JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

(‡ decoration)JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.POET, CRITIC, AND ESSAYIST.WHILE the popularity of Lowell has not been so great as that of Whittier, Longfellow or Holmes, his poetry expresses a deeper thought and a truer culture than that of any one of these; or, indeed, of any other American poet, unless the exception be the “transcendental philosopher,” Emerson. As an anti-slavery poet, he was second only to Whittier.James Russell Lowell was born in Cambridge,Mass., February 22, 1819, and died in the same city on August 12, 1891, in the seventy-third year of his age. He was the youngest son of theRev.Charles Lowell, an eminent Congregational clergyman, and was descended from the English settlers of 1639. He entered Harvard in his seventeenth year and graduated in 1838, before he was twenty. He began to write verses early. In his junior year in college he wrote the anniversary poem, and, in his senior year, was editor of the college magazine. Subsequently, he studied law and was admitted to the bar in 1840; but, it seems, never entered upon the practice of his profession. If he did it is doubtful if he ever had even thatfirst clientwhom he afterwards described in a humorous sketch.His first appearance in literature was the publication, in 1839, of the class poem which he had written, but was not permitted to recite on account of his temporary suspension from College for neglect of certain studies in the curriculum for which he had a distaste. In this poem he satirized the Abolitionists, and the transcendental school of writers, of which Emerson was the prophet and leader. This poem, while faulty, contained much sharp wit and an occasional burst of feeling which portended future prominence for its author.Two years later, in 1841, the first volume of Lowell’s verse appeared, entitled “A Year’s Life.” This production was so different from that referred to above that critics would have regarded it as emanating from an entirely different mind had not the same name been attached to both. It illustrated entirely different feelings, thoughts and habits, evinced a complete change of heart and an entire revolution in his mode of thinking. His observing and suggestive imagination had caught the tone and spirit of the new and mystical philosophy, which his first publication had ridiculed. Henceforth, he aimed to make Nature the representative and minister of his feelings and desires. Lowell was not alone, however, in showing how capricious a young author’s character may be. A notable parallel is found in the greatEnglishman, Carlyle whose “Life of Schiller” and his “Sator Resartus,” are equally as unlike himself as were Lowell’s first two publications. In 1844, came another volume of poems, manifesting a still further mark of advancement. The longest in this collection—“The Legend of Brittany”—is, in imagination and artistic finish, one of his best and secured the first general consent for the author’s admission into the company of men of genius.During this same year (1844)Mr.Lowell married the poetess, Maria White, an ardent Abolitionist, whose anti-slavery convictions influenced his after career. Two ofMrs.Lowell’s poems, “The Alpine Sheep” and the “Morning Glory” are especially popular. Lowell was devotedly attached to his singularly beautiful and sympathetic poet wife and made her the subject of some of his most exquisite verses. They were both contributors to the “Liberty Bell” and “Anti-slavery Standard,” thus enjoying companionship in their labors.HOME OF JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL, CAMBRIDGE,MASS.In 1845, appeared Lowell’s “Conversation on Some Old Poets,” consisting of a series of criticisms, and discussions which evince a careful and delicate study. This was the beginning of the critical work in which he afterward became so famous, that he was styled “The First Critic of America.”Lowell was also a humorist by nature. His irrepressible perception of the comical and the funny find expression everywhere, both in his poetry and prose. His“Fable for Critics” was a delight to those whom he both satirized and criticised in a good-natured manner. Bryant, Poe, Hawthorne and Whittier, each are made to pass in procession for their share of criticism—which is as excellent as amusing—and Carlyle and Emerson are contrasted admirably. This poem, however, is faulty in execution and does not do its author justice. His masterpiece in humor is the famous “Biglow Papers.” These have been issued in two parts; the first being inspired by the Mexican War, and the latter by the Civil War between the states. Hosea Biglow, the country Yankee philosopher and supposed author of the papers, and theRev.Homer Wilber, his learned commentator and pastor of the first church at Jaalem, reproduce the Yankee dialect, and portray the Yankee character as faithfully as they are amusing and funny to the reader.In 1853,Mrs.Lowell died, on the same night in which a daughter was born to the poet Longfellow, who was a neighbor and a close friend to Lowell. The coincident inspired Longfellow to write a beautiful poem, “The Two Angels,” which he sent toMr.Lowell with his expression of sympathy:“’Twas at thy door, O friend, and not at mineThe angel with the amaranthine wreath,Pausing, descended, and with voice divineUttered a word that had a sound like death.“Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom,A♦shaddow on those features fair and thin,And slowly, from that hushed and darkened room,Two angels issued, where but one went in.“Angels of life and death alike are His;Without His leave, they pass no threshold o’er:Who then would wish, or dare, believing this,Against His messengers to shut the door?”♦spelling not corrected: artifact of poemQuite in contrast with Lowell, the humorist, is Lowell, the serious and dignified author. His patriotic poems display a courage and manliness in adhering to the right and cover a wide range in history. But it is in his descriptions of nature that his imagination manifests its greatest range of subtilty and power. “The Vision of Sir Launfal” is, perhaps, more remarkable for its descriptions of the months of June and December than for the beautiful story it tells of the search for the “Holy Grail” (the cup) which held the wine which Christ and the Apostles drank at the last supper.Lowell’s prose writings consist of his contributions to magazines, which were afterwards gathered in book form, and his public addresses and his political essays. He was naturally a poet, and his prose writings were the outgrowth of his daily labors, rather than a work of choice. As a professor of modern languages in Harvard College (in which position he succeeded the poet Longfellow); as editor of the “Atlantic Monthly,” on which duty he entered at the beginning of that magazine, in 1857, his editorial work on the “North American Review” from 1863 to 1872, together with his political ministry in Spain and England, gave him, he says, “quite enough prosaic work to do.”It was to magazines that he first contributed “Fireside Travels,” “Among My Books,” and “My Study Window,” which have been since published in book form. These publications cover a wide field of literature and impress the reader with a spirit of inspiration and enthusiasm. Lowell, like Emerson and Longfellow, was an optimist of the most pronounced type. In none of his writing does he express a syllable of discontent or despair. His “Pictures from Appledore” and “Under the Willows” are not more sympathetic and spontaneous than his faith in mankind, his healthful nature, and his rosy and joyful hope of the future.In 1877,Mr.Lowell was appointed minister to Spain by President Hayes, and, in 1880, was transferred, in the same capacity to London. This position he resigned in 1885 and returned to America to resume his lectures in Harvard University. While in England,Mr.Lowell was lionized as no other minister at that time had been and was in great demand as a public lecturer and speaker. Oliver Wendell Holmes thus writes of his popularity with the “British Cousins:”By what enchantment, what alluring arts,Our truthful James led captive British hearts,—Like