{"1": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3369", "width": "2246", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0001.jp2"}, "2": {"fulltext": "Book X-^\\nGopghtN^\\nCOPYRIGHT DEPOSIT.", "height": "3577", "width": "2349", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0002.jp2"}, "3": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3617", "width": "2302", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0003.jp2"}, "4": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0004.jp2"}, "5": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3619", "width": "2144", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0005.jp2"}, "6": {"fulltext": "JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0006.jp2"}, "7": {"fulltext": "THE EARLY POEMS\\nOF J\\nJames Russell Lowell\\nINCLUDING\\nTHE BIGLOW papers\\nWITH BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH\\nBy henry KETCHAM\\nNEW YORK\\nA. L. BURT, PUBLISHER\\nU.", "height": "3625", "width": "2127", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0007.jp2"}, "8": {"fulltext": "Library of C\u00c2\u00bbno\u00c2\u00bbre\u00c2\u00bbs\\nI Tw\u00c2\u00a9 CeriES R\u00e2\u0082\u00aci\u00e2\u0082\u00ac\u00c2\u00ab\\nJUN 27 1900 I\\nJUN 2Q l.qno\\n64443\\nCopyright, 1900, by A. L. Burt.\\nBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\nBY\\nHENRY KETCHAM.\\nLowelVs Poems.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0008.jp2"}, "9": {"fulltext": "CONTENTS.\\nPAGE\\nBiographical Sketch vii\\nTHE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nNo. I. A letter from Mr. Ezekiel Biglow of Jaalam to\\nthe Hon Joseph T. Buckingham, Editor of the Boston\\nCourier, inclosing a Poem of his Son, Mr. Hosea\\nBiglow 37\\nNo. n. A letter from Mr. Hosea Biglow to the Hon.\\nJ. T. Buckingham, Editor of the Boston Courier,\\ncovering a Letter from Mr. B. Sawin, Private in the\\nMassachusetts Regiment 46\\nNo. HI.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 What Mr. Robinson thinks 60\\nNo. IV. Remarks of Increase D. O Phace, Esquire, at\\nan Extrumpery Caucus in State Street, reported by-\\nMr. H. Biglow 73\\nNo. 5. The Debate in the Sennit. Sot to a Nusry Rhyme 87\\nNo. VI.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 The Pious Editor s Creed 96\\nNo. VII. A Letter from a Candidate for the Presidency\\nin Answer to suttin Questions proposed by Mr.\\nHosea Biglow, inclosed in a Note from Mr. Biglow\\nto S. H. Gay, Esq., Editor of the National Anti-\\nslavery Standard 106\\nNo. VIII.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 A Second Letter from B. Sawin, Esq 118\\nNo. IX.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 A Third Letter from B. Sawin, Esq 136\\nA Fable for Critics 153\\nThe Vision of Sir Launfal 227\\nAppledore 240\\nTo the Dandelion 242\\nPara 245\\nTo J. F. H 247\\niii", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0009.jp2"}, "10": {"fulltext": "iv CONTENTS.\\nPAGS\\nPrometheus 249\\nRosaline 260\\nSonnet 265\\nA Glance behind the Curtain 265\\nA Song 274\\nThe Moon 275\\nThe Fatherland 276\\nA Parable 277\\nOn the Death of a Friend s Child 279\\nAn Incident in a Railroad Car 282\\nA.n Incident of the Fire at Hamburgh 284\\nSonnets 287\\nThe Unhappy Lot of Mr. Knott 290\\nHakon s Lay 318\\nTo the Future 320\\nOut of Doors 323\\nA Reverie 325\\nIn Sadness 327\\nFarewell 329\\nA Dirge 333\\nFancies about a Rosebud 339\\nNew Year s Eve, 1844 341\\nA Mystical Ballad 346\\nOpening Poem to A Year s Life 350\\nDedication to A Year s Life 350\\nThrenodia 351\\nThe Serenade 355\\nSong 357\\nThe Departed 358\\nThe Bobolink 362\\nForgetfulness 366\\nSong 366\\nThe Poet 367\\nFlowers 369\\nThe Lover 374\\nToE. W. G 375\\nIsabel 378\\nMusjc. 379", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0010.jp2"}, "11": {"fulltext": "CONTENTS. V\\nPAaE\\nSong 384\\nlanthe 386\\nLove s Altar 392\\nMy Love 393\\nWith a Pressed Flower 396\\nImpartiality 397\\nBellerophon 398\\nSomething Natural 403\\nThe Sirens 403\\nA Feeling 407\\nThe Beggar 408\\nSerenade 409\\nIrene 410\\nThe Lost Child 413\\nThe Church 414\\nThe Unlovely 416\\nLove-Song 418\\nSong 419\\nA Love-Dream 421\\nFourth of July Ode 423\\nSphinx 424\\nGoe, Little Booke 426\\nSonnets\\nI. Disappointment 429\\nII. Great Human Nature 429\\nHI. To a Friend 430\\nIV. So may it be 430\\nV. O Child of Nature 431\\nVI. For this true nobleness 431\\nVII. To 432\\nVIII. Might I but be beloved 432\\nIX. Why should we ever weary 433\\nX. Green Mountains 433\\nXL My Friend, adovvn Life s Valley 434\\nXII. Verse cannot say 434\\nXIII. The soul would fain 435\\nXIV. I saw a gate 435", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0011.jp2"}, "12": {"fulltext": "vi CONTENTS.\\nPAGE\\nSonnets\\nXV. I would not have this perfect love 436\\nXVI. To the dark, narrow house 436\\nXVII. I fain would give to thee 437\\nXVIII. Much I had mused of Love 437\\nXIX. Sayest thou, most beautiful 438\\nXX. Poet, who sittest in thy pleasant room 438\\nXXI. No more but so 439\\nXXII. To a Voice heard in Mount Auburn 439\\n^XIII. On Reading Spenser again 440\\nXXIV. Light of mine eyes 440\\nXXV. Silent as one who treads 441\\nXXVI. A gentleness that grows 441\\nXXVII. When the glad soul 442\\nXXVIIL To the Evening-Star 442\\nXXIX. Reading 443\\nXXX. To after a Snow-Storm 443\\nSonnets on Names\\nL Edith 445\\nII. Rose 445\\nm. Mary 446\\nIV. Caroline 446\\nV. Anne 447", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0012.jp2"}, "13": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\nThe genius of James Russell Lowell places him in\\nthe front rank of American poets. He is one of the few\\nwho are read and appreciated on both sides of the At-\\nlantic. He made his mark in his earliest published\\nvolume, when he was but twenty-two years of age.\\nFrom that time to the end of a long career he grew\\nsteadily in fame. Nor did his power wane, while his\\nliterary form showed an increasing perfection of polish.\\nHe was born in Cambridge, Mass., Feb. 22, 1819.\\nHis father was the Eev. Charles Lowell, D.D., minister\\nof the West Church (Unitarian) of Boston, a scholar\\nof high standing and author of several devotional\\nbooks. He was descended from Percival Lowell, who\\ncame from England in 1639 and settled in Kewbury,\\nMass. The subject of this sketch showed throughout\\nlife a fine example of the Puritan conscience, joined\\nwith a rare tenderness of nature and winsomeness of\\ncharacter. While he never lacked the moral courage\\nwhich dared to stand\\nin the right with two or three,\\nhis nature and method were gentle and persuasive\\nrather than severe or antagonizing.\\nHe was more than a poet. He was symmetrically\\ndeveloped as a man of letters. To his admirers he\\nwas the ideal man of letters. As such his life was\\nvii", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0013.jp2"}, "14": {"fulltext": "Viii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\nquiet, and his biography will record the growth and\\nproducts of his mind rather than external events which\\nwere never romantic.\\nHe was graduated from Harvard College in 1838. At\\nthat time he was class poet, but the reading of the\\npoems was omitted from the exercises of Class Day\\nowing to the unavoidable absence of the poet. This\\nabsence was caused by the fact that at just that time\\nhe happened to be under suspension from the college.\\nHis offence, however, was playful and in no wise seri-\\nous, and his Alma Mater never ceased to do him honor\\nin after years.\\nOn leaving college Lowell entered a law office and\\nafter the usual preliminary studies was, in 1840, ad-\\nmitted to the bar. He was, however, by nature a man\\nof letters and was unsuited to the peculiar exactions\\nof the legal profession. One is therefore not surprised\\nthat there is no record of his practice of the law, but\\nthere was a tolerably steady stream of poems, essays\\nand reviews flowing from his facile pen.\\nThe first year of his nominal law practice records a\\nvolume of poems (1841) entitled A Year s Life. In\\nthis were evidences that he was a true seer, a genuine\\npoet. His friends recognized the promise of a brilliant\\ncareer, and they were not mistaken.\\nTwo years later he became editor of a magazine of\\nwhich, however, only three numbers were issued. A\\nyear after that he issued another volume of poems.\\nIn this year, 1844, he married Miss Maria White, of\\nWatertown, Mass. She was a charming and accom-\\nplished woman, possessing literary talent of no mean\\norder. To her translations from the German she\\nadded original poems of more than ordinary merit.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0014.jp2"}, "15": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\nShe died in 1853, and it was her death which elicited\\nfrom Longfellow one of the sweetest and most beautiful\\nof all poems on death. It is that entitled Two Angels.\\nT was at thy door, O friend, and not at mine,\\nThe angel with the amaranthine wreath,\\nPausing, descended, and, with voice divine.\\nWhispered a word that had a sound Hke death.\\nThen fell upon the house a sudden gloom,\\nA shadoV on those features fair and thin.\\nAnd softly, from that hushed and darkened room,\\nTwo angels issued where but one went in.\\nIn 1845 he published a volume of essays, Conver-\\nsations on Some of the Poets/ and thus we see that he\\nwas permanently out of the current of the law and in\\nthat of literature.\\nIn 1848 he published a volume that contained what\\nhave proved to be two of his most popular poems\\nnamely, The Vision of Sir Launfal and The Biglow\\nPapers.\\nIn 1851-2 he made his first trip to Europe. Most\\nof the time he spent in Italy, especially in Eome with\\nhis friend AV. W. Story, the famous sculptor. In\\n1854-5 he delivered the Lowell Institute lectures on\\nBritish Poets.\\nThe most important event occurred that year when\\nhe was appointed professor of Belles Lettres at Harvard\\nto succeed his distinguished friend H. W. Longfellow.\\nBefore assuming the duties of the professorhip he spent\\nanother year in Europe, chiefly in Dresden.\\nIn 1857 he married Miss Frances Dunlaji of Portland,\\nMaine.