Selections from American poetry Part 29

I break your bonds and masterships, And I unchain the slave Free be his heart and hand henceforth As wind and wandering wave.

I cause from every creature His proper good to flow As much as he is and doeth, So much he shall bestow.

But, laying hands on another To coin his labor and sweat, He goes in p.a.w.n to his victim For eternal years in debt.

To-day unbind the captive, So only are ye unbound; Lift up a people from the dust, Trump of their rescue, sound!

Pay ransom to the owner And fill the bag to the brim.

Who is the owner? The slave is owner, And ever was. Pay him.

O North! give him beauty for rags, And honor, O South! for his shame; Nevada! coin thy golden crags With Freedom's image and name.

Up! and the dusky race That sat in darkness long,-- Be swift their feet as antelopes, And as behemoth strong.

Come, East and West and North, By races, as snow-flakes, And carry my purpose forth, Which neither halts nor shakes.

My will fulfilled shall be, For, in daylight or in dark, My thunderbolt has eyes to see His way home to the mark.

THE t.i.tMOUSE

You shall not be overbold When you deal with arctic cold, As late I found my lukewarm blood Chilled wading in the snow-choked wood.

How should I fight? my foeman fine Has million arms to one of mine East, west, for aid I looked in vain, East, west, north, south, are his domain, Miles off, three dangerous miles, is home; Must borrow his winds who there would come.

Up and away for life! be fleet!-- The frost-king ties my fumbling feet, Sings in my ears, my hands are stones Curdles the blood to the marble bones, Tugs at the heart-strings, numbs the sense, And hems in life with narrowing fence.

Well, in this broad bed lie and sleep,-- The punctual stars will vigil keep,-- Embalmed by purifying cold; The winds shall sing their dead-march old, The snow is no ign.o.ble shroud, The moon thy mourner, and the cloud.

Softly--but this way fate was pointing, 'Twas coming fast to such anointing, When piped a tiny voice hard by, Gay and polite, a cheerful cry, Chic-chic-a-dee-dee! saucy note Out of sound heart and merry throat, As if it said, "Good day, good sir!

Fine afternoon, old pa.s.senger!

Happy to meet you in these places Where January brings few faces."

This poet, though he lived apart, Moved by his hospitable heart, Sped, when I pa.s.sed his sylvan fort, To do the honors of his court, As fits a feathered lord of land; Flew near, with soft wing grazed my hand, Hopped on the bough, then, darting low, Prints his small impress on the snow, Shows feats of his gymnastic play, Head downward, clinging to the spray.

Here was this atom in full breath, Hurling defiance at vast death; This sc.r.a.p of valor just for play Fronts the north-wind in waistcoat gray, As if to shame my weak behavior; I greeted loud my little savior, "You pet! what dost here? and what for?

In these woods, thy small Labrador, At this pinch, wee San Salvador!

What fire burns in that little chest So frolic, stout and self-possest?

Henceforth I wear no stripe but thine; Ashes and jet all hues outshine.

Why are not diamonds black and gray, To ape thy dare-devil array?

And I affirm, the s.p.a.cious North Exists to draw thy virtue forth.

I think no virtue goes with size; The reason of all cowardice Is, that men are overgrown, And, to be valiant, must come down To the t.i.tmouse dimension."

'Tis good will makes intelligence, And I began to catch the sense Of my bird's song: "Live out of doors In the great woods, on prairie floors.

I dine in the sun; when he sinks in the sea, I too have a hole in a hollow tree; And I like less when Summer beats With stifling beams on these retreats, Than noontide twilights which snow makes With tempest of the blinding flakes.

For well the soul, if stout within, Can arm impregnably the skin; And polar frost my frame defied, Made of the air that blows outside."

With glad remembrance of my debt, I homeward turn; farewell, my pet!

When here again thy pilgrim comes, He shall bring store of seeds and crumbs, Doubt not, so long as earth has bread, Thou first and foremost shah be fed; The Providence that is most large Takes hearts like throe in special charge, Helps who for their own need are strong, And the sky dotes on cheerful song.

