« PreviousContinue »
66 Mine held them once; I flung away
Those keys that might have open set
But clutch the keys of darkness yet;
Into God's harvest; I, that might
Grope shuddering at the gates of night.
“O glorious Youth, that once wast mine!
O high Ideal ! all in vain
Whence worship ne'er shall rise again ;
The snake nests in the altar-stone,
The image of the God is gone." — pp. 75-79.
“ Far up on Katahdin thou towerest,
Purple-blue with the distance and vast;
Like a cloud o'er the lowlands thou lowerest,
To its fall leaning awful.
“ In the storm, like a prophet o'ermaddened,
Thou singest and tossest thy branches;
When whole mountains swoop valeward.
With thine arms, as if blessings imploring,
From the city beneath him.
Thou dost sing of wild billows in motion,
Whose finned isles are their cattle." The last line is susceptible of three or four explanations, not one of which is very satisfactory. Yet it is preferable to the second line in the following stanza, the whole of which, indeed, is unpleasing.
" For the gale snatches thee for his lyre,
With mad hand crashing melody frantic,
Whose arms stretch to his playmate.” This is in Bombastes Furioso's vein ; but the concluding stanza makes up
Gazing down on thy broad seas of forest,
From thy bleak throne to heaven.” - The Present Crisis” is a poem full of stirring energy and fiery appeals, though its leading purpose is not very apparent, for we can hardly tell what the writer is driving at, or what is the particular evil against which he rolls his poetical thunder. Our readers may find out what his drift is, if they can, from a few of the closing stanzas.
“ 'T is as easy to be heroes as to sit the idle slaves
Of a legendary virtue carved upon our fathers' graves ; Worshippers of light ancestral make the present light a Was the Mayflower launched by cowards, steered by men
behind their time? Turn those tracks toward Past or Future, that make Plymouth
rock sublime ?
They were men of present valor, stalwart old iconoclasts, Unconvinced by axe or gibbet that all virtue was the Past's ; But we make their truth our falsehood, thinking that hath made
us free, Hoarding it in mouldy parchments, while our tender spirits flee The rude grasp of that great Impulse which drove them across
They have rights who dare maintain them; we are traitors to
our sires, Smothering in their holy ashes Freedom's new-lit altar-fires; Shall we make their creed our jailer? Shall we, in our haste
to slay, From the tombs of the old prophets steal the funeral lamps
away To light up the martyr-fagots round the prophets of to-day?
“ New occasions teach new duties; Time makes ancient good
uncouth; They must upward still, and onward, who would keep abreast
of Truth; Lo, before us gleam her camp-fires! we ourselves must Pil-.
grims be, Launch our Mayflower, and steer boldly through the desperate
winter sea, Nor attempt the Future's portal with the Past's blood-rusted.
key." — pp. 60-62. This is very spirited, though it sounds like a general encouragement to valor, patriotism, and toleration, just as some sermons are intended specially to inculcate all Christian virtues. But there are a few allusions in the earlier part of the poem which make it plain, we fear, that the poet is advocating, though rather indirectly here, the cause of the fierce political philanthropists of our day, who inculcate toleration with savage intolerance, who preach against bigotry while VOL. LXVI. No. 139.
they are afflicted with utter blindness as to the merits of all creeds except their own, and who generously take it for granted that cowardice, selfishness, and meanness are the only reasons why all their fellow-mortals do not shout their
war-cry, advocate their measures, and worship them as the only great and good reformers and iconoclasts of modern times. Mr. Lowell has too much good sense and good taste to go all lengths with them in their insane fanaticism ; but the tone of his mind, as evinced by several of the poems in this collection, has been injured by contact with them, and though we admire the gallantry and nobleness of feeling by which he is evidently prompted, we cannot but sorrow to see it wasted in such a cause. Earnestly, but kindly, would we entreat him to strive after more liberal and catholic views, not to believe that the great bulk of his countrymen are dastards or bigots, or that Christian teachers and Christian institutions are solely responsible for all the great social evils of our times. Poetry is profaned when it is made to minister to the miserable party politics of the day, however these may be veiled by big words and philanthropic or sentimental manifestos. If there are any beings who ought to be entirely avoided by a man of sense and high principles, they are those whom Sidney Smith calls our moral bullies and virtuous braggadocios." Mr. Lowell doubtless discharged his conscience by including these poems in his volume ; we hope he will do us the justice to believe that we have discharged ours by frankly commenting
We gladly turn to more attractive matter. The descriptive power shown in many of these poems is one of their most striking merits. The poet's eye catches even the most minute tracery of Nature's works, and the most rapidly fleeting of her aspects, and depicts them in verse with startling distinctness. His language, when he chooses that it should be so, excels in precision and terseness, and thus admirably seconds his fine perceptive powers. The pictures are usually minute, and the canvas crowded ; but they give back the features of Nature with a daguerreotype exactness. They are drawn with sharp outlines, and seen under a white light. If any fault is to be found with them, it is for the curious and elaborate finish of the parts, so that the effect of the whole is somewhat hard, like that of painting in enamel, or of flowers delicately represented in mosaic. Our readers will perceive what we mean by referring to the only two
We are sorry
poems in the volume which are exclusively descriptive, the 6. Summer Storm,” and “An Indian Summer Reverie," both of which are very beautiful and exact. that either is too long for quotation, and extracts would do them no justice. We prefer to give specimens of another class, in which the poet's aim is not merely to copy the outward features of the object, but to preserve the sentiment which they inspire. The following is called “ The Birch
Nothing can exceed the delicateness of the second and third stanzas : “ Rippling through thy branches goes the sunshine,
Among thy leaves that palpitate for ever ;
Quivering to tell her woe, but, ah! dumb, dumb for ever! “ While all the forest, witched with slumberous moonshine,
Holds up its leaves in happy, happy silence,
And track thee wakeful still amid the wide-hung silence. “ Upon the brink of some wood-nestled lakelet,
Thy foliage, like the tresses of a Dryad,
Thy white bark has their secrets in its keeping;
Above her, as she steals the mystery from thy keeping. “ Thou art to me like my beloved maiden,
So frankly coy, so full of trembly confidences ;
And Nature gives me all her summer confidences. “ Whether my heart with hope or sorrow tremble,
Thou sympathizest still ; wild and unquiet,
pp. 96, 97.