The Poets and Poetry of America

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

od scatters love on every side, Freely among his children all,

d 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,

hich burst, unlook'd-for, into high-soul'd deeds With wayside beauty rife.

We find within these souls of ours
Some wild germs of a higher birth,

Thich 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,
hours like this.

sunny

All that hath been majestical
In life or death, since time began,
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 classic Greece and Rome.

O mighty brother-soul of man, Where'er thou art, in low or high, Thy skyey 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 broad breast 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 mass its base is hid,

And, narrowing up to thought, stands glorified,
A moveless pyramid.

Nor is he far astray who deems

That every hope, which rises and grows broad In the world's heart, by order'd impulse streams From the great heart of God.

God 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 coarsest 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 shine
In the untutor'd heart.

He who doth this, in verse or prose,
May be forgotten in his day,

But surely shall be crown'd at last with those
Who live and speak for aye.

THE HERITAGE.

THE rich man's son inherits lands,

And piles of brick, and stone, and gold,

And he inherits soft, white hands,

And tender flesh that fears the cold,
Nor dares to wear a garment old;

A heritage, it seems to me,
One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits cares;

571

The bank may break, the factory burn, A breath may burst his bubble shares, And soft, white hands could hardly earn A living that would serve his turn; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits wants,

His stomach craves for dainty fare;
With sated heart, he hears the pants

Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare,
And wearies in his easy chair;

A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in tee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit? Stout muscles and a sinewy heart,

A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;

King of two hands, he does his part
In every useful toil and art;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?
Wishes o'erjoy'd with humble things,
A rank adjudged by toil-won merit,
Content that from employment springs
A heart that in his labour sings;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?
A patience learn'd by being poor,
Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,
A fellow-feeling that is sure

To make the outcast bless his door;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

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TO THE FUTURE.

And he can see the grim-eyed Doom From out the trembling gloom Its silent-footed steeds toward his palace guading What promises hast thou for Poets' eyes,

Aweary of the turmoil and the wrong! To all their hopes what overjoy'd replies!

What undream'd ecstasies for blissful son: Thy happy plains no war-trumps brawling chan

Disturbs, and fools the poor to hate the por The humble glares not on the high with angers

Love leaves no grudge at less, no greed for ne In vain strives self the godlike sense to smother From the soul's deeps

It throbs and leaps; The noble 'neath foul rags beholds his long is brother.

To thee the Martyr looketh, and his fires

Unlock their fangs and leave his spirit fre; To thee the Poet 'mid his toil aspires,

And grief and hunger climb about his knee Welcome as children: thou upholdest

The lone Inventor by his demon haunted: The Prophet cries to thee when hearts are coldest And, gazing o'er the midnight's bleak abys Sees the drowsed soul awaken at thy kiss,

O, LAND of Promise! from what Pisgah's height And stretch its happy arms and leap up dis

Can I behold thy stretch of peaceful bowers? Thy golden harvests flowing out of sight,

Thy nestled homes and sun-illumined towers? Gazing upon the sunset's high-heap'd gold,

Its crags of opal and of crysolite, Its deeps on deeps of glory that unfold Still brightening abysses,

And blazing precipices,

Whence but a scanty leap it seems to heaven,
Sometimes a glimpse is given,

Of thy more gorgeous realm, thy more unstinted
blisses.

O, Land of Quiet! to thy shore the surf

Of the perturbed Present rolls and sleeps;
Our storms breathe soft as June upon thy turf
And lure out blossoms: to thy bosom leaps,
As to a mother's, the o'er-wearied heart,
Hearing far off and dim the toiling mart,
The hurrying feet, the curses without numoer,
And, circled with the glow Elysian,
Of thine exulting vision,
Out of its very cares wooes charms for peace and
slumber.

To thee the Earth lifts up her fetter'd hands
And cries for vengeance; with a pitying smile
Thou blessest her, and she forgets her bands,
And her old wo-worn face a little while
Grows young and noble; unto thee the Oppressor
Looks, and is dumb with awe;

The eternal law

Which makes the crime its own blindfold redresser,

Shadows his heart with perilous foreboding,

chanted.

Thou bringest vengeance, but so loving-kindly

The guilty thinks it pity; taught by thee
Fierce tyrants drop the scourges wherewith bay
Their own souls they were scarring; c
querors see

With horror in their hands the accursed spear
That tore the meek One's side on Calvary,
And from their trophies shrink with ghastly fear;
Thou, too, art the Forgiver,
The beauty of man's soul to man revealing;
The arrows from thy quiver
Pierce error's guilty heart, but only pierce far
healing.

