456 



LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL. 



contemplative abstraction equaling that of a Sooli 

 who bus passed the fourth step of initiation. It en- 

 ables us in some sort to see how. from being the 

 slave of his imaginative faculty, he rose by self- 

 culture and force of will to that mastery of it which is 

 art. 



Milton's angels are not to be compared with Dan- 

 te's, at once real and supernatural ; and the Deity of 

 Milton is a Calvinistic Zeus, while nothing in all 

 poetry approaches the imaginative grandeur of Dan- 

 te's vision of God at the conclusion of the " Para- 

 diso." . . . The range of Dante's influence is no less 

 remarkable than its intensity. . . . Almost all other 

 poets have their seasons, but Dante penetrates to the 

 moral core of those who once fairly come within" his 

 sphere and possesses them wholly. His readers turn 

 students, his students zealots, and what was a taste 

 becomes a religion. The homeless exile finds a home 

 in thousands of grateful hearts. 



We may admit, with proper limitations, the modern 

 distinction between artist and moralist. With the 

 one form is all in all ; with the other tendency. . . . 

 The whole range of perception and thought is valu- 

 able to the one, as it will minister to imagination, to 

 the- other only as it is available for argument. . . . 

 The results of the moralist pass into the intellectual 

 atmosphere of mankind, it matters little by what 

 mode of conveyance. But where, as in Dante, the 

 religious sentiment and the imagination are both 

 organic, something interfused with the whole being 

 of the man, so that they work in kindly sympathy, 

 the moral will insensibly suffuse itself with beauty as 

 a cloud with light. 



To read Lowell's exposition of Dante's char- 

 acter and works is to become possessed with a 

 desire to see in him and them all that Lowell 

 saw. The sympathetic and the practical un- 

 folding of the poet's nature and writings go 

 hand in hand so invitingly that to join the 

 select spiritual and intellectual little company 

 seems like a necessity to those who would know 

 the best, and to fail of it a loss that no other 

 study can repay. 



Mr. and Mrs. Lowell came home in 1852, and 

 in October, 1853, Mr. Lowell suffered the bitterest 

 sorrow of his life, in the death of his beaiitiful, 

 gifted, and devoted wife. Although an invalid 

 for years, she had been his inspiration and his 

 sympathizing critic. She had written a little 

 volume of verses, which was printed privately 

 after her death. Two of her poems " The 

 Morning Glory'' and " The Alpine Shepherd" 

 became favorites, and still find a place in most 

 American anthologies. In "The Wind-Harp" 

 he has paid one of many tributes to her loveli- 

 ness, and recorded his own sorrow. The first 

 two stanzas read : 



I treasure in secret some long, fine hair 



Of tenderest brown, but so inwardly golden 



I half used to fancy the sunshine there, 



So shy, so shifting, so way wardly rare. 



Was only caught for a moment and holden 



While 1 could say Dearest! and kiss it, aiid then 



In pity let go to the summer again. 



1 twisted this magic in gossamer strings 

 Over a wind-harp's Delphian hollow ; 

 Then called to the idle breeze that swings 

 All day in the pine-tops, and clings, and sings 



'Mid the musical leaves, and said, " Oh, follow 

 The will of those tears that deepen my words, 

 And fly to my window to waken these chords." 



Much better knowli is " Auf Wiedersehen," 

 with its beautiful palinode. It, is difficult to do 

 it justice in an extract, and still more difficult 



to omit so essential a part of his thoughts and 

 words : 



The little gate was reached at last, 

 Half hid in lilacs down the lane ; 

 She pushed it wide, and, as she past, 

 A wistful look she backward cast, 

 And said ^Auf wiedersehen ! " 



The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair; 



1 linger in delicious pain ; 

 Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air 

 To breathe in thought 1 scarcely dare, 



Thinks she "Auf wiedersehen f " 



Sweet piece of bashful maiden art ! 



The English words had seemed too fain, 

 But these they drew us heart to heart, 

 Yet held us tenderly apart ; 



She said, ''Auf wiedersehen ! " 



PALINODE. 



Still thirteen years 'tis autumn now 



On field and hill, in heart and brain ; 

 The naked trees at evening sough ; 

 The leaf to the forsaken bough 



Sighs not "Auf wiedersehen /" 

 The loath gate swings with rusty creak ; 



Once, parting there, we played at pain ; 

 There came a parting, when the weak 

 And fading lips essayed to speak 



Vainly "Auf wiedersehen ! " 

 Somewhere is comfort, somewhere faith, 



Though thou in outer dark remain ; 

 One sweet sad voice ennobles death, 

 And still, for eighteen centuries saith 



Softly '"A uf wiedersehen ! " 



We should not have the complete picture of 

 this deepest Lowell unless we recalled the 

 Puritan triumph note of the lover's ode and 

 contrasted it with these poems, or more particu- 

 larly with two others, " After the Burial " and 

 " The Dead House." In that Yankee character 

 which he himself had depicted such faith and 

 exaltation were the complement of such despair 

 and suffering. In " The Dead House,'' he says: 



Unaltered ! Alas for the sameness 



That makes the change but more ! 

 'Tis a dead man I see in the mirrors, 



'Tis his tread that chills the floor ! 

 To learn such a simple lesson, 



Need 1 go to Paris and Rome, 

 That the many make the household, 



But only one the home ? 

 'Twas just a womanly presence, 



An influence unexprest, 

 But a rose she had worn on my grave-sod 



Were more than long life with the rest ! 

 'Twas a smile, 'twas a garment's rustle, 



'Twas nothing that 1 can phrase, 

 But the whole dumb dwelling grew conscious 



And put on her looks and ways. 

 Were it mine I would close the shutters, 



Like lids when the life is fled, 

 And the funeral fire should mind it, 



This corpse of a home that is dead. 





Still stronger are the expressions in ' 

 the Burial": 



Yes, faith is a goodly anchor; 



When skies are sweet as a psalm, 

 At the bows it lolls so stalwart, 



In its bluff, broad-shouldered calm. 

 And when over breakers, to leeward 



The tattered surges are hurled, 

 It may keep our head to the tempest, 



With its grip on the base of the world. 



After 



