss trees? And for mercy's sake, how could one keep up a dialogue With a dull wooden thing that will live and will die a log,Not to say that the thought would forever intrude That you`ve less chance to win her the more she is wood? Ah! it went to my heart, and the memory still grieves, To see those loved graces all taking their leaves; Those charms beyond speech, so enchanting but now, As they left me forever, each making its bough! If her tongue ha~ a tang sometimes more than was right, Her new bark is worse than ten times her old bite." Now, Daphne, - before she was happily trecifled, - Over all other blossoms the lily had deified, And when she expected the god on a visit,

Page  311 A i%4BLE FOR CRJTICS. 311 (`T was before he had made his intentions explicit,) Some buds she arranged with a vast deal of care, To look as if artlessly twined in her hair, ~Vhere they seemed, as he said, when he paid his addresses, Like the day breaking through the long night 0~ her tresses; So whenever he wished to be quite irresistible, Like a man with eight trumps in his hand at a whis~table, (I feared me at first that the rhyme was untwistable, Though I might Ii ave lugged in an allusion to Cristabel,) - He woMd take up a lily, and gloomily look in it, As I shall at the, when they cut up my book in it. ~Vell, here, after all the bad rhyme I`ve been spinning, I`ve got back at last to my story's beginning: Sitting there, as I say, in tlie shade of his mistress, As dull as a volume df old Chester mysteries, Or as those puzzling specimens, which, in old histories, We read of his verses - the Oracles, namely, - (I wonder the Greeks should have swallowed them tamely, For one might b~t safely whatever he has to risk, They were laid at his door by some ancient Miss Asterisk, And so dull that the mcii who retailed them outdoors Got the ill name of augurs, because they were bores,) - First, he mused what the animal substance or herb is Would induce a moustache, for you know he`5 imberbis; Then he shuddered to think how his youthful position Was assailed by the age of his son the physician; At some poems he glanced, had been sent to him lately, And the metre and sentiment puzzled him greatly. "Meherele! I`d make such proceedings felonious, - Have they all of them slept in the cave of Trophonius? Look well to your seat,`t is like taking an airing On a corduroy road, and that out of repairing; It leads one,`t is true, through the primitive forest, Grand natural features-but, then,one has no rest; You just catch a glimpse of some ravishing distance, When a jolt puts the whole of it out of existence, - Why not use their ears, if they happen to have any?" - Here- the laurel-leaves murmured the name of poor Daphne. "O,weep with me,I)aphne,"he sighed," for you know it's A terrible thing to be pestered with poets!

Page  312 312 LOWELL'S POEMS. But, alas, she is dumb, and the proverb holds good, She never will cry till she`5 out of the wood! ~Yhat would n't I give if I never had known of her? were a kind of relief had I so~nething to groan over; If I had but some letters of hers, now, to toss over, I might turn for the nonce a Byronic philosopher, And bewitch all the flats by bemoaning the loss of her. One needs something tangible, though to begin on - A loom, as it were, for the fancy to spin on; What boots all your grist? it can never be ground Till a breeze makes the arms of the windmill go round, (Or, if`t is a water-mill, alter the metaphor, And say it won't stir, save the wheel be well wet afore, Or lug in some stuff about water`so dreamily,' - It is not a metaphor, though,`t is a simile;) A lily, perhaps, would set n~y mill agoing, For just at this season, I think, they are blowing, Here, somebody, fetch one, not very far hence They`re in bloom by the score,`t is but cliuibi~g a fence; There`5 a poet hard by, who does nofl-ii~g but fill his \Vhole garden, liom one end to t' other, with lilies; A very good plan, were it not for satiety, One longs for a weed here and there, for variety; Though a weed is no more than a flower in disguise, Which is seen through at once, if love give a man eyes." Now there happened to be amo~g Phcebus's followers, A gentleman, one of the omnivorous swallowers, Who bolt every book that comes out of the press, Without the least question of larger or less, Whose stomachs are strong at the expense of their head, - For reading new books is like eating new bread, One can bear it at first, but by gradual steps he - Is brought to death's door of a mental dyspepsy. On a previous stage of existence, our Hero Had ridden outside, with the glass below zero; 114 had been,`t is a fact you may safely rely on, Of a very old stock a most eminent scion, - A stock all fresh quacks their fierce boluses ply on, Who stretch the new boots Earth`5 unwilling to try on, Whom huinbugs of all shapes and sorts keep theif eye on, Whose hair`5 in the mortar of every new Zion, Who, when whistles are dear, go directly and buy one,

Page  313 A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 313 ~Vho think slavery a crime that we must not say fie on, NYho hunt, if they e'er hunt at all, with the lion, (Though they hunt lions also, whenever they spy one,) ~Vho contrive to make every good fortune a wry one, And at last choose the hard bed of honor to die on, ~Vhose pedigree traced to earth's earliest years, Is longer than anything else but their ears; - In short, he was sent into life with the wrong key, lie unlocked the door, and stept forth a poor donkey. Though kicked and abused by his bipedal betters, Yet he filled no mean place in the kingdom of letters; Far happier than many a literary hack, He bore only paper-mill rags on his back (For it makes a vast difference which side' the mill One expends on the paper his labor and skill;) So, when his soul waited a new trausmigration, And Destiny balanced`twixt this and that station, Not having much time to expend npon bothers, Remembering lie`d had some connection with authors, And considering his four legs had grown paralytic, - She set him on two, and he came forth a critic. Through his babyhood no kind of pleasure he took In any amusement but tearing a book; For him there was no intermediate stage, From babyhood up to straight-laced middle age; There were years when he did n't wear coat-tails behind, But a boy he could never be rightly defined; Like the Irish Good Folk, though in length scarce a span, From the womb he came gravely, a little old man; ~Vhile other boys' trousers demanded the toil Of the motherly fingers on all kinds of soil, Red, yellow, brown, black, claycy, gravelly, loamy, lie sat in the corner and read Viri Rom~. lie never was known to unbend or to revel once In base, marbles, hockey, or kick i~p the devil once; lie was just one of those who excite the benevolence Of your old prigs who sound the soul's depths wifli a ledger, And are- on the lookout for some young men to "edger cate," as they call it, who won't be too costly, And who`11 afterward take to the ministry mostly; ~Vho always wear spectacles, always look bilious, Always keep on good terms with each ~~ater-fa~~i1ias

Page  314 314 LOJVELL'S POEMS. Throughout the whole parish, and manage to rear Ten boys like themselves, on four hundred a year; Who, fulfilling in turn the same fearful conditions, Either preach through their noses, or go upon missions. In this way our hero got safely to college Where he bolted alike both his commons and~knowledge; A reading-machine, always wound up and going, He mastered whatever was not worth the ki~owing, Appeared iii a gow~ and a vest of black satin, To spout such a Gothic oration in Latin, That Tully could never have made out a word in it, (Though himself was the model the author preferred in it,) And grasping the parchment which gave him in fee, All the niystic and-so-fortbs contained in A. B., He was launched (life is always compared to a sea,) With j ust enough learni ng, and skill for the using it, To prove he`d a brain, by forever confusing it. So worthy Saint Benedict, piously burning With the holiest zeal against secular learning, ~esciefls~ue scie~~ter, as writers express it, Indoctusque sapienter 6 Rorn6 recessit. `T would be endless to tell you the things that he knew, All separate facts, undeniably true, But with him or each other they`d nothing to do; No power of combining, arranging, discerning, Digested the masses he learned into learning; There was one thing in life he had practical knowledge for, (And this, you will think, he need scarce go to college for,) Not a deed would he do, nor a word would he utter, Till he`d weighed its relations to plain bread and butter. When he left Alma Mater, he practised his wits In compiling the journals' historical bits, - Of shops broken open, men falling in fits, Great fortunes in England bequeathed to poor printers, And cold spells, the coldest for many past winters, - Then, rising by industry, knack, and address, G~ot notices up for an unbiassed press, With a mind so wellpoised, it seemed equally in ade for Applause or abuse, just which chanced to be paid for; From this point his progress was rapid and sure, To the post of a regular heavy reviewer.

Page  315 A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 315 And here I must say he wrote excellent articles On the Hebraic points, or the force of Greek particles, They filled up the space nothing else was prepared for; And nobody read that which nobody cared for; If any old book reached a fiftieth edition, He could fill forty pages with safe erudition, He could gauge the old books by the old set of rules, And his very old nothings pleased very old fools; But give him a new book, fresh out of the heart, And you put him at sea without compass or chart, - His blunders aspired to the rank of an art For his lore was en graft, something foreign' that grew in him, Exhausting the sap of the native and true in him, So that when a man caine with a soul that was new in him, Carving new forms of truth out of Nature's old granite, New and old at their birth, like Le Verrier's planet, Which, to get a true judgment, themselves must create In the soul of their critic the measure and weight, Being rather themselves a fresh standard of grace, To compute their own judge, and assign him his place, Our reviewcr would crawl all about it and round it, And, reporting each circumstance just as he found it, Without the least malice, - his record would be Profoundly ~sthetic as that of a flea, Which, supping on Wordsworth, should print, for our sakes, Recollections of nights with the Bard of the Lakes, Or, borne by an Arab guide, ventured to render a General view of the ruins of Denderah. As I said, he was never precisely unkind, The defect in his brain was just absence of mind; If he boasted,`t was simply that he was self-made, A position which I, for one, never gain said, My respect for my Maker supposing a skill In his works which our hero would answer but ill; And I trust that the mould which he used may be cracked, or he Made bold by success, may enlarge his phylactery, And set up a kind of a man-manufactory, Au event which I shudder to think about, seeing That Man is a moral, accountable being.

Page  316 316 LOWELL'S POEMS. lle meant well enough, but was still in the way As a dunce always is, let him be where he may; Indeed, they appear to come into existence To impede other folks with their awkward assistance; If you set up a dunce on the very North pole, All alone with himself, I believe, on my soul, H~`d m~~~~~ to get betwixt somebody's shins, And pitch him down bodily, all in his sins, To the grave polar bears sitting round on the ice, All shortening their grace, to be in for a slice; Or, if he found nobody else there to pother, ~Vhy, one of his legs would just trip up the other, For there`5 nothing we read of in torture's inventions, Like a well-meaning dunce, with the best of intentions. A terrible fellow to meet in society, Not the toast that he buttered was ever so dry at tea; There he`d sit at the table and stir in his sugar, Crouching close for a spring, all the while, like a cougar; Be sure of your facts, of your measures and weights, Of your time - he`5 as fond as an Arab of dates; - You`11 be telling, perhaps, in your comical way, Of something you`ve seen in the course of the day; And, just as you`re tapering out the conclusion, You venture an ill-fated classic allusion, - The girls have all got their laughs ready, when, whack! The cougar comes down on your thunderstruck back! You had left out a comma, - your Greek`5 put in joint, And pointed at cost of your story's whole point. In the course of the evening, you venture on certain Soft speeches to Anne, in the shade of the curtain; You tell her your heart can be likened to one flower, "And that, oh most charming of women,`5 the sunflower, N\rhich turns "- here a clear nasal voice, to your terror, From outside the curtain, says "that`5 all an error." As for him, he`5- no matter, he never grew tender, Sitting after a ball, with his feet on the fender, Shaping somebody's sweet features out of cigar smoke, -(Though he`d willingly grant you that such doings are smoke;) All womcn he damns with m~ttabi1e semper, And if ever he felt something like love's distemper, `T was towards a young lady who spoke ancient Mexican,

Page  317 A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 317 And assisted her father in making a lexicon; Though I recollect hearing bim get quite ferocious About Mary Clausum, the mistress of Grotius, Or something of that sort, - but, no more to bore ye NVith character-painting, I'll turn to my story. Now, Apollo, who finds it convenient sometimes To get his court clear of the makers of rhymes, The get~~~s, I think it is called, irrita&iie, 1K very one of whom thinks himself treated most shabbily, And nurses a - what is it? - im~ne~icabiTh, ~Yhich keeps him at boiling-point, hot for a quarrel, As bitter as wormwood, and sourer than sorrel, If any poor devil but look at a laurel; - Apollo, I say, being sick of their rioting, (Though he sometimes acknowledged their verse had a quieting Effect after dinner, and seemed to suggest a Retreat to the shrine of a tranquil siesta,) Kept our bero at hand, who, by means of a bray, Which be gave to the life, drove the rabble away; And if that would n't do, he was sure to succeed, If he took his review out and offered to read Or, failing in plans of this milder description, He would ask for their aid to get up a subscription, Considering that authorship was n't a rich craft, To print the "American drama of Witchcraft." Stay, I`11 read you a scene," - but he hardly began, Ere Apollo shrieked "Help!" and the authors all ran: And once, when these purgatives acted with less spirit, And the desperate case asked a remedy desperate, He drew from liis pocket a foolscap epistle, As calmly as if`t were a nine-barrelled pistol, And threatened them all with the judgment to come Of "A wandering Star's first impressions of Rome." "Stop! stop!" with their hands o'er their ears screamed the Muses, "He may go off and murder himself, if he chooses, `T was a means self-defence only sanctioned his trying, `T is mere massacre now that the enemy`5 flying; If he`5 forced to`t again, and we happen to be there, Give us each a large handkerchief soaked in strong ether."

Page  318 3t8 LOWELL'S POEMS. I call HAs a "Fable for Critics"; you think it's ~ore like a display of my rhythmical My plot, like an icicle,`5 slender and slippery, Every moment more slender, and likely to slip awry, And the reader miwilliug in loco ~csipere, Is free to juinp over as much of my frippery As he fancies, and, if he`5 a provident skipper, he May have an Odyssean sway of the gales, And get safe iuto port, ere his patience all fails; Moreover, although`t is a slender return For your toil and expense, yet my paper will burn, And, if you have manfully struggled thus far with me, You may e'en twist me up, and just light your cigar with me: If too angry for that, you can tear me in pieces, And my membra disjecta consign to the breezes, A fate like great Ratzau's, whom one of those bores, Who beflead with bad verses poor Louis Quatorze, Describes, (the first verse somehow ends with victoire,) As dispersant parto~~t et ses n~em&res et sa glo~re; Or, if I were over-desirous of earniug A repute among noodles for classical learning, I could pick you a score of allusions, I wis, As new as the jests of Di~askalos tis; Better still, I could make out a good solid list From recondite authors who do not exist, - But that would be naughty: at least, I could twist Something out of Absyrtus, or turn your inquiries After Milton's prose metaphor, drawn from Osiris; - But, as Cicero says he won't say this or that (A fetch, I must say, most transparent and 4at,) After sayina whate'er he could possibly think of, - I simply will state that I pause on the brink of A mire, ankle-deep, of deliberate confusion, Made up of old jumbles of classic allusion, So, when you were thinking yourselves to be pitied, Just conceive how much harder your teeth you`d have gritted, An`t were not for the dulness I`ve kindly omitted. I`d apologize here for my many digressions, ~Yere it not that I`in certain to trip into fresh ones, (`T is so hard to escape if you get in their mesh once;)

Page  319 A FABLE FOR CR111 CS. 319 Jnst reflect, if you please, how`t is said by Horatius, That M~onides nods now and then, and, my gracious! It certainly does look a little bit ominous When be gets under way with ton ~`aparneibomenos. ([lere a something occurs which I`11 just clap a rhyme to, Aiid say it myself, ere a Zoilus have time to, - Any author a nap like Van Winkle's may take, If he only contrive to keep readers awake, But he`11 very soon find himself laid on the shelf, If they fall a nodding when he nods himself.) Once for all, to return, and to stay, will I, nill I - When Phcebus expressed his desire for a lily, Our hero, whose hom~opathic sagacity With an ocean of zeal mixed his drop of capacity, Set off for the garden as fast as the wind, (Or, to take a comparison more to my mind, As a sound politician leaves conscience behind,) And leaped the low fence, as a party hack jumps O'er his principles, when something else turns up trulups. He was gone a long fime, and Apollo meanwhile, ~Vent over some sonnets of his with a file, For of all compositions, he thought that the sonnet Best repaid all the toil you expended upon it; It should reach with one impulse the end of its course, And for one final blow collect all of its force; Not a verse should be salient, but each one should tend With a wave-like up-gathering to burst at the end; So, condensing the strength here, there smoothing a wry kink, He was killing the time, when up walked Mr. At a few steps behind him, a small man in glasses, Went dodging about, muttering "murderers! asses!" From out of his pocket a paper he`d take, With the proud look of martyrdom tied to its stake, And, reading a squib at himself, he`d say, "Here I see `Gainst American letters a bloody conspiracy, They are all by my personal enemies written; I must post an anonymous letter to Britain, And show that this gall is the merest suggestion Of spite at my zeal on the Copyright question, For, on this side the water,`t is prudent to pull

Page  320 320 LOWELL'S POEMS. O'er the eyes of the public their national wool, By accusing of slavish respect to John Bull, All American authors who have more or less Of that anti-American huinbug - success, While in private we`re always embracing the knees Of some twopenny editor over the seas, And licking his critical shoes, for you know`t is The whole aiui of onr lives to get one English notice; My American puffs I would willingly burn all, (They`re all from one source, monthly, weekly, diurnal,) To get but a kick from a transmarine journal!" ~o, culling the gibes of each critical scorner As if they were plums, and himself were Jack Homer, He came cautiously on, peeping round every corner, And into each hole where a weasel might pass in, Expecting the knife of some critic assassin, Who stabs to the heart with a caricature, Not so bad as those daubs of the Sun, to be sure, Yet done with a dagger-o'-type, whose vile poi~traits Disperse all one's good, and condense all one's poor traits. Apollo looked up, hearing footsteps approaching, And slipped out of sight the new rhymes he was broaching, - "Good day, Mr., I'm happy to meet With a scholar so ripe, and a critic so neat, Who through Grub-street the soul of a gentleman carries, - What news from that suburb of London and Paris Which latterly makes such shrill claims to monopolize The credit of being the New World's metropolis?" "Why, nothing of consequence, save this attack On my friend there, be hind, by some pitiful hack, Who thinks every national author a poor one, That is n't a copy of something that`5 foreign, And assaults the American Dick -" "Nay,`t is clear That your Damon there`5 fond of a flea in his ear, And, if no one else furnished them gratis, on tick He would buy some himself, just to hear the old click; Why, I honestly think, if some fool in Japaii Should turn up his nose at the`Poems on Man,'

Page  321 A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 321 Your friend there by some inward instinct would know it, Would get it translated, reprinted, and show it; As a man might take off a high stock to exhibit The autograph round his own neck of the gibbet; Nor would let it rest so, but fire column after column, Signed Cato, or Brutus, or something as solemn, By way of displaying his critical crosses, And tweaking that poor transatlantic proboscis, His broadsides resulting (and this there`5 no doubt of,) In successively sinking the craft tbey`re fired out of. Now nobody knows when an author is hit, If he don't have a public hysterical fit; Let him only keep close in his snug garret's dim ether, And nobody`d think of his critics - or him either If an author have any least fibre of worth in him, Abuse would but tickle the organ of mirth in him, All the critics on earth cannot crush with their ban, One word that`5 in tune with the nature of man." "Well, perhaps so; meanwhile I have brought you a book, Into which if you`11 just have the goodness to look, You may feel so delighted, (when you have got through it,) As to think it not unworth your while to review it, A0~d I think I can promise your thoughts, if you do, A place in the next Democratic Review." "The most thankless of gods you must snrely have thought me, For this is the forty-fourth copy you`ve brought me, I have given them away, or at least I have tried, But I`ve forty-two left, standing all side by side, (The man who accepted that one copy, died,) - From one end of a shelf to the other they reach, `With the author's respects' neatly written iii each. The publisher, sure, will proclaim a Te Deum, When he hears of that order the British Museum Has sent for one set of what books were first printed In America, little or big, - for`t is hinted That this is the first truly tangible hope he Has ever had raised for the sale of a copy. I`ve thought very often`t would be a good thing In all public colleetions of books, if a wing y

Page  322 322 LOWELL'S POEMS. Were set off by itself, like the seas from the dry lands, Marked Literature saited to desolate islands, And filled with such books as could never be read Save by readers of, proofs, forced to do it for bread, - Such books as one 5 wrecked on in small country-taverns, Such as hermits might mortify over in caverns, Such as Satan, if printing had then been invented, As the climax of woe, would to Job have presented, Such as Crusoe might dip in, although there are few so Outrageously cornered by fate as poor Crusoe; And since the philanthropists just now are banging And gibbeting all who`re in favor of hanging, - (Though Cheever has proved that the Bible and Altar Were let down from Heaven at the end of a halter, And that vital religion would dull and grow callous, Unrefreshed, now and then, with a sniff of the gallows,) - And folks are beginning to think it looks odd, To choke a poor scamp for the glory of God; And that He who esteems the Virginia reel A bait to draw saints from their spiritual weal, And regards the quadrille as a far greater knavery Than crushing His African children with slavery, - Since all who take part in a waltz or cotillion Are mounted for hell on the Devil's own pillion, Who, as every true orthodox Christian well knows, Approaches the heart through the door of the toes, - That He, I was saying, whose judgments are stored For such as take steps in despite of his word, Should look with delight on the agonized prancing Of a wretch who has not the least ground for his dancing, While the State, standing by, sings a verse from the Psalter About offering to God on his favorite halter And, when the legs droop from their twftchin'g divergence, Sells the clothes to a Jew, and the corpse to the surgeons; - "Now, instead of all this, I think I can direct you all To a criminal code both humane and effectual; - I propose to shut up every doer of wrong With these desperate books, for such term, short or long As by statute in such cases made and provided, Shall be by your wise legislators decided Thus: - Let murderers be shut, to grow wiser and cooler, At hard labor for life on the works of Miss

Page  323 A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 323 Petty thieves, kept from flagranter crimes by their fears, Shall peruse Yankee Doodle a blank term of years, - That American Punch, like the English, no doubt - Just the sugar and lemons and spirit left out. "But stay, here comes Tityrus Griswold, and leads on The ~oeks whom he first plucks alive, and then feeds on, - A loud-cackling swarm, in whose feathers warm-drest, He goes for as perfect a - swan, as the rest. "There comes Emerson first, whose rich words, every one, Are like gold nails in temples to hang trophies on, Whose prose is grand verse, while his verse th knows,, e Lord Is some of it pr No,`t is not even prose; I`in speaking of metres; some poems have welled From those rare depths of soul that have ne'er been excelled; They`re not epics, but that does n't matter a pin, In creating, the only hard thing`5 to begin; A grass-blade`5 no easier to make than an oak, If you`ve once found the way, you`ve achieved the grand stroke; In the worst of his poems are mines of rich matter, But thrown in a heap with a crush and a clatter; Now it is not one thing nor another alone Makes a poem, but rather the general tone, The something pervading, uniting the whole, The before unconceived, unconceivable soul, So that just in removing this trifle or that, you Take away, as it were, a chief limb of the statue; Roots, wood, bark, and leaves, singly perfect may be, But, clapt hodge-podge together, they don't make a tree. "But, to come back to Emerson, (whom by the way, I believe we left waiting,) - his is, we may say, A Greek head on right Yankee shoulders, whose range Has Olympus for one pole, for t' other the Exchange; He seems, to my thinking, (although I`m afraid The comparison must, long ere this, have been made,) A Plotinus-Montaigne, where the Egyptian's gold mist

Page  324 324 LOWELL'S POEMS. And the Gascon's shrewd wit cheek-by-jowl coexist; All admire, and yet scarcely six converts he`5 got To I don't (nor they either) exactly know what; For though he builds glorious temples,`t is odd He leaves never a doorway to get in a god. `T is refreshing to old-fashioned people like me, To meet such a primitive Pagan as he, In whose mind all creation is duly respected As parts 0~ himself - just a little projected; And who`5 willing to worship the stars and the sun, A convert to - nothing but Emerson. So perfect a balance there is in his head, That he talks of things sometimes as if they were dead; Life, nature, love, God, and affairs of that sort, He looks at as merely ideas; in short, As if they were fossils stuck round in a cabinet, Of such vast extent that our earth`5 a mere dab in it; Composed just as he is inclined to conjecture her, Namely, one part pure earth, ninety-nine parts pure lecturer; You are filled with delight at his clear demonstration, Each ~gure, word, gesture, just fits the occasion, With the quiet precision of science he`11 sort`em, But you can't help suspecting the whole a rost mortem. "There are persons, mole-blind to the soul's make and style, Who insist on a likeness`twixt him and Carlyle; To compare him with Plato would be vastly fairer, Carlyle`5 the more burly, but E. is the rarer; He sees fewer obj ects, but clearlier, truelier, If C.`5 as original, E.`s more peculiar; That he`5 more of a man you might say of the one, Of the other he`5 more of an Emerson; C.`s the Titan, as shaggy of mind as of limb, - E. the clear-eyed Olympian, rapid and slim; The one`5 two-thirds Norseman, the other half Greek, Where the one`5 most abounding, the other`5 to seek; C.'s generals require to be seen in the mass, - E.'s specialties gain if enlarged by the glass; C. gives nature and God his own fits of the blues, And rims common-sense things with mystical hues, - E. sits in a mystery calm and intense,

Page  325 A FABL~ FOR U?TliiCS. 325 And looks coolly around hiin with sharp common sense; C. shows you how every-day matters unite ~Vith the dim transdiurnal recesses of night, - ~Vhile E., in a plain, preternatural way, Makes mysteries mafters of mere every day; C. draws all his characters quite ~ Ia Fuseli, - He don't sketch their bundles of muscles and thews illy, But he paints with a brush so untamed and profuse, They seem nothing but bundles of muscles and thews; E. is rather like Flaxman, lines strait and severe, And a colorless outline, but fnll, round, and clear; - To the men he thinks worthy he frankly accords The design of a white marble statue in words. C. labors to get at the centre, and then Take a reckoning from there of his actions and men; E. calmly assumes the said centre as granted, And, given himself, has whatever is wanted. "He has imitators in scores, who omit No part of the man but his wisdom and wit, - NVho go carefully o'er the sky-blue of his brain, And when he has skimmed it once, skim it again; Tf at all they resemble him, you may be sure it is Becanse their shoals mirror his mists and obscurities, As a mud-puddle seems deep as heaven for a minute, ~VhiJe a cloud that floats o'er is reflected within it. "There comes, for instance; to see him`5 rare sport, Tread in Emerson's tracks with legs painfully short; How he jumps, how he strains, and gets red in the face, To keep step with the mystagogue's natural pace He follows as close as a stick to a rocket, His fingers exploring the prophet's each pocket. Fie, for shame, brother bard; with good fruit of your own, Can't you let neighbor Emerson's orchards alone? Besides,`t is no use, you`11 not find e'en a core, - has picked up all the windfalls before. They might strip every tree, and E. never would catch`em, His Hesperides have no rude dragon to watch`em ~Vhen they send him a dishfull, and ask him to try`em, He never suspects how the sly rogues came by`em;

Page  326 32(3 LOWELL'S P~EMS. He wonders why`t is there are none such his trees on, And thinks`em the best he has tasted this season. "Yonder, calm as a clond, Alcott stalks in a dream, And fancies hiinself in thy groves, Acadenie, With the Parthenon nigh, and the olive-trees o'er him, And never a fact to perplex him or bore him, With a snug room at Plato's, when night comes, to walk to, And people from morning till midnight to talk to, And from midnight till morning, nor snore in their listen ing; So he muses, his face with the joy of it glistening, For his highest conceit of a happiest state is Where they`d live upon acorns, and bear him talk gratis; And indeed, I believe, no man ever talked better - Each sentence hangs perfectly poised to a letter He seerns piling words, but there`5 royal dust hid In the heart of each sky-piercing pyramid. While he talks he is great, but goes out like a taper, If you shut him up closely with pen, ink, and paper; Yet his fingers itch for`em from morning till night, And he thinks he does wrong if he don't always write; In this, as in all things, a lamb ainong men, He goes to sure death when he goes to his pen. "Close behind him is Browuson, his mouth very full With attempting to gulp a Gregorian bull; Who contrives, spite of that, to pour out as he goes A stream of transparent and forcible prose; He shifts quite about, then proceeds to expound That`t is merely the earth, not himself, that turns round, And wishes it clearly impressed on yonr mind, That the weather-cock rules and not follows the wind; Proving first, then as deftly confuting each side, With no doctrine pleased that`5 not soinewhere denied, He lays the denier away on the shelf, And then - down beside him lies gravely himself. He`5 the Salt River boatman, who always stands willing TQ convey friend or foe without charging a shilling, And so fond of the trip that, when leisure`5 to spare, He`11 row himself up, if he can't get a fare. The worst of it is, that his logic`5 50 strong, That of two sides he commonly chooses the wrong;

Page  327 A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 327 If il~ere is only one, why, lie`11 split it ill two, And first pummel this half, then that, black and blue. That white`5 white needs no proof, but it takes a deep fellow To prove it jet-black, and that jet-black is yellow. He offers the true faith to drink in ~ sieve, - When it reaches your lips there`5 naught left to believe But a few silly- (syllo-, I mean,) -gisms that squat`em Like tadpoles, o'erjoyed with the mud at the bottom. "There is Willis, so natty and jaunty and gay, Who says his best things in so foppish a way, With conceits and pet phrases so thickly o'erlaying`em, That one hardly knows whether to thank him for say ing`em Over-ornament ruins both poem and prose, Jnst conceive of a Muse with a ring in her nose! His prose had a natural grace of its own, And enough of it, too, if he`d let it alone; But he twitches and jerks so, one fairly gets tired, And is forced to forgive where he might have admired; Yet whenever it slips away free and unlaced, It runs like a stream with a musical waste, And gurgles along with the liquidest sweep; - `T is not deep as a river, but who`d have it deep? In a country where scarcely a village is found That has not its author sublime and profound, For some one to be slightly shoal is a duty, And Willis's shallowness makes half his beauty. His prose winds along with a blithe, gurgling error, And reflects all of Heaven it can see in its mirror; `T is a narrowish strip, but it is not an artifice, - `T is the true out-of-doors with its genuine hearty phiz It is Nature herself, and there`5 something in that, Since most brains reflect but the crown of a hat. No volume I know to read under a tree, More truly delicious than his A 1' Abri, Wfth the shadows of leaves flowing over your book, Like ripple-shades netting the bed of a brook; ~Vith June coming softly your shoulder to look over, Breezes waiting to turn every leaf of your book over, And Nature to criticise still as you read, - The page that bears that is a rare one indeed.

Page  328 328 LOWELL'S POEAIS. "He`5 so innate a cockney, that had he been born Where plain bare-skin`S the only fnll-dress that is worn, He`d have given his own snch an air that you`d say `T had been made by a tailor to lounge in Broadway. His nature`5 a glass of chainpagne with the foam on As tender as Fletcher, as witty as Beaumont So his best things are done in the finsh of the moment, if he wait, all is spoiled; he may stir it and shake it, But, the fixed air once gone, he can never re-make it. He might be a marvel of easy delightfulness, If he would not sometimes leave the r out of spright fulness; And he ought to let Scripture alone -`t is self-slaughter, For nobody likes inspiration-and-water. He`d have been just the fellow to sup at the Mermaid, Cracking jokes at rare Ben, with an eye to the barmaid, His wit running up as Canary ran down, - The topmost bright bnbble on the wave of The Town. "Here comes Parker, the Orson of parsons, a man Whom the Church nndertook to put under her ban, - (The Church of Socinus, I mean) - his opinions Being So- (ultra) -cinian, they shocked the Socinians; They beJieved - faith I`m puzzled - I think I may call Their belief a believing in ~iothing at all, Or something of that sort; I know they all went For a general union of total dissent: He went a step farther; without cough or hem, He frankly avowed he believed not in them; And, before he could be jumbled up or prevented From their orthodox kind of dissent he dissented. There was heresy here, you perceive, for the right Of privately judging means simply that light Has been granted to me, for deciding on you, And in happier times, before Atheism grew, The deed contained clauses for cooking you too. Now at Xerxes and Knut we all laugh, yet our foot ~Vith the same wave is wet that mocked Xerxes and Knut; And we all entertain a sincere private notion, That our Thus far! will have a great weight with the ocean. was so with our liberal Christians: they bore

Page  329 A FABLE FOR CRITiCS. 329 Wfth sincerest conviction their chairs to the shore; They brandished their worn theological birches, Bade natural progress keep out of the Churches, And expected the lines they had drawn to prevail NVith the fast-rising tide to keep out of their pale; They bad formerly dammed the Pontifical See, And the same thing, they thought, would do nicely for P.; But he turned up his nose at their murmuring and shamming, And cared (shall I say?) not a d- for their damming; So they first read him out of their church, and next minute Turned round and declared he had never been in it. But the ban was too small or the man was too big, For he recks not their bells, books, and candles a (He don't look like a man who would stay treated shab Sophro}}~i){'us' son's head o'er the features of Rabelais;) - He bangs and bethwacks them, - their backs he salutes Wfth the whole tree of knowledge torn up by the roots; His sermons with satire are plenteously verjuiced, And he talks in one breath of Confutzee, Cass, Zerduscht, Jack Robinson, Peter the Hermit, Strap, Dathan, Cush, Pitt, (not the bottomless, that he`5 no faith in,) Pan, Pillicock, Shakspeare, Paul, Toots, Monsieur Tonson, Aldebaran, Alcander, Ben Khorat, Ben Jonson, Thoth, Richter, Joe Smith, Father Paul, Judah Monis, Mus~us, Muretus, hem, - ~ Scorpionis, Maccabee, Maccaboy, Mac - Mac - ah! Machiavelli, Condorcet, Count d'Orsay, Conder, Say, Ganganelli, Orion, O'Connell, the Chevalier D'O, (See the Memoirs of Sully) TO' 7raV~ the great toe Of the statue of Jupiter, now made to pass For that of Jew Peter by good Romish brass, - (You may add fqr yourselves, for I find it a bore, All the names you have ever, or not, heard before, And when you`ve done that - why, invent a few more.) His hearers can't tell you on Sunday beforehand, If in that day's discourse they`11 be Bibled or Koraned, For lie`5 seized the idea (by his martyrdom fired,) That all men (not orthodox) mQy be inspired; Yet tho' wisdom profane with his creed he may weave in, He makes it quite clear what he does n't believe in,

Page  330 330 LOWELL'S POEMS. While some, who decry him, think all Kingdom Come Is a sort of a, kind of a, species of Hum, Of which, as it were, so to speak, not a crumb - Would be left, if we did n't keep carefully mum, And, to make a clean breast, that`t is perfectly plain That all kinds of wisdom are somewhat profane; Now P.'s creed than this may be lighter or darker, But in one thing,`t is clear, he has faith, namely Parker; And this is what makes him the crowd-drawing preacher, There`5 a background of god to each hard-working feature, Every word that he speaks has been fierily furnaced In the blast of a life that has struggled in earnest: There he stands, looking morb like a ploughman than priest, If not dreadfully awkward, not graceful at least, His gestures all downright and same, if you will, As of brown-fisted Hobnail in hoeing a drill, But his periods fall on you, stroke after stroke, Like the blows of a lumberer felling an oak, You forget the man wholly, you`re thankful to meet With a preacher who smacks of the field and the street, And to hear, you`re not over-particular whence, Almost Taylor's profusion, quite Latimer's sense. "There is Bryant, as quiet, as cool, and as dignified, As a smooth, silent iceberg, that never is ignifled, Save when by reflection`t is kindled 0' nights With a semblance of flame by the chill Northern Lights. He may rank (Griswold says so) first bard of your nation, (There`5 no doubt that he stands in supreme iceolation,) Your topmost Parnassus he may set his heel on, But no warm applauses come, peal following peal on, - He`5 too smooth and too polished to hang any zeal on: Unqi~alifled merits, I`11 grant, if you choose, he has`em, But he lacks the one merit of kindling enthusiasm; If he stir you at all, it is just, on my soul, Like being stirred up with the very North Pole. "He is very nice reading in summer, but inter Nos, we don't want ext~a freezing in winter

Page  331 A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 331 Take him up in the depth of July, my advice is, When you feel an Egyptian devotion to ices. But, deduct all you can, there`5 enough that`5 right good in him, lle has a true soul for field, river, and wood in him; And his heart, in the midst of brick walls, or where'er it is, Glows, softens, and thrills with the tenderest charities, - To you mortals that delve in this trade-ridden planet? No, to old Berkshire's hills, with their limestone and granite. If you`re one who in loco (add foco here) desipis, You will get of his outermost heart (as I guess) a piece; But you`d get deeper down if you came as a precipice, And would break the last seal of its inwardest fountain, If you only could palm yourself off for a mountain. Mr. Quivis, or somebody quite as discerning, Some scholar who`5 hourly expecting his learning, Calls B. the American Wordsworth; but Wordsworth Is worth near as much as your whole tuneful herd`5 worth. No, don't be absurd, he`5 an excellent Bryant; But, my friends, you`11 endanger the life of your client, By attempting to stretch him up into a giant: If you choose to compare him, I think there are two per-sons fit for a parallel-Thomson and Cowper; * I don't mean exactly, - there`5 something of each, There`5 T.'s love of nature, C.'s penchant to preach; Just mix up their minds so that C.'s spice of craziness Shall balance and neutralize T.'s turn for laziness, And it gives you a brain cool, quite frictionless, quiet, Whose internal police nips the buds of all riot, - A brain like a permanent strait-jacket put on The heart which strives vainly to burst off a button, A brain which, without being slow or mechanic, Does more than a larger less drilled, more volcanic; lie`5 a Cowper condensed, with no craziness bitten, And the advantage that Wordsworth before him has written. *To demonstrate quickly and easily how per versely absurd`t is to sound this name Co~cper, As people in general call hill) named s?cper, I just add that he rhymes it himself with horse-troopsr.