O, whither, whither, glory-winged dreams,
From out Life's sweat and turmoil would ye
bear me?

Shut, gates of Fancy, on your golden gleams,
This agony of hopeless contrast spare me!
night!
Fade, cheating glow, and leave me to my

He is a coward who would borrow
A charm against the present sorrow
From the vague Future's promise of delight:
As life's alarums nearer roll,

The ancestral buckler calls,
Self-clanging, from the walls
In the high temple of the soul;
Where are most sorrows, there the poet's sphere is,

To feed the soul with patience,

To heal its desolations

With words of unshorn truth, with love that never

wearies.

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MR. FIELDS is a native of Portsmouth, New *Hampshire, but has long resided in Boston. He is a partner in a well-known publishing and bookselling house in that city. His principal poems 802 are "Commerce," read before the Boston Mercan

tile Library Association on its anniversary in 1838, when he was associated as poet with EDWARD EvERETT, who delivered on the occasion one of his most brilliant orations; and "The Post of Honour," read before the same society in 1848, when DANIEL WEBSTER preceded him as orator. For several years he has been an occasional contributor to the magazines, and a few of his poems, as "The Fair Wind," "Yankee Ships," and "Dirge for a Young Girl," have been copied from them into the newspapers of all parts of the Union. The general style of his serious pieces is pure, sweet, thoughtful, and harmonious; and though evidently unlaFured, they are characterized by much refinement of taste and an intuitive perception of metrical proprieties. His lyrics are clear, strong, and bright, in expression, and dashing in movement, and have that charm which comes from a "polished want of polish," in which spontaneous sensibility is allied with instinctive taste. The "Sleighing Song" has

ON A PAIR OF ANTLERS,

BROUGHT FROM GERMANY.

GIFT, from the land of song and wine-
Can I forget the enchanted day,
When first along the glorious Rhine

I heard the huntsman's bugle play,
And mark'd the early star that dwells
Among the cliffs of Drachenfels!
Again the isles of beauty rise;

Again the crumbling tower appears,
That stands, defying stormy skies,

With memories of a thousand years;
And dark old forests wave again,
And shadows crowd the dusky plain.
They brought the gift, that I might hear

The music of the roaring pine-
To fill again my charmed ear

With echoes of the Rodenstein-
With echoes of the silver horn,
Across the wailing waters borne.
Trophies of spoil! henceforth your place
Is in this quiet home of mine;
Farewell the busy, bloody chase,

Mute emblems now of "auld lang syne," When Youth and Hope went hand in hand To roam the dear old German land.

a clear, cold, merry sparkle, and a rapidity of metrical motion (the very verse seeming to go on runners), which bring the quick jingle of bells and the moon making diamonds out of snow-flakes, vividly home to the fancy. Perhaps his most characteristic poem, in respect to subtlety of sentiment and delicacy of illustration, is "A Bridal Melody." There is a mystical beauty in it which eludes a careless eye and untuned ear.

Besides his serious poems, he has produced some very original mirthful pieces, in which are adroit touches of wit, felicitous hits at current follies, and instances of quaint humour, laughing through prim and decorous lines, which evince a genius for vers de sociétie.

The poems Mr. FIELDS has given us are evidently the careless products of a singularly sensitive and fertile mind-indications rather than exponents of its powers-furnishing evidence of a capacity which it is to be hoped the engagements of business will not wholly absorb.

In 1847 and the following year Mr. FIELDS visited Europe, and soon after his return a collection of his poems was published by Ticknor and Company, of Boston.

BALLAD OF THE TEMPEST.

E were crowded in the cabin,
Not a soul would dare to sleep-
It was midnight on the waters,
And a storm was on the deep.
"Tis a fearful thing in winter

To be shatter'd in the blast,
And to hear the rattling trumpet
Thunder, "Cut away the mast!"
So we shudder'd there in silence-
For the stoutest held his breath,
While the hungry sea was roaring,
And the breakers talked with Death.
As thus we sat in darkness,

Each one busy in his prayers-
"We are lost!" the captain shouted,
As he stagger'd down the stairs.
But his little daughter whisper'd,
As she took his icy hand,
"Isn't God upon the ocean,

Just the same as on the land?"
Then we kiss'd the little maiden,
And we spoke in better cheer,
And we anchor'd safe in harbor
When the morn was shining clear.

A VALENTINE.

