Poems of James Russell Lowell Part 24

Now, on the second day there was to be A festival in church: from far and near Came flocking in the sunburnt peasantry, And knights and dames with stately antique cheer, Blazing with pomp, as if all faerie Had emptied her quaint halls, or, as it were, The illuminated marge of some old book, While we were gazing, life and motion took.

XXVIII.

When all were entered, and the roving eyes Of all were staid, some upon faces bright, Some on the priests, some on the traceries That decked the slumber of a marble knight, And all the rustlings over that arise From recognizing tokens of delight, When friendly glances meet,--then silent ease Spread o'er the mult.i.tude by slow degrees.

XXIX.

Then swelled the organ: up through choir and nave The music trembled with an inward thrill Of bliss at its own grandeur: wave on wave Its flood of mellow thunder rose, until The hushed air s.h.i.+vered with the throb it gave, Then, poising for a moment, it stood still, And sank and rose again, to burst in spray That wandered into silence far away.

x.x.x.

Like to a mighty heart the music seemed, That yearns with melodies it cannot speak, Until, in grand despair of what it dreamed, In the agony of effort it doth break, Yet triumphs breaking; on it rushed and streamed And wantoned in its might, as when a lake, Long pent among the mountains, bursts its walls And in one crowding gush leaps forth and falls.

x.x.xI.

Deeper and deeper shudders shook the air, As the huge ba.s.s kept gathering heavily, Like thunder when it rouses in its lair, And with its hoa.r.s.e growl shakes the low-hung sky, It grew up like a darkness everywhere, Filling the vast cathedral;--suddenly, From the dense ma.s.s a boy's clear treble broke Like lightning, and the full-toned choir awoke.

x.x.xII.

Through gorgeous windows shone the sun aslant, Br.i.m.m.i.n.g the church with gold and purple mist, Meet atmosphere to bosom that rich chant, Where fifty voices in one strand did twist Their varicolored tones, and left no want To the delighted soul, which sank abyssed In the warm music cloud, while, far below, The organ heaved its surges to and fro.

x.x.xIII.

As if a lark should suddenly drop dead While the blue air yet trembled with its song, So snapped at once that music's golden thread, Struck by a nameless fear that leapt along From heart to heart, and like a shadow spread With instantaneous s.h.i.+ver through the throng, So that some glanced behind, as half aware A hideous shape of dread were standing there.

x.x.xIV.

As when a crowd of pale men gather round, Watching an eddy in the leaden deep, From which they deem the body of one drowned Will be cast forth, from face to face doth creep An eager dread that holds all tongues fast bound Until the horror, with a ghastly leap, Starts up, its dead blue arms stretched aimlessly, Heaved with the swinging of the careless sea,--

x.x.xV.

So in the faces of all these there grew, As by one impulse, a dark, freezing awe, Which, with a fearful fascination drew All eyes toward the altar; damp and raw The air grew suddenly, and no man knew Whether perchance his silent neighbor saw The dreadful thing which all were sure would rise To scare the strained lids wider from their eyes.

x.x.xVI.

The incense trembled as it upward sent Its slow, uncertain thread of wandering blue, As 't were the only living element In all the church, so deep the stillness grew, It seemed one might have heard it, as it went, Give out an audible rustle, curling through The midnight silence of that awe-struck air, More hushed than death, though so much life was there.

x.x.xVII.

Nothing they saw, but a low voice was heard Threading the ominous silence of that fear, Gentle and terrorless as if a bird, Wakened by some volcano's glare, should cheer The murk air with his song; yet every word In the cathedral's farthest arch seemed near As if it spoke to every one apart, Like the clear voice of conscience in each heart.

x.x.xVIII.

"O Rest, to weary hearts thou art most dear!

O Silence, after life's bewildering din, Thou art most welcome, whether in the sear Days of our age thou comest, or we win Thy poppy-wreath in youth! then wherefore here Linger I yet, once free to enter in At that wished gate which gentle Death doth ope, Into the boundless realm of strength and hope?

x.x.xIX.

"Think not in death my love could ever cease; If thou wast false, more need there is for me Still to be true; that slumber were not peace, If 't were unvisited with dreams of thee: And thou hadst never heard such words as these, Save that in heaven I must ever be Most comfortless and wretched, seeing this Our unbaptized babe shut out from bliss.

XL.

"This little spirit with imploring eyes Wanders alone the dreary wild of s.p.a.ce; The shadow of his pain forever lies Upon my soul in this new dwelling-place; His loneliness makes me in Paradise More lonely, and, unless I see his face, Even here for grief could I lie down and die, Save for my curse of immortality.

XLI.

"World after world he sees around him swim Crowded with happy souls, that take no heed Of the sad eyes that from the night's faint rim Gaze sick with longing on them as they speed With golden gates, that only shut out him; And shapes sometimes from h.e.l.l's abysses freed Flap darkly by him, with enormous sweep Of wings that roughen wide the pitchy deep.

XLII.

"I am a mother,--spirits do not shake This much of earth from them,--and I must pine Till I can feel his little hands, and take His weary head upon this heart of mine; And, might it be, full gladly for his sake Would I this solitude of bliss resign, And be shut out of Heaven to dwell with him Forever in that silence drear and dim.

XLIII.

"I strove to hush my soul, and would not speak At first, for thy dear sake; a woman's love Is mighty, but a mother's heart is weak, And by its weakness overcomes; I strove To smother bitter thoughts with patience meek, But still in the abyss my soul would rove, Seeking my child, and drove me here to claim The rite that gives him peace in Christ's dear name.

XLIV.

"I sit and weep while blessed spirits sing; I can but long and pine the while they praise, And, leaning o'er the wall of Heaven, I fling My voice to where I deem my infant strays, Like a robbed bird that cries in vain to bring Her nestlings back beneath her wings' embrace; But still he answers not, and I but know That Heaven and earth are both alike in woe."

XLV.

Then the pale priests, with ceremony due, Baptized the child within its dreadful tomb Beneath that mother's heart, whose instinct true Star-like had battled down the triple gloom Of sorrow, love, and death: young maidens, too, Strewed the pale corpse with many a milkwhite bloom, And parted the bright hair, and on the breast Crossed the unconscious hands in sign of rest.

XLVI.

Some said, that, when the priest had sprinkled o'er The consecrated drops, they seemed to hear A sigh, as of some heart from travail sore Released, and then two voices singing clear, _Misereatur Deus_, more and more Fading far upward, and their ghastly fear Fell from them with that sound, as bodies fall From souls upspringing to celestial hall.