\\nWhen the Atlantic Monthly was established he was", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0015.jp2"}, "16": {"fulltext": "X BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\nits first regular editor, and continued in that work for\\nabout five years, or from 1857 to 1862. Kelinquishing\\nthis he edited the North American Keview, then a quar-\\nterly, for a period, of about ten years. In addition to\\nhis editorial work he contributed a large number of\\narticles to this magazine, thirty-four in all, not count-\\ning editorial notes, etc. During these fifteen years of\\neditorship, while he had also the duties of professor, his\\ngeneral literary work did not lag, and he issued vol-\\numes both of poetry and of prose.\\nIn 1872-4 he again travelled in Europe, receiving the\\nunusual honors of the degrees of D. C. L. from the\\nUniversity of Oxford, and LL.D. from that of Cam-\\nbridge, England.\\nIn 1877 he was appointed Minister to Spain, and\\ntook up the duties of a post made illustrious by\\nIrving. The lustre of the literary tradition suffered\\nno diminution in his incumbency.\\nHe was later (1880-5) minister to England, and it is\\nnot too much to say that in that difficult and exacting\\nposition he stands second to none of all who have ever\\nserved. His honest, sturdy, and outspoken democracy,\\nhis fineness of culture, his breadth of spirit, and his\\ngenial persuasiveness have had incalculable influence\\nin promoting the friendliness between Americans and\\ntheir British cousins. At this time he was honored\\nby being appointed Lord Eector of St. Andrews Uni-\\nversity at St. Andrews, Scotland. But he soon resigned\\nthis position as being incompatible with his obliga-\\ntions as minister of the United States.\\nIn his later years he published several volumes of\\nessays and addresses, the latter being largely on pa-\\ntriotic or democratic subjects. The excellonce of their", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0016.jp2"}, "17": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xi\\nsubstance and the finish of their form entitle them to\\na permanent place in literature. They are, however,\\noutside the scope of this sketch, which concerns Lowell\\nas a poet.\\nLowell was one of a remarkable circle of literary\\nfriends, such as has hardly existed before in all his-\\ntory, and certainly never in tiie United States. His\\nfriendships included Longfellow, Emerson, E. H.\\nDana, W. AY. Story, Fields, Holmes, Whittier, Agas-\\nsiz, E. E. Hale, and others of nearly equal prominence.\\nSuch friendship greatly enriched his life, but it in no\\nwise quenched his originality nor weakened his vigor.\\nIn looking over his poetical works for a critical esti-\\nmate, we find no one poem which towers up above\\nthe rest, like Milton s Paradise Lost, Byron^s Childe\\nHarold, or Wordsworth s Excursion. But there are\\nmany shorter ones, each of which is sufficient to justify\\nthe high reputation which he holds on both sides of\\nthe Atlantic. In his first published volume, there is\\none, entitled Ode,^ which must have been written\\nwhen he was little more than a boy, which gave abun-\\ndant evidence of his high aspiration and of the earnest-\\nness of his spirit. His admirers were justified in\\npredicting from this poem a brilliant future for the\\nauthor, and the result was not disappointing.\\nThe Biglow Papers are a political satire upon the\\nInvasion by the United States of Mexico, the State of\\nthe Slavery Question, etc. They are written in the\\nYankee dialect verse by one Hosea Biglow, Birdofre-\\ndum Sawin, edited with an introduction, notes, glos-\\nsary, and copious index, by Homer Wilbur, A. M.,\\npastor of the First Church in Jaalam, and (prospec-\\ntive) member of many literary, learned, and scientific", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0017.jp2"}, "18": {"fulltext": "Xii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\nsocieties. These placed Lowell in the front rank of\\nhumorists. They were the first attempt to use the\\nquaint New England dialect in verse, and they are\\nprobably the best imitations to be found either in\\npoetry or in prose.\\nThey were received with favor, and their keen satire,\\ntheir quaint drollery, their irresistible good humor,\\nhave held them in popularity for a half century. Po-\\nlitical opponents enjoyed them hardly less than polit-\\nical friends. The experiences of the Bay State recruit,\\nwith sly wit, set forth political questions and practices\\nin a way to fill one with laughter. There is an under-\\ntone of seriousness, especially a hot hatred of slavery\\nand all its concomitants, and indeed of all injustice.\\nBut the form is humorous, and they have been called\\nan attempt to laugh down slavery. In the larger sense\\nof the word, they are intensely patriotic. They are\\nclassic in their way, and are the only production in the\\nEnglish language worthy to stand by the side of Hudi-\\nbras. It is this combination of fun that bubbles over\\nand sturdy morality which places them on so high a\\nplane both intellectual and ethical. They have held\\ntheir place for fifty years and doubtless will hold it for\\nmany years to come.\\nA second series of these charming papers was called\\nout by the Civil War of 1861-5. These had not the\\nadvantage of newness enjoyed by the first series, never-\\ntheless they are Avorthy of their name and do not de-\\ntract from the quality of the whole. If there is less\\nrollicking fun in the second series, there is also more\\npoetry. The Civil War was nearer to the poet than the\\nMexican War, and this fact could not other than influ-\\nence his writing even of wit, humor, and satire.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0018.jp2"}, "19": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xiii\\nAnother masterly piece of humor is the Fable for\\nCritics, which is no fable at all, but a rhymed review,\\nor at least criticism, of some of the more prominent\\nAmerican writers. One after another they pass under\\nhis scrutiny and receive his criticism or characteriza-\\ntion. It is not to be expected that this poem should\\nhave the balance of the regular review, but on the\\nwhole its criticisms are just, while his wit is as keen as\\na Damascus blade. It is to be noted that the poet does\\nnot spare himself, but raps his own knuckles quite as\\nhard as any.\\nThere is Lowell, who s striving Parnassus to climb,\\nWith a whole bale of isms tied together with rhyme.\\nThe top of the hill he will ne er come nigh reaching\\nTill he learns the distinction twixt singing and preaching.\\nThe purpose and character of the Fable preclude the\\nusual finish of form, so that it has been called clever\\ndoggerel. But along with its trenchant humor may\\nbe discovered a manly vigor, with occasional touches\\nof the pathos which is rarely lacking in any of Lowell s\\npoetry, either humorous or serious, and all joined by a\\ngood sense that bears the light of day.\\nIn 1865 Harvard College had a memorial service for\\nthose of her sons who fell in the Civil War, and for\\nthis was written the Commemoration Ode, whose stately\\nmeasures rise sometimes to sublime heights. Patriotism\\ntinges much of his poetry, for love of country and of\\nfreedom was a passion with him, but in this poem it\\nhas a freer course than elsewhere. He touches the\\nideal manhood,\\nGod s plan\\nAxi^ jneasure of a stalwart man.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0019.jp2"}, "20": {"fulltext": "xiv BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\nThe concrete example of this manhood is Lincoln\\n*^our Martyr-Chief. Then follows a characterization\\nof him unequalled certainly in poetry, leading up to\\nthe climax,\\nThe kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man,\\nSagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame,\\nNew birth of our new soil, the first American.\\nThe Present Crisis is probably the most quoted of\\nhis poems. It was written in December, 1844, and\\nrefers to one of the many crises of slavery. It displays\\nthe author s noble loyalty to Truth and his withering\\nscorn of evasion or temporizing expedients. Later he\\ntreated similar subjects with humorous form in the\\nBiglow papers but here he is serious in form as well\\nas earnest in thought. Lord Bacon raised the ques-\\ntion of jesting Pilate. What is Truth? Lowell\\nanswers with a clarion ring\\nTruth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the throne,\\nYet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the dim un-\\nknown,\\nStandeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above His\\nown.\\nHistory is to Lowell a divine revelation, and the crisis\\nof which he writes has the solemnity of the Judgment\\nDay.\\nOnce to every man and nation comes the moment to decide\\nIn the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil\\nside.\\nThis leads us to speak of the religious characteristic\\nof the author^s poetry. His poems are not religious in\\nthe same sense as those of Cowper, Possibly they are", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0020.jp2"}, "21": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. XV\\nnot evangelical. But they are religious in the finest\\nsense of the word, holding to an unshaken belief in\\nGod s everlasting righteousness, with sweet confidence\\nin His overruling providence, with a profound belief\\nin the practical piety of considering the poor and un-\\nfortunate, and especially with broad sympathy for\\nseekers after God. His Vision of Sir Launf al\\nis a universal favorite. It tells of the quest of the\\nHoly Grail, or the cup which Our Lord blessed in the\\nLast Supper. The way the knight treats the beggar\\non his issuing from the castle and the way he treats\\nhim upon his return from his wanderings present\\na striking contrast. Other poems which may be\\nclassed as distinctly religious are Parable (two by this\\nname) Ambrose, Extreme Unction, and The Cathedral.\\nThe Death of a Friend s Child may be studied profit-\\nably by every preacher, and After the Burial should\\nbe mastered by every pastor for the purpose of enter-\\ning into the experiences of others where one so easily\\nmisunderstands.\\nThe Cathedral was originally entitled ^^A Day at\\nChartres. The reader can spend with profit and de-\\nlight not merely one, but many, days in that poem. It\\nopens with a discussion of first impressions, then\\ndescribes the poet s overwhelming impression of the\\ncathedral. Within he observes a solitary beldam list-\\nlessly counting her beads and has at first a scornful\\nfeeling towards her, which quickly gives place to sym-\\npathy. This leads to the discussion of the various\\nFaiths that grope after God, and the teaching is that\\nGod is nearer than men realize. The ancient forms,\\nbare to the refined descendant of the Puritans, have\\ntheir uses.