SuE that is fair, though never vain or proud,
More fond of home than fashion's changing crowd;
Whose taste refined even female friends admire,
Dress'd not for show, but robed in neat attire ;
She who has learn'd, with mild, forgiving breast,
To pardon frailties, hidden or confess'd;
True to herself, yet willing to submit,
More sway'd by love than ruled by worldly wit:
Though young, discreet-though ready, ne'er un-
Blest with no pedant's, but a woman's mind: [kind,
She wins our hearts, toward her our thoughts in-

So at her door go leave my Valentine. [cline,

ON A BOOK OF SEA-MOSSES,
SENT TO AN EMINENT ENGLISH POET.

TRUE HONOUR.

The painter's skill life's lineaments may ta
And stamp the impress of a speaking face;
The chisel's touch may make that marble w
Which glows with all but breathing manta
But deeper lines, beyond the sculptor's art, [
Are those which write their impress on the be
On TALFOURD's page what bright memorials g
Of all that's noblest, gentlest, best below!
Thou generous brother, guard of griefs conceal
Matured by sorrow, deep but unreveal'd,
Let me but claim, for all thy vigils here,
The noiseless tribute to a heart sincere.

Though Dryburgh's walls still hold their sacred las

And Stratford's chancel shrines its hallow'd trus
TO ELIA's grave the pilgrim shall repair,
And hang with love perennial garlands there.

And thou, great bard of never-dying name,
Thy filial care outshines the poet's fame;
For who, that wanders by the dust of GRAT
While memory tolls the knell of parting day,
But lingers fondly at the hallow'd tomb,
That shrouds a parent in its pensive gloom,
To bless the son who pour'd that gushing tear,
So warm and earnest, at a mother's bier!
Wreaths for that line which woman's tribute gare,
"Last at the cross, and earliest at the grave."
Can I forget, a pilgrim o'er the sea,
The countless shrines of woman's charity!
In thy gay capital, bewildering France, [dance,
Where Pleasure's shuttle weaves the whirling
Beneath the shelter of St. Mary's dome,
Where pallid Suffering seeks and finds a home,
Methinks I see that sainted sister now
Wipe Death's cold dewdrops from an infant's brow;
Can I forget that mild, seraphic grace,
With heaven-eyed Patience meeting in her face !
Ah! sure, if angels leave celestial spheres,
We saw an angel dry a mortal's tears.

To him who sang of Venice, and reveal'd
How wealth and glory cluster'd in her streets,
And poised her marble domes with wondrous skill,
We send these tributes, plunder'd from the sea.
These many-colour'd, variegated forms,
Sail to our rougher shores, and rise and fall
To the deep music of the Atlantic wave.
Such spoils we capture where the rainbows drop,
Melting in ocean. Here are broideries strange,
Wrought by the sea-nymphs from their golden hair,
And wove by moonlight. Gently turn the leaf:
From narrow cells, scoop'd in the rocks, we take
These fairy textures, lightly moor'd at morn.
Down sunny slopes, outstretching to the deep,
We roam at noon, and gather shapes like these.
Note now the painted webs from verdurous isles,
Festoon'd and spangled in sea-caves, and say
What hues of land can rival tints like those,
Torn from the scarfs and gonfalons of kings
Who dwell beneath the waters! Such our gift,
Cull'd from a margin of the western world,
And offer'd unto genius in the old.

FROM "THE POST OF HONOUR."

GLORY.

WEBSTER.

Let blooming boys, from stagnant cloisters freed, Sneer at old virtues and the patriot's creed;

UNCHANGING Power! thy genius still presides Forget the lessons taught at Valour's side.

And all their country's honest fame deride.
All are not such: some glowing blood remains
To warm the icy current of our veins-
Some from the watch-towers still descry afar
The faintest glimmer of an adverse star.
When faction storms, when meaner statesmen quail,
Full high advanced, our eagle meets the gale!
On some great point where Honour takes her stand,
The Ehrenbreitstein of our native land—
See, in the front, to strike for Freedom's cause,
The mail'd defender of her rights and laws!
On his great arm behold a nation lean,
And parcel empire with the island queen;
Great in the council, peerless in debate,
Who follows WEBSTER takes the field too late.
Go track the globe, its changing climes explore,
From crippled Europe to the Arab's shore;
See Albion's lion guard her stormy seas,
See Gallia's lilies float on every breeze,
Roam through the world, but find no brighter names
Than those true honour for Columbia claims.