Page  332 332 LOWELL'S POEMS. "But, my dear little bardlings, don't prick up your ears, Nor s~ippose I would rank you and Bryant as peers; If I call him an iceberg, I don't mean to say There is nothing in that which is grand, in its way; He is almost the one 0~ your poets that knows How much grace, strength, and dignity lie in Repose; If he sometimes fall short, he is too wise to mar His thought's modest fulness by going too far; `T would be well if your authors should all make a trial Of what virtue there is in severe self-denial, And measure their writings by Hesiod's staff, ~Yhich teaches that all have less value than half. "There is Whittier, whose swelling and vehement heart Strains the strait-breasted drab of the Qnaker apart, And reveals the live Man, still supreme and erect, Underneath the bemummying wrappers of sect There was ne er a man born who had more of the swing Of the true lyric bard and all that kind of thing; And his failures arise, (though perhaps he don't know it,) From the very same cause that has made him a poet, - A fervor of mind which knows no separation `Twixt simple excitement and pure inspiration, As my Pythoness erst sometimes erred from not knowing If`t were I or mere wind through her tripod was blowing; Let his mind once get head in its favorite direction And the torrent of verse bursts the dams of reflection, Wbile, borne with the rush of the metre along, The poet may chance to go right or go wrong, Content with the whirl and delirium of son~ Then his grammar`5 not always correct, no7 his rhymes, And he`5 prone to repeat his own lyrics sometimes, Not his best, though, for those are struck off at white heats When the heart in his breast like a trip-hammer beats, And can ne'er be repeated again any more Than they could have been carefully plotted before: Like old what's-his-name there at the battle of Hastings, (Who, however, gave more than mere rhythmical bastings,) Our Quaker leads off metaphorical fights For reform and whatever they call buman rights, Both singing and striking in front of the war And hitting his foes with the mallet of Thor;

Page  333 A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 333 A~~ne haec, one exclaims, on beholding his knocks, Vestisjllii t~~i, 0, leather-clad Fox? Can that be thy son, in the battle's mid din, Preaching brotherly love and then driving it in To the brain of the tough old Goliah of sin, Wi~n the smoothest of pebbles from Castaly's spring Impressed on his hard moral sense with a sling? "All honor and praise to tbe right-hearted bard Who was true to The Voice when such service was hard, Who himself was so free he dared sing for the slave When to look but a protest in silence was brave; All honor and praise to the women and men Who spoke out for the dumb and the down-trodden then! I need not to name them, already for each I see History preparing the statue and niche; They were harsh, but shall ~O?~ be so shocked at hard words Who have beaten your pruMug-hooks up into swords, Whose rewards and hurrahs men are surer to gain By the reaping of men and of women than grain? Why should you stand aghast at their fierce wordy war, if You scalp one another for Bank or for Tariff? Your calling them cut-throats and knaves all day long Don't prove that the use of bard language is wrong; While the World's heart beats quicker to think of such men As signed Tyranny's doom with a bloody steel-pen, While on Fourth-of-Julys beardless orators fright one With hints at Harmodius and Aristogeiton, You need not look shy at your sisters and brothers Who stab with sharp words for the freedom of others; - No, a wreath, twine a wreath for the loyal and true Who, for the sake of the many, dared stand with the few, Not of blood-spattered laurel for enemies braved, But of broad, peaceful oak-leaves for citizens saved! "Here comes Dana, abstractedly loitering along Tuvolved in a paulo-post-future of song, Who`11 be going to write what`11 never be written Till the Muse, ere he thinks of it, gives him the mftten, - Who is so well aware of how things should be done, That his own works displease him before they`re begun, -

Page  334 334 LOWELL'S POEAiS. ~YIio so well all that makes up good poetry knows That the best of his poems is wrftten ill prose; All saddled and bridled stood Pegasus waiting, lie was booted and spurred, but he loitered debating, In a very grave question his soul was immersed, - ~Vhich foot in the stirrup he ought to put first; Aiid, while this point and that he judicially dwelt on, lie, somehow or other, had written Paul Felton, ~Vhose beauties or faults, whichsoever you see there, You`11 allow only genius could hit upon either. That he once was the Idle Man none will deplore, But I fear he will never be anything more; The ocean of song heaves and glitters before him, The depth and the vastness and longing sweep o'er hini, He knows every breaker and shoal on the chart, He has the Coast Pilot and so on by heart, Yet lie spends his whole life, like the man in the fable, In learning to swim on his library-table. "There swaggers John Neal, who has wasted in Maine The sinews and chords of his pugilist brain, Who might have been poet, but that, in its stead, he Preferred to believe that he was so already; Too hasty to wait till Art's ripe fruit shotild drop, He must pelt down an unripe and colicky crop; Who took to the law, and had this sterling plea for it, It required him`to quarrel, and paid him a fee for it; A man who`5 made less than he might have, because He always has thought himself more than he was, - Who, with very good natural gifts as a bard, I~roke the strings of his lyre out by too hard, And cracked half the notes of a truly fine voice, i)~ecause song drew less instant attention than noise. Ah, men do not know how much strength is in poise, That he goes the farthest who goes far enough, And that all beyond that is just bother and stuff. No vain man matures, he makes too much new wood; His blooms are too thick for the fruit to be good; `T is the modest man ripens,`t is he that achieves, Just what`5 needed of sunshine and shade he receives; Grapes, to mellow, require the cool dark of their leaves; Neal wants balance; he throws his mind always too far, Whisking out flocks of comets, but never a star;

Page  335 A FABLE FOR CRJTICS. 335 He bas so much muscle, and loves so to show it, That he strips himself naked to prove he`5 a poet, And, to show he could leap Art's wide diteb, if he tried, Jumps clean o'er it, and into the hedge t' other side. He has strength, but there`5 nothing about him in keeping; One gets surelier onward by walking than leaping; He has used his own sinews himself to distress, And had done vastly more had he done vastly less; In letters, too soon is as bad as too late, Could he only have waited he might have been great, But he plumped into Helicon lip to the waist, And muddied the stream crc he took his first taste. "There is Hawthorne, with genius so shrinking and rare That you hardly at first see the strength that is there; A frame so robust, with a nature so sweet, So earnest, so graceful, so solid, so fleet, Is wortb a descei~ from Olympus to meet `T is as if a rough oak that for ages had stood, With his gnarled bony branches like ribs of the wood, Should bloom, after cycles of struggle and scathe, With a single anemone trembly and rathe; His strength is so tender, his wildness so meek, That a suitable parallel sets one to seek, - He`5 a John Bunyan Fonque', a Pnritan Tieck; When nature was shaping hini, clay was not granted For making so full-sized a man as she wanted, So, to fill out her model, a little she spared From some finer-grained stuff for a woman prepared, And she could not have hit a more excellent plan For making hiin fully and perfectly man. The succe~s of her scheme gave her so much delight, That she tried it again, shortly after, in Dwight; Only, while she was kneading and shaping the clay, She sang to her work in her sweet childish way, And found, when she`d put the last touch to his soul, Tbat the music had somehow got mixed with the whole. "Here`5 Cooper, who`5 written six volumes to show He`5 as good as a lord: well, let`5 grant that be`5 so; If a person prefer that description of praise, Why, a coronet`5 certainly cheaper tban bays;

Page  336 33(3 LOWELL'S POEMS. But he need take no pains to convince us he`5 not (As his enemies say) the American Scott. Choose any twelve men, and let C. read aloud That one of his novels of which he`5 most proud, And I`d lay any bet tbat, without ever quitting Their box, they`d be all, to a man, for acquitting. lle has drawn you one character, though, that is new, One wildflower he`5 plucked that is wet with the dew Of this fresh Western world, and, the thing not to mince, lle has done naught but copy it ill ever since llis Indians, with proper respect be it said, Are just Natty Bumpo daubed over with red, And his very Long Toms are the same useful Nat, Rigged up in duck paiits and a sou'-wester hat, (Though once in a Coffin, a good chance was found To have slipt the old fellow away underground.) All his other men-figures are clothes upon sticks, The de~~ni~re chemise of a man in a fix, (As a captain besieged, when his garrison 5 small, Sets up caps upon poles to be seen o'er the wall;) And the women he draws from one model don't vary, All sappy as maples and fiat as a prairie. ~Yhen a character`5 wanted, he goes to the task As a cooper would do in composing a cask; Ile picks out the staves, of their qualities heedful, Just hoops them together as tight as is needful, And, if the best fortune should crown tlie attempt, he llas made at the most something wooden aiid empty. "Don't suppose I would underrate Cooper's abilities, If I thought you`d do that, I should feel very ill at ease; The men who have given to one character life And objective existence, are not very rife, You may number them all, both prose-writers and singers, Without overrunning the bounds of your fiiigers, And Natty won't go to oblivion quicker Than Adams the parson or Primrose the vicar. "- There is one thing in Cooper I like, too, and that is That on manners he lectures his countrymen gratis, Not precisely so either, because, for a rarity, He is paid for his tickets in unpopularity. Now he may overcharge his American pictures,

Page  337 A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 337 But you`11 grant there`5 a good deal of truth in his strictures; And I honor the man who is willing to sink ilaif his present repute for the freedom to think, And, when he has thought, be his cause strong or weak, Will risk t' other half for the freedom to speak, Caring naught for what vengeance the mob has in store, Let that mob be the upper ten thousand or lower. "There are truths you Americans need to be told, And it never`11 refute them to swagger and scold; John Bull, looking o'er the Atlantic, in choler At your aptness for trade, says you worship the dollar; But to scorn such i-dollar-try`5 what very few do, And John goes to that church as often as you do. No matter what John says, don't try to outcrow him, `T is enough to go quietly on and outgrow him; Like most fathers, Bull hates to see Number one ~isplacing himself in the mind of his son, And detests the same faults in himself he' d neglected When he sees them again in his child's glass reflected; To love one another you`re too like by half, If he is a bull, you`re a pretty stout calf, And tear your own pasture for naught but to show What a nice pair of horns you`re beginning to grow. "There are one or two things I should just like to hint, I~or you don't often get the truth told you in print. The most of you (this is what strikes all beholders) liave a mental and physical stoop in the shoulders; Though you ought to be free as the winds and the waves, You`ve the gait and the manners of runaway slaves; Tho' you brag of your New World, you don't half believe in it, A nd as much of the Old as is possible weave in it; Your goddess of freedom, a tight, buxom girl, ~\tith lips like a cherry and teeth like a pearl, With eyes bold as Here's, and hair floating free, And full of the sun as the spray of the sea, Who can sing at a husking or romp at a shearing, Who can trip through the forests alone without fearing, Who can drive home the cows with a song through the grass, z

Page  338 338 LOIVELL'S POEMS. Keeps glancing aside into Europe's cracked glass, Hides her red hands in gloves, pinches up her lithe waist, And makes herself wretched with transmarine taste She loses her fresh country charm when she takes Any mirror except her own rivers and lakes. "You steal Englishmen's books and think Englishmen's thought, With their salt on her tail your wild eagle is caught; Your literature suits its each whisper and motion To what will be thought of it over the ocean; The cast clothes of Europe your statesmanship tries And mumbles again the old blarneys and lies Forget Europe wholly, your veins throb with i)lood, To which the dull current in hers is but mud; Let her sneer, let her say your experiment fails, In her voice there`5 a tremble e'en now while she rails, And your shore will soon be in the nature of things Covered thick with gilt driftwood of runaway kings, Where alone, as it were in a Longfellow's Waif, Her fugitive pieces will find fl~emselves safe. 0, my friends, thank your God, if you have one, that he `Twixt the Old World and you set the gulf of a sea, Be strong-backed, browwhanded, upright as your pines, By the scale of a hemisphere shape your designs, Be true to yourselves and this new nineteenth age, As a statue by Powers, or a picture by Page, Plough, sail, forge, build, carve, paint, all things make new, To your own New-World instincts contrive to be true, Keep your ears open wide to the Future's first call, Be whatever you will, but yourselves first of all, Stand fronting the dawn on Toil's heaven-scaling peaks, And become my new race of more practical Greeks. - Hem! your likeness at present, I shudder to tell 0 Is that you have your slaves, and the Greek had his helot." Here a gentleman present, who had in his attic More pepper than brains, shrieked- "The man's a fanati~ I`m a capital tailor with warm tar and featbers, And will make him a suit that`11 serve in all weather~ I3ut we`11 argue the point first, I`m willing to reason`t, Palaver before condemnation`5 but decent,

Page  339 A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 339 So, through my humble person, Humanity begs Of the friends of true freedom a loan of bad eggs." But Apollo let one such a look of his show forth As wheii ~E Vv'KTL E'OLK(i)'~~ and so forth, And the gentleman somehow slunk out of tlie way, But, as he was going, gained courage to say, - "At slavery in the abstract my whole soul rebels, I am as strongly opposed to`t as any one else." "Ay, no doubt, but whenever I`ve happened to meet ~Vith a wrong or a crime, it is always concrete," Answered Phoebus severely; then turning to us, "The mistake of such fellows as just made the fuss Is only in taking a great busy nation For a part of their pitiful cotton-plantation. - But there comes Miranda, Zeus! where shall I flee to? She has such a penchant for bothering me too! She always keeps asking if I don't observe a Particular likeness`twixt her and Minerva; She tells me my efforts in verse are quite clever; - She`5 been travelling now, and will be worse than ever; One would think, though, a sharp-sighted noter she`d be Of all that`5 worth mentioning over the sea, For a woman must surely see well, if she try, The whole of whose being`5 a capital I: She will take an old notion, and make it ber own, By saying it o'er in her Sibylline tone, Or persuade you`t is something tremendously deep, By repeating it so as to put yo~i to sleep; And she well may defy any mortal to see through it, When once she has mixed up her infinite me il~rongh it. There is one thing she owns in her own single right, It is native and genuine - namely, her spite: Though, when acting as censor, she priv,a,tely blows A censer of vanity`neath her own nose. Here Miranda caine up, and said, "Phcebus, you know That the infinite Soul has its infinite woe, As I ought to know, having lived cheek by jowl Since the day I was born, with the infinite Soul; I myself introduced, I myself, I alone, To my Land's better life authors solely my own, Who the sad heart of earth on their shoulders have taken, Whose works sound a depth by Life's quiet unshaken,

Page  340 340 LOlVELL'S POEMS. Such as Shakspeare, for instance, the Bible, and Bacon, Not to mention iny own works; Time's nadir is fleet, And, as for myself, I`in quite out of conceit" "Quite out of conceit! I`m enchanted to hear it," Cried Apollo aside, "Who`d have thought she was near it? To be sure one is apt to exhaust those commodities lie ~~ses too fast, yet in this case as odd it is As if Neptune should say to his turbots and whitings, `I`in as much out of salt as Miranda's own writings,' (Which, as she in her own happy manner has said, Sound a depth, for`t is one of the functions of lead.) She often has asked me if I could not find A place somewhere near me that suited her mind; I know but a single one vacant, which she, With her rare talent that way, would fit to a T. And it would not imply any pause or cessation In the work she esteems her peculiar vocation, She may enter on duty to-day, if she chooses, And remain Tiring-woman for life to the Muses." Miranda meanwhile has succeeded in driving Up into a corner, in spite of their striving, A small flock of terrified victims, and there With an Lturn4he-crank-of-the-Universe air And a tone which, at least to my fancy, appears Not so much to be entering as boxing your ears, Is unfolding a tale (of herself, I surmise, For`t is dotted as thick as a peacock's with I's.) Apropos of Miranda, I`11 rest on my oars And drift through a trifling digression on bores, For, though not wearing ear-rings in more majorum, Our ears are kept bored just as if we still wore`em. There was one feudal custom worth keeping, at least, Roasted bores made a part of each well-ordered feast, And of all quiet pleasures the very ne plus Was in hunting wild bores as the tame ones hunt us. Arch~ologians, I know, who have personal fears Of -this wise application of hounds and of spears, llave tried to make out, with a zeal more than wonted, was a kind of wild swine that our ancestors hunted; But I`11 never believe that the age which has strewn Europe o'er with cathedrals, and otherwise shown

Page  341 A FABLE FOR CRl7YCS. 341 That it knew what was what, could by chance not have known, (Spending, too, its chief time with its buff on, no doubt,) ~~hich beast`t would improve the world most to thin out. I divide bores myself, in the manner of rifles, Into two great divisions, regardless of trifles; - There`5 your smooth-bore and screw-bore, who do not much vary In the weight of cold lead they respectively carry. The smooth-bore is one in whose essence the mind Not a corner nor cranny to cling by can find; You feel as in nightmares sometimes, when you slip I)owu a steep slated roof where there`s nothing to grip, You slide and you slide, the blank horror increases, You had rather by far be at once smashed to pieces, You fancy a whirlpool below white and frothing, Aud finally drop off and light upon - nothing. The screw-bore has twists in him, faint predilections For going just wrong in the tritest directions; ~Vhen he`5 wrong he is flat, when he`5 right he can't show it, He`11 tell you what Snooks said about the new poet,* Or how Fogrum was outraged by Tennyson's Princess; He has spent all his spare time and intellect since his Birth in perusing, on each art and science, Just the books in which no one puts any reliance, And though nemo, we`re told, horis omnibus sapit, The rule will not fit him, however you shape it, For he has a perennial foison of sappiness; He has just enough force to spoil half your day's happi ness, And to make him a sort of mosquito to be with, But just not enough to dispute or agree wfth. These sketches I made (not to be too explicit) From two honest fellows who made inc a visit, And broke, like the tale of the Bear and the Fiddle, My reflections on Halleck short off by the middle, I shall not now go into the subject more deeply, For I notice that some of my readers look sleep'ly, *(If you call Snooks an owl, he will show by his looks That he`a morally certain you`re jealous of Snooks.)

Page  342 342 LOWELL'S POEMS. I wiil barely remark that,`mongst civilized nations, There`5 none that displays more exemplary patience Under all sorts of boring, at all sorts of hours, From all sorts of desperate persons, than ours. Not to speak of our papers, our State legislatures, And other such trials for sensitive natures, Just look for a moment at Congress, - appalled, ~[y fancy shrinks back from the phantom it called; ~Yt~y, there`5 scarcely a member unworthy to frown `Neath what Fourier nicknames the Boreal crown; Only think what that infinite bore-pow'r could do If applied with a utilitarian view: Suppose, for example, we shipped it with care To Sahara's great desert and let it bore there, If they held one short session and did nothing else, They`d fill the whole waste with Artesian wells. But`t is time now with pen phonographic to follow Through some more of his sketches our laughing Apollo: - "There comes Harry Franco, and, as he draws near, You find that`5 a smile which you took for a sneer; One half of him contradicts t' other his wont Is to say very sharp things and do very blunt; His manner`5 as hard as his feelings are tender, And a so~~tie he`11 make when he means to surrender; He`5 in joke half the time when he seems to be sternest, ~Vhen he seems to be joking, be sure he`5 in earnest He has common sense in a way that`5 uncommon, Hates humbtig and cant, loves his liieuds like a woman, Builds his dislikes of cards and his friendships of oak, Loves a prejudice better than aught but a joke, Is half upright Quaker, half downright Come-outer, Loves Freedom too well to go stark mad about her, Quite artless himself, is a lover of Art, Shuts you out of his secrets and into his heart, And though not a poet, yet all must admire In his letters of Pinto his skill on the liar. "There comes Poe, with his raven, like Barnaby Rudge, Three-fifths of him genius and two-fifths sheer fudge, \Vho talks like a book of iambs and pentameters, In a way to make people of common-sense damn metres, ~Vlio has written some things quite the best of their kind,

Page  343 A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 343 b~ut the heart somehow seems all squeezed out by the mind, \Vho - but hey-day! ~Yhat`5 this? Messieurs Mathews and Poe, You must n't fling mud-balls at Longfellow so, Does it make a man worse that his character`5 such As to make his friends love him (as you think) too much? NYhy, there is not a bard at this moment alive More willing than he that his fellows should thrive, \Vhile you are abusing bim thus, even now He would help either one 0~ you out 0~ a slough; You may say that he`5 sinooth and all that till you`re hoarse, But remember that elegance also is force' After po~ishing granite as much as you w'ill, The heart keeps its tough old persistency still; Deduct all you can that still keeps you at bay, - ~Vhy, he`11 live till men weary of Collius and Gray. I`m not over-fond of Greek metres in English, To me rhyme`5 a gain, so it be not too jinglish, And your modern hexameter verses are no more Like Greek ones than sleek Mr. Pope is like Homer; As the roar of the sea to the coo of a pigeon is, So, compared to your moderns, sounds old Melesigeiies; I may be too partial, the reason, perhaps, o't is That I`ve heard the old blind man recite his own rhapso dies, And my ear with that music impregnate may be, Like the poor exiled shell with the soul of the sea, ()r as one can't bear Strauss when his nature is cloven To its deeps within deeps by the stroke of Beethoven; But, set that aside, and`t is truth that I speak, Had Theocritus written in English, not Greek, I believe that his exquisite sense would scarce change a line In that rare, tender, virgin-like pastoral Evangeline. That`5 not ancient nor modern, its place is apart ~Vhere time has no sway, in the realm of pure Art, `T is a shrine of retreat from Earth's hubbub and strife As quie~t and chaste as the author's own life. "There comes Philothea, her face alJ a-glow, She has just been dividing some poor creature's woe And can't tell which pleases her most, to relieve

Page  344 844 LOWELL'S POEMS. His want, or his story %o hear and believe; No doubt against many deep griefs she prevails, For her ear is the refuge of destitute tales; She knows well that silence is sorrow's best food, And that talking draws off from the heart its black blood, So she`11 listen with patience and let you unfold Your bundle of rags as`t were pure cloth of gold, Which, indeed, it all turns to as soon as she`5 touched it, And, (to borrow a phrase from the n~rsery,) muched. it, She has such a musical taste, she will go Any distance to hear one who draws a long bow; She will swallow a wonder by mere might and main And thinks it geometry`5 fault if she`5 fain To consider things flat, inasmuch as they`re plain; Facts with her are accomplished, as Frenchmen would say, They will prove all she wishes them to - either way, And, as fact lies on this side or that, we must try, If we`re seeking the truth, to find where it don't lie; I was telling her once of a marvellous aloe That for thousands of years had looked spindling and sallow, And, though nnrsed by the fruitfullest powers of mud, Had never vouchsafed e'en so much as a bud, Till its owner remarked, (as a sailor, you know, Often will in a calm,) that it never would blow, For he wished to exhibit the plant, and designed That its blowing should help him in raising the wind; At last it was told him that if he should water Its roots with the blood of his unmarried daughter, (Who was born, as her mother, a Calvinist said, With a Baxter's effectual caul on her head,) It would blow as the obstinate breeze did when by a Like decree of her father died Iphigenia; At first he declared he himself would be blowed Ere his conscience with such a foul crime he would load Bat the thought, coming oft, grew less dark than before, And he mused, as each creditor knocked at his door, If U~is were bat done they would dun me no more; I told Philothea his strug~les and doubts, And how he considered the ins and the outs Of the visions he had, and the dreadful dyspepsy, How he went to the seer that lives at Po'keepsie, How the seer advised him to sleep on it first

Page  345 A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 345 ~nd to read his big volume in case of the worst, Aud further advised he should pay him five dollars For writing ~urn, ~u~, on his wristbands and collars; Three years and ten days these dark words he had studied ~Vhen the daughter was missed, and the aloe had budded I told how he watched it grow large and more large, And wondered how much for the show lie should charge, - She had listened with utter indifference to this, till I told how it bloomed, and discharging its pistil With an aim the Eumenides dictated, shot The botanical filicide dead on the spot; It had blown, but he reaped not his horrible gains, For it blew with such force as to blow out his brains, And the crime was blown also, because on the wad, Which was paper, was writ`Visitation of God,' As well as a thrilling account of the doed Which the coroner kindly allowed me to read. "Well, my friend took this story up jnst, to be sure, As one might a poor foundling that`s laid at one's door; She combed it and washed it and clothed it and fed it, And as if`t were her own child most tenderly bred it, Laid the scene (of the legend, I mean,) far away a-moug the green vales underneath llimalaya. And by artist-like touches, laid on here and there, Made the whole thing so touching, I frankly declare I have read it all thrice, and, perhaps I am weak, But I found every time there were tears on my cheek. "The pole, science tells us, the magnet controls, But she is a magnet to emigrant Poles, And folks with a mission that nobody knows, Throng thickly about her as bees round a rose; She can fill up the ca~~ets in such, make their scope Converge to some focus of rational hope And, with sympathies fresh as the morn'ing, their gall Can transmute into honey, - but this is not all; Not only for those she has solace, oh, say, Vice's desperate nursling adrift in Broadway, Who clingest, with all that is left of thee human, To the last slender spar from the wreck of the woman, llast thou not found one shore where those tired drooping feet

Page  346 846 LOJVELL'S POEAIS. Could reach firm mother-earil~, one full heart on whose beat The soothed head in silence reposing could hear The chimes of far childhood throb back on the ear? Ah, there`5 many a beam from the fountain of day That to reach us unclouded, must pass, on its way, Through the soul of a woman, and hers is wide ope To the infineuce of Heaven as the blue eyes of Hope; Yes, a great soul is hers, one that dares to go in To the prison, the slave-hut, the alleys of sin, And to bring into each, or to find there some line Of the never completely out-trampled divine; If her heart at high floods swamps her brain now aii~l then, `T is but richer for that when the tide ebbs agen, As, after old Nile has subsided, his plain Overflows with a second broad deluge of grain; What a wealth would it bring to the narrow and 501 U Could they be as a Child but for one little hour! "What! Irving? thrice welcome, warm heart and fiiie brain, You bring back the happiest spirit from Spain, And the gravest sweet humor, that ever were there Since Cervantes met death in his gentle despair; Nay, don't be embarrassed, nor look so beseeching, I shan't run directly against my own preaching, And, having jnst laughed at their Raphaels and Dantes, Go to setting you up beside matchless Cervantes; But allow me to speak what I honestly feel, - To a true poet-heart add the fun of Dick Steele Throw in all of Addison, minus the chill, With the whole of that partnership's stock and good will, Mix well, and while stirring, hum o'er, as a spell, The fine olcl English Gentleman, simmer it well, Sweeten just to your own private liking, then strain That only the finest and clearest remain, Let it stand out of doors till a soul it receives From the warm lazy sun loitering down through green leaves, And you`11 find a choice nature, not wholly deserving A name either English or Yankee, - just Irving.

Page  347 A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 3~7 "There goes, - but stet nominis umbra, - his name You`11 be glad enough, some day or other, to claim, And will all crowd about him and swear that you knew him If some English hackeAtic should chance to review him. The old porcos ante ne projiciatis MARGARITAs, for ~m you have verified gratis; What matters his name? Why, it may be Sylvester, Judd, Junior, or Junius, Ulysses, or Nester, For aught I know or care;`t is enough that I look On the author of`Margaret,' the first Yankee book NVith the so~i of Down East in`t, and things farther East, As far as the threshold of morning, at least, Where awaits the fair dawn of the simple and true, Of the day that comes slowly to make all things new. `T has a smack of pine woods, of bare field and bleak hill Such as only the breed of the Mayflower could till; The Puritan`5 shown in it, tough to the core, Such as prayed, smiting Agag on red Marston Moor; With an unwilling humor, half-choked by the drouth In brown hollows about the inhospitable mouth; N\~ith a soul full of poetry, though it has qualms About finding a happiness out of the Psalms; Fnll of tenderness, too, though it shrinks in the dark, liamadryad-like, under the coarse, shaggy bark; That sees visions, knows wrestlings of ~od with the Will, And has its own Sinais and thunderings still." llere, - " Forgive me, Apollo," I cried, "while I pour My heart out to my birthplace: 0, loved in ore and more Dear Bay state, from whose rocky bosom thy sons Should suck milk, strong-will-giving, brave, such as runs In the veins of old Graylock, - who is it that dares Call thee peddler, a soul wrapt in bank-books and shares? It is false! She`5 a Poet. I see, as I write, Along the far railroad the steam-snake glide white, The cataract-throb of her mill-hearts I hear, The swift strokes of trip-hammers weary my ear, Sledges ring upon anvils, through logs the saw screams, Blocks swing to their place, beetles drive home the beams: - It is songs such as these that she croons to the din Of her fast-flying shuttles, year out and year in,

Page  348 348 LOWELL'S POEM& Whilefrom earth's farthest corner there comes not a breeze But wafts her the buzz of her gold-gleaning l~ees: What tho' those horn hands have as yet found small time For painting and sculpture and music and rhyme? These will come in due order, the need that prest sorest Was to vanquish the seasons, the ocean, the forest, To bridle and harness the rivers, the steam, Making that whirl her mill-wheels, this tug in her team, To vassalize old tyrant Winter, and make Hiin delve surlily for her on river and lake When this New World was parted, she strove not to shirk 11cr lot in the heirdom, the tough, silent Work, The hero-share ever, from Herakles down To Odin, the Earth's iron sceptre and crown; Yes, thou dear, noble Mother! if ever men's praise Could be claimed for creating heroical lays, Thou hast won it; if ever the laurel divine Crowned the Maker and Builder, that glory is thine! Thy songs are right epic, they tell how this rude Rock-rib of our earth here was tamed and s~bdued; Thou hast written them plain on the face of the planet In brave, deathless letters of iron and granite; Thou hast printed them deep for all time; they are set From the same runic type-fount and alphabet With thy stout Berkshire hills and the arms of thy Bay,They are staves from the burly old Mayflower lay. If the drones of the Old World, in querulous ease, Ask thy Art and thy Letters, point proudly to these, Or, if they deny these are Letters and Art, Toil on with the same old invincible heart; Thou art rearing the pedestal broad-based and grand Whereon the fair shapes of the Artist shall stand, And creating, througlt labors undaunted and long, The theme for all Sculpture and Painting and Song - "But my good mother Baystate wants no praise of mine, She learned from her mother a precept divine About something that butters 110 parsnips, her forte In another direction lies, work is her sport,

Page  349 A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 349 (Though she`11 curtsey and set her cap straight, that she will, If you talk about Plymouth and one Bunker's hill.) Dear, notable goodwife! by this time 0~ night, Her hearth is swept clean, and her fire burning bright, And she sits in a chair (of home plan and make) rocking, Musing much, all the while, as she darns on a stocking, Whether turkeys will come pretty high next Thanks giving, Whether flour`11 be so dear, for, as sure as sbe`s living, She will use rye.and4njun then, whether tl~c pig By this time ain't got pretty tolerable big, And whether to sell it outright will be best, Or to smoke hams and shoulders and salt down the rest, - At tbis minute, she`d swop all my verses, ah, cruel! For the last patent stove that is saving of fuel So I`11 just let Apollo go on, for his phiz Shows I`ve kept him awaiting too long as it is." "If our friend, there, who seems a reporter, is done With his burst of emotion, why, I will go on," Said Apollo; some smiled, and, indeed, I must own There was sometbing sarcastic, perhaps, in his tone - "There`5 Holmes, who is matchless among you for wit; A Leyden-jar always full-charged, from which flit The electrical tingles of hit after hit; In long poems`t is painful sometimes and invites A thought of the way the new Telegraph writes, Which pricks down its little sharp sentences spitefully As if you got more than you`d title to rightfully, And you find yourself hoping its wild father Lightning Would flame in for a second and give you a fright'ning. He has perfect sway of what I call a sham metre, But many admire it, the English pentameter, And Campbell, I think, wrote most commonly worse, With less nerve, swing, and fire in the same kind of verse, Nor e'er ~chieved aught in`t so worthy of praise As the tribute of Holines to the grand Marseillaise. You went crazy last ~ar over Bulwer's New Tim on Why, if B., to the day of his dying, should rhyme on, Heaping verses on verses and tomes upon tomes,

Page  350 350 LOWELL'S POEJIlS. He could ne'er reach the best point and vigor of Holmes. His are just the fine hands, too, to weave you a lyric Fnll of fancy, fun, feeling, or spiced with satyric In a measure so kindly, you doubt if the toes That are trodden upon are your own or your foes'. "There is Lowell, who`5 striving Parnassus to climb With a whole bale of isms tied together with rhyme, He might get on alone, spite of brambles and boulders, But he can't with that bundle he has on his shoulders, The top of the hill he will ne'er come nigh reaching Till he learns the distinction`twixt singing and preaching; His lyre has some chords that would ring pretty well, But he`d rather by half make a drum of the shell, And rattle away till he`5 old as Methusalem, At the head of a inarch to the last new Jerusalem. "There goes Halleck, whose Fanny`5 a pseudo Don Juan, With the wickedness out that gave salt to the true one, He`5 a wit, though, I hear, of the very first order, And once made a pun on the words soft Recorder; More than this, he`5 a very great poet, I`~n told, And has had his works published in crimson and gold, With something they call`Illustrations,' to wit, Like those with which Chapman obscured Holy Writ,* WhiGh are said to illustrate, because, as I view it, Like 1~cus a flO?~ they precisely don't do it; Let a man who can write what himself understands Keep clear, if he can, of designing men's hands, Who bury the sense, if there`5 any worth having, And then very honestly call it engraving. But, to quit ba~inage, which there is n't much wit in, Halleck`5 better, I doubt not, than all he has wriften In his verse a clear glimpse you will frequently find, If not of a great, of a fortunate mind, Which contrives to be true to its natural loves In a world of back-offices, ledgers, and stoves. When his heart breaks away from the brokers and banks, And kneels in its own private shrine to give thanks, There`S a genial manliness in hi'n~hat earns * (Cuts riglitly called ~vooden, as all n~ust adrnft.)

Page  351 A FABLE FOR CRJTICS. 351 Our sincerest respect, (read, for instance, nis`Burns,') And we can't but regret (seek excuse where we may) That so much of a man has been peddled away. "But what`s that? a mass-meeting? No, there come in lots The American Disraclis, Buiwers, and Scotts, And in short the American everything-else s, Each charging the others with envies and jealousies; - By the way,`t is a fact that displays what profusions Of all kinds of greatness bless free institutions, That while the Old World has produced barely eight Of such poets as all men agree to call great, And of other great characters hardly a score, (One might safely say less than that rather than more,) With you every year a whole crop is begotten, They`re as much of a staple as corn is, or cotton; Why, there`s scarcely a huddle of log-huts and shanties That has not brought forth its own Miltons and Dautes; I myself know ten Byrons, one Coleridge, three Shelleys, Two Raphaels, six Titians, (I think) one Apelles, Leonardos and Rubenses plenty as lichens, One (but that one is plenty) American Dickens, A whole flock of Lambs, any number of Tennysons, - In short, if a man has the luck to have any sons, He niay feel pretty certain that one out of twain Will be some very great person over again. There is one inconvenience in all this which lies In the fact that by contrast we estimate size,* And, where there are none except Titans, great stature Is only a simple proceeding of nature. What puff the strained sails of your praise shall you furl at, if The calinest degree tbat you know is superlative? At Rome, all whom Charon took into his wherry must, As a mafter of course, be well issimused and errim~~sed, A Greek, too, could feel, while in that famous boat he tost, That his friends would take care he was ~~ro~ed and ~raro~ed, * That is in most cases we do, but not all, Past a doubt, there are men who are inn~itely small, Such as Blank, who, wfthout being`minished a tittle, Might stand for a type of the Absolute Little.

Page  352 352 LOWELL'S POEMS. And formerly we, as through graveyards we past, Thought the world went from bad to worse fearfully fast Let us glance for a moment,`t is well worth the pains, And note what an average graveyard contains. There lie levellers levelled, duns done up themselves, There are booksellers finally laid on their shelves, Horizontally there lie upright politicians, Dose-~dose with their patients sleep faultless physicians, There are slave-drivers quietly whipt underground, There bookbinders, done up in boards, are fast bound, There card-players wait till the last trump be played, There all the choice spirits get finally laid, There the babe that`5 unborn is supplied with a berth, There men without legs get their six feet of earth, There lawyers repose, each wrapt up in his case, There seekers of office are sure of a place, There defendant and plaintiff get equally cast, There shoemakers quietly stick to the last, There brokers at length become silent as stocks, There stage-drivers sleep without quitting their box, And so forth and so forth and so forth and so on, Wfth this kind of stuff one might endlessly go on; To come to the point, I may safely assert you Will find in each yard every cardinal virtue; * Each has six truest patriots: four discoverers of ether, Who never had thought on`t nor mentioned it either: Ten poets, the greatest who ever wrote rhyme: Two hundred and forty first men of their time: One person whose portrait just gave the least hint Its original had a most horrible squint: One critic, most (what do they call it?) reflective, Who never had used the phrase ob- or subjective; Forty fathers of Freedom, of whom twenty bred Their sons for the rice-swamps, at so much a head, And their daughters for - faugh! thirty mothers of Gra~~chi: Non-resistauts who gave many a spiritual black eye: Eight true friends of their kind, one of whom was a - jailer: Four captains almost as astounding as Taylor: *(And at this just conclusion will surely arrive, That the goodness of earth is more dead than alive.)

Page  353 A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 353 Two dozen 0~ Italy's exiles who shoot us his Kais ership daily, stern pen-and4nk Brutu ses, Who, in Yankee back-parlors, with crucified smile,* Mount serenely their country's funereal pile: Ninety-nine Irish heroes, ferocious rebellers `Gainst the Saxon in cis-marine garrets and cellars, Who shake their dread fists o'er the sea and all that, - As long as a copper drops into the hat: Nine hundred Teutonic republicans stark From Vaterland's battles just won - in the Park, Who the happy profession of martyrdom take Whenever it gives them a chance at a steak: Sixty-two second Washingtons: two or three Jack sons: And so many everythings else that it racks one's Poor memory too much to continue the list, Especially now they no longer exist; - I would merely observe that you`ve taken to giving The puffs that belong to the dead to the living, And that somehow your trum p-of-contemporary-doom' 5 tones Is tuned after old dedications and tombstones." - Here the critic came in and a thistle presented t - From a frown to a smile the god's features relented, As he stared at his envoy, who, swelling with pride, To the god's asking look, nothing daunted, replied, "You`re surprised, I suppose, I was absent so long But your godship respecting the lilies was wrong; I hunted the garden from one end to t' other, And got no reward but vexation and bother, Till, tossed out with weeds in a corner to wither, This one lily I found and made haste to bring hither." "Did he think I had given him a book to review? I ought to have known what the fellow would do," Muttered Pheebus aside, "for a thistle will pass Beyond doubt for the queen of all flowers with an ass; He has chosen in just the same way as he`d choose His specimens out of the books he reviews; And now, as this offers an excellent text, *Not forgetting their tea and their toast, though, the while. ~ Turn hack now to page-goodness only knows what, And take a fresh hold on the thread of my plot. 2A

Page  354 354 LOWELL'S POEMS. I`11 give`em some brief hints on criticism next." So, musing a moment, he turned to the crowd, And, clearing his voice, spoke as follows aloud: - "My friends, in the happier days of the muse, We were luckily free from such things as reviews, Then naught caine between with its fog to make clearer The heart of the poet to that of his hearer; Then the poet brought heaven to the people, and they Felt that they, too, were poets in hearing his lay; Then the poet was prophet, the past in his soul Pre-created the future, both parts of one whole; Then for him there was nothing too great or too small, For one natural deity sanctified all; Then the bard owned no clipper and meter of moods Save the spirit of silence that hovers and broods O'er the seas and the mountains, the rivers and woods; He asked not earth's verdict, forgetting the clods, His soul soared and sang to an audience of gods. was for them that he measnred the thought and the line, And shaped for their vision the perfect design, With as glorious a foresight, a balance as true, As swung out the worlds in the infinite blue; Then a glory and greatness invested man's heart, The universal, which now stands estranged and apart, In the free individual moulded, was Art; Then the forms of the Artist seemed thrilled with desire For something as yet unattained, fuller, higher, As once with her lips, lifted hands, and eyes listening, And her whole upward soul in her countenance glistening, Eurydice stood - like a beacon unfired, Which, once touch'd with flame, will leap heav'nward in~ spired - And waited with answering kindle to mark The first gleam of Orpheus that pained the red Dark. Then painting, song, sculpture, did more than relieve The need that men feel to create and believe, And as, in all beauty, who listens with love, Hears these words oft repeated -`beyond and above,' So these seemed to be but the visible sign Of the grasp of the soul after things more divine; They were ladders the Artist erected to climb O'er the narrow horizon of space and of tinie,

Page  355 A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 355 And we see there the footsteps by which men had gained To the one rapturous glimpse of the never-attained, As shepherds could erst sometimes trace in the sod The last spurning print of a sky-cleaving god. "But now, on the poet's dis-privacied moods With do this and do that the pert critic intrudes; While lie thinks he`5 been barely fulfilling his duty To interpret`twixt men and their own sense of beauty, And has striven, while others sought honor or pelf, To make his kind happy as he was himself, He finds he`5 been guilty of horrid offences In all kinds of nioods, numbers, genders, and tenses; He`5 been ob and subjective, what Kettle calls Pot, Precisely, at all events, what he ought not, You have done this, says one judge; done that, says an other; You should have done this, gruinbles one; that, says t' other; Never mind what he touches, one shrieks out Taboo! And while he is wondering what he shall do, Since each suggests opposite topics for song, They all shout together you`re right! and you`re wrong! "Nature fits all her children with something to He who would write and can't write, can surely review, Can set up a small booth as critic and sell us his Petty conceit and his pettier jealousies; Thus a lawyer's apprentice, just out of his teens, Will do for the Jeffrey of six magazines; Having read Johnson's lives of the poets half through, There`5 nothing on earth he`5 not competent to; He reviews with as much nonchalance as he whistles, - He goes through a book and just picks out the thistles, It matters not whether he blame or commend, If he`5 bad as a foe, he`5 far worse as a friend; Let an author but write what`5 above his poor scope, And he`11 go to work gravely and twist up a rope, And, inviting the world to see puiiishment done, Hang himself up to bleach in the wind and the sun; `T is delightful to see, when a man comes along Who has anything in him peculiar and strong,

Page  356 356 LOWELL'S POEMS. E~erycockboat that swims clear its fierce (pop) gundeck at him And make as he passes its ludicrons Peck at bim," - llere Miranda came up and began, "As to that," - Apollo at once seized his gloves, cane, and bat, And, seeing the place getting rapidly cleared, I, too, snatched my notes and forthwith disappeared.

Page  357 TllE BIGLOW PAPERS.

Page  358

Page  359 NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS. [I HAVE observed, reader, (bene- or male-volent, as it may happen,) that it is customary to append to the second editions of books, and to the second works of authors, short sentences commendatory of the first, under the title of ~ofices of the Press. These, I have been given to understand, are procurable at certain established rates, payment being made either in money or advertising patronage by the publisher, or by an adequate outlay of servility on the part of the author. Considering these things with myself, and also that such notices are neither intended, nor generally believed, to convey any real opinions, being a purely ceremonial accompaniment of literature, and resembling certificates to the virtues of various morbiferal panaceas, I conceived that it would be not only more economical to prepare a sufficient number of such myself, but also more imm~diately subservient to the end iu view to prefix them to this our primary edition rather than await tbe contingency of a second, when they would seem to be of small utility. To delay attaching the bobs until the second attempt at flying the kite, would indicate but a slender experience in that useful art. Neither has it escaped my notice, nor failed to afford me matter of reflection, that, when a circus or a caravan is about to visit Jaalam, the initial step is to send forward large and highly ornamented bills of performance to be hung in the bar-room and the post-office. These having been sufficiently gazed at, and beginning to lose their attractiveness except for the flies, and, truly, the boys also, (in whom I find it impossible to repress, even during school-hours, certain oral and telegraphic communications concerning the expected show,) upon some fine morning the band enters in a gayly-painted wagon, or triumphal chariot, and with noisy advertisement, by means of brass, wood, and sheepskin, makes the circuit of our startled village-streets. Then, as the exciting sounds draw nearer and nearer, do I desiderate those eyes of Aristarchus, "whose looks were as a breeching to a boy." Then do I perceive, with vain regret of wasted opportunities, the advantage of a pancrati~ or pantechnic education, since he is most reverenced by my little subjects who can throw the cleanest summerset or walk most securely upon the revolving cask. The story of the Pied Piper becomes for the first time credible to me, (albeit confirmed by the Hameliners dating their legal instruments from the period of his exit,) as I behold how those strains, without pretence of magical potency, bewitch the pupillary legs, nor leave to the pedagogic an entire self-control. For these reasons, lest my kingly prerogative should suffer diminution, I prorogue my restless commons, whom I also follow into the street, chiefly lest some mischief may chance befall them. After the manner of such a band, I send forward the following notices of domestic manufacture, to make brazen proclamation, not unconscious of the advantage which will accrue, if our little craft, cymbztla suti1~s, shall seem to leave port with a clipping breeze, and to carry, in nautical phrase, a bone in her mouth. Nevertheless, I have chosen, as being more equitable, to prepare some also sufficiently objurgatory, that readers of every taste may find a dish to their palate. I have modelled them upon 359

Page  360 3(39 LOJVL~LL'S l3OEMS. __ actually existing specimens, preserved ii' my own cabinet of natu curiosities. Oiie, in particular', I liaci copied with tClerable exactuesi from a notice of one of my owit dis~~ourses, v~hicl). froni its superior toiie mid appe;trauce of vast experielice, I co~icluded to have beea' ~vritten by a iiiau at least ihrc huiidred years of age, though I recol.' lected no existi~ig ii~stauce of such ai~teililuviaii longevit~. Neverth~,', -- less, I afterwaids discovered the author to lie a youiig gentleniaW; preparing for the ministry under tiie direction of one of my bretlire in a neighboring towii, and whoni I had once iiistinctively corrected I a Latin quantity. But this I have been forced to omit, from its too _ - great length. -11. N\T.] From flie Universol Lit~ery Uiiiverse. Full of passages which rivot tlie at~tcntiou of the re~der.... Under a rustic garb, scntimciits are conveyed which should be committed to 7' the memory and engraveir oil tlie ii cart of every nioral and social being.... We consider this a unique porforinairce.... We hope`;` "il) — to se6 it sooii introduced into our comiiioii schools.... ~Ir. Wilbur has)-) performed his duties as editor wit-h excellent taste aud judgment This is a vein which we hope to see successfully prosecuted We ___ hail the appearance of this work as a brig stride to~vard the formation of a pirely aboriginal, indigenous, native, anil American literature. We rejoice to meet with an antlior national ciiougli to break a~vay froiii the slavLsh deference, too common ainolig is, to English grain. mar arid orthography.... Where all is so goi~d, we are at a loss how to make extracts.... On tlie whole, we inay call it a volume which no library, pretending to entire completeness, should fail to place upou its shelves. From tire Iiiggia6ottoiaoi~c~is Siia~ipiiig.tur~tfc. A collection of the merest balderdash arid doggerel that it was eve4 our had fortune to lay eyes cii. The anther is a vulgar buffoon, and 7 the editor a talkative, tedious old fool. We use stroir language, but should any of our readers peruse tire hook, (from which calamity Heaveu preserve thei~!) they vdll riiid reasons for it thick as tlic leaves of Valiuinbrozer, or, to use a still more expressive comparison, as the combined heads of author arid editor. Tire work is wretchedly got 7 up.... We should like to know liew rirucli Bi'itiih gold was pocketed by this libeller of our country and her prirest prtrioti. - - Froiri tiie Old Ye gr'nnivillc lifer tor~. We have not bad tinie to do more tliaii glairce tirreegh this haridsoiriely prliited volume, but the nanie i)f its respectable editor, the Rev. ~Ir. Wilbur, of Janlam, will afford ii suflicient tiarairty for the worth of its contents.... Tire paper is white, tire {y~e clear, and the volunre of a convenient arid attractive size.... Iii reading this elegantly executed work, it lias seemed to us that a ~i.'iss.'ige or. tivo might have licen retreii9hcd with advantage, arid that tlic ~~ciieral style of diction was suseeptible of a liiglicr liolisli.... Ori tire whole, we may safely leave tire ungrat eftil trisle of irriticisiri to tiie reaCer. We will barely suggest, that iii volnuics iriterriled, as tills is, fi~r tire iliristratlirir of a -` provincial dialcet and tunis of expression, ii ilisir of hurrier or satire

Page  361 TUt BICLOlV PA1~i~!~S. 3(31 bight be thro~vi~ ii~ ~vi I a~ivant'~~elic ~vor1 is adioi r.'tlily got u~i...`1'iiis ~viirl ~ri 11 forio iii ~~i~iir()lir1.tto iiriiaiiioiit lit lic coiit ro tabi~.It is beautifully priutod, iii p~'l)or of ail cxcclleiit quality. F~~orn the i)ekay Bu~wark. We should be wanting in our d~ity as tlic coiiiluctor of tliat tremen — doos engine, a public press, as ni Aiooricaii, aii~l i~5 a niaii, did ~ve allo~v such an opportunity as is presciitod to us by "The Uigl~~w Papers" to (now,b~ without euterhig our earnest protest agailist socli attenipts — a alas! too at demorali,;/ji~n~~~tylie, lvarb,lli~i5eCstotci!~a{igtlassLii}dii{l~, short, all the valuable and tiiiie4ionorcd iiislitutious justly dear ti) our common liun~ai~ity and cs~i~'iially to rci~~iblicaiis, are made Ilie -butt of coarse and senseless ril~aldry liy this low-minded scrihliler. It is time that the respectable aiiil religious portioll of our community -.should be aroused to the alaruiiiig inroads of fiireign Jacobinism, sans- - - culottism, and infidelity. It i~ a fcarful liroof of tlie wide-spread -~ - nature of this contagion, that these secret stahs at religion and virtue -are given from uuder the cloak (credife, po.~te'.i I) of a clergyman. It a mournful spectacle indoed It tlie patriot aiid Cliristiaii to sce liher -silty and new ideas (falsely so cilled, - they are as tilil itS Eileii) in vading the sacred precincts of tlie pul~iit.... On Ilie whole, we consider this volume as one of tlie fii~st slioekiiig rcsiilts which we pre -dicted would spring out of the late French "Revolutioii" (!). From the Bttngtoivn Coprer eni.~ Coniprehensive Toesia (a try-weakly fciiiity jour~iu1). - - Altogether an admirable work.... Full of homer, boisterous, lint -- delleate -of wit withering tud scorcliiiig, yet conihined with a patlio5 - - cool as morning dew, -of satiro liouderouS as tlio mace of Ricliard, yet keen as the scymitar of Sal alto.... A work full of " uiountaiii — mirfl~," mischievous as Puck aii~l lightsome as An ci.... ~Ve kiiow not whether to admire most the genial, fresh, and discursive coiiciiinity -~of the author, or liis playful faiii-.y, weird imagioatioii, aiid coin~~ass of -,-style, at once both objective aii~l subjectIve.... We might iiidnlge ~ criticisms, but were the author other tliaii he is,- lie woiilil be a it is, he lias it wonderful pe.~c, which flits from -flower to flower, aiid bears tlie reader irresistibly aloiig cii its eagle pinions (like Ganymede) to the "highest heavei~ of invention. We love a book so purely objective.... ~Iany of lils pictures of 4 —) natural scenery have an extraor{linary 50l)j0Ctl~0 clearness and flilelity. fi~ fine, -we consider this as one of the most extraordinary volumes -of this or any age. We know (?f no Eiiglisli author wlio could have -written it. It is a work to which the pi-o~id gelilus of cur coiiiitry, _-standlng with oiie foot on tlie Aroostook and the other on flie liii _ -- Grande, and holding up the stir-spangled banner amid tlie wreck of matter and the crush of worlds, may pbiiit with bewilderiiig scorn of the punier efforts of eiislaved J~urope ~Ye hope 5000 to cocoon — ter our author anion those higher walks of literature iii which lie is evidently capable of achieviiig ei~d\ir)ug fame. Already we should -be inclined to assign him.~ high positico in the bright galaxy of our American bards.

