The Complete Poetical Works of James Russell Lowell Part 96

Sh.e.l.l, whose lips, than mine more cold, Might with Dian's ear make bold, Seek my Lady's; if thou win To that portal, shut from sin, Where commissioned angels' swords Startle back unholy words, Thou a miracle shalt see Wrought by it and wrought in thee; Thou, the dumb one, shalt recover Speech of poet, speech of lover.

If she deign to lift you there, Murmur what I may not dare; In that archway, pearly-pink As the Dawn's untrodden brink, Murmur, 'Excellent and good, Beauty's best in every mood, Never common, never tame, Changeful fair as windwaved flame'-- Nay, I maunder; this she hears Every day with mocking ears, With a brow not sudden-stained With the flush of bliss restrained, With no tremor of the pulse More than feels the dreaming dulse In the midmost ocean's caves, When a tempest heaps the waves.

Thou must woo her in a phrase Mystic as the opal's blaze, Which pure maids alone can see When their lovers constant be.

I with thee a secret share, Half a hope, and half a prayer, Though no reach of mortal skill Ever told it all, or will; Say, 'He bids me--nothing more-- Tell you what you guessed before!'

THE SECRET

I have a fancy: how shall I bring it Home to all mortals wherever they be?

Say it or sing it? Shoe it or wing it, So it may outrun or outfly ME, Merest coc.o.o.n-web whence it broke free?

Only one secret can save from disaster, Only one magic is that of the Master: Set it to music; give it a tune,-- Tune the brook sings you, tune the breeze brings you, Tune the wild columbines nod to in June!

This is the secret: so simple, you see!

Easy as loving, easy as kissing, Easy as--well, let me ponder--as missing, Known, since the world was, by scarce two or three.

IV. HUMOR AND SATIRE

FITZ ADAM'S STORY

The next whose fortune 'twas a tale to tell Was one whom men, before they thought, loved well, And after thinking wondered why they did, For half he seemed to let them, half forbid, And wrapped him so in humors, sheath on sheath, 'Twas hard to guess the mellow soul beneath: But, once divined, you took him to your heart, While he appeared to bear with you as part Of life's impertinence, and once a year Betrayed his true self by a smile or tear, 10 Or rather something sweetly shy and loath, Withdrawn ere fully shown, and mixed of both.

A cynic? Not precisely: one who thrust Against a heart too p.r.o.ne to love and trust, Who so despised false sentiment he knew Scarce in himself to part the false and true, And strove to hide, by roughening-o'er the skin, Those cobweb nerves he could not dull within.

Gentle by birth, but of a stem decayed, He shunned life's rivalries and hated trade; 20 On a small patrimony and larger pride, He lived uneaseful on the Other Side (So he called Europe), only coming West To give his Old-World appet.i.te new zest; Yet still the New World spooked it in his veins, A ghost he could not lay with all his pains; For never Pilgrims' offshoot scapes control Of those old instincts that have shaped his soul.

A radical in thought, he puffed away With shrewd contempt the dust of usage gray, 30 Yet loathed democracy as one who saw, In what he longed to love, some vulgar flaw, And, shocked through all his delicate reserves, Remained a Tory by his taste and nerves, His fancy's thrall, he drew all ergoes thence, And thought himself the type of common sense; Misliking women, not from cross or whim, But that his mother shared too much in him, And he half felt that what in them was grace Made the unlucky weakness of his race. 40 What powers he had he hardly cared to know, But sauntered through the world as through a show; A critic fine in his haphazard way, A sort of mild La Bruyere on half-pay.

For comic weaknesses he had an eye Keen as an acid for an alkali, Yet you could feel, through his sardonic tone, He loved them all, unless they were his own.

You might have called him, with his humorous twist, A kind of human entomologist; 50 As these bring home, from every walk they take, Their hat-crowns stuck with bugs of curious make, So he filled all the lining of his head With characters impaled and ticketed, And had a cabinet behind his eyes For all they caught of mortal oddities.

He might have been a poet--many worse-- But that he had, or feigned, contempt of verse; Called it tattooing language, and held rhymes The young world's lullaby of ruder times. 60 Bitter in words, too indolent for gall, He satirized himself the first of all, In men and their affairs could find no law, And was the ill logic that he thought he saw.

Scratching a match to light his pipe anew, With eyes half shut some musing whiffs he drew And thus began: 'I give you all my word, I think this mock-Decameron absurd; Boccaccio's garden! how bring that to pa.s.s In our bleak clime save under double gla.s.s? 70 The moral east-wind of New England life Would snip its gay luxuriance like a knife; Mile-deep the glaciers brooded here, they say, Through aeons numb; we feel their chill to-day.

