The Complete Poetical Works of James Russell Lowell

In the old days of awe and keen-eyed wonder,

The Poet's song with blood-warm truth was rife;

He saw the mysteries which circle under

The outward shell and skin of daily life.

Nothing to him were fleeting time and fashion,

His soul was led by the eternal law;

There was in him no hope of fame, no passion,

But with calm, godlike eyes he only saw.

He did not sigh o'er heroes dead and buried,

Chief-mourner at the Golden Age's hearse, 10

Nor deem that souls whom Charon grim had ferried

Alone were fitting themes of epic verse:

He could believe the promise of to-morrow,

And feel the wondrous meaning of to-day;

He had a deeper faith in holy sorrow

Than the world's seeming loss could take away.

To know the heart of all things was his duty,

All things did sing to him to make him wise,

And, with a sorrowful and conquering beauty,

The soul of all looked grandly from his eyes. 20

He gazed on all within him and without him,

He watched the flowing of Time's steady tide,

And shapes of glory floated all about him

And whispered to him, and he prophesied.

Than all men he more fearless was and freer,

And all his brethren cried with one accord,-

'Behold the holy man! Behold the Seer!

Him who hath spoken with the unseen Lord!'

He to his heart with large embrace had taken

The universal sorrow of mankind, 30

And, from that root, a shelter never shaken,

The tree of wisdom grew with sturdy rind.

He could interpret well the wondrous voices

Which to the calm and silent spirit come;

He knew that the One Soul no more rejoices

In the star's anthem than the insect's hum.

He in his heart was ever meek and humble.

And yet with kingly pomp his numbers ran,

As he foresaw how all things false should crumble

Before the free, uplifted soul of man; 40

And, when he was made full to overflowing

With all the loveliness of heaven and earth,

Out rushed his song, like molten iron glowing,

To show God sitting by the humblest hearth.

With calmest courage he was ever ready

To teach that action was the truth of thought,

And, with strong arm and purpose firm and steady,

An anchor for the drifting world he wrought.

So did he make the meanest man partaker

Of all his brother-gods unto him gave; 50

All souls did reverence him and name him Maker,

And when he died heaped temples on his grave.

And still his deathless words of light are swimming

Serene throughout the great deep infinite

Of human soul, unwaning and undimming,

To cheer and guide the mariner at night.

But now the Poet is an empty rhymer

Who lies with idle elbow on the grass,

And fits his singing, like a cunning timer,

To all men's prides and fancies as they pass. 60

Not his the song, which, in its metre holy,

Chimes with the music of the eternal stars,

Humbling the tyrant, lifting up the lowly,

And sending sun through the soul's prison-bars.

Maker no more,-oh no! unmaker rather,

For he unmakes who doth not all put forth

The power given freely by our loving Father

To show the body's dross, the spirit's worth.

Awake! great spirit of the ages olden!

Shiver the mists that hide thy starry lyre, 70

And let man's soul be yet again beholden

To thee for wings to soar to her desire.

Oh, prophesy no more to-morrow's splendor,

Be no more shamefaced to speak out for Truth,

Lay on her altar all the gushings tender,

The hope, the fire, the loving faith of youth!

Oh, prophesy no more the Maker's coming,

Say not his onward footsteps thou canst hear

In the dim void, like to the awful humming

Of the great wings of some new-lighted sphere! 80

Oh, prophesy no more, but be the Poet!

This longing was but granted unto thee

That, when all beauty thou couldst feel and know it,

That beauty in its highest thou shouldst be.

O thou who moanest tost with sealike longings,

Who dimly hearest voices call on thee,

Whose soul is overfilled with mighty throngings

Of love, and fear, and glorious agony.

Thou of the toil-strung hands and iron sinews

And soul by Mother Earth with freedom fed, 90

In whom the hero-spirit yet continues,

The old free nature is not chained or dead,

Arouse! let thy soul break in music-thunder,

Let loose the ocean that is in thee pent,

Pour forth thy hope, thy fear, thy love, thy wonder,

And tell the age what all its signs have meant.

Where'er thy wildered crowd of brethren jostles,

Where'er there lingers but a shadow of wrong,

There still is need of martyrs and apostles,

There still are texts for never-dying song: 100

From age to age man's still aspiring spirit

Finds wider scope and sees with clearer eyes,

And thou in larger measure dost inherit

What made thy great forerunners free and wise.

Sit thou enthronèd where the Poet's mountain

Above the thunder lifts its silent peak,

And roll thy songs down like a gathering fountain,

They all may drink and find the rest they seek.

Sing! there shall silence grow in earth and heaven,

A silence of deep awe and wondering; 110

For, listening gladly, bend the angels, even,

To hear a mortal like an angel sing.

In his tower sat the poet

Gazing on the roaring sea,

'Take this rose,' he sighed, 'and throw it

Where there's none that loveth me.

On the rock the billow bursteth

And sinks back into the seas,

But in vain my spirit thirsteth

So to burst and be at ease.

Take, O sea! the tender blossom

That hath lain against my breast;

On thy black and angry bosom

It will find a surer rest.

Life is vain, and love is hollow,

Ugly death stands there behind,

Hate and scorn and hunger follow

Him that toileth for his kind.'

Forth into the night he hurled it,

And with bitter smile did mark

How the surly tempest whirled it

Swift into the hungry dark.

Foam and spray drive back to leeward,

And the gale, with dreary moan,

Drifts the helpless blossom seaward,

Through the breakers all alone.