Page  362 `3(32 LOJI$LLL'&% PO1~f& - l~'O?fl the ~o1t~'ive; Pilot O?~(l 2~~l((~ of ~~`eedo? A vol t~ino iii ba~I gr:~1fln0ar`a~~(l ~V()rse, ~o ~~~!ii1e th~ I~oi'o C~)l1~C( o~! ~voi'o C&)11(I t~oti t() t!~cir a~)1)I'&;i)&i~'1tC ~~~1iero iii tlie co - of Ol)SC't~1'G' 11~~~Vsp'~})e1's, ~YO co~~sidcrod tlIeI)1 ~v1iol1y be~~eath eoutefl& bnt, as th' i1()U lias C11050fl to (OUlO for~vard iii this i)ublic aian 4ii{;rls\l.tt~t. exjie~~t tijo lash ho so richly fl~~rits. Coiiton~1~tibio - - Vilest Billii~gsgate II;i raked all tlie glitters of Ia'i`ii age....`Fhe ixiest ~)iire, upright aiid eolisisteiit politiei~ns n saf: froii~ i'iis iiialignant venom... (~eiieral Ciisliiog eeiiies in fo' ."li;ir~i if ills vile ealrin~nies.. Tlie 1?~vereiid ~Ionier ~Vilbur is - disgrace to lils &ioth. Freal, tIle JJ~)?'i(l-II(l)'l?loiliC.~/P.olia)l-Atteeh illeict. Spe~c'i is ilver: sileuce is goldeii. NI) iltteranee'nii~re Orphie fl~ this. ~Vliile, tierefore, as highest antl~~~r, ~~~e reverelico hii~ ~vb~" ~vorks,iiiitiii'~a heroically llli~yritteii, ~ve have also oiir liopefid wo for thcse vll)o y'i( Ii ~Oll (froi~i ~`iiig of 1)1)50 lond-eaekliii~ or serapb __God~eoneio issiolied) record tlie thing Slat is revealed. iu:islt i~f lillaill test irony, ~ve detect here tlie deep, storne-tost (iii sliit))vraukcil) 51)111, thunder-scarred, SCliii;lrtieiilate, hot ever ellinbin l)()i)cfllliy i~~vard the peaceful 5111)101 itS of aii Iiiliiiite Sorrow Nes, I ~or, forlori lIosee, v~ith Ifebr~iw lire-flan~ing soul in th~ -, for Slice`Jro this life of ours lias liot beci u'lphout its aspe elilleat ))lty ai~il laiighiogest lair ii. Coaceivable cilougi c1)ars" I'liersitcs-i'loak, we liavo re~'clati,~ii of Slie heart, wil lowing. w)1rl~'~claspiiig, that 15 ii) 1)110. ii'ave~1 1)0 grapples ~vitli Ilie lif~ 1; jirol~lca~ is it preselits itself to liiiii, li))O()lOhCd, shaggy, careless of tlio iii'~ci' ilcollric) les, lilexpert if elcg;iiit-dictiiiii,'' yet with volts au~1ilile eiiii~gli to wlioso ls;itli e:irs, ill) tlii're oil tlie gravelly sl1l0~lllI!s*'~s. )r dowii oil tic splashy, lfldiariilibcr4lko s:ili~iuarslies of ilative Jaala~ ~`t~-. lo this 51)111`.11511 tlie ~\Tci,)issitp 1). E'i'oat1.ii1 siii)iewliiit has uiiveileil Its _____ a)vfol fi'()ilt. if i0?t Ci~ilip,osei aii~l Elec`as and Aleestices, thou I~())od`S iian~c Uirdiiireduia ~au'iiis!`J?lieso alsi shill get born lute t1i~ - world, aiid fli'li (if so iced) a Ziii~ai sii1.i.~isl dice Sliorein theso laik, oi1)liivorolls X11iikccs of lils. lie shall pai)it Slic Seen, Silice' (lie Uns~sn - will iiot sit 5(1111)1. ~et in lii 111:ilsii arc Nilielliiigeii~lays, aiid iliads, anti Ulysses-w..iiideriiigs, aiiii 1)ivi'.ic Coiiicilics, -if oi1ly once lie eoiild -? COi0)i at tlieiii!`iheroii~ lies iniii'.li, lity iii; for ivliat troly ~s this ~~ l.icli ~~ 0 11.111.1. li~t, l)iit lint' ~viiicli ~ve In.`i~)t possess... Glillilists als' are givoil ii (if iii old f:il 11cr i~zc1ii'1. lint without liaterlial pritit' 15 is Slie`vtiiit if siii:li. A liriiii'ii` i;ir~'l 1iiieiit~lii1lcd old alan ol Ilit goliliolile or hilelilic 5j1001C5, rl1-y-nyc I, ~rc f)lilcy, qiie iie(i perlia1is,`vith~~" iniic{i c1iatlici;~ci).'0iiiiig aiid iileii i-ifiil Septciiibcr-gale illOil~ories, l)iddili .ii g~inil time S~) liecoino Cliii ~)l1lcst lii!iahitaiit. After such li:isiv ai)l~aritii1ii. lii) vai~ialies aii~l is 1iOCii 110 i~1O(e ()f`1?ev. lI1~iiii'r - ~\`1lh.'ir, A. J\[., l~aiit~~r of (lin Firs~ Cliiircji iii T:i:elaii~,'' we have siiiall - "ir,) tii Speill'-. hero. Sl~aro 1 oi)cli iii ii iii i~f lils Thioiesigoiies i1iti0C5i)11t.: s:ive li:ljlly, tlie - bliiiiliiess!.~ ~i (~liir.'i1i1v`i iiep1ielogcrcti~iis o1,l il~~ ~ei~t1einaii, with 111111111(1 1:icii1.ty`)f eligiiiiiso, Seriiioiiiziiig, nsiiscul.'iriztsl ily l~iiig llractice, aiiil 0XCO1l0lit digcs 1:1`~p~ratns, aii'd, for Slie rest, ~~ ci -i)i0~Loiilg enough, aiiil ~l'i1li siiiail 1)ri.1 iS illiliiiinatiniis (somewhat Cal ln'vy, It is to lie fcarcil) of lils OlVi).`i'1) liiiii, Shore, Pastor of tlio - Fits Gli,ircli iii.1:ial'.siii,`` niir IfIlica ilics'')) Is liiiosolf as a (mite ineX 1)1icillilii &.l)iiiiiX-ri1lilie. A ri~'Ii 1~ 1N'ci'S.\, 11`ii ill:iiiil () i'iiiilc, - so fir is clc~er eiiiiiig1i, vol) C c~ (. 11))' 1 1)1 1ii~`~!~~~- Ii ilicli iii~rii-lcn~e~I editoria. spccCaclcs,~ — hisS iiaiigiit fartlior iii:`-:1,1 11111, 1\'cli-iiieiiiiiiig, altogether -- fuscous ~Ielesigeiics-~\7iIhnr, I`icro are iii 115 lii liiiii iiic6uiinunieahl

Page  363 7'HE BIGLOW PAPERS. 363 by stroke of birch! Did it ever enter that old bewildered head of thine that there was the Possi&ility of the h~finite in him? To thee, quite wingless (aiid even featherless) biped, has not so much even as a dream of wings ever come? "Talented young parishioner "? Among the Arts whereof thou art Magisfer, does that of seei~~ happen to be one? Unhappy Artium AI~qister! Somehow a Nemean lion, fulvous, torrideyed, dry-nursed in broad-howling sand-wildernesses of a sufficiently rare spirit-Libya (it may be snpposed) has got whdped among the sheep. Already he stands wild-glaring, with feet clutching the ground as with oak-roots, gathering for a Remus-spring over the walls of thy little fold. In Heaven's name, go not near him with that flybite crook of thine! In good time, thou painful preacher, thou wilt go to the appointed place of departed Artillery-Election Sermons, Right-Hands of Fellowship, and Results of Councils, gathered to thyspiritual fathers with much Latin of the Epitaphial sort; thou, too, shalt have thy reward; but on him the Eumenides have looked, not Xantippes of the pit, snake-tressed, finger-threatening, but radiantly calm as on antique gems; for him paws impatient the winged courser of the gods, champing unwelcome bit; him the starry deeps, the empyrean glooms, and far-flashing splendors await. From the Onion Grove Ph~nix. A talented young townsman of ours, recently returned from a Continental tour, and who is already favorably known to our readers by his sprightly letters from abroad which have graced our columns, called at our office yesterday. We learn from him, that, having enjoyed the distinguished privilege, while in Germany, of an introduction to the celebrated Von Humbug, he took the opportunity to present that eminerit man with a copy of the "Biglow Papers." The next morning he received the following note, which he has kindly furnished us for publication. We prefer to print it v~~betim, knowing that our readers will readily forgive the few errors into which the illustrious writer has fallen, through ignorance of our language. "HiuwWo~v~v MIsTER! "I shall also now especially happy starve, because I have more or less a work of one those aboriginal Red-Men seen in which I have so deaf an interest ever taken fuliworthy on the self shelf with our Gottsched to be upset. "Pardon my in the English-speech unpractice! "VoN HUMBUG." He also sent with the above note a copy of his famous work on "Cos metics," to be presented to Mr. Biglow; but this was taken from our friend by the English custom-house officers, probably through a petty national spite. No doubt, it has by this time found its way into the British Museum. We trust this outrage will be exposed in all our American papers. We shall do our best to bring it to the notice of the State Department. Our numerous readers will share in the pleasure we experience at seeing our young and vigorous national literature thus encouragingly patted on the head by this venerable and worldrenowned Ge?man. We love to see these reciprocations of good-feeling between the different branches of the great Anglo-Saxon race. [The following genuine "notice" having met my eye I gladly insert a portion of it here, the more especially as it contains one of Mr. Big low's poems not elsewhere printed. -H. W.]

Page  364 364 LOWELL'S POEAIS. From the Joalam Indepeno'ent B1un~rbuss. But, while we lament to see our young townsman thus mingling in the heated contests of party politics, we think we detect in him the presence of talents which, if properly directed, might give an innocent pleasnre to many. As a proof that he is competent to the production of other kinds of poetry, we copy for our readers a short fragment of a pastoral hy him, the manuscript of which was loaned us hy a friend. The title of it is "The Courtin'." ZEKLE crep' np, qnite unheknown, An' peeked in thru the winder, An' there sot Huldy all alone, `ith no one nigh to hender. Agin' the chimhly crooknecks hung, An' in amongst`em rusted The ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young Fetched hack frum Concord husted. The wannut logs shot sparkles out Towards the pootiest, bless her! An' leetle fires danced all ahout The chiny on the dresser. The very room, coz she wuz in, Looked warm frum floor to ceilin', An' she looked full ez rosy agin Ez th' apples she wuz peelin'. She heerd a foot an' knowed it, tu, Araspin' on the scraper, - All ways to once her feelins flew Like sparks in hurut-up paper. He kin' 0' l'itered on the mat, Some douhtfle 0' the seekle; His heart kep' goin' pitypat, But hern weut pity Zekie. An' yet she gin her cheer a jerk Ez though she wished him furder, An' on her apples kep' to work Ez ef a wager spurred her. "You want to see my Pa, I spose?" "Wal, no; I come designin'-" "To see my Ma?, Sh,e,`5 sprinklin' clo'es Agin tomorrow 5 1 nin'." He stood a spell on one foot fust Then stood a spell on tother, An' on which one he felt the wust He couldn't ha' told ye, nuther. Sez he, "I`d hotter call agiii;" Sez she, "think likely, Ali.~ter;" The last word pricked him like a pin, An' — wal, he up and kist her.

Page  365 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 365 When Ma himehy upon`em slips, Huldy sot pale ez asbes, All kind 0' smily round the lips An' teary round the lashes. Her blood riz quick, though, like the tide Down to the Bay 0' Fuody, An' all I know is they wuz cried Th meetin', come nex Sunday.

Page  366 366 LOWELL'S POEMS. SATIS multis sese e}nptores futuros libri professis, Georgius Nichols, Cautabrigiensis, opus em~ftet de parte gravi sed adhuc neglecta histori~ nattiralis, cuni titulo sequenti, videlicet: Conctus a~1 Delineationem naturalem nonnikil perfectioreii Scarcb~i Bombilatoris, vulgo dicti HUMBUG, ab lloMERo ~VILBUR, Artiui~ ~Iagistro, Societatis historicoq~aturalis Jaaianiensis Pr~side, (Secretario, Socioque (eheu!) singulo,) niuitarnti~qne aliarum Societattim eruditarum (sive ineruditarum) tarn domesticarnin quam transrnarii0aruni Soejo - forsitan futuro. PRO EMIUM. LEcTORI BENEVOLo S. Toga scholastica nondurn deposita, qunni systeniata varia entomologica, a viris ejus scienti~ cultoribus studiosissinils sum ma diligentia iediflcata, penitus indagassern, non fuit quin luctuose omnibus in jis, quanivis aliter laude dignissimis, l~iaturn magni momeuti perciperem. Tunc, nescio quo motu superiore impulsus, aut qua captus dulcedine operis, ad eum inipleiidiim (Curtins alter) me solemuiter devovi. Nec ah isto labore, ~uL~Ovi'o)~ imposito, abstinni antequam tractatulum sufficienter inconciIinum lingua vernacula perfeceram. Inde, juveniliter tuiiiefactus, et baratliro iiiepti~ T(~V ~Lfl~LO7rwX(A)V (neciion "Publici Legentis") nusquam explorato, me coniposuisse quod quasi placeatas pr~fervidas (ut sic dicai~i) homines ingurgitarent credidi. Sed, qutim huic et alio bibliopol~ MSS. rnea submisissem et nihil solidius responsione valde negativa in Mus~um meum retulissern, horror ingens atque inisericordia, ob crassitudinem Lambertian am in cerebris h omunculorum istius muneris coelesti quadam ira infixani, me invasere. Extetuplo mei solius impensis librum edere decrevi, nihil omnino dubitans quill "Mundus Scientificus" (ut ainut) crumenam meam ampliter repleret. Nuliam, aftarnen, ex agro illo meo parvulo segetem demessui, pr~ter gaudium vacuum bene de Republica nierendi. Iste pan is n~eus pretiosi}s super aquas literarias f~culeutas pr~fidenter jactus, quasi llarpyiarum quarundam (scilicet bibliopolarum istorum facinorosorum supradictorum) tactu rancidus, intra perpaucos dies mihi do mum redut. Et, qunni ipse tall victa ali non tolerarem, primum in mentem venit pistori (ty~ograpbo nempe) nihll~minus solvendum esse. An~mum noii idcii'co demisi, i mo ~q ue ac pueri naviculas suas penes se lino retinent (eo ut e recto cursu delapsas ad ripam retrahant), sic ego~Argo meam chartaceam fiuctibus laborautem a qniesitu velleris aulel, ipse potius tonsus peileque exutus, mente solida revocavi. Metaphoram ut mutem, boomarangam meani a scopo aberrantem retraxi, d urn

Page  367 THE BIGLOW PAPEi?~. 367 majore vi, occasione ministrante, adversus Fortunarn intorquerem. Ast flJjI)i, talia volventi, et, sient Saturnus ille ira~~@ ~o'po~, liberos intetlectus mei depascere fidenti, easus miserandus, ~ec antea inauditus, supervenit. Nam, ut fernut Scythas pietatis causa et parsii~oiii~, parentes suos mortuos devorasse, sic filius hic meus primogenitus, Scythis ipsis minus maiisuetus, patreni vivum totuin et calcitrautem exsorbere enixus est. Nec tamen hac de causa soboleiii inearn esurienteu~ exheredavi. Sed faniem istarn pro valido testimonjo virilitatis roborisque potius liabni, ciburnque ad earn satiandain, salva paterna mea came, petii. Ft quia bilem illarn scaturienteni ad ~s etiam concoquendurn idoiieam esse estimabam, unde ~s alienuin, ut minoris pretii, baberern, circurnspexi. I~ebus ita se babentibus, ab avunculo rneo Johanne Doolittle, Armigero, inipetravi ut pecuiiias necessarias suppeditaret, ne opus esset inihi universitatein relinquendi autequarn ad gradtiin primuin in artibus pervenissern. Tunc ego, salvurn facere pati'onuin menin munificum niaxime cupiens, omnes libros prirn~ editionis operis mei non venditos una cum privilegio in omne ~vurn ejusdeui imprimendi et edendi avunculo nieo dicto pigneravi. Ex illo die, atro lapide notando, cur~ vociferantes famili~ singulis annis crescentis eo usque insu1~abant ut nunquarn tarn carum pignus e vinculis istis alieneis solvere posse in. Avunculo vero nuper mortuo, qunin inter alios consaugnineos testainenti ejus lectionem audiendi causa advenissem, erectis auribus verba talia sequentia accepi: Quoniam persuasum habeo meum dilectum nepotem Horneruiii, longa et intirn a rerum an gustarum domi experie uti a, apti ssii n urn esse qui divitias tiieatur, beneficenterque ac prudeiiter iis divinis creditis utatur, - ergo, motus hisce cogitationibus, exque arnore meo in i]lurn magno, do, legoque nepoti caro iiieo supranominiito omnes singularesque istas possessi?n.es n ec ponderabiles nec computab~ies meas qu~ sequuntur, scilicet. quingentos libios quos inibi pigneravit dictus Homerus, anno lucis 17j~, cum privilegio edeild5 et repetendi opus istud`scientificurn' (quod diciint) sunni, Si sic elegei-it. Tamen D. 0. M. piecor oculos llomer{ nepotis ni9i ita aperiat eurnque moveat, at libros istos ii bib~iotheca unius e pluiimis castellis suis Hispaniensibus tuto abscondat." His verbis (vix credibilibus) auditis, cor rneum in pectore exsultav it. Deinde, quoniarn tractatus Anglice scnptus spern auctoris fefellerat, quippe quum studiurn Historiie Naturalis in Republica nostra inter facti?nis strepituii~ languescat Latine vers urn edere statui, et eo potius quia nescio quornodo disciphi a acadernica et duo diplotnata proficiant, nisi quod peritos lingnarum omnino inortuarum (et dainnandarum, ut dicebat iste iravovThyo.~ Gulielmus Cobbett) nos faciant. Et mi Iii adhuc superstes est tota ilia editio prima, quam quasi crepitaculurn per quod dentes caninos dentibam retineo.

Page  368 368 LOWELL'S POEMS. OPERIS SPECIMEN. (A~ exemptum Johan~~is Physiophili speciminis MonachoThgia'.) 12. S. B. Militaris, WILBUR. Uarnifrx, JABLoNsK. Profanus, DEsFONT. [Male hancce speciem CycThpern Fabricius vocat, ut qui singulo oculo ad quod sni interest distinguitur. Melius vero isancus Outis nullum inter S. milit. S. que Beizebul (Fabric. 152) discrimen esse defendit.] Habitat civitat. Am eric. austral. Anreis lineis splendidus; plerumque tamen sordidus, utpote lanienas valde frequentans, fmtore sanguinis allectns. Amat quoque insuper septa apricari, neque inde, nisi maxima conatione, detruditur. Candidatus ergo populariter vocatus. Caput cristam quasi pennarum ostendit. Pro cibo vaccam publicam callide mulget; abdomen enorme; facultas suctus baud facile estimanda. Otiosus, fatnus; ferox nihilominus, semperque dimicare paratus. Tortuose repit. Capite s~pe maxima cum cura dissecto, ne illud rndimentum etiam cerebri commune omnibus prope insectis detegere poteram. Unam de hoc S. milit. rem singularem notavi; Nam S. Guineens. (Fabric. 143) servos facit, et idcirco a multis summa in reverentia habitus, quasi scintillas rationis p~ne hnman~ demonstrans. 24. S. B. Criticus, WILBUR. Zoilus, F~Bxic. Pigrns'us, CARLsEN. [Stultissime Jobannes Stryx cum S. punctato (Fabric. 64-109) confundit. Specimina quamplurima scrutationi microscopic~ subjeci, nunquam tamen unum ulla indicia puncti cujusvis prorsus ostendentem inveni.] Pr~cipue formidolosus, insectatusque, in proxima rima anonyma sese abscondit, we, we, crcberrime stridens. Ineptus, segnipes. Habitat ubique gentium in sicco; nidum suum terebratione indefessa mdificans. Cibus. Libros depascit siccos pralcipue.

Page  369 MELiB W US-HIPPONAX. THE I~i~Iow ~apcr~ EDITED WITH AN INTRODUCTION, NOTES, GLOSSARY, AND COPIOUS INDEX, BY HOMER WILBUR, A.M., PASTOR OF THE FIRST CHURCH IN JAALAM, AND (PROsPEcTIY~) MEMBER OF MANY LITERARY, LEARNED AND SCIENTIFIC SOCIETIES, (for whick seepaus 3~2.) The ploughman's whisfie, or the trivial fluts, Finds more respect than great Apollo's lute. Q~ories's Ernb1en~s, B. il. ic. 8. Margaritas, munde porcine, calcasti: en, siliquas accips. Jac. Car. Fil. act Pitb. Leg. ~ 1. 2B 369

Page  370 NOTE TO TITLE-PAGE. IT will not have escaped the attentive eye, that I have, on the title-page, omitted those honorary appendages to the editorial name which not only add greatly to the value of every hook, but whet aiid exacerbate the appetite of the reader. For not only does he surmise that an honorary membership of literary and scientific societies implies a certain amount of iiecessary distinction on the part of the recipient of such decorations, but he is willii~g to trust himself more entirely to an author who writes under the fearful responsibility of involving the reputation of such bodies as the S. Arch~1. Dekom., or the Aced. Lit. et Scient. Kemtsckat. I cannot but think that the early editions of Shakspeare and Milton wo4d have met with more rapid and general acceptance, but for the barrenness of their respective title-pages; and I believe, that, even now, a publisher of the works of either of those j ustly distinguished men would find his account in procuring their admission to the membership of learned bodies on the Continent, - a proceediiig no whit more incongruous than the reversal of the judgment against Socrates, when he was already more than twenty centuries beyond the reach of antidotes, and when his memory had acquired a deserved respectability. I conceive that it was a feeling of the importailce of this precaution which induced Mr. Locke to style himself "Gent." on the title-page of his Lssay, as who should say to his readers that they could receive his metaphysics on the honor of a gentlemmi. Nevertheless, finding that, without descending to a smaller s~ze of type than would have been compatible with the dignity of the several societies to be named, I could not compress my in tended list within the limits of a single page, and thinking, moreover. that the act would carry with it an air of decorous modesty, I have chosen to take the reader aside, as it were, into my private closet, and there not only exljibit to him the diplomas which I already possess, but also to furnish him with a prophetic vision of those which I may, without undue p1'esumption, hope for, as not beyond the reach of human ainbition and attainment. And I ain the rather induced to this from the fact, that my name has been unaccountably dropped from the last triennial catalogue of our beloved A ima Mater. 370

Page  371 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 371 ~Yhether this is to be attributed to the difficulty of Latinizing al~y of those honorary adjuncts (with a complete list of which I took care to furnish the proper persons nearly a year beforehand), or whether it had its origin in ally more culpable motives, I forbear to consider in this place, the matter being in course of painful investigation. But, however this may be, I felt the omission the more keenly, as I had, in expectation of the new catalogue, enriched the library of the Jaalam Athen~um with the old one then in my possessioll, by which means it has come about that m,~ children will be deprived of a neverwearying winter evenmg 5 amusement in looking out the name of their parent in that distingnished roll. ihose harmless innocents had at least committed no - but I forbear, having intrusted my reflections and animadversions on this painful topic to the saf&keeping of my private diary, intended for posthumous publication. I state this fact here, in order that certain nameless individuals, who are, perhaps, overinnch congratulating themselves on my silence, may know that a rod is in pickle which the vigorous hand of a justly b~censed posterity will apply to their memories. The careful reader will note, that, in the list which I have prepared, I have included the names of several Cisatlantic societies to which a place is not commonly assigned in processions of this nature. I have ventured to do this, not only to encourage native ambition and genius, but also because I have never been able to perceive in what way distance (miless we suppose them at the end of a lever) could increase the weight of learned bodies. As far as I have been able to extend my researches among such stuffed specimens as occasionally reach America, I have discovered no generic difference between tl~e antipodal Fog~rnrn Japonicum and the F. A~ericanum snfficiently common in our own immediate neighborhood. Yet, with a becoming defe;rence to the popular belief that distinctions of this sort are enhanced in value by every additional mile they travel, I have intermixed the names of some tolerably distant literarv and other associations with the rest. I ad~ here, also, an advertisement, which, that it may be the n~ore readily understood by those persons especially i~~terested therein, I have written in that curtailed a~~d otherwise nialtreated canine Latin, to the writing and reading of which they are accustomed. OMNIB. PER TOT. ORB. TERRAR. CATALOG. AcADEM. lInD. ~Iinim gent. diplom. ab inclytiss. acad. vest. orans, vir. honorand. Operosiss., at sol. ut sciat. quant. glor. nom. meum (dipl. fort. concess.) catal. vest. temp. futur. affer., ill. subjec., addit. omIiil~. titul. honorar. qu. adh. non tant. opt. quam p~~obab. put. *** Litt. Uncial. distinx. ut Pr~s. S. Hist. Nat. Jaal.

Page  372 372 LOWELL'S POEMS. HOMEP US WILB UP, Mr., ~isc. Jaalam, S. T. D. 1850, et ~ai. 1849, et Nen-Cas. et Bran. et Guijeim. 1852, et Gul. et Mar. et Bowd. et Georgiop. et Viridimont. et Columb. Nov. 1~bor. 1853, et Amherst. et Watervill. et S. Jarlath. Hib. et S. Mar. et S. Joseph. et S. And. Scot. 1854, et Nashvill. et Dart. et Dickins. et Concord. et Wash. et Colunibian. et Charlest. et Jeff. et Dubi. et Oxon. et Can tab. et c~t. 1855, P. U. N. C. H. et J. U. D. Gott. et Osnab. et Heideib. 1860, et Acad. BoRE us. Beroliii. Soc., et SS. RR. Lugd. Bat. et Patay. et Load. et Ediub. et Ins. Feejee. et Null. Terr. et Pekin. Soc. Hon. et S. H. S. et S. P. A. et A. A. S. et S. Hnmb Univ. et S. Omn. Rer. Quarund. q. Aliar. Promov. Passamaquod. et II. P. C. et I. 0. H. et A. ~. ~. et II. K. P. et ~. B. K. et Pencin. et Erosoph. et Philadeiph. et i~rat. in Unit. et ~. T. et S. Arch~olog. Athen. et Acad. Scieiit. et Lit. Panorm. et SS. R. H. Matrit. et Beeloochist. et Caffrar. et Caribb. et M. S. Reg. Paris. et S. Am. Antiserv. Soc. Hon. et P. D. Gott. et LL.D. 1852, et D. C. L. et Mus. Doc. Oxon. 1860, et M. M. S. S. et M. D. 1854, et Med. Pac. Univ. Harv. Soc. et S. pro Convers. Pollywog. Soc. Hon. et Higgi. Piggi. et LL.B. 1853, et S. pro Christianiz. Moscbet. Soc., et 58. Ante-Diluv. ubiq. Gent. Soc. Hon. et Civit. Cleric. Janlam. et S. pro Diffus. General. Tenebr. Secret. Corr.

Page  373 INTRODUCTION. ~YllEN, more than three years ago, my talented young parishioner, ~1r. Biglow, came to me and submitted to my aiiimadversions the first of his poems which he intended to commit to the more hazardous trial of a city newspaper, it never so much as entered my imagination to conceive that his productions would ever be gathered into a fair volume, and ushered isito the august preselice of the reading public by myself. So little are we short-sighted mortals able to predict the event! I confess that there is to me a quite I1ew satisfaction in being associated (though only as sleeping partner) in a book which can stand by itself in an independent unity on the shelves of libraries. For there is always this drawback from the pleasure of printing a sermon, that, whereas the queasy stomach of this generation will not bear a discourse long enough to make a separate volume, those religious aiid godly-minded children (those Samuels, if I may call them so) of the brain must at first lie buried in an undistinguished heap, and then get such resurrection as is vouchsafed to them, mummy-wrapt with a score of others in a cheap binding, with no other mark of distinction than the word "Aliscellcneous" printed upon tlie back. Far be it from ine to claim any credit for the quite unexpected popularity which I am pleased to find these bucolic strains have attained unto. If I know myself, I aici measurably free from the itch of vaufty; yet I may be allowed to say that I was not backward to recogilize in them a certain wild, puckery, acidulous (sometimes even verging toward that point which, iii our rustic phrase, is termed shut-eye) flavor, not wholly unpleasing, nor unwholesome, to palates cloyed with the sugariness of tamed and cultivated fruit. It may be, also, that some tonches of my own, here and there, may have led to their wider acceptance, albeit solely from my larger experience of literature and authorship.* I was, at first, inclined to discourage Mr. Biglow's attempts, as knowing fl~at the desire to poetize is one of the diseases naturally incident to adolescence, which, if the fitting remedies *The reader curious in such matters may refer (if he can find them) to "A Sermon preached on the Anniversary of the Dark Day," "An Artillery Elecfi~~n Sermon," "A Discourse on the Late i~dipse," "Dorcas, a Funeral Sermon on the Death of ~iadam Submit Tidd, Itelict of the late Experience Tifid, Esq.," &c., &c. 373

Page  374 374 LOWELL'S POEMS. be not at once and with a bold hand applied, may become chronic, and render one, who might else have become in due time an ornament of the social circle, a painful object even to nearest friends and relatives. But thinkiiig, on a further experience, that there was a germ of promise in hiin which required only culture and the pulling up of weeds from around it, 1 thought it best to set before him the acknowledged examples of Fuglish composition in verse, and leave the rest to natural emulation. With this view, 1 accordingly lent him some volunies of Pope and Goldsmith, to the assiduous study of which he promised to devote his evenings. Not long afterward, he brought me some verses written upon that model, a specimen of which I subjoin, having changed some phrases of less elegancy, and a few rhymes objectionable to the cultivated ear. The poem consisted of childish reniiniscences, and the sketches which follow will not seem destitute of truth to those whose fortuiiate education began in a country village. And, first, let us hang up his charcoal portrait of the school-dame. "Propt on the marsh, a dwelling now, I see The humble school-house of my A, B, C, Where well-drilled urchins, each behind his tire, Waited in ranks the wished command to fire, Then all together, when the signal came, Discharged their a-b abs against the dame. Daughter of Danans, who could daily pour In treacherous pipkins her Pierian store, She, mid the volleyed learning firm and calm Patted the fudoughed ferule on her palm, And, to our wonder, could divine at once Who flashed the pan, and who was downright dunce. "There young Devotion learned to climb with ease The guarly limbs of Scripture family-trees, And be was most commended and admired Who soonest to the topmost twig perspired; Each name was called as many various ways As pleased the reader's ear on different days, So that the weather, or the ferule's stings, Colds in the head, or fifty other things, Transformed the helpless Hebrew thrice a week To guttural Pequot or resounding Greek, The~vibrant accent skipping here and there, Just as it pleased invention or despair; No controversial Hebraist was the Dame; With or wfthont the points pleased her the same; If any tyro found a name too tough, And looked at her, pride fumished skill enongh; - She nerved her larynx for the desperate thing, And cleared the five-barred syllables at a spring. "Ah, dear old times! there once it was my hap, Perched on a stool, to wear the long-eared cap; From books degraded, there I sat at ease, A drone, the envy of compulsory bees;

Page  375 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 375 Rewards of merit, too, full many a time, Each with its woodcut and its moral rhyme, And pierced half-dollars hung on ribbons gay About my neck - to be restored next day, I carried home, rewards as shining then As those which deck the lifelong pains of men, More solid than the redemanded praise With which the world beribbons later days. "Ah, dear old times! how brightly ye returu! How, rubbed afresh, your phosphor traces burn! The ramble schoolward through dewsparkling meads; The willow-wands turned Cinderella steeds, The impromptu pinbeiit hook, the deep remorse O'er the chance-captured minnow's inchiong corse; The pockets, pletlioric with marbles round, That still a space for ball and pegtop found, Nor satiate yet, could maiiage to confine Horsechestauts, fiagroot, and the kite's w9nnd twine, And, like the prophet's carpet could take in, Enlarging still, the popgiin's magazine; The dinner carried in the small tin pail, Shared with the dog, whose mOSt beseeching tail And dripping tongue and eager ears belied The assumed indifference of icanine pride; The caper homeward, shortened if tlie cart Of neighbor Pomeroy, trundling from the mart, O'ertook me, -then, translated to the seat I praised the steed, how staunch he was and fleet, While the bluff farmer, with superior grin, Explained where horses should be thick, where thin, And warned me (joke he always had in store) To shun a beast that four white stockings wore. What a fine natural courtesy was his! His nod was pleasure, and his full bow bliss; How did his well-thumbed hat, with ardor rapt, Its decorous curve to every rank adapt! How did it graduate with a conrtly ease The whole long scale of social differences, Yet so gave each his measure running o'er, None thought his own was less, his neighbor's more; The squire was flattered, and the pauper knew Old times acknowledged`neath the threadbare blue! Dropped at the corner of the embowered lane, Whistling I wade the knee-deep leaves again, While eager Argus, who has missed all day The sharer of his condescending play, Comes leaping onward with a bark elate And boisterous tail to greet me at the gate; That I was true ii absence to our love Let the thick dog's-ears in my primer prove." I add only one further extract, which will possess a melancholy inter~est to all such as have endeavored to glean the mat& rials 0~ revolntionaiy history from the lips of aged persolis, wlio took a part in the actual makiiig of it, aud, fiiidiiig the mai~tifactiire profitable, coii tin ned the supply in an adequate proportion to the den~aiid.

Page  376 376 LOWELL'S POEMS. "Old Joe is gone, who saw hot Percy goad His slow artillery up the Concord road, A tale which grew iii wonder, year by year, As, every time he told it, Joe drew near To tlie main fight, till, faded and grown gray, The original scene to bolder tints gave way; Then Joe had heard the foe's scared donble-qnick Beat on stove drnm with one nncaptured stick, And, ere death caine the lengthening tale to lop, Himself had fired, and seen a red-coat drop; Had Joe lived long enough, that scrambling fight Had sqnared more nearly with his sense of right, And vanquished Percy, to complete the tale, Had hammered stone for life in Concord jail." I do not know that the foregoing extracts ought not to be called my own rather than Mr. Biglow's, as, indeed, he maintained stoutly that my file had left nothing of his in them. I should not, perhaps, have felt entitled to take so great liberties with them, liad I not more than suspected au hereditary vein of poetry in inyseli, a very near ancestor having written a Latin poe in in the Harvard Gratulatio on the accession of George the Third. Suffice it to say, that, whether not satisfied with such limited approbation as I could conscientiously bestow, or from a sense of natural inaptitude, certain it is that my young frieiid could never he induced to any further essays in this kind. He affirmed that it was to him like writing in a foreign tongue, that Mr. Pope's versification was like the regular ticking of one of ~Yillard's clocks, in which one could fancy, after long listeiiing, a certain kind of rhythm or tune, but which yet was only a poverty-stricken tick, tick, after all, - and that he had never seen a sweet-water on a trellis growing so fairly, or iii forms so pleasing to his eye, as a fox-grape over a scrub-oak iii a swanip. He added I know not what, to the effect that the sweet-water would only be the more disfigured by having its leaves starched and ironed out, aiid that Pegasus (so he called him) hardly looked right with his mane and tail in curl-papers. These and other such opinions I did not long strive to eradicate, attributing them rather to a defective education and senses untuned by too long familiarity with purely natural objects, than to a perverted moral sense. I was the more inclined to this leniency since sufficient evidence was not to seek, that his verses, waiiting as they certainly were in classic polish and point, had somehow taken hold of the public ear in a surprising iiianner. So, only setting him right as to the quantity of the proper name Pegasus, I left him to follow the bent of his natural genius. Yet could I not surrender him wholly to the tutelage of the pagan (which, literally interpreted, signifies village) muse without yet a further effort for his conversion, and to thiS end I resolved that whatever of poetic fire yet burned in myself, aided

Page  377 THE BICLOW PAPERS. 377 by the assiduous bellows of correct models, should be put in requisition. Accordingly, when my ingenious young parishioner brought to my study a copy of verses which he bad written touching the acquisition of territory resulting fro'n the Mexican war, and the folly of leaving the question of slavery or freedom to the adjudication of chance, I did myself indite a short fable or apologue after the manner of Gay aiid Prior, to the end that he might see how easily even such subjects as he treated of were capable of a more refined style and more elegant expression. Mr. Biglow's production was as follows: - THE TWO GUNNERS. A FABLE. Two fellers, Isrel named and Joe, One Sundy mornin'`greed to go Agunnin' soon`5 the bells wuz done And meetin' finally begun, So`st no one would n't be about Ther Sabbath-breakin' to spy out. Joe didn't want to go a mite; He felt ez though`t warut skeercely right, Bat, when his doubts he went to speak on, Isrel he up and called him Deacon, An' kep' apokin' fun like sin An' then arubbin' on it in, Till Joe, less skeered 0' doin' wrong Than bela' laughed at, went along. Past noontime they went trampin' round An' nary thing to pop at found, Till, fairly tired 0' their spree, They leaned their guns agin a tree, An' jest ez they wuz settin' down To take their noonin', Joe looked roun' And see (across lots in a pond That warn't more`a twenty rod beyond,) A goose that on the water sot Ez ef awaitia' to be shot. Isrel he ups and grabs his gun; Sez he, "By ginger, here's some fan!" "Don't fire," sez Joe, "it aint no use, Thet`5 Deacon Peleg's tame wild-goose, Sez Isrel, "I don't care a cent, 1`ve sighted an' I`11 let her went; Ba~~! went queen's-arm, ole gander flopped His wings a spell, an' quorked, an' dropped. -Sez Joe, "I wouldn't ha' been hired At that poor critter to ha' fired, But, sence it`5 clean gin up the ghost, We`11 hev the tallest kind 0' roast; I guess our waistbands`11 be tight `Fore it comes tea o'clock ternfght."