These foreign plants are but half-hardy still, Die on a south, and on a north wall chill.

Had we stayed Puritans! _They_ had some heat, (Though whence derived I have my own conceit,) But you have long ago raked up their fires; Where they had faith, you've ten sham-Gothic spires. 80 Why more exotics? Try your native vines, And in some thousand years you _may_ have wines; Your present grapes are harsh, all pulps and skins, And want traditions of ancestral bins That saved for evenings round the polished board Old lava fires, the sun-steeped hillside's h.o.a.rd.

Without a Past, you lack that southern wall O'er which the vines of Poesy should crawl; Still they're your only hope: no midnight oil Makes up for virtue wanting in the soil; 90 Manure them well and prune them; 'twon't be France, Nor Spain, nor Italy, but there's your chance.

You have one story-teller worth a score Of dead Boccaccios,--nay, add twenty more,-- A hawthorn asking spring's most dainty breath, And him you're freezing pretty well to death.

However, since you say so, I will tease My memory to a story by degrees, Though you will cry, "Enough!" I'm wellnigh sure, Ere I have dreamed through half my overture. 100 Stories were good for men who had no books, (Fortunate race!) and built their nests like rooks In lonely towers, to which the Jongleur brought His pedler's-box of cheap and tawdry thought, With here and there a fancy fit to see Wrought in quaint grace in golden filigree,-- Some ring that with the Muse's finger yet Is warm, like Auca.s.sin and Nicolete; The morning newspaper has spoilt his trade, (For better or for worse, I leave unsaid,) 110 And stories now, to suit a public nice, Must be half epigram, half pleasant vice.

'All tourists know Shebagog County: there The summer idlers take their yearly stare, Dress to see Nature In a well-bred way, As 'twere Italian opera, or play, Encore the sunrise (if they're out of bed).

And pat the Mighty Mother on the head: These have I seen,--all things are good to see.-- And wondered much at their complacency. 120 This world's great show, that took in getting-up Millions of years, they finish ere they sup; Sights that G.o.d gleams through with soul-tingling force They glance approvingly as things of course.

Say, "That's a grand rock," "This a pretty fall."

Not thinking, "Are we worthy?" What if all The scornful landscape should turn round and say, "This is a fool, and that a popinjay"?

I often wonder what the Mountain thinks Of French boots creaking o'er his breathless brinks, 130 Or how the Sun would scare the chattering crowd, If some fine day he chanced to think aloud.

I, who love Nature much as sinners can, Love her where she most grandeur shows,--in man: Here find I mountain, forest, cloud, and sun, River and sea, and glows when day is done; Nay, where she makes grotesques, and moulds in jest The clown's cheap clay, I find unfading zest.

The natural instincts year by year retire, As deer shrink northward from the settler's fire, 140 And he who loves the wild game-flavor more Than city-feasts, where every man's a bore To every other man, must seek it where The steamer's throb and railway's iron blare Have not yet startled with their punctual stir The shy, wood-wandering brood of Character.

'There is a village, once the county town, Through which the weekly mail rolled dustily down, Where the courts sat, it may be, twice a year, And the one tavern reeked with rustic cheer; 150 Cheeshogquesumscot erst, now Jethro hight, Red-man and pale-face bore it equal spite.

The railway ruined it, the natives say, That pa.s.sed unwisely fifteen miles away, And made a drain to which, with steady ooze, Filtered away law, stage-coach, trade, and news.

The railway saved it: so at least think those Who love old ways, old houses, old repose.

Of course the Tavern stayed: its genial host Thought not of flitting more than did the post 160 On which high-hung the fading signboard creaks, Inscribed, "The Eagle Inn, by Ezra Weeks."

'If in life's journey you should ever find An inn medicinal for body and mind, 'Tis sure to be some drowsy-looking house Whose easy landlord has a bustling spouse: He, if he like you, will not long forego Some bottle deep in cobwebbed dust laid low, That, since the War we used to call the "Last,"

Has dozed and held its lang-syne memories fast: 170 From him exhales that Indian-summer air Of hazy, lazy welcome everywhere, While with her toil the napery is white, The china dustless, the keen knife-blades bright, Salt dry as sand, and bread that seems as though 'Twere rather sea-foam baked than vulgar dough.

