<SPAN name="startofbook"></SPAN>
<div class="figcenter"> <p class="img1"><ANTIMG src="images/image_05.png" width-obs="400" height-obs="644" alt="Cover Page" title="Cover Page" /></p> <p> </p> </div>
<div class="figcenter"><SPAN name="James_Russel" id="James_Russel"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/image_01.jpg" width-obs="400" height-obs="501" alt="James Russell Lowell." title="James Russell Lowell." /> <span class="caption">James Russell Lowell.</span></div>
<h4> </h4>
<h4> </h4>
<h4>The Riverside Literature Series</h4>
<h1>THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL</h1>
<h2>AND OTHER POEMS</h2>
<h3> </h3>
<h3> </h3>
<h3>BY</h3>
<h2>JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL</h2>
<p class="center"> </p>
<p class="center"> </p>
<p class="center"><i>WITH A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH<br/>
AND NOTES<br/>
A PORTRAIT AND OTHER ILLUSTRATIONS</i></p>
<p> </p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/image_06.jpg" width-obs="150" height-obs="184" alt="Seal." title="Seal" /> </div>
<h3> </h3>
<h3>HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY</h3>
<h5>Boston: 4 Park Street; New York: 11 East Seventeenth Street<br/>
Chicago: 378-388 Wabash Avenue</h5>
<h4>The Riverside Press, Cambridge</h4>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p class="center">Copyright, 1848, 1857, 1866, 1868, 1869, 1876, and 1885,
By JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.</p>
<p class="center">Copyright, 1887, 1894, and 1896,
By HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<h2>CONTENTS</h2>
<table summary="Contents">
<tr>
<td> </td>
<td class="tocpg">PAGE</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td colspan="2"><SPAN href="#A_SKETCH_OF_THE_LIFE_OF_JAMES_RUSSELL_LOWELL">A Sketch of the Life of James Russell Lowell.</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><span style="text-indent:1em;"><SPAN href="#I">I. Elmwood</SPAN></span></td>
<td class="tocpg">v</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><span style="text-indent:1em;"><SPAN href="#II">II. Education</SPAN></span></td>
<td class="tocpg">ix</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><span style="text-indent:1em;"><SPAN href="#III">III. First Ventures</SPAN></span></td>
<td class="tocpg">xi</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><span style="text-indent:1em;"><SPAN href="#IV">IV. Verse and Prose</SPAN></span></td>
<td class="tocpg">xiv</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><span style="text-indent:1em;"><SPAN href="#V">V. Public Life</SPAN></span></td>
<td class="tocpg">xvi</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><SPAN href="#INTRODUCTORY_NOTE">Introductory Note</SPAN></td>
<td class="tocpg">1</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><SPAN href="#THE_VISION_OF_SIR_LAUNFAL">The Vision of Sir Launfal</SPAN></td>
<td class="tocpg">4</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><SPAN href="#PRELUDE_TO_PART_FIRST">Prelude to Part First</SPAN></td>
<td class="tocpg">4</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><SPAN href="#PART_FIRST">Part First</SPAN></td>
<td class="tocpg">7</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><SPAN href="#PRELUDE_TO_PART_SECOND">Prelude to Part Second</SPAN></td>
<td class="tocpg">10</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><SPAN href="#PART_SECOND">Part Second</SPAN></td>
<td class="tocpg">12</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><SPAN href="#ODE_RECITED_AT_THE_HARVARD_COMMEMORATION">Ode recited at the Harvard Commemoration</SPAN></td>
<td class="tocpg">16</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><SPAN href="#ON_BOARD_THE_76">On Board the '76</SPAN></td>
<td class="tocpg">31</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><SPAN href="#AN_INDIAN-SUMMER_REVERIE">An Indian-Summer Reverie</SPAN></td>
<td class="tocpg">34</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><SPAN href="#THE_FIRST_SNOW-FALL">The First Snow-Fall</SPAN></td>
<td class="tocpg">45</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><SPAN href="#THE_OAK">The Oak</SPAN></td>
<td class="tocpg">47</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><SPAN href="#PROMETHEUS">Prometheus</SPAN></td>
<td class="tocpg">49</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><SPAN href="#TO_WL_GARRISON">To W.L. Garrison</SPAN></td>
<td class="tocpg">61</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><SPAN href="#WENDELL_PHILLIPS">Wendell Phillips</SPAN></td>
<td class="tocpg">63</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><SPAN href="#MR_HOSEA_BIGLOW_TO_THE_EDITOR_OF_THE_ATLANTIC_MONTHLY">Mr. Hosea Biglow to the Editor of the Atlantic Monthly</SPAN></td>
<td class="tocpg">63</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><SPAN href="#VILLA_FRANCA">Villa Franca</SPAN></td>
<td class="tocpg">70</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><SPAN href="#THE_NIGHTINGALE_IN_THE_STUDY">The Nightingale in the Study</SPAN></td>
<td class="tocpg">73</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><SPAN href="#ALADDIN">Aladdin</SPAN></td>
<td class="tocpg">76</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><SPAN href="#BEAVER_BROOK">Beaver Brook</SPAN></td>
<td class="tocpg">76</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><SPAN href="#THE_SHEPHERD_OF_KING_ADMETUS">The Shepherd of King Admetus</SPAN></td>
<td class="tocpg">78</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><SPAN href="#THE_PRESENT_CRISIS">The Present Crisis</SPAN></td>
<td class="tocpg">80</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><SPAN href="#AL_FRESCO">Al Fresco</SPAN></td>
<td class="tocpg">87</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><SPAN href="#THE_FOOT-PATH">The Foot-Path</SPAN></td>
<td class="tocpg">90</td>
</tr>
</table>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="LIST_OF_ILLUSTRATIONS" id="LIST_OF_ILLUSTRATIONS"></SPAN>LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.</h2>
<table summary="Illustrations">
<tr>
<td> </td>
<td class="tocpg">PAGE</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><SPAN href="#James_Russel">James Russell Lowell (from a crayon by William
Page in 1842, owned by Mrs. Charles F. Briggs,
Brooklyn, N. Y.)</SPAN></td>
<td class="tocpg"><i>Frontispiece</i></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><SPAN href="#Elmwood">Elmwood, Mr. Lowell's home in Cambridge</SPAN></td>
<td class="tocpg">vi</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><SPAN href="#Sir_Launfal">As Sir Launfal made morn through the darksome gate</SPAN></td>
<td class="tocpg">10</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><SPAN href="#He_Mused">So he mused, as he sat, of a sunnier clime</SPAN></td>
<td class="tocpg">14</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><SPAN href="#The_Seal">The Seal of Harvard University</SPAN></td>
<td class="tocpg">30</td>
</tr>
</table>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="A_SKETCH_OF_THE_LIFE_OF_JAMES_RUSSELL_LOWELL" id="A_SKETCH_OF_THE_LIFE_OF_JAMES_RUSSELL_LOWELL"></SPAN>A SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL</h2>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_v" id="Page_v">[v]</SPAN></span></p>
<h2><SPAN name="I" id="I"></SPAN>I.</h2>
<h3>ELMWOOD.</h3>
<p>About half a mile from the Craigie House in Cambridge, Massachusetts,
on the road leading to the old town of Watertown, is Elmwood, a
spacious square house set amongst lilac and syringa bushes, and
overtopped by elms. Pleasant fields are on either side, and from the
windows one may look out on the Charles River winding its way among
the marshes. The house itself is one of a group which before the war
for independence belonged to Boston merchants and officers of the
crown who refused to take the side of the revolutionary party. Tory
Row was the name given to the broad winding road on which the houses
stood. Great farms and gardens were attached to them, and some sign of
their roomy ease still remains. The estates fell into the hands of
various persons after the war, and in process of time Longfellow came
to occupy Craigie House. Elmwood at that time was the property of the
Reverend Charles Lowell, minister of the West Church in Boston, and
when Longfellow thus became his neighbor, James Russell Lowell was a
junior in Harvard College. He was born at Elmwood, February 22, 1819.
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_vi" id="Page_vi">[vi]</SPAN></span>Any one who will read <i>An Indian Summer Reverie</i> will discover how
affectionately Lowell dwelt on the scenes of nature and life amidst
which he grew up. Indeed, it would be a pleasant task to draw from the
full storehouse of his poetry the golden phrases with which he
characterizes the trees, meadows, brooks, flowers, birds, and human
companions that were so near to him in his youth and so vivid in his
recollection. In his prose works also a lively paper, <i>Cambridge
Thirty Years Ago</i>, contains many reminiscences of his early life.</p>
<p>To know any one well it is needful to inquire into his ancestry, and
two or three hints may be given of the currents that met in this poet.
On his father's side he came from a succession of New England men who
for the previous three generations had been in professional life. The
Lowells traced their descent from Percival Lowell,—a name which
survives in the family,—of Bristol, England, who settled in Newbury,
Massachusetts, in 1639. The great-grandfather was a minister in
Newburyport, one of those, as Dr. Hale says, "who preached sermons
when young men went out to fight the French, and preached sermons
again in memory of their death when they had been slain in battle."
The grandfather was John Lowell, a member of the Constitutional
Convention of Massachusetts in 1780. It was he who introduced into the
Bill of Rights a phrase from the Bill of Rights of Virginia, "All men
are created free and equal," with the purpose which it effected of
setting free every man then held as a slave in Massachusetts. A son of
John Lowell and brother of the Rev. Charles Lowell was Francis Cabot
Lowell, who gave a great impetus to New England manufactures, and from
whom the city of Lowell took its name. Another son, and thus also an
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[vii]</SPAN></span>
uncle of the poet, was John Lowell, Jr., whose wise and far-sighted
provision gave to Boston that powerful centre of intellectual
influence, the Lowell Institute. Of the Rev. Charles Lowell, his son
said, in a letter written in 1844, "He is Doctor Primrose in the
comparative degree, the very simplest and charmingest of
sexagenarians, and not without a great deal of the truest
magnanimity." It was characteristic of Lowell thus to go to <i>The Vicar
of Wakefield</i> for a portrait of his father. Dr. Lowell lived till
1861, when his son was forty-two.</p>
<div class="figcenter"><SPAN name="Elmwood" id="Elmwood"></SPAN> <ANTIMG class="img1" src="images/image_02.jpg" width-obs="400" height-obs="598" alt="Elmwood, Mr. Lowell's home in Cambridge." title="Elmwood, Mr. Lowell's home in Cambridge." /> <span class="caption">Elmwood, Mr. Lowell's home in Cambridge.</span></div>
<p>Mrs. Harriet Spence Lowell, the poet's mother, was of Scotch origin, a
native of Portsmouth, New Hampshire. She is described as having "a
great memory, an extraordinary aptitude for language, and a passionate
fondness for ancient songs and ballads." It pleased her to fancy
herself descended from the hero of one of the most famous ballads, Sir
Patrick Spens, and at any rate she made a genuine link in the Poetic
Succession. In a letter to his mother, written in 1837, Lowell says:
"I am engaged in several poetical effusions, one of which I have
dedicated to you, who have always been the patron and encourager of my
youthful muse." The Russell in his name seems to intimate a strain of
Jewish ancestry; at any rate Lowell took pride in the name on this
account, for he was not slow to recognize the intellectual power of
the Hebrew race. He was the youngest of a family of five, two
daughters and three sons. An older brother who outlived him a short
time, was the Rev. Robert Traill Spence Lowell, who wrote besides a
novel, <i>The New Priest in Conception Bay</i>, which contains a delightful
study of a Yankee, some poems, and a story of school-boy life.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii">[viii]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>Not long before his death, Lowell wrote to an English friend a
description of Elmwood, and as he was very fond of the house in which
he lived and died, it is agreeable to read words which strove to set
it before the eyes of one who had never seen it. "'Tis a pleasant old
house, just about twice as old as I am, four miles from Boston, in
what was once the country and is now a populous suburb. But it still
has some ten acres of open about it, and some fine old trees. When the
worst comes to the worst (if I live so long) I shall still have four
and a half acres left with the house, the rest belonging to my
brothers and sisters or their heirs. It is a square house, with four
rooms on a floor, like some houses of the Georgian era I have seen in
English provincial towns, only they are of brick, and this is of wood.
But it is solid with its heavy oaken beams, the spaces between which
in the four outer walls are filled in with brick, though you mustn't
fancy a brick-and-timber house, for outwardly it is sheathed with
wood. Inside there is much wainscot (of deal) painted white in the
fashion of the time when it was built. It is very sunny, the sun
rising so as to shine (at an acute angle to be sure) through the
northern windows, and going round the other three sides in the course
of the day. There is a pretty staircase with the quaint old twisted
banisters,—which they call balusters now; but mine are banisters. My
library occupies two rooms opening into each other by arches at the
sides of the ample chimneys. The trees I look out on are the earliest
things I remember. There you have me in my new-old quarters. But you
must not fancy a large house—rooms sixteen feet square, and on the
ground floor, nine high. It was large, as things went here, when it
was built, and has a certain <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix">[ix]</SPAN></span>air of amplitude about it as from some
inward sense of dignity." In an earlier letter he wrote: "Here I am in
my garret. I slept here when I was a little curly-headed boy, and used
to see visions between me and the ceiling, and dream the so often
recurring dream of having the earth put into my hand like an orange.
In it I used to be shut up without a lamp,—my mother saying that none
of her children should be afraid of the dark,—to hide my head under
the pillow, and then not be able to shut out the shapeless monsters
that thronged around me, minted in my brain.... In winter my view is a
wide one, taking in a part of Boston. I can see one long curve of the
Charles and the wide fields between me and Cambridge, and the flat
marshes beyond the river, smooth and silent with glittering snow. As
the spring advances and one after another of our trees puts forth, the
landscape is cut off from me piece by piece, till, by the end of May,
I am closeted in a cool and rustling privacy of leaves." In two of his
papers especially, <i>My Garden Acquaintance</i> and <i>A Good Word for
Winter</i>, has Lowell given glimpses of the out-door life in the midst
of which he grew up.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="II" id="II"></SPAN>II.</h2>
<h3>EDUCATION.</h3>
<p>His acquaintance with books and his schooling began early. He learned
his letters at a dame school. Mr. William Wells, an Englishman, opened
a classical school in one of the spacious Tory Row houses near
Elmwood, and, bringing with him English public school thoroughness and
severity, gave the boy a drilling in Latin, which he must have made
almost a native speech to <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_x" id="Page_x">[x]</SPAN></span>judge by the ease with which he handled it
afterward in mock heroics. Of course he went to Harvard College. He
lived at his father's house, more than a mile away from the college
yard; but this could have been no great privation to him, for he had
the freedom of his friends' rooms, and he loved the open air. The Rev.
Edward Everett Hale has given a sketch of their common life in
college. "He was a little older than I," he says, "and was one class
in advance of me. My older brother, with whom I lived in college, and
he were most intimate friends. He had no room within the college
walls, and was a great deal with us. The fashion of Cambridge was then
literary. Now the fashion of Cambridge runs to social problems, but
then we were interested in literature. We read Byron and Shelley and
Keats, and we began to read Tennyson and Browning. I first heard of
Tennyson from Lowell, who had borrowed from Mr. Emerson the little
first volume of Tennyson. We actually passed about Tennyson's poems in
manuscript. Carlyle's essays were being printed at the time, and his
<i>French Revolution</i>. In such a community—not two hundred and fifty
students all told,—literary effort was, as I say, the fashion, and
literary men, among whom Lowell was recognized from the very first,
were special favorites. Indeed, there was that in him which made him a
favorite everywhere."</p>
<p>Lowell was but fifteen years old when he entered college in the class
which graduated in 1838. He was a reader, as so many of his fellows
were, and the letters which he wrote shortly after leaving college
show how intent he had been on making acquaintance with the best
things in literature. He began also to scribble verse, and he wrote
both poems and essays for college <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_xi" id="Page_xi">[xi]</SPAN></span>magazines. His class chose him
their poet for Class Day, and he wrote his poem; but he was careless
about conforming to college regulations respecting attendance at
morning prayers; and for this was suspended from college the last term
of his last year, and not allowed to come back to read his poem. "I
have heard in later years," says Dr. Hale, "what I did not know then,
that he rode down from Concord in a canvas-covered wagon, and peeped
out through the chinks of the wagon to see the dancing around the
tree. I fancy he received one or two visits from his friends in the
wagon; but in those times it would have been treason to speak of
this." He was sent to Concord for his rustication, and so passed a few
weeks of his youth amongst scenes dear to every lover of American
letters.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="III" id="III"></SPAN>III.</h2>
<h3>FIRST VENTURE.</h3>
<p>After his graduation he set about the study of law, and for a short
time even was a clerk in a counting-room; but his bent was strongly
toward literature. There was at that time no magazine of commanding
importance in America, and young men were given to starting magazines
with enthusiasm and very little other capital. Such a one was the
<i>Boston Miscellany</i>, launched by Nathan Hale, Lowell's college friend,
and for this Lowell wrote gaily. It lived a year, and shortly after
Lowell himself, with Robert Carter, essayed <i>The Pioneer</i> in 1843. It
lived just three months; but in that time printed contributions by
Lowell, Hawthorne, Whittier, Story, Poe, and Dr. Parsons,—a group
which it would be hard to match in any of the little magazines <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_xii" id="Page_xii">[xii]</SPAN></span>that
hop across the world's path to-day. Lowell had already collected, in
1841, the poems which he had written and sometimes contributed to
periodicals into a volume entitled <i>A Year's Life</i>; but he retained
very little of the contents in later editions of his poems. The book
has a special interest, however, from its dedication in veiled phrase
to Maria White. He became engaged to this lady in the fall of 1840,
and the next twelve years of his life were profoundly affected by her
influence. Herself a poet of delicate power, she brought into his life
an intelligent sympathy with his work; it was, however, her strong
moral enthusiasm, her lofty conception of purity and justice, which
kindled his spirit and gave force and direction to a character which
was ready to respond, and yet might otherwise have delayed active
expression. They were not married until 1844; but they were not far
apart in their homes, and during these years Lowell was making those
early ventures in literature, and first raids upon political and moral
evil, which foretold the direction of his later work, and gave some
hint of its abundance.</p>
<p>About the time of his marriage, he published two books which, by their
character, show pretty well the divided interest of his life. His bent
from the beginning was more decidedly literary than that of any
contemporary American poet. That is to say, the history and art of
literature divided his interest with the production of literature, and
he carried the unusual gift of a rare critical power, joined to hearty
spontaneous creation. It may indeed be guessed that the keenness of
judgment and incisiveness of wit which characterize his examination of
literature sometimes interfered with his poetic power, and made him
liable to question his art <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_xiii" id="Page_xiii">[xiii]</SPAN></span>when he would rather have expressed it
unchecked. One of the two books was a volume of poems; the other was a
prose work, <i>Conversations on Some of the Old Poets</i>. He did not keep
this book alive; but it is interesting as marking the enthusiasm of a
young scholar treading a way then almost wholly neglected in America,
and intimating a line of thought and study in which he afterward made
most noteworthy venture. Another series of poems followed in 1848, and
in the same year <i>The Vision of Sir Launfal</i>. Perhaps it was in
reaction from the marked sentiment of his poetry that he issued now a
<i>jeu d'esprit, A Fable for Critics</i>, in which he hit off, with a rough
and ready wit, the characteristics of the writers of the day, not
forgetting himself in these lines:</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">There is Lowell, who's striving Parnassus to climb<br/></span>
<span class="i0">With a whole bale of <i>isms</i> tied together with rhyme;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">He might get on alone, spite of brambles and boulders,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">But he can't with that bundle he has on his shoulders;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The top of the hill he will ne'er come nigh reaching<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Till he learns the distinction 'twixt singing and preaching;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">His lyre has some chords that would ring pretty well,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">But he'd rather by half make a drum of the shell,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And rattle away till he's old as Methusalem,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">At the head of a march to the last new Jerusalem.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p>This, of course, is but a half serious portrait of himself, and it
touches but a single feature; others can say better that Lowell's
ardent nature showed itself in the series of satirical poems which
made him famous, <i>The Biglow Papers</i>, written in a spirit of
indignation and fine scorn, when the Mexican War was causing many
Americans to blush with shame at the use of the country by a class for
its own ignoble ends. Lowell and his wife, who brought a fervid
anti-slavery temper as part of her marriage portion, were both
contributors to the <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_xiv" id="Page_xiv">[xiv]</SPAN></span><i>Liberty Bell</i>; and Lowell was a frequent
contributor to the <i>Anti-Slavery Standard</i>, and was, indeed, for a
while a corresponding editor. In June, 1846, there appeared one day in
the <i>Boston Courier</i> a letter from Mr. Ezekiel Biglow of Jaalam to the
editor, Hon. Joseph T. Buckingham, inclosing a poem of his son, Mr.
Hosea Biglow. It was no new thing to seek to arrest the public
attention with the vernacular applied to public affairs. Major Jack
Downing and Sam Slick had been notable examples, and they had many
imitators; but the reader who laughed over the racy narrative of the
unlettered Ezekiel, and then took up Hosea's poem and caught the gust
of Yankee wrath and humor blown fresh in his face, knew that he was in
at the appearance of something new in American literature. The force
which Lowell displayed in these satires made his book at once a
powerful ally of an anti-slavery sentiment, which heretofore had been
ridiculed.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="IV" id="IV"></SPAN>IV.</h2>
<h3>VERSE AND PROSE.</h3>
<p>A year in Europe, 1851-1852, with his wife, whose health was then
precarious, stimulated his scholarly interests, and gave substance to
his study of Dante and Italian literature. In October, 1853, his wife
died; she had borne him three children: the first-born, Blanche, died
in infancy; the second, Walter, also died young; the third, a
daughter, Mrs. Burnett, survived her parents. In 1855 he was chosen
successor to Longfellow as Smith Professor of the French and Spanish
Languages and Literature, and Professor of Belles Lettres in Harvard
College. He spent two years in Europe in <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_xv" id="Page_xv">[xv]</SPAN></span>further preparation for the
duties of his office, and in 1857 was again established in Cambridge,
and installed in his academic chair. He married, also, at this time
Miss Frances Dunlap, of Portland, Maine.</p>
<p>Lowell was now in his thirty-ninth year. As a scholar, in his
professional work, he had acquired a versatile knowledge of the
Romance languages, and was an adept in old French and Provençal
poetry; he had given a course of twelve lectures on English poetry
before the Lowell Institute in Boston, which had made a strong
impression on the community, and his work on the series of <i>British
Poets</i> in connection with Professor Child, especially his biographical
sketch of Keats, had been recognized as of a high order. In poetry he
had published the volumes already mentioned. In general literature he
had printed in magazines the papers which he afterward collected into
his volume, <i>Fireside Travels</i>. Not long after he entered on his
college duties, <i>The Atlantic Monthly</i> was started, and the editorship
given to him. He held the office for a year or two only; but he
continued to write for the magazine, and in 1862 he was associated
with Mr. Charles Eliot Norton in the conduct of <i>The North American
Review</i>, and continued in this charge for ten years. Much of his prose
was contributed to this periodical. Any one reading the titles of the
papers which comprise the volumes of his prose writings will readily
see how much literature, and especially poetic literature, occupied
his attention. Shakespeare, Dryden, Lessing, Rousseau, Dante, Spenser,
Wordsworth, Milton, Keats, Carlyle, Percival, Thoreau, Swinburne,
Chaucer, Emerson, Pope, Gray,—these are the principal subjects of his
prose, and the range of topics indicates the catholicity of his
taste.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_xvi" id="Page_xvi">[xvi]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>In these papers, when studying poetry, he was very alive to the
personality of the poets, and it was the strong interest in humanity
which led Lowell, when he was most diligent in the pursuit of
literature, to apply himself also to history and politics. Several of
his essays bear witness to this, such as <i>Witchcraft, New England Two
Centuries Ago, A Great Public Character</i> (Josiah Quincy), <i>Abraham
Lincoln</i>, and his great <i>Political Essays</i>. But the most remarkable of
his writings of this order was the second series of <i>The Biglow
Papers</i>, published during the war for the Union. In these, with the
wit and fun of the earlier series, there was mingled a deeper strain
of feeling and a larger tone of patriotism. The limitations of his
style in these satires forbade the fullest expression of his thought
and emotion; but afterward in a succession of poems, occasioned by the
honors paid to student soldiers in Cambridge, the death of Agassiz,
and the celebration of national anniversaries during the years 1875
and 1876, he sang in loftier, more ardent strains. The most famous of
these poems was his noble Commemoration Ode.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="V" id="V"></SPAN>V.</h2>
<h3>PUBLIC LIFE.</h3>
<p>It was at the close of this period, when he had done incalculable
service to the Republic, that Lowell was called on to represent the
country, first in Madrid, where he was sent in 1877, and then in
London, to which he was transferred in 1880. Eight years were thus
spent by him in the foreign service of the country. He had a good
knowledge of the Spanish language and literature when he went to
Spain; but he at once took pains to <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_xvii" id="Page_xvii">[xvii]</SPAN></span>make his knowledge fuller and his
accent more perfect, so that he could have intimate relations with the
best Spanish men of the time. In England he was at once a most welcome
guest, and was in great demand as a public speaker. No one can read
his dispatches from Madrid and London without being struck by his
sagacity, his readiness in emergencies, his interest in and quick
perception of the political situation in the country where he was
resident, and his unerring knowledge as a man of the world. Above all,
he was through and through an American, true to the principles which
underlie American institutions. His address on <i>Democracy</i>, which he
delivered in England, is one of the great statements of human liberty.