Page  378 378 LOWELL'S POEMS. "I won't agree to no such bender," Sez Isrel, "keep it tell it`5 tender; `T aint wuth a snap afore it`S ripe." Sez Joe, "I`d jest ez lives eat tripe; You air a bnster ter suppose I`d eat what makes me hol' my nose!" So they disputed to an' fro Till cunnin' Isrel sez to Joe, "Don't less stay here an' play the fool, Less wait till both on us git cool, Jest for a day or two less hide it An' then toss up an' so decide it." "Agreed!" sez Joe, an' so they did, An' the ole goose wuz safely hid. Now`t wuz the liottest kind 0' weather, An' when at last they con~e together, It did n't signify which won, Fer all the mischief lied lien done: The goose wnz there, lint, fer his soul, Joe would n't ha' tetclied it with a pole; But Isrel kind 0' liked the smell on`t An' made his dinner very well on`t. My own huruble attempt was in manner and form following, and 1 print it here, I sincerely trust, out of no vainglory, but solely with the hope of doing good. LEAVING THE MATTER OPEN. A TALE. BY no~aa WILBUR, A.M. Two brothers once, an ill-matched pair, Together dwelt (no matter where), To whom an Uncle Sam, or some one, Had left a house and farm in common. The two in principles and habits Were different as rats from rabbits; Stout farmer Nortli, with frugal care, Laid up provision for his heir, Not scorning with hard sun-browned hands To scrape acquaintance with his lands; Whatever thing lie had to do He did, and made it pay him, too; He sold his waste stone liy the pound, His drains made water-wheels spin round, His ice in summer-time he sold, His wood lironglit profit when`t was cold, -He dug and delved from morn till night, Strove to make profit square with right, Lived on liis means, cut no great dash, And paid his debts in honest cash. On tother hand, his lirotlier South Lived very much from hand to month,

Page  379 THE MGLOW PAPERS. 379 Played gentleman, nursed dainty hands, Borrowed North's money on his lands, And culled his morals and his graces From cock-pits, bar-rooms, fights, and races; His sole work in the farming line Was keeping droves of long4egged swine, Wliich brought great bothers and expenses To North in looking after fences, And, when they happened to break through, Cost him both time and temper too, For South insisted it was plain He ought to drive them home again, And North consented to the work Because he loved to buy cheap pork. Meanwhile, South's swine increasing fast, His farm became too small at last, So, having thought the matter over, And feeling bound to live in clover And never pay the clover's worth, He said one day to brother North: - "Our families are both increasing, And, though we labor without ceasing, Our produce soon will be too scant To keep our children out of want; They who wish fortune to be lasting Must be both prudent and forecasting; We soon shall need more land; a lot I know, that cheaply can be bo't; You lend the cash, I`11 buy the acres, And we`11 be equally partakers. Poor North, whose Anglo-Saxon blood Gave him a hankering after mud, Wavered a moment, then consented, And, when the cash was paid, repented; To make the new land worth a pin, Thought he, it must be all fenced in, For, if South's swine ouce get the run on`t No kind of farming can be done on`t; If that don't suit the other side, `T is best we instantly divide. But somehow South could ne'er incline This way or that to run the line, And always found some new pretence `Galust setting the division fence; At last he said: - "For peace's sake, Liberal concessions I will make; Though I believe, upon my soul, I've a just title to the whole, I`11 make an offer which I call Gen'rons, - we`11 have no fence at all; Then both of us, whene'er we choose,

Page  380 380 LOWELL'S POEMS. Can take what part we want to use; If you should chance to need it first, Pick you the best, I`11 take the worst." "Agreed!" cried North; thought he, this fall With wheat and rye I`11 sow it all, In that way I shall get the start, And South may whistle for his part; So thought, so done, the field was sown, And, winter having come and gone, Sly North walked blithely forth to spy, The progress of his wheat and rye; Heavens, what a sight! his brother's swine Had asked themselves all out to dine, Such grunting, munching, rooting, shoving, The soil seemed all alive and moving, As for his grain, such work they`d made on`t, He could n't spy a single blade on`t. Off in a rage he rushed to South, "My wheat and rye " - grief choked his mouth; "Pray don't mind me," said South, "but plant All of the new land that you want;" "Yes, but your hogs," cried North; "~The grain Won't hurt them, answered S,,outh again; "But they destroy my grain, "No doubt; `T is fortunate you`ve found it out; Misfortunes teach, and only they, You mnst not sow it in their way;" "Nay, you," says North, "must keep them out; "Did I create them with a snout?" Asked South demurely; "as agreed, The land is open to your seed, And would you fain prevent my pigs From rm~niug there their harmless rigs? O~od knows I view this compromise With not the most approving eyes; I gave up my unquestioned rights For sake of quiet days and nights, I offered then, you know`t is true, To cut the piece of land in two." "Then cut it now," growls North; "Abate Your heat," says South, "`t is now too late; I offered you the rocky coi~ner, But you, of your own good the scorner, Refused to take it; I am sorry; No doubt you might have found a quarry, Perhaps a gold-mine, for aught I know, Containing heaps of native rhino; You can't bxpect me to resign My right" -

Page  381 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 381 "But where," quoth North, "are mine?" "Your rights," says tother, "well, that`5 funny, Ibought the land" "I paid the money;" "That," answered South, "is from the point, The ownership, you`11 grant, is joint; I`m sure my only hope and trnst is Not law so mnch as abstract justice, Though, you remember,`t was agreed That so and so - consult the deed; Objections now are out of date, They might have answered once, but Fate Qnashes them at the point we`ve got to; O~stc priecipiis, that`5 my motto." So saying, South began to whistle And looked as obstinate as gristle, While North went homeward, each brown paw Clenched like a knot of natnral law, And all the while, in either ear, Heard something clicking wondrous clear. To turn now to other matters, there are two things upon which it would seem fitting to dilate somewhat more largely in this place, - the Yankee character and the Yankee dialect. And, first, of the Yankee character, which has wanted neither open nialigners, nor even more dangerous enemies in th'e persons of those unskilful painters who have given to it that hardness, angularity, and want of proper perspective, which, in truth, belonged, not to their subject, but to their own niggard and nuskilful pencil. New England was not so much the colony of a mother country, as a liagar driven forth into the wilderness.`flie little self-exiled hand which came hither in 1620 came, not to seek gold, but to found a democracy. They came that they might have the privilege to work and pray, to sit upon hard benches and listen to painful preachers as long as they would, yea, even unto tbirty-seventhly, if the spirit so willed it. And surely, if the Greek might boast his Thermopylm, where three hundred men fell in resisting the Persian, we may well be proud of our Plymouth Rock, where a handful of men, women, and children not merely faced, but vanquished, winter, famine, the wilderness, and the yet more inviiicible storge that drew them back to the green island far away. These fonud no lotus growing upon the surly shore, the taste of which could make them forget their little native Ithaca; nor were they so wanting to themselves in faith as to burn their ship, but could see the fair west wind belly the homeward sail, and then turn unrepining to grapple with the terrible Unknown. As N\Tant was the prime foe these hardy exodists bad to fortress themselves agaii~st, so it is little wonder if that traditional feud is long in wearing out of the stock. The wounds of the old warfare were long ahealing, and an east wind of hard times

Page  382 382 LOWELL'S POEMS. puts a new ache in every one of them. Thrift was the first lesSoil in their horubook, pointed out, letter after letter, by the lean finger of the hard schoolmaster, Necessity. Neither were those pliimp, rosy-gilled Englishmen that caine hither, but a hard-faced, atrabilious, earnest-eyed race, stiff from long wrestling with the Lord in prayer, and who had taught Satan to dread the new Puritan hug. Add two hundred years' influence of soil, climate, and exposnre, with its iiecessary result of idiosyncrasies, and we have the preseiit Yankee, full of expedients, hali-~iiaster of all trades, inventive in all but the beautiful, full of shitts, not yet capable of comfort, armed at all poiiits against the old enemy Hunger, longanimous, good at patching, not so careful for what is best as for what will do, with a clasp to his purse and a button to his pocket, not skilled to build against Time, as in old countries, but against sor&pressing Need, accustoined to move the world with no ~ov (rr~ but his own two feet, and no lever but his own long forecast. A strange hybrid, indeed, did circumstance beget, here in the New ~Yorld, upon the old Puritan stock, and the earth never before saw such inystic-prac ticalism, such niggard-geniality, such c alculating-fanaticism, such cast-i ron-enthusiasm, such sourfacedAinmor, such close-fisted-generosity. This new ~r~cukus esuriens will make a livin0g out of anything. lie will invent new trades as well as tools. His brain is his capital, and he will get education at all risks. Put him on Juan Fernandez, and he would make a spelling-book first, aiid a salt-pan afterward. In c~1um, jusseris, ibi4 - or the other way either, - it is all one, so anything is to be got by it. Yet, after all, thin, speculative Jonathan is more like the Englishman of two centuries ago than John Bull himself is. lie has lost somewhat in solidity, has become fluent and adaptable, but more of the original groundwork of character remaiiis. He feels more at hbme with Fulke Greville, Herbert of Cherbury, Quarles, George Herbert, and Browne, than with his modern Eiiglish cousins. He is nearer than John, by at least a bundred years, to Naseby, Marston Moor, ~Yorcester, and the t-;me when, if ever, there were true Englishmen. John Bull has suffered the idea of the Invisible to be very much fattened out of him. Jonathan is conscious still that he lives in the woi'ld of the Unseeii as well as of the Seen. To move John, you must make your fulcrum of solid beef and pudding; an abstract idea will do for Jonathan. *** TO THE INDULGENT READER. M~ friend, the Reverend Mr. Wilbur, having been seized wfth a dangerous fit of illness, before this introduction had passed through the press, and being incapacitated for all literary exertion, sent to me his notes, memoraida, &c., and reqiiested me to fashion then' iiito

Page  383 THE MGLOW PAPERS. 383 some shape more fitting for the general eye. This, owing to the fragmentary and disjointed state of his maiinscripts, I have felt wholly unable to do; yet, being unwilling that the reader should be deprived of such parts of his lucubrations as seemed more finished, and not ~ell discerning how to segregate these from the rest, I have conduded to send them all to the press precisely as they are. Co~u~nus Nv~, Pester of a churcit Bitngtown Corner. IT remains to speak of the Yankee dialect. And, first, it may be preniised, in a general way, that aiiy olie much read in the writings of the early colonists need not be told that the far greater share of the words and phrases now esteemed peculiar to New i~nglaud, ai~d local there, were brought from the mother country. A person familiar with the dialect of cei'tain portions of ~Iassachusetts will not fail to recognize, in ordinary discourse, many words now noted in I~nglish vocabularies as archaic, the greater ~art of which were in common use about the time of the King James translation of the Bible. Shakspeare stands less in need of a glossary to most New Loglanders than to many a native of the Old Country. The peculiarities of our speech, however, are rapidly wearing out. As there is no country where reading is so uiiiversal and newspapers are so multftudiiious, so no phrase remaiiis long local, but is transplanted ii) the mail-bags to evei'y remotest corner of the land. Consequently our dialect approaches nearer to uniformity than that of any other nation. The Liiglish have complained of us for coilling new words. ~Iany of those so stigmatized were old ones by the in forgotten, aiid all make now an unquestioned part of the currency, wherever English is spoken. Undoubtedly, we have a right to iiiake new words, as they are needed by the fresh aspects nuder which life presents itself here in the New ~Vorld; aiid, indeed, wherever a language is alive, it grows. It might be questioned whether we could not establish a stronger title to the ownership of the English tongue than the mother-islanders then~ selves. llere, past all question, is to be its gi~eat hon~e and centre. And not only is it already spoken here by greater numbers, b~it with a higher popular average of correctness, than in Britain. The great writers of it, too, we inight claim as ours, were ownership to be settled by the number of readers and lovers. As regards the provincialisms to be met with in this volume, I may say that the reader will not find one which is not (as I ~~elieve) either native or imported wfth the early settlers, iior one which I have not, with uty own ears, heard iii familiar use. In the metrical portion of the hook, I have endeavored to adapt the~speiling as nearly as possible to the ordiiiary mode ofproiiunciation. Let the reader who deems me over-particular remember this caution of Thlartial: - Qoein recites, n~eus est, 0 Ficlentine, libellus; Sed ~~-~a1e c'en~ recites, iiicipit esse teus."

Page  384 384 LOWELL'S POE3IS. A few further explanatory remarks will not be impertinent. I shall barely lay down a few general rules for the reader's guidance. 1.The genuine Yankee never gives the rough sound to the r when he can help it, and often displays considerable ingenuity in avoidi~ig it even before a vowel. 2.He seldotu sounds the final g, a piece of self-denial, if we consider his partiality for nasals. The same of the final d, as han' and stan' for hand and stand. 3.The A in such words as while, when, where, he omits altogether. 4.In regard to a, be shows some inconsistency, sometii~es giving a close ai~d obscure sound, as hec for hace, hendy for handy, ez for as, thet for that, and again giving it the broad somid it has in faU~er, as hansorne for handsome. 5.To the sound ou he prefixes an e (hard to exempli~ otherwise than orally). The following passage in Shakspeare he would recite thus - "Neow is the winta uv eour discontent Med glorious somma by this sun 0' Yock, Au' all the cleouds thet leowered npun eour heouse In the deep buzzum a' the oshin buried; Neow air eour breows beound`ith victorious wreaths; Eour brensed arms hung up fer moniniunce; Eour starn alarums changed to merry meetins, Eour dreffie marches to delightful measures. Grim-visaged war beth smeuthed his wrinkled front, An' neow, instid a' niountin' barebid steeds To fright the souls a' ferfie edverseries, He capers nimly in a lady's ch~mber, To the lascivious pleasin' uv a loot." 6.A u, in such words as daughter and slaughter, he pronounces ah. 7.To the dish thus seasoned add a drawl ad libiturn. [Mr. ~Vilbur's notes here become entirely fragmentary. - C. N.] a.Unable to procure a likeness of Mr. Biglow, I thought the curious reader might be gratified with a sight of the editorial effigies. And here a choice between two was offered, - the one a profile (entirely black) cut by Doyle, the otl~er a portrait painted by a native artist of much promise. The first of these seemed wanting in expression, and ii~ the secoi~d a slight ohliquity of the visual organs has been heightened (perhaps from an over-desire of force on the part of the artist) iiito too close an- approach to actual strabismus. This slight divergence in 1~1y optical apparatus from the ordinary model - however I`nay have been taught to regard it in the light of a mercy rather than a cross, since it enabled me to give as mttch of dii~ectne~s and personal application to my discourses as met the wants of

Page  385 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 385 my congregation, without risk of offending any by being supposed to ii ave him or her in my eye (as the saying is) - seemed' yet to ~ks. Wilbur a sufficient objection to the engraving of the aforesaid painting. We read of many who eithei~ absolutely refused to allow the copying of their features, as especially did Plotiuns and Agesilaus among the ancients, not to mention the more modern instances of Scioppius, Pal~ottns, Pinellus,Yelserus, Gatakei', and others, or were indifferent thereto, as CromwelL ~.Yet was C~sar desirous of concealing his baldness. Per contra, iny I~ord Protector's carefulness in the matter of his wart might he cited. Men generally more desirous of being imp-roved in their portraits than characters. Shall probably find very Unflattered likenesses of ourselves in Recording Angel's gallery. to any of our national peculiarities be~~ac~ nunciation, and a smothered smoulderinguess of disposition, seldom roused to open flame? An unrestrained intercourse with fire probably conducive to generosity and hospitality of soul. Ancient NIexicans nsed stoves, as the friar Augustin Rniz reports, flakinyt, III., 468, - bnt the Popish priests not always reliable authority. To4ay pie fred my Isabella grapes. Crop injured by attacks of rose-bng in the spring. Whether Noah was justifiable in preserving this class of insects? ~.Concerning Mr. Biglow's pedigree. Tolerably certain that there was never a poet among his ancestors. An ordination hymn attributed to a maternal uncle, but perhaps a sort of production not demanding the creative facnlty. His grandfather a painter of the grandiose or Michael Angelo school. Seldom painted objects smaller than houses or barns, and these with uncommon expression. E.Of the Wilburs no complete pedigree. The crest said to be a wild boar, whence, perhaps, the name.(?) A connection with the Earls of Wilbraham (quasi wild boar ham) might be made out. This suggestion worth following up. In 1677, John W. m. Expect -, bad issue, 1. John, 2. llaggai, 3. Expect, 4. Ruhamah, 5. Desire. "Hear lyes ye b&dye of Mrs Expect Wilber, ye crewell salvages they kil'd her - Together wth other Christian soles eleaven, October ye ix daye, 1707. ye stream of Jordan sh' as crost ore And fl()W expeacts me on ye other shor~: 1 live in hope her S()0fl to join; Her e<i~rthlye yeeres were forty and nine." F,~~ni ~ravestone in Pekussett, Nort~ Parish. 2c

Page  386 3S(3 LOWELL'S POEMS. This is unquestionably the same John who afterward (1711) married Tabitha llagg or Ragg. But if this were the case, she seems to have died early; for only three years after, namely, 1714, we have evidence that he iiiarried ~Vinifred, daughter of Lieutenant Tipping. lie see ins to have been a man of substance, for we find him in 1696 conv~ying "one undivided eightieth part of a saltmeadow" ii) Yabbok, and he commanded a sloop in 1702. Those who doubt the irnpoftaiice of genealogical studies fuste potius quam a?)qumento erudiendi. I trace iii 111 as far as 1723, and there lose him. In that year he was chosen selectman. No gravestoiie. Perhaps overthrown when new hearse-house was built, 1802. lie was probably the son of John, who came from Bilham Comit. Salop. circa 1642. This first Johii was a man of considerable importance, being twice mentioned with the honorable prefix of Mr. in the town records. Name spelt with two i-s. "Here lyeth ye hod [stone unhappily broken.] Mr. Ihon Wiliber [Esq.] [I encThse this in brackets as doubtful. To `ne it seenss cleur.] Ob't die [illegible; looks like XCp~iiy]nt. iii [p2ob. 1693.] deseased seinte: A friend and ~[tath]er untoe all ye opreast, Hee gave y wicked familists noe mast When Sat [an hi] ewe his Antinomian hiaste, Wee doug to [Wiliher as a steadf]ast maste. [A]gaynst ye horrid Qua [kers] It is greatly to be lamented that this curious epitaph is mutijated. It is said that the sacrilegious British soldiers made a target of this stone during the war of Independence. liow odious an animosity which pauses not at the grave! How brutal that which spares not the monuments of authentic history! This is not improbably from the pen of Rev. Moody Pyrain, who is mentioned by IJubbard as having been noted for a silver vein of poetry. If his papers be still extant, a copy might possibly be recovered.

Page  387 CONTENTS. No. 1.-A Letter from Mr. Ezekiel Biglow of Jaalam to the Hon. Joseph T. Buckiugham, Editor of the Boston Courier, enclos ing a Poem of his Son, Mr. Hosea Biglow 388 No. II. - A Letter from Mr. Hosea Biglow to tlie lloii. J. T. Buck ingham, Editor of the Boston Courier, covurilig a Letter from Mr. B. Sawin, Priyate in the Massachusetts Regiment,... 393 No. III. - ~Vhat Mr. Robinson thinks 401 No. IV. -Remarks of Increase D. O'Phace, Esquire, at an Extrum pery Caucus in State Street, reported by Mr. H. Biglow,.. 408 No. V. -The Debate in the Sennit. Sot to a Nusry Rhyme,.. 416 No. VI. - The Pious Editor's Creed 421 No. VII. - A Letter from a Candidate for the Presidency in Answer to suttin Questions prop~sed by Mr. Hosea Biglow, enclosed in a Note from Mr. Biglow to S. H. Gay, Esq., Editor of the Natlonal Anti-slavery Standard 426 No. VIII. - A Second Letter from B. Sawin, Esq 433 No. IX. -A Third Letter froin B. Sawin, Esq 443 GLOssARY 455 INDEX 459 387

Page  388 TllE BIGLOW PAPERS. No. I. A LETTER FROM MR. EZEKIEL BIGLOW OF JAALAM TO THE HON. JOSEPH T. BUCKINGHAM, EDITOR OF THE BOSTON COU RIER, ENCLOSING A POEM OF HIS SON, MR. HOSE A BIGLOW. JAYLEM, june 1546. MISTER EDDYTER: - Our Hosea wuz down to Boston last week, and he see a cruetin Sarjunt a struttin round as popler as a hen with 1 chicking, with 2 fellers a drummin and fifin arter him like all nater. the sarjunt he thout llosea hed n't gut his i teeth cut cos he looked a kindo`s though he`d jest corn down, so he cal'lated to hook him in, hut Rosy wood n't take none 0' his sarse for all he hed much as 20 Rooster's tales~tnck onto his hat and eenamost enuf brass a hobbin up and down on his shoulders and figureed onto his coat and trousis, let alone wut nater hed sot in his featers, to make a 6 pounder out on. wal, Hosea he corn home considerabal riled, and arter I gone to hed I heera Rim a thrashin round like a short-tailed Bull in fli-time. The old ~Yoman ses she to me ses she, Zekle, ses she, our Hosee`s gut the chollery or suthiu anuther ses she, don't you Bee skeered, ses I, he`s oney am akin pottery * ses i, he`s ollers on hand at that ere busynes like Da & martin, and shure enuf, cuin mornin, Hosy he cum down stares full chizzle, hare on eend and cote tales flyin, and sot rite of to go reed his varses to Parson Wilbur bein he haint aney grate shows 0' book larnin himself, bimeby he cum back and sed the parson wuz dreffle tickled with`em as i hoop you will Be, and said they wuz True grit. Rosea ses taint hardly fair to call`em hisn now, cos the parson kind 0' slicked off sum 0' the last varses, but he told Rosee he did n't want to put his ore in to tetch to the Rest on`em, beh~ they wuz verry well As thay wnz, and then Rosy ses he sed suthin a nuther about Simplex Mundishes or sum sech feller, but I guess Rosea kind 0' did n't hear him, for I never * Aut insanit, a~t rersosfa&it. - II. W. 388

Page  389 THE BJGLOW PAPERS. 389 hearn 0' nobody 0' that name in this villadge, and I`ve lived here inan and boy 76 year cum next tater diggin, and thair aint no wheres a kitting spryer`n I be. If you print`em I wish you`d jest let folks know who hosy's father is, cos my ant Keziah used to say it`5 nater to be curus ses she, she aint livin though and he`5 a likely kind o' lad. EZEKIEL BIGLoW. THRAsH away, you'll hev to rattle On them kiftle-drums 0' yourn, - `T aint a knowin' kind 0' cattle Thet is ketched with mouldy corn; Put in stiff, you fifer feller, Let folks see how spry you be, - (x~uess you`11 toot till you are yeller `Fore you git ahold 0' me! Thet air flag`5 a leetle rotten, Hope it aint your Sunday's best; - Fact! it takes a sight 0' cotton To stuff out a soger's chest: Sence we farmers hov to pay for`t, Ef you must wear humps like these, Sposin' \y~~ should try salt hay for`t, It would du ez slick oz grease. `T would n't suit them Southun fellers, They`ro a dreffle graspin' set, We must ollors blow the bollers Won they want their irons hot; May be it`5 all right ez preachin', But my narvos it kind 0' grates, Won I see the overroachin' 0' them mgger-drivin' States. Them thet rulo us, them slave-traders, Haint they cut a thundorin' swartli, (Helped by Yankee renegadors,) -Thru the vartu 0' the North! We beg~n to think it's nater. To take sarse an' not be riled; Who`d expect to see a tator All on cend at bein' biled?

Page  390 ~9O LOWELL'S POEMS. Ez fer war, I call it murder, - There you hev it plain an' flat; I don't want to go no furder Than my Testyment fer that; God hez sed so plump an' fairly, It`5 ez long ez it is broad, An' you`ve gut to git up airly Ef you want to take in God. `T aint your eppyletts an' feathers Make the thing a grain more right; `T aint afollerin' your bell-wethers Will excuse ye in His sight; Ef you take a sword an' dror it, An' go stick a feller thru, Gnv'ment aint to answer for it, God`11 send the bill to you. Wut`5 the use 0' meetin' -goin' E~ery Sabbath, ~vet or $ry, Ef it`s right to go amowin Feller~nen like oats an' rye? I dunno but wut it`5 pooty Trainin' round in bobtail coats, - But it`5 curus Christian dooty This`ere cuttin' folks's throats. They may talk 0' Freedom's airy Tell they`re pupple in the face, - It's a grand gret cemetary Fer the barthrights of our race; They jest want this Californy So`5 to lug new slave-states in To abuse ye, an' to scorn ye, An' to plunder ye like sin. Aint it cute to see a Yankee Take sech everlastin' pains, All to git the Devil's thankee, Helpin' on`em weld their chains? Wy, it`5 jest ez clear ez figgers, Clear ez one an' one make two, Chaps thet make black slaves 0' niggers Want to make wfte slaves 0' you.

Page  391 THE BI&LOW PAPERS. 391 Tell ye jest the eend I`ve come to Arter cipherin' plaguy smart, An' it makes a handy sum, tu, Any g,u~p could larn by heart; Laborin man all laborin' woman 11ev one glory an' one shame, Ev'y thin' thet`5 done inhuman Injers all on`em the same. `T aint by turnin' out to hack folks You`re agoin' to git your right, Nor by lookin' down on black folks Coz yon`re put upon by wite; Slavery aint 0' nary color, `T aint the hide thet makes it wus, All it keers fer in a feller `S jest to make him fill its pus. Want to tackle me in, du ye? I expect yon`11 hev to wait Wen cold lead puts daylight t~rn ye You`11 begin to kal'klate; `Spose the crows wun't fall to pickin' All the carkiss from your bones, Coz you helped to give a lickin' To them poor half-Spanish drones? Jest go home an' ask our Nancy Wether I`d be sech a goose Ez to jine ye,-guess you'd fancy The etarnal bung wuz loose! She wants me fer home consumption, Let alone the hay`5 to mow, - Ef you`re arter folks 0' gumption, You`ve a darned long row to hoe. Take them editors thet`5 crowin' Like a cockerel three months old, - Don't ketch any on`em goin', Though they be so blasted bold; Aint they a prime lot 0' fellers? `Fore they think on`t they will sprout, (Like a peach tliet`5 got the yellers,) With the meanness bustin' out.

Page  392 392 LOWELL'S POEAiS. Wal, go`long to help`em stealin' Bigger pens to cram with slaves, Help the men thet`5 oilers dealin' Insults on yonr fathers' graves; Help the strong to grind the feeble, Help the many agin the few, Help the men thet call your people Witewashed slaves an' peddlin' crew! Massachusetts, God forgive her, She`5 akucelin' with the rest, She, thet ough' to ha' clung fer ever In her grand old eagle-nest; She thet ough' to stand so fearless Wile the wracks are round her hurled, Holdin' up a beacon peerless To the oppressed of all the world! Haint they sold your colored sean~en? Haint they made your env'ys wiz? Wut`11 make ye act like freemen? JV~~t`11 git your dander riz? Come, I`11 tell ye wnt I`ill thinki~' Is our dooty in this fix, They`d ha' done`t ez quick ez winkin' In the days 0' seventy-six. Clang the bells in every steeple, Call all true men to disown The tradoocers of our people, The enslavers 0' their own; Let our dear old Bay State proudly Put the trumpet to her mouth, Let her ring this messidge loudly In the ears of all the South: - "I`11 return ye good fer evil Much ez we frail mortils can, But I wun't go help the Devil Makin' man the ens 0' man; Call me coward, call me traiter, Jest ez suits your mean idees, - Here I stand a tyrant-hater, An' the friend 0' God an' Peace!"

Page  393 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 393 Ef I`d my way I hed ruther ~Ye sbould go to work an' part, - They take one way, we take t`other, - Gness it would n't break my heart; Man hed ough' to put asunder Them thet God has noways jined; An' I should n't gretly wonder Ef there`S thousands 0' my mind. [The first recruiting sergeant on record I conceive to have been that individual who is mentioned in the Book of Job as going to and fro in the earth, and walking up and dow~~ in it. Bishop Latimer will have him to have been a bishop, but to me that other calling would appear more congenial. The sect of Cainites is not yet extinct, who esteemed the first-born of Adam to be the most worthy, not only because of that privilege of primogeniture, but inasmuch as he was able to overcome and slay his younger brother. That was a wise saying of the famous Marquis Pescara to the Papal Legate, that it was impossible for men to se~~ve Mors a~~d Chri.~t ot the some tin~e. Yet in time past the profession of arms was judged to be ~~~~ that of a gentleman, nor does this opinion want for strenuous upholders even in our day. Must we suppose, then, that the profession of Christianity was only intended for losels, or, at best, to afford an opening for plebeian ambition? Or shall we hold with that nicely metaphysical Pomeranian, Captain Vratz, who was Count K5nigsmark's chief instrument in the murder of Mr. Thynne, that the Scheme of Salvation has been arranged with an especial eye to the necessities of the upper classes, and that "God would consider a gentleman and deal with him suitably to the condition and profession he had placed him in"? It may be said of us all, ~xempTh plus guam ratione vivimus.-H. Wi No. II. A LETTER FROM MR. HOSEA BIGLOW TO THE HON. J. T. BUCKING HAM, EDITOR OF THE BOSTON COURIER, COVERING A LETTER FROM MR. B. SAWIN, PRIVATE IN THE MASSA CHUSETTS REGIMENT. [THIs letter of Mr. Sawin 5 was not originally written in verse. Mr. Biglow, thinking it peculiarly susceptible of metrical adornment, translated it, so to speak, into his own vernacular tongue. This is not the thne to consider the question, whether rhyme be a mode of expression natural to the human race. If leisure from other and more i`portant avocations be granted, I will handle the matter more at lar e in an appendix to the present volume. In this place I will barely emark, that I have sometimes noticed in the unlanguaged p~attlings of infants a fondness for alliteration, assonance, and even rhyme, in which natural predisposition we may trace the three degrees through which our Anglo-Saxon verse rose to its culmination in the poetry of Pope. I

Page  394 394 LOJVELL'S POEJIlS. would not be understood as questioning in these remarks that pious theory which supposes that children, if left entirely to themselves, would naturally discourse in Hebrew. For this tise authority of one experiment is claimed, and I could, with Sir Thomas Browne, desire its establishment, inasmuch as the acquirement of that sacred tongue would thereby be facilitated. I am aware that Herodotus states the conclusion of Psammeticus to have been in favor of a dialect of the Phrygian. But, beside the chance that a trial of this importance would hardly be blessed to a Pagan monarch whose only motive was curiosity, we have on the Hebrew side the comparatively recent investigation of James the Fourth of Scotland. I will add to this prefatory remark, that Mr. Sawin, though a native of Jaalam, has never beesi a stated attendant on the religious exercises of my congregation. I consider my humble efforts prospered in that not one of my sheep bath ever indued the wolf's clothing of war, save for the comparatively innocent diversion of a militia training. Not that my flock are backward to undergo the hardships of defensive warfare. They serve cheerfully in the great army which fights even unto death pro Uris effocis, accoutred with the spade, the axe, the plane, the sledge, the spelling-book, and other such effectual weapons against want and ignorance asid unthrift. I have taught them (under ~od) to esteem our human institutions as but teists of a night, to be stricken whenever Truth puts the bugle to her lips and sounds a march to the heights of wider-viewed intelligence and more perfect organization. - H. W.] ~fis~~n Bucxi~u~, the follerin Billet was writ hum by a Yung feller of our town that wuz cussed fool enuff to goe atrottin inter Miss Chiff arter a Drum and fife. it ain't Nater for a feller to let on that he`5 sick 0' any bizuess that lle went iutu off his own free will and a Cord, but I rather cal'late he`5 middliu tired 0' voluntearin By this Tiicie. I bleeve n inay put depeiidunts on his statemence. For I never heered nothin bad on hitii let Alone his havin what Parson Wilbur cals a ponyskoog for cocktales, and he ses it wuz a soshiashun of idees sot hi iii agoin arter the Crootin Sargient cos he wore a cocktale onto his hat. his Folks gin the letter to me and i shew it to parson Wilbur and he ses it oughter Bee printed. send It to mister Buckinum ses he, i don't oilers agree with him, ses he, but by Time,* ses he, I du like a feller that ain't a Feared. I have intusspussed a Few refieckshuns hear and thair. We`ro kind o' prest with Hayin. Ewers respecfiy Hosi~A BIGLoW. Tiiis kind 0' sogerin' aint a mite like our October trainin', A chap conld.clea,r right out from there ef`t only ljoked like rainin, * In relation to this expression, I cannot but think that Mn Iliglow has been too hasty in attribuflng it to me. Tho~gh Time be a comparativelv innocent personage to swear by, and though Longintis in his discourse nc&`v~~~~ has commended tirnely oaths as not only a useful but inbilme figure of speech, yet I have always kept my lips free from that abomination. Odi prqfenum v~tUus, I hate your swearing and hectoring allows. -11 W.

Page  395 THE BI~OW PAPERS. 395 An' th' Cunnles, tu, could kiver up their shappoes with bandanners, An' send the insines skootin' to the bar-room with their banners, (Fear 0' gittin' on`em spotted,) an' a feller could cry quarter Ef he fired away his ramrod arter tu much rum an' water. Recollect wut fun we hed, you`11' 1 an' Ezry Hollis, Up there to Waltham plain last fall, along 0' the Corn wallis?* This sort 0' thing aint jest like thet, - I wish thet I wuz furder,t - Nimepunce a day fer killin' folks comes kind 0' low fer murder, (Wy I`ve worked out to slarterin' some fer Deacon Cephas Billins, An' inthe hardest times there wuz I ollers tetched ten shillins,) There`s sutthin' gits into my throat thet makes it hard to swaller, It comes so nateral to think about a hempen collar; It`s glory, - but, in spite 0' all my try in' to git callous, I feel a kind 0' in a cart, aridin' to the gallus. But wen it comes to bezn' killed, - I tell ye I felt streaked The fust time`t ever I found out wy baggonets wuz peaked; Here`s how it wuz: I started out to go to a fandango, The sentinul he ups an' sez, "Thet`s furder`an you can go." "None 0' your sarse," sez I; sez he, "Stan' back!" "Aint you a buster?" Sez I," I'm up to all thet air, I guess I've ben to muster; I know wy sentinuls air sot; you aint agoin' to eat us; Caleb haint no monopoly to court the seenoreetas; My folks to hum air full ez good ez hisn be, by golly!" An' so ez I wuz goin' by, not thinkin' wut would folly, The everlastin' cus he stuck his one-pronged pitchfork in me An' made a hole right thru my close ez ef I wuz an in'my. * I bait the Site of a feller with a muskit as I du pizn But their is fun to a cornwallis 1 aint agoin' to deny it. - H. B. the means Not quite so fur 1 guess. - H. B.

Page  396 396 LOWELL'S POEMS. Wal, it beats all how big I felt hoorawin`in ole Funnel Wen Mister Bolles he gill the sword to our Leftenant C unule, (It`5 Mister Secondary Bolles,* thet writ the prize peace essay; Thet`S why he did n't list himself along 0' us, I dessay,) An' Rantoul, tu, talked pooty loud, but don't put his foot in it, Coz human life`5 so sacred thet he`5 principled agin it, - Though I;rnysclf can't rightly see it`5 any wus achokin' on em, Than puttin' bullets thru their lights, or with a bagnet pokin' on`em; How dreffie slick he reeled it off, (like Blitz at our lyceum Ahaulin' ribbins from his chops so quick you skeercely see`em,) About the Anglo-Saxon race (an' saxons would be handy To du the buryin' down here upon the Rio Grandy), About our patriotic pas an' our s\arspa~gled banner, Our country's bird alookin' on an singin out hosauner, An' how he (Mister B. himself) wuz happy fer Amer iky, I felt, ez sister Patience sez, a leetle mite histericky. I felt, I swon, ez though it wuz a dreflle kind 0' privilege - Atrampin' round thru Boston streets among the gutter's drivelage; I act'lly thought it wuz a treat to hear a little drummin', An' it did bonyfidy seem millanyum wuz acorn in' Wen all on us got suits (darned like them wore in the state prison) An' every feller felt ez though all Mexico wuz hisn.t This`ere`5 about the meanest place a skunk could wal diskiver (Saltillo`5 Mexican, I b'lieve, fer wut we call Salt-river) The sort 0' trash a feller gits to eat doos beat all nater, I`d give a year's pay fer a smell 0' one good blue-nose - tater; *the ignerant creeter means Sekketary; but he oilers stuck to his books like cobbler's wax to an lie-stone. -11. B. *it must be aloud that thare`5 a streak 0' nater in lovin' sho, but it sartinly is 1 of the curusest things in natel' to see a rispecktahle dri goods dealer (deekon off a chutch mayby) ariggin' isiroseif out in the weigh they do and struttin' round in the Feign aspilin' his trowels and makin' wet goods of himself. Ef any thin`5 foolisher and moor dicklus than militerry gloary it is milishy gloary. - H. B.

Page  397 THE BJGLOW PAPERS. 397 The country here thet Mister Bolles declared to be so ch arm in' Throughout is swarmin' with the most alarmin' kind 0' varmin. He talked about delishis froots, but then it wuz a wopper all, The holl on`t`s mud an' prickly pears, with here an' there a chapparal; You see a feller peekin' out, an', fust you know, a lariat Is round your throat an' you a copse,`fore you can say, "Wut air ye at? "* You never see sech darned gret bugs (it may not be irrelevant To sayI`ve seen a scarab~~s rilularius t big ez a year old elephant,) The rigimeut come up one day in time to stop a red bug From runnin' off ~vith Cunule ~Vright, -`t wuz jest a common cirnex lectularius. One night I started up on eend an' thought I wuz to hum agin, I heern a horn, thinks I it`5 Sol the fisherman hez come agin, His bellowses is sound enough, - ez I`m a livin' creeter, I felt a thing go thru my leg, -`t wuz nothin' more`n a skeeter! Then there`5 the yaller fever, tu, they call it here el vomito, - (Come, thet wuu't du, you landerab there, I tell ye to le' go my toe! My gracious! it`5 a scorpion thet`5 took a shine to play with't, I dars n't skeer the tarnal thing fer fear he`d run away wlih`t.) Afore I come away from hum I lied a strong persuasion Thet Mexicans wor n't human beans, ~ - an ourang ou tang nation, *these iell~~s are verry proppilly called Rank Heroes, and the more tha kill the ranker and more Herowick tha hekom. - II. B. t it`vnz "tnmhlehllg" as he writ it, hot the parson pot the Latten instid. I sed tother maid better meeter, hot he said fl~a was eddykated peepi to Boston and tha woold n't stan' it no how. Hoow as tha ~roo(i, and idnow Os tha wood. - H. B. ~he means homan heins, that`5 wnt he means. i spose he kinder thonght tha woz homan heans ware the Xisle Poles comes from. - H. B.

Page  398 398 LOWELL'S POEMS. A sort 0' folks a chap could kill an' never dream on`t arter, No more ~11 a feller`d dream 0' pigs thet he lied lied to slarter I`d an idee thet they were built arter the darkie fashion all, An' kickin' colored folks about, you know,`5 a kind 0' national But wen I jined I wor n't so wise ez thet air queen 0' Sheby, Fer, come to look at`em, they aint much diff'reut from wut we be, An' here we air ascrougin em out 0' thir own doininions, Ashelterin'`em, ez Caleb sez, under our eagle's pinions, ~Yich means to take a feller up jest by the slack 0'S trowsis An' walk him Spanish clean right out 0' all his homes an'houses Wal, it doos seem a curus way, but then hooraw fer Jackson! It must be right, fer Caleb sez it`5 reg'lar Anglosaxon. The Mex'cans don't fight fair, they say, they piz'n all the water, An' du amazin' lots 0' things thetis n't wut they ough' to Bein' they haint no lead, they make their bullets out 0' copper An' shoot the darned things at us, tu, wich Caleb sez aint proper; fle sez they`d ough' to stan' right up an' let us pop`em fairly, (Guess wen he ketches`em at thet he`11 hev to git up airly,) Thet our nation`5 bigger`n theirn an' so its rights air bigger, An' thet it`5 all to make`em free thet we air pullin' trigger, Thet Anglo Saxondom's idee`5 abreakin'`em to pieces, An' thet idee`5 thet every man doos jest wut he damn Ef I pleases; his meanin' clear, perhaps in some respex don't make I can, I know thet "every man" don't mean a nigger or a Mexican;

Page  399 7'HE BIGLOW PA PER S. 399 An' there`5 another thing I know, an' thet is, ef these creeturs, Thet stick an Anglosaxon mask onto Statetlison feeturs, Should come to Jaalam Centre fer to argify an' spout on The gals`ould count the silver spoons the minnit they cleared out on`t. This goin' ware glory waits ye haint one agreeable feetur, An' ef it wor n't fer wakin' snakes, I`d home agin short meter; 0, would n't I be off, quick time, ef`t wor n't thet I wuz ~ sartin They`d let the daylight into me to pay me fer desartin'! I don't approve 0 tellin' tales, but jest to you I may state Our ossifers aint wut they wuz afore they left the Bay state; Then it wuz "~Iister Sawin, sir, you`re n~ddlin' w~l} now, be ye? Step up an' take a nipper, sir; I`in dretlle g~ad to see ye"; But now it`s "Ware`s my eppylet? here, Sawin, step an fetch it! An' mind your eye, be thund'rin' spry, or, damn ye, you shall ketch it!" Wal, ez the Doctor sez, some pork will bile so, but by mighty, Ef I hed some on`em to hum, I`d give`em linkum vity, I`d play the rogue's march on their hides an' other music follerin' - But I must close my letter here, fer one on em s ahol lerin', These Anglosaxon ossifers, - wal, taint no use ajawin', I`in safe enlisted fer the war, Yourn, BIRDoFREDoM SAWIN. [Those have not been wanting (as, indeed, when bath Satan been to seek for attorneys?) who have maintained that our late inroad upon Mexico was undertaken, not so much for the avenging of any national quarrel, as for the spreading of free institutions and of Protestantism. Copite eix d?fobw~ Auficyris niede~~qa! Verily I admire that no pious sergeant among these new Crusaders beheld ~Iartin Luther riding at the front of the host upou a tamed pontifical hull, as, in that former invasion of Mexico, the zealous G~~mara (spawn thongh he were of he Scarlet Woman) was favored with a vision of St. Janies of Composteila, skeweriiig the infidels upon his apostolical laiice. We read, alsc, that Richard of the lion heart, having gone to Palestine on a aimilar errand

Page  400 400 LOWELL'S POEMS. of mercy, was divinely encouraged to cut the throats of such Paynims as ref used to swallow the bread of life (doubtless that they might be thereafter incapacitated for swallowing the filthy gob bets of Mahound) by angels of heaven, who cried to the king and his kiiights, - gneurs, ti~ez! t~tez! providentially using the French tongoc, as being the only one understood by their auditors. This wonid argue for the pantoglottism of these celestial intelligences, while, on the ~ther hand, the Devil, teste Cotton Mather, is unversed in certain of the Indian dialects. Yet must lie be a semelologist the most expert, making hin~ self intelligible to every people and kindred by signs; no other discourse, indeed, being needful, than such as tlie mackerel-fisher holds with his finned quarry, who, if other bait be wanting, can by a bare bit of white rag at the end of a string captivate those foolish fishes. Such piscatorial oratory is Satan cunning in. Before one he trails a hat and feather, or a bare feather without a hat; before another, a Pr~sidential chair, or a tidewaiter's sto()l, or a pulpit in the city, no matter what. To us, dangling there over our heads, they seem junkets dropped out of the seventh heave ii, sops dipped in nectar, but, once in our mouths, they are all one, bits of fuzzy cottoo. This, however, by the way. It is time now revocure gru~1urn. ~Vliile so many miracles of this sort, vouched by eyewitnesses, have encouraged the arms of Papists, not to speak of Echetliens at Marathon and those Dioscori (whom we must conclude imps of the pit) who snii(lry times captained the pagan Roman soldiery, it is strange that our first American crusade was not in some such wise also signalized. Yet it is said that the Lord bath manifestly prospered our armies. This opens the question, whether, when our hands are strengthened to make great slaughter of our enemies, it be absolutely and deinonstratively certain that this might is added to us from above, or whether some Potentate from an opposite quarter may not have a finger iii it, as there are few pies into which his meddling digits are not thrust. ~Yould the Sanctifier and Setter-apart of the seventh day have assisted in a victory gained on tlie Sabbath, as was one in the late war? ()r has that day become less an object of his especial care since tlie year 1697, when so manifest a providence occurred to Mr. ~Villiam Trowbridge, in answer to whose prayers, wheii he and all on shipboard with hiin were starving, a dolphin was sent daily, "which was enough to serve`em; only on Soturdoys they still catched a couple, and oii the Lord's Dogs they could catch none at all"? Haply they might have been permitted, by way of mortification, to take some few sculpins (those banes of the salt-water angler), which unseemly fish w~~nld, moreover, have conveyed to them a symbolical reproof for their breach of the day, being known in the rude dialect of our mariners as Cope Cod Clergynten. It has been a refreshment to many nice consciences to know that our Chief Magistrate would not regard with eyes of approval the (by many esteemed) sinful pastime of dancing, and I own myself to be so far of that mind, that I could not but set my face against this Mexican Polka, though danced to the Presideiitial piping with a Guberliatorlyl second. If ever the country should be seized with another such mania de propugoude fide, I think it would be wise to fill our bombshells with alternate copes of the Cambridge Platform and the Thirty-nine Articles, which would produce a mixture of the highest explosive power, and to wrap every one of our cannon-balls in a leaf of the New Test ament, the reading of which is denied to those who sit in the darkness of Popery. Those iron evangelists would thus be able to disseminate vital religion and Gospel truth in quarters inaccessible to tlie ordinary missionary. I have seen lads, unimpreguate with the more sublimated punctiliousness of Walton, secure pickerel, taking their unwary siesfo