Henceforth I prize thy wiry chant O'er all that ma.s.s and minster vaunt; For men mis-hear thy call in Spring, As 'twould accost some frivolous wing, Crying out of the hazel copse, Phe-be!

And, in winter, Chic-a-dee-dee!

I think old Caesar must have heard In northern Gaul my dauntless bird, And, echoed in some frosty wold, Borrowed thy battle-numbers bold.

And I will write our annals new, And thank thee for a better clew, I, who dreamed not when I came her To find the antidote of fear, Now hear thee say in Roman key.

Paean! Veni, vidi, vici.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

HAKON'S LAY

Then Thorstein looked at Hakon, where he sate, Mute as a cloud amid the stormy hall, And said: "O Skald, sing now an olden song, Such as our fathers heard who led great lives; And, as the bravest on a shield is borne Along the waving host that shouts him king, So rode their thrones upon the thronging seas!"

Then the old man arose; white-haired he stood, White-bearded with eyes that looked afar From their still region of perpetual snow, Over the little smokes and stirs of men: His head was bowed with gathered flakes of years, As winter bends the sea-foreboding pine, But something triumphed in his brow and eye, Which whoso saw it, could not see and crouch: Loud rang the emptied beakers as he mused, Brooding his eyried thoughts; then, as an eagle Circles smooth-winged above the wind-vexed woods, So wheeled his soul into the air of song High o'er the stormy hall; and thus he sang:

"The fletcher for his arrow-shaft picks out Wood closest-grained, long-seasoned, straight as light; And, from a quiver full of such as these, The wary bow-man, matched against his peers, Long doubting, singles yet once more the best.

Who is it that can make such shafts as Fate?

What archer of his arrows is so choice, Or hits the white so surely? They are men, The chosen of her quiver; nor for her Will every reed suffice, or cross-grained stick At random from life's vulgar f.a.got 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 circ.u.mstance untoward feathers plucks Crumpled and cheap; and barbs with iron will: The hour that pa.s.ses is her quiver-boy; When she draws bow, 'tis not across the wind, Nor 'gainst the sun, her haste-s.n.a.t.c.hed arrow sings, For sun and wind have plighted faith to her Ere men have heard the sinew tw.a.n.g, behold, In the b.u.t.t'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 G.o.ds 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 but or hall, Until she finds the brave soul that she wants."

He ceased, and instantly the frothy tide Of interrupted wa.s.sail roared along; But Leif, the son of Eric, sat apart Musing, and, with his eyes upon the fire, Saw shapes of arrows, lost as soon as seen; lint then with that resolve his heart was bent, Which, like a humming shaft, through many a stripe 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.

FLOWERS

O poet! above all men blest, Take heed that thus thou store them; Love, Hope, and Faith shall ever rest, Sweet birds (upon how sweet a nest!) Watchfully brooding o'er them.

And from those flowers of Paradise Scatter thou many a blessed seed, Wherefrom an offspring may arise To cheer the hearts and light the eyes Of after-voyagers in their need.

They shall not fall on stony ground, But, yielding all their hundred-fold, Shall shed a peacefulness around, Whose strengthening joy may not be told!

So shall thy name be blest of all, And thy remembrance never die; For of that seed shall surely fall In the fair garden of Eternity, Exult then m the n.o.bleness Of this thy work so holy, Yet be not thou one jot the less Humble and meek and lowly, But let throe exultation be The reverence of a bended knee; And by thy life a poem write, Built strongly day by day-- on the rock of Truth and Right Its deep foundations lay.

IMPARTIALITY

I cannot say a scene is fair Because it is beloved of thee But I shall love to linger there, For sake of thy dear memory; I would not be so coldly just As to love only what I must.

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'erflow.

I love thee for that thou art fair; And that thy spirit joys in aught Createth a new beauty there, With throe own dearest image fraught; And love, for others' sake that springs, Gives half their charm to lovely things.