A few years later, after his return to America, he gave another
address to his own countrymen on <i>The Place of the Independent in
Politics</i>. It was a noble defense of his own position, not without a
trace of discouragement at the apparently sluggish movement in
American self-government of recent years, but with that faith in the
substance of his countrymen which gave him the right to use words of
honest warning.</p>
<p>The public life of Mr. Lowell made him more of a figure before the
world. He received honors from societies and universities; he was
decorated by the highest honors which Harvard could pay officially;
and Oxford and Cambridge, St. Andrews and Edinburgh and Bologna, gave
gowns. He established warm personal relations with Englishmen, and,
after his release from public office, he made several visits to
England. There, too, was buried his wife, who died in 1885. The
closing years of his life in his own country, though touched with
domestic loneliness and diminished by growing physical <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_xviii" id="Page_xviii">[xviii]</SPAN></span>infirmities
that predicted his death, were rich also with the continued expression
of his large personality. He delivered the public address in
commemoration of the 250th anniversary of the founding of Harvard
University; he gave a course of lectures on the Old English Dramatists
before the Lowell Institute; he collected a volume of his poems; he
wrote and spoke on public affairs; and, the year before his death,
revised, rearranged, and carefully edited a definitive series of his
writings in ten volumes. He died at Elmwood, August 12, 1891. Since
his death three small volumes have been added to his collected
writings, and Mr. Norton has published <i>Letters of James Russell
Lowell</i>, in two volumes.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</SPAN></span></p>
<h2><SPAN name="INTRODUCTORY_NOTE" id="INTRODUCTORY_NOTE"></SPAN>INTRODUCTORY NOTE</h2>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p>Lowell was in his thirtieth year when he wrote and published <i>The
Vision of Sir Launfal</i>. It appeared when he had just dashed off his
<i>Fable for Critics</i>, and when he was in the thick of the anti-slavery
fight, writing poetry and prose for <i>The Anti-Slavery Standard</i>, and
sending out his witty <i>Biglow Papers</i>. He had married four years
before, and was living in the homestead at Elmwood, walking in the
country about, and full of eagerness at the prospect which lay before
him. In a letter to his friend Charles F. Briggs, written in December,
1848, he says: "Last night ... I walked to Watertown over the snow,
with the new moon before me and a sky exactly like that in Page's
evening landscape. Orion was rising behind me, and, as I stood on the
hill just before you enter the village, the stillness of the fields
around me was delicious, broken only by the tinkle of a little brook
which runs too swiftly for Frost to catch it. My picture of the brook
in <i>Sir Launfal</i> was drawn from it. But why do I send you this
description,—like the bones of a chicken I had picked? Simply because
I was so happy as I stood there, and felt so sure of doing something
that would justify my friends. But why do I not say that I have done
something? I believe that I have done better than the world knows yet;
but the past seems so little compared with the future.... I am the
first poet who has endeavored <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</SPAN></span>to express the American Idea, and I
shall be popular by and by."</p>
<p>It is not very likely that Lowell was thinking of <i>Sir Launfal</i> when
he wrote this last sentence, yet it is not straining language too far
to say that when he took up an Arthurian story he had a different
attitude toward the whole cycle of legends from that of Tennyson, who
had lately been reviving the legends for the pleasure of
English-reading people. The exuberance of the poet as he carols of
June in the prelude to Part First is an expression of the joyous
spring which was in the veins of the young American, glad in the sense
of freedom and hope. As Tennyson threw into his retelling of Arthurian
romance a moral sense, so Lowell, also a moralist in his poetic
apprehension, made a parable of his tale, and, in the broadest
interpretation of democracy, sang of the leveling of all ranks in a
common divine humanity. There is a subterranean passage connecting the
<i>Biglow Papers</i> with <i>Sir Launfal</i>; it is the holy zeal which attacks
slavery issuing in this fable of a beautiful charity, Christ in the
guise of a beggar.</p>
<p>The invention is a very simple one, and appears to have been suggested
by Tennyson's <i>Sir Galahad</i>, though Lowell had no doubt read Sir
Thomas Malory's <i>Morte d'Arthur</i>. The following is the note which
accompanied <i>The Vision</i> when first published in 1848, and retained by
Lowell in all subsequent editions:—</p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>"According to the mythology of the Romancers, the San Greal,
or Holy Grail, was the cup out of which Jesus Christ partook
of the last supper with his disciples. It was brought into
England by Joseph of Arimathea, and remained there, an
object of pilgrimage and adoration, <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</SPAN></span>for many years in the
keeping of his lineal descendants. It was incumbent upon
those who had charge of it to be chaste in thought, word,
and deed; but, one of the keepers having broken this
condition, the Holy Grail disappeared. From that time it was
a favorite enterprise of the Knights of Arthur's court to go
in search of it. Sir Galahad was at last successful in
finding it, as may be read in the seventeenth book of the
Romance of King Arthur. Tennyson has made Sir Galahad the
subject of one of the most exquisite of his poems.</p>
<p>"The plot (if I may give that name to anything so slight) of
the following poem is my own, and, to serve its purposes, I
have enlarged the circle of competition in search of the
miraculous cup in such a manner as to include not only other
persons than the heroes of the Round Table, but also a
period of time subsequent to the date of King Arthur's
reign." </p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</SPAN></span></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="THE_VISION_OF_SIR_LAUNFAL" id="THE_VISION_OF_SIR_LAUNFAL"></SPAN>THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL</h2>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="PRELUDE_TO_PART_FIRST" id="PRELUDE_TO_PART_FIRST"></SPAN>PRELUDE TO PART FIRST.</h2>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Over his keys the musing organist,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Beginning doubtfully and far away,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">First lets his fingers wander as they list,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And builds a Bridge from Dreamland for his lay:<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">5</span><span class="i0">Then, as the touch of his loved instrument<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Along the wavering vista of his dream.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Not only around our infancy<SPAN name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</SPAN><br/></span>
<span class="linenum">10</span><span class="i0">Doth heaven with all its splendors lie;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Daily, with souls that cringe and plot,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">We Sinais climb and know it not.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Over our manhood bend the skies;<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Against our fallen and traitor lives<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">15</span><span class="i0">The great winds utter prophecies:<br/></span>
<span class="i2">With our faint hearts the mountain strives;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Its arms outstretched, the druid wood<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Waits with its benedicite;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And to our age's drowsy blood<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">20</span><span class="i2">Still shouts the inspiring sea.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us;<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">We bargain for the graves we lie in;<br/></span></div>
</div>
<div class="footnotes"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></SPAN> In allusion to Wordsworth's</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"Heaven lies about us in our infancy,"<br/></span></div>
</div>
in his ode, <i>Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early
Childhood</i>.</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">25</span><span class="i0">At the Devil's booth are all things sold,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold;<br/></span>
<span class="i2">For a cap and bells our lives we pay,<SPAN name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</SPAN><br/></span>
<span class="i0">Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking:<br/></span>
<span class="i2">'T is heaven alone that is given away,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">30</span><span class="i0">'T is only God may be had for the asking;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">No price is set on the lavish summer;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">June may be had by the poorest comer.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<div class="footnotes"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></SPAN> In the Middle Ages kings and noblemen had in their courts
jesters to make sport for the company; as everyone then wore a dress
indicating his rank or occupation, so the jester wore a cap hung with
bells. The fool of Shakespeare's plays is the king's jester at his
best.</p>
</div>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And what is so rare as a day in June?<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Then, if ever, come perfect days;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">35</span><span class="i0">Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And over it softly her warm ear lays:<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Whether we look, or whether we listen,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Every clod feels a stir of might,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">40</span><span class="i2">An instinct within it that reaches and towers,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And, groping blindly above it for light,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The flush of life may well be seen<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Thrilling back over hills and valleys;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">45</span><span class="i0">The cowslip startles in meadows green,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean<br/></span>
<span class="i2">To be some happy creature's palace;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The little bird sits at his door in the sun,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">50</span><span class="i2">Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And lets his illumined being o'errun<br/></span>
<span class="i2">With the deluge of summer it receives;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">55</span><span class="i0">He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,—<br/></span>
<span class="i0">In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Now is the high-tide of the year,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And whatever of life hath ebbed away<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">60</span><span class="i2">Into every bare inlet and creek and bay;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">We are happy now because God wills it;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">No matter how barren the past may have been,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">65</span><span class="i0">We sit in the warm shade and feel right well<br/></span>
<span class="i0">How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing<br/></span>
<span class="i0">That skies are clear and grass is growing;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The breeze comes whispering in our ear,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">70</span><span class="i0">That dandelions are blossoming near,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">That the river is bluer than the sky,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">That the robin is plastering his house hard by;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And if the breeze kept the good news back,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">75</span><span class="i0">For other couriers we should not lack;<br/></span>
<span class="i2">We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,—<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And hark! how clear bold chanticleer,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Warmed with the new wine of the year,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Tells all in his lusty crowing!<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">80</span><span class="i0">Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Everything is happy now,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Everything is upward striving;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">'T is as easy now for the heart to be true<br/></span>
<span class="i0">As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,—<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">85</span><span class="i2">'T is the natural way of living:<br/></span>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</SPAN></span>
<span class="i0">Who knows whither the clouds have fled?<br/></span>
<span class="i2">In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And the eyes forget the tears they have shed,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The heart forgets its sorrow and ache;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">90</span><span class="i0">The soul partakes of the season's youth,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Like burnt-out craters healed with snow.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">What wonder if Sir Launfal now<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">95</span><span class="i0">Remembered the keeping of his vow?<br/></span></div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="PART_FIRST" id="PART_FIRST"></SPAN>PART FIRST.</h2>
<p><span style="margin-left:12em; "><b>I.</b></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"My golden spurs now bring to me,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And bring to me my richest mail,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">For to-morrow I go over land and sea,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">In search of the Holy Grail;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">100</span><span class="i0">Shall never a bed for me be spread,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Nor shall a pillow be under my head,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Till I begin my vow to keep;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Here on the rushes will I sleep,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And perchance there may come a vision true<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">105</span><span class="i0">Ere day create the world anew."<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Slowly Sir Launfal's eyes grew dim,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Slumber fell like a cloud on him,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And into his soul the vision flew.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p><span style="margin-left:12em; "><b>II.</b></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The crows flapped over by twos and threes,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">110</span><span class="i0">In the pool drowsed the cattle up to their knees,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The little birds sang as if it were<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The one day of summer in all the year,<br/></span>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</SPAN></span>
<span class="i0">And the very leaves seemed to sing on the trees:<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The castle alone in the landscape lay<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">115</span><span class="i0">Like an outpost of winter, dull and gray:<br/></span>
<span class="i0">'Twas the proudest hall in the North Countree,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And never its gates might opened be,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Save to lord or lady of high degree;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Summer besieged it on every side,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">120</span><span class="i0">But the churlish stone her assaults defied;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">She could not scale the chilly wall,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Though around it for leagues her pavilions tall<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Stretched left and right,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Over the hills and out of sight;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">125</span><span class="i2">Green and broad was every tent,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And out of each a murmur went<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Till the breeze fell off at night.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p><span style="margin-left:12em; "><b>III.</b></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The drawbridge dropped with a surly clang,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And through the dark arch a charger sprang,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">130</span><span class="i0">Bearing Sir Launfal, the maiden knight,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">In his gilded mail, that flamed so bright<br/></span>
<span class="i0">It seemed the dark castle had gathered all<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Those shafts the fierce sun had shot over its wall<br/></span>
<span class="i2">In his siege of three hundred summers long,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">135</span><span class="i0">And, binding them all in one blazing sheaf,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Had cast them forth: so, young and strong,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And lightsome as a locust-leaf,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Sir Launfal flashed forth in his unscarred mail,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">To seek in all climes for the Holy Grail.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p><span style="margin-left:12em; "><b>IV.</b></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">140</span><span class="i0">It was morning on hill and stream and tree,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And morning in the young knight's heart;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Only the castle moodily<br/></span>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</SPAN></span>
<span class="i0">Rebuffed the gifts of the sunshine free,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And gloomed by itself apart;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">145</span><span class="i0">The season brimmed all other things up<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Full as the rain fills the pitcher-plant's cup.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p><span style="margin-left:12em; "><b>V.</b></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">As Sir Launfal made morn through the darksome gate,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">He was 'ware of a leper, crouched by the same,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Who begged with his hand and moaned as he sate;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">150</span><span class="i2">And a loathing over Sir Launfal came;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The sunshine went out of his soul with a thrill,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The flesh 'neath his armor 'gan shrink and crawl,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And midway its leap his heart stood still<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Like a frozen waterfall;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">155</span><span class="i0">For this man, so foul and bent of stature,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Rasped harshly against his dainty nature,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And seemed the one blot on the summer morn,—<br/></span>
<span class="i0">So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p><span style="margin-left:12em; "><b>VI.</b></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The leper raised not the gold from the dust:<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">160</span><span class="i0">"Better to me the poor man's crust,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Better the blessing of the poor,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Though I turn me empty from his door;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">That is no true alms which the hand can hold;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">He gives nothing but worthless gold<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">165</span><span class="i2">Who gives from a sense of duty;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">But he who gives but a slender mite,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And gives to that which is out of sight,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">That thread of the all-sustaining Beauty<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Which runs through all and doth all unite,—<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">170</span><span class="i0">The hand cannot clasp the whole of his alms,<br/></span><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</SPAN></span>
<span class="i0">The heart outstretches its eager palms,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">For a god goes with it and makes it store<br/></span>
<span class="i0">To the soul that was starving in darkness before."<br/></span></div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="PRELUDE_TO_PART_SECOND" id="PRELUDE_TO_PART_SECOND"></SPAN>PRELUDE TO PART SECOND.</h2>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Down swept the chill wind from the mountain peak,<SPAN name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</SPAN><br/></span>
<span class="linenum">175</span><span class="i2">From the snow five thousand summers old;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">On open wold and hill-top bleak<br/></span>
<span class="i2">It had gathered all the cold,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">It carried a shiver everywhere<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">180</span><span class="i0">From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The little brook heard it and built a roof<br/></span>
<span class="i0">'Neath which he could house him, winter-proof;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">All night by the white stars frosty gleams<br/></span>
<span class="i0">He groined his arches and matched his beams;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">185</span><span class="i0">Slender and clear were his crystal spars<br/></span>
<span class="i0">As the lashes of light that trim the stars;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">He sculptured every summer delight<br/></span>
<span class="i0">In his halls and chambers out of sight;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Sometimes his tinkling waters slipt<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">190</span><span class="i0">Down through a frost-leaved forest-crypt,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Long, sparkling aisles of steel-stemmed trees<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Bending to counterfeit a breeze;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew<br/></span>
<span class="i0">But silvery mosses that downward grew;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">195</span><span class="i0">Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief<br/></span>
<span class="i0">With quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf;<br/></span></div>
</div>
<div class="footnotes"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></SPAN> Note the different moods that are indicated by the two
preludes. The one is of June, the other of snow and winter. By these
preludes the poet, like an organist, strikes a key which he holds in
the subsequent parts.</p>
</div>
<p> </p>
<div class="figcenter"><SPAN name="Sir_Launfal" id="Sir_Launfal"></SPAN> <ANTIMG class="img1" src="images/image_03.jpg" width-obs="400" height-obs="589" alt="As Sir Launfal Made Morn Through the Darksome Gate." title="As Sir Launfal Made Morn Through the Darksome Gate." /> <span class="caption">As Sir Launfal Made Morn Through the Darksome Gate.</span></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Sometimes it was simply smooth and clear<br/></span>
<span class="i0">For the gladness of heaven to shine through, and here<br/></span>
<span class="i0">He had caught the nodding bulrush-tops<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">200</span><span class="i0">And hung them thickly with diamond-drops,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">That crystalled the beams of moon and sun,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And made a star of everyone:<br/></span>
<span class="i0">No mortal builder's most rare device<SPAN name="FNanchor_4_4" id="FNanchor_4_4"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</SPAN><br/></span>
<span class="i0">Could match this winter-palace of ice;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">205</span><span class="i0">'Twas as if every image that mirrored lay<br/></span>
<span class="i0">In his depths serene through the summer day,<SPAN name="FNanchor_5_5" id="FNanchor_5_5"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</SPAN><br/></span>
<span class="i0">Each fleeting shadow of earth and sky,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Lest the happy model should be lost,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Had been mimicked in fairy masonry<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">210</span><span class="i2">By the elfin builders of the frost.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Within the hall are song and laughter,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The cheeks of Christmas grow red and jolly,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And sprouting is every corbel and rafter<br/></span>
<span class="i2">With lightsome green of ivy and holly;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">215</span><span class="i0">Through the deep gulf of the chimney wide<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Wallows the Yule-log's roaring tide<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The broad flame-pennons droop and flap<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And belly and tug as a flag in the wind;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Like a locust shrills the imprisoned sap,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">220</span><span class="i2">Hunted to death in its galleries blind;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And swift little troops of silent sparks,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Now pausing, now scattering away as in fear,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Go threading the soot-forest's tangled darks<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Like herds of startled deer.<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">225</span><span class="i0">But the wind without was eager and sharp,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Of Sir Launfal's gray hair it makes a harp,<br/></span>
<span class="i3">And rattles and wrings<br/></span>
<span class="i3">The icy strings,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Singing, in dreary monotone,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">230</span><span class="i2">A Christmas carol of its own,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Whose burden still, as he might guess,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Was—"Shelterless, shelterless, shelterless!"<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The voice of the seneschal flared like a torch<br/></span>
<span class="i0">As he shouted the wanderer away from the porch,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">235</span><span class="i0">And he sat in the gateway and saw all night<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The great hall-fire, so cheery and bold,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Through the window-slits of the castle old,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Build out its piers of ruddy light<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Against the drift of the cold.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<div class="footnotes"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_4_4" id="Footnote_4_4"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_4_4"><span class="label">[4]</span></SPAN> The Empress of Russia, Catherine II., in a magnificent
freak, built a palace of ice, which was a nine-days' wonder. Cowper
has given a poetical description of it in <i>The Task</i>, Book V. lines
131-176.</p>
<p><SPAN name="Footnote_5_5" id="Footnote_5_5"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_5_5"><span class="label">[5]</span></SPAN> The Yule-log was anciently a huge log burned at the feast
of Juul (pronounced Yule) by our Scandinavian ancestors in honor of
the god Thor. Juul-tid (Yule-time) corresponded in time to Christmas
tide, and when Christian festivities took the place of pagan, many
ceremonies remained. The great log, still called the Yule-log, was
dragged in and burned in the fireplace after Thor had been
forgotten.</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</SPAN></span></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="PART_SECOND" id="PART_SECOND"></SPAN>PART SECOND.</h2>
<p><span style="margin-left:12em; "><b>I.</b></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">240</span><span class="i0">There was never a leaf on bush or tree,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The bare boughs rattled shudderingly;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The river was dumb and could not speak,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">For the weaver Winter its shroud had spun,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">A single crow on the tree-top bleak<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">245</span><span class="i2">From his shining feathers shed off the cold sun;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">As if her veins were sapless and old,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And she rose up decrepitly<br/></span>
<span class="i0">For a last dim look at earth and sea.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</SPAN></span></p>
<p><span style="margin-left:12em; "><b>II.</b></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">250</span><span class="i0">Sir Launfal turned from his own hard gate,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">For another heir in his earldom sate;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">An old, bent man, worn out and frail,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">He came back from seeking the Holy Grail;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Little he recked of his earldom's loss,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">255</span><span class="i0">No more on his surcoat was blazoned the cross,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">But deep in his soul the sign he wore,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The badge of the suffering and the poor.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p><span style="margin-left:12em; "><b>III.</b></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Sir Launfal's raiment thin and spare<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Was idle mail 'gainst the barbed air,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">260</span><span class="i0">For it was just at the Christmas time;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">So he mused, as he sat, of a sunnier clime,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And sought for a shelter from cold and snow<br/></span>
<span class="i0">In the light and warmth of long-ago;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">He sees the snake-like caravan crawl<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">265</span><span class="i0">O'er the edge of the desert, black and small,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Then nearer and nearer, till, one by one,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">He can count the camels in the sun,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">As over the red-hot sands they pass<br/></span>
<span class="i0">To where, in its slender necklace of grass,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">270</span><span class="i0">The little spring laughed and leapt in the shade,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And with its own self like an infant played,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And waved its signal of palms.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p><span style="margin-left:12em; "><b>IV.</b></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"For Christ's sweet sake, I beg an alms;"—<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The happy camels may reach the spring,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">275</span><span class="i0">But Sir Launfal sees only the grewsome thing,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The leper, lank as the rain-blanched bone,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">That cowers beside him, a thing as lone<br/></span>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</SPAN></span>
<span class="i0">And white as the ice-isles of Northern seas<br/></span>
<span class="i0">In the desolate horror of his disease.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p><span style="margin-left:12em; "><b>V.</b></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">280</span><span class="i0">And Sir Launfal said,—"I behold in thee<br/></span>
<span class="i0">An image of Him who died on the tree;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Thou also hast had thy crown of thorns,—<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Thou also hast had the world's buffets and scorns,—<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And to thy life were not denied<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">285</span><span class="i0">The wounds in the hands and feet and side;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Mild Mary's Son, acknowledge me;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Behold, through him, I give to Thee!"<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p><span style="margin-left:12em; "><b>VI.</b></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Then the soul of the leper stood up in his eyes<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And looked at Sir Launfal, and straightway he<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">290</span><span class="i0">Remembered in what a haughtier guise<br/></span>
<span class="i2">He had flung an alms to leprosie,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">When he girt his young life up in gilded mail<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And set forth in search of the Holy Grail.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The heart within him was ashes and dust;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">295</span><span class="i0">He parted in twain his single crust,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">He broke the ice on the streamlet's brink,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And gave the leper to eat and drink:<br/></span>
<span class="i0">'T was a mouldy crust of coarse brown bread,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">'T was water out of a wooden bowl,—<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">300</span><span class="i0">Yet with fine wheaten bread was the leper fed,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And 't was red wine he drank with his thirsty soul.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<div class="figcenter"><SPAN name="He_Mused" id="He_Mused"></SPAN> <ANTIMG class="img1" src="images/image_04.jpg" width-obs="400" height-obs="626" alt="So he Mused, as he sat, of a sunnier clime." title="So he Mused, as he sat, of a sunnier clime." /> <span class="caption">So he Mused, as he sat, of a sunnier clime.</span></div>
<p><span style="margin-left:12em; "><b>VII.</b></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">As Sir Launfal mused with a downcast face,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">A light shone round about the place;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The leper no longer crouched at his side,<br/></span>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</SPAN></span>
<span class="linenum">305</span><span class="i0">But stood before him glorified,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Shining and tall and fair and straight<br/></span>
<span class="i0">As the pillar that stood by the Beautiful Gate,—<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Himself the Gate whereby men can<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Enter the temple of God in Man.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p><span style="margin-left:12em; "><b>VIII.</b></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">310</span><span class="i0">His words were shed softer than leaves from the pine,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And they fell on Sir Launfal as snows on the brine,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">That mingle their softness and quiet in one<br/></span>
<span class="i0">With the shaggy unrest they float down upon;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And the voice that was calmer than silence said,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">315</span><span class="i0">"Lo it is I, be not afraid!<br/></span>
<span class="i0">In many climes, without avail,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Behold, it is here,—this cup which thou<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Didst fill at the streamlet for Me but now;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">320</span><span class="i0">This crust is My body broken for thee,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">This water His blood that died on the tree;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The Holy Supper is kept, indeed,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">In whatso we share with another's need:<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Not what we give, but what we share,—<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">325</span><span class="i0">For the gift without the giver is bare;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Who gives himself with his alms feeds three,—<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Himself, his hungering neighbor, and Me."<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p><span style="margin-left:12em; "><b>IX.</b></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Sir Launfal awoke as from a swound:—<br/></span>
<span class="i0">"The Grail in my castle here is found!<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">330</span><span class="i0">Hang my idle armor up on the wall,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Let it be the spider's banquet-hall;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">He must be fenced with stronger mail<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Who would seek and find the Holy Grail."<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</SPAN></span></p>
<p><span style="margin-left:12em; "><b>X.</b></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The castle gate stands open now,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">335</span><span class="i2">And the wanderer is welcome to the hall<br/></span>
<span class="i0">As the hangbird is to the elm-tree bough;<br/></span>
<span class="i2">No longer scowl the turrets tall,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The Summer's long siege at last is o'er;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">When the first poor outcast went in at the door,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">340</span><span class="i0">She entered with him in disguise,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And mastered the fortress by surprise;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">There is no spot she loves so well on ground,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">She lingers and smiles there the whole year round;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The meanest serf on Sir Launfal's land<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">345</span><span class="i0">Has hall and bower at his command;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And there's no poor man in the North Countree<br/></span>
<span class="i0">But is lord of the earldom as much as he.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="ODE_RECITED_AT_THE_HARVARD_COMMEMORATION" id="ODE_RECITED_AT_THE_HARVARD_COMMEMORATION"></SPAN>ODE RECITED AT THE HARVARD COMMEMORATION.</h2>
