The Complete Poetical Works of James Russell Lowell Part 64

Snap, chord of manhood's tenser strain!

To-day I will be a boy again; 20 The mind's pursuing element, Like a bow slackened and unbent, In some dark corner shall be leant.

The robin sings, as of old, from the limb!

The cat-bird croons in the lilac-bus.h.!.+

Through the dim arbor, himself more dim, Silently hops the hermit-thrush, The withered leaves keep dumb for him; The irreverent buccaneering bee Hath stormed and rifled the nunnery 30 Of the lily, and scattered the sacred floor With haste-dropt gold from shrine to door; There, as of yore, The rich, milk-tingeing b.u.t.tercup Its tiny polished urn holds up, Filled with ripe summer to the edge, The sun in his own wine to pledge; And our tall elm, this hundredth year Doge of our leafy Venice here, Who, with an annual ring, doth wed 40 The blue Adriatic overhead, Shadows with his palatial ma.s.s The deep ca.n.a.ls of flowing gra.s.s.

O unestranged birds and bees!

O face of Nature always true!

O never-unsympathizing trees!

O never-rejecting roof of blue, Whose rash disherison never falls On us unthinking prodigals, Yet who convictest all our ill, 50 So grand and unappeasable!

Methinks my heart from each of these Plucks part of childhood back again, Long there imprisoned, as the breeze Doth every hidden odor seize Of wood and water, hill and plain: Once more am I admitted peer In the upper house of Nature here, And feel through all my pulses run The royal blood of wind and sun. 60

Upon these elm-arched solitudes No hum of neighbor toil intrudes; The only hammer that I hear Is wielded by the woodp.e.c.k.e.r, The single noisy calling his In all our leaf-hid Sybaris; The good old time, close-hidden here, Persists, a loyal cavalier, While Roundheads prim, with point of fox, Probe wainscot-c.h.i.n.k and empty box; 70 Here no hoa.r.s.e-voiced iconoclast, Insults thy statues, royal Past; Myself too p.r.o.ne the axe to wield, I touch the silver side of the s.h.i.+eld With lance reversed, and challenge peace, A willing convert of the trees.

How chanced it that so long I tost A cable's length from this rich coast, With foolish anchors hugging close The beckoning weeds and lazy ooze, 80 Nor had the wit to wreck before On this enchanted island's sh.o.r.e, Whither the current of the sea, With wiser drift, persuaded me?

Oh, might we but of such rare days Build up the spirit's dwelling-place!

A temple of so Parian stone Would brook a marble G.o.d alone, The statue of a perfect life, Far-shrined from earth's bestaining strife. 90 Alas! though such felicity In our vext world here may not be, Yet, as sometimes the peasant's hut Shows stones which old religion cut With text inspired, or mystic sign Of the Eternal and Divine, Torn from the consecration deep Of some fallen nunnery's mossy sleep, So, from the ruins of this day Crumbling in golden dust away, 100 The soul one gracious block may draw, Carved with, some fragment of the law, Which, set in life's prosaic wall, Old benedictions may recall, And lure some nunlike thoughts to take Their dwelling here for memory's sake.

MASACCIO

IN THE BRANCACCI CHAPEL

He came to Florence long ago, And painted here these walls, that shone For Raphael and for Angelo, With secrets deeper than his own, Then shrank into the dark again, And died, we know not how or when.

The shadows deepened, and I turned Half sadly from the fresco grand; 'And is this,' mused I, 'all ye earned, High-vaulted brain and cunning hand, That ye to greater men could teach The skill yourselves could never reach?'

'And who were they,' I mused, 'that wrought Through pathless wilds, with labor long, The highways of our daily thought?

Who reared those towers of earliest song That lift us from the crowd to peace Remote in sunny silences?'

Out clanged the Ave Mary bells, And to my heart this message came: Each clamorous throat among them tells What strong-souled martyrs died in flame To make it possible that thou Shouldst here with brother sinners bow.

Thoughts that great hearts once broke for, we Breathe cheaply in the common air; The dust we trample heedlessly Throbbed once in saints and heroes rare, Who perished, opening for their race New pathways to the commonplace.

Henceforth, when rings the health to those Who live in story and in song, O nameless dead, that now repose, Safe in Oblivion's chambers strong, One cup of recognition true Shall silently be drained to you!