honest Yankees we can simply guess;But that he did it, all must needs confess.He delivered a memorial address at the unveiling of the bust of the poet Coleridge in Westminster Abbey. On his return to America, this oration was included with others in his volume entitled “Democracy and Other Addresses.” (1887).As a public man, a representative of the United States Government, in foreign ports, he upheld the noblest ideals of the republic. He taught the purest lessons of patriotism—ever preferring his country to his party—and has criticised, with energy, and indignation, political evils and selfishness in public service, regarding these as the most dangerous elements threatening the dignity and honor of American citizenship.Among scholars, Lowell, next to Emerson, is regarded the profoundest of American poets; and, as the public becomes more generally educated, it is certain that he will grow in popular favor. To those who understand and catch the spirit of the man, noticeable characteristics of his writings are its richness and variety. He is at once, a humorist, a philosopher, and a dialectic verse writer, an essayist, a critic, and a masterful singer of songs of freedom as well as of the most majestic memorial odes.Unlike Longfellow and Holmes, Lowell never wrote a novel; but his insight into character and ability to delineate it would have made it entirely possible for him to assay, successfully, this branch of literature. This power is seen especially in his “Biglow Papers” as well as in other of his character sketches. The last of Lowell’s works published was “Latest Literary Essays and Addresses,” issued in 1892, after his death.THE GOTHIC GENIUS.FROM “THE CATHEDRAL.”ISEEM to have heard it said by learned folk,Who drench you with æsthetics till you feelAs if all beauty were a ghastly bore,The faucet to let loose a wash of words,That Gothic is not Grecian, therefore worse;But, being convinced by much experimentHow little inventiveness there is in man,Grave copier of copies, I give thanksFor a new relish, careless to inquireMy pleasure’s pedigree, if so it please—Nobly I mean, nor renegade to art.The Grecian gluts me with its perfectness,Unanswerable as Euclid, self-contained,The one thing finished in this hasty world—For ever finished, though the barbarous pit,Fanatical on hearsay, stamp and shoutAs if a miracle could be encored.But ah! this other, this that never ends,Still climbing, luring Fancy still to climb,As full of morals half divined as life,Graceful, grotesque, with ever-new surpriseOf hazardous caprices sure to please;Heavy as nightmare, airy-light as fern,Imagination’s very self in stone!With one long sigh of infinite releaseFrom pedantries past, present, or to come,I looked, and owned myself a happy Goth.Your blood is mine, ye architects of dream,Builders of aspiration incomplete,So more consummate, souls self-confident,Who felt your own thought worthy of recordIn monumental pomp! No Grecian dropRebukes these veins that leap with kindred thrill,After long exile, to the mother tongue.THE ROSE.I.IN his tower sat the poetGazing on the roaring sea,“Take this rose,” he sighed, “and throw itWhere there’s none that loveth me.On the rock the billow bursteth,And sinks back into the seas,But in vain my spirit thirstethSo to burst and be at ease.Take, O sea! the tender blossomThat hath lain against my breast;On thy black and angry bosomIt will find a surer rest,Life is vain, and love is hollow,Ugly death stands there behind,Hate, and scorn, and hunger followHim that toileth for his kind.”Forth into the night he hurled it,And with bitter smile did markHow the surly tempest whirled itSwift into the hungry dark.Foam and spray drive back to leeward,And the gale, with dreary moan,Drifts the helpless blossom seaward,Through the breaking, all alone.II.Stands a maiden, on the morrow,Musing by the wave-beat strand,Half in hope, and half in sorrowTracing words upon the sand:“Shall I ever then behold himWho hath been my life so long,—Ever to this sick heart fold him,—Be the spirit of his song?“Touch not, sea, the blessed lettersI have traced upon thy shore,Spare his name whose spirit fettersMine with love forever more!”Swells the tide and overflows it,But with omen pure and meet,Brings a little rose and throws itHumbly at the maiden’s feet.Full of bliss she takes the token,And, upon her snowy breast,Soothes the ruffled petals brokenWith the ocean’s fierce unrest.“Love is thine, O heart! and surelyPeace shall also be thine own,For the heart that trusteth purelyNever long can pine alone.”III.In his tower sits the poet,Blisses new, and strange to himFill his heart and overflow itWith a wonder sweet and dim.Up the beach the ocean slidethWith a whisper of delight,And the moon in silence glidethThrough the peaceful blue of night.Rippling o’er the poet’s shoulderFlows a maiden’s golden hair,Maiden lips, with love grown bolder,Kiss his moonlit forehead bare.“Life is joy, and love is power,Death all fetters doth unbind,Strength and wisdom only flowerWhen we toil for all our kind.Hope is truth, the future givethMore than present takes away,And the soul forever livethNearer God from day to day.”Not a word the maiden muttered,Fullest hearts are slow to speak,But a withered rose-leaf flutteredDown upon the poet’s cheek.THE HERITAGE.THE rich man’s son inherits lands,And piles of brick, and stone, and gold,And he inherits soft white hands,And tender flesh that fears the cold,Nor dares to wear a garment old;A heritage, it seems to me,One scarce would wish to hold in fee.The rich man’s son inherits cares;The bank may break, the factory burn,A breath may burst his bubble shares,And soft, white hands could hardly earnA living that would serve his turn;A heritage, it seems to me,One scarce would wish to hold in fee.The rich man’s son inherits wants.His stomach craves for dainty fare;With sated heart he hears the pantsOf toiling hinds with brown arms bare,And wearies in his easy chair;A heritage, it seems to me,One scarce would wish to hold in fee.What doth the poor man’s son inherit?Stout muscles and a sinewy heart,A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;King of two hands, he does his partIn every useful toil and art;A heritage, it seems to me,A king might wish to hold in fee.What doth the poor man’s son inherit?Wishes o’erjoy’d with humble things,A rank adjudged by toil-worn merit,Content that from employment springs,A heart that in his labor sings;A heritage, it seems to me,A king might wish to hold in fee.What doth the poor man’s son inherit?A patience learn’d of being poor,Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,A fellow-feeling that is sureTo make the outcast bless his door;A heritage, it seems to me,A king might wish to hold in fee.O rich man’s son! there is a toil,That with all others level stands;Large charity doth never soil,But only whiten, soft, white hands,—This is the best crop from thy lands;A heritage, it seems to me,Worth being rich to hold in fee.O poor man’s son! scorn not thy state;There is worse weariness than thine,In merely being rich and great;Toil only gives the soul to shine,And makes rest fragrant and benign;A heritage, it seems to me,Worth being poor to hold in fee.Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,Are equal in the earth at last;Both, children of the same dear God,Prove title to your heirship vastBy record of a well-fill’d past;A heritage, it seems to me,Well worth a life to hold in fee.ACT FOR TRUTH.THE busy world shoves angrily asideThe man who stands with arms akimbo set,Until occasion tells him what to do;And he who waits to have his task mark’d outShall die and leave his errand unfulfill’d.Our time is one that calls for earnest deeds;Reason and Government, like two broad seas,Yearn for each other with outstretched armsAcross this narrow isthmus of the throne,And roll their white surf higher every day.One age moves onward, and the next builds upCities and gorgeous palaces, where stoodThe rude log huts of those who tamed the wild,Rearing from out the forests they had fell’dThe goodly framework of a fairer state;The builder’s trowel and the settler’s axeAre seldom wielded by the selfsame hand;Ours is the harder task, yet not the lessShall we receive the blessing for our toilFrom the choice spirits of the after-time.The field lies wide before us, where to reapThe easy harvest of a deathless name,Though with no better sickles than our swords.My soul is not a palace of the past,Where outworn creeds, like Rome’s gray senate, quake,Hearing afar the Vandal’s trumpet hoarse,That shakes old systems with a thunder-fit.The time is ripe, and rotten-ripe, for change;Then let it come: I have no dread of whatIs call’d for by the instinct of mankind;Nor think I that God’s world will fall apartBecause we tear a parchment more or less.Truth is eternal, but her effluence,With endless change, is fitted to the hour:Her mirror is turn’d forward, to reflectThe promise of the future, not the past.He who would win the name of truly greatMust understand his own age and the next,And make the present ready to fulfilIts prophecy, and with the future mergeGently and peacefully, as wave with wave.The future works out great men’s destinies;The present is enough for common souls,Who, never looking forward, are indeedMere clay wherein the footprints of their ageAre petrified forever: better thoseWho lead the blind old giant by the handFrom out the pathless desert where he gropes,And set him onward in his darksome way.I do not fear to follow out the truth,Albeit along the precipice’s edge.Let us speak plain: there is more force in namesThan most men dream of; and a lie may keepIts throne a whole age longer if it skulkBehind the shield of some fair-seeming name.Let us all call tyrantstyrants, and maintainThat only freedom comes by grace of God,And all that comes not by His grace must fall;For men in earnest have no time to wasteIn patching fig-leaves for the naked truth.THE FIRST SNOW-FALL.THE snow had begun in the gloaming,And busily all the nightHad been heaping field and highwayWith a silence deep and white.Every pine and fir and hemlockWore ermine too dear for an earl,And the poorest twig on the elm-treeWas ridged inch deep with pearl.From sheds new-roofed with CarraraCame Chanticleer’s muffled crow,The stiff rails were softened to swan’s down,And still fluttered down the snow.I stood and watched by the windowThe noiseless work of the sky,And the sudden flurries of snow-birds,Like brown leaves whirling by.I thought of a mound in sweet AuburnWhere a little headstone stood;How the flakes were folding it gently,As did robins the babes in the wood.Up spoke our own little Mabel,Saying, “Father, who makes it snow?”And I told of the good All-fatherWho cares for us here below.Again I looked at the snow-fallAnd thought of the leaden skyThat arched o’er our first great sorrow,When that mound was heaped so high.I remembered the gradual patienceThat fell from that cloud like snow,Flake by flake, healing and hidingThe scar of our deep-plunged woe.And again to the child I whispered,“The snow that husheth all,Darling, the merciful FatherAlone can make it fall!”Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her;And she, kissing back, could not knowThatmykiss was given to her sister,Folded close under deepening snow.FOURTH OF JULY ODE.I.OUR fathers fought for liberty,They struggled long and well,History of their deeds can tell—But did they leave us free?II.Are we free from vanity,Free from pride, and free from self,Free from love of power and pelf,From everything that’s beggarly?III.Are we free from stubborn will,From low hate and malice small,From opinion’s tyrant thrall?Are none of us our own slaves still?IV.Are we free to speak our thought,To be happy, and be poor,Free to enter Heaven’s door,To live and labor as we ought?V.Are we then made free at lastFrom the fear of what men say,Free to reverence To-day,Free from the slavery of the Past?VI.Our fathers fought for liberty,They struggled long and well,History of their deeds can tell—Butourselvesmust set us free.THE DANDELION.DEAR common flower, that grow’st beside the way,Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold,First pledge of blithesome May,Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold,High-hearted buccaneers, o’erjoyed that theyAn Eldorado in the grass have found,Which not the rich earth’s ample roundMay match in wealth—thou art more dear to meThan all the prouder summer-blooms may be.Gold such as thine ne’er drew the Spanish prowThrough the primeval hush of Indian seas,Nor wrinkled the lean browOf age, to rob the lover’s heart of ease;’Tis the Spring’s largess, which she scatters nowTo rich and poor alike, with lavish hand,Though most hearts never understandTo take it atGod’svalue, but pass byThe offer’d wealth with unrewarded eye.Thou art my trophies and mine Italy;To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime;The eyes thou givest meAre in the heart, and heed not space or time;Not in mid June the golden-cuirass’d beeFeels a more summer-like, warm ravishmentIn the white lily’s breezy tint,His conquer’d Sybaris, than I, when firstFrom the dark green thy yellow circles burst.Then think I of deep shadows on the grass—Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze,Where, as the breezes pass,The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways—Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass,Or whiten in the wind—of waters blueThat from the distance sparkle throughSome woodland gap—and of a sky above,Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move.My childhood’s earliest thoughts are link’d with thee;The sight of thee calls back the robin’s song,Who, from the dark old treeBeside the door, sang clearly all day long,And I, secure in childish piety,Listen’d as if I heard an angel singWith news from heaven, which he did bringFresh every day to my untainted ears,When birds and flowers and I were happy peers.How like a prodigal doth Nature seem,When thou, for all thy gold, so common art!Thou teachest me to deemMore sacredly of every human heart,Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleamOf heaven, and could some wondrous secret show,Did we but pay the love we owe,And with a child’s undoubting wisdom lookOn all these living pages ofGod’sbook.THE ALPINE SHEEP.It is proper, in connection with the writings of Lowell, to insert the following poem by his wife, Maria White Lowell, a singularly accomplished and beautiful woman, born July 8, 1821, married to the poet Lowell in 1844, died on the22dof October, 1853. In 1855 her husband had a volume of her poetry privately printed, the character of which may be judged from the following touching lines addressed to a friend after the loss of a child.WHEN on my ear your loss was knell’d,And tender sympathy upburst,A little spring from memory well’d,Which once had quench’d my bitter thirst,And I was fain to bear to youA portion of its mild relief,That it might be a healing dew,To steal some fever from your grief.After our child’s untroubled breathUp to the Father took its way,And on our home the shade of DeathLike a long twilight haunting lay,And friends came round, with us to weepHer little spirit’s swift remove,The story of the Alpine sheepWas told to us by one we love.They, in the valley’s sheltering care,Soon crop the meadow’s tender prime,And when the sod grows brown and bare,The shepherd strives to make them climbTo airy shelves of pasture green,That hang along the mountain’s side,Where grass and flowers together lean,And down through mists the sunbeams slide.But naught can tempt the timid thingsThe steep and rugged path to try,Though sweet the shepherds calls and sings,And sear’d below the pastures lie,Till in his arms his lambs he takes,Along the dizzy verge to go:Then, heedless of the rifts and breaks,They follow on o’er rock and snow.And in these pastures, lifted fair,More dewy-soft than lowland mead,The shepherd drops his tender care,And sheep and lambs together feed.This parable, by Nature breathed,Blew on me as the south wind freeO’er frozen brooks that flow unsheathedFrom icy thraldom to the sea.A blissful vision through the nightWould all my happy senses swayOf the Good Shepherd on the height,Or climbing up the starry way,Holding our little lamb asleep,While, like the murmur of the sea,Sounded that voice along the deep,Saying, “Arise and follow me.”Souvenir of Lowell

