The Complete Poetical Works of James Russell Lowell Part 69

Then from your strong loins Seed shall be scattered, Men to the marrow, Wilderness tamers, Walkers of waves. 230

Jealous, the old G.o.ds Shut it in shadow, Wisely they ward it, Egg of the serpent, Bane to them all.

Stronger and sweeter New G.o.ds shall seek it.

Fill it with man-folk Wise for the future, Wise from the past. 240

Here all is all men's, Save only Wisdom; King he that wins her; Him hail they helmsman, Highest of heart.

Might makes no master Here any longer; Sword is not swayer; Here e'en the G.o.ds are Selfish no more. 250

Walking the New Earth, Lo, a divine One Greets all men G.o.dlike, Calls them his kindred, He, the Divine.

Is it Thor's hammer Rays in his right hand?

Weaponless walks he; It is the White Christ, Stronger than Thor. 260

Here shall a realm rise Mighty in manhood; Justice and Mercy Here set a stronghold Safe without spear.

Weak was the Old World, Wearily war-fenced; Out of its ashes, Strong as the morning, Springeth the New. 270

Beauty of promise, Promise of beauty, Safe in the silence Sleep thou, till cometh Light to thy lids!

Thee shall awaken Flame from the furnace, Bath of all brave ones, Cleanser of conscience, Welder of will. 280

Lowly shall love thee, Thee, open-handed!

Stalwart shall s.h.i.+eld thee, Thee, worth their best blood, Waif of the West!

Then shall come singers, Singing no swan-song, Birth-carols, rather, Meet for the mail child Mighty of bone. 290

MAHMOOD THE IMAGE-BREAKER

Old events have modern meanings; only that survives Of past history which finds kindred in all hearts and lives.

Mahmood once, the idol-breaker, spreader of the Faith, Was at Sumnat tempted sorely, as the legend saith.

In the great paG.o.da's centre, monstrous and abhorred, Granite on a throne of granite, sat the temple's lord,

Mahmood paused a moment, silenced by the silent face That, with eyes of stone unwavering, awed the ancient place.

Then the Brahmins knelt before him, by his doubt made bold, Pledging for their idol's ransom countless gems and gold.

Gold was yellow dirt to Mahmood, but of precious use, Since from it the roots of power suck a potent juice.

'Were yon stone alone in question, this would please me well,'

Mahmood said; 'but, with the block there, I my truth must sell.

'Wealth and rule slip down with Fortune, as her wheel turns round; He who keeps his faith, he only cannot be discrowned.

'Little were a change of station, loss of life or crown, But the wreck were past retrieving if the Man fell down.'

So his iron mace he lifted, smote with might and main, And the idol, on the pavement tumbling, burst in twain.

Luck obeys the downright striker; from the hollow core, Fifty times the Brahmins' offer deluged all the floor.

INVITA MINERVA

The Bardling came where by a river grew The pennoned reeds, that, as the west-wind blew, Gleamed and sighed plaintively, as if they knew What music slept enchanted in each stem, Till Pan should choose some happy one of them, And with wise lips enlife it through and through.

The Bardling thought, 'A pipe is all I need; Once I have sought me out a clear, smooth reed, And shaped it to my fancy, I proceed To breathe such strains as, yonder mid the rocks, The strange youth blows, that tends Admetus' flocks.

And all the maidens shall to me pay heed.'

The summer day he spent in questful round, And many a reed he marred, but never found A conjuring-spell to free the imprisoned sound; At last his vainly wearied limbs he laid Beneath a sacred laurel's flickering shade, And sleep about his brain her cobweb wound.

Then strode the mighty Mother through his dreams, Saying: 'The reeds along a thousand streams Are mine, and who is he that plots and schemes To snare the melodies wherewith my breath Sounds through the double pipes of Life and Death, Atoning what to men mad discord seems?

'He seeks not me, but I seek oft in vain For him who shall my voiceful reeds constrain, And make them utter their melodious pain; He flies the immortal gift, for well he knows His life of life must with its overflows Flood the unthankful pipe, nor come again.

'Thou fool, who dost my harmless subjects wrong, 'Tis not the singer's wish that makes the song: The rhythmic beauty wanders dumb, how long, Nor stoops to any daintiest instrument, Till, found its mated lips, their sweet consent Makes mortal breath than Time and Fate more strong.'

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH

I

'Tis a woodland enchanted!

By no sadder spirit Than blackbirds and thrushes, That whistle to cheer it All day in the bushes.

This woodland is haunted: And in a small clearing, Beyond sight or hearing Of human annoyance, The little fount gushes, 10 First smoothly, then dashes And gurgles and flashes, To the maples and ashes Confiding its joyance; Unconscious confiding, Then, silent and glossy, Slips winding and hiding Through alder-stems mossy, Through gossamer roots Fine as nerves, 20 That tremble, as shoots Through their magnetized curves The allurement delicious Of the water's capricious Thrills, gushes, and swerves.

II

'Tis a woodland enchanted!

I am writing no fiction; And this fount, its sole daughter, To the woodland was granted To pour holy water 30 And win benediction; In summer-noon flushes, When all the wood hushes, Blue dragon-flies knitting To and fro in the sun, With sidelong jerk flitting Sink down on the rashes, And, motionless sitting, Hear it bubble and run, Hear its low inward singing, 40 With level wings swinging On green ta.s.selled rushes, To dream in the sun.

III

'Tis a woodland enchanted!

The great August noonlight!

Through myriad rifts slanted, Leaf and bole thickly sprinkles With flickering gold; There, in warm August gloaming, With quick, silent brightenings, 50 From meadow-lands roaming, The firefly twinkles His fitful heat-lightnings; There the magical moonlight With meek, saintly glory Steeps summit and wold; There whippoorwills plain in the solitudes h.o.a.ry With lone cries that wander Now hither, now yonder, Like souls doomed of old 60 To a mild purgatory; But through noonlight and moonlight The little fount tinkles Its silver saints'-bells, That no sprite ill-boding May make his abode in Those innocent dells.

IV

'Tis a woodland enchanted!

When the phebe scarce whistles Once an hour to his fellow. 70 And, where red lilies flaunted, Balloons from the thistles Tell summer's disasters, The b.u.t.terflies yellow, As caught in an eddy Of air's silent ocean, Sink, waver, and steady O'er goats'-beard and asters, Like souls of dead flowers, With aimless emotion 80 Still lingering unready To leave their old bowers; And the fount is no dumber, But still gleams and flashes, And gurgles and plashes, To the measure of summer; The b.u.t.terflies hear it, And spell-bound are holden, Still balancing near it O'er the goats' beard so golden. 90