Poems of James Russell Lowell Part 20

A PRAYER.

G.o.d! do not let my loved one die, But rather wait until the time That I am grown in purity Enough to enter thy pure clime Then take me, I will gladly go, So that my love remain below!

O, let her stay! She is by birth What I through death must learn to be, We need her more on our poor earth, Than thou canst need in heaven with thee; She hath her wings already, I Must burst this earth-sh.e.l.l ere I fly.

Then, G.o.d, take me! We shall be near, More near than ever, each to each: Her angel ears will find more clear My heavenly than my earthly speech; And still, as I draw nigh to thee, Her soul and mine shall closer be.

1841.

THE HERITAGE.

The rich man's son inherits lands, And piles of brick, and stone, and gold, And he inherits soft white hands, And tender flesh that fears the cold, Nor dares to wear a garment old; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce 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 me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?

Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, 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's son inherit?

Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things, A rank adjudged by toil-won merit, 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.

O, rich man's son! there is a toil, That with all others level stands; Large charity doth never soil, But only whiten, soft white hands,-- This is the best crop from thy lands; A heritage, it seems to be, Worth being rich to hold in fee.

O, poor man's son! scorn not thy state; There is worse weariness than thine, In merely 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 G.o.d, Prove t.i.tle to your heirship vast By record of a well-filled past; A heritage, it seems to me, Well worth a life to hold in fee.

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 loveth 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, O, 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 he hurled 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, Musing by the wave-beat strand, Half in hope and half in sorrow, Tracing words upon the sand: "Shall I ever then behold him 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 sh.o.r.e, Spare his name whose spirit fetters Mine with love forevermore!"

Swells the tide and overflows it, But, with omen pure and meet, Brings 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 ruffled petals broken With the ocean's fierce unrest.

"Love is thine, O heart! and surely Peace shall also be thine own, For the heart that trusteth purely Never long can pine alone."

III.

In his 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, Kiss 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 truth,--the future giveth More than present takes away, And the soul forever liveth Nearer G.o.d from day to day."

Not a word the maiden uttered, Fullest hearts are slow to speak, But a withered rose-leaf fluttered Down upon the poet's cheek.

1842.

A LEGEND OF BRITTANY.

PART FIRST.

I.

Fair as a summer dream was Margaret,-- Such dream as in 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, Where naught could come but visions of delight, Far, far aloof from earth's eternal moan: A summer 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,-- G.o.d 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 child, A lily chance-sown in the rugged wild.