W. Watson.

as a Critic."

K. L. Bates.

Excursions in Criticism. 1893. "Mr. Lowell

American Literature, pp. 147-154, 234–238. H. James. Essays in London and Elsewhere. 1893. (Same, Atlantic Monthly, January, 1892.)

C. E. Norton.

1894.

E. E. Hale.

Letters of James Russell Lowell, 2 volumes,

James Russell Lowell and His Friends. 1899. E. E. Hale, Jr. James Russell Lowell. The Beacon Biographies. 1899.

Magazine Articles: Critic, March 27, 1886, G. E. Woodberry; Review of Reviews, Lowell Number, November, 1891; Forum, October, 1891, F. W. Farrar; North American Review, October, 1891, R. H. Stoddard; New England Magazine, November, 1891, F. B. Sanborn; Century, November, 1891, G. E. Woodbury; Critic, Lowell Number, February 20, 1892; Century, August, 1893; Harper's, May, 1893, C. E. Norton.

The standard edition of Lowell's works is that published by Houghton, Mifflin and Company, Boston, in 12 volumes. The poems are issued separately by the same publishers in various forms. The Riverside edition in 4 volumes is the best library edition. The new Cambridge edition is complete in one vol

ume.

LOWELL'S POEMS.

THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL.

PRELUDE TO PART FIRST.

I.

OVER his keys the musing organist,
Beginning doubtfully and far away,
First lets his fingers wander as they list,

And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay :
Then, as the touch of his loved instrument

Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme,
First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent
Along the wavering vista of his dream.

II.

Not only around our infancy

Doth heaven with all its splendors lie;

1

Daily, with souls that cringe and plot,
We Sinais climb and know it not.

20

30

III.

Over our manhood bend the skies;
Against our fallen and traitor lives
The great winds utter prophecies;

With our faint hearts the mountain strives;
Its arms outstretched, the druid wood

Waits with its benedicite;

And to our age's drowsy blood

Still shouts the inspiring sea.

IV.

Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us;
The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in,
The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us,
We bargain for the graves we lie in;

At the devil's booth are all things sold,
Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold;
For a cap and bells our lives we pay,
Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking:
"Tis heaven alone that is given away,

'Tis only God may be had for the asking;

No price is set on the lavish summer;
June may be had by the poorest comer.

V.

And what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune,
And over it softly her warm ear lays;
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten.
Every clod feels a stir of might,

An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
And, groping blindly above it for light,
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;
The flush of life may well be seen

Thrilling back over hills and valleys;
The cowslip startles in meadows green,

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean
To be some happy creature's palace;

The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,

And lets his illumined being o'errun
With the deluge of summer it receives;