The Complete Poetical Works of James Russell Lowell Part 72

And when they come his deeds to weigh, And how he used the talents his, One trout-scale in the scales he'll lay (If trout had scales), and 'twill outsway The wrong side of the balances.

ODE TO HAPPINESS

Spirit, that rarely comest now And only to contrast my gloom, Like rainbow-feathered birds that bloom A moment on some autumn bough That, with the spurn of their farewell Sheds its last leaves,--thou once didst dwell With me year-long, and make intense To boyhood's wisely vacant days Their fleet but all-sufficing grace Of trustful inexperience, 10 While soul could still transfigure sense, And thrill, as with love's first caress, At life's mere unexpectedness.

Days when my blood would leap and run As full of suns.h.i.+ne as a breeze, Or spray tossed up by Summer seas That doubts if it be sea or sun!

Days that flew swiftly like the band That played in Grecian games at strife, And pa.s.sed from eager hand to hand 20 The onward-dancing torch of life!

Wing-footed! thou abid'st with him Who asks it not; but he who hath Watched o'er the waves thy waning path, Shall nevermore behold returning Thy high-heaped canvas sh.o.r.eward yearning!

Thou first reveal'st to us thy face Turned o'er the shoulder's parting grace, A moment glimpsed, then seen no more,-- Thou whose swift footsteps we can trace 30 Away from every mortal door.

Nymph of the unreturning feet, How may I win thee back? But no, I do thee wrong to call thee so; 'Tis I am changed, not thou art fleet: The man thy presence feels again, Not in the blood, but in the brain, Spirit, that lov'st the upper air Serene and pa.s.sionless and rare, Such as on mountain heights we find 40 And wide-viewed uplands of the mind; Or such as scorns to coil and sing Round any but the eagle's wing Of souls that with long upward beat Have won an undisturbed retreat Where, poised like winged victories, They mirror in relentless eyes.

The life broad-basking 'neath their feet,-- Man ever with his Now at strife, Pained with first gasps of earthly air, 50 Then praying Death the last to spare, Still fearful of the ampler life.

Not unto them dost thou consent Who, pa.s.sionless, can lead at ease A life of unalloyed content, A life like that of land-locked seas, Who feel no elemental gush Of tidal forces, no fierce rush Of storm deep-grasping scarcely spent 'Twixt continent and continent. 60 Such quiet souls have never known Thy truer inspiration, thou Who lov'st to feel upon thy brow Spray from the plunging vessel thrown Grazing the tusked lee sh.o.r.e, the cliff That o'er the abrupt gorge holds its breath, Where the frail hair-breadth of an _if_ Is all that sunders life and death: These, too, are cared for, and round these Bends her mild crook thy sister Peace; 70 These in unvexed dependence lie, Each 'neath his strip of household sky; O'er these clouds wander, and the blue Hangs motionless the whole day through; Stars rise for them, and moons grow large And lessen in such tranquil wise As joys and sorrows do that rise Within their nature's sheltered marge; Their hours into each other flit Like the leaf-shadows of the vine 80 And fig-tree under which they sit, And their still lives to heaven incline With an unconscious habitude, Unhistoried as smokes that rise From happy hearths and sight elude In kindred blue of morning skies.

Wayward! when once we feel thy lack, 'Tis worse than vain to woo thee back!

Yet there is one who seems to be Thine elder sister, in whose eyes 90 A faint far northern light will rise Sometimes, and bring a dream of thee; She is not that for which youth hoped, But she hath blessings all her own, Thoughts pure as lilies newly oped, And faith to sorrow given alone: Almost I deem that it is thou Come back with graver matron brow, With deepened eyes and bated breath, Like one that somewhere hath met Death: 100 But 'No,' she answers, 'I am she Whom the G.o.ds love, Tranquillity; That other whom you seek forlorn Half earthly was; but I am born Of the immortals, and our race Wears still some sadness on its face: He wins me late, but keeps me long, Who, dowered with every gift of pa.s.sion, In that fierce flame can forge and fas.h.i.+on Of sin and self the anchor strong; 110 Can thence compel the driving force Of daily life's mechanic course, Nor less the n.o.bler energies Of needful toil and culture wise; Whose soul is worth the tempter's lure, Who can renounce, and yet endure, To him I come, not lightly wooed, But won by silent fort.i.tude.'

VILLA FRANCA

1859

Wait a little: do _we_ not wait?

Louis Napoleon is not Fate, Francis Joseph is not Time; There's One hath swifter feet than Crime; Cannon-parliaments settle naught; Venice is Austria's,--whose is Thought?