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0021.jp2"}, "22": {"fulltext": "xvi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\nBe He nowhere else,\\nGod is in all that liberates and lifts,\\nIn all that humbles, sweetens, and consoles.\\nThe cathedral was built with a sense of piety and\\nconsecration. Each person came bringing his vote\\nfor God/ for such were the stones built into that\\nstately structure. From that work of conscience and\\ndevotion the Western Goth may learn that\\nnothing pays but God,\\nServed whether on the smoke-shut battle-field,\\nIn work obscure done honestly, or vote\\nFor truth unpopular, or faith maintained\\nTo ruinous convictions, or good deeds\\nWrought for good s sake, mindless of heaven or hell.\\nThe poem closes with witnessing to the universal\\npresence of God, and leaves the reader in that frame of\\nsolemn awe as if he had shared the poet s own vision\\nand experience in the aisles of that impressive cathe-\\ndral.\\nOne further poem ought to be mentioned for its del-\\nicacy of thought and perfectness of finish, and that is\\nAuf Wiedersehen.\\nSweet piece of bashful maiden art\\nThe English words had seemed to fain,\\nBut these\u00e2\u0080\u0094 they drew us heart to heart,\\nYet held us tenderly apart\\nShe said, Auf Wiedersehen!\\nGathering together the impressions of this poet, we\\nfind him fearless in moral courage, with unconquerable\\ndevotion to truth and scorn of temporizing expedients,\\nwith passionate love of freedom and hatred of slavery\\nwith broad philanthropy and pervading piety. His\\nsatire js clever, his imagination vivid, his range of", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0022.jp2"}, "23": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xvii\\nthought wide, his intellectual grasp firm, and his ex-\\npression vigorous. The introductions to the two parts\\nof The Vision of Sir Launfal are models of graceful\\nand delicate fancy clothed in absolute beauty of ex-\\npression.\\nLowell s duties as minister to England came to an\\nend in 1885. The later years of his life, however, were\\nwell filled with work. His residence was at Elmwood,\\nCambridge, where for many years he had been near\\nneighbor to Longfellow. Li 1885 he had buried in\\nEngland his wife. The solitude of his latest years was\\nbroken by frequent visits to England where he had\\nmany friends, while his time was also occupied by lec-\\ntures and addresses. He prepared his complete works\\nfor the press, so that the public now have them in the\\nform which the author would wish. His friend, Prof.\\nCharles Eliot Norton, has since published his life and\\nletters, to which the reader is referred for a fuller\\nknowledge of this rare man.\\nHe died at Cambridge, August 12, 1891. He left\\nan added dignity to American letters. He not only\\nreceived the highest honors which his alma mater,\\nHarvard, could give, but he was decorated by the uni-\\nversities of Glasgow, Edinburgh, and Bologna, in addi-\\ntion to Oxford and Cambridge above mentioned. To\\nhim may be applied the words which he wrote to a\\nfriend,\\nThe birds are hushed, the poets gone\\nWhere no harsh critic s lash can reach,\\nAnd still your winged brood sing on\\nTo all who love our English speech.\\nHENRY KETCHAM,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0023.jp2"}, "24": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0024.jp2"}, "25": {"fulltext": "MELIBCEVS-HIPPONAX.\\nTHE\\nBiaLOW PAPEES\\nEDITED\\nWITH AN INTKODUCTION AND NOTES\\nBY\\nHOMER WILBUR, A. M.\\nPASTOR OF THE FIRST CHURCH IN JAALAM, AND (PROSPECTIVE) MEMBER OF\\nMANY LITERARY, LEARNED AND SCIENTIFIC SOCIETIES\\n(Jor which see page v)\\nThe ploughman s whistle, or the trivial flute,\\nFinds more respect than great Apollo s lute.\\nQuarles s Emblems, b. ii. e. 8.\\nMargaritas, munde porcine, calcasti en, siliquas accipe.\\nJac. Car, Fil. ad Pub. Leg. 1.\\nI", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0025.jp2"}, "26": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0026.jp2"}, "27": {"fulltext": "NOTE TO TITLE-PAGE.\\nIt will not have escaped the attentive eye, that I\\nhave, on the title-page, omitted those honorary ap-\\npendages to the editorial name which not only add\\ngreatly to the value of every book, but whet and ex-\\nacerbate the appetite of the reader. For not only does\\nhe surmise that an honorary membership of literary and\\nscientific societies implies a certain amount of neces-\\nsary distinction on the part of the recipient of such\\ndecorations, but he is willing to trust himself more\\nentirely to an author who writes under the fearful re-\\nsponsibility of involving the reputation of such bodies\\nas the S. Archceol Bahom., or the Acad. Lit. et Scient.\\nKamtschat. I cannot but think that the early editions\\nof Shakspeare and Milton would have met with more\\nrapid and general acceptance, but for the barrenness of\\ntheir respective title-pages and I believe, that, even\\nnow, a publisher of the works of either of those justly\\ndistinguished men would find his account in procuring\\ntheir admission to the membership of learned bodies on\\nthe Continent, a proceeding no whit more incongruous\\nthan the reversal of the judgment against Socrates, when\\nhe was already more than twenty centuries beyond the\\nreach of antidotes, and when his memory had acquired\\na deserved respectability. I conceive that it was a feel-\\ning of the importance of this precaution which induced\\nMr. Locke to style himself Gent.^ on the title-page\\nof his Essay, as who should say to his readers that they\\na", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0027.jp2"}, "28": {"fulltext": "4 NOTE TO TITLE-PAGE.\\ncould receive his metaphysics on the honor of a gentle-\\nman.\\nNevertheless, finding, that, without descending to a\\nsmaller size of type than would have been compatible\\nwith the dignity of the several societies to be named, I\\ncould not compress my intended list within the limits\\nof a single page, and thinking, moreover, that the act\\nwould carry with it an air of decorous modesty, I have\\nchosen to take the reader aside, as it were, into my\\nprivate closet, and there not only exhibit to him the\\ndiplomas which I already possess, but also to furnish\\nhim with a prophetic vision of those which I may, with-\\nout undue presumption, hope for, as not beyond the\\nreach of human ambition and attainment. And I am\\nthe rather induced to this from the fact, that my name\\nhas been unaccountably dropped from the last triennial\\ncatalogue of our beloved Alma Mater. Whether this is\\nto be attributed to the difficulty of Latinizing any of\\nthose honorary adjuncts (with a complete list of which\\nI took care to furnish the proper persons nearly a year\\nbeforehand), or whether it had its origin in any more\\nculpable motives, I forbear to consider in this place,\\nthe matter being in course of painful investigation.\\nBut, however this may be, I felt the omission the more\\nkeenly, as I had, in expectation of the new catalogue,\\nenriched the library of the Jaalam Atlienseum with the\\nold one then in my possession, by which means it has\\ncome about that my children will be deprived of a\\nnever-wearying winter-evening s amusement in looking\\nout the name of their parent in that distinguished roll.\\nThose harmless innocents had at least committed no\\nbut I forbear, having intrusted my reflections and\\nanimadversions on this painful topic to the safe-keeping", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0028.jp2"}, "29": {"fulltext": "NOTE TO TITLE-PAGE. 5\\nof my private diary, intended for posthumous publica-\\ntion. I state this fact here, in order that certain\\nnameless individuals, who are, perhaps, overmuch con-\\ngratulating themselves upon my silence, may know that\\na rod is in pickle which the vigorous hand of a justly\\nincensed posterity will apply to their memories.\\nThe careful reader will note, that, in the list which\\nI have prepared, I have included the names of several\\nCisatlantic societies to which a place is not commonly\\nassigned in processions of this nature. I have ventured\\nto do this, not only to encourage native ambition and\\ngenius, but also because I have never been able to per-\\nceive in what way distance (unless we suppose them at\\nthe end of a lever) could increase the weight of learned\\nbodies. As far as I have been able to extend my re-\\nsearches among such stuffed specimens as occasionally\\nreach America, I have discovered no generic difference\\nbetween the antipodal Fogrnm Japonicum and the F.\\nAmericmium sufficiently common in our own immediate\\nneighborhood. Yet, with a becoming deference to the\\npopular belief, that distinctions of this sort are enhanced\\nin value by every additional mile they travel, I have in-\\ntermixed the names of some tolerably distant literary\\nand other associations with the rest.\\nI add here, also, an advertisement, which, that it\\nmay be the more readily understood by those persons\\nespecially interested therein, I have written in that\\ncurtailed and otherwise maltreated canine Latin, to the\\nwriting and reading of which they are accustomed.\\nOmn^ib. per tot. Orb. Terrar. Catalog. Academ.\\nEdd.\\nMinim, gent, diplom. ab inclytiss. acad. vest, orans,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0029.jp2"}, "30": {"fulltext": "6 NOTE to TITLE-PAGE.\\nvir. honorand. operosiss., at sol. ut sciat. quant, glor.\\nnom. meum (dipl. fort, concess.) catal. vest. temp,\\nfutur. affer., ill. subjec, addit. omnib. titul. honorar.\\nqu. adh. non tant. opt. quam probab. put.\\nLitt. Uncial, distinx, nt Prces. S. Hist. Nat. Jaal,\\nHOMER US WILBUR, Mr., Episc. Jaalam. S. T.\\nD. 1850, et Yal. 1849, et Neo-Caes. et Brun. et Gulielm.\\n1852, et Gnl. et Mar. et Bowd. et Georgiop. et Viridi-\\nmont. et Columb. Nov. Ebor. 1853, et Amherst, et\\nWatervill. et S. Jarlatb. Hib. et S. Mar. et S. Joseph,\\net S. And. Scot. 1854, et Nashvill. et Dart. et. Dickins.