Poems of James Russell Lowell Part 27

Nor is he far astray who deems That every hope, which rises and grows broad In the world's heart, by ordered impulse streams From the great heart of G.o.d.

G.o.d wills, man hopes: in common souls Hope is but vague and undefined, Till from the poet's tongue the message rolls A blessing to his kind.

Never did Poesy appear So full of heaven to me, as when I saw how it would pierce through pride and fear To the lives of coa.r.s.est men.

It may be glorious to write Thoughts that shall glad the two or three High souls, like those far stars that come in sight Once in a century;--

But better far it is to speak One simple word, which now and then Shall waken their free nature in the weak And friendless sons of men;

To write some earnest verse or line, Which, seeking not the praise of art, Shall make a clearer faith and manhood s.h.i.+ne In the untutored heart.

He who doth this, in verse or prose, May be forgotten in his day, But surely shall be crowned at last with those Who live and speak for aye.

1842.

RHCUS.

G.o.d sends his teachers unto every age, To every clime, and every race of men, With revelations fitted to their growth And shape of mind, nor gives the realm of Truth Into the selfish rule of one sole race: Therefore each form of wors.h.i.+p that hath swayed The life of man, and given it to grasp The master-key of knowledge, reverence, Enfolds some germs of goodness and of right; Else never had the eager soul, which loathes The slothful down of pampered ignorance, Found in it even a moment's fitful rest.

There is an instinct in the human heart Which makes that all the fables it hath coined, To justify the reign of its belief And strengthen it by beauty's right divine, Veil in their inner cells a mystic gift, Which, like the hazel twig, in faithful hands, Points surely to the hidden springs of truth.

For, as in nature naught is made in vain, But all things have within their hull of use A wisdom and a meaning which may speak Of spiritual secrets to the ear Of spirit; so, in whatsoe'er the heart Hath fas.h.i.+oned for a solace to itself, To make its inspirations suit its creed, And from the n.i.g.g.ard hands of falsehood wring Its needful food of truth, there ever is A sympathy with Nature, which reveals, Not less than her own works, pure gleams of light And earnest parables of inward lore.

Hear now this fairy legend of old Greece, As full of freedom, youth, and beauty still As the immortal freshness of that grace Carved for all ages on some Attic frieze.

A youth named Rhcus, wandering in the wood, Saw an old oak just trembling to its fall, And, feeling pity of so fair a tree, He propped its gray trunk with admiring care, And with a thoughtless footstep loitered on.

But, as he turned, he heard a voice behind That murmured "Rhcus!" 'Twas as if the leaves, Stirred by a pa.s.sing breath, had murmured it, And, while he paused bewildered, yet again It murmured "Rhcus!" softer than a breeze.

He started and beheld with dizzy eyes What seemed the substance of a happy dream Stand there before him, spreading a warm glow Within the green glooms of the shadowy oak.

It seemed a woman's shape, yet all too fair To be a woman, and with eyes too meek For any that were wont to mate with G.o.ds.

All naked like a G.o.ddess stood she there, And like a G.o.ddess all too beautiful To feel the guilt-born earthliness of shame.

"Rhcus, I am the Dryad of this tree,"

Thus she began, dropping her low-toned words Serene, and full, and clear, as drops of dew, "And with it I am doomed to live and die; The rain and suns.h.i.+ne are my caterers, Nor have I other bliss than simple life; Now ask me what thou wilt, that I can give, And with a thankful joy it shall be thine."

Then Rhcus, with a flutter at the heart, Yet, by the prompting of such beauty, bold, Answered: "What is there that can satisfy The endless craving of the soul but love?

Give me thy love, or but the hope of that Which must be evermore my spirit's goal."

After a little pause she said again, But with a glimpse of sadness in her tone, "I give it, Rhcus, though a perilous gift; An hour before the sunset meet me here."

And straightway there was nothing he could see But the green glooms beneath the shadowy oak, And not a sound came to his straining ears But the low trickling rustle of the leaves, And far away upon an emerald slope The falter of an idle shepherd's pipe.

Now, in those days of simpleness and faith, Men did not think that happy things were dreams Because they overstepped the narrow bourne Of likelihood, but reverently deemed Nothing too wondrous or too beautiful To be the guerdon of a daring heart.

So Rhcus made no doubt that he was blest, And all along unto the city's gate Earth seemed to spring beneath him as he walked, The clear, broad sky looked bluer than its wont, And he could scarce believe he had not wings Such suns.h.i.+ne seemed to glitter through his veins Instead of blood, so light he felt and strange.

