The Complete Poetical Works of James Russell Lowell Part 15

New times demand new measures and new men; The world advances, and in time outgrows The laws that in our fathers' day were best; And, doubtless, after us, some purer scheme Will be shaped out by wiser men than we, Made wiser by the steady growth of truth.

We cannot hale Utopia on by force; But better, almost, be at work in sin, Than in a brute inaction browse and sleep. 200 No man is born into the world whose work Is not born with him; there is always work, And tools to work withal, for those who will; And blessed are the h.o.r.n.y hands of toil!

The busy world stoves angrily aside The man who stands with arms akimbo set, Until occasion tells him what to do; And he who waits to have his task marked out Shall die and leave his errand unfulfilled.

Our time is one that calls for earnest deeds; 210 Season and Government, like two broad seas, Yearn for each other with outstretched arms Across this narrow isthmus of the throne, And roll their white surf higher every day.

One age moves onward, and the next builds up Cities and gorgeous palaces, where stood The rude log-huts of those who 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 220 Are seldom wielded by the selfsame hand; Ours is the harder task, yet not the less Shall we receive the blessing for our toil From the choice spirits of the aftertime.

My soul is not a palace of the past, Where outworn creeds, like Rome's gray senate, quake, Hearing afar the Vandal's trumpet hoa.r.s.e, That shakes old systems with a thunder-fit.

That time is ripe, and rotten-ripe, for change; Then let it come: I have no dread of what 230 Is called for by the instinct of mankind; Nor think I that G.o.d's world will fall apart Because we tear a parchment more or less.

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

He who would win the name of truly great Must understand his own age and the next, And make the present ready to fulfil 240 Its prophecy, and with the future merge Gently and peacefully, as wave with wave.

The future works out great men's purposes; 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, 250 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 fail; For men in earnest have no time to waste 260 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 270 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, 280 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 heart's were quite too great To beat beneath the cramped mode of the day, And see them mocked at by the world they love, 290 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; 300 Of conquest, whether by the sword or pen I knew not; but some Conquest I would have, Or else swift death: now wiser grown in years, I find youth's dreams are but the flutterings Of those strong wings whereon the soul shall soar In after time to win a starry throne; And 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, 310 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; 320 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 330 To show us that the poet's lyre demands An arm of tougher sinew than the sword.

A CHIPPEWA LEGEND

[Greek: algeina men moi kaalegein estin tade, algos de sigan.]

AESCHYLUS, _Prom. Vinct._ 197, 198.

For the leading incidents in this tale I am indebted to the very valuable _Algic Researches_ of Henry R. Schoolcraft, Esq. J.R.L.

The old Chief, feeling now wellnigh 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; 10 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, 20 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 far from men, 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?' 30 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, 40 And flutters many times before he flies, And then doth perch so nearly, that a word May lure him back to his accustomed nest; 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, 50 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, oh, how flat and meaningless the tale, Unless it tremble on a lover's tongue!

Beauty hath no true gla.s.s, except it be 60 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 Love's mirror holds no image long Save of the inward fairness, 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 70 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 80 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 90 (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: 100 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 clinging 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. 110 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 shall 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 voice was as a wolf's: 120 '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. 130

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 whims 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 10 One 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, Fear-painted 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 burn, And fairer stars, with whose calm height my soul Finds nearer sympathy than with my herd 20 Of earthen souls, whose vision's scanty ring Makes me its prisoner to beat my wings Against the cold bars of their unbelief, Knowing in vain my own free heaven beyond.

O G.o.d! this world, 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 Of highest endeavor,--this mad, unthrift world, Which, every hour, throws life enough away 30 To make her deserts kind and hospitable, Lets her great destinies be waved aside By smooth, lip-reverent, formal infidels, Who weigh the G.o.d they not believe with gold, And find no spot in Judas, save that he, Driving a duller bargain than he ought, Saddled his guild with too cheap precedent.

O Faith! if thou art strong, thine opposite Is mighty also, and the dull fool's sneer Hath ofttimes shot chill palsy through the arm 40 Just lifted to achieve its crowning deed, And made the firm-based heart, that would have quailed The rack or f.a.got, shudder like a leaf Wrinkled with frost, and loose upon its stem, The wicked and the weak, by some dark law, Have 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. 50 If the chosen soul could never be alone In deep mid-silence, open-doored to G.o.d, 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 underfoot,--Life, the one block Of marble that's vouchsafed wherefrom to carve Our great thoughts, white and G.o.dlike, to shine down 60 The future, Life, the irredeemable block, Which one o'er-hasty chisel-dint oft mars, Scanting our room to cut the features out Of our full hope, so forcing us to crown With a mean head the perfect limbs, or leave The G.o.d'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 G.o.d's sacred use, to be a bond 'Twixt Me and Thee, sets each one scowlingly 70 O'er his own selfish h.o.a.rd 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 Humanity To which by natural instinct every man Pays loyalty exulting, by which all Mould their own lives, and feel their pulses filled With the red, fiery blood of the general life, Making them mighty in peace, as now in war 80 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 curtain drop at last On one dread desolation, one fierce crash Of that recoil which on its makers G.o.d Lets Ignorance and Sin and Hunger make, Early or late? Or shall that commonwealth Whose potent unity and concentric force 90 Can draw these scattered joints and parts of men Into a whole ideal man once more, Which sucks not from 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 G.o.d's earliest call Forfeits or dulls that faculty supreme 100 Of lying open to his genius Which makes the wise heart certain of its ends.

Here am I; for what end G.o.d 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 have I mused on, since mine eye could first Among the stars distinguish and with joy Rest on that G.o.d-fed Pharos of the north, 110 On some blue promontory of heaven lighted That juts far out into the upper sea; To this one hope my heart hath clung for years, As would a foundling to the talisman Hung round his neck by hands 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, 120 The key to him of hope and humanness, The coa.r.s.e sh.e.l.l of life's pearl, Expectancy.

This hope hath been to me for love and fame, Hath 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 Dark, Sole as a scholar's lamp, and heard men's steps, In the far hurry of the outward world, Pa.s.s dimly forth and back, sounds heard in dream, 130 As Ganymede by the eagle was s.n.a.t.c.hed up From the gross sod to be Jove's cup-bearer, So was I lifted by my great design: And who hath trod Olympus, from his eye Fades not that broader outlook of the G.o.ds; His life's low valleys overbrow earth's clouds, And that Olympian spectre of the past Looms towering up in sovereign memory, Beckoning his soul from meaner heights of doom.

Had but the shadow of the Thunderer's bird, 140 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 implacable one, seem thin and bleak 150 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 wood's Laoc.o.o.n, Did of my hope a dryad mistress make, Whom I would woo to meet me privily, 160 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!