\\net Concord, et Wash, et Columbian, et Chariest, et Jeff,\\net Dubl. et Oxon. et Cantab, et caet. 1855, P. U. N. C. H.\\net J. U. D. Gott. et Osnab. et Heidelb. 1860, et\\nAcad. Bore us. Berolin. Soc. et SS. ER. Lugd. Bat.\\net Patav. et Lond. et Edinb. et Ins. Feejee. et Null.\\nTerr, et Pekin. Soc. Hon. et S. H. S. et S. P. A. et A.\\nA. S. et S. Humb. Univ. et S. Omn. Rer. Quarund. q.\\nAliar. Promov. Passamaquod. et H. P. C. et I. 0. H. et\\nA. A. et II. K. P. et B. K. et Peucin, et Erosoph.\\net Philadelph. et Frat. in Unit, et I. T. et S. Archaeo-\\nlog. Athen. et Acad. Scient. et Lit. Panorm, et SS. R.\\nH. Matrit. et Beeloochist. et Caffrar. et Caribb. et M.\\nS. Reg. Paris, et S. Am. Antiserv. Soc. Hon. et P. D.\\nGott. et LL. D. 1852, et D. C. L. et Mus. Doc. Oxon.\\n1860, et M. M. S. S. et M. D. 1854, et Med. Fac. Univ.\\nHarv. Soc. et S. pro Convers. PoUywog. Soc. Hon. et\\nHiggl. Piggl. et LL. B. 1853, et S. pro Christianiz.\\nMoschet. Soc, et SS. Ante-Diluv. ubiq. Gent. .Soc.\\nHon. et Civit. Cleric. Jaalam. et S. pro Diffus. Gen-\\neral. Tenebr. Secret. Corr.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0030.jp2"}, "31": {"fulltext": "NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS.\\n[I HAVE observed, reader, (bene- or male-volent, as it\\nmay happen,) that it is customary to append to the\\nsecond editions of books, and to the second works of\\nauthors, short sentences commendatory of the first,\\nunder the title of Notices of the Press. These, I have\\nbeen given to understand, are procurable at certain estab-\\nlished rates, payment being made either in money or ad-\\nvertising patronage by the publisher, or by an adequate\\noutlay of servility on the part of the author. Con-\\nsidering these things with myself, and also that such\\nnotices are neither intended, nor generally believed, to\\nconvey any real opinions, being a purely ceremonial ac-\\ncompaniment of literature, and resembling certificates\\nto the virtues of various morbiferal panaceas, I con-\\nceived that it would be not only more economical to\\nprepare a sufficient number of such myself, but also\\nmore immediately subservient to the end in view to\\nprefix them to this our primary edition rather than\\nawait the contingency of a second, when they would\\nseem to be of small utility. To delay attaching the\\nhols until the second attempt at fiying the kite would\\nindicate but a slender experience in that useful art.\\nNeither has it escaped my notice, nor failed to afford\\nme matter of reflection, that, when a circus or a cara-\\nvan is about to visit Jaalam, the initial step is to send\\nforward large and highly ornamented bills of perform-\\n7", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0031.jp2"}, "32": {"fulltext": "8 NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PHESS.\\nance to be hung in the bar-room and the post-office.\\nThese having been sufficiently gazed at, and beginning\\nto lose their attractiveness except for the flies, and,\\ntruly, the boys also, (in whom I find it impossible to\\nrepress, even during school hours, certain oral and\\ntelegraphic correspondences concerning the expected\\nshow,) upon some fine morning the band enters in a\\ngaily-painted wagon, or triumphal chariot, and with\\nnoisy advertisement, by means of brass, wood, and\\nsheepskin, makes the circuit of our startled village streets.\\nThen, as the exciting sounds draw nearer and nearer, do\\nI desiderate those eyes of Aristarchus, whose looks\\nwere as a breeching to a boy. Then do I perceive,\\nwith vain regret of wasted opportunities, the advantage\\nof a pancratic or pantechnic education, since he is most\\nreverenced by my little subjects who can throw the\\ncleanest summerset or walk most securely upon the re-\\nvolving cask. The story of the Pied Piper becomes\\nfor the first time credible to me, (albeit confirmed by\\nthe Hameliners dating their legal instruments from the\\nperiod of his exit,) as I behold how those strains, with-\\nout pretence of magical potency, bewitch the pupillary\\nlegs, nor leave to the pedagogic an entire self-control.\\nFor these reasons, lest my kingly prerogative should\\nsuffer diminution, I prorogue my restless commons,\\nwhom I also follow into the street, chiefly lest some\\nmischief may chance befall them. After the manner of\\nsuch a band, I send forward the following notices of\\ndomestic manufacture, to make brazen proclamation,\\nnot unconscious of the advantage which will accrue, if\\nour little craft, cymlula stitih s, shall seem to leave port\\nwith a clipping breeze, and to carry, in nautical phrase,\\na bone in her mouth. Nevertheless, I have chosen, as", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0032.jp2"}, "33": {"fulltext": "NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS. 9\\nbeing more equitable, to prepare some also sufficiently\\nobjurgatory, that readers of every taste may find a dish\\nto their palate. I have modelled them upon actually\\nexisting specimens, preserved in my own cabinet of\\nnatural curiosities. One, in particular, I had copied\\nwith tolerable exactness from a notice of one of my own\\ndiscourses, which, from its superior tone and appear-\\nance of vast experience, I concluded to have been\\nwritten by a man at least three hundred years of age,\\nthough I recollected no existing instance of such ante-\\ndiluvian longevity. Nevertheless, I afterward discov-\\nered the author to be a young gentleman preparing for\\nthe ministry under the direction of one of my brethren\\nin a neighboring town, and whom I had once instinc-\\ntively corrected in a Latin quantity. But this I have\\nbeen forced to omit, from its too great length. H. W.]\\nFrom the Universal Littery Universe.\\nFull of passages which rivet the attention of the reader.\\nUnder a rustic garb, sentiments are conveyed which\\nshould be committed to the memory and engraven on the\\nheart of every moral and social being We consider this\\na unique performance We hope to see it soon introduced\\ninto our common schools Mr. Wilbur has performed his\\nduties as editor with excellent taste and judgment This\\nis a vein which we hope to see successfully prosecuted\\nWe hail the appearance of this work as a long stride toward\\nthe formation of a purely aboriginal, indigenous, nati e and\\nAmerican literature. We rejoice to meet with an author\\nnational enough to break away from the slavish deference,\\ntoo common among us, to English grammar and orthography\\nWhere all is so good, we are at a loss how to make ex-\\ntracts, On the whole, we may call it a volume which\\nno library, pretending to entire completeness, should fail to\\nplace upon its shelves.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0033.jp2"}, "34": {"fulltext": "10 NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS.\\nFrom the Higginhottomopolis Snapping-turtle.\\nA collection of the merest balderdash and doggerel that it\\nwas ever our bad fortune to lay eyes on. The author is a vul-\\ngar buffoon, and the editor a talkative, tedious old fool. We\\nuse strong language, but should any of our readers peruse the\\nbook, (from which calamity Heaven preserve them they\\nwill find reasons for it thick as the leaves of Vallumbrozer,\\nor, to use a still more expressive comparison, as the combined\\nheads of author and editor. The work is wretchedly got up\\nWe should like to know how much British gold was\\npocketed by this libeller of our country and her purest\\npatriots.\\nFrom the Oldfogrumville Mentor.\\nWe have not had time to do more than glance through this\\nhandsomel) printed volume, but the name of its respectable\\neditor, the Rev. Mr. Wilbur, of Jaalam, will afford a suffi-\\ncient guaranty for the worth of its contents The paper\\nis white, the type clear, and the volume of a convenient and\\nattractive size In reading this elegantly executed work,\\nit has seemed to us tliat a passage or two might have been re-\\ntrenched with advantage, and that the general style of diction\\nwas susceptible of a higher polish On the whole, we may\\nsafely leave the ungrateful task of criticism to the reader.\\nWe will barely suggest, that in volumes intended, as this is,\\nfor the illustration of a provincial dialect and turns of expres-\\nsion, a dash of humor or satire might be thrown in with ad-\\nvantage The work is admirably got up This work\\nwill form an appropriate ornament to the centre-table. It is\\nbeautifully printed, on paper of an excellent quality.\\nFrom the Dekay Bulwark,\\nWe should be wanting in our duty as the conductor of that\\ntremendous engine, a public press, as an American, and as a\\nman, did we allow such an opportunity as is presented to us\\nby The Biglow Papers to pass by without entering our", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0034.jp2"}, "35": {"fulltext": "NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS. n\\nearnest protest against such attempts (now, alas too com-\\nmon) at demoralizing the piibHc sentiment. Under a\\nwretched mask of stupid drollery, slavery, war, the social\\nglass, and, in short, all the valuable and time-honored insti-\\ntutions justly dear to our common humanity and especially\\nto republicans, are made the butt of coarse and senseless\\nribaldry by this low-minded scribbler. It is time that the\\nrespectable and religious portion of our community should be\\naroused to the alarming inroads of foreign Jacobinism, sanscu-\\nlottism, and infidelity. It is a fearful proof of the widespread\\nnature of this contagion, that these secret stabs at religion\\nand virtue are given from under the cloak (credite, posteri!)\\nof a clergyman. It is a mournful spectacle indeed to the pa-\\ntriot and the Christian to see liberality and new ideas (falsely\\nso called, they are as old as Eden) invading the sacred pre-\\ncincts of the pulpit On the whole, we consider this vol-\\nume as one of the first shocking results which we predicted\\nwould spring out of the late French Revolution\\nFrom the Bungtown Cojyper and Comprehensive Tocsin (a try-\\nweakly family journal)\\nAltogether an admirable work Full of humor, boister-\\nous, but delicate, of wit withering and scorching, yet com-\\nbined with a pathos cool as morning dew, of satire ponder-\\nous as the mace of Richard, yet keen as the scymitar of Sala-\\ndin A work full of mountain mirth, mischievous as\\nPuck and lightsome as Ariel We know not whether to\\nadmire most the genial, fresh, and discursive concinnity of\\nthe author, or his playful fancy, weird imagination, and com-\\npass of style, at once both objective and subjective We\\nmight indulge in some criticisms, but, were the author other\\nthan he is, he would be a different being. As it is, he has a\\nwonderful pose, which flits from flower to flower, and bears\\nthe reader irresistibly along on its eagle pinions (like Gany-\\nmede) to the highest heaven of invention. We love a\\nbook so purely objective Many of his pictures of natural\\nscenery have an extraordinary subjective clearness and fidel-", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0035.jp2"}, "36": {"fulltext": "12 NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS.\\nity In fine, we consider this as one of the most extraor-\\ndinary volumes of this or any age. We know of no English\\nauthor who could have written it. It is a work to which the\\nproud genius of our country, standing with one foot on the\\nAroostook and the other on the Rio Grande, and holding up\\nthe star-spangled banner amid the wreck of matter and the\\ncrush of worlds, may point with bewildering scorn of the\\npunier efforts of enslaved Europe We hope soon to en-\\ncounter our author among those higher walks of literature in\\nwhich he is evidently capable of achieving enduring fame.\\nAlready we should be inclined to assign him a high position\\nin the bright galaxy of our American bards.\\nFrom the Saltriver Pilot and Flag of Freedom.\\nA volunie of bad grammar and worse taste While the\\npieces here collected were confined to their appropriate\\nsphere in the corners of obscure newspapers, we considered\\nthem wholly beneath contempt, but, as the author has chosen\\nto come forward in this public manner, he must expect the\\nlash he so richly merits Contemptible slanders\\nVilest Billingsgate Has raked all the gutters of our lan-\\nguage The most pure, upright, and consistent politicians\\nnot safe from his malignant venom General Gushing\\ncomes in for a share of his vile calumnies the Reverend\\nHomer Wilbur is a disgrace to his cloth\\nFrom the World-Harmonic- ^olian- Attachment.\\nSpeech is silver silence is golden. No utterance more\\nOrphic than this. While, therefore, as highest author, we\\nreverence him whose works continue heroically unwritten,\\nwe have also our hopeful word for those who with pen (from\\nwing of goose loud-cackling, or seraph God-commissioned)\\nrecord the thing that is revealed Under mask of\\nquaintest irony, we detect here the deep, storm-tost (nigh\\nshipwrecked) soul, thunder-scarred, semiarticulate, but ever\\nclimbing hopefully toward the peaceful sumipits of ^n In^", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0036.jp2"}, "37": {"fulltext": "NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS. 13\\nfinite Sorrow Yes, thou poor, forlorn Hosea, with He-\\nbrew fire-flaming soul in thee, for thee also this life of ours\\nhas not been without its aspects of heavenliest pity and laugh-\\ningest mirth. Conceivable enougli Through coarse Ther-\\nsites-cloak, we have revelation of the heart, wild-glowing,\\nworld-clasping, that is in him. Bravely he grapples with the\\nlife-problem as it presents itself to him, uncombed, shaggy,\\ncareless of the nicer proprieties, inexpert of elegant dic-\\ntion, yet with voice audible enough to whoso hath ears, up\\nthere on the gravelly side-hills, or down on the splashy, India-\\nrubber-like salt-marshes \u00c2\u00abof native Jaalam. To this soul\\nalso the Necessity of Creating somewliat has unveiled its aw-\\nful front. If not CEdipuses and Electras and Alcestises, then\\nin God s name Birdofredum Sawins These also shall get\\nborn into the world, and filch (if so need) a Zingali subsist-\\nence therein, these lank, omnivorous Yankees of his. He\\nshall paint the Seen, since the Unseen will not sit to him.\\nYet in him also are Nibelungen-lays, and Iliads, and Ulysses-\\nwanderings, and Divine Comedies, if only once he could\\ncome at them Therein lies much, nay all for what truly\\nis this which we name All, but that which we do not possess\\nGlimpses also are given us of an old father Ezekiel, not\\nwithout paternal pride, as is the wont of such, A brown,\\nparchment-hided old man of the geoponic or bucolic species,\\ngray-eyed, we fancy, queued perhaps, with much weather-\\ncunning and plentiful September-gale memories, bidding fair\\nin good time to become the Oldest Inhabitant. After such\\nhasty apparition, he vanishes and is seen no more Of\\nRev. Homer Wilbur, A. M., Pastor of the First Church in\\nJaalam, we have small care to speak here. Spare touch in\\nhim of his Melesigenes namesake, save haply, the blindness\\nA tolerably caliginose, nephelegeretous elderly gentleman,\\nwith infinite faculty of sermonizing, muscularized by long\\npractice, and excellent digestive apparatus, and, for the rest,\\nwell-meaning enough, and with small private illuminations\\n(somewhat tallowy, it is to be feared) of his own. To him,\\nthere, Pastor of the First Church in Jaalam, our Hosea\\npresents himself as a quiet inexplicable Sphinx-riddle. A\\nrich poverty of Latin and Greek, so far is clear enough, even", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0037.jp2"}, "38": {"fulltext": "14 NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS.\\nto eyes peering myopic through horn-lensed editorial specta-\\ncles,\u00e2\u0080\u0094 but naught farther? O pur-blind, well-meaning, alto-\\ngether fuscous Melesigenes-Wilbur, there are things in him\\nincommunicable by stroke of birch Did it ever enter that\\nold bewildered head of thine that there was the Possibility of\\nthe Infinite in him To thee, quite wingless (and even feath-\\nerless) biped, has not so much even as a dream of wings ever\\ncome? Talented young parishioner Among the Arts\\nwhereof thou art Magister, does that of seeing happen to be\\none Unhappy Artium Magister Somehow a Nemean lion,\\nfulvous, torrid-eyed, dry-nursed in broad-howling sand-wil-\\ndernesses of a sufficiently rare spirit-Libya (it may be supposed)\\nhas got whelped among the sheep. Already he stands wild-\\nglaring, with feet clutching the ground as with oak-roots,\\ngathering for a Remus-spring over the walls of thy little fold.\\nIn Heaven s name, go not near him with that fly-bite crook\\nof thine In good time, thou painful preacher, thou wilt go\\nto the appointed place of departed Artillery -Election Sermons,\\nRight-Hands of Fellowship, and Results of Councils, gathered\\nto thy spiritual fathers with much Latin of the Epitaphial sort\\nthou, too, Shalt have thy reward but on him the Eumenides\\nhave looked, not Xantippes of the pit, snake-tressed, finger-\\nthreatening, but radiantly calm as on antique gems for him\\npaws impatient the winged courser of the gods, champing un-\\nw^elcome bit him the starry deeps, the empyrean glooms,\\nand far-flashing splendors await.\\nFrom the Onion Grove Phoenix.\\nA talented young townsman of ours, recently returned\\nfrom a Continental tour, and who is already favorably known\\nto our readers by his sprightly letters from abroad which\\nhave graced our columns, called at our office yesterday. We\\nlearn from him, that, having enjoyed the distinguished privi-\\nlege, w^hile in Germany, of an introduction to the celebrated\\nVon Humbug, he took the opportunity to present that emi-\\nnent man with a copy of the Biglow Papers. The next\\nmorning he received the following note, which he has kindly", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0038.jp2"}, "39": {"fulltext": "NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS. 15\\nfurnished us for publication. We prefer to print verbatim^\\nknowing that our readers will readily forgive the few errors\\ninto which the illustrious writer has fallen, through ignorance\\nof our language.\\nHigh- Worthy Mister\\nI shall also now especially happy starve, because I have\\nmore or less a work of one of those aboriginal Red-Men seen\\nin which have I so deaf an interest ever taken fuUworthy on\\nthe self shelf with our Gootsched to be upset.\\nPardon my in the English-speech unpractice\\nVon Humbug.\\nHe also sent with the above note a copy of his famous work\\non Cosmetics, to be presented to Mr. Biglow but this was\\ntaken from our friend by the English customhouse officers,\\nprobably through a petty national spite. No doubt, it has by\\nthis time found its way into the British Museum. We trust\\nthis outrage will be exposed in all our American papers. We\\nshall do our best to bring it to the notice of the State Depart-\\nment. Our numerous readers will share in the pleasure we\\nexperience at seeing our young and vigorous national litera-\\nture thus encouragingly patted on the head by this venerable\\nand world-renowned German. We love to see these reciproca-\\ntions of good-feeling between the different branches of the\\ngreat Anglo-Saxon race.\\n[The following genuine notice having met my\\neye, I gladly insert a portion of it here, the more espe-\\ncially as it contains a portion of one of Mr. Biglow s\\npoems not elsewhere printed. H. W.]\\nFrom the Jaalam Independent Blunderbuss.\\nBut, while we lament to see our young townsman thus\\nmingling in the heated contests of party politics, we think\\nwe detect in him the presence of talents which, if properly\\ndirected, might give an innocent pleasure to many. As a", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0039.jp2"}, "40": {"fulltext": "16 NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS.\\nproof that he is competent to the production of other kinds of\\npoetry, we copy for our readers a short fragment of a pastoral\\nby him, the manuscript of which was loaned us by a friend.\\nThe title of it is The Courtin\\nZekle crep up, quite unbeknown,\\nAn peeked in thru the winder,\\nAn there sot Huldy all alone,\\nith no one nigh to hender.\\nAgin the chimbly crooknecks hung.\\nAn in amongst em rusted\\nThe old queen s arm thet gran ther Young\\nFetched back frum Concord busted.\\nThe wannut logs shot sparkles out\\nToward the pootiest, bless her\\nAn leetle fires danced all about\\nThe chiny pn the dresser.\\nThe very room, coz she wuz in,\\nLooked warm frum floor to ceilin\\nAn she looked full ez rosy agin\\nEz th apples she wuz peelin\\nShe heerd a foot an knowed it, tu,\\nAraspin on the scraper,\\nAll ways to once her feelins flew\\nLike sparks in burnt-up paper.