The Complete Poetical Works of James Russell Lowell Part 87

Ask rather could he else have seen at all, Or grown in Nature's mysteries an adept?

WITH AN ARMCHAIR

1.

About the oak that framed this chair, of old The seasons danced their round; delighted wings Brought music to its boughs; shy woodland things Shared its broad roof, 'neath whose green glooms grown bold, Lovers, more shy than they, their secret told; The resurrection of a thousand springs Swelled in its veins, and dim imaginings Teased them, perchance, of life more manifold.

Such shall it know when its proud arms enclose My Lady Goshawk, musing here at rest, Careless of him who into exile goes, Yet, while his gift by those fair limbs is prest, Through some fine sympathy of nature knows That, seas between us, she is still his guest.

2.

Yet sometimes, let me dream, the conscious wood A momentary vision may renew Of him who counts it treasure that he knew, Though but in pa.s.sing, such a priceless good, And, like an elder brother, felt his mood Uplifted by the spell that kept her true, Amid her lightsome compeers, to the few That wear the crown of serious womanhood: Were he so happy, think of him as one Who in the Louvre or Pitti feels his soul Rapt by some dead face which, till then unseen, Moves like a memory, and, till life outrun, Is vexed with vague misgiving past control, Of nameless loss and thwarted might-have-been.

E.G. DE R.

Why should I seek her spell to decompose Or to its source each rill of influence trace That feeds the br.i.m.m.i.n.g river of her grace?

The petals numbered but degrade to prose Summer's triumphant poem of the rose: Enough for me to watch the wavering chase, Like wind o'er gra.s.s, of moods across her face, Fairest in motion, fairer in repose.

Steeped in her suns.h.i.+ne, let me, while I may, Partake the bounty; ample 'tis for me That her mirth cheats my temples of their gray, Her charm makes years long spent seem yet to be.

Wit, goodness, grace, swift flash from grave to gay,-- All these are good, but better far is she.

BON VOYAGE

s.h.i.+p, blest to bear such freight across the blue, May stormless stars control thy horoscope; In keel and hull, in every spar and rope, Be night and day to thy dear office true!

Ocean, men's path and their divider too, No fairer shrine of memory and hope To the underworld adown thy westering slope E'er vanished, or whom such regrets pursue: Smooth all thy surges as when Jove to Crete Swam with less costly burthen, and prepare A pathway meet for her home-coming soon With golden undulations such as greet The printless summer-sandals of the moon And tempt the Nautilus his cruise to dare!

TO WHITTIER

ON HIS SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY

New England's poet, rich in love as years, Her hills and valleys praise thee, her swift brooks Dance in thy verse; to her grave sylvan nooks Thy steps allure us, which the wood-thrush hears As maids their lovers', and no treason fears; Through thee her Merrimacs and Agiochooks And many a name uncouth win gracious looks, Sweetly familiar to both Englands' ears: Peaceful by birthright, as a virgin lake, The lily's anchorage, which no eyes behold Save those of stars, yet for thy brother's sake That lay in bonds, thou blewst a blast as bold As that wherewith the heart of Roland brake, Far heard across the New World and the Old.

ON AN AUTUMN SKETCH OF H.G. WILD

Thanks to the artist, ever on my wall The sunset stays: that hill in glory rolled, Those trees and clouds in crimson and in gold, Burn on, nor cool when evening's shadows fall.

Not round _these_ splendors Midnight wraps her pall; _These_ leaves the flush of Autumn's vintage hold In Winter's spite, nor can the Northwind bold Deface my chapel's western window small: On one, ah me! October struck his frost, But not repaid him with those Tyrian hues; His naked boughs but tell him what is lost, And parting comforts of the sun refuse: His heaven is bare,--ah, were its hollow crost Even with a cloud whose light were yet to lose!

TO MISS D.T.

ON HER GIVING ME A DRAWING OF LITTLE STREET ARABS

As, cleansed of Tiber's and Oblivion's slime, Glow Farnesina's vaults with shapes again That dreamed some exiled artist from his pain Back to his Athens and the Muse's clime, So these world-orphaned waifs of Want and Crime, Purged by Art's absolution from the stain Of the polluting city-flood, regain Ideal grace secure from taint of time.

An Attic frieze you give, a pictured song; For as with words the poet paints, for you The happy pencil at its labor sings, Stealing his privilege, nor does him wrong, Beneath the false discovering the true, And Beauty's best in unregarded things.

WITH A COPY OF AUCa.s.sIN AND NICOLETE

Leaves fit to have been poor Juliet's cradle-rhyme, With gladness of a heart long quenched in mould They vibrate still, a nest not yet grown cold From its fledged burthen. The numb hand of Time Vainly his gla.s.s turns; here is endless prime; Here lips their roses keep and locks their gold; Here Love in pristine innocency bold Speaks what our grosser conscience makes a crime.

Because it tells the dream that all have known Once in their lives, and to life's end the few; Because its seeds o'er Memory's desert blown Spring up in heartsease such as Eden knew; Because it hath a beauty all its own, Dear Friend, I plucked this herb of grace for you.

ON PLANTING A TREE AT INVERARAY

Who does his duty is a question Too complex to be solved by me, But he, I venture the suggestion, Does part of his that plants a tree.

For after he is dead and buried, And epitaphed, and well forgot, Nay, even his shade by Charon ferried To--let us not inquire to what,

His deed, its author long outliving, By Nature's mother-care increased, Shall stand, his verdant almoner, giving A kindly dole to man and beast.

The wayfarer, at noon reposing, Shall bless its shadow on the gra.s.s, Or sheep beneath it huddle, dozing Until the thundergust o'erpa.s.s.

The owl, belated in his plundering, Shall here await the friendly night, Blinking whene'er he wakes, and wondering What fool it was invented light.

Hither the busy birds shall flutter, With the light timber for their nests, And, pausing from their labor, utter The morning suns.h.i.+ne in their b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

What though his memory shall have vanished, Since the good deed he did survives?

It is not wholly to be banished Thus to be part of many lives.

Grow, then, my foster-child, and strengthen, Bough over bough, a murmurous pile, And, as your stately stem shall lengthen, So may the statelier of Argyll!

AN EPISTLE TO GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS

'De prodome, Des qu'il s'atorne a grant bonte Ja n'iert tot dit ne tot conte, Que leingue ne puet pas retraire Tant d'enor com prodom set faire.'

CRESTIEN DE TROIES, _Li Romans dou Chevalier au Lyon_, 784-788.