66 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. [Born, 1819.] MR. LOWELL is a native of Boston, where his father is an eminent Congregational clergyman. ile completed his education at Harvard College when about twenty years of age, and subsequently studied the law, but I believe with no intention of His first appearance as an entering the courts. author was in 1839, when he printed a class poem recited at Cambridge. It was a composition in betrayed marks of heroic verse, which, though haste, contained many strokes of vigorous satire, much sharp wit, and occasional bursts of feeling. Two years afterward he published a volume of miscellaneous poems, under the title of " A Year's Life." This bore no relationship to his first production. It illustrated entirely different thoughts, feelings, and habits. It not only evinced a change of heart, but so entire a revolution in his mode of thinking as to seem the production of a different mind. The staple of one forms the satire of the other. Not more unlike are CARLYLE'S" Life of SCHILLER" and his "Sartor Resartus." Though "A Year's Life" was by no means deficient in merit, it had so many weak points as to be easily accessible to satirical criticism. The author's language was not pure. When he would "wreak his thoughts upon expression," in the absence of allowable words, he corrupted such as came nearest his meaning into terms which had an intelligible sound, but would not bear a close scrutiny. With all its faults, however, the book had gleams and flashes of genius, which justified warm praises and sanguine expectations. The new poet, it was evident, had an observing eye, and a suggestive imagination; he had caught the tone and spirit of the new and mystical philosophy; he had a large heart; and he aimed, not altogether unsuccessfully, to make Nature the representative and minister of his feelings and desires. If he failed in attempts to put thin abstractions and ever-fleeting shades of thought and emotion into palpable forms, the signs, in "A Year's Life," of the struggling of a larger nature than appeared in defined outlines, made for the author a watchful and hopeful audience. In 1844 Mr. LOWELL published a new volume, evincing very decided advancement in thought, and feeling, and execution. The longest of its contents, "A Legend of Brittany," is without any of the striking faults of his previous compositions, and in imagination and artistic finish is the best poem he has yet printed. A knight loves and betrays a maiden, and, to conceal his crime, murders her, and places her corpse for temporary concealment behind the altar of his church, whence he is prevented by a mysterious awe from removing it. Meanwhile a festival is held there, and when the remorse. 6. people are all assembled, and the organ sounds, 66 He gave to the public a third collection of his poems in 1848. In this there is no improvement of versification, no finer fancy, or braver imagination, than in the preceding volume; but it illustrates a deeper interest in affairs, and a warm partisanship for the philanthropists and progressists of all classes. Among his subjects are "The Present Crisis," "Anti-Texas," "The Capture of Fugitive Slaves," "Hunger and Cold," "The Landlord," &c. He gives here the first examples of a peculiar humour, which he has since cultivated with success, and many passages of finished declamation and powerful invective. He had been married, in 1844, to Miss MARIA WHITE, whose abilities are shown in a graceful composition included in this volume, and by others which I have quoted in the "Female Poets of America." In the same year Mr. LowELL published "A Fable for Critics, or a Glance at a Few of our Literary Progenies," a rhymed essay, critical and satirical, upon the principal living writers of the country. It abounds in ingenious turns of expression, and felicitous sketches of character; it is witty and humorous, and for the most part in a spirit of genial appreciation; but in a few instances the judgments indicate too narrow a range of sympathies, and the caustic severity of others hai: been attributed to desires of retaliation. The "Fable for Critics" was soon followed by The Biglow Papers," a collection of verses in the dialect of New England, with an introduction and notes, written in the character of a pedantic 565 but sharp-witted and patriotic country parson. The book is a satire upon the defences of our recent war against Mexico, and it exhibits in various forins of indigenous and homely humour the indignation with which the contest was regarded by the best sort of people in the eastern states. The sectional peculiarities of idiom are perhaps exaggerated, but the entire work has an appearance of genuineness. About the same time appeared Mr. LOWELL'S "Vision of Sir Launfal," a poem founded upon the legend of the search for the Holy Grail, (the cup out of which our Lord drank with his disci ples at the last supper.) In the winter of 1854-5 he delivered a course of lectures before the Lowell Institute in Boston, on the British poets, which | greatly increased his reputation; and on the retirement of Mr. LONGFELLOW from the professorship of modern languages in Harvard College, the following spring, was chosen to the vacant chair, and soon after sailed for Europe to spend there one or two years in preparation for its duties. The growth of Mr. LOWELL'S fame has been steady and rapid from the beginning of his literary career, and no one of our younger authors has a prospect of greater eminence. TO THE DANDELION. DEAR Common flower, that grow'st beside the way, Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, First pledge of blithesome May, Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold, High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they An Eldorado in the grass have found, Which not the rich earth's ample round May match in wealth-thou art more dear to me Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be. Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow Through the primeval hush of Indian seas, Nor wrinkled the lean brow Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease; Though most hearts never understand Are in the heart, and heed not space or time; In the white lily's breezy tint, Then think I of deep shadows on the grassOf meadows where in sun the cattle graze, Where, as the breezes pass, The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways- That from the distance sparkle through Some woodland gap-and of a sky above, [move. Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth My childhood's earliest thoughts are link'd with The sight of thee calls back the robin's song, [thee; Who, from the dark old tree Beside the door, sang clearly all day long, With news from heaven, which he did bring How like a prodigal doth Nature seem, More sacredly of every human heart, TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS HOOD Oh! Love divine, thou claspest our tired earth, Thou knowest how much a gentle soul is worth, To teach men what thou art. His was a spirit that to all thy poor Was kind as slumber after pain: Why ope so soon thy heaven-deep Quiet's door And call him home again? Freedom needs all her poets: it is they Who give her aspirations wings, And to the wiser law of music sway Her wild imaginings. Yet thou hast call'd him, nor art thou unkind, Let laurell'd marbles weigh on other tombs, His epitaph shall mock the short-lived stone, "Here lies a poet: stranger, if to thee SONNETS. I. TO THROUGH Suffering and sorrow thou hast pass'd I ASK not for those thoughts, that sudden leap Where, mid tall palms, the cane-roof'd home is seen, MAIDEN, when such a soul as thine is born, V. TO THE SAME. My Love, I have no fear that thou shouldst die; Albeit I ask no fairer life than this, Whose numbering-clock is still thy gentle kiss. We live and love, well knowing that there is more, That they who love are but one step from Heaven. IV. TO THE SPIRIT OF KEATS. GREAT soul thou sittest with me in my room, VII. TO Our love is not a fading, earthly flower; To us the leafless autumn is not bare, Nor winter's rattling boughs lack lusty green, Our summer hearts make summer's fulness, where And makes the body's dark and narrow grate VIII. IN ABSENCE. THESE rugged, wintry days I scarce could bear, [lair, Like those same winds, when, startled from their THE POET. 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, 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. He gazed on all within him and without him, He watch'd the flowing of Time's steady tide, And shapes of glory floated all about him And whisper'd 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, 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: And, when he was made full to overflowing With all the loveliness of heaven and earth, Out rush'd 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, The anchor of the drifting world he wrought, So did he make the meanest man partaker Of all his brother-gods unto him gave; 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 mer's prides and fancies as they pass. Not his the song, which, in its metre holy, Chimes with the music of the eternal stars, Humbling the tyrant, lifting up the lowly, To show the body's dross, the spirit's worth. Shiver the mists that hide thy starry lyre, And let man's soul be yet again beholden To thee for wings to soar to her desire. O, prophesy no more to-morrow's splendor, Be no more shame-faced to speak out for Truth Lay on her altar all the gushings tender, The hope, the fire, the loving faith of youth! O, 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! O, 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 couldst be. O, thou who moanest, tost with sealike longings, Who dimly hearest voices call on thee, Whose soul is overfill'd 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, In whom the hero-spirit yet continues, The old free nature is not chain'd 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 wilder'd crowd of brethren jostles, Where'er there lingers but a shade of wrong, There still is need of martyrs and apostles, There still are texts for never-dying song: From age to age man's still aspiring spirit Finds wider scope and seas with clearer eyes, And thou in larger measure dost inherit What made thy great forerunners free and wise. Sit thou enthroned where the Poet's mountain Above the thunder lifts its silent peak, And roll thy songs down like a gathering fountain, That 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; For, listening gladly, bend the angels, even, To hear a mortal like an angel sing. Among the toil-worn poor my soul is seeking For one to bring the Maker's name to light, To be the voice of that almighty speaking Which every age demands to, do it right. Proprieties our silken bards environ; He who would be the tongue of this wide land Must string his harp with chords of sturdy iron And strike it with a toil-embrowned hand; One who hath dwelt with Nature well-attended. Who hath learnt wisdom from her mystic books, Whose soul with all her countless lives hath blended, So that all beauty awes us in his looks; Who not with body's waste his soul hath pamper'd, Who as the clear northwestern wind is free, Who walks with Form's observances unhamper'd, One God-built shrine of reverence and love; The moving globe of being, like a sky; [nearer Who feels that God and Heaven's great decps are Him to whose heart his fellow-man is nigh, Who doth not hold his soul's own freedom dearer Than that of all his brethren, low or high; Who to the right can feel himself the truer For being gently patient with the wrong, Who sees a brother in the evildoer, And finds in Love the heart's blood of his song;This, this is he for whom the world is waiting To sing the beatings of its mighty heart, Too long hath it been patient with the grating Of scrannel-pipes, and heard it misnamed Art. His verse shall have a great, commanding motion, And all the pure, majestic things that be. Awake, then, thou! we pine for thy great presence To make us feel the soul once more sublime, We are of far too infinite an essence To rest contented with the lies of Time. Speak out! and, lo! a hush of deepest wonder Shall sink o'er all his many-voiced scene, As when a sudden burst of rattling thunder Shatters the blueness of a sky serene. EXTRACT FROM A LEGEND OF BRIT- FEN Swell'd the organ: up through choir and nave Deeper and deeper shudders shook the air, Filling the vast cathedral ;-suddenly, Where fifty voices in one strand did twist To the delighted soul, which sank abyss'd 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 shiver through the throng, So that some glanced behind, as half aware A hideous shape of dread were standing there. As, when a crowd of pale men gather roun, Watching an eddy in the leaden deep, From which they deem'd the body of one drown'd 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 stretch'd aimlessly. Heaved with the swinging of the careless sea,—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 neighbour saw The dreadful thing, which all were sure would rise To scare the strained lids wider from their eyes. 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 seem'd one might have heard it, as it went, Give out an audible rustle, curling through The midnight silence of that awe-struck air, More hush'd than death, though so much life was there. THE SYRENS. THE sea is lonely, the sea is dreary, The low west-wind creeps panting up the shore |