<p>[On the 21st of July, 1865, Harvard University welcomed back those of
its students and graduates who had fought in the war for the Union. By
exercises in the church and at the festival which followed, the
services of the dead and the living were commemorated. It was on this
occasion that Mr. Lowell recited the following ode.]</p>
<p><span style="margin-left:12em; "><b>I.</b></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2">Weak-winged is song,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Nor aims at that clear-ethered height<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Whither the brave deed climbs for light:<br/></span>
<span class="i2">We seem to do them wrong,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">5</span><span class="i0">Bringing our robin's-leaf to deck their hearse<br/></span><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</SPAN></span>
<span class="i0">Who in warm life-blood wrote their nobler verse,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Our trivial song to honor those who come<br/></span>
<span class="i0">With ears attuned to strenuous trump and drum,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And shaped in squadron-strophes their desire,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">10</span><span class="i0">Live battle-odes whose lines were steel and fire:<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Yet sometimes feathered words are strong,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">A gracious memory to buoy up and save<br/></span>
<span class="i0">From Lethe's dreamless ooze, the common grave<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Of the unventurous throng.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p><span style="margin-left:12em; "><b>II.</b></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">15</span><span class="i0">To-day our Reverend Mother welcomes back<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Her wisest Scholars, those who understood<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The deeper teaching of her mystic tome,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And offered their fresh lives to make it good:<br/></span>
<span class="i4">No lore of Greece or Rome,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">20</span><span class="i0">No science peddling with the names of things,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Or reading stars to find inglorious fates,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Can lift our life with wings<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Far from Death's idle gulf that for the many waits,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">And lengthen out our dates<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">25</span><span class="i0">With that clear fame whose memory sings<br/></span>
<span class="i0">In manly hearts to come, and nerves them and dilates:<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Nor such thy teaching, Mother of us all!<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Not such the trumpet-call<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Of thy diviner mood,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">30</span><span class="i4">That could thy sons entice<br/></span>
<span class="i0">From happy homes and toils, the fruitful nest<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Of those half-virtues which the world calls best,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Into War's tumult rude;<br/></span>
<span class="i4">But rather far that stern device<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">35</span><span class="i0">The sponsors chose that round thy cradle stood<br/></span>
<span class="i4">In the dim, unventured wood,<br/></span>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</SPAN></span>
<span class="i4">The <span class="smcap">Veritas</span> that lurks beneath<SPAN name="FNanchor_6_6" id="FNanchor_6_6"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</SPAN><br/></span>
<span class="i4">The letter's unprolific sheath,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Life of whate'er makes life worth living,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">40</span><span class="i0">Seed-grain of high emprise, immortal food,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">One heavenly thing whereof earth hath the giving.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p><span style="margin-left:12em; "><b>III.</b></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Many loved Truth, and lavished life's best oil<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Amid the dust of books to find her,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Content at last, for guerdon of their toil,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">45</span><span class="i2">With the cast mantle she hath left behind her.<br/></span>
<span class="i3">Many in sad faith sought for her,<br/></span>
<span class="i3">Many with crossed hands sighed for her;<br/></span>
<span class="i3">But these, our brothers, fought for her,<br/></span>
<span class="i3">At life's dear peril wrought for her,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">50</span><span class="i3">So loved her that they died for her,<br/></span>
<span class="i3">Tasting the raptured fleetness<br/></span>
<span class="i3">Of her divine completeness<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Their higher instinct knew<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Those love her best who to themselves are true,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">55</span><span class="i0">And what they dare to dream of, dare to do;<br/></span>
<span class="i3">They followed her and found her<br/></span>
<span class="i3">Where all may hope to find,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Not in the ashes of the burnt-out mind,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">But beautiful, with danger's sweetness round her.<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">60</span><span class="i2">Where faith made whole with deed<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Breathes its awakening breath<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Into the lifeless creed,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">They saw her plumed and mailed,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">With sweet, stern face unveiled,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">65</span><span class="i0">And all-repaying eyes, look proud on them in death.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<div class="footnotes"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_6_6" id="Footnote_6_6"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_6_6"><span class="label">[6]</span></SPAN> An early emblem of Harvard College was a shield with
Veritas (truth) upon three open books. This device is still used.</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</SPAN></span></p>
<p><span style="margin-left:12em; "><b>IV.</b></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Our slender life runs rippling by, and glides<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Into the silent hollow of the past;<br/></span>
<span class="i4">What is there that abides<br/></span>
<span class="i2">To make the next age better for the last?<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">70</span><span class="i4">Is earth too poor to give us<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Something to live for here that shall outlive us?<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Some more substantial boon<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Than such as flows and ebbs with Fortune's fickle moon?<br/></span>
<span class="i4">The little that we see<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">75</span><span class="i4">From doubt is never free;<br/></span>
<span class="i4">The little that we do<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Is but half-nobly true;<br/></span>
<span class="i4">With our laborious hiving<br/></span>
<span class="i0">What men call treasure, and the gods call dross,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">80</span><span class="i2">Life seems a jest of Fate's contriving,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Only secure in everyone's conniving,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">A long account of nothings paid with loss,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Where we poor puppets, jerked by unseen wires,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">After our little hour of strut and rave,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">85</span><span class="i0">With all our pasteboard passions and desires,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Loves, hates, ambitions, and immortal fires,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Are tossed pell-mell together in the grave.<br/></span>
<span class="i2">But stay! no age was e'er degenerate,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Unless men held it at too cheap a rate,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">90</span><span class="i2">For in our likeness still we shape our fate.<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Ah, there is something here<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Unfathomed by the cynic's sneer,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Something that gives our feeble light<br/></span>
<span class="i2">A high immunity from Night,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">95</span><span class="i2">Something that leaps life's narrow bars<br/></span>
<span class="i0">To claim its birthright with the hosts of heaven;<br/></span>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</SPAN></span>
<span class="i2">A seed of sunshine that doth leaven<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Our earthly dulness with the beams of stars,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">And glorify our clay<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">100</span><span class="i0">With light from fountains elder than the Day;<br/></span>
<span class="i2">A conscience more divine than we,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">A gladness fed with secret tears,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">A vexing, forward-reaching sense<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Of some more noble permanence;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">105</span><span class="i4">A light across the sea,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Which haunts the soul and will not let it be,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Still glimmering from the heights of undegenerate years.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p><span style="margin-left:12em; "><b>V.</b></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i4">Whither leads the path<br/></span>
<span class="i3">To ampler fates that leads?<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">110</span><span class="i3">Not down through flowery meads,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">To reap an aftermath<br/></span>
<span class="i3">Of youth's vainglorious weeds;<br/></span>
<span class="i3">But up the steep, amid the wrath<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And shock of deadly-hostile creeds,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">115</span><span class="i2">Where the world's best hope and stay<br/></span>
<span class="i0">By battle's flashes gropes a desperate way,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And every turf the fierce foot clings to bleeds.<br/></span>
<span class="i3">Peace hath her not ignoble wreath,<br/></span>
<span class="i3">Ere yet the sharp, decisive word<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">120</span><span class="i0">Light the black lips of cannon, and the sword<br/></span>
<span class="i3">Dreams in its easeful sheath;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">But some day the live coal behind the thought,<br/></span>
<span class="i3">Whether from Baal's stone obscene,<br/></span>
<span class="i3">Or from the shrine serene<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">125</span><span class="i3">Of God's pure altar brought,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Bursts up in flame; the war of tongue and pen<br/></span>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</SPAN></span>
<span class="i0">Learns with what deadly purpose it was fraught,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And, helpless in the fiery passion caught,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Shakes all the pillared state with shock of men:<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">130</span><span class="i0">Some day the soft Ideal that we wooed<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Confronts us fiercely, foe-beset, pursued,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And cries reproachful: "Was it, then, my praise,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And not myself was loved? Prove now thy truth;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">I claim of thee the promise of thy youth;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">135</span><span class="i0">Give me thy life, or cower in empty phrase,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The victim of thy genius, not its mate!"<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Life may be given in many ways,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And loyalty to Truth be sealed<br/></span>
<span class="i0">As bravely in the closet as the field,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">140</span><span class="i3">So bountiful is Fate;<br/></span>
<span class="i3">But then to stand beside her,<br/></span>
<span class="i3">When craven churls deride her,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">To front a lie in arms and not to yield,<br/></span>
<span class="i3">This shows, methinks, God's plan<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">145</span><span class="i3">And measure of a stalwart man,<br/></span>
<span class="i3">Limbed like the old heroic breeds,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Who stands self-poised on manhood's solid earth;<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Not forced to frame excuses for his birth,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Fed from within with all the strength he needs.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p><span style="margin-left:12em; "><b>VI.</b></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">150</span><span class="i0">Such was he, our Martyr-Chief,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Whom late the Nation he had led,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">With ashes on her head,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Wept with the passion of an angry grief:<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Forgive me, if from present things I turn<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">155</span><span class="i0">To speak what in my heart will beat and burn,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And hang my wreath on his world-honored urn.<br/></span>
<span class="i3">Nature, they say, doth dote,<br/></span>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</SPAN></span>
<span class="i3">And cannot make a man<br/></span>
<span class="i3">Save on some worn-out plan,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">160</span><span class="i3">Repeating us by rote:<br/></span>
<span class="i0">For him her Old-World moulds aside she threw,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And, choosing sweet clay from the breast<br/></span>
<span class="i3">Of the unexhausted West,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">With stuff untainted shaped a hero new,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">165</span><span class="i0">Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true.<br/></span>
<span class="i3">How beautiful to see<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Once more a shepherd of mankind indeed,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">One whose meek flock the people joyed to be,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">170</span><span class="i2">Not lured by any cheat of birth,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">But by his clear-grained human worth,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And brave old wisdom of sincerity!<br/></span>
<span class="i1">They knew that outward grace is dust;<br/></span>
<span class="i1">They could not choose but trust<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">175</span><span class="i0">In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill,<br/></span>
<span class="i3">And supple-tempered will<br/></span>
<span class="i0">That bent like perfect steel to spring again and thrust.<br/></span>
<span class="i2">His was no lonely mountain-peak of mind,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Thrusting to thin air o'er our cloudy bars,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">180</span><span class="i2">A sea-mark now, now lost in vapors blind;<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Broad prairie rather, genial, level-lined,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Fruitful and friendly for all human-kind,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Yet also nigh to heaven and loved of loftiest stars.<br/></span>
<span class="i3">Nothing of Europe here,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">185</span><span class="i0">Or, then, of Europe fronting mornward still,<br/></span>
<span class="i3">Ere any names of Serf and Peer<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Could Nature's equal scheme deface<br/></span>
<span class="i3">And thwart her genial will;<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Here was a type of the true elder race,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">190</span><span class="i0">And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face to face.<br/></span>
<span class="i2"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</SPAN></span>I praise him not; it were too late;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And some innative weakness there must be<br/></span>
<span class="i0">In him who condescends to victory<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Such as the Present gives, and cannot wait,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">195</span><span class="i1">Safe in himself as in a fate.<br/></span>
<span class="i3">So always firmly he:<br/></span>
<span class="i3">He knew to bide his time,<br/></span>
<span class="i3">And can his fame abide,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Still patient in his simple faith sublime,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">200</span><span class="i3">Till the wise years decide.<br/></span>
<span class="i1">Great captains, with their guns and drums,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Disturb our judgment for the hour,<br/></span>
<span class="i3">But at last silence comes;<br/></span>
<span class="i1">These all are gone, and, standing like a tower,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">205</span><span class="i1">Our children shall behold his fame,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame,<br/></span>
<span class="i1">New birth of our new soil, the first American.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p><span style="margin-left:12em; "><b>VII.</b></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2">Long as man's hope insatiate can discern<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">210</span><span class="i4">Or only guess some more inspiring goal<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Outside of Self, enduring as the pole,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Along whose course the flying axles burn<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Of spirits bravely-pitched, earth's manlier brood;<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Long as below we cannot find<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">215</span><span class="i2">The meed that stills the inexorable mind;<br/></span>
<span class="i2">So long this faith to some ideal Good,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Under whatever mortal name it masks,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Freedom, Law, Country, this ethereal mood<br/></span>
<span class="i0">That thanks the Fates for their severer tasks,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">220</span><span class="i2">Feeling its challenged pulses leap,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">While others skulk in subterfuges cheap,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And, set in Danger's van, has all the boon it asks,<br/></span>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</SPAN></span>
<span class="i2">Shall win man's praise and woman's love,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Shall be a wisdom that we set above<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">225</span><span class="i0">All other skills and gifts to culture dear,</span><br/>
<span class="i2">A virtue round whose forehead we enwreathe<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Laurels that with a living passion breathe<br/></span>
<span class="i0">When other crowns grow, while we twine them, sear.<br/></span>
<span class="i2">What brings us thronging these high rites to pay,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">230</span><span class="i0">And seal these hours the noblest of our year,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Save that our brothers found this better way?<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p><span style="margin-left:12em; "><b>VIII.</b></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2">We sit here in the Promised Land<br/></span>
<span class="i0">That flows with Freedom's honey and milk;<br/></span>
<span class="i2">But 't was they won it, sword in hand,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">235</span><span class="i0">Making the nettle danger soft for us as silk.<SPAN name="FNanchor_7_7" id="FNanchor_7_7"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_7_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</SPAN><br/></span>
<span class="i2">We welcome back our bravest and our best;—<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Ah me! not all! some come not with the rest,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Who went forth brave and bright as any here!<br/></span>
<span class="i0">I strive to mix some gladness with my strain,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">240</span><span class="i3">But the sad strings complain,<br/></span>
<span class="i3">And will not please the ear:<br/></span>
<span class="i0">I sweep them for a pæan, but they wane<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Again and yet again<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Into a dirge, and die away in pain.<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">245</span><span class="i0">In these brave ranks I only see the gaps,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Thinking of dear ones whom the dumb turf wraps,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Dark to the triumph which they died to gain:<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Fitlier may others greet the living,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">For me the past is unforgiving;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">250</span><span class="i3">I with uncovered head<br/></span>
<span class="i3">Salute the sacred dead,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Who went, and who return not.—Say not so!<br/></span>
<span class="i0">'Tis not the grapes of Canaan that repay,<SPAN name="FNanchor_8_8" id="FNanchor_8_8"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_8_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</SPAN><br/></span>
<span class="i0">But the high faith that failed not by the way;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">255</span><span class="i0">Virtue treads paths that end not in the grave;<SPAN name="FNanchor_9_9" id="FNanchor_9_9"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_9_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</SPAN><br/></span>
<span class="i0">No bar of endless night exiles the brave;<br/></span>
<span class="i4">And to the saner mind<br/></span>
<span class="i0">We rather seem the dead that stayed behind.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Blow, trumpets, all your exultations blow!<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">260</span><span class="i0">For never shall their aureoled presence lack:<br/></span>
<span class="i0">I see them muster in a gleaming row,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">With ever-youthful brows that nobler show;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">We find in our dull road their shining track;<br/></span>
<span class="i4">In every nobler mood<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">265</span><span class="i0">We feel the orient of their spirit glow,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Part of our life's unalterable good,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Of all our saintlier aspiration;<br/></span>
<span class="i4">They come transfigured back,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Secure from change in their high-hearted ways,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">270</span><span class="i0">Beautiful evermore, and with the rays<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Of morn on their white Shields of Expectation!<br/></span></div>
</div>
<div class="footnotes"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_7_7" id="Footnote_7_7"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_7_7"><span class="label">[7]</span></SPAN> See Shakespeare, <i>King Henry IV. Pt. I</i> Act II Sc. 3. "Out
of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety."</p>
<p><SPAN name="Footnote_8_8" id="Footnote_8_8"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_8_8"><span class="label">[8]</span></SPAN> See the <i>Book of Numbers</i>, chapter xiii.</p>
<p><SPAN name="Footnote_9_9" id="Footnote_9_9"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_9_9"><span class="label">[9]</span></SPAN> Compare Gray's line in <i>Elegy in a Country Churchyard</i>.</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"The paths of glory lead but to the grave."<br/></span></div>
</div></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</SPAN></span></p>
<p><span style="margin-left:12em; "><b>IX.</b></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i4">But is there hope to save<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Even this ethereal essence from the grave?<br/></span>
<span class="i2">What ever 'scaped Oblivion's subtle wrong<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">275</span><span class="i0">Save a few clarion names, or golden threads of song<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Before my musing eye<br/></span>
<span class="i4">The mighty ones of old sweep by,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Disvoicéd now and insubstantial things,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">As noisy once as we; poor ghosts of kings,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">280</span><span class="i2">Shadows of empire wholly gone to dust,<br/></span>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</SPAN></span>
<span class="i2">And many races, nameless long ago,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">To darkness driven by that imperious gust<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Of ever-rushing Time that here doth blow:<br/></span>
<span class="i2">O visionary world, condition strange,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">285</span><span class="i2">Where naught abiding is but only Change,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Where the deep-bolted stars themselves still shift and range!<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Shall we to more continuance make pretence?<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Renown builds tombs; a life-estate is Wit;<br/></span>
<span class="i4">And, bit by bit,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">290</span><span class="i0">The cunning years steal all from us but woe:<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Leaves are we, whose decays no harvest sow.<br/></span>
<span class="i3">But, when we vanish hence,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Shall they lie forceless in the dark below,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Save to make green their little length of sods,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">295</span><span class="i2">Or deepen pansies for a year or two,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Who now to us are shining-sweet as gods?<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Was dying all they had the skill to do?<br/></span>
<span class="i2">That were not fruitless: but the Soul resents<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Such short-lived service, as if blind events<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">300</span><span class="i2">Ruled without her, or earth could so endure;<br/></span>
<span class="i2">She claims a more divine investiture<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Of longer tenure than Fame's airy rents;<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Whate'er she touches doth her nature share;<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Her inspiration haunts the ennobled air,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Gives eyes to mountains blind,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">305</span><span class="i2">Ears to the deaf earth, voices to the wind,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And her clear trump sings succor everywhere<br/></span>
<span class="i2">By lonely bivouacs to the wakeful mind,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">For soul inherits all that soul could dare:<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Yea, Manhood hath a wider span<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">310</span><span class="i2">And larger privilege of life than man.<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The single deed, the private sacrifice,<br/></span>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</SPAN></span>
<span class="i2">So radiant now through proudly-hidden tears,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Is covered up ere long from mortal eyes<br/></span>
<span class="i2">With thoughtless drift of the deciduous years;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">315</span><span class="i2">But that high privilege that makes all men peers,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">That leap of heart whereby a people rise<br/></span>
<span class="i5">Up to a noble anger's height,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And, flamed on by the Fates, not shrink, but grow more bright,<br/></span>
<span class="i3">That swift validity in noble veins,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">320</span><span class="i4">Of choosing danger and disdaining shame,<br/></span>
<span class="i5">Of being set on flame<br/></span>
<span class="i4">By the pure fire that flies all contact base,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">But wraps its chosen with angelic might,<br/></span>
<span class="i5">These are imperishable gains,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">325</span><span class="i2">Sure as the sun, medicinal as light,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">These hold great futures in their lusty reins<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And certify to earth a new imperial race.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p><span style="margin-left:12em; "><b>X.</b></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i5">Who now shall sneer?<br/></span>
<span class="i3">Who dare again to say we trace<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">330</span><span class="i3">Our lines to a plebeian race?<br/></span>
<span class="i5">Roundhead and Cavalier!<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Dumb are those names erewhile in battle loud;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Dream-footed as the shadow of a cloud,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">They flit across the ear:<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">335</span><span class="i0">That is best blood that hath most iron in 't.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">To edge resolve with, pouring without stint<br/></span>
<span class="i4">For what makes manhood dear.<br/></span>
<span class="i3">Tell us not of Plantagenets,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Hapsburgs, and Guelfs, whose thin bloods crawl<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">340</span><span class="i0">Down from some victor in a border-brawl!<br/></span>
<span class="i3">How poor their outworn coronets,<br/></span>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</SPAN></span>
<span class="i0">Matched with one leaf of that plain civic wreath<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Our brave for honor's blazon shall bequeath,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Through whose desert a rescued Nation sets<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">345</span><span class="i0">Her heel on treason, and the trumpet hears<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Shout victory, tingling Europe's sullen ears<br/></span>
<span class="i2">With vain resentments and more vain regrets!<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p><span style="margin-left:12em; "><b>XI.</b></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i4">Not in anger, not in pride,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Pure from passion's mixture rude,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">350</span><span class="i4">Ever to base earth allied,</span><br/>
<span class="i4">But with far-heard gratitude,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Still with heart and voice renewed,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">To heroes living and dear martyrs dead,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The strain should close that consecrates our brave.<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">355</span><span class="i2">Lift the heart and lift the head!<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Lofty be its mood and grave,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Not without a martial ring,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Not without a prouder tread<br/></span>
<span class="i4">And a peal of exultation:<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">360</span><span class="i4">Little right has he to sing<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Through whose heart in such an hour<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Beats no march of conscious power,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Sweeps no tumult of elation!<br/></span>
<span class="i4">'Tis no Man we celebrate,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">365</span><span class="i4">By his country's victories great,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">A hero half, and half the whim of Fate,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">But the pith and marrow of a Nation<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Drawing force from all her men,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Highest, humblest, weakest, all,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">370</span><span class="i4">For her time of need, and then<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Pulsing it again through them,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Till the basest can no longer cower,<br/></span>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</SPAN></span>
<span class="i0">Feeling his soul spring up divinely tall,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Touched but in passing by her mantle-hem.<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">375</span><span class="i0">Come back, then, noble pride, for 'tis her dower!<br/></span>
<span class="i4">How could poet ever tower,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">If his passions, hopes, and fears,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">If his triumphs and his tears,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Kept not measure with his people?<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">380</span><span class="i0">Boom, cannon, boom to all the winds and waves!<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Clash out, glad bells, from every rocking steeple!<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Banners, adance with triumph, bend your staves!<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And from every mountain-peak<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Let beacon-fire to answering beacon speak,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">385</span><span class="i2">Katahdin tell Monadnock, Whiteface he,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And so leap on in light from sea to sea,<br/></span>
<span class="i3">Till the glad news be sent<br/></span>
<span class="i3">Across a kindling continent,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Making earth feel more firm and air breathe braver:<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">390</span><span class="i0">"Be proud! for she is saved, and all have helped to save her!<br/></span>
<span class="i2">She that lifts up the manhood of the poor,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">She of the open soul and open door,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">With room about her hearth for all mankind!<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The fire is dreadful in her eyes no more;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">395</span><span class="i2">From her bold front the helm she doth unbind,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Sends all her handmaid armies back to spin,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And bids her navies, that so lately hurled<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Their crashing battle, hold their thunders in,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Swimming like birds of calm along the unharmful shore.<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">400</span><span class="i2">No challenge sends she to the elder world,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">That looked askance and hated; a light scorn<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Plays o'er her mouth, as round her mighty knees<br/></span>
<span class="i2"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</SPAN></span>She calls her children back, and waits the morn<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Of nobler day, enthroned between her subject seas."<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p><span style="margin-left:12em; "><b>XII.</b></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">405</span><span class="i0">Bow down, dear Land, for thou hast found release!<br/></span>
<span class="i1">Thy God, in these distempered days,<br/></span>
<span class="i1">Hath taught thee the sure wisdom of His ways,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And through thine enemies hath wrought thy peace!<br/></span>
<span class="i3">Bow down in prayer and praise!<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">410</span><span class="i0">No poorest in thy borders but may now<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Lift to the juster skies a man's enfranchised brow,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">O Beautiful! my Country! ours once more!<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Smoothing thy gold of war-dishevelled hair<br/></span>
<span class="i0">O'er such sweet brows as never other wore,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">415</span><span class="i2">And letting thy set lips,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Freed from wrath's pale eclipse,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The rosy edges of their smile lay bare,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">What words divine of lover or of poet<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Could tell our love and make thee know it,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">420</span><span class="i0">Among the Nations bright beyond compare?<br/></span>
<span class="i2">What were our lives without thee?<br/></span>
<span class="i2">What all our lives to save thee?<br/></span>
<span class="i2">We reck not what we gave thee;<br/></span>
<span class="i2">We will not dare to doubt thee,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">425</span><span class="i0">But ask whatever else, and we will dare!<br/></span></div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="figcenter"><SPAN name="The_Seal" id="The_Seal"></SPAN><ANTIMG class="img1" src="images/image_07.jpg" alt="The Seal of Harvard University" width-obs="150" height-obs="148" /> <span class="caption"><br/>The Seal of Harvard University</span></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</SPAN></span></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="ON_BOARD_THE_76" id="ON_BOARD_THE_76"></SPAN>ON BOARD THE '76.</h2>
<h3>WRITTEN FOR MR. BRYANT'S SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY.</h3>
<p class="figcenter"><span class="smcap">November 3, 1864.</span></p>
<p>[After the disastrous battle of Bull Run, Congress authorized the
creation of an army of 500,000, and the expenditure of $500,000,000.
