Poems of James Russell Lowell Part 29

Truth is eternal, but her effluence, With endless change is fitted to the hour; Her mirror is turned forward to reflect The promise of the future, not the past.

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 darksome way.

I do not fear to follow out the truth, Albeit along the precipice's edge.

Let us speak plain: there is more force in names Than most men dream of; and a lie may keep Its throne a whole age longer, if it skulk Behind the shield of some fair-seeming name, Let us call tyrants, _tyrants_, and maintain, That only freedom comes by grace of G.o.d, And all that comes not by his grace must fall For men in earnest have no time to waste In patching fig-leaves for the naked truth.

"I will have one more grapple with the man Charles Stuart: whom the boy o'ercame, The man stands not in awe of. I, perchance, Am one raised up by the Almighty arm 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 G.o.d, Have a fore-consciousness of their high doom, As men are known to shiver at the heart, When the cold shadow of some coming ill Creeps slowly o'er their spirits unawares.

Hath Good less power of prophecy than Ill?

How else could men whom G.o.d 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 martyrdoms, wherewith Sin strives To weary out the tethered hope of Faith, The sneers, the unrecognizing look of friends, Who worship the dead corpse of old king Custom, Where it doth lie in state within the Church, Striving to cover up the mighty ocean With a man's palm, and making even the truth Lie for them, holding up the gla.s.s reversed, To make the hope of man seem farther off?

My G.o.d! when I read o'er the bitter lives Of men whose eager hearts were quite too great To beat beneath the cramped mode of the day, And see them mocked at by the world they love, Haggling with prejudice for pennyworths Of that reform which their hard toil will make The common birthright of the age to come,-- When I see this, spite of my faith in G.o.d, I marvel how their hearts bear up so long; Nor could they, but for this same prophecy, This inward feeling of the glorious end.

"Deem me not fond; but in my warmer youth, Ere my heart's bloom was soiled and brushed away, I had 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 the flutterings Of those strong wings whereon the soul shall soar In aftertime to win a starry throne; And so I cherish them, for they were lots, Which I, a boy, cast in the helm of Fate.

Now will I draw them, since a man's right hand, A right hand guided by an earnest soul, With a true instinct, takes the golden prize From out a thousand blanks. What men call luck Is the prerogative of valiant souls, The fealty life pays its rightful kings.

The helm is shaking now, and I will stay To pluck my lot forth; it were sin to flee!"

So they two turned together; one to die, Fighting for freedom on the b.l.o.o.d.y field; The other, far more happy, to become A name earth wears forever next her heart; One of the few that have a right to rank With the true Makers: for his spirit wrought Order from Chaos; proved that right divine Dwelt only in the excellence of truth; And far within old Darkness' hostile lines Advanced and pitched the shining tents of Light.

Nor shall the grateful Muse forget to tell, That--not the least among his many claims To deathless honor--he was Milton's friend, A man not second among those who lived To show us that the poet's lyre demands An arm of tougher sinew than the sword.

1843.

SONG.

O, moonlight deep and tender, A year and more agone, Your mist of golden splendor Round my betrothal shone!

O, elm-leaves dark and dewy, The very same ye seem, The low wind trembles through ye, Ye murmur in my dream!

O, river, dim with distance, Flow thus forever by: A part of my existence Within your heart doth lie!

O, stars, ye saw our meeting, Two beings and one soul, Two hearts so madly beating To mingle and be whole!

O, happy night, deliver Her kisses back to me, Or keep them all, and give her A blissful dream of me!

1842.

A CHIPPEWA LEGEND.[A]

???e??? ?? ?? ?a? ???e?? ?st?? t?de ????? d? s????.

aeschylus, Prom. Vinct. 197.

[Footnote A: For the leading incidents in this tale, I am indebted to the very valuable "Algic Researches" of Henry R.

Schoolcraft, Esq.]

The old Chief, feeling now well-nigh his end, Called his two eldest children to his side, And gave them, in few words, his parting charge:-- "My son and daughter, me ye see no more; The happy hunting-grounds await me, green With change of spring and summer through the year: But, for remembrance, after I am gone, Be kind to little Sheemah for my sake: Weakling he is and young, and knows not yet To set the trap, or draw the seasoned bow; Therefore of both your loves he hath 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 t.i.tle by our toil, But the Great Spirit plants it in our hearts, And waters it, and gives it sun, to be The common stock and heritage of all: Therefore be kind to Sheemah, 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 loneliness 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; what hinders me to be A mighty Brave and Chief 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 more than for herself; For Love bides longest in a woman's heart, And flutters many times before he 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 in the last of all, Warming her lean hands at the lonely hearth, And crouching o'er the embers, to shut out Whatever paltry warmth and light are left, With avaricious greed, from all beside.

So, for long months, the sister hunted wide, And cared for little Sheemah tenderly; But, daily more and more, the loneliness Grew wearisome, and to herself she sighed, "Am I not fair? at least the gla.s.sy pool, That hath no cause to flatter, tells me so; But, O, how flat and meaningless the tale, Unless it tremble on a lover's tongue!

Beauty hath no true gla.s.s, except it be In the sweet privacy of loving eyes."

Thus deemed she idly, and forgot the lore Which she had learned of nature and the woods, That beauty's chief reward is to itself, And that the eyes of Love reflect alone The inward fairness, which is blurred and lost Unless kept clear and white by Duty's care So she went forth and sought the haunts of men, And, being wedded, in her household cares, Soon, like the elder brother, quite forgot The little Sheemah and her father's charge.

But Sheemah, left alone within the lodge, Waited and waited, with a shrinking heart, Thinking each rustle was his sister's step, Till hope grew less and less, and then went out, And every sound was changed from hope to fear.

Few sounds there were:--the dropping of a nut, The squirrel's chirrup, and the jay's harsh scream, Autumn's sad remnants of blithe Summer's cheer, Heard at long intervals, seemed but to make The dreadful void of silence silenter.

Soon what small store his sister left was gone, And, through the Autumn, he made shift to live On roots and berries, gathered in much fear Of wolves, whose ghastly howl he heard ofttimes, Hollow and hungry, at the dead of night.

But Winter came at last, and, when the snow, Thick-heaped for gleaming leagues o'er hill and plain, Spread its unbroken silence over all, Made bold by hunger, he was fain to glean, (More sick at heart than Ruth, and all alone,) After the harvest of the merciless wolf, Grim Boaz, who, sharp-ribbed and gaunt, yet feared A thing more wild and starving than himself; 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 wigwam stood, Heard a low moaning noise upon the sh.o.r.e: Half like a child 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, Within a little thicket close at hand, A child that seemed fast changing to a wolf, From the neck downward, gray with s.h.a.ggy 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 he might not see The first look of his brother's eyes, and cried, "O, Sheemah! O, 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 no care or want!"

Sheemah was silent for a s.p.a.ce, as if 'T 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; 'Tis 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.

STANZAS ON FREEDOM

Men! whose boast it is that ye Come of fathers brave and free, If there breathe on 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 hear, 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 mankind a debt?

No! true freedom is to share All the chains our 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 Hatred, scoffing, and abuse, Rather than in silence shrink From the truth they needs must think; They are slaves who dare not be In the right with two or three.

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, Now leaps with clumsy wrath, strikes short, and, falling Crumbled to whispery foam, slips rustling down The broad backs of the waves, which jostle and crowd To fling themselves upon that unknown sh.o.r.e, Their used familiar since the dawn of time, Whither this foredoomed life is guided on To sway on triumph's hushed, aspiring poise One glittering moment, then to break fulfilled.