O'er vanquish'd fields, and ocean's purpled tides;
Sits like a spectre at the soldier's board,
Adds Spartan steps to many a broken sword;
For thee and thine combining squadrons form
To sweep the field with Glory's awful storm;
The intrepid warrior shouts thy deathless name,
And plucks new valour from thy torch of fame;
For him the bell shall wake its loudest song,
For him the cannon's thunder echo long,
For him a nation weave the unfading crown,
And swell the triumph of his sweet renown.
SO NELSON watch'd, long ere Trafalgar's days,
Thy radiant orb, prophetic Glory, blaze-
Saw Victory wait, to weep his bleeding scars,
And plant his breast with Honour's burning stars.
So the young hero, with expiring breath,
Bequeaths fresh courage in the hour of death,
Bids his brave comrades hear the inspiring blast,
And nail their colours dauntless to the mast;
Then dies, like LAWRENCE, trembling on his lip
That cry of Honour, "Don't give up the ship!"

THE white dawn glimmered and he said "'tis day!"
The east was reddening and he sighed "Farewell"—
The herald Sun came forth and he was dead.

Life was in all his veins but yester-morn,
And ruddy health seemed laughing on his lips;-
Now he is dust and will not breathe again!
Give him a place to lay his regal head,
Give him a tomb beside his brothers gone,
Give him a tablet for his deeds and name.

Hear the new voice that claims the vacant throne,
Take the new hand outstretched to meet thy kiss,-
But give the Past-'tis all thou canst-thy tears!

SLEIGHING-SONG.

On swift we go, o'er the fleecy snow, When moonbeams sparkle round; When hoofs keep time to music's chime. As merrily on we bound.

On a winter's night, when hearts are light,
And health is on the wind,

We loose the rein and sweep the plain,
And leave our cares behind.

With a laugh and song, we glide along
Across the fleeting snow;
With friends beside, how swift we ride
On the beautiful track below!
Oh, the raging sea has joy for me,

When gale and tempests roar;

But give me the speed of a foaming steed, And I'll ask for the waves no more.

FAIR WIND.

On, who can tell, that never sail'd

Among the glassy seas,

How fresh and welcome breaks the morn

That ushers in a breeze!

"Fair wind! fair wind!" alow, aloft,

All hands delight to cry,

As, leaping through the parted waves,

The good ship makes reply.

While fore and aft, all staunch and tight, She spreads her canvass wide, The captain walks his realm, the deck, With more than monarch's pride; For well he knows the sea-bird's wings, So swift and sure to-day, Will waft him many a league to-night In triumph on his way.

Then welcome to the rushing blast

That stirs the waters now-
Ye white-plumed heralds of the deep,
Make music round her prow!
Good sea-room in the roaring gale,
Let stormy trumpets blow;

But chain ten thousand fathoms down
The sluggish calm below!

DIRGE FOR A YOUNG GIRL.
UNDERNEATH the sod, low lying,
Dark and drear,

Sleepeth one who left, in dying,
Sorrow here.

Yes, they're ever bending o'er her,
Eyes that weep;

Forms, that to the cold grave bore her,
Vigils keep.

When the summer moon is shining
Soft and fair,

Friends she loved in tears are twining
Chaplets there.

Rest in peace, thou gentle spirit,
Throned above;

Souls like thine with GoD inherit
Life and love!

LAST WISHES OF A CHILD.

"ALL the hedges are in bloom,

And the warm west wind is blowing, Let me leave this stifled room—

Let me go where flowers are growing. "Look! my cheek is thin and pale, And my pulse is very low; Ere my sight begins to fail,

Take my hand and let us go; "Was not that the robin's song

Piping through the casement wide?
I shall not be listening long-
Take me to the meadow-side!
"Bear me to the willow-brook-
Let me hear the merry mill-
On the orchard I must look,

Ere my beating heart is still.
"Faint and fainter grows my breath-
Bear me quickly down the lane;
Mother dear, this chill is death-
I shall never speak again!"

Still the hedges are in bloom,

And the warm west wind is blowing; Still we sit in silent gloom

O'er her grave the grass is growing.

A BRIDAL MELODY.

575

SHE stood, like an angel just wander'd from heaven,
A pilgrim benighted away from the skies,
And little we deem'd that to mortals were given
Such visions of beauty as came from her eyes.
She look'd up and smiled on the many glad faces,
The friends of her childhood, who stood by her side;
But she shone o'er them all, like a queen of the
Graces,

When blushing she whisper'd the vow of a bride. We sang an old song, as with garlands we crown'd

her,

And each left a kiss on her delicate brow; [her,, And we pray'd that a blessing might ever surround And the future of life be unclouded as now.

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