The affair of the Trent had partially indicated the temper of the
English government, and the people of the United States were
thoroughly roused to a sense of the great task which lay before them.
Mr. Bryant, at this time, not only gave strong support to the Union
through his paper <i>The Evening Post</i> of New York, but wrote two lyrics
which had a profound effect. One of these, entitled <i>Not Yet</i>, was
addressed to those of the Old World who were secretly or openly
desiring the downfall of the republic. The other, <i>Our Country's
Call</i>, was a thrilling appeal for recruits. It is to this time and
these two poems that Mr. Lowell refers in the lines that follow.]</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Our ship lay tumbling in an angry sea,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Her rudder gone, her mainmast o'er the side;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Her scuppers, from the waves' clutch staggering free,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Trailed threads of priceless crimson through the tide;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">5</span><span class="i0">Sails, shrouds, and spars with pirate cannon torn,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">We lay, awaiting morn.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Awaiting morn, such morn as mocks despair;<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And she that bare the promise of the world<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Within her sides, now hopeless, helmless, bare,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">10</span><span class="i2">At random o'er the wildering waters hurled;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The reek of battle drifting slow alee<br/></span>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</SPAN></span>
<span class="i4">Not sullener than we.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Morn came at last to peer into our woe,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">When lo, a sail! Now surely help was nigh;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">15</span><span class="i0">The red cross flames aloft, Christ's pledge; but no,<SPAN name="FNanchor_10_10" id="FNanchor_10_10"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_10_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</SPAN><br/></span>
<span class="i2">Her black guns grinning hate, she rushes by<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And hails us:—"Gains the leak! Ay, so we thought!<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Sink, then, with curses fraught!"<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I leaned against my gun still angry-hot,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">20</span><span class="i2">And my lids tingled with the tears held back;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">This scorn methought was crueller than shot:<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The manly death-grip in the battle-wrack,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Yard-arm to yard-arm, were more friendly far<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Than such fear-smothered war.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">25</span><span class="i0">There our foe wallowed, like a wounded brute<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The fiercer for his hurt. What now were best?<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Once more tug bravely at the peril's root,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Though death came with it? Or evade the test<br/></span>
<span class="i0">If right or wrong in this God's world of ours<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">30</span><span class="i4">Be leagued with higher powers?<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Some, faintly loyal, felt their pulses lag<br/></span>
<span class="i2">With the slow beat that doubts and then despairs;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Some, caitiff, would have struck the starry flag<br/></span>
<span class="i2">That knits us with our past, and makes us heirs<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">35</span><span class="i0">Of deeds high-hearted as were ever done<br/></span>
<span class="i4">'Neath the all-seeing sun.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<div class="footnotes"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_10_10" id="Footnote_10_10"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_10_10"><span class="label">[10]</span></SPAN> The red cross is the British flag.</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">But there was one, the Singer of our crew,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Upon whose head Age waved his peaceful sign,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">But whose red heart's-blood no surrender knew;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">40</span><span class="i2">And couchant under brows of massive line,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The eyes, like guns beneath a parapet,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Watched, charged with lightnings yet.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The voices of the hills did his obey;<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The torrents flashed and tumbled in his song;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">45</span><span class="i0">He brought our native fields from far away,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Or set us 'mid the innumerable throng<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Of dateless woods, or where we heard the calm<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Old homestead's evening psalm.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">But now he sang of faith to things unseen,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">50</span><span class="i2">Of freedom's birthright given to us in trust;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And words of doughty cheer he spoke between,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">That made all earthly fortune seem as dust,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Matched with that duty, old as Time and new,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Of being brave and true.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">55</span><span class="i0">We, listening, learned what makes the might of words,—<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Manhood to back them, constant as a star;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">His voice rammed home our cannon, edged our swords,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And sent our boarders shouting; shroud and spar<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Heard him and stiffened; the sails heard, and wooed<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">60</span><span class="i4">The winds with loftier mood.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">In our dark hours he manned our guns again;<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Remanned ourselves from his own manhood's stores;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Pride, honor, country, throbbed through all his strain:<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And shall we praise? God's praise was his before;<br/></span>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</SPAN></span>
<span class="linenum">65</span><span class="i0">And on our futile laurels he looks down,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Himself our bravest crown.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="AN_INDIAN-SUMMER_REVERIE" id="AN_INDIAN-SUMMER_REVERIE"></SPAN>AN INDIAN-SUMMER REVERIE.</h2>
<p>[When Mr. Lowell wrote this poem he was living at Elmwood in
Cambridge, at that time quite remote from town influences,—Cambridge
itself being scarcely more than a village,—but now rapidly losing its
rustic surroundings. The Charles River flowed near by, then a limpid
stream, untroubled by factories or sewage. It is a tidal river and not
far from Elmwood winds through broad salt marshes. Mr. Longfellow's
old home is a short stroll nearer town, and the two poets exchanged
pleasant shots, as may be seen by Lowell's <i>To H.W.L.</i>, and
Longfellow's <i>The Herons of Elmwood</i>. In <i>Under the Willows</i> Mr.
Lowell has, as it were, indulged in another reverie at a later period
of his life, among the same familiar surroundings.]</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i4">What visionary tints the year puts on,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">When falling leaves falter through motionless air<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Or numbly cling and shiver to be gone!<br/></span>
<span class="i2">How shimmer the low flats and pastures bare,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">5</span><span class="i4">As with her nectar Hebe Autumn fills<br/></span>
<span class="i4">The bowl between me and those distant hills,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And smiles and shakes abroad her misty, tremulous hair!<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i2">No more the landscape holds its wealth apart,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Making me poorer in my poverty,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">10</span><span class="i4">But mingles with my senses and my heart;<br/></span>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</SPAN></span>
<span class="i2">My own projected spirit seems to me<br/></span>
<span class="i4">In her own reverie the world to steep;<br/></span>
<span class="i4">'Tis she that waves to sympathetic sleep,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Moving, as she is moved, each field and hill and tree.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">15</span><span class="i4">How fuse and mix, with what unfelt degrees,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Clasped by the faint horizon's languid arms,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Each into each, the hazy distances!<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The softened season all the landscape charms;<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Those hills, my native village that embay,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">20</span><span class="i4">In waves of dreamier purple roll away,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And floating in mirage seem all the glimmering farms.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i4">Far distant sounds the hidden chickadee<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Close at my side; far distant sound the leaves;<br/></span>
<span class="i4">The fields seem fields of dream, where Memory<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">25</span><span class="i2">Wanders like gleaning Ruth; and as the sheaves<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Of wheat and barley wavered in the eye<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Of Boaz as the maiden's glow went by,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">So tremble and seem remote all things the sense receives.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i4">The cock's shrill trump that tells of scattered corn,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">30</span><span class="i2">Passed breezily on by all his flapping mates,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Faint and more faint, from barn to barn is borne,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Southward, perhaps to far Magellan's Straits;<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Dimly I catch the throb of distant flails;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">34</span><span class="i4">Silently overhead the hen-hawk sails,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">With watchful, measuring eye, and for his quarry waits.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i4">The sobered robin, hunger-silent now,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Seeks cedar-berries blue, his autumn cheer;<br/></span>
<span class="i4"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</SPAN></span>The squirrel, on the shingly shagbark's bough,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Now saws, now lists with downward eye and ear,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">40</span><span class="i4">Then drops his nut, and, with a chipping bound,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Whisks to his winding fastness underground;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The clouds like swans drift down the streaming atmosphere.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i4">O'er yon bare knoll the pointed cedar shadows<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Drowse on the crisp, gray moss; the ploughman's call<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">45</span><span class="i4">Creeps faint as smoke from black, fresh-furrowed meadows;<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The single crow a single caw lets fall;<br/></span>
<span class="i4">And all around me every bush and tree<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Says Autumn's here, and Winter soon will be,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Who snows his soft, white sleep and silence over all.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">50</span><span class="i4">The birch, most shy and ladylike of trees,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Her poverty, as best she may, retrieves,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">And hints at her foregone gentilities<br/></span>
<span class="i2">With some saved relics of her wealth of leaves;<br/></span>
<span class="i4">The swamp-oak, with his royal purple on,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">55</span><span class="i4">Glares red as blood across the sinking sun,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">As one who proudlier to a falling fortune cleaves.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i4">He looks a sachem, in red blanket wrapt,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Who, 'mid some council of the sad-garbed whites,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Erect and stern, in his own memories lapt,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">60</span><span class="i2">With distant eye broods over other sights,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Sees the hushed wood the city's flare replace,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">The wounded turf heal o'er the railway's trace,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And roams the savage Past of his undwindled rights.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</SPAN></span>
<span class="i4">The red-oak, softer-grained, yields all for lost,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">65</span><span class="i2">And, with his crumpled foliage stiff and dry,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">After the first betrayal of the frost,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Rebuffs the kiss of the relenting sky;<br/></span>
<span class="i4">The chestnuts, lavish of their long-hid gold,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">69</span><span class="i4">To the faint Summer, beggared now and old,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Pour back the sunshine hoarded 'neath her favoring eye.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i4">The ash her purple drops forgivingly<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And sadly, breaking not the general hush;<br/></span>
<span class="i4">The maple-swamps glow like a sunset sea,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Each leaf a ripple with its separate flush;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">75</span><span class="i4">All round the wood's edge creeps the skirting blaze<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Of bushes low, as when, on cloudy days,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Ere the rain falls, the cautious farmer burns his brush.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i4">O'er yon low wall, which guards one unkempt zone,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Where vines and weeds and scrub-oaks intertwine<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">80</span><span class="i4">Safe from the plough, whose rough, discordant stone<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Is massed to one soft gray by lichens fine,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">The tangled blackberry, crossed and recrossed, weaves<br/></span>
<span class="i4">A prickly network of ensanguined leaves;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Hard by, with coral beads, the prim black-alders shine.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">85</span><span class="i4">Pillaring with flame this crumbling boundary,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Whose loose blocks topple 'neath the ploughboy's foot,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Who, with each sense shut fast except the eye,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Creeps close and scares the jay he hoped to shoot,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">The woodbine up the elm's straight stem aspires,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">90</span><span class="i4">Coiling it, harmless, with autumnal fires;<br/></span><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</SPAN></span>
<span class="i0">In the ivy's paler blaze the martyr oak stands mute.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i4">Below, the Charles—a stripe of nether sky,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Now hid by rounded apple-trees between,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Whose gaps the misplaced sail sweeps bellying by,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">95</span><span class="i2">Now flickering golden through a woodland screen,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Then spreading out, at his next turn beyond,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">A silver circle like an inland pond—<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Slips seaward silently through marshes purple and green.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i4">Dear marshes! vain to him the gift of sight<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">100</span><span class="i2">Who cannot in their various incomes share,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">From every season drawn, of shade and light,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Who sees in them but levels brown and bare;<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Each change of storm or sunshine scatters free<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">104</span><span class="i4">On them its largess of variety,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">For Nature with cheap means still works her wonders rare.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i4">In Spring they lie one broad expanse of green,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">O'er which the light winds run with glimmering feet:<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Here, yellower stripes track out the creek unseen,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">There, darker growths o'er hidden ditches meet;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">110</span><span class="i4">And purpler stains show where the blossoms crowd,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">As if the silent shadow of a cloud<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Hung there becalmed, with the next breath to fleet.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i4">All round, upon the river's slippery edge,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Witching to deeper calm the drowsy tide,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">115</span><span class="i4">Whispers and leans the breeze-entangling sedge;<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Through emerald glooms the lingering waters slide,<br/></span>
<span class="i4"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</SPAN></span>Or, sometimes wavering, throw back the sun,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">And the stiff banks in eddies melt and run<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Of dimpling light, and with the current seem to glide.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">120</span><span class="i4">In Summer 'tis a blithesome sight to see,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">As, step by step, with measured swing, they pass,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">The wide-ranked mowers wading to the knee,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Their sharp scythes panting through the thick-set grass;<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Then, stretched beneath a rick's shade in a ring,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">125</span><span class="i4">Their nooning take, while one begins to sing<br/></span>
<span class="i0">A stave that droops and dies 'neath the close sky of brass.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i4">Meanwhile that devil-may-care, the bobolink,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Remembering duty, in mid-quaver stops<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Just ere he sweeps o'er rapture's tremulous brink,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">130</span><span class="i2">And 'twixt the winrows most demurely drops,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">A decorous bird of business, who provides<br/></span>
<span class="i4">For his brown mate and fledglings six besides,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And looks from right to left, a farmer 'mid his crops.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i4">Another change subdues them in the Fall,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">135</span><span class="i2">But saddens not; they still show merrier tints,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Though sober russet seems to cover all;<br/></span>
<span class="i2">When the first sunshine through their dewdrops glints.<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Look how the yellow clearness, streamed across,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">139</span><span class="i4">Redeems with rarer hues the season's loss,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">As Dawn's feet there had touched and left their rosy prints.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i4">Or come when sunset gives its freshened zest,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Lean o'er the bridge and let the ruddy thrill,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">While the shorn sun swells down the hazy west,<br/></span>
<span class="i2"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</SPAN></span>Glow opposite;—the marshes drink their fill<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">145</span><span class="i4">And swoon with purple veins, then slowly fade<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Through pink to brown, as eastward moves the shade,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Lengthening with stealthy creep, of Simond's darkening hill.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i4">Later, and yet ere Winter wholly shuts,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Ere through the first dry snow the runner grates,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">150</span><span class="i4">And the loath cart-wheel screams in slippery ruts,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">While firmer ice the eager boy awaits,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Trying each buckle and strap beside the fire,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">And until bedtime plays with his desire,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Twenty times putting on and off his new-bought skates;—<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">155</span><span class="i4">Then, every morn, the river's banks shine bright<br/></span>
<span class="i2">With smooth plate-armor, treacherous and frail,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">By the frost's clinking hammers forged at night,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">'Gainst which the lances of the sun prevail,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Giving a pretty emblem of the day<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">160</span><span class="i4">When guiltier arms in light shall melt away,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And states shall move free-limbed, loosed from war's cramping mail.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i4">And now those waterfalls the ebbing river<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Twice every day creates on either side<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Tinkle, as through their fresh-sparred grots they shiver<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">165</span><span class="i2">In grass-arched channels to the sun denied;<br/></span>
<span class="i4">High flaps in sparkling blue the far-heard crow,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">The silvered flats gleam frostily below,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Suddenly drops the gull and breaks the glassy tide.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</SPAN></span>
<span class="i4">But crowned in turn by vying seasons three,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">170</span><span class="i2">Their winter halo hath a fuller ring;<br/></span>
<span class="i4">This glory seems to rest immovably,—<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The others were too fleet and vanishing;<br/></span>
<span class="i4">When the hid tide is at its highest flow,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">174</span><span class="i4">O'er marsh and stream one breathless trance of snow<br/></span>
<span class="i0">With brooding fulness awes and hushes everything.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i4">The sunshine seems blown off by the bleak wind,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">As pale as formal candles lit by day;<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Gropes to the sea the river dumb and blind;<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The brown ricks, snow-thatched by the storm in play,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">180</span><span class="i4">Show pearly breakers combing o'er their lee,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">White crests as of some just enchanted sea,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Checked in their maddest leap and hanging poised midway.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i4">But when the eastern blow, with rain aslant,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">From mid-sea's prairies green and rolling plains<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">185</span><span class="i4">Drives in his wallowing herds of billows gaunt,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And the roused Charles remembers in his veins<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Old Ocean's blood and snaps his gyves of frost,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">That tyrannous silence on the shores is tost<br/></span>
<span class="i0">In dreary wreck, and crumbling desolation reigns.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">190</span><span class="i4">Edgewise or flat, in Druid-like device,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">With leaden pools between or gullies bare,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">The blocks lie strewn, a bleak Stonehenge of ice;<br/></span>
<span class="i2">No life, no sound, to break the grim despair,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Save sullen plunge, as through the sedges stiff<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">195</span><span class="i4">Down crackles riverward some thaw-sapped cliff,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Or when the close-wedged fields of ice crunch here and there.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</SPAN></span>
<span class="i4">But let me turn from fancy-pictured scenes<br/></span>
<span class="i2">To that whose pastoral calm before me lies:<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Here nothing harsh or rugged intervenes;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">200</span><span class="i2">The early evening with her misty dyes<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Smooths off the ravelled edges of the nigh,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Relieves the distant with her cooler sky,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And tones the landscape down, and soothes the wearied eyes.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i4">There gleams my native village, dear to me,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">205</span><span class="i2">Though higher change's waves each day are seen,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Whelming fields famed in boyhood's history,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Sanding with houses the diminished green;<br/></span>
<span class="i4">There, in red brick, which softening time defies,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">209</span><span class="i4">Stand square and stiff the Muses' factories;—<br/></span>
<span class="i0">How with my life knit up is every well-known scene!<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i4">Flow on, dear river! not alone you flow<br/></span>
<span class="i2">To outward sight, and through your marshes wind;<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Fed from the mystic springs of long-ago,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Your twin flows silent through my world of mind;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">215</span><span class="i4">Grow dim, dear marshes, in the evening's gray!<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Before my inner sight ye stretch away,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And will forever, though these fleshly eyes grow blind.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i4">Beyond the hillock's house-bespotted swell,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Where Gothic chapels house the horse and chaise,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">220</span><span class="i4">Where quiet cits in Grecian temples dwell,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Where Coptic tombs resound with prayer and praise,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Where dust and mud the equal year divide,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">There gentle Allston lived, and wrought, and died,<SPAN name="FNanchor_11_11" id="FNanchor_11_11"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_11_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</SPAN><br/></span>
<span class="i0">Transfiguring street and shop with his illumined gaze.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<div class="footnotes"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_11_11" id="Footnote_11_11"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_11_11"><span class="label">[11]</span></SPAN> In <i>Cambridge Thirty Years Ago</i>, which treats in prose
of much the same period as this poem reproduces, Mr. Lowell has given
more in detail his recollections of Washington Allston, the painter.