Young Rhcus had a faithful heart enough, But one that in the present dwelt too much, And, taking with blithe welcome whatsoe'er Chance gave of joy, was wholly bound in that, Like the contented peasant of a vale, Deemed it the world, and never looked beyond.

So, haply meeting in the afternoon Some comrades who were playing at the dice He joined them and forgot all else beside.

The dice were rattling at the merriest, And Rhcus, who had met but sorry luck, Just laughed in triumph at a happy throw, When through the room there hummed a yellow bee That buzzed about his ear with down-dropped legs As if to light. And Rhcus laughed and said, Feeling how red and flushed he was with loss, "By Venus! does he take me for a rose?"

And brushed him off with rough, impatient hand.

But still the bee came back, and thrice again Rhcus did beat him off with growing wrath.

Then through the window flew the wounded bee, And Rhcus, tracking him with angry eyes, Saw a sharp mountain-peak of Thessaly Against the red disc of the setting sun,-- And instantly the blood sank from his heart, As if its very walls had caved away.

Without a word he turned, and, rus.h.i.+ng forth, Ran madly through the city and the gate, And o'er the plain, which now the wood's long shade, By the low sun thrown forward broad and dim, Darkened wellnigh unto the city's wall.

Quite spent and out of breath he reached the tree, And, listening fearfully, he heard once more The low voice murmur "Rhcus!" close at hand: Whereat he looked around him, but could see Naught but the deepening glooms beneath the oak.

Then sighed the voice, "Oh, Rhcus! nevermore Shalt thou behold me or by day or night, Me, who would fain have blessed thee with a love More ripe and bounteous than ever yet Filled up with nectar any mortal heart: But thou didst scorn my humble messenger, And sent'st him back to me with bruised wings.

We spirits only show to gentle eyes.

We ever ask an undivided love, And he who scorns the least of Nature's works Is thenceforth exiled and shut out from all.

Farewell! for thou canst never see me more."

Then Rhcus beat his breast, and groaned aloud And cried, "Be pitiful! forgive me yet This once, and I shall never need it more!"

"Alas!" the voice returned, "'t is thou art blind, Not I unmerciful; I can forgive, But have no skill to heal thy spirit's eyes; Only the soul hath power o'er itself."

With that again there murmured "Nevermore!"

And Rhcus after heard no other sound, Except the rattling of the oak's crisp leaves, Like the long surf upon a distant sh.o.r.e, Raking the sea-worn pebbles up and down.

The night had gathered round him: o'er the plain The city sparkled with its thousand lights, And sounds of revel fell upon his ear Harshly and like a curse; above, the sky, With all its bright sublimity of stars, Deepened, and on his forehead smote the breeze; Beauty was all around him and delight, But from that eve he was alone on earth.

THE FALCON.

I know a falcon swift and peerless As e'er was cradled in the pine; No bird had ever eye so fearless, Or wings so strong as this of mine.

The winds not better love to pilot A cloud with molten gold o'errun, Than him, a little burning islet, A star above the coming sun.

For with a lark's heart he doth tower, By a glorious, upward instinct drawn; No bee nestles deeper in the flower Than he in the bursting rose of dawn.

No harmless dove, no bird that singeth, Shudders to see him overhead; The rush of his fierce swooping bringeth To innocent hearts no thrill of dread.

Let fraud and wrong and baseness s.h.i.+ver, For still between them and the sky The falcon Truth hangs poised forever And marks them with his vengeful eye.

TRIAL.

I.

Whether the idle prisoner through his grate Watches the waving of the gra.s.s-tuft small, Which, having colonized its rift i' the wall, Takes its free risk of good or evil fate, And, from the sky's just helmet draws its lot Daily of shower or suns.h.i.+ne, cold or hot;-- Whether the closer captive of a creed, Cooped up from birth to grind out endless chaff, Sees through his treadmill-bars the noonday laugh, And feels in vain his crumpled pinions breed;-- Whether the Georgian slave look up and mark, With bellying sails puffed full, the tall cloud-bark Sink northward slowly,--thou alone seem'st good, Fair only thou, O Freedom, whose desire Can light in muddiest souls quick seeds of fire, And strain life's chords to the old heroic mood.

II.

Yet are there other gifts more fair than thine, Nor can I count him happiest who has never Been forced with his own hand his chains to sever, And for himself find out the way divine; He never knew the aspirer's glorious pains, He never earned the struggle's priceless gains.

O, block by block, with sore and sharp endeavor, Lifelong we build these human natures up Into a temple fit for freedom's shrine, And Trial ever consecrates the cup Wherefrom we pour her sacrificial wine.