Page  401 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 401 beneath the lily-pads too nigh the surface, with a gun and small shot. Why not, then, since gunpowder was unknown in the time of the Apostles (not to enter here upon the question whether it were discovered before that period by the Chinese), suit our metaphor to the age in which we live, and say shooters as well as fishers of men? I do much fear that we sball be seized now and then with a Protestant fervor, as long as we have neighbor Naboths whose wallowings in Papistical mire excite our horror iii exact proportion to the size and desirableness of their vineyards. Yet I rejoice that some earnest Prot~stants have been made by this war, - I mean those who protested against it. Fewer they were than I could wish, for one might imagine America to have been colonized by a tribe of those no'idescript African animals the Aye-Ayes, so difficult a word is Vo to us all. There is some malformation or defect of the vocal organs, whi&~li either prevents our utteriii~ it at all, or gives it so thick a pronunciation as to be unintelligible. A ino ith filled with the national pudding, or watenng in expectation tliere~if, is wholly incompetent to this refract(iry monosyllable. Ait al~ject and herpetic Public Opinion is the Pope, the AntiChrist, for us to protest against e cor~e cordiuix. And by what College of Cardinals is this our God's-vicar, our binder and looser, elected? Very like, by the sacred conclave of Tag, Rag, and Bobtail, in the gracious atmosphere of the grog-shop. Yet it is of this that we must all be puppets. This thumps the pulpit-cushion, this guides the editor's pen, this wags the senator's tongne. This decides what Scriptures are canonical, and shuffles Christ away into the Apocrypha. According to that sentence fathered upon Solon, o~~ ~~~6~~o p~~~~`~~~l' ~~~~~. This unclean spirit is skilful to assume various shapes. I have known it to enter my own study and nudge my elbow of a Saturday, nuder the semblance of a wealthy member of my congregation. It were a great blessing, if every particular of what in the sum we call popular- sentiment could carry about the name of its manufacturer stamped legibly upon it. I gave a stab under the fifth rib to that pestileiit fallacy, -" Our country, right or wrong," - by tracing its original to a speech of Ensign Cilley at a dinner of the Bungtown Fbncibles. H. W.] No. III. WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS. [A FEW remarks on the following verses will not be out of place. The satire in them was not meant to have any personal, but only a geiieral, application Of the gentleman upon whose letter they were i'.~teiide~l as a commentary Mr. Biglow had never heard, till he saw the letter itself. The position of the satirist is oftentimes one which he would not have chosen, had the election been left to himself. In attackiii bad principles, he is obliged to select some individual who has made himself their exponent, and in whom they are impersonate, to the end that what-he says may not, through ambiguity, be dissipated tenues iii oneos. For what says Seneca? Longitos iter per pesecepta, brene et e~cnce per ez~mpln. A bad principle is comparatively harmless while it coiitinues to be an abstraction, nor can the general mind compreheii~l it fully till it is printed in that large type which all men cait read it sight, namely, the life and character, the sayings and doings, of par 2D

Page  402 402 LOWELL'S POEMS. ticular persons. It is one of the cunningest fetches of Satan, that he never exposes himself directly to our arrows, hut, still dodging behind this neighbor or that acquaintance, compels us to wound him through them, if at all. He holds our affections as hostages, the while he patches up a truce with our conscience. Meanwhile, let us not forget that the aim of the true satirist is not to be severe upon persons, but only upon falsehood, and, as Truth and Falsehood start from the same point, and sometimes even go aloiig together for a little way, his business is to follow the path of the latter after it diverges, and to show her floundering in the bog at the cud of it. Truth is quite beyond the reach of satire. There is so brave a simplicity in her, that she can no more be made rfdiculous than an oak or a pine. The danger of the satirist is, that continual use may deaden his sensibility to the force of language. He becomes more and more liable to strike harder than he knows or intends. He may be careful to put on his boxing-gloves, and yet forget, that, the older they grow, the more plainly may the knuckles inside be felt. Moreover, in the heat of contest, the eye is insensibly drawn to the crown of victory, whose tawdry tinsel glitters through that dust of the ring which obscures Truth's wreath of simple leaves. I have sometimes thought that my young friend, Mr. Biglow, needed a monitory hand laid on his arm, - aliqeid sujI1a'ninaud~ts ercf. I have never thought it good husbandry to water the tender plants of reform with aq~ta fortis, yet, where so much is to do in the beds, he were a sorry gardener who should wage a whole day's war with an iron scuffle on those ill weeds that make the garden-walks of life unsightly, when a sprinkle of Attic salt will wither them up. Est ars efiom ~~olediceod~, says Scaliger, and truly it is a hard thing to say where the graceful gentleness of tile lamb merges in downright sheepishness. We may conclude with worthy and wise Dr. Fuller, that "one may be a lamb in private wrongs, but in hearing general affronts to goodness they are asses which are not lions." - H. W.] GUvENER B. is a sensible man; He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks; He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can, An' into nobody's tatertatch pokes; - But John P. Robinson he Sez he wunt ~ote fer Guvener B. My! aint it terrible? Wut shall we da? We can't never choose him, 0' course, - thet`5 flat; Guess we shall hev to come round, (don't you?) An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that; Fer John P. Robinson he Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. Gineral C. is a dreffie smaft man: He`5 ben on all sides thet give places or pelf;

Page  403 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 403 But consistency still wuz a part of his plan, - He`5 been true to one party and thetis himself; So John P. Robinson he Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. Gineral C. he goes in fer the war; He don't vally principle more`n an old cud; Wut did God make ns raytional creeturs fer, But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood? So John P. Robinson he Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village, With good old idees o' wut`5 right an' wut aint, We kind o'. thought Christ went agin war an' pillage, An' thet eppyletts wor n't the best mark of a saint But John P. Robinson he Sez this kind o' thing`5 an exploded idee. The side of our country must oIlers be took, An' Presidunt Polk, you know, he is our country. An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a book Puts the qebit to bim, an' to us the rer eo~~try; An' John P. Robinson he Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T. Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies; Sez they`re nothin' on airth but jest fee, faw, fum: An' thet all this big talk of our destinies Is half on it ignorance, an' t' other half rum, But John P. Robinson he Sez it aint no sech thing; an', of course, so must we. Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his life Thet th' Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail coats, An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife, To git some on`em office, an' some on`em votes,

Page  404 404 LOJVELL'S POEMS. But John P. Robinson he Sez they did n't know everythin' down in Judee. ~Val, it`5 a marcy we`ve gut folks to tell us The rights an' the wrongs 0' these matters, I vow, - God sends country lawycis, an other wise fellers, To startthe world's team wen it gits in a sloagh; Fer John P. Robinson he Sez the world`11 go right, ef he hollers out Gee! [The attentive reader will doubtless have perceived in the foregoing poem an allusion to that pernicious sentiment, -" Our country, right or wrong." It is an abuse of language to call a certain portion of land, much more, certain personages, elevated for the time being to high station, our country. I would not sever nor loosen a single one of those ties by which we are united to the spot of our birth, nor minish by a tittle the respect due to the Magistrate. I love our own Bay State too well to do the one, and as for the other, I have myself for nigh forty years exercised, however unworthily, the function of Justice of the Peace, having been called thereto by the unsolicited kindness of that most excellent man and upright patriot, Caleb Strong. Potrix fumus iJue alie~~o fucuThiifio~ is best qualified with this, - Ubi 1ibe~~f as, i~i pat~~ia. We are inhabitants of two worlds, and owe a double but not a divided, allegiance. In virtue of oar clay, this little ball of earth exacts a certain loyalty of us, while, in our capacity as spirits, we are admitted citizens of an invisible and holier fatheHand. There is a patriotism of the soul whose claim absolves us from our other and terrene fealty. Our true country is that ideal real in which we represent to ourselves under the names of religion, duty, and the like. Our terrestrial organizations are but far-off appr~iaches to s() fair a model, and all they are verily traitors who resist not any attempt to divert them from this their original intendineiit. When, therefore, one would have us to fling up our caps aud shout with the multitude, - "Our counfry, however 601'udvd!" he demands of us that we sacrifice the larger to the less, the higher to the lower, and that we yield to the imaginary claims of a few acres of soil our duty and privilege as liegemen of Truth. Our true country is bounded on the north and the south, on the east and the west, by Justice, and when she oversteps that invisible boundary4ii~e by so much as a hair's4~readth, she ceases to be our mother, and chooses rather to be looked upon quosi noe(rcc. That is a hard choice, when our earthly love of country calls upon us to tread one path and our duty points us to another. we must make as noble and becomiiig aii election as did Penelope between Icarius and Ulysses. Veiling our faces, we must take silently the baud of Duty to follow her. Shortly after the publication of the foregoing poem, there appeared some comments upon it in one of the public prints which seemed to call for animadversion. I accordingly addressed to Mr. Huckingliam, of the Boston Courier, the following letter. JAALAM, November 4, 1847. To the Editor of the Courier: "Rvsr~c~un SIR, - Calling at the post-office this morning, our worthy and efficient postmaster offered for my perusal a paragraph in

Page  405 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 405 the Boston Morning Post of the 3d instant, wherein certain effnsions of the pastoral muse are attributed to the pen of Mr. James Russell Lowell. For aught I know or can affirm to the contrary, this Mr. Lowell may be a very deserving persoii aiid a youth of parts (though I have seen verses of h~s which I could never rightly understand); and if he be such, he, I am certain, as well as I, would be free from any proclivity to appropriate to himself whatever of credit (or discredit) inay honestly belong to another. I am confident, that, in penning tl~ese few lines, I am only forestalling a disclaimer from that young gentleman, whose silence hitherto, when rumor pointed to himward, has excited in my bosom mingled emotions of sorrow and surprise. ~Vell inay my young parishioner, Mr. Biglow, exclaim with the poet, `Sic vos non vobis,' &c.; though, in saying this, I would not convey the impression that he is a proficient in the Latin tongue, - the tongue, I might add, of a Horace and a Tully. "Mr. B. does not employ his pen, I can safely say, for any lucre of worldly gain, or to be exalted by the carnal plaudits of men digito nionsfrari, &c. He does not wait upon Providence for mercies, and in his heart mean iiierces. But I should esteem myself as verily deficient in my duty (who am his friend and in some unworthy sort his spiritual fides Achefes, &c.), if I did not step forward to claim for him whatever measure of applause might be assigned to him by the judicious. "If this were a fitting occasion, I might venture here a brief dissertation touching the manner and kind of my young friend's poetry. But I dubitate whether this abstruser sort of speculation (though elilivened by some apposite instances from Aristophanes) would sufficienily interest your oppidan readers. As regards their satirical tone, and their plailiness of speech, I will only say, that, in my pastoral experience, I have found that the Arch-Enemy loves nothing better thaii to be treated as a religious, moral, and intellectual being, and that there is no ep((ge Sefhciios! so potent as ridicule. But it is a kind of weapon that must have a button of good-nature on the point of it. "The productions of Mr. B. have been stigmatized in some quarters as unpatriotic; but I can vouch that he loves his native soil with that hearty, though discriminating, attachment which springs from an intimate social intercourse of many years' standing. In the ploughing season, no one has a deeper share in the well-being of the country than he. If Deaii Swift were right in saying that he who makes two blades of grass grow where one grew before confers a greater benefit on the state than lie who taketh a city, Mr. B. might exhibit a fairer claim to the Presidency than General Scott himself. I think that some of those disinterested lovers of the hard-handed democracy, whose fingers have never touched anything rougher than the dollars of our common country, would hesitate to compare palms with him. It would do your heart good, respected Sir, to see that young man mow. He cuts a cleaiier and wider swarth than any in this town. "But it is time for me to be at my Post. It is very clear that my youIig friend's shot has struck the lintel, for the Post is shaken (Amos ix. 1). The editor of that pap~r is a strenuous advocate of the Mexican war, and a colonel, as I am given to understand. I presume, that, beiiig necessarily absent in Mexico, he has left his journal in some less judicious hands. At any rate, the Post has been too swift on this occasion. It could hardly have cited a more incontrovertible line from any poem than that which it has selected for animadversion, namely, - `~Ye kind 0' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage.'

Page  406 406 LOWELL'S POEMS. "If the Post maintains the converse of this proposition, it can hardly be considered as a safe guide-post for the moral and religious portions of its party, however many other excellent qualities of a post it may be blessed with. There is a sign in London on which is painted, - `The Green Man.' It would do very well as a portrait of any ludividual who would support so nuscriptural a thesis. As regards the language of the line in question, I am bold to say that He who readeth the hearts of men will not accomit any dialect unseemly which conveys a sound and pious sentiment. I could wish that such sentiments were more common, however uncouthly expressed. Saint Ambrose affirms, that ~e~~itas a quoca~~que (why not, then, quooto~lo~.~~aque?) dicator, a Spi?~it?t so~icfo esf. Digest also this of Baxter: -` The p,lainest words are the most profitable oratory in tise weightiest matters. "N\~en the paragraph in question was shown to Mr. Biglow, the only part of it which seemed to give him any dissatisfaction was that which classed him with the Whig party. He says, that, if resolutions are a nourishing kind of diet, that party must he in a very hearty and flourishing condition; for that they have quietly eaten more good ones of their own baking than he could have conceived to he possible without repletion. He has been for some years past (I regret to say) an ardent opponent of those sound doctrines of protective policy which form so prominent a portion of the creed of that party. I confess, that, in some discussions which I have had with him on this point in my study, he has displayed a vein of obstinacy which I had not hitherto detected in his composition. He is also (ho~iesco refereos) infected in no small measure with the peculiar notions of a print called the Liberator, whose heresies I take every proper opportunity of combating, and of which, I thank God, I have never read a single line. "I did not see Mr. B.'s verses until they appeared iii print, and there is certainly one thing in them which I consider highly improper. I allude to the personal references to myself by name. To confer notoriety on an humble individual who is laboring quietly in his vocation, and who keeps his cloth as free as he can from the dust of the political arena (though v~ niihi Si non eeon~ie1izavero), is no doubt an indecorum. The sentiments which he attributes to me I will iiot deiiy to be nine. They were embodied, though in a different form, in a discourse preached upon the last day of pulilic fasting, and were acceptable to iny entire people (of whatever political views), except the postmaster, who dissented ex qfticio. I observe that you sometimes devote a portion of your paper to a religious summary. I should be well pleased to furnish a copy of my discourse for insertion in this department of your instructive journal. By omitting the advertisements, it might easily be got within the limits of a single number, and I venture to insure you the sale of some scores of copfes in this town. I will cheerfully render myself responsible for ten. It might possibly be ad vantageous to issue it as an erfi-a. But perhaps you will not esteeni it an object, and I will not press it. My offer does not spriiig from any weak desire of seeing my name in print; for I can enjoy this satisfaction at any time by turning to the Triennial Catalogue of the University, where it also possesses that added emphasis of Italics with which those of my calliiig are distinguished. "I w~inld simply add, that I continue to fit ingenuous youth for college, and that I have two spacious and airy sleeping apartments at this moment unoccupied. Ligenuas didicisse, &c. Te?ms, which vary according to the circumstances of the parents, may be known on application to me by letter, post paid. In all cases the lad will be expected to fetch his own towels. This rule, Mrs. W. desires me to add, has no exceptions. "Respectfully, yo~r obedient servant, "Ho~~a WILBUR, A.M.

Page  407 7'ftE BI&'LOW PAPERS. 407 "p. 5 Perhaps the last paragraph may look like an attempt to obtain the insertion of my circular gratuitous0y. If it should appear to you in that light, I desire that you would erase it, or charge for it at the usual rates, and deduct the amount from the proceeds in your hands from the sale of my discourse, when it shall he printed. My circular is much longer and more explicit, and will he forwarded without charge to any who may desire it. It has heen very neatly executed on a letter sheet, by a very deserving printer, who attends upon my ministry, and is a creditable specimen of the typographic art. I have one hung over my mantelpiece in a neat frame, where it makes a beautiful and appropriate ornament, and balances the profile of Mrs. W., cut with her toes by the young lady born without arms. H. W." I have in the foregoing letter mentioned General Scott in connection with the Presidency, because I have been given to understand that he has blown to pieces and otherwise caused to be destroyed more Mexicaiis than aiiy other commander. His claini would therefore be deservedly considered the strongest. Until accurate returns of the Mexicans killed, wounded, and maimed be obtained, it will be difficult to settle these nice points of ~recedence. Should it prove that any other officer has been more meritorious and destructive thaii General 5., and has thereby rendered himself more worthy of the coiifidence aiid support of the conservative portion of our community, I shall cheerfully insert his iiame, iiistead of that of General S., in a future edition. It may be thought, likewise, that General S. has invalidated his claims by too mud~ attention to the decencies of apparel, aiid the habits belonging to a gentleman. These abstruser points of 5tatesmanship are beyond my scope. I wonder not that snccessful military achievement should attract the admiration of the multitude. Rather do I rejoice with wonder to behold how rapidly this sentiment is losing its hold upon tlie popular mind. It is related of Thomas Warton, the second of that honored na'iie who held the office of Poetry Professor at Oxford, that, when one wished to find him, being absconded, as was his woiit, in some obscure alehouse, he was counselled to traverse the city with a drum and fife, the sound of which ilispiring music would be sure to draw the Doctor from his retirement into tlie str9et. )Ye are all more or less bitten with this martial insanity. Nesc~o qiia do1cedi~~e... cunctos ducit. I confess to some infection of that itch myself. When I see a Brigadier~General maintaining his insecure elevation in the saddle mid~er the severe fire of the training-field, and when I remember that some military enthusiasts, through haste, inexperience, or an overdesire to lend reality to those fictitious combats, will sometimes discharge their ramrods, I cannot but admire, while I deplore, the mistaken devotion of il~ose heroic officers. Se mel i?isanivi?t~us omneS. I was myself, durin the late war with Great Britain, chaplaii) of a regiment, which was for~uiiately never called to active military duty. I mention this circumstance with regret rather than pride. Had I been summoned to actual warfare, I trust that I might have been strengthened to bear myself after the manner of that reverend father in our ~ew England Israel, Dr. Benjamin Colman, who, as we are told in Turell's life of hi in, when the vessel in which he had taken passage for England was attacked by a French privateer, "fought like a philosopher and a Christian,... and prayed all the while he charged and fired." As this note is already bug, I shall iiot here enter upon a discussion of the question, whether Christians may lawfully be soldiers. I think it sufficienfly evident, that, during the first two centuries of the Christian era, at least, two professions were esteemed incompatible. Consult Jortin on this head.-H. W.]

Page  408 408 LOJVELL'S POEMS. No. IV. REMARKS OF INCREASE D. 0`PRACE, ESQUIRE, AT AN EX TRUMPERY CAUCUS IN STATE STREET~ REPORTED BY MR. II. BIGLOW. [THE iligeulous reader will at once understand that no such speech as the following was ever totidem ve~bis pronounced. But there are simpler and less guarded wits, for the satisfying of which such aii cxplanation may be needful. For there are certain invisible lines, which as Truth successively overpasses, she becomes Untruth to one aiid another of us, as a large river, fi~~wing from one kingdom into another, sometimes takes a new name, albeit the waters undergo no change, how small soever. There is, moreover, a truth of fiction more veracious than the truth of fact, as that of the Poet, which represents t() us things and events as they ought to be, rather than servilely copies them as they are imperfectly imaged in the crooked and smoky glass of our mundane affairs. It is this which makes the speech of Antoiiius, though originally spoken in no wider a forum than the brain of Sliakspeai~, more historically valuable than that other which Appian has repi~rtod, by as much as the understanding of the Englishman was more c()mpre hensive than that of the Alexandrian. Mr. Biglow, in the preseiit instaiice, has only made use of a license assumed by all the histoi~iajis ~f antiquity, who put into the mouths of various characters soc ii words as seem to them most fitting to the occasion and to the speaker. if it be ohjected that no such oration could ever have been deliverel. I answer, that there are few assemblages for speech-making which do not better deserve the title of Per1ia~i~ent~tn~!i~doctor~t~i~ thai did tlie sixth Parliament of Henry the Fourth, and that inen still c(~iitiiiiie to have as much faith in the Oracle of Fools as ever Pantagruel had. Howell, in his letters, recounts a merry tale of a certain ainbassad~~r of Queen Elizabeth, who, haviiig written two letters, one to her Majesty and the other to liis wife, directed theni at cross-purposes, so that tlie Queen was beducked and bedeared aiid requested to send a clian~e of hose, and the wife was beprincessed and otherwise unwontedly besuperlatived, till the one feared for the wits of her ambassador, aiid tlie other for those of her husband. In like maniier it may be presumed that oiir speaker has misdirected some of his thoughts, and given to the whole theatre what he would have wished to confide only to a select auditory at the back of the curtain. For it is seldom that we can get any frank utterance from men, who address, for the most part, a Buncombe either iii this worki or tlie next. As for their audiences, it may be truly said of our people, that they enjoy oiie political institution iii common with the ancielit Athenians: I mean a certain profitless kind of ost~eciz~~~, wherewith, nevertheless, they seem hitherto well enough content. For in Presidautial elections, and other affairs of the sort, whereas I observe that the oysfe~s fall to the lot of comparatively few, the sh~1is (such as the privileges of voting as they are told to do by the ostricori afliresaid, and of huzzaing at public meetings) are very liberally distributed among the people, as being their prescriptive aiid quite sufficient portion. The occasion of the speech is supposed to be Mr. Pal frey's refusal to vote for the ~Vhig candidate for the Speakership. - H. W.] No? llez he? lle haint, though? ~Vttt? Voted agin him? Ef the bird of our country Could ketch him, she`d skin him

Page  409 THE BI&~OW PAPERS. 409 I seem`5 though I see her, with wrath in each quill, Like a chancery lawyer, afilin' her bill, An' grindin' her talents ez sharp ez all nater, To pounce like a writ on the back o' the traitor. Forgive me, my friends, ef I seem to ~e het, Biit a crisis like this must with vigor be met; NVen an Arnold the star~spangled banner b~stains, Holl Fourth 0' Julys seem to bile in lily veins. NVho ever`d ha' thou~ht sech a pisonons rig ~Vould be run by a chap thet wuz chose fer a Wig? "We knowed wut his principles wuz`fore we sent him?" Wut wuz ther in iliern fi~om this vote to per vent him? A inarciful Providunce fashioned us holler 0' purpose thet we might our principles swaller; It can hold any quantity on`cin, the belly can, An' bring`em up ready fer use like the pelican, Or more like the kangaroo, who (wich is stranger) Puts ber family iiito her pouch wen there`5 danger. Aiiit principle precious? then, who`5 goin' to use it Wen there`5 resk 0' soine diap's gittin' up to abuse it? I ean't tell the wy on`t, but nofl~iu' is so sure ~z thet principle kind 0' gits spiled by exposure; * A man 4~et lets all sorts 0' folks git a sight on Ough' to hev it all took right away, every mite on I~f hc can't keep it all to himseli wen it`5 wise to, He aint one it`5 fit to trust noil~in' so nice to. Besides, ther`5 a wonderful power in lafitude To shift a in an's morril relations an' attitude; Some ~ossifers think thet a fakkilty`s granted The juinnit it`s proved to be thoroughly wanted, Thet a change 0' demand makes a change 0' condition, An' thet everythin'`5 nothin' except by position, Ez, fer instance, thet rubber-trees fust begun bearin' Wen p'litikle conshunces come into wearin', - *The speaker is of a different mind from Tully, who, in his recently discovered tractate I)e Lepni7icd, tells us, - A~c rero habere virtutern sotis est, quosc artem aliquon?, nisi setore, and from~our Milton, who says,-" I cannot praise a fogitive and cloistered virtue, Un exercise4 and unhreathsd, that ncvCr sallies out aiid sees her adversary, but slinks out of the race where that immortal garland is to he run for, not ujOtoict dual and heat." ~reop. He had taken the words out of the Roman's mouth, without knowing it, and might well exdaim with Austin (if a saint's name may stand sponsor for a curse,) Fereanl qici a~te nos nostra dixerint.'-11. w.

Page  410 410 LOWELL'S POEMS. Thet the fears of a monkey, whose holt chanced to fail, Drawed the vertibry out to a prehensile tail So, wen one`5 chose to Congriss, ez soon ez be`5 in it, A collar grows right round his neck in a minnit, An' sartin it is thet a man cannot be strict In bein' himself, wen he gits to the Deestrict, Fer a coat thet sets wal here in ole Massachusetts, Wen it gits on to Washinton, somehow askew sets. Resolves, do you say, 0' the Springfield Convention? Thet`5 percisely the pint I was goin' to mention Resolves air a thing we most gen'ally keep ill, They`re a cheap kind 0' dust fer the eyes 0' the people; A parcel 0' delligits jest git together An' chat fer a spell 0' the crops an' the weather, Then, comin' to order, they squabble awile An' let off the speeches they`re ferfal`11 spile; Then - Resolve, - Thet we wunt hev an inch 0' slave territory; Thet President Polk's holl perceedins air very tory; Thet the war is a damned war, an' them thet enlist in it Should hev a cravat with a dreffie tight twist in it; Thet the war is a war fei' the spreadin' 0' slavery; Thet our army desarves our best thanks fer their bravery; Thet we`re the oAginal friends 0' the nation, All the rest air a paltry aii' base fahi~ication; Thet we higlily respect Messrs. A, B, an' C, An' ez deeply despise Messrs. 1~, F, an' G. In this way they go to the eend 0' the chapter, An' then they bust out in a kind of a raptur About their own vartoo, an' folks's stone-blindness To the men thet`ould actilly do`em a kindness, - The American eagle, - the Pilgrims thet landed, - Till on ole Plymouth Rock they git finally stranded. Wal, the people they listen and say, "Thet`5 the ticket Ez fer Mexico, t'aint no great glory to lick it, But`t would be a darned shame to go pullin' 0' triggers To extend the aree of abusin' the niggers." So they march in percessions, an' git up hooraws, An' tramp thrn the mud fer the good 0' the cause, Au' think they`re a kind 0' fulfillin' the prophecies, Wen they`re on'y jest changin' the holders of offices;

Page  411 THE BIULOW PAPERS. 411 ~Vare A sot afore, B is comf'tably seated, One huinbng`5 victor'ous, an' t' other defeated, Each honnable doughface gits jest wut he axes, An' the people - their annool soft-sodder an' taxes. Now, to keep unimpared all these glorious feeturs Thet characterize morril an' reasonin' creeturs, Thet give every paytriot all he can cram, Thet oust the untrustworthy Presidunt Flam, And stick honest Presidunt Sham in his place, To tbe manifest gain 0' the holl human race, An' to some indervidgewals on`t in partickler, Who love Public Opinion an' know how to tickle her, - I say thet a party with great aims like il~ese Must stick jest ez close ez a hive full 0' bees. I`in willin' a man should' go tollable strong Agin wrong in the abstract, fer thet kind 0' wrong Is ollers unpop'lar an' never gits pitied, Because it`5 a cAme no one never committed; - But he mus' n't be hard on partickler sins, Coz then he`11 be kickin' the people's own shins; On'y look at the Demmererats, see wut they`ve done Jest simply by stickin' together like fun; They`ve sucked us right into a m~s'able war Thet no one on airth aint responsible for They`ve run us a hundred cool millions in debt, (An' fer Demmererat Horners ther`5 good plums left yet;) They talk agin tayriffs, but act fer a high one, An' so coax all parties to build up their Zion; To the people they`re ollers ez slick ez molasses, An' butter their bread on both sides with The Masses, Half 0' whom they`ve persuaded, by way of a joke, Thet ~Vashinton's mantelpiece fell upon Polk. Now all 0' these blessin's the Wigs might enjoy, Ef they`d gi~mption enough the right means to imploy; * Fer the silver spoon born in Dermocracy' s mouth Is a kind~of a scringe thet they hev to the South; Their masters can cuss em an' kick`em an' wale`em, *That was a pithy saying of Persius, and fits osir politicians without a wnnkls, - Yft~i*te~ orti*, imqeniique larUitor ~enter. -Il. W.

Page  412 412 LOWELL'S POEMS. An' they notice it less`an the ass did to Balaam; In this way they screw into second-rate offices ~Vich the slaveholder thinks`ould substract too much off his ease; The file-leaders, I mean, du, fer they, by their wiles, Unlike the old viper, grow fat on their files. NYal, th,e N\~igs hev been tryin' to grab all this prey fruin em An' tohook this nice spoon 0' good fortin' away frum `em An' they might ha' succeeded, ez likely ez not, In lickin' the I)eininercrats all round the lot, Ef it warn't thet, wile all faithfnl NVigs were their knees on, Some stuffy old codger would holler out, -"Treason! You niust keep a sharp eye on, a dog thet hez bit you once, An' I aint agoin' to cheat my constitoounts," Wen every fool knows thet a man represents Not the fellers thet sent him, but them on the fence, - Imparfially ready to jump either side An' make the fust use of a turn 0' the tide, - The waiters on Providunce here in the city, Who compose wut they call a State Centerl Committy. Constitocunts air hendy to help a man in, But arterwards don't weigh the heft of a pin. Wy, the people can't all live on Uncle Sam's pus, So they`ve nothin' to dn with`t fer better or wus; It`5 the folks thet air kind 0' brought up to depend on Thet hev any consarn in`t, an' thetis the end on`t. Now here wuz New England ahevin' the honor Of a chance at the Speakership showered upon her; - Do you say, -" She don't want no more Speakers, but fewer; She`5 hed plenty 0' them, wnt she wants is a Fer the matter 0' thet it`5 notorous in town Thet her own representatives dii her quite brown. But thet`5 nothin' to du with it; wut right hed Palfrey To mix himself up with fanatical small fry? War n't we gittin' on prime with our hot an' cold blowin', Acondemnin' the war wilst we kep' it ago in'? We`d assumed with gret skill a commandin' position,

Page  413 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 413 On tbis side or tl?et, no one could n't tell wich one, So, wutever side wipped, we`d a chance at the plu~der An' could sue fer infringin' oiir pa~ytented thunder; ~Ve were ready to vote fer whoever wuz eligible, Ef on all pints at is 500 be`d stay unintelligible. ~Yal, sposin' we bed to gnlp down our perfessions, ~Ve were ready to come ont next mornin' with fresh ones; Besides, ef we did,`t was our business alone, Fer could n't we du wut we would with our own An' ef a man can, wen pervisions bev riz so, Eat up his own words, it`5 a marcy it is so. Wy, these cbaps frmu the North, with back-bones to`em, darn`em, `Ould be wuth more`an Geunle Tom Thmnb is to Barnum; Ther`5 enough thet to office on this very plan grow, By exhibitin' bow very small a man can grow; But an M. C. frum here ollers hastens to state be Belongs to the order called invertebraty, Wence some gret filologists judge primy fashy Ti~et M. C. is M. T. by paronomashy; An' these few exceptions air 1008?tS nQ~jtury Folks`ould put down their quarters to stare at, like fury. It`5 no use to open the door 0~ success, Ef a member can bolt so fer nothin' or less; Wy, all 0' il~em grand constitootional pillers Our fore-fathers fetched with`em over the billers, Them pillers the people so soundly hev slep' on, Wile to slav'ry, invasion, an' debt they were swep on, Wile our Destiny higher an'. higher kep' mountin', ~~hongh I guess folks`11 stare w~n she bends her account in,) Ff members in this way go kickin' agin`em, They wunt bev so much ez a feather left in`em. An', ez fer this Palfrey,* we thought wen we`d gut him in, lle`d go kindly in wutever barness we put him in; Supposin' we di(1 know thet he wuz a peace man? Doos he think he can be Uncle Sammle's policeman, * There is truth yet in this of Juvenal, - "Dat veniam corvis, vexat censurs columbas." H.W.

Page  414 414 LOWELL'&~ POEM& An' wen Sam gits tipsy an' kicks up a riot, Lead hini off to the lockup to snooze till be`5 quiet? ~Vy, the war is a war thet true paytriots can bear, ef it leads to the fat promised laud of a tayriff; We don't go an' fight it, nor aint to be driv on, Nor Deminererats nuther, thet hev wut to live on; ~Ef it aint jest the thing thet`s well pleasin' to God, It makes us thought highly on elsewhere abroad; The Rooshian black eagle looks blue in his eerie An' shakes botli his beads wen he hears 0' Monteery; In the Tower Victory sets, all of a fluster, An' reads, with locked doors, how we won Cherry Buster; An' old Philip Lewis - thet come an' kep' school bere Fer the mere sake 0' scorin' his ryalist ruler On the tenderest part of our kings ~?t futu)~ - Hides his crown underneath an old shut in his bureau, Breaks off in his brags to a suckle 0' merry kings, How he often bed bided young native Anierrikins, An', tnrnin' quite faint in the midst of his fooleries, Sneaks down stairs to bolt the front door 0' the Tooleries.* You say, - "~Ve`d ha' scared`em by growin' in peace, A plagny sight more then by bobberies like these"? ~Vho is it dares say thet "our naytional eagle %Vnn't much longer be classed with the birds thet air regal, Coz tbeirn be hooked beaks, an' sbe, arter this slaughter, `11 bring back a bill ten times longer`n she ough' to"? Wut`s your name? Come, I see ye, you np-country feller, You "Te put me out severil times with your beller; Out with it! Wut? Biglow? I say nothin' furder, *Jortin is willing to allow of other miracles besides those recorded in lloly w~t, and why not of other prophecies? It is granting too touch to Satan to suppose him, as divers of the learned have done, the inspirer of the ancient oracles. wiser, t esteem it, to give chance the credit of the snccessfnl ones. What is said here of Louis Philippe was verified in some of its toinute particulars within a few mttoths' time. Enough to have made the fortutse of Delphi or nato mon, and no thanks to Beclzehub neither! That of Seneca itt ~tedea will stilt here: - "Rapida fortuna ac levis Priscepsque regno eripuit, exsilio dedit." Let us allow, even to richly deserved misfortune, our commiserafion and he not over~hssty meanwhile in otir censure of the French people, left ftsr the first time to govern themselves, remembering that wise seutence of Eschylus, - ~c' rpaxs's &~rts & tI. w.

Page  415 THE BIGLOW PA PER ~. 415 Thet feller would like nothin' better`11 a murder; He`5 a traiter, blasphemer, an' wut ruther worse is, He puts all his ail~'ism in dreffle bad vet~ses; Socity aint safe till sech monsters air out on it, Refer to the Post, ef you hev the least doubt on it; Wy, he goes agin war, agin indirect taxes, Agin sellin' wild lands`cept to settlers with axes, Agin holdin' 0' slaves, though he knows it`5 the corner Our libbaty rests on, the mis'able scorner! In short, he would wholly upset with his ravages All thet keeps us above the brute critters au' savages, Au' pitch into all kinds 0' briles an' confusions The holl of our civilized, free institutions; He writes fer thet ruther unsafe print, the Courier, An' likely ez not hez a squintin' to Foorier; I`11 be, thet is, I mean I`11 be blest, Ef I hark to a word frum so noted a pest; I shan't talk`vith him, my religion`5 too fervent. - Good mornin', my friends, I`in your most humble servant. [Into the question, whether the ability to express ourselves in articulate language has been productive of more good or evil, I shall not here enter at large. The two faculties of speech and of speech-making are wholly diverse in their natures. By tile first we make ourselves intelligible, by the last unintelligible, to our fellows. It b~s not seldom occuri~ed to me (noting how in our national legislature every thing runs to talk, as lettuces, if the season or the soil be unpropitious, shoot up lankly to seed, instead of forming handsome heads) that Babel was the first Congress, the earliest mill erected for the mannfacture of gabble. In these days, what with Town Meetings, School Committees, Boards (lumber) of one kind and another, Coi~gresses, Parlimnents, Diets, Indian Councils, Palavers, and the like, there is scarce a village which has not its factories of this description driven by (milk-and-) water power. I cannot conceive the confusion of tongues to have been the curse of Babel, since I esteem my ignorance of other languages as a kind of Martello-tower, in which I am safe from the furious bombardments of foreign garrulity. For this reason I have ever preferred the study of the dead languages, those primitive formations being Ararats upon whose silent peaks I sit secure and watch this new deluge without fear, though it rain figures (si~-iit~1acrc, semblauces) of speech forty days and nights together, as it not uncommonly happens. Thus is my coat, as it were, without buttons by whidi any but a vernacular wild bore can seize me. Is it not possible that the Shakers may intend to convey a quiet reproof and hint, in fastening their outer garments with hooks and eyes? This reflection concerning Babel, which I find in no Commentary, was first thrown upon my mind when an excellent deacon of my congregation (being infected with the Second Advent delusion) assured me that he had received a first instalment of the gift of tongues as a small earnest of larger possessions in the like kind to follow. For, of a truth, I could not reconcile it with my ideas of the Divine justice and mercy that the single wall which protected people of other lan

Page  416 416 LOWELL'S POEMS. guages from the incursions of this otherwise well-meaning propagandist should be broken down. In reading Congressional debates, I bave fancied, that, after the subsidence of those painful buzzings in the brain which result from such exercises, I detected a slender residuum of valuable information. I made the discovery that ~~othing takes longer in the saying than any thing else, for, as ex aihilo ~~hi1~flt, so from one polypus nQthi?~~ any ii umber of similar ones may be produced. I would re~~~mmend to the attention of vice cove debaters and controversialists the admirable example of the monk Copres, who, in the fourth century, Stood f~~r half an hour in the midst of a great fire, and thereby sileiiced a Alanich~an antagonist who had less of the salamander in lilin. As for those wlio quarrel in print, I have no concern with them here, since the eyelids are a divinely-granted shield against all such. Moreover, I have observed in many modern hooks that the printed portion is be~orning gradually smaller, and the number of blank or fly-leaves (as they are called) greater. Should this fortunate tendency )f literature continue, hooks will grow more valuable from year to year, aiid the whole Serhon ian bog yield to the advances of firm arable laud. The sagacious Laced'emonians hearing that Tesephone had bragged that he could talk all day long on any given subject, made no more ado, but forthwith banished him, whereby they supplied him a topic and at the same time took care that his experiment upon it should be tried out of ear-shot. I have wondered, in the Representatives' Chamber of our own Commonwealth, to mark how little impression seemed to be produced by that emblematic fish suspended over the heads of the members. Our wiser ancestors, no doubt, hung it there as being the aiiimal which the?ythagoreans reverenced for its silence, and which certainly in that particular does not so well merit the epithet vold-6loo~ed, by which naturalists distinguish it, as certain bipeds, afflicted with ditchwater on the brain, who take occasion to tap themselves in Fanuell Halls, meeting-houses, and other places of public resort. — H. W.] No. Y. THE DEBATE IN THE SENNIT. SOT TO A NUSRY RHYME. [THrt incident which gave rise to the debate satirized iii the followi'ig verses was the unsuccessful attempt of Drayton and Sayres to give freedom to seventy men and women, fellow-beings and felli~w-Christians. Had Tripoli, instead of Washington, been the scene of this undertaking, the unhappy leaders in it would have been as secure of the tlieciretic as they now are of the practical part of martyrdom. I questi(iii whether the Dey of Tripoli is blessed with a District Attorney so beiighted as ours at the seat of government. Very fitly is he named Key, who would allow himself to be made the instrument of locking tbe door of hope against sufferers in such a cause. Not all the waters if the ocean can cleanse the vile smutch of the jailer's fingers from off that little Key. Aheaea davis, a brazen Key indeed! Mr. Calhoun, who is made the chief speaker in this burlesque, seems to think,that the light of the nineteenth century is to be put out as soon as he tinkles his little cow-bell curfew. Whenever slavery is

Page  417 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 417 touched, he sets up his scarecrow of dissolving the Union. This may do for the North, hut I should conjecture that something more than a pumpkin-lantern is required to scare manifest and irretrievable Destii~y out of her path. Mr. Calhoun cannot let go the apron-string of the Past. The Past is a good nurse, hut we must be weaned from her sooner or later, even though, like Plotiuns, we should run home from sehool to ask the breast, after we are tolerably well-grown youths. It will not do for us to hide our faces iu her lap, whei~ever the strange Future holds out her arms and asks us to come to her. But we are all alike. ~Ve have all heard it said, often enough, that little boys must not p~ay with fire; and yet, if the matches be taken away from us and put out of reach upon the shelf, we must needs get into our little corner, and scowl and stamp and threaten the dire revenge of going to bed without our supper. The world shall stop till we get our dangerous plaything again. Dame Earth, meanwhile, who has more than enough household matters to mind, goes bustling hither and thither as a hiss or a sputter tells her that - this or that kettle of hers is boiling over and before bedtime we are glad to eat our porridge cold, and gulp down our dignity along with it. Mr. Calhoun has somehow acquired the name of a great statesman, and, if it be great statesmanship to put lance in rest and run a tilt at the Spirit of the Age with the certaiiity of heiiig next moment hurled neck and heels into the dust amid universal laughter, he deserves the title. He is the Sir Kay of our modern chivalry. He should remember the old Scandinavian mythus. Thor was the strongest of gods, but he could not wrestle with Time, nor so much as lift up a fold of the great snake which knit the universe together; and when he smote the Earth, fl~ough with his terrible mallet, it was but as if a leaf had fallen. Yet all the while it seemed to Thor that he had oiily been wrestling with an ol~ woman, striving to lift a cat, and striking a stupid giant on the head. And.in old times, donbtless, the giants were stupid, and there was no better sport for the Sir Launcelots and Sir Gawains than to go about cutting off their great blundering heads with enchanted swords. But things have wonderfully changed. It is the giants, now-a-days, that have the science and the intelligence, while the chivalrous Don Quixotes of Coi~servatism still cumber themselves with the clumsy armor of a hy-gone age. On whirls the restless globe through unsounded time, with its cities and its silences, its births and fu'~erals, half light, half shade, but never wholly dark, and sure to swii)g ro~ind into the happy morning at last. With an involuntary smile, one sees Mr. Calhoun letting slip his pack-thread cable with a crooked pin at the end of it to anchor South Carolina upon the bank and shoal of the Past.-H. W.] TO MR. BUCKENAM. MR. LDtTER, As i wuz kinder prunin round, in a little nussry sot out a year or 2 a go, tbe Dbait in the senuft cum inter my mii)e Au so i took & Sot it to wut I call a nnssry ri~~0e. I hev made suit onuable Gentiemun speak that dideut speak ill a Kind uv Poetikul lie sense the seeson is dreffie backerd up This way ewers as ushul llosEA BIGLoW. "HERE we stan' on tile Constitutton, by tilunder! It`5 a faet 0~ wicil tiler`5 husilils 0' proofs; 2E

Page  418 418 LOWELL'S POEMS. Fer how could we trample on`t so, I wonder, Ef`t wor n't thet it`5 ollers under our hoofs?" Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he; "lluman rights haint no more Right to come on this floor, No more`n the man in the moon," sez he. "The North haint no kind 0' bisness with nothin', An' you`ve no idee how much bother it saves; We aint none riled by their frettin' an' frothin', We`re use~ to layin' the string on our slaves," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he Sez Mister Foote, "I should like to shoot The holl gang, by the great horn spoon," sez he. "Freedom's Keystone is Slavery, thet ther`5 no doubt on, It's sutthin' thet`5- wha' d' ye call it? - divine, - An' the slaves thet we allers make the most out on Air them north 0' Mason an' Dixon's line," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he; "Fer all thet," sez Mangum, "`T would be better to hang`em, An' so git red on`em soon," sez he. "The mass ough' to labor an' we lay on soffies, Thet`5 the reason I want to spread Freedom's aree; It puts all the cunninest on us in office, An' reelises our Maker's orig' nal idee," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he; - "Thet`5 ez plain," sez Cass, "Ez thet some one`5 an ass, It`5 ez clear ez the sun is at noon," sez he. "Now don't go to say I`m the friend of oppression, But keep all your spare breath fer coolin' your broth, Fer I ollers hev strove (at least thet`5 my impression) To make cussed free with the rights 0' the North," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he; "Yes," sez Davis 0' Miss., "The perfection 0' bliss Is in skinnin' thet same old coon," sez he.

