Poems of James Russell Lowell Part 10

III.

And then I murmur, "Surely G.o.d Delighteth here to dwell; This is the temple of his Son Whom he doth love so well;"

But, when I hear the creed which saith, This church alone is His, I feel within my soul that He Hath purer shrines than this.

IV.

For his is not the builded church, Nor organ-shaken dome; In every thing that lovely is He loves and hath his home; And most in soul that loveth well All things which he hath made, Knowing no creed but simple faith That may not be gainsaid.

V.

His church is universal Love, And whoso dwells therein Shall need no customed sacrifice To wash away his sin; And music in its aisles shall swell, Of lives upright and true, Sweet as dreamed sounds of angel-harps Down-quivering through the blue.

VI.

They shall not ask a litany, The souls that wors.h.i.+p there, But every look shall be a hymn, And every word a prayer; Their service shall be written bright In calm and holy eyes, And every day from fragrant hearts Fit incense shall arise.

THE UNLOVELY.

The pretty things that others wear Look strange and out of place on me, I never seem dressed tastefully, Because I am not fair; And, when I would most pleasing seem, And deck myself with joyful care, I find it is an idle dream, Because I am not fair.

If I put roses in my hair, They bloom as if in mockery; Nature denies her sympathy, Because I am not fair; Alas! I have a warm, true heart, But when I show it people stare; I must forever dwell apart, Because I am not fair.

I am least happy being where The hearts of others are most light, And strive to keep me out of sight, Because I am not fair; The glad ones often give a glance, As I am sitting lonely there, That asks me why I do not dance-- Because I am not fair.

And if to smile on them I dare, For that my heart with love runs o'er, They say: "What is she laughing for?"-- Because I am not fair; Love scorned or misinterpreted-- It is the hardest thing to bear; I often wish that I were dead, Because I am not fair.

In joy or grief I must not share, For neither smiles nor tears on me Will ever look becomingly, Because I am not fair; Whole days I sit alone and cry, And in my grave I wish I were-- Yet none will weep me if I die, Because I am not fair.

My grave will be so lone and bare, I fear to think of those dark hours, For none will plant it o'er with flowers, Because I am not fair; They will not in the summer come And speak kind words above me there; To me the grave will be no home, Because I am not fair.

LOVE-SONG.

Nearer to thy mother-heart, Simple Nature, press me, Let me know thee as thou art, Fill my soul and bless me!

I have loved thee long and well, I have loved thee heartily; Shall I never with thee dwell, Never be at one with thee?

Inward, inward to thy heart, Kindly Nature, take me, Lovely even as thou art, Full of loving make me!

Thou knowest naught of dead-cold forms, Knowest naught of littleness, Lifeful Truth thy being warms, Majesty and earnestness.

Homeward, homeward to thy heart, Dearest Nature, call me; Let no halfness, no mean part, Any longer thrall me!

I will be thy lover true, I will be a faithful soul, Then circle me, then look me through, Fill me with the mighty Whole.

SONG.

All things are sad:-- I go and ask of Memory, That she tell sweet tales to me To make me glad; And she takes me by the hand, Leadeth to old places, Showeth the old faces In her hazy mirage-land; O, her voice is sweet and low, And her eyes are fresh to mine As the dew Gleaming through The half-unfolded Eglantine, Long ago, long ago!

But I feel that I am only Yet more sad, and yet more lonely!

Then I turn to blue-eyed Hope, And beg of her that she will ope Her golden gates for me; She is fair and full of grace, But she hath the form and face Of her mother Memory; Clear as air her glad voice ringeth, Joyous are the songs she singeth, Yet I hear them mournfully;-- They are songs her mother taught her, Crooning to her infant daughter, As she lay upon her knee.

Many little ones she bore me, Woe is me! in by-gone hours, Who danced along and sang before me, Scattering my way with flowers; One by one They are gone, And their silent graves are seen, s.h.i.+ning fresh with mosses green, Where the rising sunbeams slope O'er the dewy land of Hope.

But, when sweet Memory faileth, And Hope looks strange and cold; When youth no more availeth, And Grief grows over bold;-- When softest winds are dreary, And summer sunlight weary, And sweetest things uncheery We know not why:-- When the crown of our desires Weighs upon the brow and tires, And we would die, Die for, ah! we know not what, Something we seem to have forgot, Something we had, and now have not;-- When the present is a weight And the future seems our foe, And with shrinking eyes we wait, As one who dreads a sudden blow In the dark, he knows not whence;-- When Love at last his bright eye closes, And the bloom upon his face, That lends him such a living grace, Is a shadow from the roses Wherewith we have decked his bier, Because he once was pa.s.sing dear;-- When we feel a leaden sense Of nothingness and impotence, Till we grow mad-- Then the body saith, "There's but one true faith; All things are sad!"

A LOVE-DREAM.

Pleasant thoughts come wandering, When thou art far, from thee to me; On their silver wings they bring A very peaceful ecstasy, A feeling of eternal spring; So that Winter half forgets Everything but that thou art, And, in his bewildered heart, Dreameth of the violets, Or those bluer flowers that ope, Flowers of steadfast love and hope, Watered by the living wells, Of memories dear, and dearer prophecies, When young spring forever dwells In the suns.h.i.+ne of thine eyes.

I have most holy dreams of thee, All night I have such dreams; And, when I awake, reality No whit the darker seems; Through the twin gates of Hope and Memory They pour in crystal streams From out an angel's calmed eyes, Who, from twilight till sunrise, Far away in the upper deep, Poised upon his s.h.i.+ning wings, Over us his watch doth keep, And, as he watcheth, ever sings.

Through the still night I hear him sing, Down-looking on our sleep; I hear his clear, clear harp-strings ring, And, as the golden notes take wing, Gently downward hovering, For very joy I weep; He singeth songs of holy Love, That quiver through the depths afar, Where the blessed spirits are, And lingeringly from above Shower till the morning star His silver s.h.i.+eld hath buckled on And sentinels the dawn alone, Quivering his gleamy spear Through the dusky atmosphere.

Almost, my love, I fear the morn, When that blessed voice shall cease, Lest it should leave me quite forlorn, Stript of my snowy robe of peace; And yet the bright reality Is fairer than all dreams can be, For, through my spirit, all day long, Ring echoes of that angel-song In melodious thoughts of thee; And well I know it cannot die Till eternal morn shall break, For, through life's slumber, thou and I Will keep it for each other's sake, And it shall not be silent when we wake.

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.