The Complete Poetical Works of James Russell Lowell Part 4

MIDNIGHT

The moon shines white and silent On the mist, which, like a tide Of some enchanted ocean, O'er the wide marsh doth glide, Spreading its ghost-like billows Silently far and wide.

A vague and starry magic Makes all things mysteries, And lures the earth's dumb spirit Up to the longing skies: I seem to hear dim whispers, And tremulous replies.

The fireflies o'er the meadow In pulses come and go; The elm-trees' heavy shadow Weighs on the gra.s.s below; And faintly from the distance The dreaming c.o.c.k doth crow.

All things look strange and mystic, The very bushes swell And take wild shapes and motions, As if beneath a spell; They seem not the same lilacs From childhood known so well.

The snow of deepest silence O'er everything doth fall, So beautiful and quiet, And yet so like a pall; As if all life were ended, And rest were come to all.

O wild and wondrous midnight, There is a might in thee To make the charmed body Almost like spirit be, And give it some faint glimpses Of immortality!

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!

Oh, 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.

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 me, 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 make 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 told 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 moon 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.

SONG

Violet! sweet violet!

Thine eyes are full of tears; Are they wet Even yet With the thought of other years?

Or with gladness are they full, For the night so beautiful, And longing for those far-off spheres?

Loved one of my youth thou wast, Of my merry youth, And I see, Tearfully, All the fair and sunny past, All its openness and truth, Ever fresh and green in thee As the moss is in the sea.

Thy little heart, that hath with love Grown colored like the sky above, On which thou lookest ever,-- Can it know All the woe Of hope for what returneth never, All the sorrow and the longing To these hearts of ours belonging?

Out on it! no foolish pining For the sky Dims thine eye, Or for the stars so calmly shining; Like thee let this soul of mine Take hue from that wherefor I long, Self-stayed and high, serene and strong, Not satisfied with hoping--but divine.

Violet! dear violet!

Thy blue eyes are only wet With joy and love of Him who sent thee, And for the fulfilling sense Of that glad obedience Which made thee all that Nature meant thee!