Page  419 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 419 "Slavery`5 a thing thet depends on comple~ou, It`5 God's law tbet fetters on black skins don't chafe; Ef brains wuz to settle it (horrid reflectiW~!) Wich of our onnable body`d be safe? Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he; - Sez Mister Hannegan, Afore he began agiu, "Thet exception is quite oppertoon," sez he. "Gen'nle Cass, Sir, you needn't be twftcbin' your collar, 1~ur merit`5 quite clear by the dut on your knees, At the North we don't make no distinctions 0' color, You can all take a lick at our shoes wen you please," Sez Jobn C. Calhoun, sez he; - Sez Mister Jarnagin, "They wunt hev to larn agin, They all on`em know the old toon," sez he. "The slavery question aint no ways bewilderin', North an' South bev one int'rest, it`5 plain to a glance; No'thern men, like us patriarchs, don't sell their cbildrin, But they du sell themselves, ef they git a good chance," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he; - Sez Atherton here, "This is gittin' severe, I wish I could dive like a loon," sez be. "It`11 break up the Union, this talk about freedom, An' your fact'ry gals (soon ez we split)`11 make head, An' gittin' some Miss chief or other to lead`em, `11 go to work raisin' pr'iniscoous Ned," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he "Yes, the North," sez Colquitt, "Bf we Southeners all quit, Would go down like a busted balloon," sez he. "Jest look wut is doin', wut a~nyky`5 brewin' In the beautiful clime o' the olive an' vine, All the wise aristoxy is tumblin' to ruin, An'- the sankylots drorin' an' drinkin' their wine," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez be; - "Yes," sez Johnson, "in France They`re beginuin' to dance Beelzebub's own rigadoon," sez he.

Page  420 420 LOIVELL'S POEMS. "The South`5 safe enough, it don't feel a mite skeery, Our slaves in their darkness an' dut air tu blest Not to welcome with proi~d hallylugei's the ei'y Wen our eagle kicks yourn from tlie naytional nest," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he "0," sez Westcoft 0' Flonda, "Wut treason is horrider Then our priv'leges tryin' to proon?" sez he. "It`5`coz`they`re so happy, thet, wen crazy sarpints Stick their nose in our bizuess, we git so darned riled; We think it`5 our dooty to give pooty sharp hints, Thet the last crumb of Edin on airth shan't be spiled," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez lie "Ah," sez Dixon II. Lewis, "It perfectly true is Thet slavery`s airth's grettest boon," sez he. [It was said of old time, that riches have wings; and, thongh this be not applicable in a literal strictness to the ~vealtli of onr patriarchal brethren of the South, yet it is clear that their p()ssessioIIs have legs, and an unaccountable propensity for nsing them in a n~~rtherly direction. I marvel that the grand jury of Washii~gtoii did`iot find a true bill against the North Star for aiding and abetting Drayton aitd Sayres. It wonld have been qnite of a piece with the intelligence displayed by the Sonth on other qnestions connected with slavery. I thiiik that no ship of state was ever freighted with a more veritable Jonah tha'~ this same domestic institntion of ours. Mephistopheles himself conid not feign so bitterly, so satirically sad a sight as this )f three millions of human beings crnshed beyond help or hope by this one mighty argnmeut, - Oerfothers knew no befte'.! NeverU~eless, it is the noavoidable destiny of Jonahs to be cast overboard sooner or later. Or shall we try the experiment of hiding onr Jonah in a safe place, that none may lay hands on him to make jetsam of him? Let ils, then, with equal forethought and wisdom, lash ourselves to t100 nuchor, and await, in pious confidence, the certain resnit. Perhaps nor sospicions passenger is no Jonah after all, being black. For it is well kn~~wn that a superinteuding Providence made a kind of sandwich of Ham and his descendants, to be devoured by the Caucasian race. In God's name, let all, who hear nearer and nearer the hongry moan of the storm and the growl of the breakers, speak out! But, alas! we have no right to interfere. If a man plnck an apple of mine, he shall be in danger of the jnstice; bnt if he steal my brother, I must be sileiit. Who says this? Onr Constitntion, consecrated by the callous consuetnde of sixty years, and grasped in triumphant argument by the left hand of him whose right hand cintehes the clotted slave-whip. Jnstice, venerable with the undethronable majesty of conntless ~ol~s, says, - SPEAK! The Past, wise with the sorrows and desolations of ~g~s, from amid her shattered fanes and wolf-housing palaces, echoes - SPEAK! Nature, through her thousand trumpets of freedom, her stars, her sunrises, her seas, her winds, her cataracts, her m~)untaiiis blue ~vith cloudy pines, blows jubilant encouragement, and cries, - SPEAK!

Page  421 THE BI&LOlV PAPERS. 421 From the soul's trembling abysses the still, small voice not vaguely murmurs, - SPEAK! But, alas! the Constitution and the Hono~able Mr. B;~owind, M. C., say, -BE DUMB! It occurs to me to suggest, as a topic of inquiry in this connection, whether, on that momentous occasion when the goats niid the sheep shall be parted, the Constitution and the Honorable Mr. Bagowind, M. C., will be expected to take their places on the left ns our hircine vicars. Quid su?x n%iser tu~1c dictu~us? Queot pot~~onnm rogaturus? There is a poiut where toleration sinks into sheer baseness and poltroonery. The toleration of the worst leads us to look on what is barely better as good enough, and to worship what is only m~~derately good. ~Voe to that man, or that nation, to whom mediocrity has become an ideal! Has our experiment of self-government succeeded, if it barely manage to rot aud go 5'. Here, now, is a piece of barbarism which Christ and the nineteenth century say shall cease, ai~d which Messrs. Smith, Brown, and others say shall lof cease. I would by 10 meaiis deny the eminent respectability of these gentlemen, but I confess, thut, in such a wrestling-match, I cannot help having my fears for fliem. Discitejustitiam, moniti, et 9%Ofl temnere divos. H.W.] No. VI. TllE PIOUS EDITOR'S CREED. [AT the special instance of Mr. Biglow, I preface the following satire with an extract from a sermon preached during the past summer, from Ezekiel xxxiv. 2: -" Son of mall, prophesy against the shepherds ()f Israel." Since the Sabbafi~ on which this discourse was dclivere~l, tlic editor of the "Jaalam Independent Blu'iderbuss" has unaccou~ftably absented himself from our house of worship. "I know of no so responsible position as that of the public ~ournab.st. The editor of our day bears the same relation to his time that the clerk bore to the age before the invention of printing. Indeed, the pOsltl()ll ~~~ich he holds is that which the clergyman should hold even now. But the clergyman chooses to walk off to the extreme edge of the world. and to throw such seed as he has clear over into that darkiiess which he calls the Next lAfe. As if next did not local ~ieores(, a~~d as if ally life were nearer than that immediately preseiit one whi4~ boils and eddies all around him at the caucus, the ratificati~~n meetil)g, and the polls! Who taught him to exhort men to prepare for eterl)ity. as for 5oilie future era of which the present forms no i~~tegral part? The furrow which Time is even now turnilig runs through the Everlasting, and in tl~at must he plant, or nowhere. Yet he would fain believe and teach that we are goiog to have more of eternity than we have now. This goi~~ of his is like that of the auctiolleer, on which guile follows before we have made up our niinds to bid, - in which manner, not three months back, I lost an excellent copy of Chappelow on Job. So it lias come to pass that the preacher, instead of being a living force, has faded into an emblematic figure at christenings, weddings, and

Page  422 422 LOWELL'S POEMS. funerals. Or, if he exercise any other function, it is as keeper and feeder of certain theologic dogmas, which, when occasion offers, he on kennels with a staboy!`to hark and bite as`t is their nature to,' whence that reproach of odium theologicuin has arisen. "Meanwhile, see what a pulpit the editor mounts daily, sometimes with a congregation of fifty thousand within reach of his voice, and never so much as a nodder, even, among them! And from what a Bible can he choose his text, a Bible which needs no translation, aiid which no priestcraft can shut and clasp from the laity, - the open v~~lume of the world, upon which, with a pen of sunshine or destroying fire, the inspired Present is eveu now writing the anuals of God! Methinks the editor who should understand his calling, and be equal thereto, would truly deserve that title of ~~~~, which Homer bestows upon princes. He would be the Moses of our nineteenth century; and whereas the old Sinai, silent now, is but a common mountain stared at hy the elegant tourist and crawled over by the hammering geologist, he must find his tables of the new law here among factories and cities in this Wilderness of Sin (Numbers xxxiii. 12) called Progress of Civilization, and be the captain of our Exodus into the Canaan of a truer social order. "Nevertheless, our editor will not come so far within even the shadow of Sinai as Mahomet did, but chooses rather to construe Moses by Joe Smith. He takes up the crook, not that the sheep may be fed, but that he may never want a warm woollen suit and a joint of mutton. i)nmemoi~, 0, fldei, pecorunique oblife tuorum! For which reason I would derive the name e~?ifo~ not so much from edo, to publish, as from edo, to eat, that being the peculiar profession to which he esteems himself called. He blows up the flames of political discord for no other occasion than ~hat he may thereby handily boil his own pot. I believe there are two thousand of these mutton4oving shepherds in the United States, and of these, how many have even the dimmest perception of their immense power, and the duties consequent thereon? Here and there, haply, one. Nine hundred and ninety-nine labor to impress upon the people the great principles of Tweedleduni, and other nine hundred and ninety-nine preach with equal earnestness the gospel according to Tweedledee." - H. W.] I DU believe in Freedom's cause, Ez fur away ez Payris is; I love to see her stick her claws In them infarnal Phayrisees; It`5 wal enough agin a king To dror resolves an' triggers, - But libbaty's a kind 0' thing Thet don't agree with niggers. I du believe the people want A tax on teas an' coffees, Thet nothin' aint extravygunt, - Purvidin' I'm in office; Fer I hev loved my country sence My eye-teeth filled their sockets,

Page  423 7'HE BIULO~V PAPERS. 423 An' Uncle Sam I reverence, Partic'larly his pockets. I (`u believe in any plan 0' levyin' the taxes, Ez long ez, like a lumberman, I gitjestwut I axes: I go free-trade thru thick an' thin, Because it kind 0' rouses The folks to vote, - an' keeps us in Our ~uiet eustom-house$. I du believe it`5 wise an' good To sen' out furrin missions, Thet is, on sartin understood An' orthydox conditions; - I mean nine thousan' dolls. per ann., Nine thousan' more fer outfit, An' me to recommend a man The place`ould jest about fit. I (`u believe in speciaJ ways 0' prayin' an' convartin'; The bread comes back in many days, An' buttered, tu, fer sartin; I mean in prayin' till one busts On wut the party chooses, An' in convartin' public trusts To very privit uses. I (`u believe hard coin the stuff Fer`lectioneers to spout on; The people`5 ollers soft enough To make hard money out on; Dear Uncle Sam pervides fer his, An' gives a good~sized junk to all, - I don't care how hard money is, Ez long ez mine`s paid pnnctooal. I (`u believe with a~l my soul In the gret Press's freedom, To pint the people to the goal An' in the traces lead`em;

Page  424 424 LOWELL'S POE 1115. Palsied the arm thet forges yokes At my fat contracts squintin', An' withered be the nose thet pokes Inter the gov'ment printin'! Idu believe thet I should give Wut`5 his`11 unto C~sar, Fer it's by him I move an' live, Frum him my bread an' cheese air; Idu believe thet all 0' me Doth bear his superscription, - Will, conscience, honor, honesty, An' things 0' thet description. Idn believe in prayer an' praise To him that hez the grantin' 0' jobs, - in every thin' thet pays, But most of all in CA~ri~'; This doth my cup with marcies fill, This lays all thought 0' sin to rest, - Idon't believe in princerple, But 0, I du in interest. Idu believe in bein' this Or thet, ez it may happen One way or t' other hendiest is To ketch the people nappin'; It aint by princerples nor inen My preudunt course is steadied, Iscent which pays the best, an' then Go into it baldheaded. Idn believe thet holdin' slaves Comes nat'ral ta a Presidunt, Let`lone the rowdedow it saves To hev a wal-broke precedunt; Fer any office, small or gret, I could n't ax with no face, -Without I`d ben, thru dry an' wet, Th' unrizzest kind 0' doughface. Idn believe wutever trash `11 keep the people in blindness, -

Page  425 THE BlULOW PAPERS. 425 Thet we the Mexicuns can thrash Right inter brothei4y kindness, Thet bombshells, grape, an' powder`n' ball Air good-wi~l's strongest magnets, Thet peace, to make it stick at all, Must be drnv in with bagnets. In short, I firmly du believe In Hm~bng generally, Fer it`5 a thing thet I perceive To hev a solid vally; This beth my faithful shepherd ben, In pasturs sweet heth led me, An' this`11 keep tiie people green To feed ez they hev fed lne. [I subjoin here another passage from my before-mentioned discourse. "~Vonderful, to him that has eyes to see it rightly, is the newspaper. To me, for example, sitting on the critical front bench of the pit, iii my study here in Jaalam, the advent of my weekly jonrual is as that of a strolling theatre, or rather of a pnppet-show, on whose stage, narrow as it is, the tragedy, comedy, and farce of life are played in little. Behold the whole huge earth sent to me hebdomadally in a brown-paper wrapper! "tIither, to my obscure corner, by wind or steam, on horseback (IF dromedary-back, in the pouch of the Indiaii runner, or clicking over the magnetic wires, troop all the famous performers from the four quarters of the globe. Looked at from a poitit of criticism, tiiiy plippets they seem all, as the editor sets up his booth upon my desk and otliciates as showman. Now I can truly see how )ittle aiid transit(iry is life. The earth appears almost as a drop of vinegar, on which the solar microscope of the imagination must be brought to bear iii order to iuake out anything distinctly. That animalcule there, in the peajacket, is Louis Philippe, just landed on the coast of England. That other, in the gray surtout and cocked hat, is Napoleon Boiiaparfe Smith, assuring France that she need apprehend no interference fr~~m him in the present alarming juncture. At that spot, where you seem to see a speck of something in motioii, is aii immense mass-meeting. Look sharper and you will see a mite brandishing his mandibles in an excited manner. That is the great Mr. Soandso, defining his positiiin amid tumultuous and irrepressible cheers. That infiiiitesiinal creature, upon whom some score of others, as minute as hQ are gazing in opeilmouthed admiration, is a famous philos~~plier exp~innding to a select audience their capacity for the infinite. That scarce disceriiible puffiet of snioke and dust is a revolution. That speck there is a reformer, just arranging the lever with which lie is to move the world. And lo, there creeps forward the shad~iw of a skeleton that blows one breath between its grilinilig teeth, and all our distinguished actors are whisked off tl~e slippery stage into the dark Beyond. "Yes, tlie little show4~~ix has its s~ilemner suggestions. Now and then we catch a glimpse of a grim old man, who lays down a scythe and hour-glass in the corner while he shifts the scenes. There, too, in

Page  426 426 LOWELL'S POEMS. the dim background, a weird shape is ever delving. Sometimes he leans upon his mattock, and gazes, as a coach whirls by, bearing the newly married on their wedding jaunt, or glances carelessly at a babe brought home from christening. Suddenly (for the scene grows larger and larger as we look) a bony hand snatches back a performer in the midst of his part, and him, whom yesterday two infinites (past aiid future) would not suffice, a handful of dust is enough to cover and silence forever. Nay, we see the same fieshless fingers opening to clutch the showman himself, and guess, not without a shudder, that they are lying in wait for spectator also. "Think of it: for three dollars a year I buy a season-ticket to this great Globe Theatre, for which God would write the dramas (only that we like farces, spectacles, and the tragedies of Apollyon better), whose scene-shifter is Time, and whose curtain is rung down by Death. "Such thoughts will occur to me sometimes as I am tearing off the wrapper of my newspaper. Tben suddenly that otherwise too often vacant sheet becomes invested for me with a strange kind of awe. Look! deaths and marriages, notices of inventions, discoveries, and books, lists of promotions, of killed, wounded, and missing, news of fires, accidents, of sudden wealth and as sudden poverty - I hold in my hand the ends of myriad invisible electric conductors, along which tremble the joys, sorrows, wrongs, triumphs, hopes, and despairs of as many men and women everywhere. So that upon that mood of mind which seems to isolate me from mankind as a spectator of their puppetpranks, another supervenes, in which I feel that I, too, unknown and unheard of, ain yet of some import to my fellows. For, through my newspaper here, do not families take pains to send me, an entire stranger, news of a death among them? Are not here two who would have me know of their marriage? And, strangest of all, is not this singular person anxious to have me informed that he has received a fresh supply of Di mi try Bruisgius? But to none of us does the President conthiuc miraculous (even if for a moment discerned as such). We glance carelessly at the sunrise, and get used to Orion and the Plelades. The wonder wears off, and to-morrow this sheet, in which a vision was let down to me from Heaven, shall be the wrappage to a bar of soap or the platter for a beggar's broken victuals." - H. W.] No. VII. A LETTER FROM A CANDIDATE FOR THE PRESIDENCY IN ANSWER TO SUTTIN QUESTIONS PROPOSED BY MR. HOSEA BIGLOW, ENCLOSED IN A NOTE FROM MR. BIGLOW TO S. H. GAY, ESQ., EDITOR OF THE NATIONAL ANTI-SLAYERY STAND ARD. [CURIosITY may be said to be the quality which pre-eminently distinguishes and segregates man from the lower animals. As we trace the scale of animated nature downward, we find this faculty (as it may truly be called) of the mind diminished in the savage, and quite extinct in the brute. The first object which civilized man proposes to himself I take to be the finding out whatsoever he can concerning his neighbors. Nihil hi'man~m~ a ine alie a urn puto; I am curious about even John

Page  427 THE BIULOW PAPERS. 427 Smith. The desire next in strength to this (an opposite pole, indeed, of tbe same magnet) is that of communicating the unintelligence we have carefully picked up. Men in general may be divided into tbe inquisitive and the communicative. To the first class belong Peeping Toms, eaves-droppers, navel~contemplating Brabmins, metaphysician 5, travellers, Empedocleses, spies, the various societies for promoting Rhinotliism, Commbuses, Yankees, discoverers, and men of science, who present themselves to the mind as so many marks of interrogation wandering up and down the world, or sitting in studius and laboratories. The second class I should again subdivide into four. In the first subdivision I would rank those who have an itch to tell us about themselves, - as keepers of diaries, insignificant persons generally, Montaignes, Horace Walpoles, autobiographers, poets. The second includes those who are anxious to impart information concerning other people, - as historians, barbers, and such. To the third belong those who labor to give us intelligence about nothing at all, - as novelists, political orators, the large majority of authors, preachers, lecturers, and the like. In the fourth come those who are communicative from motives of public benevolence, - as finders of mares'-nests and bringers of ill news. Each of us twoAegged fowls without feathers embraces all these subdivisions in himself to a greater or less degree, for none of us so much as lays an egg, or incubates a chalk one, but straightway the whole barn-yard shall know it by our cackle or our cluck. Omni~us hoc vitiuiii est. There are different grades in all these classes. One will turn his telescope toward a back-yard, another toward Uranus; one will tell you that~he dined with Smith, another that he supped with Plato. In one particular, all men may be considered as belonging to the first grand division, inasmuch as they all seem equally desirous of discovering the mote in their neighbor's eye. To one or another of these species every human being may safely be referred. I thiiik it beyond a peradventure that Jonah prosecuted some inquiries into the digestive apparatus of whales, and that Noah sealed up a letter in an empty bottle, that news hi regard to him might not be wanting in case of the worst. They had else been super or subter human. I conceive, also, that, as there are certain persons who continually peep and pry at the keyhole of that mysterious door through which, sooner or later, we all make our exits, so there are doubtless ghosts fidgetting and fretting on the other side of it, because they have no means of conveying back to this world tlie scraps of news they have picked up in that. For there is an answer ready somewhere to every question, the great law of give and take runs through all nature, and if we see a hook, we may be sure that an eye is waiting for it. I read in every face I meet a standing advertisement of information wanted in regard to A. B., or that the friends of C. D. can hear something to his disadvantage by application to such a one. It was to gratify the two great passions of asking and answering that epistolary correspondence was first invented. Letters (for by this usurped title epistles are now commonly known) are of several kinds. First, there are those which are not letters at all, - as letters-patent, letters dismissory, letters enclosing bills, letters of administration, Pliny's letters, letters of diplomacy, of Cato, of Mentor, of Lords Lyttleton, Chesterfield, and Orrery, of Jacob Bebmen, Seneca (whom St. Jerome includes in his list of sacred writers),letters from abroad, from sons in college to their fathers, letters of marque, and letters generally, which are in nowise letters of mark. Second, are real letters, such as those of Gray, Cowper, Walpole, Howel, Lamb, D. Y., tlie first letters from children, (printed in staggering capitals,) Letters from New York, letters of credit, and others, intefesting for the sake of the

Page  428 428 LOWELL'S POEJiS. writer or the thing written. I have read also letters from Europe by a gentleman named Pinto, containing some curious gossip, and which I hope to see collected for the benefit of the curious. There are, besides, letters addressed to posterity, as epitaphs, for example, written f()r their own monuments by monarchs, whereby we have lately become possessed of the names of several great conquerors and kings of kings, hitherto unheard of and still unpronouliceable, hut valuable to the student of the entirely dark ages. The letter which St. Peter sent to King Pepiu in the year of grace 755, that of the Virgin to the magistrates of Messina, that of St. Gregory Thaumaturgus to the D-l, ai~d that of this last-mentioned active police~nagistra~e to a nun of Girgenti, I would place in a class by themselves, ~s also the letters of candidates, concerning which I shall dilate more fully in a note at the end of the following poem. At present, sat prata biberiii~t. Only, concerning the shape of letters, they are all either square or oblong, to which general figures circular letters and round-robins also conform themselves.-H. W.] DEER SIR its gut to be the fashun now to rite letters to the candid Ss and i wus chose at a publick ~Thetin in Jaalam to du wut wus nessary fur that town. i writ to 271 ginerals and gut ansers to 209. tha air called candid Ss but I don't see nothin candid about eni. this here 1 wich I send wos thought satty's factory. I dunno as it's ushle to print Poscrips, but as all the ansers I got bed the saim, I sposed it wus best. times has gretly changed. Fornialy to knock a man into a cocked hat wus to use hiin up, but now it ony gives him a chaiice fur the cheef madgustracy. -11. B. DEAR SIR, - You wish to know my notions On sartin pints thet rile the land; There`5 nothin' thet my iiatur so shuns Ez bein' mum or underhand; I`m a straigbt-spokeu kind 0' creetur Thet blnrts right out wut`s in his head, An' ef 1`ve one pecooler feetur, It is a nose thet wunt be led. So, to begin at the beginnin', An' come direcly to the pint, I think the country,s underpinnin' Is some consid'ble out 0' jint; I aint agoin' to try your patience By tellin' who done this or thet, - I don't make no insinooations I jest let on I smell a rat. Thet is, I mean, it seems to me so, But, ef the public think I`m wrong,

Page  429 THE BICLOlV PAPERS. 429 I wunt deny but wut I be so, - All', fact, it don't smell very strong; My mind`5 tu fair to lose its balance An' say wich party hez most sense; There may be folks 0' greater talence Thet can't set stiddier on the fence. I`m an eclectic; ez to choosin' `Twixt this an' thet, I`m plagny, lawth; I leave a side thet looks like losin, But (wile there`5 doubt) I stick to both; I stan' upon the Constitution, Ez preudunt statesmun say, who`ve planned A way to git the most profusion 0' chances ez to ~vare they`11 stand. Ez fer tile war, I go agin it, - I mean to say I kind 0' du, - Thet is, I mean thet, bein' in it, The best way wuz to fight it thru; Not but wut abstract war is horrid, I sign to thet wifl~ all my heart, - But civlyzation doos git forrid Sometimes upon a powder-cart. About thet darned Proviso matter I never hed a grain 0' doubt, Nor I aint one my sense to scatter So`st no one could n't pick it out; My love fer North an' South is equil, So I`11 jest answer plump an' frank, - No matter wut may be tile sequil, - Yes, Sir, I am agin a Bank. Ez to the answerin' 0' questions, I`iii an off ox at bein' druv, Though I aint one thet ary test shuns `11 give our folks a helpin' shove; Kind 0' pr'miscoous I go it Fer the holl country, an' the gronnd I take, ez nigh ez I can show it, Is pooty gen'ally all round.

Page  430 430 LOWELL'S POEAiS. I don't appruve 0' givin' pledges; You`d ough' to leave a fellar free, An' not go knock in' out the wedges To ketch his fingers in the tree Pledges air awfle breachy cattle Thet preudunt farmers don't turn out, - Ez long`z the ~~eople git their rattle, ~Vut is there fer`in to grout about? Ez to tbe slaves, there`5 no confusion In n~y idees consarnin' them, - I think they air an Institution, A sort of-yes, jest s~-ahem: Do I own any? Of my merit On thet pint you yourself may jedge. All is, I never drink no sperit, Nor I haint never signed no pledge. Ez to my princerples, I glory Iii hevin' nothin' 0' the sort; I aint a ~Tig, I aint a Tory, I`m jest a candidate, in short; Thet's fair an' square an' parpendicler, But, ef the Public cares a fig To hev me an'thin' in particler, Wy, I`m a kind 0' peri-wig. P. S. Ez we`re a sort 0' privateerin', 0' course, you know, it`5 sheer an' sheer, An' there is sntthiu' wuth your hearin' I`11 mention in your privit ear; Ef you git me inside the White House, Your head with ile I'll kin' 0'`niut By gittin' yo~t inside the Light-house Down to the eend 0' Janlam Pint. Au' ez the North bez took to brustlin' At bein' scrouged ftum off the }oost, I`11 tell ye wut`11 save all tusslin An' give our side a barusome boost, -

Page  431 THE BI&iOW PAPERS. 431 Tell`em thet on the Slavery question 1`m RIGHT, although to speak I`m lawth; This gives you a safe phft to rest on, An' leaves me froutin' South by North. [And now of epistles candidatial, which are of two kinds, -namely, letters of acceptance, and letters definitive of position. Our republic, on the eve of an election, may safely enough be called a republic of letters. Epistolary composition becomes then an epidemic, which seizes one candidate after another, not seldom cutting short the thread of political life. It has come to such a pass, that a party dreads less the attacks of its opponents than a letter from its candidate. Lifero scripta ~nanet, and it will go hard if something bad can not be made of it. General Harrison, it is well understood, was surrounded, during his candidacy, with the cordon scuifoire of a vigilance committee. No prisoner in Spielberg was ever more cautiously deprived of writing materials. The soot was scraped carefully from the chimney-places; outposts of expert rifle-shooters rendered it sure death for any goose (who came clad in feathers) to approach within a certain limited distance of North Bend; and all domestic fowls about tire premises were reduced to the condition of Flato's original man. By these precautions the General was saved. Pcrea componere @ncgnis, I remember, that, when party-spirit once ran high among my people, upon occasion of the choice of a new deacon, I, having my preferences, yet not caring too openly to express them, made use of an innoceiit fraud to bring about that result which I deemed most desirable. My stratagem was no other than the throwing a copy of the Complete Letter-Writer in the way of the candidate whom I wished to defeat. He caught the infe9tion, and addressed a short note to his constituents, in which the opposite party detected so many and so grave improprieties, (he had modelled it upon the letter of a young lady accepting a proposal of marriage,) that he not only lost his election, but, falling under a suspicion of Sabellianism and I know not what, (the widow Endive assured me that he was a Paralipomenon, to her certain knowledge,) was forced to leave the town. Thus it is that the letter killeth. The object which candidates propose to themselves in writing is to convey no meaning at all. And here is a quite unsuspected pitfall into which they successively plunge headlong. For it is precisely in such cryptographies that mankind are prone to seek for and find a wonderful amount and variety of significance. Omne ignoturn pro mimfico. How do we admire at the antique world striving to crack those oracular nuts from Delphi, Hammon, and elsewhere, in only one of which can I so much as surmise that any kernel had ever lodged; that, namely, wherein Apollo confessed that he was mortal. One Didymus is, moreover, related to have written six thousand books on the single subject of grammar, a topic rendered only more tenebrific by the labors of his successors, and which seems still to possess an attraction for authors in proportion as they can make nothing of it. A singular load stone for theologians, also, is the Beast in the Apocalypse, whereof, in the course of my studies, I have noted two huiidred and three several interpretations, each lethiferal to all the rest. Non nostrun~ est tantas cornpo?~ere lites, yet I have myself ventured upon a two hundred and fourth, which I embodied in a discourse preached on occasion of the denilse of the late usurper, Napoleon Bonaparte, and which quieted, in a large measure, the minds of my people. It is true that my views on this important point were ardently controverted by Mr. Shearjashub Holdeii, the then preceptor of our academy, and in

Page  432 432 LOIVELL'S POEJ\IS. other particulars a very deserving and sensible young man, though possessing a somewhat limited knowledge of the Greek tongue. But his heresy struck down no deep root, and, he having been lately removed by the hand of Providence, I had the satisfaction of reaffirming my cherished sentiments in a sermon preached upon the Lord's day immediately succeeding his funeral. This might seem like taking an unfair advantage, did I not add that he had made provisioti in his lQst will (being cell hate) for the publication of a posthumous tractate in support of his own dangerous opinions. I know of nothing in our modern times which approaches so nearly to the ancient oracle as the letter of a Presidential candidate. Now, among the Greeks, the eating of beans was strictly forbidden to all such as had it in mind to consult those expert amphibologists, and this same prohibition on the part of Pythagoras to his disciples is understood to imply an abstinence from politics, beans having been used as ballots. That other explication, quod videlicet se)~si!s eo cibo o~tundi existiineret, though supported pog?~is et celcibos by many of the learned, and not wanting the countenance of Cicero, is confuted by the larger experience of New England. On the whole, I think it safer to apply here the rule of interpretation which now generally obtains in regard to antique cosmogonies, myths, fables, proverbial expressions, and knotty points generally, which is, to fin~i a common-sense meaning, and then select whatever can be imagined the most opposite thereto. In this way we arrive at the conclusion, that the Greeks objected to the questioning of candidates. And very properly, if, as I conceive, the chief point be not to discover what a person in that position is, or what he will do, but whether he can be elected. Vos exeinpiarie Grieca nocti~roa versete manu, versofe diurna. But, since an imitation of the Greeks in this particnlar (the asking of questions being one chief privilege of freemen) is hardly to be hoped for, and our candidates will answer, whether they are questioned or nOt, I would recommend that these ante-electionary dialogues should be carried on by symbols, as were the diplomatic correspondences of the Scythians and Macrobil, or confined to the language of signs, like the famous interview of Panurge and Goatsnose. A candidate might then convey a suitable reply to all committees of inquiry by closing one eye, or by presenting them with a phial of Egyptiai~ darkness to be speculated upon by their respective constituencies. These answers would be susceptible of whatever retrospective construction the exigencies of the political campaign might seem to demand, and the candidate could take his position on either side of the fence with entire consistency. Or, if letters must be written, profitable use might be made of the Dighton rock hieroglyphic or the cuneiform script, every fresh decipherer ot which is enabled to educe a different meaning. whereby a sculptured stone or two supplies us, and will probably continue to supply posterity, with a very vast and various body of authentic history. For even the briefest epistle in the ordinary chirography is dangerous. There is scarce any style so compressed that superfluous words may not be detected in it. A severe critic might curtail that famous brevity of C~sar's by two thirds, drawing his pen through the supererogatory ceni and vitli. Perhaps, after all, the surest footing of hope is to be found in the rapidly increasing tendency to demand less and less of qualification in candidates. Already have statesman ship, experience, and the possession (nay, the profession, even) of principles been rejected as superfluous, and may not the patriot reasonably hope that the ability to write will follow? At present, there may be death in pot-hooks as well as pots. the loop of a letter may suffice for a bowstring, and all the dreadful heresies of Anti-slavery may lurk in a fiourish.-H. W.]

Page  433 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 433 No. VIII. A SECOND LETTER FROM B. SAWIN, ESQ. UN the following epistle, we behold Mr. Sawin returning, a ~ni1es euteritus, to the bosom of his family. Qoeafun~ ~nutetus! The good Father of us all had doubtless intrusted to the keeping of this child of his certain faculties of a constructive kind. He had put in him a share of that vital force, the nicest economy of every minute atom of which is necessary to the perfect development of Humanity. He had given him a brain and heart, and so had equipped his soul with the two strong wings of knowledge and love, whereby it can mount to hang its nest under the eaves of heaven. And this child so dowere~l, he had intrusted to the keeping of his vicar, the State. How stands the account of that stewardship? The State, or Society, (call her by what name you will,) had taken no manner of thought of him till she saw him swept out into the street, the pitiful leavings of last night's debauch, with cigar-ends, lemon-parings, tobacco-quids, slops, vile stejidies, and the whole loathsome next-morning of the bar-ru oin, - an own child of the Almighty God! I remember him as he was brought to he christened, a ruddy, rugged babe; and now there he wallows, reeliiiig, seething, - the dead corpse, not of a man, but of a soul, - a putr~fying lurnp, horrible for the life that is in it. Comes the wiud of heaven, that good Samaritan, and parts the hair upon his forehead, nor is too nice to kiss those parched, cracked lips; the morning opens upon him her eyes full of pitying sunshine, the sky yearns down to lilin, - aud there he lies fermentilig. 0 sleep! let me not profane thy holy name by calling that steriorous uncousciousiless a slumber! By aiid`by comes along the State, God's vicar. Does she say, - "My poor, forlorn foster-child! Behold here a force which I will make dig and idailt mid build for me?" Not so, but, -" Here is a recruit ready~nade to my hand, a piece of destroying energy lying unprofitably idle." S~ she claps an ugly gray suit on him, puts a musket in his grasp, mid sends him off, with Gubernatorial and other godspeeds, to do duty as a destroyer. I made one of the crowd at the last Mechmiics' Fair, and, with the rest, stood gazing in wonder at a perfect machine, with its soul of fire, its boiler-heart that sent the hot blood pulsing along the iron arteries, and its thews of steel. And while I was a&miring the adaptation of means to end, the harmonious involutions of contrivance, and the never~bewildered complexity, I saw a grimed and greasy fellow, the imperious engine's lackey and drudge, whose s~)le office was to let fall, at intervals, a drop or two of oil up~on a certain jOint. Then my soul said within me, See there a piece of mechanism to which that other you marvel at is but as the rude first effort of a child, - a force which not merely suffices to set a few wheels in motion, but which can send an impulse all thr~~ugh the in~uite future, - a contrivance, not for turning out pins, or stitching button-holes, but for making Hamlets and I'ears. And yet this thing of iron shall be housed, waited on, guarded from rust and dust, an(t it shall be a crime but so much as to scratch it with a pin; while the other with its fire of God in it, shall be buffeted hither and thither, and finally sent carefully a thousand miles to be the target for a Mexican cannonball. Unthrifty Mother State! My heart burned within me for pity aiid ludignation, and I renewed this covenant with my own soul, - In oliis inon~uefus ero, ac, in blasphemlis contra Chrw'turn, non`ita. -H. W.]

Page  434 434 LOWELL'S POEMS. I sposE,you wonder ware I be; I can't tell, fer the soul 0 me, Exacly ware I be myself, - meanin' by thet the holl 0' me. Wen I left hum, I hed two legs, an' they wor n't bad ones neither, (The seal jest trick they ever played wuz bringin' on me hither,) Now one on`m`5 I dunno ware; - they thought I wuz adyin', An' sawed it off because they said`t wuz kin' 0' morti fyin'; I`m will in' to believe it wuz, an' yit I don't see nuther, Wy one should take to feelin' cheap a minnit sooner`n t' other, Sence both wnz equilly to blame; but things is ez they be; It took on so they took it off, an' thet`5 enough fer me: There`5 one good thing, though, to be said about my wooden new one, - The liquor can't git into it ez`t used to in the true ≠ So it saves drink; an' then, besides, a feller could n't beg A gretter blessin' then to hev one ollers sober peg; It`5 true a chap`5 in want 0' two fer follerin' a drum, But all the march I`m up to now is jest to Kingdom Come. I`ve lost one eye, but thet`5 a loss it`5 easy to supply Out 0' the glory that I`ve gut, fer thetis all my eye; An' one is big enough, I guess, by diligently usin' it, To see all I shall ever git by way 0' pay fer losin' it; Off`cers, I notice, who git paid fer all our thuinps an' kickins, Du wal by keepin' single eyes arter the fattest pickins; So, ez the eye`5 put fairly out, I`11 larn to go without it, An' not allow myself to be no gret put out about it. Now, le' me see, thet is n't all; I used,`fore leavin' Jaalam, To count things on my finger-ecuds, but sutthin' seems to ail`em Ware`5 my left hand? 0, darn it, yes, I recollect wut`5 come on I haint no left arm but my right an' thet`5 gut jest a thumb on`t;

Page  435 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 435 It aint so hendy ez it wuz to cal'late a sum on`t. I`ve bed some ribs broke, - six (I b'lieve), - I haint kep' no account on`em, Wen pensions git to be the talk, I`11 settle the amount on`em. An' now I`m speakin' about ribs, it kin' 0' brings to mind One thet I could n't never break, - the one I lef' behind; Ef you should see her, jest clear out the spout 0' your invention An' pour the longest sweetnin' in about an annooal pension, An' kin' 0' hint (in case, you know, the critter should refuse to be Consoled) I aint so`xpensive now to keep ez wut I used to be; There`5 one arm less, ditto one eye, an' then the leg thet`5 wooden Can be took off an' sot away wenever ther`5 a puddin'. I spose you think I`m comin' back ez opperlunt ez thunder, With shiploads 0' gold images an' varus sorts 0' plunder; Wal,`fore I vullinteered, I thought this country wuz a sort 0' Canaan, a reg'lar Promised Land fiowin' with rum an water, Ware propaty growed up like thue, without no culti vati on, An' gold wuz dug ez taters be among our Yankee nation, Ware nateral advantages were pufficly amazin', Ware every rock there wuz about with precious stuns wuz bi azin', Ware mill-sites filled the country up ez thick ez you could cram`em, An' desput rivers run about abeggin' folks to dam`em; Then there were meetinhouses, tu, chockful 0' gold an' silver Thet you could take, an' no one could n't hand ye in no bill fer; - Thet`5 wut I thought afore I went, thet`5 wut them fel lers told ns Thet stayed to hum an' speechified an' to the buzzards sold us;

Page  436 436 LOWELL'S POEMS. I thought thet gold mines could be gut cheaper than Chiny asters, An' see myself a comin' back like sixty Jacob Astors; But sech idees soon melted down an' did n't leave a grease spot; I vow my holl sheer 0' the spiles would n't come nigh a V spot; Although, most anywares we`ve ben, you need n't break no locks, Nor run no kin' 0' risks, to fill your pocket full 0' rocks. I guess I mentioned in my last some 0' the nateral feeturs 0' this all-fiered buggy hole in th' way 0' awfie creeturs, But I fergut to name (new things to speak on so abounded) How one day you`11 most die 0' thust, an'`fore the next git drownded. The clymit seems to me jest like a teapot made 0' pewter Our Prudence hed, thet would n't pour (all she conld du) to suit her; Fust place the leaves`ould choke the spout, so`5 not a drop`ould dreen out, Then Prude`ould tip an' tip an' tip, till the holl kit bust clean out The kiver-hinge-pin bein' lost, tea-leaves an' tea an' kiver `ould all come down kerswosh! ez though the dam broke in a river. Jest so`t is here; holl months there aint a day 0~ rainy weather, An' jest ez th' officers`ould be alayin' heads together Ez t' how they`d mix their drink at sech a milingtary deepot, - `T`ould pour ez though the lid wuz off the everlastin' teapot. The cons'quence is, thet I shall take, wen I`m allowed to leave here, One piece 0' propaty along, - an' thet`5 the shakin' fever It`5 reggilar employment, though, an' thet aint thought to harm one, Nor`t aint so tiresome ez it wuz with t' other leg an' arm on; An' it`5 a consolation, tu, although it doos n't pay,

Page  437 TilE BIGLOW PAPERS. 437 To bev it said you`re some gret shakes in any kin' 0' way. `T wor n't very long, I tell ye wut, I thought 0' foftin inakin', - One day a reg'lar shiver-de-freeze, an' next ez good ez bakin', - Que day abrilin' in the sand, then smoth'rin' in the mashes, - Git up all sound, be put to bed a mess 0' hacks an' smashes. But then, thinks I, at any rate there`5 glory to be hed, - Thet`5 an investment, arter all, thet may n't turn out so bad; But somehow, wen we`d fit an' licked, I ollers found the thanks Gut kin' 0' lodged afore they come ez low down ez the ranks; The Gin'rals gut the biggest sheer, the Cunules next, an' so on,We never gut a blasted mite 0' glory ez I know on; An' spose we hed, I wonder how you`re goin' to contrive its Division so`5 to give a piece to twenty thousand privits; Ef you should multiply by ten the portion 0' the brav'st one, You would n't git more`n half enough to speak of on a grave-stun; ~We git the licks, - we`re jest the grist thet`5 put into N\Tar's hoppers; Leftenants is the lowest grade thet helps pick up the coppers. It may suit folks thet go agin a body with a soul in`t, An' aint contented with a hide wfthont a bagnet hole in`t; But glory is a kin' 0' thing 1 shan't pursue no furder, Coz thet`5 the off'eers parquisite, - yourn`5 on'y jest the murder. Wal, arter I gin glory ~p, thinks I at least there`5 one Thing in the bills we aint bed yit, an' thet`5 the GLORIOUS F-UN; Ef once ~e git to Mexico, we fairly may persume we All day an' night shall revel in the halls 0' Montezumy. I`11 tell ye wut my revels wuz, an' see how you would like`em;