Minie is good, but, spite of change, Gutenberg's gun has the longest range.

Spin, spin, Clotho, spin!

Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever!

In the shadow, year out, year in, The silent headsman waits forever.

Wait, we say: our years are long; Men are weak, out Man is strong; Since the stars first curved their rings, We have looked on many things: Great wars come and great wars go, Wolf-tracks light on polar snow; We shall see him come and gone, This second-hand Napoleon.

Spin, spin, Clotho, spin!

Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever!

In the shadow, year out, year in, The silent headsman waits forever.

We saw the elder Corsican, And Clotho muttered as she span, While crowned lackeys bore the train, Of the pinchbeck Charlemagne: 'Sister, stint not length of thread!

Sister, stay the scissors dread!

On Saint Helen's granite Weak, Hark, the vulture whets his beak!'

Spin, spin, Clotho, spin!

Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever!

In the shadow, year out, year in, The silent headsman waits forever.

The Bonapartes, we know their bees That wade in honey red to the knees; Their patent reaper, its sheaves sleep sound In dreamless garners underground: We know false glory's spendthrift race p.a.w.ning nations for feathers and lace; It may be short, it may be long, ''Tis reckoning-day!' sneers unpaid Wrong.

Spin, spin, Clotho, spin!

Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever!

In the shadow, year out, year in, The silent headsman waits forever.

The c.o.c.k that wears the Eagle's skin Can promise what he ne'er could win; Slavery reaped for fine words sown, System for all, and rights for none, Despots atop, a wild clan below, Such is the Gaul from long ago; Wash the black from the Ethiop's face, Wash the past out of man or race!

Spin, spin, Clotho, spin!

Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever!

In the shadow, year out, year in, The silent headsman waits forever.

'Neath Gregory's throne a spider swings, And snares the people for the kings; 'Luther is dead; old quarrels pa.s.s: The stake's black scars are healed with gra.s.s;'

So dreamers prate; did man e'er live Saw priest or woman yet forgive?

But Luther's broom is left, and eyes Peep o'er their creeds to where it lies.

Spin, spin, Clotho, spin!

Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever!

In the shadow, year out, year in, The silent headsman waits forever.

Smooth sails the s.h.i.+p of either realm, Kaiser and Jesuit at the helm; We look down the depths, and mark Silent workers in the dark Building slow the sharp-tusked reefs, Old instincts hardening to new beliefs; Patience a little; learn to wait; Hours are long on the clock of Fate.

Spin, spin, Clotho, spin!

Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever!

Darkness is strong, and so is Sin, But surely G.o.d endures forever!

THE MINER

Down 'mid the tangled roots of things That coil about the central fire, I seek for that which giveth wings To stoop, not soar, to my desire.

Sometimes I hear, as 'twere a sigh, The sea's deep yearning far above, 'Thou hast the secret not,' I cry, 'In deeper deeps is hid my Love.'

They think I burrow from the sun, In darkness, all alone, and weak; Such loss were gain if He were won, For 'tis the sun's own Sun I seek.

'The earth,' they murmur, 'is the tomb That vainly sought his life to prison; Why grovel longer in the gloom?

He is not here; he hath arisen.'

More life for me where he hath lain Hidden while ye believed him dead, Than in cathedrals cold and vain, Built on loose sands of _It is said_.

My search is for the living gold; Him I desire who dwells recluse, And not his image worn and old, Day-servant of our sordid use.

If him I find not, yet I find The ancient joy of cell and church, The glimpse, the surety undefined, The unquenched ardor of the search.

Happier to chase a flying goal Than to sit counting laurelled gains, To guess the Soul within the soul Than to be lord of what remains.

Hide still, best Good, in subtile wise, Beyond my nature's utmost scope; Be ever absent from mine eyes To be twice present in my hope!

GOLD EGG: A DREAM-FANTASY

HOW A STUDENT IN SEARCH OF THE BEAUTIFUL FELL ASLEEP IN DRESDEN OVER HERR PROFESSOR DOCTOR VISCHER'S WISSENSCHAFT DES SCHoNEN, AND WHAT CAME THEREOF

I swam with undulation soft, Adrift on Vischer's ocean, And, from my c.o.c.kboat up aloft, Sent down my mental plummet oft In hope to reach a notion.

But from the metaphysic sea No bottom was forthcoming, And all the while (how drearily!) In one eternal note of B My German stove kept humming. 10