The whole paper may be read as a prose counterpart to this poem. It is
published in <i>Fireside Travels</i>.</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">225</span><span class="i4"><i>Virgilium vidi tantum</i>,—I have seen<SPAN name="FNanchor_12_12" id="FNanchor_12_12"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_12_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</SPAN><br/></span>
<span class="i2">But as a boy, who looks alike on all,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">That misty hair, that fine Undine-like mien,<SPAN name="FNanchor_13_13" id="FNanchor_13_13"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_13_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</SPAN><br/></span>
<span class="i2">Tremulous as down to feeling's faintest call;—<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Ah, dear old homestead! count it to thy fame<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">230</span><span class="i4">That thither many times the Painter came;—<br/></span>
<span class="i0">One elm yet bears his name, a feathery tree and tall.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i4">Swiftly the present fades in memory's glow,—<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Our only sure possession is the past;<br/></span>
<span class="i4">The village blacksmith died a month ago,<SPAN name="FNanchor_14_14" id="FNanchor_14_14"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_14_14" class="fnanchor">[14]</SPAN><br/></span>
<span class="linenum">235</span><span class="i2">And dim to me the forge's roaring blast;<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Soon fire-new mediævals we shall see<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Oust the black smithy from its chestnut-tree,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And that hewn down, perhaps, the bee-hive green and vast.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i4">How many times, prouder than king on throne,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">240</span><span class="i2">Loosed from the village school-dame's A's and B's,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Panting have I the creaky bellows blown,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And watched the pent volcano's red increase,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Then paused to see the ponderous sledge, brought down<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">224</span><span class="i4">By that hard arm voluminous and brown,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">From the white iron swarm its golden vanishing bees.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<div class="footnotes"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_12_12" id="Footnote_12_12"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_12_12"><span class="label">[12]</span></SPAN> <i>Virgilium vidi tantum</i>, I barely saw Virgil, a Latin
phrase applied to one who has merely had a glimpse of a great man.</p>
<p><SPAN name="Footnote_13_13" id="Footnote_13_13"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_13_13"><span class="label">[13]</span></SPAN> Undine is the heroine of a romantic tale by Baron De la
Motte Fouqué. She is represented as a water-nymph who wins a human
soul only by a union with mortality which brings pain and sorrow.</p>
<p><SPAN name="Footnote_14_14" id="Footnote_14_14"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_14_14"><span class="label">[14]</span></SPAN> The village blacksmith of Longfellow's well-known poem.
The prophecy came true as regards the hewing-down of the chestnut-tree
which was cut down in 1876.</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i4">Dear native town! whose choking elms each year<br/></span>
<span class="i2">With eddying dust before their time turn gray,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Pining for rain,—to me thy dust is dear;<br/></span>
<span class="i2">It glorifies the eve of summer day,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">250</span><span class="i4">And when the westering sun half sunken burns,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">The mote-thick air to deepest orange turns,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The westward horseman rides through clouds of gold away,<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i4">So palpable, I've seen those unshorn few,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The six old willows at the causey's end<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">255</span><span class="i4">(Such trees Paul Potter never dreamed nor drew),<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Through this dry mist their checkering shadows send,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Striped, here and there, with many a long-drawn thread,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Where streamed through leafy chinks the trembling red,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Past which, in one bright trail, the hangbird's flashes blend.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">260</span><span class="i4">Yes, dearer for thy dust than all that e'er,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Beneath the awarded crown of victory,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Gilded the blown Olympic charioteer;<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Though lightly prized the ribboned parchments three,<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Yet <i>collegisse juvat</i>, I am glad<SPAN name="FNanchor_15_15" id="FNanchor_15_15"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_15_15" class="fnanchor">[15]</SPAN><br/></span>
<span class="linenum">265</span><span class="i4">That here what colleging was mine I had,—<br/></span>
<span class="i0">It linked another tie, dear native town, with thee!<br/></span></div>
</div>
<div class="footnotes"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_15_15" id="Footnote_15_15"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_15_15"><span class="label">[15]</span></SPAN> <i>Collegisse juvat.</i> Horace in his first ode says,
<i>Curriculo pulverem Olympicum Collegisse juvat</i>; that is: <i>It's a
pleasure to have collected</i> the dust of Olympus on your
carriage-wheels. Mr. Lowell, helping himself to the words, says, "It's
a pleasure to have been at college;" for college in its first meaning
is a <i>collection</i> of men, as in the phrase "The college of
cardinals."</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i4">Nearer art thou than simply native earth,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">My dust with thine concedes a deeper tie;<br/></span>
<span class="i4">A closer claim thy soil may well put forth,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">270</span><span class="i2">Something of kindred more than sympathy;<br/></span>
<span class="i4">For in thy bounds I reverently laid away<br/></span>
<span class="i4">That blinding anguish of forsaken clay,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">That title I seemed to have in earth and sea and sky,<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i4">That portion of my life more choice to me<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">275</span><span class="i2">(Though brief, yet in itself so round and whole)<SPAN name="FNanchor_16_16" id="FNanchor_16_16"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_16_16" class="fnanchor">[16]</SPAN><br/></span>
<span class="i4">Than all the imperfect residue can be;—<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The Artist saw his statue of the soul<br/></span>
<span class="i4">Was perfect; so, with one regretful stroke,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">279</span><span class="i4">The earthen model into fragments broke,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And without her the impoverished seasons roll.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="THE_FIRST_SNOW-FALL" id="THE_FIRST_SNOW-FALL"></SPAN>THE FIRST SNOW-FALL.</h2>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The snow had begun in the gloaming,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And busily all the night<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Had been heaping field and highway<br/></span>
<span class="i2">With a silence deep and white.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">5</span><span class="i0">Every pine and fir and hemlock<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Wore ermine too dear for an earl,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And the poorest twig on the elm-tree<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Was ridged inch-deep with pearl.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<div class="footnotes"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_16_16" id="Footnote_16_16"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_16_16"><span class="label">[16]</span></SPAN> The volume containing this poem was reverently dedicated
"To the ever fresh and happy memory of our little Blanche."</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">From sheds new-roofed with Carrara<SPAN name="FNanchor_17_17" id="FNanchor_17_17"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_17_17" class="fnanchor">[17]</SPAN><br/></span>
<span class="linenum">10</span><span class="i2">Came Chanticleer's muffled crow,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And still fluttered down the snow.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I stood and watched by the window<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The noiseless work of the sky,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">15</span><span class="i0">And the sudden flurries of snow-birds,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Like brown leaves whirling by.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Where a little headstone stood;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">How the flakes were folding it gently,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">20</span><span class="i2">As did robins the babes in the wood.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Up spoke our own little Mabel,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Saying, "Father, who makes it snow?"<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And I told of the good All-father<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Who cares for us here below.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">25</span><span class="i0">Again I looked at the snow-fall,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And thought of the leaden sky<br/></span>
<span class="i0">That arched o'er our first great sorrow,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">When that mound was heaped so high.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I remembered the gradual patience<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">30</span><span class="i2">That fell from that cloud like snow,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Flake by flake, healing and hiding<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The scar of our deep-plunged woe.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And again to the child I whispered,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">"The snow that husheth all,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">35</span><span class="i0">Darling, the merciful Father<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Alone can make it fall!"<br/></span></div>
</div>
<div class="footnotes"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_17_17" id="Footnote_17_17"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_17_17"><span class="label">[17]</span></SPAN> The marble of Carrara, Italy, is noted for its purity.</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her;<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And she, kissing back, could not know<br/></span>
<span class="i0">That <i>my</i> kiss was given to her sister,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">40</span><span class="i2">Folded close under deepening snow.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="THE_OAK" id="THE_OAK"></SPAN>THE OAK.</h2>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">What gnarlèd stretch, what depth of shade, is his!<br/></span>
<span class="i2">There needs no crown to mark the forest's king;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">How in his leaves outshines full summer's bliss!<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Sun, storm, rain, dew, to him their tribute bring,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">5</span><span class="i0">Which he with such benignant royalty<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Accepts, as overpayeth what is lent;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">All nature seems his vassal proud to be,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And cunning only for his ornament.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">How towers he, too, amid the billowed snows,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">10</span><span class="i2">An unquelled exile from the summer's throne,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Whose plain, uncinctured front more kingly shows,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Now that the obscuring courtier leaves are flown.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">His boughs make music of the winter air,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Jewelled with sleet, like some cathedral front<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">15</span><span class="i0">Where clinging snow-flakes with quaint art repair<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The dints and furrows of time's envious brunt.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">How doth his patient strength the rude March wind<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Persuade to seem glad breaths of summer breeze,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And win the soil that fain would be unkind,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">20</span><span class="i2">To swell his revenues with proud increase!<br/></span>
<span class="i0">He is the gem; and all the landscape wide<br/></span>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</SPAN></span>
<span class="i2">(So doth his grandeur isolate the sense)<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Seems but the setting, worthless all beside,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">An empty socket, were he fallen thence.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">25</span><span class="i0">So, from oft converse with life's wintry gales,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Should man learn how to clasp with tougher roots<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The inspiring earth; how otherwise avails<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The leaf-creating sap that sunward shoots?<br/></span>
<span class="i0">So every year that falls with noiseless flake<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">30</span><span class="i2">Should fill old scars up on the stormward side,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And make hoar age revered for age's sake,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Not for traditions of youth's leafy pride.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">So, from the pinched soil of a churlish fate,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">True hearts compel the sap of sturdier growth,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">35</span><span class="i0">So between earth and heaven stand simply great,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">That these shall seem but their attendants both;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">For nature's forces with obedient zeal<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Wait on the rooted faith and oaken will;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">As quickly the pretender's cheat they feel,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">40</span><span class="i2">And turn mad Pucks to flout and mock him still.<SPAN name="FNanchor_18_18" id="FNanchor_18_18"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_18_18" class="fnanchor">[18]</SPAN><br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Lord! all Thy works are lessons; each contains<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Some emblem of man's all-containing soul;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Shall he make fruitless all Thy glorious pains,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Delving within Thy grace an eyeless mole?<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">45</span><span class="i0">Make me the least of thy Dodona-grove,<SPAN name="FNanchor_19_19" id="FNanchor_19_19"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_19_19" class="fnanchor">[19]</SPAN><br/></span>
<span class="i2">Cause me some message of thy truth to bring,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Speak but a word to me, nor let thy love<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Among my boughs disdain to perch and sing.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<div class="footnotes"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_18_18" id="Footnote_18_18"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_18_18"><span class="label">[18]</span></SPAN> See Shakspeare's <i>A Midsummer Night's Dream</i>.</p>
<p><SPAN name="Footnote_19_19" id="Footnote_19_19"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_19_19"><span class="label">[19]</span></SPAN> A grove of oaks at Dodona, in ancient Greece, was the
seat of a famous oracle.</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</SPAN></span></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="PROMETHEUS" id="PROMETHEUS"></SPAN>PROMETHEUS.</h2>
<p>[The classic legend of Prometheus underwent various changes in
successive periods of Greek thought. In its main outline the story is
the same: that Prometheus, whose name signifies Forethought, stole
fire from Zeus, or Jupiter, or Jove, and gave it as a gift to man. For
this, the angry god bound him upon Mount Caucasus, and decreed that a
vulture should prey upon his liver, destroying every day what was
renewed in the night. The struggle of man's thought to free itself
from the tyranny of fear and superstition and all monsters of the
imagination is illustrated in the myth. The myth is one which has been
a favorite with modern poets, as witness Goethe, Shelley, Mrs.
Browning, and Longfellow.]</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2">One after one the stars have risen and set,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Sparkling upon the hoarfrost on my chain:<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The Bear, that prowled all night about the fold<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Of the North-Star, hath shrunk into his den,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">5</span><span class="i0">Scared by the blithesome footsteps of the Dawn,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Whose blushing smile floods all the Orient;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And now bright Lucifer grows less and less,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Into the heaven's blue quiet deep-withdrawn.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Sunless and starless all, the desert sky<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">10</span><span class="i0">Arches above me, empty as this heart<br/></span>
<span class="i0">For ages hath been empty of all joy,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Except to brood upon its silent hope,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">As o'er its hope of day the sky doth now.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">All night have I heard voices: deeper yet<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">15</span><span class="i0">The deep low breathing of the silence grew.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">While all about, muffled in awe, there stood<br/></span>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</SPAN></span>
<span class="i0">Shadows, or forms, or both, clear-felt at heart,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">But, when I turned to front them, far along<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Only a shudder through the midnight ran,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">20</span><span class="i0">And the dense stillness walled me closer round.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">But still I heard them wander up and down<br/></span>
<span class="i0">That solitude, and flappings of dusk wings<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Did mingle with them, whether of those hags<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Let slip upon me once from Hades deep,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">25</span><span class="i0">Or of yet direr torments, if such be,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">I could but guess; and then toward me came<br/></span>
<span class="i0">A shape as of a woman: very pale<br/></span>
<span class="i0">It was, and calm; its cold eyes did not move,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And mine moved not, but only stared on them.<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">30</span><span class="i0">Their fixéd awe went through my brain like ice;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">A skeleton hand seemed clutching at my heart,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And a sharp chill, as if a dank night fog<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Suddenly closed me in, was all I felt:<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And then, methought, I heard a freezing sigh,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">35</span><span class="i0">A long, deep, shivering sigh, as from blue lips<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Stiffening in death, close to mine ear. I thought<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Some doom was close upon me, and I looked<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And saw the red moon through the heavy mist,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Just setting, and it seemed as it were falling,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">40</span><span class="i0">Or reeling to its fall, so dim and dead<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And palsy-struck it looked. Then all sounds merged<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Into the rising surges of the pines,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Which, leagues below me, clothing the gaunt loins<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Of ancient Caucasus with hairy strength,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">45</span><span class="i0">Sent up a murmur in the morning wind,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Sad as the wail that from the populous earth<br/></span>
<span class="i0">All day and night to high Olympus soars,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Fit incense to thy wicked throne, O Jove!<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i2"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</SPAN></span>Thy hated name is tossed once more in scorn<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">50</span><span class="i0">From off my lips, for I will tell thy doom.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And are these tears? Nay, do not triumph, Jove!<br/></span>
<span class="i0">They are wrung from me but by the agonies<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Of prophecy, like those sparse drops which fall<br/></span>
<span class="i0">From clouds in travail of the lightning, when<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">55</span><span class="i0">The great wave of the storm high-curled and black<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Rolls steadily onward to its thunderous break.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Why art thou made a god of, thou poor type<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Of anger, and revenge, and cunning force?<br/></span>
<span class="i0">True Power was never born of brutish strength,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">60</span><span class="i0">Nor sweet Truth suckled at the shaggy dugs<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Of that old she-wolf. Are thy thunder-bolts,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">That quell the darkness for a space, so strong<br/></span>
<span class="i0">As the prevailing patience of meek Light,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Who, with the invincible tenderness of peace,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">65</span><span class="i0">Wins it to be a portion of herself?<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Why art thou made a god of, thou, who hast<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The never-sleeping terror at thy heart,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">That birthright of all tyrants, worse to bear<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Than this thy ravening bird on which I smile?<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">70</span><span class="i0">Thou swear'st to free me, if I will unfold<br/></span>
<span class="i0">What kind of doom it is whose omen flits<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Across thy heart, as o'er a troop of doves<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The fearful shadow of the kite. What need<br/></span>
<span class="i0">To know that truth whose knowledge cannot save?<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">75</span><span class="i0">Evil its errand hath, as well as Good;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">When thine is finished, thou art known no more:<br/></span>
<span class="i0">There is a higher purity than thou,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And higher purity is greater strength;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Thy nature is thy doom, at which thy heart<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">80</span><span class="i0">Trembles behind the thick wall of thy might.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Let man but hope, and thou art straightway chilled<br/></span>
<span class="i0"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</SPAN></span>With thought of that drear silence and deep night<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Which, like a dream, shall swallow thee and thine:<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Let man but will, and thou art god no more,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">85</span><span class="i0">More capable of ruin than the gold<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And ivory that image thee on earth.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">He who hurled down the monstrous Titan-brood<SPAN name="FNanchor_20_20" id="FNanchor_20_20"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_20_20" class="fnanchor">[20]</SPAN><br/></span>
<span class="i0">Blinded with lightnings, with rough thunders stunned,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Is weaker than a simple human thought.<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">90</span><span class="i0">My slender voice can shake thee, as the breeze,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">That seems but apt to stir a maiden's hair,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Sways huge Oceanus from pole to pole;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">For I am still Prometheus, and foreknow<br/></span>
<span class="i0">In my wise heart the end and doom of all.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">95</span><span class="i2">Yes, I am still Prometheus, wiser grown<br/></span>
<span class="i0">By years of solitude,—that holds apart<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The past and future, giving the soul room<br/></span>
<span class="i0">To search into itself,—and long commune<br/></span>
<span class="i0">With this eternal silence;—more a god,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">100</span><span class="i0">In my long-suffering and strength to meet<br/></span>
<span class="i0">With equal front the direst shafts of fate,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Than thou in thy faint-hearted despotism,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Girt with thy baby-toys of force and wrath.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Yes, I am that Prometheus who brought down<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">105</span><span class="i0">The light to man, which thou, in selfish fear,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Hadst to thyself usurped,—his by sole right,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">For Man hath right to all save Tyranny,—<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And which shall free him yet from thy frail throne.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Tyrants are but the spawn of Ignorance,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">110</span><span class="i0">Begotten by the slaves they trample on,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Who, could they win a glimmer of the light,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And see that Tyranny is always weakness,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Or Fear with its own bosom ill at ease,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Would laugh away in scorn the sand-wove chain<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">115</span><span class="i0">Which their own blindness feigned for adamant.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Wrong ever builds on quicksands, but the Right<br/></span>
<span class="i0">To the firm centre lays its moveless base.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The tyrant trembles, if the air but stirs<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The innocent ringlets of a child's free hair,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">120</span><span class="i0">And crouches, when the thought of some great spirit,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">With world-wide murmur, like a rising gale,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Over men's hearts, as over standing corn,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Rushes, and bends them to its own strong will.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">So shall some thought of mine yet circle earth,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">125</span><span class="i0">And puff away thy crumbling altars, Jove!<br/></span></div>
</div>
<div class="footnotes"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_20_20" id="Footnote_20_20"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_20_20"><span class="label">[20]</span></SPAN> That is, Jove himself.</p>
</div>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</SPAN></span>
<span class="i2">And, wouldst thou know of my supreme revenge,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Poor tyrant, even now dethroned in heart,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Realmless in soul, as tyrants ever are,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Listen! and tell me if this bitter peak,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">130</span><span class="i0">This never-glutted vulture, and these chains<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Shrink not before it; for it shall befit<br/></span>
<span class="i0">A sorrow-taught, unconquered Titan-heart.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Men, when their death is on them, seem to stand<br/></span>
<span class="i0">On a precipitous crag that overhangs<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">135</span><span class="i0">The abyss of doom, and in that depth to see,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">As in a glass, the features dim and vast<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Of things to come, the shadows, as it seems,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Of what had been. Death ever fronts the wise;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Not fearfully, but with clear promises<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">140</span><span class="i0">Of larger life, on whose broad vans upborne,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Their outlook widens, and they see beyond<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The horizon of the present and the past,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Even to the very source and end of things.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Such am I now: immortal woe hath made<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">145</span><span class="i0">My heart a seer, and my soul a judge<br/></span><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</SPAN></span>
<span class="i0">Between the substance and the shadow of Truth.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The sure supremeness of the Beautiful,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">By all the martyrdoms made doubly sure<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Of such as I am, this is my revenge,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">150</span><span class="i0">Which of my wrongs builds a triumphal arch,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Through which I see a sceptre and a throne.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The pipings of glad shepherds on the hills,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Tending the flocks no more to bleed for thee,—<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The songs of maidens pressing with white feet<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">155</span><span class="i0">The vintage on thine altars poured no more,—<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The murmurous bliss of lovers, underneath<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Dim grapevine bowers, whose rosy bunches press<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Not half so closely their warm cheeks, unpaled<br/></span>
<span class="i0">By thoughts of thy brute lust,—the hive-like hum<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">160</span><span class="i0">Of peaceful commonwealths, where sunburnt Toil<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Reaps for itself the rich earth made its own<br/></span>
<span class="i0">By its own labor, lightened with glad hymns<br/></span>
<span class="i0">To an omnipotence which thy mad bolts<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Would cope with as a spark with the vast sea,—<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">165</span><span class="i0">Even the spirit of free love and peace,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Duty's sure recompense through life and death,—<br/></span>
<span class="i0">These are such harvests as all master-spirits<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Reap, haply not on earth, but reap no less<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Because the sheaves are bound by hands not theirs;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">170</span><span class="i0">These are the bloodless daggers wherewithal<br/></span>
<span class="i0">They stab fallen tyrants, this their high revenge:<br/></span>
<span class="i0">For their best part of life on earth is when,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Long after death, prisoned and pent no more,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Their thoughts, their wild dreams even, have become<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">175</span><span class="i0">Part of the necessary air men breathe:<br/></span>
<span class="i0">When, like the moon, herself behind a cloud,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">They shed down light before us on life's sea,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">That cheers us to steer onward still in hope.<br/></span>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</SPAN></span>
<span class="i0">Earth with her twining memories ivies o'er<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">180</span><span class="i0">Their holy sepulchres; the chainless sea,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">In tempest or wide calm, repeats their thoughts;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The lightning and the thunder, all free things,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Have legends of them for the ears of men.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">All other glories are as falling stars,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">185</span><span class="i0">But universal Nature watches theirs:<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Such strength is won by love of human-kind.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i2">Not that I feel that hunger after fame,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Which souls of a half-greatness are beset with;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">But that the memory of noble deeds<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">190</span><span class="i0">Cries shame upon the idle and the vile,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And keeps the heart of Man forever up<br/></span>
<span class="i0">To the heroic level of old time.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">To be forgot at first is little pain<br/></span>
<span class="i0">To a heart conscious of such high intent<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">195</span><span class="i0">As must be deathless on the lips of men;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">But, having been a name, to sink and be<br/></span>