Page  438 438 LOWELL'S POEMS. The never gut inside the hall: the nighest ever I come Wuz stan'in' sentry in the sun (an', fact, it seemed a cent'ry) A ketchin' smells 0' biled an' roast thet come out thru the entry, An' hearin' ez I sweltered thru my passes an' repasses, A rat-tat-too 0' knives an' forks, a clinkty-clink 0' glasses: I can't tell off the bill 0' fare the Gin'rals hed inside; All I know is, thet out 0' doors a pair 0' soles wuz fried, An' not a hunderd miles away frum ware this child wuz posted, A Massachusetts citizen wuz baked an' biled an' roasted The on'y thing like revellin' thet ever come to me Wuz bein' routed out 0' sleep by thet darned revelee. They say the quarrel`5 settled now; fer my part I`ve some doubt on`t, `T`11 take more fish-skin than folks think to take the rile clean out on At any rate, I`m so used up I can't do no more fightin', The on'y chance thet`5 left to me is politics or writin'; Now, ez the people`5 gut to hev a milingtary man, An' I aint nothin' else jest now, I`ve hit upon a plan; The can'idatin' line, you know,`ould suit ine to a An' ef I lose,`t wunt hurt my ears to lodge another flea So I`11 set up ez can'idate fer any kin' 0' office, (I mean fer any thet includes good easy-cheers an' soffies Fer ez to runnin' fer a place ware work`5 the time 0' day, You know thet`5 wut I never did, - except the other way;) Ef it's the Presidential cheer fer wich I'd better run, Wut two legs anywares about could keep up with my one? There aint no kin' 0' quality in can'idates, it`5 said, So useful ez a wooden leg, - except a wooden head; There`5 nothin' aint so poppylar - (wy, it`5 a parfect sin To think wut Mexico hez paid fer Santy Anny's pin;) - Then I haint gut no princerples, an', sence I wuz knee-high, I never (`id hev any gret, ez you can testify; I`m a decided peace man, tu, an' go agin the war, - Fer now the holl on`t`5 gone an' past, wut is there to go for? Ef, wile you`re`lectioneerin' round, some curus chaps should beg

Page  439 THE MGLOW PAPERS. 439 To know my views 0' state affairs, jest answer WOODEN LEG! I~f they aint settisfied with thet, an' kin' 0' pry an' doubt An' ax fer sutthin' deffynit, jest say ONE EYE PUT OUT! Thet kin' o' talk I guess you`11 find`11 answer to a charm, An' wen you`re druv tu nigh the wall, hol' up my missin' arm; I~f they should nose round fer a pledge, put on a vartoons look An' tell`em thet`5 percisely wut I never gin nor - took! Then you can call me "Timbertoes," - thet`5 wut`the people likes; Sutthin' combinin' morril truth with phrases sech ez strikes; Some say the people`s fond 0' this, or thet, or wut you please, - I tell ye wut the people want is jest correct idees; "Old Timbertoes," you see,`5 a creed it`5 safe to be quite bold on, There`5 nothin' in`t the other side can any ways git bold on; It`5 a good tangible idee, a suttbin' to embody Thet valooable class 0' men who look thru braudy4oddy; It gives a Party Platform, tu, jest level with the mind Of all right-thinkin', honest folks thet mean to go it blind; Then there air other good hooraws to dror on ez you need`em, Sech ez the ONE-EYED SLARTERER, the BLOODY BIRD 0 FREDUM; Them's wut takes hold' 0' folks thet think, ez well ez 0' the masses, An' makes you sartin 0' the aid 0' good men of all classes. There`5 one thing I`m in doubt about; in order to be Presidunt, It's absolutely ne'ssary to be a Southern residunt; The Constitution settles thet, an' also thet a feller Must own a nigger 0' some sort, jet black, or brown, or yeller. Now I haint no obj ections agin particklar climes, Nor agin ownin' anythin' (except the truth sometimes),

Page  440 440 LOWELL'S POEMS. But, ez I haint no capital, up there among ye, maybe, You might raise funds enough fer me to buy a low-priced baby, An' then, to suit the No'thern folks, who feel obleeged to say They hate an' cuss the very thing they vote fer e~ery day, Say you`re assured I go full butt fer Liberty's diffusion An' made the purchis on'y jest to spite the Institootion; - But, golly! there`5 the currier's hoss upon the pavement pawin'! I`11 be more`xplicit in my next. Yonrn, BIRDoFREDUM SAWIX. [We have now a tolerably fair chance of estimating bow the balancesheet stands between our returned volunteer and glory. Supposing the entries to be set down on both sides of the account in fractiouni parts of one hundred, we shall arrive at something like the following result: B.SAwIN, Esq., in account with (BLANK) GLORY. Cr. Dr. By loss of one leg,... 20 To one 675th three cheers in do. one arm,... 15 Faneull Hall,... 30 do. four fingers do. do. on occasion of do. one eye,... 10 presentation of sword to the breaking of six ribs,. 6 Colonel Wright,.. 25 having served under Colo- one suit of gray clothes (in nel Cushing one month,. 44 geniously unhecoming),. 15 musical entertainments (drum and fife six ~months) 5 one dinner after return,. 1 chance of pension,.. 1 privilege of drawing long bow during rest of natu ral life 23 100 100 E. E. It would appear that Mr. Sawin found the actual feast curiously the reverse of the bill of fare advertised in Fanenil Hall and other places. His primary object seems to have been the making of his fortune. Qe~renda pecwnia p?~imwrn, virtus post nummos. He hoisted sail for Eldorado, and shipwrecked on Point Tribulation. QiLid non mortalia pectora cogis, auri sacra fames? The speculation has sometimes crossed my mind, in that dreary interval of drought which intervenes between quarterly stipendiary showers, that Provideuce, by the creation of a money-tree, might have simplified wonderfully the sometimes perplexing problem of human life. We read of bread-trees, the butter for which lies ready-churned in Irish bogs. Milk-trees we are assured of in South America, and stout Sir John Hawkins testifies to water-trees

Page  441 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 441 in the Canaries. Boot-trees bear abundantly in Lynn and elsewhere; and I have seen, in the entries of the wealthy, bat-trees with a fair show of fruit. A family-tree I once cultivated myself, and found therefrom but a scanty yield, and that quite tasteless and innutritious. Of trees bearing men we are not without examples; as those in the park of Louis the Eleventh of France. Who has forgotten, moreover, that olive-tree, growing in the Athenian's back-garden, with its strange uxorious crop, for the general propagation of which, as of a new and precious variety, the philosopher Diogenes, hitherto uninterested in arboriculture, was so zealous? In the sylva of our own Southern States, the females of my family have called my attention to the chinatree. Not to multiply examples, I will barely add to my list the birchtree, in the smaller branches of which has been implanted so miraculous a virtue for communicating the Latin and Greek languages, and which may well, therefore, be classed among the trees producing neces saries of life,-venerebiie yofl?tot fatalis virg~. That money-trees existed in the golden age there want not prevalent reasons for our believing. For does not the old proverb, when it asserts that money does not grow on every bush, imply a fortiori that there were certain bushes which did produce it? Again, there is another ancient saw to the effect that money is the root of all evil. From which two adages it may be safe to infer that the aforesaid species of tree first degenerated into a shrub, then absconded underground, and finally, in our iron age, vanished altogether. In favorable exposures it may be conjectured that a specimen or two survived to a great age, as in the garden of the Hesperides; and, indeed, what else could that tree in the Sixth ~neid have been, with a branch whereof the Trojan hero procured admission to a territory, for the entering of which money is a surer passport than to a certain other more profitable (too) foreigu kingdom? Whether these speculations of mine have any force in them, or whether they will A0t rather, by most readers, be deemed impertinent to the matter in hand, is a question which I leave to the determination of an indulgent posterity. That there were, in more primitive and happier times, shops where money was sold, - and that, too, on credit and at a bargain, - I take to be matter of demonstration. For what but a dealer in this article was that lEolus who supplied Ulysses with motive power for his fleet iu bags? What that Ericus, king of Sweden, who is said to have kept the winds in his cap? What, in more recent times, those Lapland Nornas who traded in favorable breezes? All which will appear tl~e more clearly when we consider, that, even to this day, reisi~~y the wii~d is proverbial for raising money, and that brokers and banks w~re invented by the Venetians at a later period. And now for the improvement of this digression. I find a parallel to Mr. Sawin's fortune iu an adventure of my own. F~ir, shoi'tly after I had first broached to myself the before-stated natural-hist~~rical and archieological theories, as I was passing, h~~ negotia penitus meciso~ revoivens, through one of the obscure suburbs of our New England metropolis, my eye was attracted by these words upon a sign-hoard, - CHEAP CAsH-SToRE. Here was at once the confirmation of my speenlations, and the substance of my hopes. Here lingered the fragment of a hapl)ier past, or stretched out the first tremulous organic filament of a more fortunate future. Thus glowed the distant Mexico to the eyes of Sawin, as be looked through the dirty pane of the recruitingoffice wiiid~~w, or speculated from the summit of that mirage-Pisgab which the imps of the bottle are so cunning in raising up. Already had my Alnaschar-fancy (even during that first half-believing glance) expended in various useful directions the funds to he obtained by pledging the manuscript of a proposed volume of discourses. Already did a clock ornament the tower of the Janlam meeting-house, a gift

Page  442 442 LOWELL'S POEMS. appropriately, but modestly, commemorated in the parish and town records, both, for now many years, kept by myself. Already bad my son Seneca completed his course at the University. Whether, for the moment, we may not be considered as actually l~~rding it over those Baratarias with the viceroyalty of which Hope invests us, and whether we are ever so warmly housed as iu our Spanish castles, would afford matter of argumeilt. Enough that I found that sign-board to be no ~tber than a bait to the trap of a decayed grocer. Nevertheless, I b:~ngbt a pound of dates (getting short weight by reason of immense flights of harpy flies who pursued and lighted upon their prey even in tlie very scales), which purchase I made, not only with an eye to the little ones at home, but also as a figurative reproof of that too frequent habit of my mind, which, forgetting the due order of chronology, will often persuade me that the happy sceptre of Saturn is stretched over this Astrtea-forsake u nineteenth century. Having glanced at the ledger of Glory under the title ~owin, B., let us extend onr investigations, and discover if that instructive volume does not contain some charges more personally interesting to ourselves. I think we sliould be more economical of our resources, did we thorouglily appreciate the fact, that, whenever brother Jt~nathan seems to be thrusting his hand into his own pocket, he is, in fact, picking ours. I confess tbat the late nuck which the country has been runufli has materially changed my views as to the best method of raising revenue. If, by means of direct taxation, the bills for every extraordinary outlay were brought nuder our immediate eye, so that, like thrifty housekeepers, we could see where and how fast the moiiey was going, we should be less likely to commit extravagances. At present, these things are managed in such a hugger-mugger way, that we know not what we pay for; the poor man is charged as much as the rich; and, while we are saving and scflmping at the spigot, the government is drawing off at the hung. If we could know that a part of the money we expend for tea and coffee goes to buy powder and balls, and that it is Mexican blood which makes the clothes on our backs more costly, it would set some of us athiuking. During the present fall, I have often pictured to myself a government official entering my study and handing me the following bill: - WAs~ixc~o~, Sept. 30, 18~S. H~v. HOMER WILBUR to ~flt~ ~amu~t, Dr. To his share of work done in Mexico on partnership account sundry jobs, as below. killing, maiming, and wounding about 5,000 Mexicans,. $2.00 slaughtering one woman carrying water to wounded,...10 extra work on two different Sabbaths (one bombardment and oiie assault) whereby the Mexicans were prevented from defiling themselves with the idolat~es of high mass, 3.50 throwing an especially fortunate and Protestant bombshell into the Cathedral at Vera Crnz, whereby several female Papists were slain at the altar 50 his proportion of cash paid for conquered territory,. 1.75 do. do. for conquering do.. 1.50 manuring do. with new superior compost called "American Citizen," 50 extending the area of freedom and Protestantism...01 glory Ol $9.87 Lnmtd'iefe pnyinent is requested.

Page  443 THE MULOW PAPERS. 443 N. B. Thankful for former favors, U. S. requests a continuance of patronage. Orders executed with neatness and despatch. Terms as low as those of any other contractor for the same kind and style of work. I can fancy the official answering my look of horror with, -" Yes, Sir, it looks like a high charge, Sir; but in these days slaughtering 5 slanghtering." Verily, I would that every one understood that it was; for it goes abont obtaining money under the false pretence of being glory. For me, I have an imagination which plays me uncomfortable tricks. It happens to me sometimes to see a slaughterer oii his way home from his day's work, and forthwith my imagiilati()n puts a cocked-hat upon his head and epaulettes upon his shoulders, and sets him up as a candidate for the Presidency. So, also, on a recent public occasion, as the place assigned to the "Reverend Clergy" is just behind that of "Officers of the Army and Navy" in processions. it wns my fortune to be seated at the dinner-table over against one of these respectable persons. He was arrayed as (out of his own professi~~n) only kings, court-officers, and footmen are in Europe, and Indiaiis in America. Now what does my over-officious imagination but set to work upon him, strip him of his gay livery, and present him to me coatless, his tr~~wsers thrust into the tops of a pair of boots thick with clotted blood, aud a basket on his arm out of which lolled a goresmeared axe, thereby destroying my relish for the temporal mercies upon the hoard before me! - H. ~Y.] No. IX. A THIRD LETTER FROM B. SAWIN, ESQ. [UPoN the following letter slender comment will be needful. In what river Selemnus has Mr. Sawin bathed, that he has become so swiftly oblivious of his former loves? From an ardent and (as befits a soldier) confident wooer of that coy bride, the popular favor, we see him subside of a sudden into the (I trust not jilted) Ciucinuatus, returning to his plough with a goodly-sized branch of willow in his hand; figuratively returning, however, to a figurative plough, a~~d from no profound affection for that honored implement of hnsban~lry, (for which, indeed, Mr. Sawin never displayed any decided predilection,) but in order to be gracefully summoned therefrom to more c~~i~geniM labors. It would seem that the character of the ancient Dictator had become part of the recognized stock of our modern politieni comedy, though, as our term of office extends to a quadrennial length, the parallel is not so minutely exact as could be desired. It is snfficieiitly so, however, for purposes of scenic representation. An humble cottage (if built of logs, the better) forms the Arcadian background of the stage. This rustic paradise is labelled Ashland, Janlam, North Bend, Marshfield, Kinderhook, or Baton Rouge, as occasion demands. Before the door stands a something with one handle (the other painted in proper perspective), which represents, in happy ideal vagueness, the plough. To~this the defeated candidate rushes with delirous j()y, welcomed as a father by appropriate groups of happy laborers, or from it the successful one is torn with dffficuity, sustained alone by a noble sense of public duty. Only I have observed, that, if the scene be laid at Baton Rouge or Ashland, the laborers are kept carefully in the background, and are heard to shout from behind the scenes in a singular

Page  444 444 LOWELL'S POEMS. tone resembling ululation, and accompanied by a sound not unlike vigorous clapping. This, however, may be artistically in keeping with the habits of the rustic population of those localities. The precise connection between agricultural pursuits and statesmanship I have not been able, after dili~ent inquiry, to discover. But, that my investigations may not be barren of all fruit, I will mention one curious statistical fact, which I consider thoroughly established, namely, that no real farmer ever attains practically beyond a seat in General Court, however theoretically qualified for more exalted station. it is probable that some other prospect has been opened to Mr. Sawin, and that lie has not made this great sacrifice without some definite understanding in regard to a seat in the cabinet or a foreign mission. It may he supposed that we of Jaalam were not untouched by a feeling of villatic pride in beholding our townsman occupying so large a space in the public eye. And to me, deeply revolving the qualifications necessary to a candidate in these frugal times. those of Mr. S. seemed peculiarly adapted to a successful campaign. The loss of a leg, an arm, an eye, and four fingers, reduced him so nearly to the condition of a vox et prieterva nihil, that I could think of nothing but the loss of his head by which his chance could have been bettered. But since he has chosen to baulk our suff rages, we must content ourselves with what we can get, remembering lactucas ~ioi~ esse dandas, duiii cardui su~cio~tf.-H. W.] I SPOSE you recollect thet I explained my gennie views In the last billet thet I writ,`way down frum Veery Criize, Jest arter I`d a kind 0' ben spontanously sot up To run unanimously fer the Presidential cup; 0' course it wor n't no wish 0' mine,`t wuz ferfiely dis tressin', But poppiler enthusiasm gut so almighty pressin' Thet, though like sixty all along I fuined an' fussed an' sorrered, There did u't seem no ways to stop their bringin' on me forrerd: Fact is, they udged the matter so, I could n't help admit tin' The Father 0' his Country's shoes no feet but mine`ould lit in, Besides the savin' 0' the soles fer ages to succeed, Secin' thet with one wannut foot, a pair`d be more`n I need; An', tell ye wut, them shoes`11 want a thund'rin' sight 0~ - patchin', Ef this`ere fashion is to last we`ve gut into 0' hatchin' A pair 0' second Washintons fer every new election, - Though, fur ez number one`S consarned, I don't make no objection.

Page  445 THE BIGLOW Th41~ERS. 445 I WllZ agoin' on to say fl~et wen at fust I saw The masses would stick to`t I wuz the Country's father`n-law, (Theywould ha' hed it Fathe~-, but I told`em`t would n't du, Coz thet wuz sutthin' of a sort they could n't split in tu, Au' ~~ashinton hed hed the thing laid fairly to his door, Nor dars n't say`t wor n't his'n, much ez sixty year afore,) But`t aint 110 matter ez to thet; wen I wuz nomernated, `Twor n't natur but wut I should feel consid'able elated, An' wile the hooraw 0' the thing wuz kind 0' noo an' fresh, I thought our ticket would ha' caird the country with a resh. SenceI`ve come hum, though, an' looked round, I think I seem to find Strong argimunts ez thick ez fleas to make me change my mind; It`5 clear to any one whose brain ain't fur gone in a phthisis, Thet hail Coluinby's happy land is goiu' thru a crisis, An'`t would n't noways du to hev the people's mind dis tracted By bein' all to once by sev'ral pop'lar names attackted; `T would save holl haycartloads 0' fuss an' three four months 0' jaw, Ef some illustrous paytriot should back out an' with draw; So, ez I aint a crooked stick, jest like - like ole (I swow, I dunno ez I know his name) - I`11 go back to my plough. ~Yenever an Amerikin distinguished politishin Begiiis to try et wut they call definin' his posishin, ~Val, I, fer one, feel sure he aint gut nuthin' to define; It`5 so nine cases out o' ten, but jest that tenth is mine; An'`taint no more`n is proper`n' right in sech a sitooa tion To hint the course you think`11 be the savin' 0' the nation; To funk right out 0' p'lit'cai strife aint thought to be the thing,

Page  446 44(3 LOIVELL'S POEMS. ~Yithout you deacon off the toon you want your folks should sing; So I edvise the noomrous ftiends thet`5 in one boat with me To jest up killock, jam right down their helluin hard a lee, Haul the sheets taut, an', laying out upon the Suthun tack, Make fer the safest port they can, wich, I think, is Ole Zack. Next thing you`11 want to know, I spose~ wut argimunts I seem To see thet makes me think this ere`11 be the strongest team; Fust place, I`ve ben consid'ble romid in bar-rooms an' saloons Agethrin' public sentiment,`mongst Demmererats and Coons, An'`taint ve'y offen thet I meet a chap but wnt goes in Fer Rough an' Ready, fair an' square, hufs, taller, horns, an' skin; I don't deny but wut, fer one, ez fur ez I could see, I did n't like at fust the Pheladelphy nomernee: I could ha' pinted to a man thet wuz, I guess, a peg Higher than him, - a soger, tu, an' with a wooden leg; But every day with more an' more 0' Taylor zeal I`m burnin, Secin' wich way the tide tbet sets to office is aturnin' Wy, into Bellers's we notched the votes dowii on three sticks, - wuz Birdofredum one, Cass aught, an' Taylor twenty-six, An' bein' the on'y canderdate thet wuz upon the ground, They said`t wuz no more`n right thet I should pay the drinks all round; Ef I`d expected sech a trick, I would n't ha' cut my foot By goin' an' votin' fer myself like a consumed coot; It did n't make no diff'rence, though; I wish I may be cust, Ef Bellers wuz n't slim enough to say he would n't trust! Another pint thet influences the minds 0~ sober jedges Is thet the Gin'ral hez n't gut tied hand an' foot with pledges;

Page  447 THE MGLOW PAPERS. 447 ile hez n't told ye wut lie is, an' so there aint no know in' But wut he may turn out to be the best there is agoin'; This, at the on'y spot thet pinched, the shoe directly eases, (?oz every one is free to`xpect percisely what he pleases: I want free-trade; you don't; the Gin'ral is n't bound to neither; - I vote my way; you, yourn; an' both air sooted to a T there. Ole Rough an' Ready, tu,`5 a Wig, but wfthout bein' ultry (Re`5 like a holsome hayinday, thet`S warm, but is n't sultry); Re`5 jest wut I should call myself, a kin' 0' scratch, ez `t ware, Thet ain't exacly all a wig nor wholly your own hair; I`ve ben a Wig three weeks myself, jest 0' this mod'rate sort, An' don't find them an' Demmererats so different ez I thought; They both act pooty much alike, an' push an' scrouge an' ens; They`re like two pickpockets in league fer Uncle Sam well's pus; Each takes a side, an' then they squeeze the old man in between`em, Turn all his pockets wrong side out an' quick ez lightuin' clean`em; To nary one on`em I`d trust a secon'-handed rail No furder off`an I could sling a bullock by tiie tail. Webster SOt matters right in thet air Maslifiel' speech 0' his'n;"Taylor," sez he, "ahit nary ways the one thet I`d a chizzen, Nor he aint fittin' fer the place, an' like ez not lie aint No more`n a tough ole bullethead, an' no gret of a saint; But then," sez he, "obsarve my pint, he`5 jest ez good to vote fer Ez though the greasin' on him wor n't a thing to hire Choate fer Aint it ez easy do}ie to drop a ballot in a box Fer one ez`t is fer t`other, fer the bulldog ez the fox?

Page  448 448 LOJVELL'S POEMS. It takes a mind like Dannel's, fact, ez big ez all 011' doors, To find out thet it looks like rain arter it fairly pours; I`gree with him, it aint so dreffie tronUesorne to vote Fer Taylor arter all, - it`5 jest to go an' change your coat ~Ven he`5 once greased, you`11 swaller him an' never know on`t, scurce, Unless he scratches, goin' down, with them`ere Gin'ral's spurs. I`ve ben a votin' Demn~ercrat, ez reg'lar ez a clock, But don't find goin' Taylor gives my narves no gret`f a shock; Truthis, il~e cutest leadin' ~Yigs, ever sence fust they found ~Vichside the bread gut buttered on, hev kep' a edgin' round; They kin' 0' slipt the planks fruin out th' ole platform one by one An' made it gradooally noo,`fore folks know'd wut wuz done, Till, fur`z I know, there aint an inch thet I could lay my han' on, But I, or any Demmererat, feels comf'table to stan' on, An' ole N\7ig doctrines act'lly look, their occ'pants bein' gone, Lonesome ez staddles on a mash without no hayricks on. I spose it`5 time now I should give my thoughts upon the plan, Thet chipped the shell at Buffalo, 0' settin' up ole Van. I used to vote fer ~Iartin, but, I swan, I`ni clean dis gusted, - lle aint the man il~et I can say is fittin' to be trusted; lle aint half autislav'ry`nough, nor I aint sure, ez 5()ui~ be, Be`d go in fer abolishin' the Deestrick 0' (~olun~l~y; An', now I conic to recollect, it kin' 0' makes me si()'k`z A borse, to think 0' wut he w'iz in eighteen thirty-six. An' then, another thing; - I guess, though 1 nebby I am wrong, This Buff'lo plaster aint agoin' to dror alini~hty sti~ong; Some folks, I know, hev gut th' idee thet No'thun dough`11 rise, Though,`fore I see it riz an' baked, I would n't trust my eyes;

Page  449 THE BICLOW PAPERS. 449 `T will take more emptins, a long chalk, than this noo party`5 gut, To give sech heavy cakes ez them a start, I tell ye wut. But even ef they caird the day, there would n't be no endurin' To stan' upon a platform with sech critters cz Van Buren; - An' his son John, tu, I can't think how thet`ere cbap should dare To speak cz he doos; wy, they say he used to cuss an' swear! I spose he never read the hymn thet tells how down the stairs A feller with long legs wuz throwed thet would n't say his prayers. This brings me to another pint: the leaders 0' the party Aint jest sech men ez I can act along with free an' hearty; They aint not quite respectable, an' wen a feller's inorrils Don'ttoe the straightest kin' 0' mark, wy, him an' me jest quarrils. I went to a free soil meetin' once, an' wut d' ye think I see? A feller was aspoutin' there thet act'lly come to me, Aboi~t two year ago last spring, ez nigh ez I can jedge, An' axed me ef I did n't want to sign the Teinprunce pledge! lle`5 one 0' them that goes about an' sez you hed n't ough' ter Drinknothin', mornin', noon, or night, stronger`an Taun ton water. There`5 one rule I`ve ben guided by, in settlin' how to vote, oIlers I take the side th'7t is n't took by them consarned tee totallers. Bz fer the niggers, I`ve ben South, an' thet hez changed my mind; A lazier, more ongrateful set you could n't nowers find. You know I mentioned in my last thet I should buy a nigger, Ef I could make a purchase at a pooty mod'rate figger; So, ez there`5 n~~{hin' in the world I`Ill fonder of`an gunnin', 2G

Page  450 450 LOWELL'S POEMS. I closed a bargin finally to tak,e a feller runnin'. I sliou'dered queen's-arm an stumped out, an' wen I come t' th' swamp, wor n't very long before I gut upon the nest 0' Pomp; I come acrost a kin' 0' lint, an', playin' round the door, Some little woolly-headed cubs, ez many`z six or more. At fust I fl~onght 0' firin', but think twice is safest ollers; There aint, thinks I, not one on`em but`5 wuth his twenty dollars, Or would be, ef I had`em back into a Christian land, - How temptin' all on`em would look upon an auction stand! (Not but wut I hate Slavery in th' abstract, stem to starn, - I leave it ware our fathers did, a privit State consarn.) Soon`z they see me, they yelled an' run, but Pomp wuz out ahoein' A leetle patch 0~ corn he lied, or else there aint no knowin' He would n't ha' took a pop at me; but I had gut the start, An' wen lie looked, I vow he groaned ez though he`d broke his heart He done it like a wite man, tu, ez nat'ral ez a pictur, The imp'dunt, pis'nous hypocrite! wus`an a boy con strictur. "You can't gum rnQ I tell ye now, an' so you needn't try, I`xpect my eye-teeth every mail, so jest shet up," sez I. "Don't go to actin' ugly now, or else I`11 jest let strip, You`d best draw kindly, seein'`z how I`ve gut ye on the hip; Besides, you darned ole fool, it aint no gret of a disaster To be benev'lently druv back to a contented master, Ware you lied Christian priv'ledges you don't seem quite aware of, Or you`d ha' never run away from bein' well took care of Ez fer kin' treatment, wy, he wnz so fond on ye, he sed He`d give a fifty spot right out, to git ye, live or dead; Wite folks aint sot by half ez much;`member I run away, Wen I wuz bound to Cap'n Jakes, to Mattysquinscot bay; I)on't know him, likely? Spose not; wal, the mean ole codger went

Page  451 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 451 Au' offered - wut rewarQ think? Wal, it wor n't no less`11 a cent." Wal, I jcst gut`em into line, an' druv`em on afore me, The pis'nous brutes, I`d no idee o' the ill-will they bore me; We walked till som'ers about noon, an' then it grew so hot I thought it best to camp awile, so I ebose out a spot Jest under a magnoly tree, an' there right down I sot; Then I unstrapped my wooden leg, coz it begun to chafe, An' laid it down`long side 0' me, supposin' all wuz safe; I made my darkies all set down around me in a ring, An' sot an' kin' 0' ciphered up how much the lot would bring; But, wile I drinked the peaceful cup 0~ a pure heart an' mind, (Mixed with some wiskey, now an' then,) Pomp he snaked up behind, An' creepin' grad'lly close tu, ez quiet ez a mink, Jest grabbed my leg, and then pulled foot, quicker`an you could wiiik, An', come to look, they each on`em hed gut behin' a tree, An' Pomp poked out the leg a piece, jest so ez I could see, An' yelled to me to.throw away my pistils an' my gun, Or else thet they`d cair off the leg, an' fairly cut an run. I vow I did n't b'lieve there wuz a decent alligatur Thet hed a heart so destitoot 0' common human natur; llowever, ez il~ere wor n't no help, I finally give in An' heft my arms away to git my leg safe back agin. Pomp gethered all the weapins up, an' then he come an grinned, lle showed his ivory some, I guess, an' sez, "You`re fairly pinned; Jest buckle on your leg agin, an' git right up an come, `T wun't du fer fammerly men like me to be so long from At fust I put my foot right down an' swore I would n't budge. "Jest ez you choose," sez he, quite cool, "either be shot or trudge."

Page  452 452 LO WELL'S POEMS. So this black-hearted monster took an' act'lly druv me back Along the very f,eetir,arks 0' my happy mornin' track, An' kep' me pris ncr bout six months, an' worked me, tu~ like ~in, Till I hed gut his corn an' his Carliny taters in; He mad e mc larn him readin', tu, (although the crittur saw How much it hut my morril sense to act agin the law,) So`st he could read a Bible he`d gut; an' axed ef I could pint The North Star out; but there I put his nose some out 0' jint, Fer I weeled roun' about sou'west, an', lookin' up a bit, Picked out a middlin' shiny one an' tole him thet wuz it. Fin'lly, he took inc to the door, an', givin' mc a kick, Sez, - "Ef you know wut`5 best fer ye, be off, now, double-quick; The winter-time`5 a corn in on, an', though I gut ye cheap, You`re so darned lazy, I don't think you`re hardly wuth your keep; Besides, the childrin`5 growin' up, an' you aint jest the model I`d like to hcv`em immertate, an' so you`d better tod dle!" Now is there any thin' on airth`11 ever prove to me Thet renegader slaves like him air fit fer bein' free? D' you think they`11 suck inc in to jine the Buff'lo chaps, an' them Rank infidels thet go agin the Scriptur'l ens 0' Shem? Not by a jngfull! sooner`n thet, I`d go thru fire an' water; ~Yen I hcv once made up my mind, a mcct'nhus aint sotter; No, not though all the crows thet flies to pick my bones wuz cawin', - I guess we`re in a Christian land, - Yourn, BIRDoFREDUM SAwi~.

Page  453 THE BJC~~LOW PAPER~. 453 ~Here, patient reader, we take leave of each other, I trust with some mutual satisfaction. I say potienf, for I love not that kind which skims dippingly over the surface of the page, as swallows over a pool before rain. By such no pearls shall be gathered. But if no pearls there be (as, indeed, the world is not without example of bools wherefrom the longest~winded diver shall bring up no more than lils pi'()per handful of mud), yet let us hope that an oyster or twQ may i~eward adequate perseverance. If neither pearls nor oysters, yet is pailence itself a gein worth diving deeply for. It may seem to some that too iiiuch space has been usurped by my own private lucubrations, and some may be fain to bring against nie that old jest of him who preached all his hearers out of the meetinghouse save oiily the sexton, who, remaining for yet a little space, fioiii a sense of official duty, at last gave out also, aiid, presei1tii0g the keys, humbly requested our preacher to lock the doors, when lie sfioold ii ave wholly relieved himself of his testimony. I confess t() a satisfaction in the self act of preaching, nor do I esteem a discourse to be wholly thrown away even upon a sleeping or uninielligei~t aii(iitory. I eaniiot easily believe that the Gospel of Saint Joliii, which Jacques Cartier ordered to be read in the Latin tongue to the Caiiadian savages, upon his first meetilig with them, fell altogether upou~stoiiy gronid. For the earnestness of the preacher is a sermoii appreciable by dullest iiitellects and most alien earS. In this wise did Episcopins coiivert mai~y to his opinions, who yet understood not the language iii which he discoursed. The chief thiiig is that the messeugei be~ieve that he has an authentic message to deliver. For counterfeit messeligers that niode of treatment which Father John de Piano Carpini relates to have prevailed amolig the Tartars would seem effectual, and, perhaps, deserved enough. For my own part, I may lay claim to so much of the spirit of martyrdom as would have led me to go into banislimeiit with those clergymen whom Aiphonso the Sixth ~f Portugal drave out of his kiiigdoni for refusing to shorten their public eloqoence. It is possible, that, having' beeii iii;vited into my brother Biglow's desk, I niay have been too litt~e scrupulous in using it for the venting of my owl peculiar doctrines to a congregation drawn together in the expectatloil and with the desire of hearing him. I am not wholly unconscious of a peculiarity of mental organization which impels inc, like the railroad-eiigine with its train of cars, to run backward for a short distance in order to obtain a fairer start. I may compare myself to one fishing from the rocks when the sea ruiis high, who, misinterpreting the suctioii of the undertow for the bitiiig of some larger fish, jerks suddenly, and finds that he has cou~jhf botfoi~~, hauling in upon the end of his line a trail of various olgie, amolig which, ii evertheless, the naturalist niay haply find something to repay th~ disappohitment of the angler. Yet have I conscientiously eiideavored to adapt mysdf to the impatient temper of the age, daily degenerating more and more from the high standard of our pristine New Eiiglaiid. To the catalogue of lost arts I would mournfully add also that of listening to two-hour sermons. Surely we have been abridged into a race of pigmies. For, truly, in those of the old discourses yet subsisting to us in print, the endless spinal column of divisions and subdivisions can be likened to nothiiig so exactly as to the vertebric of the saurians, whence the theorist may coiijeoture a race of Anakini proportionate to the withstanding of these other monsters. I say Anakim rather than Nephelim, because there seem reasons for supposing that the race of those whose heads (though no giants) are constantly enveloped in clouds (which that name imports) will never become extinct. The attempt to vanqmsh the innumerable heo~s of one of those aforementioned discourses may supply us with a plausible interpretation of the second

Page  454 454 LOWELL'S POEMS. labor of Hercules, and his successful experiment with fire affords us a useful precedent. But while I lament the degeneracy of the age in this regard, I cannot refuse to succumb to its influence. Looking out through my studywindow, I see Mr. Biglow at a distance busy in gathering his Baidwius, of which, to judge by the number of barrels lying about under the trees, his crop is more abundant than my own, - by which sight I am admonished to turn to those orchards of the mind wherein my labors may be more prospered, and apply myself diligently to the preparation of my next Sabbath's discourse. - H. W.]

Page  455 GLOSSARY. A. D. Act'lly, actually. Darsn't, used indiscriminately, Air, are. either in singular or plural numAirth, earth. ber, for dare not, dares not, and Airy, area. dared not. Aree, area. Deacon off, to give the cue to; deArter, after. rived from a custom, once uniAx, ask. versal, but now extinct, in our New England Congregati~~nal B. churches. An important part of Belier, bellow. the office of deacon was to read Bellowses, lungs. aloud the hymns given out by Ben, been. the minister, one line at a time, Bile, boil. the congregation singing each Bimeby, by and by. line as soon as read. Blurt out, to speak bluntly. Demmerarat, leadin', one in favor Bust, burst. of extending slavery; a freeBuster, a roistering blade; used trade lecturer n~aintained in the also as a general superlative. custom-house. Desput, desperate. C. Doos. does. Caird, carmed. Doughface, a contented lickspittle; Cairn, carry?ng. a common variety of Northern Caleb, a turncoat. politician. Cal'late, calculate. Dror, draw. Cass, a person with two lives. Du, do. Close, clothes. Dunno, duo, do not, or does not Cockerel, a young cock. know. Cocktail, a kind of drink; also, an Dut, dirt. ornan~vnt peculiar to soldiers. B. Convention, a place where people are i~nposed on; a juggler's Bend, end. show. Ef,if. Coons, a cant term for a now de- Emptins, yeast. funet party; derived, perhaps, Euv'y, envoy. from the fact of their being com- Evarlasting, an intensive, without monly up a tree. reference to duration. Coruwallis, a sort of muster in Ev'y, every. masquerade; supposed to have Ez, us. had its origin soon after the Revolution, and to commemo- F. rate the surrender of Lord Corn- Fence, On the, said of one who wallis. It took the place of the halts between two opinions a old Guy Fawkes procession. trimmer. Crookad stick, a perverse, froward Fer, for. person. Ferfie, ferful, fearful; also an inCunule, a colonel. tensive. Cus, a curse; also, apittfnlfelThw. Fin',fi~td. 455

Page  456 456 LOIVELL'S POTh~S. Fish-skin, used in New England to K. clarify coffee. Keer, care. Fix, a di~cnlty, a nonplus. Kep', kept. Folier, folly, to follow. Killock, a small anchor. Forrerd frrncard. Kin', kin' 0, kinder, kind, kind of Fr urn, from. Fur, far. Furder, farther. L. Furrer, fm-row. Metaphorically Lawth, loath. to draw a straight furrow is t(; Less, let's, let us. live uprightly or decorously. Let daylight into, to shoot. Fust, first. Let on, to hint, to co~fess, to own. Lick, to beat, to overcome. G. Lights, the bo~vel~. Lily-pads, leaves of the water-lily. Gin, gave. Long-sweetening, molasses. Git, get. Gret, great. M. Grit, spirit, energy, pluck. Mash, marsh. Grout, to sulk. Grouty, crabbed, surly. Mean, stingy, ill-natured. Gum, to impose on. Min', mind. Gump, afoolishfellow, a dullard. Gut, got. N. Nim epunce, ninepence,twelve and H. ahalfcents. Hed, had. Heern, heard. Nowers, nowhere. liellum, helm. 0. Hendy, handy. Offen, often. Het, heated. 11ev, have. Ole, old. Hez, has. Oilers, olluz, alwoys. whole. On, of; used before it or them, or Holl, at the end of a sentence, as on`t, Holt, hold. on`em, nut ex eve?- I heerd on. Huf, hoof. On'y, only. Hull, whole. Hum, home. Ossifer, q~cer (seldom heard). Humbug, General Taylor's anti- P. slavery. Hut, hurt. Peaked, pointed. Peek, to peep. I. Pickerel, the pike, afish. Idno, Ido not know. Pint, p0i?~t. In'my, enemy. Pocket full of rocks, plenty of Insines, ensigns; used to designate money. both the officer who carries the Pooty, pretty. standard, and the standard it- Pop'ler, conceited, popular. self. Pus, purse. Inter, intu, into. Put out, troubled, vexed. J. Q. Jedge,judge. Quarter, a quarter-dol~ar. Jest, just. Queen's arm, a musket. Jiue, join. Jint, joint. R. Junk, a fI-agment of any solid Resh, rush. substance. Revelee,the r~eeill~.

Page  457 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 457 Rile, to troubTh. Taters, potatoes. Rile{l, (L?~~q; disturbed, as the Tell, till. sedijuent ill ally liquid. Tetch, touch. Riz, riseiL. Tetch tu, to be able; used always Ro'v, a long row to hoe, a difficult after a negative in this sense. tusk. Thru, through. Rugged, robwst. Thundering, a euphemism common ill New Euglaud for the profane English expression devilish. Per S. haps derived from the belief, Sarse, abuse, impertinence. common formerly, that thunder Sartin, certain. was caused by the Prince of the Saxton. sacristan, sexton. Air, for some of whose acScaliest, worst. complishments consult Cotton Mather. Scringe, cringe. Tollable, tolerable. Scrouge, to crowd. Toot, used derisively for playing Sech, such. Set by, valued. on any wind instrumei~t. Shakes, great, of considerable con- Tn, to, too; commonly has this sound when used emphatically, seqitence. or at the end of a sentence. At Shappoes, chapeaux, cocked-hats. other times it has the sound of t Sheer, share. in tough, as, Ware ye goin' tit.~ Shet, shut. Goin' t' Boston. Shut, shirt. Skeered, scared. Skeeter, mosquito. Skootin', running, or moving U. 5W iftig. Ugly, ill-tempered, intractable. Slarterin', slaughtering. Uncle Sam, United States; the Slim, contemptible. largest boaster of liberty and Suaked, crawled like a snake; but owner of slaves. to snake ai~y oiie out is to track Unrizzest, applied to dough or hiin to his hiding-place; to snake bread; heavy, most unrnsen, or a thing out is to snatch it out. most incapable of rising. Soffies, sofas. Sogerin', soldiering; a barbarous amusement common among men V. in the savage state. V-spot, a~flv&dollar bill. Som'ers, somewhere. Vally, value. So'st, so as that. Sot, set, obstii~ate, resolute. Spiles, spoils; objects of political W. ambition. Spry, active. Wake snakes, to get into troubTh. Staddles, stout stakes dmven into Wal, well; spoken with great de the salt marshes, on which the liberation, and sometimes with hay-ricks are set and thus raised the a very much flattened, some the reach of high tides. times (but more seldom) very out of much broadened. Streaked, uncomfortable, discom- Wannut, walnut (hickory). fifed. Ware, where. Suckle, circle. Ware, were. Sutthin', so me thing. Whopper, an uncommonly large Suttin, certain. lie; as, that Geueral Taylor is in favor of the Wilmot Proviso. T. Wig, Whig; a party now dis solved. Take on, to sorrow. Wunt, will not. Talents, talons. Wus, worse.

Page  458 458 LOWELL'S POEMS. Wut, what. Yeller, yelThw. Wutb, worth; as, Antislavery per- Yellers, a disease of peach-trees. fessions`fore`lection aint wuth a Bungtown copper. Wuz, was, sometimes were. z. Zack, Ole, a second Washi~icjto~~, an antislavery slaveholder, a Y. hurnai~e buyer and seller of ~~en and women, a Christian hero Yaller, yelThw. generally.