'In our swift country, houses trim and white Are pitched like tents, the lodging of a night; Each on its bank of baked turf mounted high Perches impatient o'er the roadside dry, 180 While the wronged landscape coldly stands aloof, Refusing friends.h.i.+p with the upstart roof.

Not so the Eagle; on a gra.s.s-green swell That toward the south with sweet concessions fell It dwelt retired, and half had grown to be As aboriginal as rock or tree.

It nestled close to earth, and seemed to brood O'er homely thoughts in a half-conscious mood, As by the peat that rather fades than burns The smouldering grandam nods and knits by turns, 190 Happy, although her newest news were old Ere the first hostile drum at Concord rolled.

If paint it e'er had known, it knew no more Than yellow lichens spattered thickly o'er That soft lead-gray, less dark beneath the eaves Which the slow brush of wind and weather leaves.

The ample roof sloped backward to the ground, And va.s.sal lean-tos gathered thickly round, Patched on, as sire or son had felt the need, Like chance growths sprouting from the old roofs seed, 200 Just as about a yellow-pine-tree spring Its rough-barked darlings in a filial ring.

But the great chimney was the central thought Whose gravitation through the cl.u.s.ter wrought; For 'tis not styles far-fetched from Greece or Rome, But just the Fireside, that can make a home; None of your spindling things of modern style, Like pins stuck through to stay the card-built pile, It rose broad-shouldered, kindly, debonair, Its warm breath whitening in the October air, 210 While on its front a heart in outline showed The place it filled in that serene abode.

'When first I chanced the Eagle to explore.

Ezra sat listless by the open door; One chair careened him at an angle meet, Another nursed his hugely slippered feet; Upon a third reposed a s.h.i.+rt-sleeved arm, And the whole man diffused tobacco's charm.

"Are you the landlord?" "Wahl, I guess I be,"

Watching the smoke he answered leisurely. 220 He was a stoutish man, and through the breast Of his loose s.h.i.+rt there showed a brambly chest; Streaked redly as a wind-foreboding morn, His tanned cheeks curved to temples closely shorn; Clean-shaved he was, save where a hedge of gray Upon his brawny throat leaned every way About an Adam's-apple, that beneath Bulged like a boulder from a brambly heath.

The Western World's true child and nursling he, Equipt with apt.i.tudes enough for three: 230 No eye like his to value horse or cow, Or gauge the contents of a stack or mow; He could foretell the weather at a word, He knew the haunt of every beast and bird, Or where a two-pound trout was sure to lie, Waiting the flutter of his homemade fly; Nay, once in autumns five, he had the luck To drop at fair-play range a ten-tined buck; Of sportsmen true he favored every whim, But never c.o.c.kney found a guide in him; 240 A natural man, with all his instincts fresh, Not buzzing helpless in Reflection's mesh, Firm on its feet stood his broad-shouldered mind, As bluffly honest as a northwest wind; Hard-headed and soft-hearted, you'd scarce meet A kindlier mixture of the shrewd and sweet; Generous by birth, and ill at saying "No,"

Yet in a bargain he was all men's foe, Would yield no inch of vantage in a trade, And give away ere nightfall all he made. 250

"Can I have lodging here?" once more I said.

He blew a whiff, and, leaning back his head, "You come a piece through Bailey's woods, I s'pose, Acrost a bridge where a big swamp-oak grows?

It don't grow, neither; it's ben dead ten year, Nor th' ain't a livin' creetur, fur nor near, Can tell wut killed it; but I some mis...o...b.. 'Twas borers, there's sech heaps on 'em about.

You didn' chance to run ag'inst my son, A long, slab-sided youngster with a gun? 260 He'd oughto ben back more 'n an hour ago, An' brought some birds to dress for supper--sho!

There he comes now. 'Say, Obed, wut ye got?

(He'll hev some upland plover like as not.) Wal, them's real nice uns, an'll eat A 1, Ef I can stop their bein' overdone; Nothin' riles _me_ (I pledge my fastin' word) Like cookin' out the natur' of a bird; (Obed, you pick 'em out o' sight an' sound, Your ma'am don't love no feathers cluttrin' round;) 270 Jes' scare 'em with the coals,--thet's _my_ idee."

Then, turning suddenly about on me, "Wal, Square, I guess so. Callilate to stay?

I'll ask Mis' Weeks; 'bout _thet_ it's hern to say."

'Well, there I lingered all October through, In that sweet atmosphere of hazy blue, So leisurely, so soothing, so forgiving, That sometimes makes New England fit for living.

