The Complete Poetical Works of James Russell Lowell | Page 5

up my pilgrim's scrip for me,?For Christ's sweet sake and charity!
A little of thy steadfastness,?Bounded with leafy gracefulness,?Old oak, give me,?That the world's blasts may round me blow,?And I yield gently to and fro,?While my stout-hearted trunk below?And firm-set roots unshaken be.
Some of thy stern, unyielding might,?Enduring still through day and night?Rude tempest-shock and withering blight,?That I may keep at bay?The changeful April sky of chance?And the strong tide of circumstance,--?Give me, old granite gray.
Some of thy pensiveness serene,?Some of thy never-dying green,?Put in this scrip of mine,?That griefs may fall like snowflakes light,?And deck me in a robe of white,?Ready to be an angel bright,?O sweetly mournful pine.
A little of thy merriment,?Of thy sparkling, light content,?Give me, my cheerful brook,?That I may still be full of glee?And gladsomeness, where'er I be,?Though fickle fate hath prisoned me?In some neglected nook.
Ye have been very kind and good?To me, since I've been in the wood;?Ye have gone nigh to fill my heart;?But good-by, kind friends, every one,?I've far to go ere set of sun;?Of all good things I would have part,?The day was high ere I could start,?And so my journey's scarce begun.
Heaven help me! how could I forget?To beg of thee, dear violet!?Some of thy modesty,?That blossoms here as well, unseen,?As if before the world thou'dst been,?Oh, give, to strengthen me.
MY LOVE
Not as all other women are?Is she that to my soul is dear;?Her glorious fancies come from far,?Beneath the silver evening-star,?And yet her heart is ever near.
Great feelings hath she of her own,?Which lesser souls may never know;?God giveth them to her alone,?And sweet they are as any tone?Wherewith the wind may choose to blow.
Yet in herself she dwelleth not.?Although no home were half so fair;?No simplest duty is forgot,?Life hath no dim and lowly spot?That doth not in her sunshine share.
She doeth little kindnesses,?Which most leave undone, or despise:?For naught that sets one heart at ease,?And giveth happiness or peace,?Is low-esteemèd in her eyes.
She hath no scorn of common things,?And, though she seem of other birth,?Round us her heart intwines and clings,?And patiently she folds her wings?To tread the humble paths of earth.
Blessing she is: God made her so,?And deeds of week-day holiness?Fall from her noiseless as the snow,?Nor hath she ever chanced to know?That aught were easier than to bless.
She is most fair, and thereunto?Her life doth rightly harmonize;?Feeling or thought that was not true?Ne'er made less beautiful the blue?Unclouded heaven of her eyes.
She is a woman: one in whom?The spring-time of her childish years?Hath never lost its fresh perfume,?Though knowing well that life hath room?For many blights and many tears.
I love her with a love as still?As a broad river's peaceful might,?Which, by high tower and lowly mill,?Seems following its own wayward will,?And yet doth ever flow aright.
And, on its full, deep breast serene,?Like quiet isles my duties lie;?It flows around them and between,?And makes them fresh and fair and green,?Sweet homes wherein to live and die.
SUMMER STORM
Untremulous in the river clear,?Toward the sky's image, hangs the imaged bridge;
So still the air that I can hear?The slender clarion of the unseen midge;?Out of the stillness, with a gathering creep,?Like rising wind in leaves, which now decreases,?Now lulls, now swells, and all the while increases,?The huddling trample of a drove of sheep?Tilts the loose planks, and then as gradually ceases?In dust on the other side; life's emblem deep, 10 A confused noise between two silences,?Finding at last in dust precarious peace.?On the wide marsh the purple-blossomed grasses?Soak up the sunshine; sleeps the brimming tide,?Save when the wedge-shaped wake in silence passes?Of some slow water-rat, whose sinuous glide?Wavers the sedge's emerald shade from side to side;
But up the west, like a rock-shivered surge,?Climbs a great cloud edged with sun-whitened spray;?Huge whirls of foam boil toppling o'er its verge, 20 And falling still it seems, and yet it climbs alway.
Suddenly all the sky is hid?As with the shutting of a lid,?One by one great drops are falling
Doubtful and slow,?Down the pane they are crookedly crawling,?And the wind breathes low;?Slowly the circles widen on the river,?Widen and mingle, one and all;?Here and there the slenderer flowers shiver, 30 Struck by an icy rain-drop's fall.
Now on the hills I hear the thunder mutter,
The wind is gathering in the west;?The upturned leaves first whiten and flutter,
Then droop to a fitful rest;?Up from the stream with sluggish flap?Struggles the gull and floats away;?Nearer and nearer rolls the thunder-clap,--?We shall not see the sun go down to-day:?Now leaps the wind on the sleepy marsh, 40 And tramples the grass with terrified feet,?The startled river turns leaden and harsh,?You can hear the quick heart of the tempest beat.
Look! look! that livid flash!?And instantly follows the rattling thunder,?As if some cloud-crag, split asunder,
Fell, splintering with a ruinous crash,?On the Earth, which crouches in silence under;?And now a