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POET, CRITIC, AND ESSAYIST.

WHILE the popularity of Lowell has not been so great as that of Whittier, Longfellow or Holmes, his poetry expresses a deeper thought and a truer culture than that of any one of these; or, indeed, of any other American poet, unless the exception be the “transcendental philosopher,” Emerson. As an anti-slavery poet, he was second only to Whittier.

James Russell Lowell was born in Cambridge,Mass., February 22, 1819, and died in the same city on August 12, 1891, in the seventy-third year of his age. He was the youngest son of theRev.Charles Lowell, an eminent Congregational clergyman, and was descended from the English settlers of 1639. He entered Harvard in his seventeenth year and graduated in 1838, before he was twenty. He began to write verses early. In his junior year in college he wrote the anniversary poem, and, in his senior year, was editor of the college magazine. Subsequently, he studied law and was admitted to the bar in 1840; but, it seems, never entered upon the practice of his profession. If he did it is doubtful if he ever had even thatfirst clientwhom he afterwards described in a humorous sketch.

His first appearance in literature was the publication, in 1839, of the class poem which he had written, but was not permitted to recite on account of his temporary suspension from College for neglect of certain studies in the curriculum for which he had a distaste. In this poem he satirized the Abolitionists, and the transcendental school of writers, of which Emerson was the prophet and leader. This poem, while faulty, contained much sharp wit and an occasional burst of feeling which portended future prominence for its author.

Two years later, in 1841, the first volume of Lowell’s verse appeared, entitled “A Year’s Life.” This production was so different from that referred to above that critics would have regarded it as emanating from an entirely different mind had not the same name been attached to both. It illustrated entirely different feelings, thoughts and habits, evinced a complete change of heart and an entire revolution in his mode of thinking. His observing and suggestive imagination had caught the tone and spirit of the new and mystical philosophy, which his first publication had ridiculed. Henceforth, he aimed to make Nature the representative and minister of his feelings and desires. Lowell was not alone, however, in showing how capricious a young author’s character may be. A notable parallel is found in the greatEnglishman, Carlyle whose “Life of Schiller” and his “Sator Resartus,” are equally as unlike himself as were Lowell’s first two publications. In 1844, came another volume of poems, manifesting a still further mark of advancement. The longest in this collection—“The Legend of Brittany”—is, in imagination and artistic finish, one of his best and secured the first general consent for the author’s admission into the company of men of genius.

During this same year (1844)Mr.Lowell married the poetess, Maria White, an ardent Abolitionist, whose anti-slavery convictions influenced his after career. Two ofMrs.Lowell’s poems, “The Alpine Sheep” and the “Morning Glory” are especially popular. Lowell was devotedly attached to his singularly beautiful and sympathetic poet wife and made her the subject of some of his most exquisite verses. They were both contributors to the “Liberty Bell” and “Anti-slavery Standard,” thus enjoying companionship in their labors.

HOME OF JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL, CAMBRIDGE,MASS.

In 1845, appeared Lowell’s “Conversation on Some Old Poets,” consisting of a series of criticisms, and discussions which evince a careful and delicate study. This was the beginning of the critical work in which he afterward became so famous, that he was styled “The First Critic of America.”

Lowell was also a humorist by nature. His irrepressible perception of the comical and the funny find expression everywhere, both in his poetry and prose. His“Fable for Critics” was a delight to those whom he both satirized and criticised in a good-natured manner. Bryant, Poe, Hawthorne and Whittier, each are made to pass in procession for their share of criticism—which is as excellent as amusing—and Carlyle and Emerson are contrasted admirably. This poem, however, is faulty in execution and does not do its author justice. His masterpiece in humor is the famous “Biglow Papers.” These have been issued in two parts; the first being inspired by the Mexican War, and the latter by the Civil War between the states. Hosea Biglow, the country Yankee philosopher and supposed author of the papers, and theRev.Homer Wilber, his learned commentator and pastor of the first church at Jaalem, reproduce the Yankee dialect, and portray the Yankee character as faithfully as they are amusing and funny to the reader.

In 1853,Mrs.Lowell died, on the same night in which a daughter was born to the poet Longfellow, who was a neighbor and a close friend to Lowell. The coincident inspired Longfellow to write a beautiful poem, “The Two Angels,” which he sent toMr.Lowell with his expression of sympathy:

“’Twas at thy door, O friend, and not at mineThe angel with the amaranthine wreath,Pausing, descended, and with voice divineUttered a word that had a sound like death.“Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom,A♦shaddow on those features fair and thin,And slowly, from that hushed and darkened room,Two angels issued, where but one went in.“Angels of life and death alike are His;Without His leave, they pass no threshold o’er:Who then would wish, or dare, believing this,Against His messengers to shut the door?”♦spelling not corrected: artifact of poem

“’Twas at thy door, O friend, and not at mine

The angel with the amaranthine wreath,

Pausing, descended, and with voice divine

Uttered a word that had a sound like death.

“Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom,

A♦shaddow on those features fair and thin,

And slowly, from that hushed and darkened room,

Two angels issued, where but one went in.

“Angels of life and death alike are His;

Without His leave, they pass no threshold o’er:

Who then would wish, or dare, believing this,

Against His messengers to shut the door?”

♦spelling not corrected: artifact of poem

Quite in contrast with Lowell, the humorist, is Lowell, the serious and dignified author. His patriotic poems display a courage and manliness in adhering to the right and cover a wide range in history. But it is in his descriptions of nature that his imagination manifests its greatest range of subtilty and power. “The Vision of Sir Launfal” is, perhaps, more remarkable for its descriptions of the months of June and December than for the beautiful story it tells of the search for the “Holy Grail” (the cup) which held the wine which Christ and the Apostles drank at the last supper.

Lowell’s prose writings consist of his contributions to magazines, which were afterwards gathered in book form, and his public addresses and his political essays. He was naturally a poet, and his prose writings were the outgrowth of his daily labors, rather than a work of choice. As a professor of modern languages in Harvard College (in which position he succeeded the poet Longfellow); as editor of the “Atlantic Monthly,” on which duty he entered at the beginning of that magazine, in 1857, his editorial work on the “North American Review” from 1863 to 1872, together with his political ministry in Spain and England, gave him, he says, “quite enough prosaic work to do.”

It was to magazines that he first contributed “Fireside Travels,” “Among My Books,” and “My Study Window,” which have been since published in book form. These publications cover a wide field of literature and impress the reader with a spirit of inspiration and enthusiasm. Lowell, like Emerson and Longfellow, was an optimist of the most pronounced type. In none of his writing does he express a syllable of discontent or despair. His “Pictures from Appledore” and “Under the Willows” are not more sympathetic and spontaneous than his faith in mankind, his healthful nature, and his rosy and joyful hope of the future.