I watched the landscape, erst so granite glum, Bloom like the south side of a ripening plum, 280 And each rock-maple on the hillside make His ten days' sunset doubled in the lake; The very stone walls draggling up the hills Seemed touched, and wavered in their roundhead wills.

Ah! there's a deal of sugar in the sun!

Tap me in Indian summer, I should run A juice to make rock-candy of,--but then We get such weather scarce one year in ten.

'There was a parlor in the house, a room To make you shudder with its prudish gloom. 290 The furniture stood round with such an air, There seemed an old maid's ghost in every chair, Which looked as it had scuttled to its place And pulled extempore a Sunday face, Too smugly proper for a world of sin, Like boys on whom the minister comes in.

The table, fronting you with icy stare, Strove to look witless that its legs were bare, While the black sofa with its horse-hair pall Gloomed like a bier for Comfort's funeral. 300 Each piece appeared to do its chilly best To seem an utter stranger to the rest, As if acquaintances.h.i.+p were deadly sin, Like Britons meeting in a foreign inn.

Two portraits graced the wall in grimmest truth, Mister and Mistress W. in their youth,-- New England youth, that seems a sort of pill, Half wish-I-dared, half Edwards on the Will, Bitter to swallow, and which leaves a trace Of Calvinistic colic on the face. 310 Between them, o'er the mantel, hung in state Solomon's temple, done in copperplate; Invention pure, but meant, we may presume, To give some Scripture sanction to the room.

Facing this last, two samplers you might see, Each, with its urn and stiffly weeping tree, Devoted to some memory long ago More faded than their lines of worsted woe; Cut paper decked their frames against the flies, Though none e'er dared an entrance who were wise, 320 And bushed asparagus in fading green Added its s.h.i.+ver to the franklin clean.

'When first arrived, I chilled a half-hour there, Nor dared deflower with use a single chair; I caught no cold, yet flying pains could find For weeks in me,--a rheumatism of mind.

One thing alone imprisoned there had power To hold me in the place that long half-hour: A scutcheon this, a helm-surmounted s.h.i.+eld, Three griffins argent on a sable field; 330 A relic of the s.h.i.+pwrecked past was here, And Ezra held some Old-World lumber dear.

Nay, do not smile; I love this kind of thing, These cooped traditions with a broken wing, This freehold nook in Fancy's pipe-blown ball, This less than nothing that is more than all!

Have I not seen sweet natures kept alive Amid the humdrum of your business hive, Undowered spinsters s.h.i.+elded from all harms, By airy incomes from a coat of arms?' 340

He paused a moment, and his features took The flitting sweetness of that inward look I hinted at before; but, scarcely seen, It shrank for shelter 'neath his harder mien, And, rapping his black pipe of ashes clear, He went on with a self-derisive sneer: 'No doubt we make a part of G.o.d's design, And break the forest-path for feet divine; To furnish foothold for this grand prevision Is good, and yet--to be the mere transition, 350 That, you will say, is also good, though I Scarce like to feed the ogre By-and-By.

Raw edges rasp my nerves; my taste is wooed By things that are, not going to be, good, Though were I what I dreamed two l.u.s.tres gone, I'd stay to help the Consummation on, Whether a new Rome than the old more fair, Or a deadflat of rascal-ruled despair; But _my_ skull somehow never closed the suture That seems to knit yours firmly with the future, 360 So you'll excuse me if I'm sometimes fain To tie the Past's warm nightcap o'er my brain; I'm quite aware 'tis not in fas.h.i.+on here, But then your northeast winds are _so_ severe!

'But to my story: though 'tis truly naught But a few hints in Memory's sketchbook caught, And which may claim a value on the score Of calling back some scenery now no more.

Shall I confess? The tavern's only Lar Seemed (be not shocked!) its homely-featured bar. 370 Here dozed a fire of beechen logs, that bred Strange fancies in its embers golden-red, And nursed the loggerhead whose hissing dip, Timed by nice instinct, creamed the mug of flip That made from mouth to mouth its genial round, Nor left one nature wholly winter-bound; Hence dropt the tinkling coal all mellow-ripe For Uncle Reuben's talk-extinguished pipe; Hence rayed the heat, as from an indoor sun, That wooed forth many a shoot of rustic fun. 380 Here Ezra ruled as king by right divine; No other face had such a wholesome s.h.i.+ne, No laugh like his so full of honest cheer; Above the rest it crowed like Chanticleer.