<span class="i0">A something which the world can do without,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Which, having been or not, would never change<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The lightest pulse of fate,—this is indeed<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">200</span><span class="i0">A cup of bitterness the worst to taste,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And this thy heart shall empty to the dregs.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Endless despair shall be thy Caucasus,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And memory thy vulture; thou wilt find<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Oblivion far lonelier than this peak,—<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">205</span><span class="i0">Behold thy destiny! Thou think'st it much<br/></span>
<span class="i0">That I should brave thee, miserable god!<br/></span>
<span class="i0">But I have braved a mightier than thou.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Even the tempting of this soaring heart,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Which might have made me, scarcely less than thou,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">210</span><span class="i0">A god among my brethren weak and blind,—<br/></span><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</SPAN></span>
<span class="i0">Scarce less than thou, a pitiable thing<br/></span>
<span class="i0">To be down-trodden into darkness soon.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">But now I am above thee, for thou art<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The bungling workmanship of fear, the block<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">215</span><span class="i0">That awes the swart Barbarian; but I<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Am what myself have made,—a nature wise<br/></span>
<span class="i0">With finding in itself the types of all,—<br/></span>
<span class="i0">With watching from the dim verge of the time<br/></span>
<span class="i0">What things to be are visible in the gleams<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">220</span><span class="i0">Thrown forward on them from the luminous past,—<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Wise with the history of its own frail heart,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">With reverence and with sorrow, and with love,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Broad as the world, for freedom and for man.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i2">Thou and all strength shall crumble, except Love,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">225</span><span class="i0">By whom, and for whose glory, ye shall cease:<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And, when thou art but a dim moaning heard<br/></span>
<span class="i0">From out the pitiless gloom of Chaos, I<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Shall be a power and a memory,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">A name to fright all tyrants with, a light<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">230</span><span class="i0">Unsetting as the pole-star, a great voice<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Heard in the breathless pauses of the fight<br/></span>
<span class="i0">By truth and freedom ever waged with wrong,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Clear as a silver trumpet, to awake<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Huge echoes that from age to age live on<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">235</span><span class="i0">In kindred spirits, giving them a sense<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Of boundless power from boundless suffering wrung:<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And many a glazing eye shall smile to see<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The memory of my triumph (for to meet<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Wrong with endurance, and to overcome<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">240</span><span class="i0">The present with a heart that looks beyond,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Are triumph), like a prophet eagle, perch<br/></span>
<span class="i0"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</SPAN></span>Upon the sacred banner of the Right.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Evil springs up, and flowers, and bears no seed,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And feeds the green earth with its swift decay,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">245</span><span class="i0">Leaving it richer for the growth of truth;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">But Good, once put in action or in thought,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Like a strong oak, doth from its boughs shed down<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The ripe germs of a forest. Thou, weak god,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Shalt fade and be forgotten! but this soul,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">250</span><span class="i0">Fresh-living still in the serene abyss,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">In every heaving shall partake, that grows<br/></span>
<span class="i0">From heart to heart among the sons of men,—<br/></span>
<span class="i0">As the ominous hum before the earthquake runs<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Far through the Ægean from roused isle to isle,—<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">255</span><span class="i0">Foreboding wreck to palaces and shrines,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And mighty rents in many a cavernous error<br/></span>
<span class="i0">That darkens the free light to man:—This heart,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Unscarred by thy grim vulture, as the truth<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Grows but more lovely 'neath the beaks and claws<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">260</span><span class="i0">Of Harpies blind that fain would soil it, shall<br/></span>
<span class="i0">In all the throbbing exultations share<br/></span>
<span class="i0">That wait on freedom's triumphs, and in all<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The glorious agonies of martyr-spirits,—<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Sharp lightning-throes to split the jagged clouds<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">265</span><span class="i0">That veil the future, showing them the end,—<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Pain's thorny crown for constancy and truth,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Girding the temples like a wreath of stars.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">This is a thought, that, like the fabled laurel,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Makes my faith thunder-proof; and thy dread bolts<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">270</span><span class="i0">Fall on me like the silent flakes of snow<br/></span>
<span class="i0">On the hoar brows of aged Caucasus:<br/></span>
<span class="i0">But, O thought far more blissful, they can rend<br/></span>
<span class="i0">This cloud of flesh, and make my soul a star!<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i2"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</SPAN></span>Unleash thy crouching thunders now, O Jove!<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">275</span><span class="i0">Free this high heart, which, a poor captive long,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Doth knock to be let forth, this heart which still,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">In its invincible manhood, overtops<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Thy puny godship, as this mountain doth<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The pines that moss its roots. Oh, even now,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">280</span><span class="i0">While from my peak of suffering I look down,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Beholding with a far-spread gush of hope<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The sunrise of that Beauty, in whose face,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Shone all around with love, no man shall look<br/></span>
<span class="i0">But straightway like a god he is uplift<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">285</span><span class="i0">Unto the throne long empty for his sake,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And clearly oft foreshadowed in wide dreams<br/></span>
<span class="i0">By his free inward nature, which nor thou,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Nor any anarch after thee, can bind<br/></span>
<span class="i0">From working its great doom,—now, now set free<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">290</span><span class="i0">This essence, not to die, but to become<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Part of that awful Presence which doth haunt<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The palaces of tyrants, to hunt off,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">With its grim eyes and fearful whisperings<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And hideous sense of utter loneliness,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">295</span><span class="i0">All hope of safety, all desire of peace,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">All but the loathed forefeeling of blank death,—<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Part of that spirit which doth ever brood<br/></span>
<span class="i0">In patient calm on the unpilfered nest<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Of man's deep heart, till mighty thoughts grow fledged<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">300</span><span class="i0">To sail with darkening shadow o'er the world,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Filling with dread such souls as dare not trust<br/></span>
<span class="i0">In the unfailing energy of Good,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Until they swoop, and their pale quarry make<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Of some o'erbloated wrong,—that spirit which<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">305</span><span class="i0">Scatters great hopes in the seed-field of man,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Like acorns among grain, to grow and be<br/></span>
<span class="i0"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</SPAN></span>A roof for freedom in all coming time!<br/></span>
<span class="i0">But no, this cannot be; for ages yet,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">In solitude unbroken, shall I hear<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">310</span><span class="i0">The angry Caspian to the Euxine shout,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And Euxine answer with a muffled roar,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">On either side storming the giant walls<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Of Caucasus with leagues of climbing foam<br/></span>
<span class="i0">(Less, from my height, than flakes of downy snow),<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">315</span><span class="i0">That draw back baffled but to hurl again,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Snatched up in wrath and horrible turmoil,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Mountain on mountain, as the Titans erst,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">My brethren, scaling the high seat of Jove,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Heaved Pelion upon Ossa's shoulders broad<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">320</span><span class="i0">In vain emprise. The moon will come and go<br/></span>
<span class="i0">With her monotonous vicissitude;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Once beautiful, when I was free to walk<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Among my fellows, and to interchange<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The influence benign of loving eyes,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">325</span><span class="i0">But now by aged use grown wearisome;—<br/></span>
<span class="i0">False thought! most false! for how could I endure<br/></span>
<span class="i0">These crawling centuries of lonely woe<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Unshamed by weak complaining, but for thee,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Loneliest, save me, of all created things,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">330</span><span class="i0">Mild-eyed Astarte, my best comforter,<SPAN name="FNanchor_21_21" id="FNanchor_21_21"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_21_21" class="fnanchor">[21]</SPAN><br/></span>
<span class="i0">With thy pale smile of sad benignity?<br/></span></div>
</div>
<div class="footnotes"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_21_21" id="Footnote_21_21"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_21_21"><span class="label">[21]</span></SPAN> Daughter of Heaven and Earth, and symbol of Nature.</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2">Year after year will pass away and seem<br/></span>
<span class="i0">To me, in mine eternal agony,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">But as the shadows of dumb summer clouds,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">335</span><span class="i0">Which I have watched so often darkening o'er<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The vast Sarmatian plain, league-wide at first,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">But, with still swiftness, lessening on and on<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Till cloud and shadow meet and mingle where<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The gray horizon fades into the sky,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">340</span><span class="i0">Far, far to northward. Yes, for ages yet<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Must I lie here upon my altar huge,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">A sacrifice for man. Sorrow will be,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">As it hath been, his portion; endless doom,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">While the immortal with the mortal linked<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">345</span><span class="i0">Dreams of its wings and pines for what it dreams,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">With upward yearn unceasing. Better so:<br/></span>
<span class="i0">For wisdom is meek sorrow's patient child,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And empire over self, and all the deep<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Strong charities that make men seem like gods;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">350</span><span class="i0">And love, that makes them be gods, from her breasts<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Sucks in the milk that makes mankind one blood.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Good never comes unmixed, or so it seems,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Having two faces, as some images<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Are carved, of foolish gods; one face is ill;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">355</span><span class="i0">But one heart lies beneath, and that is good,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">As are all hearts, when we explore their depths.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Therefore, great heart, bear up! thou art but type<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Of what all lofty spirits endure, that fain<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Would win men back to strength and peace through love:<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">360</span><span class="i0">Each hath his lonely peak, and on each heart<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Envy, or scorn, or hatred, tears lifelong<br/></span>
<span class="i0">With vulture beak; yet the high soul is left;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And faith, which is but hope grown wise; and love<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And patience, which at last shall overcome.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</SPAN></span></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="TO_WL_GARRISON" id="TO_WL_GARRISON"></SPAN>TO W.L. GARRISON.</h2>
<div class="blockquot"><p>"Some time afterward, it was reported to me by the city
officers that they had ferreted out the paper and its
editor; that his office was an obscure hole, his only
visible auxiliary a negro boy, and his supporters a few very
insignificant persons of all colors."—<i>Letter of H.G.
Otis.</i> </p>
</div>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">In a small chamber, friendless and unseen,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Toiled o'er his types one poor, unlearned young man;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The place was dark, unfurnitured, and mean;—<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Yet there the freedom of a race began.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">5</span><span class="i0">Help came but slowly; surely no man yet<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Put lever to the heavy world with less:<SPAN name="FNanchor_22_22" id="FNanchor_22_22"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_22_22" class="fnanchor">[22]</SPAN><br/></span>
<span class="i0">What need of help? He knew how types were set,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">He had a dauntless spirit, and a press.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Such earnest natures are the fiery pith,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">10</span><span class="i2">The compact nucleus, round which systems grow!<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Mass after mass becomes inspired therewith,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And whirls impregnate with the central glow,<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">O Truth! O Freedom! how are ye still born<br/></span>
<span class="i2">In the rude stable, in the manger nursed!<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">15</span><span class="i0">What humble hands unbar those gates of morn<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Through which the splendors of the New Day burst.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">What! shall one monk, scarce known beyond his cell,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Front Rome's far-reaching bolts, and scorn her frown?<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Brave Luther answered <span class="smcap">Yes</span>; that thunder's swell<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">20</span><span class="i2">Rocked Europe, and discharmed the triple crown.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<div class="footnotes"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_22_22" id="Footnote_22_22"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_22_22"><span class="label">[22]</span></SPAN> Archimedes, a great philosopher of antiquity, used to
say, "Only give me a place to stand on, and I will move the world with
my lever."</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Whatever can be known of earth we know,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Sneered Europe's wise men, in their snail-shells curled;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">No! said one man in Genoa, and that No<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Out of the dark created this New World.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">25</span><span class="i0">Who is it will not dare himself to trust?<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Who is it hath not strength to stand alone?<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Who is it thwarts and bilks the inward <span class="smcap">must</span>?<br/></span>
<span class="i2">He and his works, like sand, from earth are blown?<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Men of a thousand shifts and wiles, look here!<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">30</span><span class="i2">See one straightforward conscience put in pawn<br/></span>
<span class="i0">To win a world; see the obedient sphere<br/></span>
<span class="i2">By bravery's simple gravitation drawn!<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Shall we not heed the lesson taught of old,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And by the Present's lips repeated still,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">35</span><span class="i0">In our own single manhood to be bold,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Fortressed in conscience and impregnable will?<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">We stride the river daily at its spring,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Nor, in our childish thoughtlessness, foresee,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">What myriad vassal streams shall tribute bring,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">40</span><span class="i2">How like an equal it shall greet the sea.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">O small beginnings, ye are great and strong,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Based on a faithful heart and weariless brain!<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Ye build the future fair, ye conquer wrong,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Ye earn the crown, and wear it not in vain.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</SPAN></span></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="WENDELL_PHILLIPS" id="WENDELL_PHILLIPS"></SPAN>WENDELL PHILLIPS.</h2>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">He stood upon the world's broad threshold; wide<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The din of battle and of slaughter rose;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">He saw God stand upon the weaker side,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">That sank in seeming loss before its foes:<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">5</span><span class="i0">Many there were who made great haste and sold<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Unto the cunning enemy their swords,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">He scorned their gifts of fame, and power, and gold,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And, underneath their soft and flowery words,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Heard the cold serpent hiss; therefore he went<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">10</span><span class="i0">And humbly joined him to the weaker part,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Fanatic named, and fool, yet well content<br/></span>
<span class="i0">So he could be the nearer to God's heart,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And feel its solemn pulses sending blood<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Through all the widespread veins of endless good.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="MR_HOSEA_BIGLOW_TO_THE_EDITOR_OF_THE_ATLANTIC_MONTHLY" id="MR_HOSEA_BIGLOW_TO_THE_EDITOR_OF_THE_ATLANTIC_MONTHLY"></SPAN>MR. HOSEA BIGLOW TO THE EDITOR OF THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY.</h2>
<p>[When the Mexican war was under discussion, Mr. Lowell began the
publication in a Boston newspaper of satirical poems, written in the
Yankee dialect, and purporting to come for the most part from one
Hosea Biglow. The poems were the sharpest political darts that were
fired at the time, and when the verses were collected and set forth,
with a paraphernalia of introductions and notes professedly prepared
by an old-fashioned, scholarly parson, Rev. Homer Wilbur, the book
gave Mr. Lowell a distinct place as a wit and satirist, and was read
with delight in England and America after the cir<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</SPAN></span>cumstance which
called it out had become a matter of history and no longer of
politics.</p>
<p>When the war for the Union broke out, Mr. Lowell took up the same
strain and contributed to the <i>Atlantic Monthly</i> a second series of
<i>Biglow Papers</i>, and just before the close of the war, published the
poem that follows.]</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>,—Your letter come to han'<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Requestin' me to please be funny;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">But I ain't made upon a plan<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Thet knows wut's comin', gall or honey:<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">5</span><span class="i0">Ther' 's times the world does look so queer,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Odd fancies come afore I call 'em;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">An' then agin, for half a year,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">No preacher 'thout a call 's more solemn.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">You're 'n want o' sunthin' light an' cute,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">10</span><span class="i2">Rattlin' an' shrewd an' kin' o' jingleish,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">An' wish, pervidin' it 'ould suit,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">I'd take an' citify my English.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">I <i>ken</i> write long-tailed, ef I please,—<br/></span>
<span class="i2">But when I'm jokin', no, I thankee;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">15</span><span class="i0">Then, 'fore I know it, my idees<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Run helter-skelter into Yankee.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Sence I begun to scribble rhyme,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">I tell ye wut, I hain't ben foolin';<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The parson's books, life, death, an' time<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">20</span><span class="i2">Hev took some trouble with my schoolin';<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Nor th' airth don't git put out with me,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Thet love her 'z though she wuz a woman;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Why, th' ain't a bird upon the tree<br/></span>
<span class="i2">But half forgives my bein' human.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</SPAN></span>
<span class="linenum">25</span><span class="i0">An' yit I love th' unhighschooled way<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Ol' farmers hed when I wuz younger;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Their talk wuz meatier, an' 'ould stay,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">While book-froth seems to whet your hunger;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">For puttin' in a downright lick<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">30</span><span class="i2">'Twixt Humbug's eyes, ther' 's few can metch it.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">An' then it helves my thoughts ez slick<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Ez stret-grained hickory doos a hetchet.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">But when I can't, I can't, thet's all,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">For Natur' won't put up with gullin';<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">35</span><span class="i0">Idees you hev to shove an' haul<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Like a druv pig ain't wuth a mullein:<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Live thoughts ain't sent for; thru all rifts<br/></span>
<span class="i2">O' sense they pour an' resh ye onwards,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Like rivers when south-lyin' drifts<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">40</span><span class="i2">Feel thet th' old airth's a-wheelin' sunwards.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Time wuz, the rhymes come crowdin' thick<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Ez office-seekers arter 'lection,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">An' into ary place 'ould stick<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Without no bother nor objection;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">45</span><span class="i0">But sence the war my thoughts hang back<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Ez though I wanted to enlist 'em,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">An' subs'tutes—<i>they</i> don't never lack,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">But then they'll slope afore you've mist 'em.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Nothin' don't seem like wut it wuz;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">50</span><span class="i2">I can't see wut there is to hender,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">An' yit my brains jes' go buzz, buzz,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Like bumblebees agin a winder;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">'Fore these times come, in all airth's row,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Ther' wuz one quiet place, my head in,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">55</span><span class="i0">Where I could hide an' think,—but now<br/></span><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</SPAN></span>
<span class="i2">It's all one teeter, hopin', dreadin'.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Where's Peace? I start, some clear-blown night,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">When gaunt stone walls grow numb an' number,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">An', creakin' 'cross the snow-crus' white,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">60</span><span class="i2">Walk the col' starlight into summer;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Up grows the moon, an' swell by swell<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Thru the pale pasturs silvers dimmer<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Than the last smile thet strives to tell<br/></span>
<span class="i2">O' love gone heavenward in its shimmer.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">65</span><span class="i0">I hev ben gladder o' sech things,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Than cocks o' spring or bees o' clover,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">They filled my heart with livin' springs,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">But now they seem to freeze 'em over;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Sights innercent ez babes on knee,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">70</span><span class="i2">Peaceful ez eyes o' pastur'd cattle,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Jes' coz they be so, seem to me<br/></span>
<span class="i2">To rile me more with thoughts o' battle.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">In-doors an' out by spells I try;<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Ma'am Natur' keeps her spin-wheel goin',<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">75</span><span class="i0">But leaves my natur' stiff and dry<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Ez fiel's o' clover arter mowin';<br/></span>
<span class="i0">An' her jes' keepin' on the same,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Calmer 'n a clock, an' never carin',<br/></span>
<span class="i0">An' findin' nary thing to blame,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">80</span><span class="i2">Is wus than ef she took to swearin'.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Snow-flakes come whisperin' on the pane,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The charm makes blazin' logs so pleasant,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">But I can't hark to wut they're say'n',<br/></span>
<span class="i2"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</SPAN></span>With Grant or Sherman ollers present;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">85</span><span class="i0">The chimbleys shudder in the gale,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Thet lulls, then suddin takes to flappin'<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Like a shot hawk, but all's ez stale<br/></span>
<span class="i2">To me ez so much sperit rappin'.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Under the yaller-pines I house,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">90</span><span class="i2">When sunshine makes 'em all sweet-scented,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">An' hear among their furry boughs<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The baskin' west-wind purr contented,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">While 'way o'erhead, ez sweet an' low<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Ez distant bells thet ring for meetin',<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">95</span><span class="i0">The wedged wil' geese their bugles blow,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Further an' further South retreatin'.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Or up the slippery knob I strain<br/></span>
<span class="i2">An' see a hundred hills like islan's<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Lift their blue woods in broken chain<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">100</span><span class="i2">Out o' the sea o' snowy silence;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The farm-smokes, sweetes' sight on airth,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Slow thru the winter air a-shrinkin'<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Seem kin' o' sad, an' roun' the hearth<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Of empty places set me thinkin'.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">105</span><span class="i0">Beaver roars hoarse with meltin' snows,<SPAN name="FNanchor_23_23" id="FNanchor_23_23"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_23_23" class="fnanchor">[23]</SPAN><br/></span>
<span class="i2">An' rattles di'mon's from his granite;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Time wuz, he snatched away my prose,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">An' into psalms or satires ran it;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">But he, nor all the rest thet once<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">110</span><span class="i2">Started my blood to country-dances,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Can't set me goin' more 'n a dunce<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Thet hain't no use for dreams an' fancies.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<div class="footnotes"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_23_23" id="Footnote_23_23"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_23_23"><span class="label">[23]</span></SPAN> Beaver Brook, a tributary of the Charles.</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Rat-tat-tat-tattle thru the street<br/></span>
<span class="i2">I hear the drummers makin' riot,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">115</span><span class="i0">An' I set thinkin' o' the feet<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Thet follered once an' now are quiet,—<br/></span>
<span class="i0">White feet ez snowdrops innercent,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Thet never knowed the paths o' Satan,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Whose comin' step ther' 's ears thet won't,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">120</span><span class="i2">No, not lifelong, leave off awaitin'.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Why, hain't I held 'em on my knee?<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Didn't I love to see 'em growin',<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Three likely lads ez wal could be,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Hahnsome an' brave an' not tu knowin'?<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">125</span><span class="i0">I set an' look into the blaze<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Whose natur', jes' like theirn, keeps climbin',<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Ez long 'z it lives, in shinin' ways,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">An' half despise myself for rhymin'.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Wut's words to them whose faith an' truth<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">130</span><span class="i2">On War's red techstone rang true metal,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Who ventered life an' love an' youth<br/></span>
<span class="i2">For the gret prize o' death in battle?<br/></span>
<span class="i0">To him who, deadly hurt, agen<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Flashed on afore the charge's thunder,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">135</span><span class="i0">Tippin' with fire the bolt of men<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Thet rived the Rebel line asunder?<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">'T ain't right to hev the young go fust,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">All throbbin' full o' gifts an' graces,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Leavin' life's paupers dry ez dust<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">140</span><span class="i2">To try an' make b'lieve fill their places:<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Nothin' but tells us wut we miss,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Ther' 's gaps our lives can't never fay in,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">An' <i>thet</i> world seems so fur from this<br/></span>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</SPAN></span>