In 1877,Mr.Lowell was appointed minister to Spain by President Hayes, and, in 1880, was transferred, in the same capacity to London. This position he resigned in 1885 and returned to America to resume his lectures in Harvard University. While in England,Mr.Lowell was lionized as no other minister at that time had been and was in great demand as a public lecturer and speaker. Oliver Wendell Holmes thus writes of his popularity with the “British Cousins:”

By what enchantment, what alluring arts,Our truthful James led captive British hearts,—Like honest Yankees we can simply guess;But that he did it, all must needs confess.

By what enchantment, what alluring arts,

Our truthful James led captive British hearts,—

Like honest Yankees we can simply guess;

But that he did it, all must needs confess.

He delivered a memorial address at the unveiling of the bust of the poet Coleridge in Westminster Abbey. On his return to America, this oration was included with others in his volume entitled “Democracy and Other Addresses.” (1887).

As a public man, a representative of the United States Government, in foreign ports, he upheld the noblest ideals of the republic. He taught the purest lessons of patriotism—ever preferring his country to his party—and has criticised, with energy, and indignation, political evils and selfishness in public service, regarding these as the most dangerous elements threatening the dignity and honor of American citizenship.

Among scholars, Lowell, next to Emerson, is regarded the profoundest of American poets; and, as the public becomes more generally educated, it is certain that he will grow in popular favor. To those who understand and catch the spirit of the man, noticeable characteristics of his writings are its richness and variety. He is at once, a humorist, a philosopher, and a dialectic verse writer, an essayist, a critic, and a masterful singer of songs of freedom as well as of the most majestic memorial odes.

Unlike Longfellow and Holmes, Lowell never wrote a novel; but his insight into character and ability to delineate it would have made it entirely possible for him to assay, successfully, this branch of literature. This power is seen especially in his “Biglow Papers” as well as in other of his character sketches. The last of Lowell’s works published was “Latest Literary Essays and Addresses,” issued in 1892, after his death.

THE GOTHIC GENIUS.

FROM “THE CATHEDRAL.”

ISEEM to have heard it said by learned folk,Who drench you with æsthetics till you feelAs if all beauty were a ghastly bore,The faucet to let loose a wash of words,That Gothic is not Grecian, therefore worse;But, being convinced by much experimentHow little inventiveness there is in man,Grave copier of copies, I give thanksFor a new relish, careless to inquireMy pleasure’s pedigree, if so it please—Nobly I mean, nor renegade to art.The Grecian gluts me with its perfectness,Unanswerable as Euclid, self-contained,The one thing finished in this hasty world—For ever finished, though the barbarous pit,Fanatical on hearsay, stamp and shoutAs if a miracle could be encored.But ah! this other, this that never ends,Still climbing, luring Fancy still to climb,As full of morals half divined as life,Graceful, grotesque, with ever-new surpriseOf hazardous caprices sure to please;Heavy as nightmare, airy-light as fern,Imagination’s very self in stone!With one long sigh of infinite releaseFrom pedantries past, present, or to come,I looked, and owned myself a happy Goth.Your blood is mine, ye architects of dream,Builders of aspiration incomplete,So more consummate, souls self-confident,Who felt your own thought worthy of recordIn monumental pomp! No Grecian dropRebukes these veins that leap with kindred thrill,After long exile, to the mother tongue.

SEEM to have heard it said by learned folk,

Who drench you with æsthetics till you feel

As if all beauty were a ghastly bore,

The faucet to let loose a wash of words,

That Gothic is not Grecian, therefore worse;

But, being convinced by much experiment

How little inventiveness there is in man,

Grave copier of copies, I give thanks

For a new relish, careless to inquire

My pleasure’s pedigree, if so it please—

Nobly I mean, nor renegade to art.

The Grecian gluts me with its perfectness,

Unanswerable as Euclid, self-contained,

The one thing finished in this hasty world—

For ever finished, though the barbarous pit,

Fanatical on hearsay, stamp and shout

As if a miracle could be encored.

But ah! this other, this that never ends,

Still climbing, luring Fancy still to climb,

As full of morals half divined as life,

Graceful, grotesque, with ever-new surprise

Of hazardous caprices sure to please;

Heavy as nightmare, airy-light as fern,

Imagination’s very self in stone!

With one long sigh of infinite release

From pedantries past, present, or to come,

I looked, and owned myself a happy Goth.

Your blood is mine, ye architects of dream,

Builders of aspiration incomplete,

So more consummate, souls self-confident,

Who felt your own thought worthy of record

In monumental pomp! No Grecian drop

Rebukes these veins that leap with kindred thrill,

After long exile, to the mother tongue.

THE ROSE.

I.IN his tower sat the poetGazing on the roaring sea,“Take this rose,” he sighed, “and throw itWhere there’s none that loveth me.On the rock the billow bursteth,And sinks back into the seas,But in vain my spirit thirstethSo to burst and be at ease.Take, O sea! the tender blossomThat hath lain against my breast;On thy black and angry bosomIt will find a surer rest,Life is vain, and love is hollow,Ugly death stands there behind,Hate, and scorn, and hunger followHim that toileth for his kind.”Forth into the night he hurled it,And with bitter smile did markHow the surly tempest whirled itSwift into the hungry dark.Foam and spray drive back to leeward,And the gale, with dreary moan,Drifts the helpless blossom seaward,Through the breaking, all alone.II.Stands a maiden, on the morrow,Musing by the wave-beat strand,Half in hope, and half in sorrowTracing words upon the sand:“Shall I ever then behold himWho hath been my life so long,—Ever to this sick heart fold him,—Be the spirit of his song?“Touch not, sea, the blessed lettersI have traced upon thy shore,Spare his name whose spirit fettersMine with love forever more!”Swells the tide and overflows it,But with omen pure and meet,Brings a little rose and throws itHumbly at the maiden’s feet.Full of bliss she takes the token,And, upon her snowy breast,Soothes the ruffled petals brokenWith the ocean’s fierce unrest.“Love is thine, O heart! and surelyPeace shall also be thine own,For the heart that trusteth purelyNever long can pine alone.”III.In his tower sits the poet,Blisses new, and strange to himFill his heart and overflow itWith a wonder sweet and dim.Up the beach the ocean slidethWith a whisper of delight,And the moon in silence glidethThrough the peaceful blue of night.Rippling o’er the poet’s shoulderFlows a maiden’s golden hair,Maiden lips, with love grown bolder,Kiss his moonlit forehead bare.“Life is joy, and love is power,Death all fetters doth unbind,Strength and wisdom only flowerWhen we toil for all our kind.Hope is truth, the future givethMore than present takes away,And the soul forever livethNearer God from day to day.”Not a word the maiden muttered,Fullest hearts are slow to speak,But a withered rose-leaf flutteredDown upon the poet’s cheek.

N his tower sat the poet

Gazing on the roaring sea,

“Take this rose,” he sighed, “and throw it

Where there’s none that loveth me.

On the rock the billow bursteth,

And sinks back into the seas,

But in vain my spirit thirsteth

So to burst and be at ease.

