The Complete Poetical Works of James Russell Lowell Part 3

I

In the old days of awe and keen-eyed wonder, The Poet's song with blood-warm truth was rife; He saw the mysteries which circle under The outward sh.e.l.l and skin of daily life.

Nothing to him were fleeting time and fashion, His soul was led by the eternal law; There was in him no hope of fame, no pa.s.sion, But with calm, G.o.dlike eyes he only saw.

He did not sigh o'er heroes dead and buried, Chief-mourner at the Golden Age's hea.r.s.e, 10 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 meaning of to-day; He 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 his eyes. 20 He gazed on all within him and without him, He watched the flowing of Time's steady tide, And shapes of glory floated all about him 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!

Him who hath spoken with the unseen Lord!'

He to his heart with large embrace had taken The universal sorrow of mankind, 30 And, from that root, a shelter never shaken, The tree of wisdom grew with st.u.r.dy rind.

He could interpret well the wondrous voices Which to the calm and silent spirit come; He knew that the One Soul no more rejoices In the star's anthem than the insect's hum.

He 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; 40 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 G.o.d sitting by the humblest hearth.

With calmest courage he was ever ready To teach that action was the truth of thought, And, with strong arm and purpose firm and steady, An anchor for the drifting world he wrought.

So did he make the meanest man partaker Of all his brother-G.o.ds unto him gave; 50 All souls did reverence him and name him 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 gra.s.s, And fits his singing, like a cunning timer, To all men's prides and fancies as they pa.s.s. 60 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,--oh no! unmaker rather, For he unmakes who doth not all put forth The power given freely 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, 70 And let man's soul be yet again beholden To thee for wings to soar to her desire.

Oh, prophesy no more to-morrow's splendor, Be no more shamefaced to speak out for Truth, Lay on her altar all the gushings tender, The hope, the fire, the loving faith of youth!

Oh, prophesy no more 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! 80 Oh, 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 shouldst be.

O thou who moanest tost with sealike longings, Who dimly hearest voices call on thee, Whose soul is overfilled with mighty throngings Of love, and fear, and glorious agony.

Thou of the toil-strung hands and iron sinews And soul by Mother Earth with freedom fed, 90 In whom the hero-spirit yet continues, The old free nature is not chained or dead, Arouse! let thy soul break in 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 but a shadow of wrong, There still is need of martyrs and apostles, There still are texts for never-dying song: 100 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 great 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, They 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; 110 For, listening gladly, bend the angels, even, To hear a mortal like an angel sing.

III

Among the toil-worn poor my soul is seeking For who shall 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 the tongue of this wide land Must string his harp with chords of st.u.r.dy iron And strike it with a toil-imbrowned hand; 120 One who hath dwelt with Nature well attended, Who hath learnt wisdom from her mystic books, Whose soul with all her countless lives hath blended, So that all beauty awes us in his looks: Who not with body's waste his soul hath pampered, Who as the clear northwestern wind is free, Who walks with Form's observances unhampered, And follows the One Will obediently; Whose eyes, like windows on a breezy summit, Control a lovely prospect every way; 130 Who doth not sound G.o.d's sea with earthly plummet, And find a bottom 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 G.o.d-built 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 like a sky; 140 Who feels that G.o.d and Heaven's great deeps are nearer Him to whose heart his fellow-man is nigh, Who doth not hold his soul's own freedom dearer Than that of all his brethren, low or high; Who to the Right can feel himself the truer For being gently patient with the wrong, Who sees a brother in the evildoer, And finds in Love the heart's-blood of his song;-- This, this is he for whom the world is waiting To sing the beatings of its mighty heart, 150 Too long hath it been patient with the grating Of scrannel-pipes, and heard it misnamed Art.

To him the 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 great commanding motion, Heaving and swelling with a melody Learnt of the sky, the river, and the ocean, And all the pure, majestic things that be. 160 Awake, then, thou! we pine for thy great presence To make us feel the soul once more sublime, We are of far too infinite an essence To rest contented with the lies of Time.

Speak out! and lo! a hush of deepest wonder Shall sink o'er all this many-voiced scene, As when a sudden burst of rattling thunder Shatters the blueness of a sky serene.

THE FATHERLAND

Where is the true man's fatherland?

Is it where he by chance is born?

Doth not the yearning spirit scorn In such scant borders to be spanned?

Oh yes! his fatherland must be As the blue heaven wide and free!

Is it alone where freedom is, Where G.o.d is G.o.d and man is man?

Doth he not claim a broader span For the soul's love of home than this?

Oh yes! his fatherland must 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 G.o.d 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 glazes on the pavement bare.

The street-lamps flare and struggle dim Through the gray sleet-clouds as they pa.s.s, Or, governed by a boisterous whim, Drop down and rustle on the gla.s.s.

One poor, heart-broken, outcast girl Faces the east-wind's searching flaws, And, as about her heart they whirl, Her tattered 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 loneliness 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 gra.s.s, 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.

Enhaloed by a mild, warm glow, From man's humanity apart, She hears old footsteps wandering slow Through the lone chambers of the heart.

Outside the porch before the door, Her cheek upon the cold, hard stone, She lies, no 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 G.o.d takes in, And fences them all round about With silence mid the world's loud din;

And one of his great charities Is Music, 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.