The Complete Poetical Works of James Russell Lowell Part 14

'Rhoecus, 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, 60 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 Rhoecus, 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 nature's goal.'

After a little pause she said again, But with a glimpse of sadness in her tone, 71 'I give it, Rhoecus, 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, 80 Men did not think that happy things were dreams Because they overstepped the narrow bourn Of likelihood, but reverently deemed Nothing too wondrous or too beautiful To be the guerdon of a daring heart.

So Rhoecus 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, 90 Such suns.h.i.+ne seemed to glitter through his veins Instead of blood, so light he felt and strange.

Young Rhoecus 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, 100 He joined them, and forgot all else beside.

The dice were rattling at the merriest, And Rhoecus, 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 Rhoecus 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. 110 But still the bee came back, and thrice again Rhoecus did beat him off with growing wrath.

Then through the window flew the wounded bee, And Rhoecus, tracking him with angry eyes, Saw a sharp mountain-peak of Thessaly Against the red disk 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, 120 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 'Rhoecus!' close at hand: Whereat he looked around him, but could see Naught but the deepening glooms beneath the oak.

Then sighed the voice, 'O Rhoecus! nevermore Shalt thou behold me or by day or night, 130 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.' 140

Then Rhoecus 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, 'tis 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 Rhoecus after heard no other sound, Except the rattling of the oak's crisp leaves, 150 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. 160

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 wing so strong as this of mine.

The winds not better love to pilot A cloud with molten gold o'er run, 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' th' wall, Accepts G.o.d's dole 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.

Oh, 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.

A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN

We see but half the causes of our deeds, Seeking them wholly in the outer life, And heedless of the encircling spirit-world, Which, though unseen, is felt, and sows in us All germs of pure and world-wide purposes.

From one stage of our being to the next We pa.s.s unconscious o'er a slender bridge, The momentary work of unseen hands, Which crumbles down behind us; looking back, We see the other sh.o.r.e, the gulf between, 10 And, marvelling how we won to where we stand, Content ourselves to call the builder Chance.

We trace the wisdom to the apple's fall, Not to the birth-throes of a mighty Truth Which, for long ages in blank Chaos dumb, Yet yearned to be incarnate, and had found At last a spirit meet to be the womb From which it might be born to bless mankind,-- Not to the soul of Newton, ripe with all The h.o.a.rded thoughtfulness of earnest years, 20 And waiting but one ray of sunlight more To blossom fully.

But whence came that ray?

We call our sorrows Destiny, but ought Rather to name our high successes so.

Only the instincts of great souls are Fate, And have predestined sway: all other things, Except by leave of us, could never be.

For Destiny is but the breath of G.o.d Still moving in us, the last fragment left Of our unfallen nature, waking oft 30 Within our thought, to beckon us beyond The narrow circle of the seen and known, And always tending to a n.o.ble end, As all things must that overrule the soul, And for a s.p.a.ce unseat the helmsman, Will.

The fate of England and of freedom once Seemed wavering in the heart of one plain man: One step of his, and the great dial-hand, That marks the destined progress of the world In the eternal round from wisdom on 40 To higher wisdom, had been made to pause A hundred years. That step he did not take,-- He knew not why, nor we, but only G.o.d,-- And lived to make his simple oaken chair More terrible and soberly august, More full of majesty than any throne, Before or after, of a British king.

Upon the pier stood two stern-visaged men, Looking to where a little craft lay moored, Swayed by the lazy current of the Thames, 50 Which weltered by in muddy listlessness.

Grave men they were, and battlings of fierce thought Had trampled out all softness from their brows, And ploughed rough furrows there before their time, For other crop than such as home-bred Peace Sows broadcast in the willing soil of Youth.

Care, not of self, but for the common-weal, Had robbed their eyes of youth, and left instead A look of patient power and iron will, And something fiercer, too, that gave broad hint 60 Of the plain weapons girded at their sides.

The younger had an aspect of command,-- Not such as trickles down, a slender stream, In the shrunk channel of a great descent, But such as lies entowered in heart and head, And an arm prompt to do the 'hests of both.

His was a brow where gold were out of place, And yet it seemed right worthy of a crown (Though he despised such), were it only made Of iron, or some serviceable stuff That would have matched his brownly rugged face 71 The elder, although such he hardly seemed (Care makes so little of some five short years), Had a clear, honest face, whose rough-hewn strength Was mildened by the scholar's wiser heart To sober courage, such as best befits The unsullied temper of a well-taught mind, Yet so remained that one could plainly guess The hushed volcano smouldering underneath.