Take, O sea! the tender blossom

That hath lain against my breast;

On thy black and angry bosom

It will find a surer rest,

Life is vain, and love is hollow,

Ugly death stands there behind,

Hate, and scorn, and hunger follow

Him that toileth for his kind.”

Forth into the night he hurled it,

And with bitter smile did mark

How the surly tempest whirled it

Swift into the hungry dark.

Foam and spray drive back to leeward,

And the gale, with dreary moan,

Drifts the helpless blossom seaward,

Through the breaking, all alone.

II.

Stands a maiden, on the morrow,

Musing by the wave-beat strand,

Half in hope, and half in sorrow

Tracing words upon the sand:

“Shall I ever then behold him

Who hath been my life so long,—

Ever to this sick heart fold him,—

Be the spirit of his song?

“Touch not, sea, the blessed letters

I have traced upon thy shore,

Spare his name whose spirit fetters

Mine with love forever more!”

Swells the tide and overflows it,

But with omen pure and meet,

Brings a little rose and throws it

Humbly at the maiden’s feet.

Full of bliss she takes the token,

And, upon her snowy breast,

Soothes the ruffled petals broken

With the ocean’s fierce unrest.

“Love is thine, O heart! and surely

Peace shall also be thine own,

For the heart that trusteth purely

Never long can pine alone.”

III.

In his tower sits the poet,

Blisses new, and strange to him

Fill his heart and overflow it

With a wonder sweet and dim.

Up the beach the ocean slideth

With a whisper of delight,

And the moon in silence glideth

Through the peaceful blue of night.

Rippling o’er the poet’s shoulder

Flows a maiden’s golden hair,

Maiden lips, with love grown bolder,

Kiss his moonlit forehead bare.

“Life is joy, and love is power,

Death all fetters doth unbind,

Strength and wisdom only flower

When we toil for all our kind.

Hope is truth, the future giveth

More than present takes away,

And the soul forever liveth

Nearer God from day to day.”

Not a word the maiden muttered,

Fullest hearts are slow to speak,

But a withered rose-leaf fluttered

Down upon the poet’s cheek.

THE HERITAGE.

THE rich man’s son inherits lands,And piles of brick, and stone, and gold,And he inherits soft white hands,And tender flesh that fears the cold,Nor dares to wear a garment old;A heritage, it seems to me,One scarce would wish to hold in fee.The rich man’s son inherits cares;The bank may break, the factory burn,A breath may burst his bubble shares,And soft, white hands could hardly earnA living that would serve his turn;A heritage, it seems to me,One scarce would wish to hold in fee.The rich man’s son inherits wants.His stomach craves for dainty fare;With sated heart he hears the pantsOf toiling hinds with brown arms bare,And wearies in his easy chair;A heritage, it seems to me,One scarce would wish to hold in fee.What doth the poor man’s son inherit?Stout muscles and a sinewy heart,A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;King of two hands, he does his partIn every useful toil and art;A heritage, it seems to me,A king might wish to hold in fee.What doth the poor man’s son inherit?Wishes o’erjoy’d with humble things,A rank adjudged by toil-worn merit,Content that from employment springs,A heart that in his labor sings;A heritage, it seems to me,A king might wish to hold in fee.What doth the poor man’s son inherit?A patience learn’d of being poor,Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,A fellow-feeling that is sureTo make the outcast bless his door;A heritage, it seems to me,A king might wish to hold in fee.O rich man’s son! there is a toil,That with all others level stands;Large charity doth never soil,But only whiten, soft, white hands,—This is the best crop from thy lands;A heritage, it seems to me,Worth being rich to hold in fee.O poor man’s son! scorn not thy state;There is worse weariness than thine,In merely being rich and great;Toil only gives the soul to shine,And makes rest fragrant and benign;A heritage, it seems to me,Worth being poor to hold in fee.Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,Are equal in the earth at last;Both, children of the same dear God,Prove title to your heirship vastBy record of a well-fill’d past;A heritage, it seems to me,Well worth a life to hold in fee.

HE rich man’s son inherits lands,

And piles of brick, and stone, and gold,

And he inherits soft white hands,

And tender flesh that fears the cold,

Nor dares to wear a garment old;

A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man’s son inherits cares;

The bank may break, the factory burn,

A breath may burst his bubble shares,

And soft, white hands could hardly earn

A living that would serve his turn;

A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man’s son inherits wants.

His stomach craves for dainty fare;

With sated heart he hears the pants

Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare,

And wearies in his easy chair;

A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man’s son inherit?

Stout muscles and a sinewy heart,

A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;

King of two hands, he does his part

In every useful toil and art;

A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man’s son inherit?

Wishes o’erjoy’d with humble things,

A rank adjudged by toil-worn merit,

Content that from employment springs,

A heart that in his labor sings;

A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man’s son inherit?

A patience learn’d of being poor,

Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,

A fellow-feeling that is sure

To make the outcast bless his door;

A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

O rich man’s son! there is a toil,

That with all others level stands;

Large charity doth never soil,

But only whiten, soft, white hands,—

This is the best crop from thy lands;

A heritage, it seems to me,

Worth being rich to hold in fee.

O poor man’s son! scorn not thy state;

There is worse weariness than thine,

In merely being rich and great;

Toil only gives the soul to shine,

And makes rest fragrant and benign;

A heritage, it seems to me,

Worth being poor to hold in fee.

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,

Are equal in the earth at last;

Both, children of the same dear God,

Prove title to your heirship vast

By record of a well-fill’d past;

A heritage, it seems to me,

Well worth a life to hold in fee.

ACT FOR TRUTH.

THE busy world shoves angrily asideThe man who stands with arms akimbo set,Until occasion tells him what to do;And he who waits to have his task mark’d outShall die and leave his errand unfulfill’d.Our time is one that calls for earnest deeds;Reason and Government, like two broad seas,Yearn for each other with outstretched armsAcross this narrow isthmus of the throne,And roll their white surf higher every day.One age moves onward, and the next builds upCities and gorgeous palaces, where stoodThe rude log huts of those who tamed the wild,Rearing from out the forests they had fell’dThe goodly framework of a fairer state;The builder’s trowel and the settler’s axeAre seldom wielded by the selfsame hand;Ours is the harder task, yet not the lessShall we receive the blessing for our toilFrom the choice spirits of the after-time.The field lies wide before us, where to reapThe easy harvest of a deathless name,Though with no better sickles than our swords.My soul is not a palace of the past,Where outworn creeds, like Rome’s gray senate, quake,Hearing afar the Vandal’s trumpet hoarse,That shakes old systems with a thunder-fit.The time is ripe, and rotten-ripe, for change;Then let it come: I have no dread of whatIs call’d for by the instinct of mankind;Nor think I that God’s world will fall apartBecause we tear a parchment more or less.Truth is eternal, but her effluence,With endless change, is fitted to the hour:Her mirror is turn’d forward, to reflectThe promise of the future, not the past.He who would win the name of truly greatMust understand his own age and the next,And make the present ready to fulfilIts prophecy, and with the future mergeGently and peacefully, as wave with wave.The future works out great men’s destinies;The present is enough for common souls,Who, never looking forward, are indeedMere clay wherein the footprints of their ageAre petrified forever: better thoseWho lead the blind old giant by the handFrom out the pathless desert where he gropes,And set him onward in his darksome way.I do not fear to follow out the truth,Albeit along the precipice’s edge.Let us speak plain: there is more force in namesThan most men dream of; and a lie may keepIts throne a whole age longer if it skulkBehind the shield of some fair-seeming name.Let us all call tyrantstyrants, and maintainThat only freedom comes by grace of God,And all that comes not by His grace must fall;For men in earnest have no time to wasteIn patching fig-leaves for the naked truth.