WITHOUT AND WITHIN

My coachman, in the moonlight there, Looks through the side-light of the door; I hear him with his brethren swear, As I could do,--but only more.

Flattening his nose against the pane, He envies me my brilliant lot, Breathes on his aching fists in vain, And dooms me to a place more hot.

He sees me in to supper go, A silken wonder by my side, Bare arms, bare shoulders, and a row Of flounces, for the door too wide.

He thinks how happy is my arm 'Neath its white-gloved and jewelled load; And wishes me some dreadful harm, Hearing the merry corks explode.

Meanwhile I inly curse the bore Of hunting still the same old c.o.o.n, And envy him, outside the door, In golden quiets of the moon.

The winter wind is not so cold As the bright smile he sees me win, Nor the host's oldest wine so old As our poor gabble sour and thin.

I envy him the ungyved prance With which his freezing feet he warms, And drag my lady's chains and dance The galley-slave of dreary forms.

Oh, could he have my share of din, And I his quiet!--past a doubt 'Twould still be one man bored within, And just another bored without.

Nay, when, once paid my mortal fee, Some idler on my headstone grim Traces the moss-blurred name, will he Think me the happier, or I him?

THE PARTING OF THE WAYS

G.o.dMINSTER CHIMES

WRITTEN IN AID OF A CHIME OF BELLS FOR CHRIST CHURCH, CAMBRIDGE

G.o.dminster? Is it Fancy's play?

I know not, but the word Sings in my heart, nor can I say Whether 'twas dreamed or heard; Yet fragrant in my mind it clings As blossoms after rain, And builds of half-remembered things This vision in my brain.

Through aisles of long-drawn centuries My spirit walks in thought, And to that symbol lifts its eyes Which G.o.d's own pity wrought; From Calvary s.h.i.+nes the altar's gleam, The Church's East is there, The Ages one great minster seem, That throbs with praise and prayer.

And all the way from Calvary down The carven pavement shows Their graves who won the martyr's crown And safe in G.o.d repose; The saints of many a warring creed Who now in heaven have learned That all paths to the Father lead Where Self the feet have spurned.

And, as the mystic aisles I pace, By aureoled workmen built, Lives ending at the Cross I trace Alike through grace and guilt; One Mary bathes the blessed feet With ointment from her eyes, With spikenard one, and both are sweet, For both are sacrifice.

Moravian hymn and Roman chant In one devotion blend, To speak the soul's eternal want Of Him, the inmost friend; One prayer soars cleansed with martyr fire, One choked with sinner's tears, In heaven both meet in one desire, And G.o.d one music hears.

Whilst thus I dream, the bells clash out Upon the Sabbath air, Each seems a hostile faith to shout, A selfish form of prayer: My dream is shattered, yet who knows But in that heaven so near These discords find harmonious close In G.o.d's atoning ear?

O chime of sweet Saint Charity, Peal soon that Easter morn When Christ for all shall risen be, And in all hearts new-born!

That Pentecost when utterance clear To all men shall be given, When all shall say _My Brother_ here, And hear _My Son_ in heaven!

THE PARTING OF THE WAYS

Who hath not been a poet? Who hath not, With life's new quiver full of winged years, Shot at a venture, and then, following on, Stood doubtful at the Parting of the Ways?

There once I stood in dream, and as I paused, Looking this way and that, came forth to me The figure of a woman veiled, that said, 'My name is Duty, turn and follow me;'

Something there was that chilled me in her voice; I felt Youth's hand grow slack and cold in mine, 10 As if to be withdrawn, and I exclaimed: 'Oh, leave the hot wild heart within my breast!

Duty comes soon enough, too soon comes Death; This slippery globe of life whirls of itself, Hasting our youth away into the dark; These senses, quivering with electric heats, Too soon will show, like nests on wintry boughs Obtrusive emptiness, too palpable wreck, Which whistling north-winds line with downy snow Sometimes, or fringe with foliaged rime, in vain, 20 Thither the singing birds no more return.'

Then glowed to me a maiden from the left, With bosom half disclosed, and naked arms More white and undulant than necks of swans; And all before her steps an influence ran Warm as the whispering South that opens buds And swells the laggard sails of Northern May.

'I am called Pleasure, come with me!' she said, Then laughed, and shook out suns.h.i.+ne from her hair, Nor only that, but, so it seemed, shook out 30 All memory too, and all the moonlit past, Old loves, old aspirations, and old dreams, More beautiful for being old and gone.