He spoke: the other, hearing, kept his gaze 80 Still fixed, as on some problem in the sky.

'O CROMWELL we are fallen on evil times!

There was a day when England had a wide room For honest men as well as foolish kings: But now the uneasy stomach of the time Turns squeamish at them both. Therefore let us Seek out that savage clime, where men as yet Are free: there sleeps the vessel on the tide, Her languid canvas drooping for the wind; Give us but that, and what need we to fear 90 This Order of the Council? The free waves Will not say No to please a wayward king, Nor will the winds turn traitors at his beck: All things are fitly cared for, and the Lord Will watch us kindly o'er the exodus Of us his servants now, as in old time.

We have no cloud or fire, and haply we May not pa.s.s dry-shod through the ocean-stream; But, saved or lost, all things are in His hand.'

So spake he, and meantime the other stood 100 With wide gray eyes still reading the blank air.

As if upon the sky's blue wall he saw Some mystic sentence, written by a hand, Such as of old made pale the a.s.syrian king, Girt with his satraps in the blazing feast.

'HAMPDEN! a moment since, my purpose was To fly with thee,--for I will call it flight, Nor flatter it with any smoother name,-- But something in me bids me not to go; And I am one, thou knowest, who, unmoved 110 By what the weak deem omens, yet give heed And reverence due to whatsoe'er my soul Whispers of warning to the inner ear.

Moreover, as I know that G.o.d brings round His purposes in ways undreamed by us, And makes the wicked but his instruments To hasten their own swift and sudden fall, I see the beauty of his providence In the King's order: blind, he will not let His doom part from him, but must bid it stay 120 As 't were a cricket, whose enlivening chirp He loved to hear beneath his very hearth.

Why should we fly? Nay, why not rather stay And rear again our Zion's crumbled walls, Not, as of old the walls of Thebes were built, By minstrel tw.a.n.ging, but, if need should be, With the more potent music of our swords?

Think'st thou that score of men beyond the sea Claim more G.o.d's care than all of England here?

No; when He moves his arm, it is to aid 130 Whole peoples, heedless if a few be crushed, As some are ever, when the destiny Of man takes one stride onward nearer home.

Believe me, 'tis the ma.s.s of men He loves; And, where there is most sorrow and most want, Where the high heart of man is trodden down The most, 'tis not because He hides his face From them in wrath, as purblind teachers prate: Not so: there most is He, for there is He Most needed. Men who seek for Fate abroad 140 Are not so near his heart as they who dare Frankly to face her where she faces them, On their own threshold, where their souls are strong To grapple with and throw her; as I once, Being yet a boy, did cast this puny king, Who now has grown so dotard as to deem That he can wrestle with an angry realm, And throw the brawned Antaeus of men's rights.

No, Hampden! they have half-way conquered Fate Who go half-way to meet her,--as will I. 150 Freedom hath yet a work for me to do; So speaks that inward voice which never yet Spake falsely, when it urged the spirit on To n.o.ble emprise for country and mankind.

And, for success, I ask no more than this,-- To bear unflinching witness to the truth.

All true whole men succeed; for what is worth Success's name, unless it be the thought, The inward surety, to have carried out A n.o.ble purpose to a n.o.ble end, 160 Although it be the gallows or the block?

'Tis only Falsehood that doth ever need These outward shows of gain to bolster her.

Be it we prove the weaker with our swords; Truth only needs to be for once spoke out, And there's such music in her, such strange rhythm, As makes men's memories her joyous slaves, And clings around the soul, as the sky clings Round the mute earth, forever beautiful, And, if o'erclouded, only to burst forth 170 More all-embracingly divine and clear: Get but the truth once uttered, and 'tis like A star new-born, that drops into its place, And which, once circling in its placid round, Not all the tumult of the earth can shake.

'What should we do in that small colony Of pinched fanatics, who would rather choose Freedom to clip an inch more from their hair, Than the great chance of setting England free?

Not there, amid the stormy wilderness, 180 Should we learn wisdom; or if learned, what room To put it into act,--else worse than naught?

We learn our souls more, tossing for an hour Upon this huge and ever-vexed sea Of human thought, where kingdoms go to wreck Like fragile bubbles yonder in the stream, Than in a cycle of New England sloth, Broke only by a petty Indian war, Or quarrel for a letter more or less In some hard word, which, spelt in either way, 190 Not their most learned clerks can understand.