HE busy world shoves angrily aside

The man who stands with arms akimbo set,

Until occasion tells him what to do;

And he who waits to have his task mark’d out

Shall die and leave his errand unfulfill’d.

Our time is one that calls for earnest deeds;

Reason and Government, like two broad seas,

Yearn for each other with outstretched arms

Across this narrow isthmus of the throne,

And roll their white surf higher every day.

One age moves onward, and the next builds up

Cities and gorgeous palaces, where stood

The rude log huts of those who tamed the wild,

Rearing from out the forests they had fell’d

The goodly framework of a fairer state;

The builder’s trowel and the settler’s axe

Are seldom wielded by the selfsame hand;

Ours is the harder task, yet not the less

Shall we receive the blessing for our toil

From the choice spirits of the after-time.

The field lies wide before us, where to reap

The easy harvest of a deathless name,

Though with no better sickles than our swords.

My soul is not a palace of the past,

Where outworn creeds, like Rome’s gray senate, quake,

Hearing afar the Vandal’s trumpet hoarse,

That shakes old systems with a thunder-fit.

The time is ripe, and rotten-ripe, for change;

Then let it come: I have no dread of what

Is call’d for by the instinct of mankind;

Nor think I that God’s world will fall apart

Because we tear a parchment more or less.

Truth is eternal, but her effluence,

With endless change, is fitted to the hour:

Her mirror is turn’d forward, to reflect

The promise of the future, not the past.

He who would win the name of truly great

Must understand his own age and the next,

And make the present ready to fulfil

Its prophecy, and with the future merge

Gently and peacefully, as wave with wave.

The future works out great men’s destinies;

The present is enough for common souls,

Who, never looking forward, are indeed

Mere clay wherein the footprints of their age

Are petrified forever: better those

Who lead the blind old giant by the hand

From out the pathless desert where he gropes,

And set him onward in his darksome way.

I do not fear to follow out the truth,

Albeit along the precipice’s edge.

Let us speak plain: there is more force in names

Than most men dream of; and a lie may keep

Its throne a whole age longer if it skulk

Behind the shield of some fair-seeming name.

Let us all call tyrantstyrants, and maintain

That only freedom comes by grace of God,

And all that comes not by His grace must fall;

For men in earnest have no time to waste

In patching fig-leaves for the naked truth.

THE FIRST SNOW-FALL.

THE snow had begun in the gloaming,And busily all the nightHad been heaping field and highwayWith a silence deep and white.Every pine and fir and hemlockWore ermine too dear for an earl,And the poorest twig on the elm-treeWas ridged inch deep with pearl.From sheds new-roofed with CarraraCame Chanticleer’s muffled crow,The stiff rails were softened to swan’s down,And still fluttered down the snow.I stood and watched by the windowThe noiseless work of the sky,And the sudden flurries of snow-birds,Like brown leaves whirling by.I thought of a mound in sweet AuburnWhere a little headstone stood;How the flakes were folding it gently,As did robins the babes in the wood.Up spoke our own little Mabel,Saying, “Father, who makes it snow?”And I told of the good All-fatherWho cares for us here below.Again I looked at the snow-fallAnd thought of the leaden skyThat arched o’er our first great sorrow,When that mound was heaped so high.I remembered the gradual patienceThat fell from that cloud like snow,Flake by flake, healing and hidingThe scar of our deep-plunged woe.And again to the child I whispered,“The snow that husheth all,Darling, the merciful FatherAlone can make it fall!”Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her;And she, kissing back, could not knowThatmykiss was given to her sister,Folded close under deepening snow.

HE snow had begun in the gloaming,

And busily all the night

Had been heaping field and highway

With a silence deep and white.

Every pine and fir and hemlock

Wore ermine too dear for an earl,

And the poorest twig on the elm-tree

Was ridged inch deep with pearl.

From sheds new-roofed with Carrara

Came Chanticleer’s muffled crow,

The stiff rails were softened to swan’s down,

And still fluttered down the snow.

I stood and watched by the window

The noiseless work of the sky,

And the sudden flurries of snow-birds,

Like brown leaves whirling by.

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn

Where a little headstone stood;

How the flakes were folding it gently,

As did robins the babes in the wood.

Up spoke our own little Mabel,

Saying, “Father, who makes it snow?”

And I told of the good All-father

Who cares for us here below.

Again I looked at the snow-fall

And thought of the leaden sky

That arched o’er our first great sorrow,

When that mound was heaped so high.

I remembered the gradual patience

That fell from that cloud like snow,

Flake by flake, healing and hiding

The scar of our deep-plunged woe.

And again to the child I whispered,

“The snow that husheth all,

Darling, the merciful Father

Alone can make it fall!”

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her;

And she, kissing back, could not know

Thatmykiss was given to her sister,

Folded close under deepening snow.

FOURTH OF JULY ODE.

I.OUR fathers fought for liberty,They struggled long and well,History of their deeds can tell—But did they leave us free?II.Are we free from vanity,Free from pride, and free from self,Free from love of power and pelf,From everything that’s beggarly?III.Are we free from stubborn will,From low hate and malice small,From opinion’s tyrant thrall?Are none of us our own slaves still?IV.Are we free to speak our thought,To be happy, and be poor,Free to enter Heaven’s door,To live and labor as we ought?V.Are we then made free at lastFrom the fear of what men say,Free to reverence To-day,Free from the slavery of the Past?VI.Our fathers fought for liberty,They struggled long and well,History of their deeds can tell—Butourselvesmust set us free.

UR fathers fought for liberty,

They struggled long and well,

History of their deeds can tell—

But did they leave us free?

II.

Are we free from vanity,

Free from pride, and free from self,

Free from love of power and pelf,

From everything that’s beggarly?

III.

Are we free from stubborn will,

From low hate and malice small,

From opinion’s tyrant thrall?

Are none of us our own slaves still?

IV.

Are we free to speak our thought,

To be happy, and be poor,

Free to enter Heaven’s door,

To live and labor as we ought?

Are we then made free at last

From the fear of what men say,

Free to reverence To-day,

Free from the slavery of the Past?

VI.

Our fathers fought for liberty,

They struggled long and well,

History of their deeds can tell—

Butourselvesmust set us free.

THE DANDELION.