<span class="i2">Lef' for us loafers to grow gray in!<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">145</span><span class="i0">My eyes cloud up for rain; my mouth<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Will take to twitchin' roun' the corners;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">I pity mothers, tu, down South,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">For all they sot among the scorners:<br/></span>
<span class="i0">I'd sooner take my chance to stan'<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">150</span><span class="i2">At Jedgment where your meanest slave is,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Than at God's bar hol' up a han'<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Ez drippin' red ez yourn, Jeff Davis!<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Come, Peace! not like a mourner bowed<br/></span>
<span class="i2">For honor lost an' dear ones wasted,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">155</span><span class="i0">But proud, to meet a people proud,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">With eyes thet tell o' triumph tasted!<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Come, with han' grippin' on the hilt,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">An' step thet proves ye Victory's daughter!<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Longin' for you, our sperits wilt<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">160</span><span class="i2">Like shipwrecked men's on raf's for water.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Come, while our country feels the lift<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Of a gret instinct shoutin' forwards,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">An' knows thet freedom ain't a gift<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Thet tarries long in han's o' cowards!<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">165</span><span class="i0">Come, sech ez mothers prayed for, when<br/></span>
<span class="i2">They kissed their cross with lips thet quivered,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">An' bring fair wages for brave men,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">A nation saved, a race delivered!<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</SPAN></span></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="VILLA_FRANCA" id="VILLA_FRANCA"></SPAN>VILLA FRANCA.</h2>
<p>[The battles of Magenta and Solferino, in the early summer of 1859,
had given promise of a complete emancipation of Italy from the
Austrian supremacy, when Napoleon III., who was acting in alliance
with Victor Emmanuel, king of Sardinia, held a meeting with the
emperor Francis Joseph of Austria at Villa Franca, and agreed to terms
which were very far from including the unification of Italy. There was
a general distrust of Napoleon, and the war continued with the final
result of a united Italy. In the poem which follows Mr. Lowell gives
expression to his want of faith in the French emperor.]</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Wait a little: do <i>we</i> not wait?<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Louis Napoleon is not Fate,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Francis Joseph is not Time;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">There's One hath swifter feet than Crime;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">5</span><span class="i0">Cannon-parliaments settle naught;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Venice is Austria's,—whose is Thought?<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Minié is good, but, spite of change,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Gutenberg's gun has the longest range.<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Spin, spin, Clotho, spin!<SPAN name="FNanchor_24_24" id="FNanchor_24_24"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_24_24" class="fnanchor">[24]</SPAN><br/></span>
<span class="linenum">10</span><span class="i2">Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever!<br/></span>
<span class="i2">In the shadow, year out, year in,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The silent headsman waits forever.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<div class="footnotes"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_24_24" id="Footnote_24_24"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_24_24"><span class="label">[24]</span></SPAN> Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos were the three Fates of
the ancient mythology; Clotho spun the thread of human destiny,
Lachesis twisted it, and Atropos with shears severed it.</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Wait, we say; our years are long;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Men are weak, but Man is strong;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">15</span><span class="i0">Since the stars first curved their rings,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">We have looked on many things;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Great wars come and great wars go,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Wolf-tracks light on polar snow;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">We shall see him come and gone,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">20</span><span class="i0">This second-hand Napoleon.<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Spin, spin, Clotho, spin!<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever!<br/></span>
<span class="i2">In the shadow, year out, year in,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The silent headsman waits forever.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">25</span><span class="i0">We saw the elder Corsican,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And Clotho muttered as she span,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">While crownèd lackeys bore the train,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Of the pinchbeck Charlemagne:<br/></span>
<span class="i0">"Sister, stint not length of thread!<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">30</span><span class="i0">Sister, stay the scissors dread!<br/></span>
<span class="i0">On Saint Helen's granite bleak,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Hark, the vulture whets his beak!"<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Spin, spin, Clotho, spin!<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever!<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">35</span><span class="i2">In the shadow, year out, year in,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The silent headsman waits forever.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The Bonapartes, we know their bees<br/></span>
<span class="i0">That wade in honey red to the knees:<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Their patent reaper, its sheaves sleep sound<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">40</span><span class="i0">In dreamless garners underground:<br/></span>
<span class="i0">We know false glory's spendthrift race<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Pawning nations for feathers and lace;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">It may be short, it may be long,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">"'Tis reckoning-day!" sneers unpaid Wrong.<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">45</span><span class="i2">Spin, spin, Clotho, spin!<br/>
</span>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</SPAN></span>
<span class="i2">Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever!<br/></span>
<span class="i2">In the shadow, year out, year in,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The silent headsman waits forever.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The Cock that wears the Eagle's skin<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">50</span><span class="i0">Can promise what he ne'er could win;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Slavery reaped for fine words sown,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">System for all, and rights for none,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Despots atop, a wild clan below,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Such is the Gaul from long ago;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">55</span><span class="i0">Wash the black from the Ethiop's face,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Wash the past out of man or race!<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Spin, spin, Clotho, spin!<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever!<br/></span>
<span class="i2">In the shadow, year out, year in,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">60</span><span class="i2">The silent headsman waits forever.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">'Neath Gregory's throne a spider swings,<SPAN name="FNanchor_25_25" id="FNanchor_25_25"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_25_25" class="fnanchor">[25]</SPAN><br/></span>
<span class="i0">And snares the people for the kings;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">"Luther is dead; old quarrels pass;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The stake's black scars are healed with grass;"<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">65</span><span class="i0">So dreamers prate; did man e'er live<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Saw priest or woman yet forgive;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">But Luther's broom is left, and eyes<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Peep o'er their creeds to where it lies.<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Spin, spin, Clotho, spin!<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">70</span><span class="i2">Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever!<br/></span>
<span class="i2">In the shadow, year out, year in,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The silent headsman waits forever.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<div class="footnotes"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_25_25" id="Footnote_25_25"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_25_25"><span class="label">[25]</span></SPAN> There was more than one Pope Gregory, but Gregory VII in
the eleventh century brought the papacy to its supreme power, when
kings humbled themselves before the Pope.</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Smooth sails the ship of either realm,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Kaiser and Jesuit at the helm;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">75</span><span class="i0">We look down the depths, and mark<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Silent workers in the dark<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Building slow the sharp-tusked reefs,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Old instincts hardening to new beliefs;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Patience a little; learn to wait;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">80</span><span class="i0">Hours are long on the clock of Fate.<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Spin, spin, Clotho, spin!<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever!<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Darkness is strong, and so is Sin,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">But only God endures forever!<br/></span></div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="THE_NIGHTINGALE_IN_THE_STUDY" id="THE_NIGHTINGALE_IN_THE_STUDY"></SPAN>THE NIGHTINGALE IN THE STUDY.</h2>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"Come forth!" my catbird calls to me,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">"And hear me sing a cavatina<br/></span>
<span class="i0">That, in this old familiar tree,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Shall hang a garden of Alcina.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">5</span><span class="i0">"These buttercups shall brim with wine<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Beyond all Lesbian juice or Massic;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">May not New England be divine?<br/></span>
<span class="i2">My ode to ripening summer classic?<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"Or, if to me you will not hark,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">10</span><span class="i2">By Beaver Brook a thrush is ringing<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Till all the alder-coverts dark<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Seem sunshine-dappled with his singing.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"Come out beneath the unmastered sky,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">With its emancipating spaces,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">15</span><span class="i0">And learn to sing as well as I,<br/></span>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</SPAN></span>
<span class="i2">Without premeditated graces.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"What boot your many-volumed gains,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Those withered leaves forever turning,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">To win, at best, for all your pains,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">20</span><span class="i2">A nature mummy-wrapt in learning?<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"The leaves wherein true wisdom lies<br/></span>
<span class="i2">On living trees the sun are drinking;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Those white clouds, drowsing through the skies,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Grew not so beautiful by thinking.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">25</span><span class="i0">"Come out! with me the oriole cries,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Escape the demon that pursues you!<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And, hark, the cuckoo weatherwise,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Still hiding, farther onward wooes you."<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"Alas, dear friend, that, all my days,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">30</span><span class="i2">Has poured from thy syringa thicket<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The quaintly discontinuous lays<br/></span>
<span class="i2">To which I hold a season-ticket,—<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"A season-ticket cheaply bought<br/></span>
<span class="i2">With a dessert of pilfered berries,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">35</span><span class="i0">And who so oft my soul has caught<br/></span>
<span class="i2">With morn and evening voluntaries,—<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"Deem me not faithless, if all day<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Among my dusty books I linger,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">No pipe, like thee, for June to play<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">40</span><span class="i2">With fancy-led, half-conscious finger.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</SPAN></span>
<span class="i0">"A bird is singing in my brain<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And bubbling o'er with mingled fancies,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Gay, tragic, rapt, right heart of Spain<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Fed with the sap of old romances.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">45</span><span class="i0">"I ask no ampler skies than those<br/></span>
<span class="i2">His magic music rears above me,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">No falser friends, no truer foes,—<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And does not Doña Clara love me?<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"Cloaked shapes, a twanging of guitars,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">50</span><span class="i2">A rush of feet, and rapiers clashing,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Then silence deep with breathless stars,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And overhead a white hand flashing.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"O music of all moods and climes,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Vengeful, forgiving, sensuous, saintly,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">55</span><span class="i0">Where still, between the Christian chimes,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The moorish cymbal tinkles faintly!<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"O life borne lightly in the hand,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">For friend or foe with grace Castilian!<br/></span>
<span class="i0">O valley safe in Fancy's land,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">60</span><span class="i2">Not tramped to mud yet by the million!<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"Bird of to-day, thy songs are stale<br/></span>
<span class="i2">To his, my singer of all weathers,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">My Calderon, my nightingale,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">My Arab soul in Spanish feathers.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">65</span><span class="i0">"Ah, friend, these singers dead so long,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And still, God knows, in purgatory,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Give its best sweetness to all song,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">To Nature's self her better glory."<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</SPAN></span></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="ALADDIN" id="ALADDIN"></SPAN>ALADDIN.</h2>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">When I was a beggarly boy,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And lived in a cellar damp,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">I had not a friend nor a toy,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">But I had Aladdin's lamp;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">5</span><span class="i0">When I could not sleep for cold,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">I had fire enough in my brain,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And builded with roofs of gold<br/></span>
<span class="i2">My beautiful castles in Spain!<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Since then I have toiled day and night,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">10</span><span class="i2">I have money and power good store,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">But, I'd give all my lamps of silver bright<br/></span>
<span class="i2">For the one that is mine no more;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Take, Fortune, whatever you choose,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">You gave, and may snatch again;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">15</span><span class="i0">I have nothing 't would pain me to lose,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">For I own no more castles in Spain!<br/></span></div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="BEAVER_BROOK" id="BEAVER_BROOK"></SPAN>BEAVER BROOK.</h2>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Hushed with broad sunlight lies the hill,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And, minuting the long day's loss,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The cedar's shadow, slow and still,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Creeps o'er its dial of gray moss.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">5</span><span class="i0">Warm noon brims full the valley's cup,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The aspen's leaves are scarce astir;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Only the little mill sends up<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Its busy, never-ceasing burr.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</SPAN></span>
<span class="i0">Climbing the loose-piled wall that hems<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">10</span><span class="i0">The road along the mill-pond's brink,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">From 'neath the arching barberry-stems,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">My footstep scares the shy chewink.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Beneath a bony buttonwood<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The mill's red door lets forth the din;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">15</span><span class="i0">The whitened miller, dust-imbued,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Flits past the square of dark within.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">No mountain torrent's strength is here;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Sweet Beaver, child of forest still,<SPAN name="FNanchor_26_26" id="FNanchor_26_26"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_26_26" class="fnanchor">[26]</SPAN><br/></span>
<span class="i0">Heaps its small pitcher to the ear,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">20</span><span class="i0">And gently waits the miller's will.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Swift slips Undine along the race<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Unheard, and then, with flashing bound,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Floods the dull wheel with light and grace,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And, laughing, hunts the loath drudge round.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">25</span><span class="i0">The miller dreams not at what cost<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The quivering millstones hum and whirl,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Nor how for every turn are tost<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Armfuls of diamond and of pearl.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">But Summer cleared my happier eyes<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">30</span><span class="i0">With drops of some celestial juice,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">To see how Beauty underlies,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Forevermore each form of use.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And more; methought I saw that flood,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Which now so dull and darkling steals,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">35</span><span class="i0">Thick, here and there, with human blood,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">To turn the world's laborious wheels.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<div class="footnotes"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_26_26" id="Footnote_26_26"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_26_26"><span class="label">[26]</span></SPAN> Beaver Brook was within walking distance of the poet's
home. See <i>The Nightingale in the Study</i>.</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">No more than doth the miller there,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Shut in our several cells, do we<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Know with what waste of beauty rare<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">40</span><span class="i0">Moves every day's machinery.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Surely the wiser time shall come<br/></span>
<span class="i0">When this fine overplus of might,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">No longer sullen, slow, and dumb,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Shall leap to music and to light.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">45</span><span class="i0">In that new childhood of the Earth<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Life of itself shall dance and play,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Fresh blood in Time's shrunk veins make mirth,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And labor meet delight half way.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="THE_SHEPHERD_OF_KING_ADMETUS" id="THE_SHEPHERD_OF_KING_ADMETUS"></SPAN>THE SHEPHERD OF KING ADMETUS.</h2>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">There came a youth upon the earth,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Some thousand years ago,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Whose slender hands were nothing worth,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Whether to plough, or reap, or sow.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">5</span><span class="i0">Upon an empty tortoise-shell<br/></span>
<span class="i2">He stretched some chords, and drew<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Music that made men's bosoms swell<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Fearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Then King Admetus, one who had<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">10</span><span class="i2">Pure taste by right divine,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Decreed his singing not too bad<br/></span>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</SPAN></span>
<span class="i0">To hear between the cups of wine:<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And so, well pleased with being soothed<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Into a sweet half-sleep,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">15</span><span class="i0">Three times his kingly beard he smoothed,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And made him viceroy o'er his sheep.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">His words were simple words enough,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And yet he used them so,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">That what in other mouths was rough<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">20</span><span class="i0">In his seemed musical and low.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Men called him but a shiftless youth,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">In whom no good they saw;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And yet, unwittingly, in truth,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">They made his careless words their law.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">25</span><span class="i0">They knew not how he learned at all,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">For idly, hour by hour,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">He sat and watched the dead leaves fall,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Or mused upon a common flower.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">It seemed the loveliness of things<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">30</span><span class="i2">Did teach him all their use,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">For, in mere weeds, and stones, and springs,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">He found a healing power profuse.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Men granted that his speech was wise,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">But, when a glance they caught<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">35</span><span class="i0">Of his slim grace and woman's eyes,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">They laughed, and called him good-for-naught.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</SPAN></span>
<span class="i0">Yet after he was dead and gone,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And e'en his memory dim,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Earth seemed more sweet to live upon,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">40</span><span class="i0">More full of love, because of him.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And day by day more holy grew<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Each spot where he had trod,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Till after-poets only knew<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Their first-born brother as a god.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="THE_PRESENT_CRISIS" id="THE_PRESENT_CRISIS"></SPAN>THE PRESENT CRISIS.</h2>
<p>[In the year 1844, which is the date of the following poem, the
question of the annexation of Texas was pending, and it was made an
issue of the presidential campaign then taking place. The anti-slavery
party feared and opposed annexation, on account of the added strength
which it would give to slavery, and the South desired it for the same
reason.]</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">When a deed is done for Freedom, through the broad earth's aching breast<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Runs a thrill of joy prophetic, trembling on from east to west,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels the soul within him climb<br/></span>
<span class="i0">To the awful verge of manhood, as the energy sublime<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">5</span><span class="i0">Of a century bursts full-blossomed on the thorny stem of Time.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</SPAN></span>
<span class="i0">Through the walls of hut and palace shoots the instantaneous throe,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">When the travail of the Ages wrings earth's systems to and fro;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">At the birth of each new Era, with a recognizing start,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Nation wildly looks at nation, standing with mute lips apart,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">10</span><span class="i0">And glad Truth's yet mightier man-child leaps beneath the Future's heart.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">So the Evil's triumph sendeth, with a terror and a chill,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Under continent to continent, the sense of coming ill,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels his sympathies with God<br/></span>
<span class="i0">In hot tear-drops ebbing earthward, to be drunk up by the sod,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">15</span><span class="i0">Till a corpse crawls round unburied, delving in the nobler clod.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">For mankind are one in spirit, and an instinct bears along,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Round the earth's electric circle, the swift flash of right or wrong;<SPAN name="FNanchor_27_27" id="FNanchor_27_27"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_27_27" class="fnanchor">[27]</SPAN><br/></span>
<span class="i0">Whether conscious or unconscious, yet Humanity's vast frame<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Through its ocean-sundered fibres feels the gush of joy or shame;—<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">20</span><span class="i0">In the gain or loss of one race all the rest have equal claim.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<div class="footnotes"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_27_27" id="Footnote_27_27"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_27_27"><span class="label">[27]</span></SPAN> This figure has special force from the fact that Morse's
telegraph was first put in operation a few months before the writing
of this poem.</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Some great cause, God's new Messiah, offering each the bloom or blight,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Parts the goats upon the left hand, and the sheep upon the right,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">25</span><span class="i0">And the choice goes by forever 'twixt that darkness and that light.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Hast thou chosen, O my people, on whose party thou shall stand,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Ere the Doom from its worn sandals shakes the dust against our land?<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Though the cause of Evil prosper, yet 'tis Truth alone is strong,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And, albeit she wander outcast now, I see around her throng<SPAN name="FNanchor_28_28" id="FNanchor_28_28"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_28_28" class="fnanchor">[28]</SPAN><br/></span>
<span class="linenum">30</span><span class="i0">Troops of beautiful, tall angels, to enshield her from all wrong.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Backward look across the ages and the beacon-moments see,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">That, like peaks of some sunk continent, jut through Oblivion's sea;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Not an ear in court or market for the low foreboding cry<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Of those Crises, God's stern winnowers, from whose feet earth's chaff must fly;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">35</span><span class="i0">Never shows the choice momentous till the judgment hath passed by.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<div class="footnotes"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_28_28" id="Footnote_28_28"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_28_28"><span class="label">[28]</span></SPAN> Compare:—</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"Truth crushed to earth shall rise again,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The eternal years of God are hers."<br/></span></div>
</div>
<span class="smcap">Bryant</span>.</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Careless seems the great Avenger; history's pages but record<br/></span>
<span class="i0">One death-grapple in the darkness 'twixt old systems and the Word;<SPAN name="FNanchor_29_29" id="FNanchor_29_29"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_29_29" class="fnanchor">[29]</SPAN><br/></span>
<span class="i0">Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the throne,—<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the dim unknown,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">40</span><span class="i0">Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above his own.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">We see dimly in the Present what is small and what is great,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Slow of faith how weak an arm may turn the iron helm of fate,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">But the soul is still oracular; amid the market's din,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">List the ominous stern whisper from the Delphic cave within,—<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">45</span><span class="i0">"They enslave their children's children who make compromise with sin."<br/></span></div>
</div>
<div class="footnotes"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_29_29" id="Footnote_29_29"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_29_29"><span class="label">[29]</span></SPAN> "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with
God, and the Word was God."</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Slavery, the earth-born Cyclops, fellest of the giant brood,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Sons of brutish Force and Darkness, who have drenched the earth with blood,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Famished in his self-made desert, blinded by our purer day,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Gropes in yet unblasted regions for his miserable prey;—<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">50</span><span class="i0">Shall we guide his gory fingers where our helpless children play?<SPAN name="FNanchor_30_30" id="FNanchor_30_30"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_30_30" class="fnanchor">[30]</SPAN><br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Then to side with Truth is noble when we share her wretched crust,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Ere her cause bring fame and profit, and 'tis prosperous to be just;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Then it is the brave man chooses, while the coward stands aside,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Doubting in his abject spirit, till his Lord is crucified,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">55</span><span class="i0">And the multitude make virtue of the faith they had denied.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Count me o'er earth's chosen heroes,—they were souls that stood alone,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">While the men they agonized for hurled the contumelious stone,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Stood serene, and down the future saw the golden beam incline<br/></span>
<span class="i0">To the side of perfect justice, mastered by their faith divine,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">60</span><span class="i0">By one man's plain truth to manhood and to God's supreme design.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<div class="footnotes"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_30_30" id="Footnote_30_30"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_30_30"><span class="label">[30]</span></SPAN> For the full story of Cyclops, which runs in suggestive
phrase through these five lines, see the ninth book of the Odyssey.