Page  459 INDEX. A. Arms, profession of, once es teemed especially that of genA. B., information wanted con- tieman, 393. cerning, 427. Arnold, 409. Adam, eldest son of, respected, Ashland, 443. 393. Astor, Jacob, a rich man, 436. ~neas goes to hell, 441. AsIrna, nineteei~th century for)Eolus, a seller of money, as is sup- saken by, 442. posed by some, 441. Athenians, ancient, an institution )Eschylus, a saying of, 414, note. of, 408. Alligator, a decent one conject- Atherton, Senator, envies the loon, ured to be, in some sort, hu- 419. mane, 451. Austin, Saint, profane wish of, 409, Aiphonso the Sixth of Portugal, note. tyr~nnical act of, 453. Aye-Aye, the, an African animal, Ambrose, Saint, excellent (but America supposed to be se~tled rationalistic) sentiment of, 406. by, 401. "American Citizen," new compost B. so called, 442. American Eagle, a sonree of inspi- Babel, probably the first Congress, ration, 410-hitherto wrongly 415 - a gabble-mill, it. classed, 414-long bill of, it. Baby, a low-priced one, 440. Amos, cited, 405. Bagowind, Hon. Mr., whether to Anakim, that they formerly ex- be damned, 421. isted, shown, 453. Baldwin apples, 454. Angels, providentially speak Baratarias, real or imaginary, French, 400- conjectured to be which most pleasant, 442. skilled in all tongues, it. Barnum, a great natural curiosity Anglo-Saxondom, its idea, what, recommended to, 413. 398. Barrels, an inference from seeing, Anglo-Saxon mask, 399. 454. Anglo-Saxon race, 396. Baton Rouge, 443 - strange peenAnglo-Saxon verse, by whom car- liarities of laborers at, it. ried to perfection, 393. Baxter, H., a saying of, 406. Antonius, a speech of, 408 - by Bay, Mattysqumscot, 450. whom best reported, it. Bay State, singular effect produced Apocalypse, beast in, magnetic to on military officers by leaving it, theologians, 431. 399. Apollo, confessed mortal by his Beast in Apocalypse, a loadstone own oracle, 431. for whom, 431. Apollyon, his tragedies popular, Beelzebub, his rigadoon, 419. 426. Behmen, his letters not letters, Appian, an Alexandrian, not equal 427. to 8hakspeare as an orator, Bellers, a saloon-keeper, 44f - in 408. humanly refuses credit to a Ararat, ignorance of foreign presidential candidate, it. tongues is an, 415. Biglow, Ezekiel, his letter to Hon. Arcadian background, 443. J. T. Buckiiigham, 388- ii ever Aristophanes, 405. heard of any one named Mun 459

Page  460 460 LOWELL'S POEMS. dishes, ib. -nearly fourscore Bolles, Mr. Secondary, author of years old, ib. - his aunt Keziah, prize peace essay, 396- presents a notable saying of, 389. sword to Lieutenant Colonel, ib. Biglow, Hosea, excited by compo- - a fluent orator, ib. - found to sition, 388- a poem by, 389, 422 be in error, 3)7 - his opinion of war, 390 - Bonaparte, N., a usurper, 431. wanted at home by Nancy, 391 Boot-trees, productive, where, 441. - recommends a forcible enlist- Boston, people of, supposed edn ment of warlike editors, ib. - cated, 397, i~ote. would not wonder, if generally Brahmins, navel-contemplating, agreed with, ib. - versifles letter 427. of Mr. Sawin, 393- a letter Bread-trees, 440. from, 394, 417-his opinion of Brigadier Generals in militia, de Mr. Sawin, 394- does not deny votion of, 407. fun at Coruwallis, 395, note - his Brown, Mr., engages in an unequal idea of militia glory, 396, note - contest, 421. a pun of, 397, note-is uncertain Browne, Sir T., a pious and wise in regard to people of Boston, sentiment of, cited and com ib. - had never heard of Mr. mended, 3)4 John P. Robinson, 401-aliquid Buckingham, Ron. J. T., editor of suffleoiine~~d~s, 402- his poems the Boston Courier, letters to, attributed to a Mr. Lowell., 405 388, 394, 402, 417-not afraid, -is unskilled in Latin, 405 - 394. his poetry maligned by some, ib. Buffalo, a plan hatched there, 448 - his disinterestedness, ib. - his - plaster, a prophecy iii regard deep share in commonweal, 405 to, ib. - his claim to the presidency, Bm~combe, in the other world sup ib. - his mowing, ib. - resents posed, 408. being called Whig, 406- opposed Bung, the eternal, thought to be to tariff, ib. - obstinate, ib. - loose, 391. infected with pecnliar notions, BuortowoFencibles, dinner of, 401. ib. - reports a speech, 408- Butter in Irish bogs, 440. emulates historians of antiquity, ib. -his character sketched from C. a hostile point of view, 415 - a request of his complied with, 421 C., General, commended for parts, - appointed at a public meeting 402 - for ubiquity, ib. - for con in Jaalam, 428-confesses igno- sistency, ib. - for fidelity, ib. - rance, in one minute particular, is in favor of war, ib. - his curl of propriety, ib. -his opinion of ous valuation of principle, ib. cocked hats, ib. - letter to, ib. - C~sar, tribute to, 424- his veni, called "Dear Sir," by a general, vidi, vici, censured for undue ib. - probably receives same prolixity, 432. compliment from two hundred Cainites, sect of, supposed still and nine, ib. - picks his apples, extant, 393. 454-his crop of Baldwins con- Caleb, a monopoly of his denied, jecturally large, ib. 395-curious notions of, as to Billings~Dea. Cephas, 395. meaning of "shelter," 398 - his Birch, virtue of, in instilling cer- definition of Anglo-Saxon, ib. - tain of the dead languages, 441. charges Mexicans (not with bayBird of our country sings hosanna, onets but) with improprieties, ib. 396. Calhoun, Hon. J. C., his cow-bell Blind, to go it, 439. curfew, light of the nineteenth Blitz, pulls ribbons from his mouth, century t6 be extingmsbed at 396. sound of, 416-cannot let go Bluenose potatoes, smell of, eagerly apron-string of the Past, 417-his desired, 396.. unsuccessful tilt at Spirit of the Bobtail obtains a cardinal's hat, Age, ib. - the Sir Kay of modern 401. chivalry, ib. -his anchor made

Page  461 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 4(31 of a -crooked pin, 417 - men- Cimex lectulamus, 397. tioned, 417120. Cincinnatus, a stock character in Cami~ridge Platform, use discov- modern comedy, 443. ered for, 400. Civilization, progress of, an alias, Canary Islands, 441. 422- rides upon a powder-cart, Candidate, presidential, letter 429. from, 428 - smells a rat, ib. - Clergymen, their ill husbandry, against a hank, 429- takes a 421- their place in processions, revolving position, ib. - opinion 443- some, cruelly hanished for of pledges, ib. - is a periwig, the soundness of their lungs, 453. 430 - fronts south by north, ib. Cocked-hat, advantages of being - qualifications of, lessening, knocked into, 428. 432 - wooden leg (and head) College of Cardinals, a strange one, useful to, 439. 401. Cape Cod clergymen, what, 400- Colman, Dr. Benjamin, anecdote Sabbath-breakers, perhaps, re- of, 407. proved by, ib. Colored folks, curious national Carpini, Father John de Plano, diversion of kicking, 398. among the Tartars, 453. Colquitt, a remark of, 419- acCartier, Jacques, commendable qualuted with some principles of zeal of, 453. aerostation, ib. Cass, General, 418 - clearness of Columbia, District of, its peculiar his merit, 419- liinited popular- climatic effects, 410-not cer ity at "Bellers's," 446. tain that Martin is for abolishCastles, Spanish, comfortable ac- ing it, 448. commodations in, 442. Columbus, a Paul Pry of genius, Cato, letters of, so-called, sus- 427. pended fl('5O ad~~nco, 427. Columby, 445. C. D., friends of, can hear of him, Complete Letter-N\~iter, fatal gift 427. of, 431. Chalk egg, we are proud of incu- Compostella, St. James of, seen, bation of, 427. 399. Chappelow on Job, a copy of, lost, Congress, singular consequence of 421. getting into, 410. Cherubusco, news of, its effects on Congressional debates, found in English royalty, 414. structive, 416. Chesterfield, no letter-writer, 427. Constituents, useful for what, 411. Chief Magistrate, dancing es- Constitution trampled on, 417-to teemed sinful by, 400. stand upon, what, 429. Children naturally speak Hebrew, Convention, what, 410. 394. Convention, Springfield, 410. China-tree, 441. Coon, old, pleasure in skinning, Chinese, whether they invented 418. gunpowder before the Christian Coppers, caste in picking up of, era not considered, 401. 437. Choate, hired, 447. Copres, a monk, his excellent Christ shuffled into Apocrypha, method of arguing, 416. 401- conjectured to disapprove Cornwallis, a, 395 - acknowledged of slaughter and pillage, 403 - entertaining, ib., note. condemiis a certain piece of bar- Cotton Mather, summoned as wit barism, 421. ness, 400. Christianity, profession of, ple- Country lawyers, sent providen beian, whether, 393. tially, 404. Christian soldiers, perhaps incon- Country, our, its boundaries more sistent, whether, 407. exactly defined, 404- right or Cicero, an opinion of, disputed, wrong, nonsense about exposed, 432. ib. Cilley, Ensign, author of nefarious Courier, The Boston, an unsafe sentiment, 401. print, 415.

Page  462 462 LOWELL'S POEMS. Court, General, farmers sometimes his creed, ib. - a showman, 425 attain seats in, 444. - iii danger of sudden arrest, Cowper, W., his letters corn- without bail, 426. mended, 427. Editors, certain ones who crow Creed, a safe kind of, 439. like cockerels, 391. Crusade, first American, 400. Egyptian darkness, phial of, use Cuneiform script recommended, for, 432. 432. Eldorado, Mr. Sawin sets sail for, Curiosity distinguishes man from 440. brutes, 426. Elizabeth, Queen, mistake of her ambassador, 408. D. Empedocles, 427. Davis, Mr., of Mississippi, a re- Employment, regular, a good thing, mark of his, 418. 436. Day and Martin, proverbially "on Epaulets, perhaps no badge of hand," 388. saintship, 403. Death. rings down cnrtain 426 Episcopius, his marvellous oratory, Delphi, oracle of, surpass'ed, 414, 453. nofe - alluded to, 431. Eric, king of Sweden, his cap, 441. Destiny, her account, 413. Evangelists. iron ones, 400. Devil, the, unskilled in certain Eyelids, a divine shield against Indian tongues, 400-letters to authors, 416. and from, 428. Ezekiel, text taken from, 421. Dey of Tripoli, 416. Didymus, a somewhat voluminous F. grammarian, 431. Factory-girls, expected rebellion Dighton rock character might be of, 419. usefully employed in some emer- Family-trees, fruit of jejune, 441. gencies, 432. Fanenil Hall, a place where persons Dimitry Bruisgins, fresh supply of, tap themselves for a species of 426. hydrocephalus 416- a bill of Diogenes, his zeal for pro mendaciously advertised in, certain variety of olive, 441 Dioscuri, imps of the pit, 400 410. District-Attorney, contemptible Father of country, his shoes, 444. conduct of one, 416. Fern ale Papists, cut off in midst of Ditchwater on brain, a too common idolatry, 442. ailing, 416. Fire, we all like to play with it, Doctor the, a proverbial saying 417. of, 399. Fish, em blematic, but disregarded, Doughface, yeast-proof, 424. where, 416. Drayton, a martyr, 416 - north Flam, Presideut, untrustworthy, 411. star, culpable for aiding, Fly-leaves, providential increase of, whether, 420. 416. D. Y.,letter of, 427. Foote, Mr., his taste for field E. sports, 418. Fourier, a squinting toward, 415. Earth, Dame, a peep at her house- Fourth of Julys, boiling, 409. keeping, 417. France, a strange dance begun in, Eating words, habit of, convenient 419. in time of famine, 413. Fuller, Dr. Thomas, a wise saying Eavesdroppers, 427. of, 402. Echefl~us, 400. Funnel, Old, hurraing in, 396. Editor, his position, 421- com manding pulpit of, 422 - large G. congregation of, ib. - name de rived from what, ib. - fondness Gawain, Sir, his amusements, 417. for mutton, ib.-a pious one, Gay, S. H., Esquire, editor of

Page  463 THE BIULOW Th4PEI?~. 4(33 National Antislavery Standard, Hnman rights out of order on the letter to, 426. floor of Congress, 418. Getting up early, 390, 398. Humbug, ascription of praise to, Ghosts, some, presumed fidgetty 425-generally believed in, ib. (but see Stilling's Pneumatol- Husbandry, instance of bad, 402. ogy), 427. Giants formerly stupid, 417. Gift of tongues, distressing case of, 415. Icarius, Penelope's fatber, 404. Globe Theatre, cheap season ticket Infants, prattlings of, cnrious ob to, 426. servation concerning, 393. Glory, a perquisite of officers, 437 Information wanted (universally, - her account with B. Sawin, but especially at page) 427. Esq., 440. Goatsnose, the cel~brated, inter- J. view with, 432. Gomara, has a vision, 399- his Jaalam Centre, Anglo-Saxons un relationship to the Scarlet justly suspected by the young Woman, ib. ladies there, 399-" Independent Gray's letters are letters, 427. Blunderbuss," strange conduct Great horn spoon, sworn by, 418. of editor of, 421- public meetGreeks, ancient, whether they ques- lug at, 428- meeting-house or tioned candidates, 432. namented with imaginary clock, Green Man, sign of, 406. 441. Jaalam Point, light-house on, H. charge of prospectively offered to Mr. H. Biglow, 430. Ham, sandwich, an orthodox (but Jakes, Captain, 450- reproved for peculiar) one, 420. avarice, ib. Hamlets, machine for making, 433. James the Fourth of Scots, experiHammon, 414, note, 431. ment by, 394. Hannegan, Mr., something said by, Jarnegin, Mr., his opinion of the 419. completeness of Northern eduHarrison, General, how preserved, cation, 419. 431. Jerome, Saint, his list of sacred Hat-trees, in full bearing, 441. writers, 427. Hawkins, Sir John, stout, some- Job, Book of, 393- Chappelow on, thing he saw, 440. 421. Henry the Fourth of England, a Johnson, Mr., communicates some Parliament of, how named, 408. intelligence, 419. Hercules, his second labor proba- Jonah, the inevitable destiny of, bly what, 454. 420- probably studied internal Herodotus, story from, 394. economy of the cetacea, 427. Hesperides, an inference from, 441. Jortin, Dr., cited, 407, 414, note. Holden, Mr. Shearjashub, Pre- Judea,everything not known there, ceptor of Jaalam Academy, 431 404. his knowledge of Greek lim- Juvenal, a saying of, 413, note. ited, ib.-a heresy of his, ib. leaves a fund to propagate it, K. 432. Hollis, Ezra, goes to a Corawallis, Kay, Sir, the, of modern chivalry, 395. who, 417. Hollow, why men providentially so Key, brazen one, 416. coiistrncted, 409. Keziah, Aunt, profound observaHomer, a phrase of, cited, 422. tion of, 389. Horners, democratic ones, plums Kinderhook, 443. left for, 411. Kingdom Come, march to, easy, Howell, James, Esq., story told by, 434. 408-letters of, commended, 427. K5nigsmark, Count, 393.

Page  464 464 LOWELL'S POEJiS. L. Massachusetts on her knees, 392Lacediemonians, banish a great something mentioned in connec talker, 416. tion with, worthy the attention Lamb, Charles, his epistolary ex- of tailors, 410- citizen 9f, baked, cellence, 427. boiled, and roasted(i~efanaum!), Latimer, Bishop, episcopizes Satan, 438. 393. Masses, the, used as butter by Latin tongue, curious information some, 411. concerning, 405. M. C., an invertebrate animal, 413. Launcelot, Sir, a trusser of giants Mechanics' Fair, reflections sug formerly, perhaps would find gested at, 433. less sport therein now, 417 Mentor, letters of, dreary, 427. Letters classed, 427- their shape Mephistopheles at a nonplus, 420. 428 - of candidates, 431 - often' Mexican blood, its effect in raising fatal, i&. price of cloth, 442. Lewis, Philip, a scourger of young Mexican polka, 400. native Americans, 414 - com- Mexicans charged with various miserated (though not deserving breaches of etiquette, 398- kind it), ib., note. feelings beaten into them, 425. Liberator, a newspaper, condemned Mexico, no glory in overcoming, by implication, 406. 410. Liberty, unwholesome for men of Military glory spoken disrespec~ certain complexions, 422. fully of, 396, note - militia Lignum vitie, a gift of this vain- treated still worse, ib. able wood proposed, 399. Milk-trees, growing still, 440. Longinus recommends swearing, Mills for manufacturing gabble, 394, note (Fuseli did same thing) how driven, 415. Long sweetening recommended Milton, an unconscious plagiary, 435.` 409, i~ote - a Latin verse of, Lost arts, one sorrowfully added cited, 422. to list of, 453. Missions, a profitable kind of, 423. Louis the Eleventh of France some Monarch, a pagan, probably not odd trees of his, 441.` favored in philosophical experiLowell, Mr. J. R., unaccountable ments, 394. silence of, 405. Money-trees desirable, 441 - that Luther, Martin, his first appear- they once existed shown to be ance as Europa, 399. variously probable, ib. Lyttelton, Lord, his letters an im- Mont algae, a communicative old position, 427. Gascon, 427. Monterey, battle of, its singular M. chromatic effect on a species of two-headed eagle, 414. Macrobli, their diplomacy, 432. Moses held up vainly as an examMahomet, got nearer Sinai than ple, 422- construed by Joe some, 422. Smith, ib. Mahound, his filthy gobbets, 400. Myths, how to interpret readily, Mangum, Mr., speaks to the point, 432. 418. Manichiean, excellently confuted, N. 416. Man-trees, grew where, 441. Naboths, Popish ones, how disMares'-nests, finders of, benevo- tinguished, 401. lent, 427. Nation, rights of, proportionate to Marshfield, 443, 447. size, 398. Martin, Mr. Sawin used to vote for National pudding, its effect on the him, 448. organs of speech, a curious phyMason and Dixon's line, slaves siological fact, 401. north of, 418. Nephelim, not yet extinct, 453. Mass, the, its duty defined, 418. New England overpoweringly

Page  465 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 465 honored, 412 - wants no more Paralipomenon, a man suspected speakers, ib. - done brown by of being, 431. whom, ib. - her experience in Paris, liberal principles safe as far beans beyond Cicero's, 432. away as, 422. Newspaper, the, wonderful, 425-a Porljarnentu~n L~O'octorum sitting strolling theatre, ib. - thoughts in permanence, 408. suggested by tearing wrapper of, Past, the, a good nurse, 417. 426- a vacant sheet, ib. - a Patience, sister, quoted, 396. sheet in which a vision was let Paynims, their throats propagan down, ib. -wrapper to a bar of distically cut, 400. soap, ib. - a cheap impromptu Penelope, her wise choice, 404. platter, ib. People, soft enough, 423- want New York, letters from, com- correct ideas, 439. mended, 427. Pepin, King, 428. Next life, what, 421. Periwig, 430. Niggers, 390- area of abusing, ex- Persius, a pithy saying of, 411, tended, 410-Mr. Sawin's opin- note. ions of, 449. Pescara, Marquis, saying of, 393. Ninepeiice a day low for murder, Peter, Saint, a letter of (post 395. morteni), 428. No, a monosyllable, 401-hard to Pharisees, opprobriously referred utter, ib. to, 422. Noah, enclosed letter in bottle, Philippe, Louis, in pea-jacket, 425. probably, 427. Phlegyas, quoted, 421. Nornas, Lapland, what, 441. Phrygian language, whether Adam North, has no business, 419- spoke it, 394. bristling, crowded off roost, 430. Pilgrims, the, 410. North Bend, geese inhumanly Pillows, constitutional, 413. treated at, 431- mentioned, 443. Pinto, Mr., some letters of his North star, a proposition to indict, commended, 428. 420. Pisgab, an impromptu one, 441. Platform, party, a convenient one, 0. 439. Off ox, 429. Plato, supped with, 427-his man, Officers, miraculous transforma- 431. tion in character of, 399- Anglo- Pleiades, the, not enough esteemed, Saxon, come very near being 426. anathematized, ib. ~liny, his letters not admired, 427. O'Phace, Increase D., Esq., speech Plotinus, a story of, 417. of, 408. Plymouth Rock, Old, a Convention Oracle of Fools, still respectfully wrecked on, 410. consulted, 408. Point Tribulation, Mr. Sawin Orion, becomes commonplace, 426. wrecked on, 440. Orrery, Lord, his letters (lord!), Poles, exile, whether crop of beans 427. depends on, 397, note. Ostracism, curious species of, 408. Polk, President, synonymous with our country, 403-censured, 410 - in danger of being crushed, P. 411. Palestine, 399. Polka, Mexican, 400. Palfrey, Hon. J. G., 408, 412, 413 Pomp, a runaway slave, his nest, (a worthy representative of Mas- 450- hypocritically groans like sachusetts). white man, ib. - blind to ChrisPantagruel recommends a popular tian privileges, ib. - his society oracle, 408. valued at fifty dollars, ib. -his Panurge, his interview with Goats- treachery, 451-takes Mr. Sawin nose, 432. prisoner, 452- cruelly makes Papists, female, slain by zealous him work, ib. - puts himself Protestant bomb-shell, 442. illegally under his tuition, ib. -

Page  466 466 LOWELL'S POEMS. dismisses him with contumelious Robinson, Mr. John P., his opinions epithets, ib. fully stated, 402-404. Pontifical bull, a tamed one, 399. Rocks, pocket full of, 436. Pope, his verse excellent, 393. Rough and Ready, 446 - a wig, 447 Pork, refractory in boiling, 399. -a kind of scratch, ib. Portugal, Aiphonso the Sixth of, a Russian eagle turns Prussian blue, monster, 453. 414. Post, Boston, 174- shaken visibly, 405-bad guide-post, ib. -too S. swift, ib. - edited by a colonel, ib. - who is presumed officially Sabbath, breach of, 400. in Mexico, ib. -referred to, 415. Sabellianism, one accused of, 431. Pot-hooks, death in, 432. Saltillo, unfavorable view of, 396. Preacher, an ornamental symbol, Salt-river, in Mexican, what, 396. 421-a breeder of dogmas, ib. - Samuel, Uncle, riotous, 414- yet earnestness of, important, 453. has qualities demanding reverPresent, considered as an annalist, ence, 423- a good provider for 422- not long wonderful, 426. his family, ib. - an exorbitant President, slaveholding natural to, bill of, 442. 424-must be a Southern resi- Sansculottes, draw their wine be dent, 439-must own a nigger, fore drinking, 419. ib. Santa Anna, his expensive leg, 438. Principle, exposure spoils it, 409. Satan, never wants attorneys, 400 Principles, bad, when less harmful, - an expert talker by signs, ib. 401. - a successful fisherman with Prophecy, a notable one, 414. little or no bait, ib. - cunning Proviso, bitterly spoken of, 429. fetch of, 402- dislikes ridicule, Prudence, sister, her idiosyncratic 405- ought not to have credit of teapot, 436. ancient oracles, 414, note. Psammeticus, an experiment of, Satirist, incident to certain dan 394. gers, 401. Public opinion, ablind and drunken Savages, Canadian, chance of re guide, 401-nudges Mr. Wilbur's demption offered to, 453. elbow, ib. -ticklers of, 411. Sawin, B., Esquire, his letter not Pythagoras a beau-hater, why, 432. written in verse, 393- a native Pythagoreans, fish reverenced by, of Jaalam, 394 - not regular at why, 416. tendant on Rev. Mr. Wilbur's preaching, ib. -a fool, ib. -his Q. statements trustworthy, ib. - Quixote, Don, 417. his ornithological tastes, ib. - letter from, ib., 433, 443-his curious discovery in regard to R. bayonets, 395, 396- displays Rag, one of sacred college, 401. proper family pride, 395-modRantoul, Mr., talks loudly, 396- estly confesses himself less wise pious reason for not enlisting, than the Queen of Sheba, 398ib. the old Adam in, peeps out, 399 Recruiting sergeant, Devil sup- - a miles eme~itus, 433 - is posed the first, 393. made text for a sermon, ib. - Representatives' Chamber, 416. loses a leg, 434 an eye, ib. - Rhinothism, society for promoting, left baud, ib. - four fingers of 427. right hand, ib. - has six or more Rhyme, whether natural not con- ribs broken, ib. - a rib of his in sidered, 393. frangible, ib. -allows a certain Rib, an infrangible one, 435. amount of preterite greenness in Richard the First of England, his himself, 435, 436- his share of Christian fervor, 399. spoil limited, 436-his opinion Riches conjectured to have legs as of Mexican climate, ib. - ac well as wings, 420. quires property of a certain sort,

Page  467 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 467 ib. - his experience of glory, 437 Senate, debate in, made readable, - stands sentry, and puns there- 416. upon, 438- undergoes martyr- Seneca, saying of, 401- another, dom in some of its most painful 414, note - overrated by a saint forms, iS. - enters the candi- (but see Lord Bolingbroke's dating business, iS. - modestly opinion of, in a letter to Dean states the (avail) abilities which Swift), 427-his letters not com qualify him for high political mended, iS. - a son of Rev. Mr. station, 438A40 - has no princi- Wilbur, 442. pies, 438- apeace man, iS. - nn- Serbonian bog of literatnre, 416. pledged, iS. - has no objections Sextons, demand for, 396 - heroic to owning peculior property, but official devotion of one, 453. would not like to monopolize the Shaking fever, considered as an truth, 439- his account with employer, 436. glory, 440 - a selfish niotive Shakspeare, a good reporter, 408. hinted in, iS. - sails for Eldo- Sham, President, honest, 411. rado, iS. - shipwrecked on a Sheba, Queen of, 398. metaphorical promontory, iS. - Sheep, none of Rev. Mr. Wilbur's parallel between, and Rev. Mr. turned wolves, 394. Wilbur (not Plutarchian), 442 Shem, Scriptural curse of, 452. -conjectured to have bathed Show, natural to love it, 396, note. in river Selemnus, 443-loves Silver spoon born in Democracy's plough wisely, but not too well, month, what, 411. iS. - a foreign mission probably Sinai. suffers outrages, 422. expected by, 444 - unanimously Sin, wilderness of, modern, what, nominated for presidency, iS. - 422. his country's fatherAn-law, iS. - Skin, hole in, strange taste of some nobly emulates Cincinnatus, 445 for, 437. - is not a crooked stick, iS. - Slaughter, whether ~od strengthen advises his adherents, iS - us for, 400. views of, on present state of Slaughterers and soldiers com politics, 445-449 - popular en- pared, 443. thusiasm for, at Beliers's, and Slaughtering nowadays is slaugh its disagreeable consequences, tering, 443. - inhuman treatment of, by Slavery, of no color, 391-corner Beiiers, iS. - his opinion of the stone of liberty, 415 - also key two parties, 447 - agrees with stone, 418-last crumb of Eden, Mr. Webster, 448-his anti- 420-a Jonah, iS. -an institn slavery zeal, i5. - his proper tion, 431- a private State con self-respect, iS. -his unaffected cern, 450. piety, i5. - his not intemperate Smith, Joe, used as a translation, temperance, 449- a thrilling ad- 422. venture of, 449-452 - his pru- Smith, John, an interesting char deuce and economy, 450-bound acter, 426. to Captain Jakes, but regains his Smith, Mr., fears entertained for, freedom, iS. - is takeu prisoner, 421 - dined with, 427. 451,452 ~ignominiousiy treated, Smith, N. B., his magnanimity, 452- his consequent resolution, 425. iS. Soandso, Mr., the great, defines his Sayres, a martyr, 416. position, 425. Scaliger, saying of, 402. Sol the fisherman, 397 - soundSce~~~Siew~ pi1u1arii~s, 397. ness of respiratory organs hypoScott, General, his claims to the thetically attributed to, iS. presidency 405, 407. Solon, a saying of, 401. Scythians, thelr diplomacy com- South Carolina, futile attempt to mended, 432. anchor, 417. Seamen, colored, sold, 392. Spanish, to walk, what, 398. Selemnus, a sort of Lethean river, Speecli~making, an abuse of gift of 443. speech, 415.

Page  468 468 LOWELL'S POEMS. Star, north, subject to indictment, University, triennial catalogue of, whether, 420. 406. Store, cheap cash, a wicked fraud, 441. V. Strong, Governor Caleb, a patriot, Van Buren fails of gaining Mr. 404. Sawin's confidence, 448-his son Swearing commended as a figure John reproved, ib. of speech, 394, note.. Van, Old, plan to set up, 449. Swift, Dean, threadbare saying Venetians, invented something of, 405. once, 441. Vices, cardinal, sacred conclave of, T. 401. Tag, elevated to the Cardinalate, Victoria, Queen, her natural terror, 414. 401. Virgin, the, letter of, to Magis Taxes, direct, advantages of, 442. trates of Messina, 428. Taylor zeal, its origin, 446 - Gen- Vratz, Captain, a Pomerani~n, eral, greased by Mr. Choate, singular views of, 393. 448. Tesephone, banished for long-wind- W. edness, 416. Thanks, get lodged, 437. Walpole, Horace, classed, 427 - his Thaumaturgus, St. Gregory, letter letters praised, ib. of, to the Devil, 428. Waltham Plain, Cornwallis at, 395. Thirty-nine articles might be made Walton, punctilious in his inter serviceable, 400. course with fishes, 400. Thor, a foolish attempt of, 417. War, abstract, horrid, 429 - its Thumb, General Thomas, a valu- hoppers, grist of, what, 437. able member of society, 413. Warton, Thomas, a story of. 407. Thunder, supposed in easy circum- Washington, charge brought stances, 435. against, 445. Thynne, Mr., murdered, 393. Washington, city of, climatic in Time, an innocent personage to fluence of, on coats, 410- men swear by, 394- a scene-shifter tioned, 416 - grand jury of, 420. 426. Washingtons, two hatched at a Toms, Peeping, 426. time by improved machine, 444. Trees, various kinds of extraur- Water, Taunton, proverbially dinary ones, 440, 441. weak, 449. Trowbridge, William, mariner, ad- Water-trees, 440. venture of, 400. Webster, some sentiments of, corn Truth and falsehood start from mended by Mr. Sawin, 447, 448. same point, 402 - truth invul- Westcott, Mr., his horror, 420. nerable to satire, ib. - compared Whig party, has a large throat, to a river, 408- of fiction some- 406- but query as to swallowing times truer than fact, ib. -told spurs, 448. plainly, passim. White-house, 430. Tuileries, exciting scene at, 414. Wife-trees, 441. Tully, a saying of, 409, note. Wilbur, Rev. Homer, A. M., con Tweedledee, gospel according to, suited, 388- his instructions to 422. his flock, 394- a proposition of Tweedledum, great principles of, his for Protestant bomb-sheUs, 422. 400- his elbow nudged, 401 - his notions of satire, ib. -some U. opinions of his quoted with ap parent approval by Mr. Biglow, Ulysses, husband of Penelope, 404 403- geographical speculations - borrows money, 441. (For of, 404- a justice of the peace, full particulars of, see Homer ib. - a letter of, ib. - a Latin and Dante.) pun of, 405- runs against a post

Page  469 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 469 without injury, ib. - does not gressive tendency of mind, 453 seek notoriety (whatever some - goes to work on sermon (not mali gn ants may affirm), 406- without fear that his readers fits youths for college, ib. a will dub him with a reproachful chaplain during late war with epithet like that with which England, 407-a shrewd obser- Isaac Allerton, aMayfiowerman vation of, 408 - some curious revenges himself on a delinquent speculations of, 415416 - his debtor' of his, calling hi~n in his martillo-tower, 415- forgets he w~l, and thus holding him up to is not in pulpit, 420, 433 - posterity, as "John Peterson, extracts from sermoii of, 421, THE BORE"), 454. 425- interested in John Smith, Wilbur, Mrs., an invariable rule of, 426- his views concerning pres- 406 - her profile, 407. ent state of letters. 426428- a Wildbore, a vernacular one, how stratagem of, 431 -`ventures two to escape, 415. hundred and fourth interpreta- Wind, the, a good Samaritan, 433. tion of Beast in Apocalypse, 431 Woodeii leg, remarkable for so- christens Hon. B. Sawin, then briety, 434-never eats pudding, an infant, 433- an addition to 435 our syTha proposed by, 441 Wright, Colonel, providentially curious and instructive adven- rescued, 397. ture of, 441-442 - his account Wrong, abstract, safe to oppose, with an unnatural uncle, 442- 411. his uncomfortable imagiuati9n, z. 443- speculations concerning Cincinnatus, ib. -confesses di- Zack, Old, 446.

Page  470

Page  471 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 1850.

Page  472

Page  473 TllE UNllAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. PART I. SHOWING HOW HE BUILT HIS HOUSE AND HIS WIFE MOYED INTO IT. M~ worthy friend, A. Gordon Knott, From business sung withdrawn, Was much contented With a lot That would contain a Tudor cot `Twixt twe~ve 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!) A medi~val mansion. He called an archfte~ in counsel; "I want," said he, "a.~you know what (You are a builder, I am Knott,) A thing complete from chimney-pot Down to the very grounsel; Here`5 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 judicions blue?) The woodland I`ve attended to;" (He meant three pines stuck up askew, Two dead ones and a live one.) 473

Page  474 474 LOIVELL'S POEMS. "A pocket-full of rocks`t would 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 In venting all his private peaks Upon the roof, whose crop of leaks Had satisfied Fluellen; Whatever any body had Out of the common, good or bad, Knott had it all worked well in, 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 every where, - It was a house to make one stare, All corners and all gables; Like dogs let loose upon a bear, Ten emulous styles staboye~ 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

Page  475 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 475 If he had put a downright ban Upon the thing in lirnine; 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, With nice white lines round every block, Some trepidation stood in, When tempests (with petrific shock, So to speak,) made it really rock, 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 presuine, The wind, like water through a flume, Came rushing in ecstatic, Leaving, in all tbree 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 To a family of Noyeses!" But, though Knott's house was full of airs, lle had but one - a daughter; And, as he owned much stocks and shares, Many who wished to render theirs Such vain, unsatisfying cares, And needed wives to sew their tears, In matrimony sought her; They vowed her gold they wanted not,

Page  476 476 LOWELL'S POEMS. Their faith would never falter, They longed to tie this single Knott In the llymen~al 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; GJmced 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`t was too much for flesh and bones To marry mortgages and loans, That fathers' 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, 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. Doctor Slade, If woman could contrive it; And, though the wedding-day was set,

Page  477 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 477 Jenny was more so, rather, Declaring, in a pretty pet, That, howsoe'er they spread their net, She woMd out-Jennyral them yet, The colonel and her father. Just at this time the Public's eyes Were keenly on the watch, a stir Beginning slowly to arise About those questions and replies, Those raps that unwrapped mysteries So rapidly at Rochester, And Knott, a~ready 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 gingerbread-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. This thought, once nestled in his head, Ere long contagious 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 ye'ars 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

Page  478 478 LOWELL'S POEMS. 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 bedclothes 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-np sea-coal's hardened crust - And - what! impossible! it must! He knew she had returned to dust, And yet could scarce his senses trust, 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 nightAarnps 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 ainouut enhance; They made such mockery of his fears That soon his days were of all jeers, His nights of the rueful countenance; "I thought most folks," one neighbor said, "Gave up the ghost when they were dead," Another gravely shook his head, Adding, "liom all we hear it's Quite plain poor Knott is going mad - For how can he at once be sad And think he`5 fnll of spirits?" A third declared he knew`a kiiife Would cut this Knott much quicker, "The surest way to end all strife, And lay the spirit of a wife,

Page  479 TflE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 479 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 somewhat slanted Tow'rd taking liquor over-much; I fear these spirits may be 1)utcb, (A sort of gins, or something such,) With which his house is haunted; I see the thing as clear as light - If Knott woUd give up getting tight, Naught farther would be wanted:" So all his neigbbors 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 caws, 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, Dominique S, Malays (that did n't lay for weeks). Polanders, Bantams, Dorkings, (Waiving 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;

Page  480 480 LOWELL'S POEMS. But poor Knott's Tudor henery Was not so fortunate, and lie Still fouud 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, The terriers rumpused after rats, Or, just for practice, taught their brats To worry cas~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 ill white cravats, Contemptuous of sharps and flats, Sat up and sang dogsolo~ies. Meanwhile the cats set up a squall, And, safe upon the garden-wall, All night kept cat-a-walling, As if the feline race were all, In one wild cataleptic sprawl, Into love's tortures falling. PART II. SHOWING WHAT 15 MEANT BY A FLOW OF SPIRITS. At first the ghosts were somewhat shy, Comi~g when ~one but Knott was nigh, And people said`t was all their eye, (Or rather his) a fiam, the sly Digestion's machination Some recommended a wet sheet, Some a nice broth of pounded peat, Some a cold flat4ron to the feet, Some a decoction of lamb's-bleat, Some a southwesterly grain of wheat; Meat was by some pronounced unmeet, Others thought fish most indiscreet, And that`t was worse than all to eat Of vegetables, sour or sweet,

Page  481 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 481 (Except, perhaps, the skin of beat,) In such a concatenation: One quack bis button gently plucks And murmurs "biliary ducks!" Says Knott, "I never ate one;" But all, though brimming full of wrath, Hoinceo, Allo, Hydropath, Concurred in this - that t' other's path To death's door was the straight one Still, spite of medical advice, The ghosts came thicker, and a spice Of iuischief 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 eWow-chair a trap, To catch an after-dinner nap, The spirits, always on the tap, Would make a sudden rar, rap, rap, The half-spun cord of sleep to snap, (And what is life wfthout 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 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~bump4hump-bnmping o'er and o'er, As if the vegetables in store, (Quiet and orderly before,) -Were all together pealing; You wo~d 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 2i

Page  482 482 LOWELL'S POEMS. 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 mouths' 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,) ~octe pluft - they showered knocks, And knocked, knocked, knocked eternally Ever upon the go, like buoys, (Wooden sea-urchins,) all Knott's joys, They turned to troubles and a noise That preyed on him internally. 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 bis head it sat, Submitting to his settling patSome 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, Ris beaver caused much damning; If these things seemed o'erstrained to be, -Read the account of Docter Dee, `T is in our college library; Read Wesley's circumstantial plea, And Mrs. Crowe, more like a bee, Sucking the nightshade's honeyed fee,

Page  483 7~E UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT 483 And Stilling's pneumatology; Consult Scot, Glanvil, and grave Wieins, and both Mathers; further, see Webster, Casaubon, James First's treatise, a right royal Q. E. D. Writ with the moon in perigee, Bodin de Demonomame - (Accent that last line gingerly) All full of learning as the sea Of fishes, and all disagree, Save in Sathanas apage! 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...L...) 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. 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, Practised 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 fu~l of burs, Till he, in language plain and terse, (But much unlike a Bible verse,) Swore he should lose his reason. The tables took to spinning, too, -Perpetual yarns, and arm-chairs grew To prophets and apostles; One footstool vowed that only be Of law and gospel held the key, That teachers of whate'er degree

Page  484 484 LOWELL'S POEMS. To whom opinion bows the knee N\~re n't fit to teach Truth's a. b. c. And were (the whole lot) to a T. Mere fogies all and fossils; A teapoy, late the property Of Knox's Aunt Keziah, (Whom Jenny most irreverently Had nicknamed her aunt-tipathy) With tips emphatic claimed to be The prophet Jeremiah The tins upon the kitchen-wall, Turned tintinuabulators all, And things that used to come at dali For simple household services, Began to hop and whirl and prance, Fit to put out of countenance The Comm is and C~msettes of France Or Turkey's dancing Dervises. 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 not verified Till with majorities allied,) Parties sprang up, affirmed, denied, And candidates with questions plied Who, like the circus-riders, tried At once both hobbies to be stride, 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 tbere 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

Page  485 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MP. KNOTT. 485 From the Devout In~uirer's Gmde, For the wise spirits to decide - As, for exam p} e, is it True that the damned are fried or boiled? Was the Earth's axis greased or oiled? Who cleaned the moou when it was soiled? How baldness might be cured or foiled? 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? Diq the bull toll Cock-Robin's knell? What remedy would bugs expel? If Paine's invention were a sell? Did spirits by Webster's system spell? Was it a sin to be a belle? Did dancing sentence folks to bell? 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? Was Sir John Franklin sought in vain? Did primitive Christians ever train? What was the family-name of Cain? Them spoons, were they by Betty ta'en? Would earth-worm poultice cure a sprain? Was Socrates so dreadful plain? What teamster guided Charles's wain? Was Uncle Ethan mad or sane, And could his will in force remain? If not, what counsel to retain? -Did Le Sage steal Gil Blas from Spain? Was Junius writ by Thomas Paine? Were ducks discomforted by rain? How did Britannia rule the main? Was Jonas coming back again?

Page  486 48(3 LOJVELL'S ~OEMS. Was vital truth upon the wane? Did ghosts, to scare folks, drag a chain? Who was our Huldali's chosen swain? Did none have teeth pulled without pay in' Ere ether was invented? Whether mankind would not agree, If the universe were tuned in C.? 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 pmup the spirits out, Through his, or her, own private spout, Into his, or her decanter. PART III. WHEREIN IT IS SHOWN THAT THE MOST ARDENT SPIRITS ARE MORE ORNAME~TAL 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 call a "meenaygeHe;" One threatened, if he would not "trade," His run of custoni to invade, (He could not these sbarp 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 ORtGINAL KN0~KING TROUPE~ Come recently from Hades,

Page  487 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 487 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 0~ 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 religions sense appeals - "We`11 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, travelling 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 q0 you make`em? with your toe?) 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,

Page  488 488 LOWELL'S POEAIS. (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. 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, Wfth grovelling intellects and base), They could not find the slightest trace To indicate deception; Indeed, it is declared by some That spirits (of this sort) are glum, Almost, or wholly, deaf and dumb, 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 gains aid, 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

Page  489 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 489 `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 Yon suinmoned with an awful ease; As grosser spirits gurgled out From 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, Behind the wainscot or the door, Ready 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 practise by the year Wfth the spirit of his hanimer; 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 %f t?V0 and two Really make four? or, How (1'ye do?' And get the fit replies thereto

Page  490 490 LOWELL'S POEMS. Inthe tramundane rat-tat4oo, Might ask a whole day's patience. `T was strange (`mongst other things) to find In what odd sets the ghosts combined, llappy forthwith to thump any Piece of intelligence inspired, The truth whereof had been inquired By some one of the company; For instance, Fielding, Mirabeau, Orator Renley, Cicero, Paley, John Zisca, Marivaux, Melanethon, Robertson, Junot, Scaliger, 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, Fe'uelon, 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 Dandolo, 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 thiugs we could not know (Of great statistic value, though) By our mere mortal vision.

Page  491 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 491 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 caine, Replied, "Because it thuiidered." 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; `T was thus; by dreadful raps was shown Some spirit's longing to make known A bloody fact, which he alone Was privy to, (such ghosts more prone In Earth's affairs to meddle are;) Who are ~ou? with awe-stricken looks, All ask: his airy knuckles he crooks, And raps, "I was Eliab Snooks, That used to be a peddler; Some on ye still are on my books!" Whereat, to inconspicuous nooks, (More fearing this than cominon spooks,) Shrank each indebted meddler;

Page  492 492 LOWELL'S POEMS. 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 potatoe-bin, And (the same night) him ferried Across Great Pond to f' 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 Fonl matter, out of any spite But from a simple love of right; - Which statements the Nine Worthies, Rabbi Akiba, Charlemagne, Seth, Colley Cibber, General Wayne, Cambyses, Tasso, Tubal-Cain, The owner of a castle in Spain, Jehaughire, 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 Colonel Pride Who knew said Snooks before he died, Had in his wares invested, Thought him entitled to belief And freely could concur, in brief, In everything 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 al] checks and urgin's,

Page  493 TflE UNHAPPY LOT OF iiIR. KNOTT. 493 (This spirit dropt 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) But as for this roiled 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 fo]low her own bent, Should make her own election. For that appeared the only way These frightful noises to allay Which bad 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 peddler's corpse was thrown, And found thereunder a j aw-bone,

Page  494 494 LOJVELL'S POEMS. 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, 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 qneer 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, Yo~`11 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 tbey shall never rue The happy &hance by which they knew That people in Jupiter are blue, And very fond of Irish stew, Two curious facts which Prince Lee Boo Rapped clearly to a chosen few - Whereas the others think`em A trick got up by Doctor Slade With Deborah the chamber-maid And that sly cretur Jinny, 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, did n't I~liab Snooks -Come back with never better looks, 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

Page  495 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 495 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.

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