DEAR common flower, that grow’st beside the way,Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold,First pledge of blithesome May,Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold,High-hearted buccaneers, o’erjoyed that theyAn Eldorado in the grass have found,Which not the rich earth’s ample roundMay match in wealth—thou art more dear to meThan all the prouder summer-blooms may be.Gold such as thine ne’er drew the Spanish prowThrough the primeval hush of Indian seas,Nor wrinkled the lean browOf age, to rob the lover’s heart of ease;’Tis the Spring’s largess, which she scatters nowTo rich and poor alike, with lavish hand,Though most hearts never understandTo take it atGod’svalue, but pass byThe offer’d wealth with unrewarded eye.Thou art my trophies and mine Italy;To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime;The eyes thou givest meAre in the heart, and heed not space or time;Not in mid June the golden-cuirass’d beeFeels a more summer-like, warm ravishmentIn the white lily’s breezy tint,His conquer’d Sybaris, than I, when firstFrom the dark green thy yellow circles burst.Then think I of deep shadows on the grass—Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze,Where, as the breezes pass,The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways—Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass,Or whiten in the wind—of waters blueThat from the distance sparkle throughSome woodland gap—and of a sky above,Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move.My childhood’s earliest thoughts are link’d with thee;The sight of thee calls back the robin’s song,Who, from the dark old treeBeside the door, sang clearly all day long,And I, secure in childish piety,Listen’d as if I heard an angel singWith news from heaven, which he did bringFresh every day to my untainted ears,When birds and flowers and I were happy peers.How like a prodigal doth Nature seem,When thou, for all thy gold, so common art!Thou teachest me to deemMore sacredly of every human heart,Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleamOf heaven, and could some wondrous secret show,Did we but pay the love we owe,And with a child’s undoubting wisdom lookOn all these living pages ofGod’sbook.

EAR common flower, that grow’st beside the way,

Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold,

First pledge of blithesome May,

Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold,

High-hearted buccaneers, o’erjoyed that they

An Eldorado in the grass have found,

Which not the rich earth’s ample round

May match in wealth—thou art more dear to me

Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be.

Gold such as thine ne’er drew the Spanish prow

Through the primeval hush of Indian seas,

Nor wrinkled the lean brow

Of age, to rob the lover’s heart of ease;

’Tis the Spring’s largess, which she scatters now

To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand,

Though most hearts never understand

To take it atGod’svalue, but pass by

The offer’d wealth with unrewarded eye.

Thou art my trophies and mine Italy;

To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime;

The eyes thou givest me

Are in the heart, and heed not space or time;

Not in mid June the golden-cuirass’d bee

Feels a more summer-like, warm ravishment

In the white lily’s breezy tint,

His conquer’d Sybaris, than I, when first

From the dark green thy yellow circles burst.

Then think I of deep shadows on the grass—

Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze,

Where, as the breezes pass,

The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways—

Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass,

Or whiten in the wind—of waters blue

That from the distance sparkle through

Some woodland gap—and of a sky above,

Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move.

My childhood’s earliest thoughts are link’d with thee;

The sight of thee calls back the robin’s song,

Who, from the dark old tree

Beside the door, sang clearly all day long,

And I, secure in childish piety,

Listen’d as if I heard an angel sing

With news from heaven, which he did bring

Fresh every day to my untainted ears,

When birds and flowers and I were happy peers.

How like a prodigal doth Nature seem,

When thou, for all thy gold, so common art!

Thou teachest me to deem

More sacredly of every human heart,

Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam

Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show,

Did we but pay the love we owe,

And with a child’s undoubting wisdom look

On all these living pages ofGod’sbook.

THE ALPINE SHEEP.

It is proper, in connection with the writings of Lowell, to insert the following poem by his wife, Maria White Lowell, a singularly accomplished and beautiful woman, born July 8, 1821, married to the poet Lowell in 1844, died on the22dof October, 1853. In 1855 her husband had a volume of her poetry privately printed, the character of which may be judged from the following touching lines addressed to a friend after the loss of a child.

WHEN on my ear your loss was knell’d,And tender sympathy upburst,A little spring from memory well’d,Which once had quench’d my bitter thirst,And I was fain to bear to youA portion of its mild relief,That it might be a healing dew,To steal some fever from your grief.After our child’s untroubled breathUp to the Father took its way,And on our home the shade of DeathLike a long twilight haunting lay,And friends came round, with us to weepHer little spirit’s swift remove,The story of the Alpine sheepWas told to us by one we love.They, in the valley’s sheltering care,Soon crop the meadow’s tender prime,And when the sod grows brown and bare,The shepherd strives to make them climbTo airy shelves of pasture green,That hang along the mountain’s side,Where grass and flowers together lean,And down through mists the sunbeams slide.But naught can tempt the timid thingsThe steep and rugged path to try,Though sweet the shepherds calls and sings,And sear’d below the pastures lie,Till in his arms his lambs he takes,Along the dizzy verge to go:Then, heedless of the rifts and breaks,They follow on o’er rock and snow.And in these pastures, lifted fair,More dewy-soft than lowland mead,The shepherd drops his tender care,And sheep and lambs together feed.This parable, by Nature breathed,Blew on me as the south wind freeO’er frozen brooks that flow unsheathedFrom icy thraldom to the sea.A blissful vision through the nightWould all my happy senses swayOf the Good Shepherd on the height,Or climbing up the starry way,Holding our little lamb asleep,While, like the murmur of the sea,Sounded that voice along the deep,Saying, “Arise and follow me.”

HEN on my ear your loss was knell’d,

And tender sympathy upburst,

A little spring from memory well’d,

Which once had quench’d my bitter thirst,

And I was fain to bear to you

A portion of its mild relief,

That it might be a healing dew,

To steal some fever from your grief.

After our child’s untroubled breath

Up to the Father took its way,

And on our home the shade of Death

Like a long twilight haunting lay,

And friends came round, with us to weep

Her little spirit’s swift remove,

The story of the Alpine sheep

Was told to us by one we love.

They, in the valley’s sheltering care,

Soon crop the meadow’s tender prime,

And when the sod grows brown and bare,

The shepherd strives to make them climb

To airy shelves of pasture green,

That hang along the mountain’s side,

Where grass and flowers together lean,

And down through mists the sunbeams slide.

But naught can tempt the timid things

The steep and rugged path to try,

Though sweet the shepherds calls and sings,

And sear’d below the pastures lie,

Till in his arms his lambs he takes,

Along the dizzy verge to go:

Then, heedless of the rifts and breaks,

They follow on o’er rock and snow.

And in these pastures, lifted fair,

More dewy-soft than lowland mead,

The shepherd drops his tender care,

And sheep and lambs together feed.

This parable, by Nature breathed,

Blew on me as the south wind free

O’er frozen brooks that flow unsheathed

From icy thraldom to the sea.

A blissful vision through the night

Would all my happy senses sway

Of the Good Shepherd on the height,

Or climbing up the starry way,

Holding our little lamb asleep,

While, like the murmur of the sea,

Sounded that voice along the deep,

Saying, “Arise and follow me.”

Souvenir of Lowell

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