The translation by G.H. Palmer will be found especially
satisfactory.</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">By the light of burning heretics Christ's bleeding feet I track,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Toiling up new Calvaries ever with the cross that turns not back,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And these mounts of anguish number how each generation learned<br/></span>
<span class="i0">One new word of that grand <i>Credo</i> which in prophet-hearts hath burned<SPAN name="FNanchor_31_31" id="FNanchor_31_31"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_31_31" class="fnanchor">[31]</SPAN><br/></span>
<span class="linenum">65</span><span class="i0">Since the first man stood God-conquered with his face to heaven upturned.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">For Humanity sweeps onward: where to-day the martyr stands,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">On the morrow crouches Judas with the silver in his hands;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Far in front the cross stands ready and the crackling fagots burn,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">While the hooting mob of yesterday in silent awe return<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">70</span><span class="i0">To glean up the scattered ashes into History's golden urn.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">'Tis as easy to be heroes as to sit the idle slaves<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Of a legendary virtue carved upon our fathers' graves,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Worshippers of light ancestral make the present light a crime;—<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Was the Mayflower launched by cowards, steered by men behind their time?<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">75</span><span class="i0">Turn those tracks toward Past or Future, that make Plymouth Rock sublime?<br/></span></div>
</div>
<div class="footnotes"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_31_31" id="Footnote_31_31"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_31_31"><span class="label">[31]</span></SPAN> The creed is so named from the first word in the Latin
form, <i>credo</i>, I believe.</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">They were men of present valor, stalwart old iconoclasts,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Unconvinced by axe or gibbet that all virtue was the Past's;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">But we make their truth our falsehood, thinking that hath made us free,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Hoarding it in mouldy parchments, while our tender spirits flee<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">80</span><span class="i0">The rude grasp of that great Impulse which drove them across the sea.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">They have rights who dare maintain them; we are traitors to our sires,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Smothering in their holy ashes Freedom's new-lit altar-fires;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Shall we make their creed our jailer? Shall we, in our haste to slay,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">From the tombs of the old prophets steal the funeral lamps away<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">85</span><span class="i0">To light up the martyr-fagots round the prophets of to-day?<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">New occasions teach new duties; Time makes ancient good uncouth;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">They must upward still, and onward, who would keep abreast of Truth;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Lo, before us gleam her camp-fires! we ourselves must Pilgrims be.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Launch our Mayflower, and steer boldly through the desperate winter sea,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">90</span><span class="i0">Nor attempt the Future's portal with the Past's blood-rusted key.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</SPAN></span></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="AL_FRESCO" id="AL_FRESCO"></SPAN>AL FRESCO.</h2>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The dandelions and buttercups<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Gild all the lawn; the drowsy bee<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Stumbles among the clover-tops,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And summer sweetens all but me:<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">5</span><span class="i0">Away, unfruitful lore of books,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">For whose vain idiom we reject<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The soul's more native dialect,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Aliens among the birds and brooks,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Dull to interpret or conceive<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">10</span><span class="i0">What gospels lost the woods retrieve!<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Away, ye critics, city-bred,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Who springes set of thus and so,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And in the first man's footsteps tread,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Like those who toil through drifted snow!<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">15</span><span class="i0">Away, my poets, whose sweet spell<SPAN name="FNanchor_32_32" id="FNanchor_32_32"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_32_32" class="fnanchor">[32]</SPAN><br/></span>
<span class="i0">Can make a garden of a cell!<br/></span>
<span class="i0">I need ye not, for I to-day<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Will make one long sweet verse of play.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<div class="footnotes"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_32_32" id="Footnote_32_32"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_32_32"><span class="label">[32]</span></SPAN> There is a delightful pair of poems by Wordsworth,
<i>Expostulation and Reply</i>, and <i>The Tables Turned</i>, which show how
another poet treats books and nature.</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2">Snap, chord of manhood's tenser strain!<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">20</span><span class="i0">To-day I will be a boy again;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The mind's pursuing element,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Like a bow slackened and unbent,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">In some dark corner shall be leant.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The robin sings, as of old, from the limb!<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">25</span><span class="i0">The catbird croons in the lilac bush!<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Through the dim arbor, himself more dim,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Silently hops the hermit-thrush,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The withered leaves keep dumb for him;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The irreverent buccaneering bee<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">30</span><span class="i0">Hath stormed and rifled the nunnery<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Of the lily, and scattered the sacred floor<br/></span>
<span class="i0">With haste-dropt gold from shrine to door;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">There, as of yore,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The rich, milk-tingeing buttercup<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">35</span><span class="i0">Its tiny polished urn holds up,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Filled with ripe summer to the edge,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The sun in his own wine to pledge;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And our tall elm, this hundredth year<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Doge of our leafy Venice here,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">40</span><span class="i0">Who, with an annual ring, doth wed<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The blue Adriatic overhead,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Shadows with his palatial mass<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The deep canals of flowing grass.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i2">O unestrangëd birds and bees!<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">45</span><span class="i0">O face of Nature always true!<br/></span>
<span class="i0">O never-unsympathizing trees!<br/></span>
<span class="i0">O never-rejecting roof of blue,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Whose rash disherison never falls<br/></span>
<span class="i0">On us unthinking prodigals,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">50</span><span class="i0">Yet who convictest all our ill,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">So grand and unappeasable!<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Methinks my heart from each of these<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Plucks part of childhood back again,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Long there imprisoned, as the breeze<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">55</span><span class="i0">Doth every hidden odor seize<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Of wood and water, hill and plain;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Once more am I admitted peer<br/></span>
<span class="i0">In the upper house of Nature here,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And feel through all my pulses run<br/></span>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</SPAN></span>
<span class="linenum">60</span><span class="i0">The royal blood of breeze and sun.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i2">Upon these elm-arched solitudes<br/></span>
<span class="i0">No hum of neighbor toil intrudes;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The only hammer that I hear<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Is wielded by the woodpecker,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">65</span><span class="i0">The single noisy calling his<br/></span>
<span class="i0">In all our leaf-hid Sybaris;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The good old time, close-hidden here,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Persists, a loyal cavalier,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">While Roundheads prim, with point of fox,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">70</span><span class="i0">Probe wainscot-chink and empty box;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Here no hoarse-voiced iconoclast<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Insults thy statues, royal Past;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Myself too prone the axe to wield,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">I touch the silver side of the shield<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">75</span><span class="i0">With lance reversed, and challenge peace,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">A willing convert of the trees.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i2">How chanced it that so long I tost<br/></span>
<span class="i0">A cable's length from this rich coast,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">With foolish anchors hugging close<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">80</span><span class="i0">The beckoning weeds and lazy ooze,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Nor had the wit to wreck before<br/></span>
<span class="i0">On this enchanted island's shore,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Whither the current of the sea,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">With wiser drift, persuaded me?<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">85</span><span class="i2">O, might we but of such rare days<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Build up the spirit's dwelling-place!<br/></span>
<span class="i0">A temple of so Parian stone<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Would brook a marble god alone,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The statue of a perfect life,<br/></span>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</SPAN></span>
<span class="linenum">90</span><span class="i0">Far-shrined from earth's bestaining strife.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Alas! though such felicity<br/></span>
<span class="i0">In our vext world here may not be,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Yet, as sometimes the peasant's hut<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Shows stones which old religion cut<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">95</span><span class="i0">With text inspired, or mystic sign<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Of the Eternal and Divine,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Torn from the consecration deep<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Of some fallen nunnery's mossy sleep,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">So, from the ruins of this day<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">100</span><span class="i0">Crumbling in golden dust away,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The soul one gracious block may draw,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Carved with some fragment of the law,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Which, set in life's prosaic wall,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Old benedictions may recall,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">105</span><span class="i0">And lure some nunlike thoughts to take<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Their dwelling here for memory's sake.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="THE_FOOT-PATH" id="THE_FOOT-PATH"></SPAN>THE FOOT-PATH.</h2>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">It mounts athwart the windy hill<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Through sallow slopes of upland bare,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And Fancy climbs with foot-fall still<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Its narrowing curves that end in air.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">5</span><span class="i0">By day, a warmer-hearted blue<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Stoops softly to that topmost swell;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Its thread-like windings seem a clew<br/></span>
<span class="i2">To gracious climes where all is well.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">By night, far yonder, I surmise<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">10</span><span class="i2">An ampler world than clips my ken,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Where the great stars of happier skies<br/></span>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</SPAN></span>
<span class="i2">Commingle nobler fates of men.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I look and long, then haste me home,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Still master of my secret rare;<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">15</span><span class="i0">Once tried, the path would end in Rome,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">But now it leads me everywhere.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Forever to the new it guides,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">From former good, old overmuch;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">What Nature for her poets hides,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">20</span><span class="i2">'Tis wiser to divine than clutch.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The bird I list hath never come<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Within the scope of mortal ear;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">My prying step would make him dumb,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And the fair tree, his shelter, sear.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">25</span><span class="i0">Behind the hill, behind the sky,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Behind my inmost thought, he sings;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">No feet avail; to hear it nigh,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The song itself must lend the wings.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Sing on, sweet bird, close hid, and raise<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">30</span><span class="i2">Those angel stairways in my brain,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">That climb from these low-vaulted days<br/></span>
<span class="i2">To spacious sunshines far from pain.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Sing when thou wilt, enchantment fleet,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">I leave thy covert haunt untrod,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">35</span><span class="i0">And envy Science not her feat<br/></span>
<span class="i2">To make a twice-told tale of God.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</SPAN></span>
<span class="i0">They said the fairies tript no more,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And long ago that Pan was dead;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">'Twas but that fools preferred to bore<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">40</span><span class="i2">Earth's rind inch-deep for truth instead.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Pan leaps and pipes all summer long,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The fairies dance each full-mooned night,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Would we but doff our lenses strong,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And trust our wiser eyes' delight.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="linenum">45</span><span class="i0">City of Elf-land, just without<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Our seeing, marvel ever new,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Glimpsed in fair weather, a sweet doubt<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Sketched-in, mirage-like, on the blue.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I build thee in yon sunset cloud,<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">50</span><span class="i2">Whose edge allures to climb the height;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">I hear thy drowned bells, inly-loud,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">From still pools dusk with dreams of night.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Thy gates are shut to hardiest will,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Thy countersign of long-lost speech,—<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">55</span><span class="i0">Those fountained courts, those chambers still,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Fronting Time's far East, who shall reach?<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I know not, and will never pry,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">But trust our human heart for all;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Wonders that from the seeker fly<br/></span>
<span class="linenum">60</span><span class="i2">Into an open sense may fall.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Hide in thine own soul, and surprise<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The password of the unwary elves;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Seek it, thou canst not bribe their spies;<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Unsought, they whisper it themselves.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="The_Riverside_Literature_Series" id="The_Riverside_Literature_Series"></SPAN><b>The Riverside Literature Series.</b></h2>
<p><i>With Introductions, Notes, Historical Sketches, and Biographical
Sketches. Each regular single number, paper, 15 cents.</i></p>
<p>1. Longfellow's Evangeline.<SPAN name="FNanchor_33_33" id="FNanchor_33_33"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_33_33" class="fnanchor">[33]</SPAN><SPAN name="FNanchor_37_37" id="FNanchor_37_37"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_36_36" class="fnanchor">[36]</SPAN></p>
<p>2. Longfellow's Courtship of Miles Standish; Elizabeth.<SPAN name="FNanchor_38_38" id="FNanchor_38_38"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_33_33" class="fnanchor">[33]</SPAN></p>
<p>3. Longfellow's Courtship of Miles Standish. <span class="smcap">Dramatized</span>.</p>
<p>4. Whittier's Snow-Bound, and Other Poems.<SPAN name="FNanchor_39_39" id="FNanchor_39_39"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_33_33" class="fnanchor">[33]</SPAN><SPAN name="FNanchor_40_40" id="FNanchor_40_40"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_36_36" class="fnanchor">[36]</SPAN><SPAN name="FNanchor_41_41" id="FNanchor_41_41"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_34_34" class="fnanchor">[34]</SPAN></p>
<p>5. Whittier's Mabel Martin, and Other Poems.<SPAN name="FNanchor_42_42" id="FNanchor_42_42"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_34_34" class="fnanchor">[34]</SPAN></p>
<p>6. Holmes's Grandmother's Story of Bunker Hill Battle, etc.<SPAN name="FNanchor_43_43" id="FNanchor_43_43"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_34_34" class="fnanchor">[34]</SPAN></p>
<p>7, 8, 9. Hawthorne's Grandfather's Chair: True Stories from New
England History. 1620-1803. In three parts.<SPAN name="FNanchor_44_44" id="FNanchor_44_44"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_36_36" class="fnanchor">[36]</SPAN></p>
<p>10. Hawthorne's Biographical Stories. With Questions.<SPAN name="FNanchor_45_45" id="FNanchor_45_45"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_34_34" class="fnanchor">[34]</SPAN></p>
<p>11. Longfellow's Children's Hour, and Other Selections.<SPAN name="FNanchor_46_46" id="FNanchor_46_46"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_34_34" class="fnanchor">[34]</SPAN></p>
<p>12. Studies in Longfellow. Thirty-two Topics for Study.</p>
<p>13, 14. Longfellow's Song of Hiawatha. In two parts.<SPAN name="FNanchor_35_35" id="FNanchor_35_35"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_35_35" class="fnanchor">[35]</SPAN></p>
<p>15. Lowell's Under the Old Elm, and Other Poems.<SPAN name="FNanchor_48_48" id="FNanchor_48_48"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_34_34" class="fnanchor">[34]</SPAN></p>
<p>16. Bayard Taylor's Lars: a Pastoral of Norway; and Other Poems.</p>
<p>17, 18. Hawthorne's Wonder-Book. In two parts.<SPAN name="FNanchor_49_49" id="FNanchor_49_49"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_35_35" class="fnanchor">[35]</SPAN></p>
<p>19, 20. Benjamin Franklin's Autobiography. In two parts.<SPAN name="FNanchor_50_50" id="FNanchor_50_50"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_35_35" class="fnanchor">[35]</SPAN></p>
<p>21. Benjamin Franklin's Poor Richard's Almanac, etc.</p>
<p>22, 23. Hawthorne's Tanglewood Tales. In two parts.<SPAN name="FNanchor_51_51" id="FNanchor_51_51"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_35_35" class="fnanchor">[35]</SPAN></p>
<p>24. Washington's Rules of Conduct, Letters and Addresses.<SPAN name="FNanchor_52_52" id="FNanchor_52_52"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_33_33" class="fnanchor">[33]</SPAN></p>
<p>25, 26. Longfellow's Golden Legend. In two parts.<SPAN name="FNanchor_53_53" id="FNanchor_53_53"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_35_35" class="fnanchor">[35]</SPAN></p>
<p>27. Thoreau's Succession of Forest Trees, Sounds, and Wild Apples.
With a Biographical Sketch by <span class="smcap">R.W. Emerson</span>.</p>
<p>28. John Burroughs's Birds and Bees.<SPAN name="FNanchor_54_54" id="FNanchor_54_54"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_34_34" class="fnanchor">[34]</SPAN></p>
<p>29. Hawthorne's Little Daffydowndilly, and Other Stories.<SPAN name="FNanchor_55_55" id="FNanchor_55_55"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_34_34" class="fnanchor">[34]</SPAN></p>
<p>30. Lowell's Vision of Sir Launfal, and Other Pieces.<SPAN name="FNanchor_56_56" id="FNanchor_56_56"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_33_33" class="fnanchor">[33]</SPAN><SPAN name="FNanchor_57_57" id="FNanchor_57_57"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_36_36" class="fnanchor">[36]</SPAN><SPAN name="FNanchor_58_58" id="FNanchor_58_58"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_34_34" class="fnanchor">[34]</SPAN></p>
<p>31. Holmes's My Hunt after the Captain, and Other Papers.<SPAN name="FNanchor_59_59" id="FNanchor_59_59"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_33_33" class="fnanchor">[33]</SPAN></p>
<p>32. Abraham Lincoln's Gettysburg Speech, and Other Papers.</p>
<p>33, 34, 35. Longfellow's Tales of a Wayside Inn. In three parts.<SPAN name="FNanchor_60_60" id="FNanchor_60_60"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_35_35" class="fnanchor">[35]</SPAN></p>
<p>36. John Burroughs's Sharp Eyes, and Other Papers.<SPAN name="FNanchor_61_61" id="FNanchor_61_61"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_34_34" class="fnanchor">[34]</SPAN></p>
<p>37. Charles Dudley Warner's A-Hunting of the Deer, etc.<SPAN name="FNanchor_62_62" id="FNanchor_62_62"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_33_33" class="fnanchor">[33]</SPAN></p>
<p>38. Longfellow's Building of the Ship, and Other Poems.</p>
<p>39. Lowell's Books and Libraries, and Other Papers.</p>
<p>40. Hawthorne's Tales of the White Hills, and Sketches.<SPAN name="FNanchor_63_63" id="FNanchor_63_63"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_34_34" class="fnanchor">[34]</SPAN></p>
<p>41. Whittier's Tent on the Beach, and Associated Poems.</p>
<p>42. Emerson's Fortune of the Republic, and Other Essays, including the
American Scholar.</p>
<p>43. Ulysses among the Phæacians. From <span class="smcap">W.C. Bryant's</span>
Translation of Homer's Odyssey.</p>
<p>44. Edgeworth's Waste Not, Want Not; and The Barring Out.</p>
<p>45. Macaulay's Lays of Ancient Rome.<SPAN name="FNanchor_64_64" id="FNanchor_64_64"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_33_33" class="fnanchor">[33]</SPAN></p>
<p>46. Old Testament Stories in Scripture Language.</p>
<p>47, 48. Fables and Folk Stories. In two parts.<SPAN name="FNanchor_65_65" id="FNanchor_65_65"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_35_35" class="fnanchor">[35]</SPAN></p>
<p>49, 50. Hans Andersen's Stories. In two parts.<SPAN name="FNanchor_66_66" id="FNanchor_66_66"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_35_35" class="fnanchor">[35]</SPAN></p>
<p>51, 52. Washington Irving: Essays from the Sketch Book. [51.] Rip Van
Winkle, and other American Essays. [52] The Voyage, and other English
Essays. In two parts.<SPAN name="FNanchor_67_67" id="FNanchor_67_67"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_35_35" class="fnanchor">[35]</SPAN></p>
<p>53. Scott's Lady of the Lake. Edited by <span class="smcap">W.J. Rolfe</span>. With
copious notes and numerous illustrations. (<i>Double Number, 30 cents.
Also, in Rolfe's Students' Series, cloth to Teachers, 53 cents.</i>)</p>
<p><b>Also, bound in linen:</b> <SPAN name="FNanchor_68_68" id="FNanchor_68_68"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_33_33" class="fnanchor">[33]</SPAN> 25 cents. <SPAN name="FNanchor_69_69" id="FNanchor_69_69"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_34_34" class="fnanchor">[34]</SPAN> 29 and 10 in one vol., 40
cents; likewise 28 and 36, 4 and 5, 6 and 31, 15 and 36, 40 and 69, 11
and 63. <SPAN name="FNanchor_70_70" id="FNanchor_70_70"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_35_35" class="fnanchor">[35]</SPAN> Also in one vol. 40 cents. <SPAN name="FNanchor_71_71" id="FNanchor_71_71"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_36_36" class="fnanchor">[36]</SPAN> 1, 4, and 30 also in one
vol., 50 cents; likewise 7, 8, and 9, 33, 34, and 36. </p>
<p> </p>
<h3>JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.</h3>
<h4>POEMS</h4>
<p><i>Cabinet Edition.</i> 16mo, $1.00, half calf, $2.00, tree calf, flexible
calf, or flexible levant, $3.00.</p>
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<h4>PROSE AND POETRY.</h4>
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<h4>SEPARATE WORKS AND COMPILATIONS.</h4>
<p><b>The Vision of Sir Launfal.</b> A Poem of the Search for the Holy Grail.
Illustrated. 16mo, flexible leather, $1.50.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">The Same.</span> New Edition. Illustrated with Photogravures from
designs by <span class="smcap">E.H. Garrett</span>, and a new Portrait. 16mo, gilt top,
$1.50.</p>
<p><b>A Fable for Critics.</b> With outline portraits of authors mentioned,
and facsimile of title-page of First Edition. Crown 8vo, gilt top,
$1.00.</p>
<p><b>Heartsease and Rue.</b> 16mo, gilt top, $1.25.</p>
<p><b>The Biglow Papers.</b> First and Second Series. New <i>Popular Edition</i>,
12mo, $1.00, in Riverside Aldine Series, 2 vols., $2.00.</p>
<p><b>Odes, Lyrics, and Sonnets</b>, from the Poetic Works of James Russell
Lowell. <i>White and Gold Series.</i> 16mo, gilt top, $1.00, half levant,
$3.00.</p>
<p><b>Fireside Travels.</b> 12mo, gilt top, $1.50.</p>
<p><b>Among my Books.</b> First Series, Second Series. Each, 12mo, gilt top,
$2.00.</p>
<p><b>My Study Windows.</b> 12mo, gilt top, $2.00.</p>
<p><b>Democracy, and Other Addresses.</b> 16mo, gilt top, $1.25.</p>
<p><b>Political Essays.</b> 12mo, gilt top, $1.50.</p>
<p><b>Lowell Birthday Book.</b> 32mo, $1.00.</p>
<p><b>Lowell Calendar Book.</b> Containing Selections from Lowell's Writings
for Every Day. 32mo, 25 cents.</p>
<p><b>Last Poems</b>. Edited by <span class="smcap">Charles Eliot Norton</span>. With a fine new
Portrait. 12mo, gilt top, $1.25.</p>
<h4>FOR SCHOOL USE.</h4>
<p><b>Riverside Literature Series: No. 15.</b> Under the Old Elm, and Other
Poems. With a Biographical Sketch and Notes. Paper, 15 cents, <i>net</i>.
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<b>Extra Double No. O.</b> Lowell Leaflets. 30 cents, <i>net</i>; cloth, 40
cents, <i>net</i>.</p>
<p><b>Modern Classics:</b> Vol 5. The Vision of Sir Launfal, The Cathedral,
Favorite Poems. Vol. 31. My Garden Acquaintance, A Good Word for
Winter, A Moosehead Journal. <i>School Edition.</i> Each, 32mo, 40 cents,
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<p><b>Riverside School Library:</b> The Vision of Sir Launfal, and other Verse
and Prose. 16mo, half leather, 60 cents, <i>net</i>.</p>
<p><b>Portraits.</b> Lowell at 24, etching, at 31, at 38, at 39, at 62, at 69.
Steel, each 25 cents. On India paper, 75 cents. Lowell at 23,
photogravure, 75 cents. Atlantic Life-Size Portrait, $1.00.</p>
<h4>HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & COMPANY.</h4>
<h3>The Riverside Literature Series.</h3>
<h5>(<i>Continued.</i>)</h5>
<p class="figcenter"><i>Each regular single number, paper, 15 cents.</i></p>
<p>54. Bryant's Sella, Thanatopsis, and Other Poems.<SPAN name="FNanchor_72_72" id="FNanchor_72_72"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_33_33" class="fnanchor">[33]</SPAN></p>
<p>55. Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice. <span class="smcap">Thurber</span>.<SPAN name="FNanchor_73_73" id="FNanchor_73_73"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_33_33" class="fnanchor">[33]</SPAN><SPAN name="FNanchor_74_74" id="FNanchor_74_74"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_34_34" class="fnanchor">[34]</SPAN></p>
<p>56. Webster's First Bunker Hill Oration, and the Oration on Adams and
Jefferson.</p>
<p>57. Dickens's Christmas Carol.<SPAN name="FNanchor_75_75" id="FNanchor_75_75"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_34_34" class="fnanchor">[34]</SPAN> With Notes and a Biography.</p>
<p>58. Dickens's Cricket on the Hearth.<SPAN name="FNanchor_76_76" id="FNanchor_76_76"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_34_34" class="fnanchor">[34]</SPAN></p>
<p>59. Verse and Prose for Beginners in Reading.<SPAN name="FNanchor_77_77" id="FNanchor_77_77"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_33_33" class="fnanchor">[33]</SPAN></p>
<p>60, 61. The Sir Roger de Ooverley Papers. In two parts.<SPAN name="FNanchor_78_78" id="FNanchor_78_78"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_35_35" class="fnanchor">[35]</SPAN></p>
<p>62. John Fiske's War of Independence. With Maps and a Biographical
Sketch.<SPAN name="FNanchor_79_79" id="FNanchor_79_79"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_36_36" class="fnanchor">[36]</SPAN></p>
<p>63. Longfellow's Paul Revere's Ride, and Other Poems.<SPAN name="FNanchor_80_80" id="FNanchor_80_80"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_34_34" class="fnanchor">[34]</SPAN></p>
<p>64. 65, 66. Tales from Shakespeare. Edited by <span class="smcap">Charles</span> and
<span class="smcap">Mary Lamb</span>. In three parts. [Also, in one volume, linen, 50
cents.]</p>
<p>67. Shakespeare's Julius Cæsar.<SPAN name="FNanchor_81_81" id="FNanchor_81_81"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_33_33" class="fnanchor">[33]</SPAN><SPAN name="FNanchor_82_82" id="FNanchor_82_82"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_34_34" class="fnanchor">[34]</SPAN></p>
<p>68. Goldsmith's Deserted Village, The Traveller, etc.<SPAN name="FNanchor_83_83" id="FNanchor_83_83"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_33_33" class="fnanchor">[33]</SPAN></p>
<p>69. Hawthorne's Old Manse, and A Few Mosses.<SPAN name="FNanchor_84_84" id="FNanchor_84_84"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_34_34" class="fnanchor">[34]</SPAN></p>
<p>70. A Selection from Whittier's Child Life in Poetry.<SPAN name="FNanchor_34_34" id="FNanchor_34_34"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_34_34" class="fnanchor">[34]</SPAN></p>
<p>71. A Selection from Whittier's Child Life in Prose.<SPAN name="FNanchor_85_85" id="FNanchor_85_85"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_34_34" class="fnanchor">[34]</SPAN></p>
<p>72. Milton's L'Allegro, Il Penseroso, Oomus, Lycidas, etc.<SPAN name="FNanchor_86_86" id="FNanchor_86_86"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_34_34" class="fnanchor">[34]</SPAN></p>
<p>73. Tennyson's Enoch Arden, and Other Poems.</p>
<p>74. Gray's Elegy, etc.: Oowper's John Gilpin, etc.</p>
<p>75. Scudder's George Washington.<SPAN name="FNanchor_87_87" id="FNanchor_87_87"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_36_36" class="fnanchor">[36]</SPAN></p>
<p>76. Wordsworth's On the Intimations of Immortality, etc.</p>
<p>77. Burns's Cotter's Saturday Night, and Other Poems.</p>
<p>78. Goldsmith's Vicar of Wakefield.<SPAN name="FNanchor_36_36" id="FNanchor_36_36"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_36_36" class="fnanchor">[36]</SPAN></p>
<p>79. Lamb's Old China, and Other assays of Elia.</p>
<p>80. Coleridge's Rime of the Ancient Mariner, and Other Poems;
Campbell's Lochiel's Warning, and Other Poems.</p>
<div class="footnotes">
<p><b>Also, bound in linen:</b></p>
<p><SPAN name="Footnote_33_33" id="Footnote_33_33"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_33_33"><span class="label">[33]</span></SPAN> 25 cents.</p>
<p><SPAN name="Footnote_34_34" id="Footnote_34_34"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_34_34"><span class="label">[34]</span></SPAN> 11 and 63 in one vol., 40 cents; likewise 55 and 67, 57
and 58, 40 and 69, 70 and 71, 72 and 94.</p>
<p><SPAN name="Footnote_35_35" id="Footnote_35_35"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_35_35"><span class="label">[35]</span></SPAN> Also in one vol., 40 cents.</p>
<p><SPAN name="Footnote_36_36" id="Footnote_36_36"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_36_36"><span class="label">[36]</span></SPAN> Double Number, paper, 30 cents; linen, 40 cents.</p>
</div>
<p class="figcenter"> </p>
<p class="figcenter"><i>EXTRA NUMBERS</i>.</p>
<p><i>A.</i> American Authors and their Birthdays. Programmes and Suggestions
for the Celebration of the Birthdays of Authors. By <span class="smcap">A.S. Roe</span>.</p>
<p><i>B.</i> Portraits and Biographies of 20 American Authors.</p>
<p><i>C.</i> A Longfellow Night. For Catholic Schools and Societies.</p>
<p><i>D.</i> Literature in School. Essays by <span class="smcap">Horace E. Scudder</span>.</p>
<p><i>E.</i> Harriet Beecher Stowe. Dialogues and Scenes.</p>
<p><i>F.</i> Longfellow Leaflets. </p>
<p><i>G.</i> Whittier Leaflets. </p>
<p><i>H.</i> Holmes Leaflets. </p>
<p><i>O.</i> Lowell Leaflets. </p>
<p>(Each a <i>Double Number, 30 cents; linen, 40 cents</i>.) Poems and Prose Passages for Reading and Recitation. </p>
<p><i>I.</i> The Riverside Manual for Teachers, containing Suggestions and
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Hall</span>.</p>
<p><i>K.</i> The Riverside Primer and Reader. (<i>Special Number.</i>) In paper
covers, with cloth back, 25 cents; in strong linen binding, 30 cents.</p>
<p><i>L.</i> The Riverside Song Book. Containing Classic American Poems set to
Standard Music. (<i>Double Number, 30 cents; boards, 40 cents.</i>)</p>
<p><i>M.</i> Lowells' Fable for Critics. (<i>Double Number, 30 cents.</i>)</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<SPAN name="endofbook"></SPAN>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />