Right in the van,

On the red rampart's slippery swell,

With heart that beat a charge, he fell

Foeward, as fits a man ;

But the high soul burns on to light men's feet 55 Where death for noble ends makes dying sweet; His life her crescent's span

Orbs full with share in their undarkening days Who ever climbed the battailous steeps of praise Since valor's praise began.

His life's expense

III

Hath won him coeternal youth

With the immaculate prime of Truth;
While we, who make pretence

At living on, and wake and eat and sleep,
And life's stale trick by repetition keep,

Our fickle permanence

(A poor leaf-shadow on a brook, whose play Of busy idlesse ceases with our day)

Is the mere cheat of sense.

We bide our chance,

Unhappy, and make terms with Fate

A little more to let us wait;

He leads for aye the advance,

60

Hope's forlorn-hopes that plant the desperate good

For nobler Earths and days of manlier mood;

Our wall of circumstance

Cleared at a bound, he flashes o'er the fight,
A saintly shape of fame, to cheer the right
And steel each wavering glance.

76

80

I write of one,

While with dim eyes I think of three;

Who weeps not others fair and brave as he?
Ah, when the fight is won,

Dear Land, whom triflers now make bold to scorn,

85

(Thee! from whose forehead Earth awaits her morn,)

How nobler shall the sun

Flame in thy sky, how braver breathe thy air,
That thou bred'st children who for thee could dare
And die as thine have done!

90

MR. HOSEA BIGLOW TO THE EDITOR OF THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY

[When the war for the Union broke out, Mr. Lowell contrib uted to the Atlantic Monthly a second series of Biglow Papers, and just before the close of the war published the poem that follows.]

DEAR SIR, Your letter come to han'
Requestin' me to please be funny;

But I ain't made upon a plan

Thet knows wut 's comin', gall or honey:
Ther''s times the world doos look so queer,
Odd fancies come afore I call 'em ;

An' then agin, for half a year,

No preacher 'thout a call 's more solemn.

You're 'n want o' sunthin' light an' cute,
Rattlin' an' shrewd an' kin' o' jingleish,

An' wish, pervidin' it 'ould suit,

I'd take an' citify my English.

10

I ken write long-tailed, ef I please, --
But when I'm jokin', no, I thankee;
Then, 'fore I know it, my idees

Run helter-skelter into Yankee.

Sence I begun to scribble rhyme,

I tell ye wut, I hain't ben foolin'; The parson's books, life, death, an' time

Hev took some trouble with my schoolin', Nor th' airth don't git put out with me,

Thet love her 'z though she wuz a woman,

Why, th' ain't a bird upon the tree
But half forgives my bein' human.

An' yit I love th' unhighschooled way
Ol' farmers hed when I wuz younger;
Their talk wuz meatier, an' 'ould stay,

While book-froth seems to whet your hunger?
For puttin' in a downright lick

'Twixt Humbug's eyes, ther' 's few can metch it,

An' then it helves my thoughts ez slick
Ez stret-grained hickory doos a hetchet.

But when I can't, I can't, thet's all,
For Natur' won't put up with gullin';

Idees you hev to shove an' haul

Like a druv pig ain't wuth a mullein: Live thoughts ain't sent for; thru all rifts O' sense they pour an' resh ye onwards,

Like rivers when south-lyin' drifts

31

35

Feel thet th' old airth 's a-wheelin' sunwards. 40

Time wuz, the rhymes come crowdin' thick

Ez office-seekers arter 'lection,

An' into ary place 'ould stick

Without no bother nor objection;

But sence the war my thoughts hang back
Ez though I wanted to enlist 'em,

An' subs'tutes - they don't never lack,

But then they'll slope afore you've inist 'em.

Nothin' don't seem like wut it wuz;
I can't see wut there is to hender,
An' yit my brains jes' go buzz, buzz,
Like bumblebees agin a winder;
'Fore these times come, in all airth's row,
Ther' wuz one quiet place, my head in,
Where I could hide an' think, but now

It's all one teeter, hopin', dreadin'.

Where's Peace? I start, some clear-blown night,
When gaunt stone walls grow numb an' number,
An', creakin' 'cross the snow-crus' white,

Walk the col' starlight into summer;
Up grows the moon, an' swell by swell
Thru the pale pasturs silvers dimmer
Than the last smile thet strives to tell
O' love gone heavenward in its shimmer.

I hev ben gladder o' sech things

Than cocks o' spring or bees o' clover,
They filled my heart with livin' springs,
But now they seem to freeze 'em over;
Sights innercent ez babes on knee,
Peaceful ez eyes o' pastur'd cattle,
Jes' coz they be so, seem to me

To rile me more with thoughts & battle

60

In-doors an' out by spells I try;

Ma'am Natur' keeps her spin-wheel goin',
But leaves my natur' stiff and dry

Ez fiel's o' clover arter mowin';
An' her jes' keepin' on the same,
Calmer 'n a clock, an' never carin',
An' findin' nary thing to blame,

Is wus than ef she took to swearin'.

Snow-flakes come whisperin' on the pane,
The charm makes blazin' logs so pleasant,
But I can't hark to wut they're say'n',

With Grant or Sherman ollers present;
The chimbleys shudder in the gale,

Thet lulls, then suddin takes to flappin' Like a shot hawk, but all 's ez stale

To me ez so much sperit-rappin'.

Under the yaller-pines I house,

When sunshine makes 'em all sweet-scented, 90 An' hear among their furry boughs

The baskin' west-wind purr contented,

While 'way o'erhead, ez sweet an' low

Ez distant bells thet ring for meetin', The wedged wil' geese their bugles blow, Further an' further South retreatin'.

Or up the slippery knob I strain

An' see a hundred hills like islan's

95

Lift their blue woods in broken chain

Out o' the sea o' snowy silence;

100

The farm-smokes, sweetes' sight on airth,

Slow thru the winter air a-shrinkin'