Poems of James Russell Lowell Part 26

The violets on the hillock toss, The gravestone is o'ergrown with moss; For nature feels not any loss,-- But I am cheerless, Rosaline!

I did not know when thou wast dead; A blackbird whistling overhead Thrilled through my brain; I would have fled, But dared not leave thee, Rosaline!

The sun rolled down, and very soon, Like a great fire, the awful moon Rose, stained with blood, and then a swoon Crept chilly o'er me, Rosaline!

The stars came out; and, one by one, Each angel from his silver throne Looked down and saw what I had done; I dared not hide me, Rosaline!

I crouched; I feared thy corpse would cry Against me to G.o.d's quiet sky, I thought I saw the blue lips try To utter something, Rosaline!

I waited with a maddened grin To hear that voice all icy thin Slide forth and tell my deadly sin To h.e.l.l and heaven, Rosaline!

But no voice came, and then it seemed That, if the very corpse had screamed, The sound like suns.h.i.+ne glad had streamed Through that dark stillness, Rosaline!

And then, amid the silent night, I screamed with horrible delight, And in my brain an awful light Did seem to crackle, Rosaline!

It is my curse! sweet memories fall From me like snow,--and only all Of that one night, like cold worms crawl My doomed heart over, Rosaline!

Why wilt thou haunt me with thine eyes, Wherein such blessed memories, Such pitying forgiveness lies, Than hate more bitter, Rosaline?

Woe's me! I know that love so high As thine, true soul, could never die, And with mean clay in churchyard lie,-- Would it might be so, Rosaline!

1841.

THE SHEPHERD OF KING ADMETUS.

There came a youth upon the earth, Some thousand years ago, Whose slender hands were nothing worth, Whether to plough, or reap, or sow.

Upon an empty tortoise-sh.e.l.l He stretched some chords, and drew Music that made men's bosoms swell Fearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew.

Then King Admetus, one who had Pure taste by right divine, Decreed his singing not too bad To hear between the cups of wine:

And so, well-pleased with being soothed Into a sweet half-sleep, Three times his kingly beard he smoothed, And made him viceroy o'er his sheep.

His words were simple words enough, And yet he used them so, That what in other mouths was rough In his seemed musical and low.

Men called him but a s.h.i.+ftless youth, In whom no good they saw; And yet, unwittingly, in truth, They made his careless words their law.

They knew not how he learned at all, For idly, hour by hour, He sat and watched the dead leaves fall, Or mused upon a common flower.

It seemed the loveliness of things Did teach him all their use, For, in mere weeds, and stones, and springs, He found a healing power profuse.

Men granted that his speech was wise, But, when a glance they caught Of his slim grace and woman's eyes, They laughed, and called him good-for-naught.

Yet after he was dead and gone, And e'en his memory dim, Earth seemed more sweet to live upon, More full of love, because of him.

And day by day more holy grew Each spot where he had trod, Till after-poets only knew Their first-born brother as a G.o.d.

1842.

THE TOKEN.

It is a mere wild rosebud, Quite sallow now, and dry, Yet there 's something wondrous in it,-- Some gleams of days gone by,-- Dear sights and sounds that are to me The very moons of memory, And stir my heart's blood far below Its short-lived waves of joy and woe.

Lips must fade and roses wither, All sweet times be o'er,-- They only smile, and, murmuring "Thither!"

Stay with us no more: And yet ofttimes a look or smile, Forgotten in a kiss's while, Years after from the dark will start, And flash across the trembling heart.

Thou hast given me many roses, But never one, like this, O'erfloods both sense and spirit With such a deep, wild bliss; We must have instincts that glean up Spa.r.s.e drops of this life in the cup, Whose taste shall give us all that we Can prove of immortality.

Earth's stablest things are shadows, And, in the life to come, Haply some chance-saved trifle May tell of this old home: As now sometimes we seem to find, In a dark crevice of the mind, Some relic, which, long pondered o'er, Hints faintly at a life before.

AN INCIDENT IN A RAILROAD CAR.

He spoke of Burns: men rude and rough Pressed round to hear the praise of one Whose heart was made of manly, simple stuff, As homespun as their own.

And, when he read, they forward leaned, Drinking, with thirsty hearts and ears, His brook-like songs whom glory never weaned From humble smiles and tears.

Slowly there grew a tender awe, Sun-like, o'er faces brown and hard, As if in him who read they felt and saw Some presence of the bard.

It was a sight for sin and wrong And slavish tyranny to see, A sight to make our faith more pure and strong In high humanity.

I thought, these men will carry hence Promptings their former life above, And something of a finer reverence For beauty, truth, and love.

G.o.d scatters love on every side, Freely among his children all, And always hearts are lying open wide, Wherein some grains may fall.

There is no wind but soweth seeds Of a more true and open life, Which burst, unlooked-for, into high-souled deeds, With wayside beauty rife.

We find within these souls of ours Some wild germs of a higher birth, Which in the poet's tropic heart bear flowers Whose fragrance fills the earth.

Within the hearts of all men lie These promises of wider bliss, Which blossom into hopes that cannot die, In sunny hours like this.

All that hath been majestical In life or death, since time began, Is native in the simple heart of all, The angel heart of man.

And thus, among the untaught poor, Great deeds and feelings find a home, That cast in shadow all the golden lore Of cla.s.sic Greece and Rome.

O, mighty brother-soul of man, Where'er thou art, in low or high, Thy skiey arches with exulting span O'er-roof infinity!

All thoughts that mould the age begin Deep down within the primitive soul, And from the many slowly upward win To one who grasps the whole:

In his wide brain the feeling deep That struggled on the many's tongue Swells to a tide of thought, whose surges leap O'er the weak thrones of wrong.

All thought begins in feeling,--wide In the great ma.s.s its base is hid, And, narrowing up to thought, stands glorified, A moveless pyramid.