\\nHe kin o I itered on the mat,\\nSome doubtfle o the seekle\\nHis heart kep goin pitypat,\\nBut hern went pity Zekle.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0040.jp2"}, "41": {"fulltext": "Satis mnltis sese emptores futnros libri professis,\\nGeorgius Nichols, Cantabrigiensis, opus emittet de\\nparte gravi sed adhuc neglecta historiae naturalis, cum\\ntitulo sequent!, videlicet\\nConatus ad Delineationem naturalem nonniMl per-\\nfectiorem Scarabcei Bomhilatoris, vulgo dicti Humbug,\\nab HoMERO Wilbur, Artium Magistro, Societatis his-\\ntorico-naturalis Jaalamensis Preside, (Secretario, So-\\ncioque (eheu singulo,) multarumque aliarum Societa-\\ntum eruditarum (sive ineruditarum) tarn domesticarum\\nquam transmarinarum Socio forsitan futuro.\\nPROEMIUM.\\nLectori Benevolo S.\\nToga scliolastica nondum deposita, quum systemata\\nvaria entomologica, a yiris ejus scientiae cultoribus stu-\\ndiosissimis summa diligentia aedificata, penitus inda-\\ngassem, non fuit quin luctuose omnibus in iis, quamvis\\naliter laude dignissimis, hiatum magni momenti per-\\nciperem. Tunc, nescio quo motu superiore impulsus,\\naut qua captus dulcedine operis, ad eum implendum\\n(Curtius alter) me solemniter devovi. Nee ab isto\\nlabore, daqiovtw^ imposito, abstinui antequam tractatu-\\nlum sufficienter inconcinnum lingua vernacula per-\\nfeceram. Inde, juveniliter tumefactus, et barathro\\nineptiae twv I^c^XcotzioXwv (necnon Publici Legentis\\nnusquam explorato, me composuisse quod quasi pla-\\ncentas praef ervidas (ut sic dicam) homines ingurgitarent\\n2 17", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0041.jp2"}, "42": {"fulltext": "18 PROEMIUM.\\ncredidi. Sed, qunm huic et alii bibliopolae MSS. mea\\nsubmisissem et nihil solidius responsione valde negativa\\nin Musseum meum retnlissem, horror ingens atque\\nmisericordia, ob crassitudinem Lambertianam in cere-\\nbris homunculorum istius muneris coelesti quadam ira\\ninfixam, me invasere. Extemplo mei solius impensis\\nlibrnm edere decrevi, nihil omnino dubitans quin\\nMundiis Scientificus (ut aiunt) crumenam meam\\nampliter repleret. Nullam, attamen, ex agro illo meo\\nparvulo segetem demessui, prseter gandium vacuum bene\\nde Republica merendi. Iste panis mens pretiosus super\\naquas literarias fseculentas praefidenter jactus, quasi\\nHarpy iarumquarundam (scilicet bibliopolarum istorum\\nfacinorosorum supradictorum) tactu rancidus, intra\\nperpaucos dies mihi domum rediit. Et, quum ipse\\ntali victu ali non tolerarem, primum in mentem venit\\npistori (typographo nempe) nihilominus solvendum\\nesse. Animum non idcirco demisi, imo geque ac pueri\\nnaviculas suas penes se lino retinent (eo ut e recto cursu\\ndelapsas ad ripam retrahant), sic ego Argo meam char-\\ntaceam fluctibus laborantem a quaesitu velleris aurei,\\nipse potius tonsus pelleque exutus, mente solida revo-\\ncavi. Metaphoram ut mutem, hoomarangam meam a\\nscopo aberrantem retraxi, dum majore vi, occasione\\nministrante, adversus Fortunam intorquerem. Ast\\nmihi, [talia volventi, et, sicut Saturnus ille naido/Sopo?,\\nliberos intellectus mei depascere fidenti, casus mise-\\nrandus, nee antea inauditus, supervenit. Xam, ut\\nferunt Scythas pietatis causa et parsimonise, parentes\\nsuos mortuos devorasse, sic filius hie mens primogenitus,\\nScythis ipsis minus mansuetus, patrem vivum totum et\\ncalcitrantem exsorbere enixus est. Nee tamen hac de\\ncausa sobolem meam esurientem exheredavi. Sed", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0042.jp2"}, "43": {"fulltext": "PROEMIUM. 19\\nfamem istam pro valido testimonio virilitatis roborisque\\npotius habui, cibumque ad earn satiandam, salvapaterna\\nmea carne, petii. Et quia bilem illam scaturientem ad\\nses etiam concoquendum idoneam esse estimabam, unde\\naes alienum, ut minoris pretii, haberem, circumspexi.\\nKebus ita se habentibiis, ab avunculo meo Johanne Doo-\\nlittle, Armigero, impetravi ut pecunias necessarias\\nsuppeditaret, ne opus esset mihi universitatem relin-\\nquendi antequam ad gradum primum in artibus per-\\nvenissem. Tunc ego, salvum facere patronum meum\\nmunificum maxime cupiens, omnes libros primag edi-\\ntionis operis mei non venditos una cum privilegio in\\nomne aevum ejusdem imprimendi et edendi avunculo\\nmeo dicto pigneravi. Ex illo die, atro lapide notando,\\ncurae vociferantes familiae singulis annis crescentis eo\\nusque insultabant ut nunquam tarn carum pignus e\\nvinculis istis aheneis solvere possem.\\nAvunculo vero nuper mortuo, quum inter alios con-\\nsanguineos testamenti ejus lectionem audiendi causa\\nadvenissem, erectisauribus verba taliasequentia accepi\\nQuoniam persuasum habeo meum dilectum nepo-\\ntem Homerum, longa et intima rerum angustarum domi\\nexperientia, aptissimum esse qui divitias tueatur, bene-\\nficenterque ac prudenter iis divinis creditis utatur,\\nergo, motus hisce cogitationibus, exque amore meo in\\nilium magno, do, legoque nepoti caro meo supranomi-\\nnato omnes singularesque istas possessiones nee ponder-\\nabiles nee computabiles meas qua3 sequuntur, scilicet\\nquingentos libros quos mihi pigneravi t dictus Homerus,\\nanno lucis 1792, cum privilegio edendi et repetendi\\nopus istud ^scientiflcum (quod dicunt) suum, si sic\\nelegerit. Tamen D. 0. M. precor oculos Homeri nepo-\\ntis mei ita aperiat eumque moveat, ut libros istos in", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0043.jp2"}, "44": {"fulltext": "20 PROEMIUM.\\nbibliotheca unius e plurimis castellis suis Hispaniensibus\\ntuto abscondat.\\nHis verbis (vix credibilibus) auditis, cor meum in\\npectore exsultavit. Deiiide, quoniam tractatus Anglice\\nscriptus spem auctoris fefellerat, quippe quum studium\\nHistoriae Naturalis in Republica nostra inter factionis\\nstrepitum languescat, Latine versum edere statai, et eo\\npotius quia nescio quomodo disciplina academica et duo\\ndiplomata proficiant, nisi quod peritos linguarum om-\\nnino mortuarum (et damnandarum, ut dicebat iste\\nTzavoopyofs Gulielmus Cobbett) nos faciant.\\nEt mihi adhuc superstes est tota ilia editio prima,\\nquam quasi crepitaculum per quod dentes caninos den-\\ntibam retineo.\\nOPERIS SPECIMEN.\\n{Ad exemplum Johannis Physiophili speciminis Monachologice.\\n12. S. B. Militaris, Wilbur. Carnifex, Jablonsk. Profanusy\\nDespont.\\n[Male hancce speciem C?/cZopemFabricius vocat, ut qui sin-\\ngulo oculo ad quod sui interest distinguitur. Melius vero\\nIsaacus Outis nullum inter S. milit. S. que Belzebul (Fabric.\\n152) discrimen esse defendit.]\\nHabitat civitat. Americ. austral.\\nAureis lineis splendidus plerumque tamen sordidus, utpote\\nlanienas valde frequentans, foetore sanguinis allectus. Amat\\nquoque insuper septa apricari, neque inde, nisi maxima co-\\nnatione, detruditur. Candidatus ergo populariter vocatus.\\nCaput cristam quasi pennarum ostendit. Pro cibo vaccam\\npublicam callide mulget abdomen enorme facultas suctus\\nbaud facile estimanda. Otiosus, fatuus ferox nibilominus,\\nsemperque dimicare paratus. Tortuose repit.\\nCapite saepe maxima cum cura dissecto, ne illud rudimeu-", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0044.jp2"}, "45": {"fulltext": "PROEMIUM. 21\\nturn etiam cerebri commune omnibus prope insectis detegere\\npoteram.\\nUnam de hoc S. milit. rem singularem notavi nam S.\\nGuineens. (Fabric. 143) servos facit, et idcirco a multis\\nsumma in reverentia habitus, quasi scintillas rationis paene\\nhumanae demonstrans.\\n24 S. B. Criticus, Wilbur. Zoilus, Fabric. Pygmoeus,\\nCarlsen.\\n[Stultissime Johannes Stryx cum S. punctate (Fabric. 64-\\n109) confundit. Specimina quamplurima scrutationi micro-\\nscopicae subjeci, nunquam tamen unum uUa indicia puncti\\ncujusvis prorsus ostendentem inveni.]\\nPraecipue formidolosus, insectatusque, in proxima rima\\nanonyma sese abscondit, we, we, creberrime stridens. Inep-\\ntus, segnipes.\\nHabitat ubique gentium in sicco nidum suum terebra-\\ntione indefessa aedificans. Cibus. Libros depascit siccos\\npraecipue seligens, et forte succidum.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0045.jp2"}, "46": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0046.jp2"}, "47": {"fulltext": "INTRODUCTION.\\nWhen, more than three years ago, my talented\\nyoung parishioner, Mr. Biglow, came to me and sub-\\nmitted to my animadversions the first of his poems\\nwhich he intended to commit to the more hazardous\\ntrial of a city newspaper, it never so much as entered\\nmy imagination to conceive that his productions would\\never be gathered into a fair volume, and ushered into\\nthe august presence of the reading public by myself.\\nSo little are we short-sighted mortals able to predict\\nthe event I confess that there is to me a quite new\\nsatisfaction in being associated (though only as sleep-\\ning partner) in a book which can stand by itself in an\\nindependent unity on the shelves of libraries. For\\nthere is always this drawback from the pleasure of\\nprinting a sermon, that, whereas the queasy stomach\\nof this generation will not bear a discourse long enough\\nto make a separate volume, those religious and godly-\\nminded children (those Samuels, if I may call them\\nso) of the brain must at first lie buried in an undis-\\ntinguished heap, and then get such resurrection as is\\nvouchsafed to them, mummy-wrapt with a score of\\nothers in a cheap binding, with no other mark of dis-\\ntinction than the word Miscellafieous printed upon\\nthe back. Far be it from me to claim any credit for\\nthe quite unexpected popularity which I am pleased\\nto find these bucolic strains have attained unto. If I\\nknow myself, I am measurably free from the itch of\\n23", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0047.jp2"}, "48": {"fulltext": "M INTRODUCTION.\\nvanity yet I may be allowed to say that I was not\\nbackward to recognize in them a certain wild, puckery,\\nacidulous (sometimes even verging toward that point\\nwhich, in our rustic phrase, is termed shut-eye) flavor,\\nnot wholly unpleasing, nor unwholesome, to palates\\ncloyed with the sugariness of tamed and cultivated\\nfruit. It may be, also, that some touches of my own,\\nhere and there, may have led to their wider acceptance,\\nalbeit solely from my larger experience of literature and\\nauthorship.*\\nI was, at first, inclined to discourage Mr. Biglow s\\nattempts, as knowing that the desire to poetize is one\\nof the diseases naturally incident to adolescence, which,\\nif the fitting remedies be not at once and with a bold\\nhand applied, may become chronic, and render one,\\nwho might else have become in due time an ornament\\nof the social circle, a painful object even to nearest\\nfriends and relatives. But thinking, on a further ex-\\nperience, that there was a germ of promise in him\\nwhich required only culture and the pulling up of weeds\\nfrom around it, I thought it best to set before him the\\nacknowledged examples of English compositions in\\nverse, and leave the rest to natural emulation. With\\nthis view, I accordingly lent him some volumes of Pope\\nand Goldsmith, to the assiduous study of which he\\npromised to devote his evenings. Not long afterward,\\nhe brought me some verses written upon that model,\\nThe reader curious in such matters may refer (if he can\\nfind them) to A Sermon Preached on the Anniversary of\\nthe Dark Day, An Artillery Election Sermon, A Dis-\\ncourse on the Late Eclipse, Dorcas, a Funeral Sermon on\\nthe Death of Madam Submit Tidd, Relict of the late Experi-\\nence Tidd, Esq., c., c.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0048.jp2"}, "49": {"fulltext": "INTRODUCTION. 25\\na specimen of which I subjoin, having changed some\\nphrases of less elegancy, and a few rhymes objection-\\nable to the cultivated ear. The poem consisted of\\nchildish reminiscences, and the sketches which follow\\nwill not seem destitute of truth to those whose fortu-\\nnate education began in a country village. And, first,\\nlet us hang up his charcoal portrait of the school-\\ndame.\\nPropt on the marsh, a dweUing now, I see\\nThe humble schoolhouse of my A, B, C,\\nWhere well-drilled urchins, each behind his tire,\\nWaited in ranks the wished command to fire,\\nThen all together, when the signal came,\\nDischarged their a-b ahs against the dame,\\nWho, mid the volleyed learning, firm and calm,\\nPatted the furloughed ferule on her palm,\\nAnd, to our wonder, could detect at once\\nWho flashed the pan, and who was downright dunce.\\nThere young Devotion learned to climb with ease\\nThe gnarly limbs of Scripture family-trees,\\nAnd he was most commended and admired\\nWho soonest to the topmost twig perspired\\nEach name was called as many various ways\\nAs pleased the reader s ear on different days.\\nSo that the weather, or the ferule s stings.\\nColds in the head, or fifty other things,\\nTransformed the helpless Hebrew thrice a week\\nTo guttural Pequot or resounding Greek,\\nThe vibrant accent skipping here and there,\\nJust as it pleased invention or despair\\nNo controversial Hebraist was the Dame\\nWith or without the points pleased her the same\\nIf any tyro found a name too tough,\\nAnd looked at her, pride furnished skill enough\\nShe nerved her larynx for the desperate thing,\\nAnd cleared the five-barred syllables at a spring.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0049.jp2"}, "50": {"fulltext": "26 INTRODUCTION.\\nAh, dear old times 1 there once it was my hap,\\nPerched on a stool, to wear the long-eared cap\\nFrom books degraded, there I sat at ease,\\nA drone, the envy of compulsory bees.\\nI add only one further extract, which will possess a\\nmelancholy interest to all such as have endeavored to\\ngleam the materials of Revolutionary history from the\\nlips of aged persons, who took a part in the actual\\nmaking of it, and, finding the manufacture profitable,\\ncontinued the supply in an adequate proportion to the\\ndemand.\\nOld Joe is gone, who saw hot Percy goad\\nHis slow artillery up the Concord road,\\nA tale which grew in wonder, year by year,\\nAs, every time he told it, Joe drew near\\nTo the main fight, till, faded and grown gray,\\nThe original scene to bolder tints gave way\\nThen Joe had heard the foe s scared double-quick\\nBeat on stove drum with one uncaptured stick.\\nAnd, ere death came the lengthening tale to lop,\\nHimself had fired, and seen a red-coat drop\\nHad Joe lived long enough, that scrambling fight\\nHad squared more nearly to his sense of right,\\nAnd vanquished Percy, to complete the tale.\\nHad hammered stone for life in Concord jail.\\nI do not know that the foregoing extracts ought not\\nto be called my own rather than Mr. Biglow s, as indeed,\\nhe maintained stoutly that my file had left nothing of\\nhis in them. I should not, perhaps, have felt entitled to\\ntake so great liberties with them, had I not more than\\nsuspected an hereditary vein of poetry in myself, a very\\nnear ancestor having written a Latin poem in the Har-\\nvard Gratulatio on the accession of George the Third.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0050.jp2"}, "51": {"fulltext": "INTRODUCTION. 27\\nSuffice it to say, that, whether not satisfied with such\\nlimited approbation as I could conscientiously bestow,\\nor from a sense of natural inaptitude, I know not, cer-\\ntain it is that my young friend could never be induced\\nto any further essays in this kind. He affirmed that\\nit was to him like writing in a foreign tongue, that\\nMr. Pope s versification was like the regular ticking of\\none of Willard s clocks, in which one could fancy, after\\nlong listening, a certain kind of rhythm or tune, but\\nwhich yet was only a poverty-stricken tick, tick, after\\nall, and that he had never seen a sweet-water on a\\ntrellis growing so fairly, or in forms so pleasing to his\\neye, as a fox-grape over a scrub-oak in a swamp. He\\nadded I know not what, to the effect that the sweet-\\nwater would only be the more disfigured by having its\\nleaves starched and ironed out, and that Pegasus (so\\nhe called him) hardly looked right with his mane and\\ntail in curl-papers. These and other such opinions I\\ndid not long strive to eradicate, attributing them rather\\nto a defective education and senses untuned by too long\\nfamiliarity with purely natural objects, than to a per-\\nverted moral sense. I was the more inclined to this\\nleniency since sufficient evidence was not to seek, that\\nhis verses, as wanting as they certainly were in classic\\npolish and point, had somehow taken hold of the public\\near in a surprising manner. So, only setting him right\\nas to the quantity of the proper name Pegasus, I left\\nhim to follow the bent of his natural genius.\\nThere are two things upon which it would seem fit-\\nting to dilate somewhat more largely in this place,\\nthe Yankee character and the Yankee dialect. And,\\nfirst, of the Yankee character, which has wanted neither\\nopen maligners, nor even more dangerous enemies in", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0051.jp2"}, "52": {"fulltext": "28 INTRODUCTION.\\nthe persons of those unskilful painters who have given\\nto it that hardness, angularity, and want of proper per-\\nspective, which, in truth, belonged, not to their sub-\\nject, but to their own niggard and unskilful pencil.\\nNew England was not so much the colony of a mother\\ncountry, as a Hagar driven forth into the wilderness.\\nThe little self-exiled band which came hither in 1620\\ncame, not to seek gold, but to found a democracy.\\nThey came that they might have the privilege to work\\nand pray, to sit upon hard benches and listen to pain-\\nful preachers as long as they would, yea, even unto\\nthirty- seventhly, if the spirit so willed it. And surely,\\nit the Greek might boast his Thermopylae, where three\\nhundred men fell in resisting the Persian, we may well\\nbe proud of our Plymouth Rock, where a handful of\\nmen, women, and children not merely faced, but van-\\nquished, winter, famine, the wilderness, and the yet\\nmore invincible storge that drew them back to the green\\nisland far away. These found no lotus growing upon\\nthe surly shore, the taste of which could make them\\nforget their little native Ithaca nor were they so\\nwanting to themselves in faith as to burn their ship,\\nbut could see the fair west wind belly the homeward\\nsail, and then turn unrepining to grapple with the\\nterrible Unknown.\\nAs Want was the prime foe these hardy exodists had\\nto fortress themselves against, so it is little wonder if\\nthat traditional feud is long in wearing out of the stock.\\nThe wounds of the old warfare were long ahealing, and\\nan east wind of hard times puts a new ache in every one\\nof them. Thrift was the first lesson in their horn-book,\\npointed out, letter after letter, by the lean finger of the\\nhard schoolmaster, Necessity. Neither were those", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0052.jp2"}, "53": {"fulltext": "INTRODUCTION. 29\\nplump, rosy-gilled Englishmen that came hither, but a\\nhard-faced, atrabilious, earnest-eyed race, stiff from\\nlong wrestling with the Lord in prayer, and who had\\ntaught Satan to dread the new Puritan hug. Add two\\nhundred years^ influence of soil, climate, and exposure,\\nwith its necessary result of idiosyncrasies, and we have\\nthe present Yankee, full of expedients, half master of\\nall trades, inventive in all but the beautiful, full of\\nshifts, not yet capable of comfort, armed at all points\\nagainst the old enemy Hunger, longanimous, good at\\npatching, not so careful for what is best as for what\\nwill do, with a clasp to his purse and a button to his\\npocket, not skilled to build against Time, as in old\\ncountries, but against sore-pressing Need, accustomed\\nto move the world with no ttoD (Tr h but his own two feet,\\nand no lever but his own long forecast. A strange hy-\\nbrid, indeed, did circumstances beget, here in the New\\nWorld, upon the old Puritan stock, and the earth never\\nbefore saw such mystic-practicalism, such niggard-gen-\\niality, such calculating-fanaticism, such cast-iron-enthu-\\nsiasm, such unwilling-humor, such close-fisted-gener-\\nosity. This new Grmculus esitriens will make a living\\nout of any thing. He will invent new trades as well as\\ntools. His brain is his capital, and he will get educa-\\ntion at all risks. Put him on Juan Fernandez, and he\\nwould make a spelling-book first, and a salt-pan after-\\nward. In cmlum jusseris, iMf, or the other way\\neither, it is all one, so any thing is to be got by it.\\nYet, after all, thin, speculative Jonathan is more like\\nthe Englishman of two centuries ago than John Bull\\nhimself is. He has lost somewhat in solidity, has be-\\ncome fluent and adaptable, but more of the original\\ngroundwork of character remains. He feels more", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0053.jp2"}, "54": {"fulltext": "30 INTRODUCTION.\\nat home with Falke Greville, Herbert of Cherbury,\\nQuarles, George Herbert, and Browne, than with his\\nmodern English cousins. He is nearer than John, by\\nat least a hundred years, to Naseby, Marston Moor,\\nWorcester, and the time when, if ever, there were true\\nEnglishmen. John Bull has suffered the idea of the\\nInvisible to be very much fattened out of him. Jona-\\nthan is conscious still that he lives in the world of the\\nUnseen as well as of the Seen. To move John, you\\nmust make your fulcrum of solid beef and pudding an\\nabstract idea will do for Jonathan.\\nTO THE INDULGENT READEE.\\nMy friend, the Eeverend Mr. Wilbur, having been\\nseized with a dangerous fit of illness, before this In-\\ntroduction had passed through the press, and being\\nincapacitated for all literary exertion, sent to me his\\nnotes, memoranda, c., and requested me to fashion\\nthem into some shape more fitting for the general eye.\\nThis, owing to the fragmentary and disjointed state of\\nhis manuscripts, I have felt wholly unable to do yet,\\nbeing unwilling that the reader should be deprived of\\nsuch parts of his lucubrations as seemed more finished,\\nand not well discerning how to segregate these from\\nthe rest, I have concluded to send them all to the press\\nprecisely as they are.\\nColumbus Nye, Pastor of a Church in Bungtoivn\\nCorner,\\nIt remains to speak of the Yankee dialect. And,\\nfirst, it may be premised, in a general way, that any", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0054.jp2"}, "55": {"fulltext": "INTRODUCTION. 31\\none much read in the writings of the early colonists\\nneed not be told that the far greater share of the words\\nand phrases now esteemed peculiar to New England, and\\nlocal there, were brought from the mother country. A\\nperson familiar with the dialect of certain portions of\\nMassachusetts will not fail to recognize, in ordinary dis-\\ncourse, many words now noted in English vocabularies\\nas archaic, the greater part of which were in common use\\nabout the time of the King James translation of the\\nBible. Shakspeare stands less in need of a glossary to\\nmost New Englanders than to many a native of the\\nOld Country. The peculiarities of our speech, how-\\never, are rapidly wearing out. As there is no country\\nwhere reading is so universal and newspapers are so\\nmultitudinous, so no phrase remains long local, but is\\ntransplanted in the mail bags to every remotest corner\\nof the land. Consequently our dialect approaches\\nnearer to uniformity than that of any other nation.\\nThe English have complained of us for coining new\\nwords. Many of those so stigmatized were old ones\\nby them forgotten, and all make now an unquestioned\\npart of the currency, wherever English is spoken.\\nUndoubtedly, we have a right to make new words, as\\nthey are needed by the fresh aspects under which life\\npresents itself here in the New World and, indeed,\\nwherever a language is alive, it grows. It might be\\nquestioned whether we could not establish a stronger\\ntitle to the ownership of the English tongue than the\\nmother-islanders themselves. Here, past all question,\\nis to be its great home and centre. And not only is it\\nalready spoken here by greater numbers, but with a\\nfar higher popular average of correctness, than in\\nBritain, The great writers of it, too, we might claim", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0055.jp2"}, "56": {"fulltext": "32 INTRODUCTION.\\nas ours, were ownership to be settled by the number of\\nreaders and lovers.\\nAs regards the provincialisms to be met with in this\\nvolume, I may say that the reader will not find one\\nwhich is not (as I believe) either native or imported\\nwith the early settlers, nor one which I have not, with\\nmy own ears, heard in familiar use. In the metrical\\nportion of the book, I have endeavored to adapt the\\nspelling as nearly as possible to the ordinary mode of\\npronunciation. Let the reader who deems me over-\\nparticular remember this caution of Martial\\nQuern recitas, mens est, O Fidentine libellus\\nSed male cum recitas, incipit esse tuus.\\nA few further explanatory remarks will not be im-\\npertinent.\\nI shall barely lay down a few general rules for the\\nreader s guidance.\\n1. The genuine Yankee never gives the rough sound\\nto the r when he can help it, and often displays con-\\nsiderable ingenuity in avoiding it even before a vowel.\\n2. He seldom sounds the final g, a piece of self-denial,\\nif we consider his partiality for nasals. The same of\\nthe final d, as ha7i and stan* for haiid and sta7id.\\n3. The h in such words as tuhiUy wlien, where, he\\nomits altogether.\\n4. In regard to a^ he shows some inconsistency, some-\\ntimes giving a close and obscure sound, as liev for have,\\nhendy for handy, ez for as, thet for that, and again\\ngiving it the broad sound it has in father, as hdnsome\\nfor handsome.\\n5. To the sound ou he prefixes an e (hard to ex-\\nemplify otherwise than orally).", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0056.jp2"}, "57": {"fulltext": "INTRODUCTION. 33\\nThe following passage in Shakspeare he would recite\\nthus\\nNeow is the winta uv eour discontent\\nMed glorious summa by this sun o Yock,\\nAn all the cleouds thet leowered upon eour heouse\\nIn the deep buzzum o the oshin buried\\nNeow air eour breows beound ith victorious wreaths\\nEour breused arras hung up fer monimunce\\nEour starn alarums changed to merry meetins,\\nEour dreffle marches to delightful measures.\\nGrim-visaged war heth smeuthed his wrinkled front,\\nAn neow, instid o mountin barebid steeds\\nTo fright the souls o ferfle edverseries,\\nHe capers nimly in a ladj^ s chamber,\\nTo the lascivious pleasin uv a loot.\\n6. Aio, in such words as daughter and slaughter, he\\npronounces a?i.\\n7. To the dish thus seasoned add a drawl ad lilitum.\\n[Mr. Wibur s notes here become entirely fragmen-\\ntary.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 C. N.]\\na. Unable to procure a likeness of Mr. Biglow, I\\nthought the curious reader might be gratified with a\\nsight of the editorial effigies. And here a choice be-\\ntween two was offered, the one a profile (entirely\\nblack) cut by Doyle, the other a portrait painted by a\\nnative artist of much promise. The first of these\\nseemed wanting in expression, and in the second a\\nslight obliquity of the visual organs has been height-\\nened (perhaps from an over-desire of force on the part\\nof the artist) into too close an approach to actual\\nstrahismus. This slight divergence in my optical\\napparatus from the ordinary model however I may\\nhave been taught to regard it in the light of a mercy\\n3", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0057.jp2"}, "58": {"fulltext": "34 INTRODUCTION.\\nrather than a cross, since it enabled me to give as much\\nof directness and personal application to my discourses\\nas met the wants of my congregation, without risk of\\noffending any by being supposed to have him or her in\\nmy eye (as the saying is) seemed yet to Mrs. Wilbur\\na sufficient objection to the engraving of the aforesaid\\npainting. We read of many who either absolutely\\nrefused to allow the copying of their features, as espe-\\ncially did Plotinus and Agesilaus among the ancients,\\nnot to mention the more modern instances of Scioppius\\nPalaeottus, Pinellus, Velserus, Gataker, and others, or\\nwere indifferent thereto, as Cromwell.\\nYet was Caesar desirous of concealing his bald-\\nness. Per contray my Lord Protector s carefulness in\\nthe matter of his wart might be cited. Men generally\\nmore desirous of being improved in their portraits than\\ncharacters. Shall probably find very unflattered like-\\nness of ourselves in Recording Angel s gallery.\\ny. Whether any of our national peculiarities may be\\ntraced to our use of stoves, as a certain closeness of the\\nlips in pronunciation, and a smothered smoulderingness\\nof disposition, seldom roused to open flame An un-\\nrestrained intercourse with fire probably conducive to\\ngenerosity and hospitality of soul. Ancient Mexicans\\nused stoves, as the friar Augustin Ruiz reports, Hak-\\nluyt, III., 468, but Popish priests not always reliable\\nauthority.\\nTo-day picked my Isabella grapes. Crop injured by\\nattacks of rose-bug in the spring. Whether Noah was\\njustifiable in preserving this class of insects", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0058.jp2"}, "59": {"fulltext": "INTRODUCTION. 35\\nS. Concerning Mr. Biglow s pedigree. Tolerably\\ncertain that there was never a poet among his ancestors.\\nAn ordination hymn attributed to a maternal uncle,\\nbut perhaps a sort of production not demanding the\\ncreative faculty.\\nHis grandfather a painter of the grandiose or Michael\\nAngelo school. Seldom painted objects smaller than\\nhouses or barns, and these with uncommon expression.\\nc. Of the Wilburs no complete pedigree. The crest\\nsaid to be a wild ioar, whence, perhaps, the name.\\nA connection with the Earls of Wilbraham {quasi wild\\nboar ham) might be made out. This suggestion worth\\nfollowing up. In 1677, John W. m. Expect had\\nissue, 1. John, 2. Haggai, 3. Expect, 4. Euhamah,\\n5. Desire.\\nHear lyes y\u00c2\u00a9 bodye of Mrs. Expect Wilber,\\nYe crewell salvages they kil d her\\nTogether wth other Christian soles eleaven,\\nOctober ye ix daye, 1707.\\nYe stream of Jordan sh as crost ore\\nAnd now expeacts me on ye other shore\\nI live in hope her soon to join\\nHer earthlye yeeres were forty and nine.\\nFrom Gravestone in Pekussett, North Parish.\\nThis is unquestionably the same John who afterward\\n(1711) married Tabitha Hagg or Ragg.\\nBut if this were the case, she seems to have died\\nearly for only three years after, namely, 1714, we\\nhave evidence that he married Winifred, daughter of\\nLieutenant Tipping.\\nHe seems to have been a man of substance, for we\\nfind him in 1696 conveying one undivided eightieth", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0059.jp2"}, "60": {"fulltext": "36 INTRODUCTION.\\npart of a salt-meadow in Yabbok, and he commanded\\na sloop in 1702.\\nThose who doubt the importance of genealogical\\nstudies fuste potius quam argumerito erudiendi.\\nI trace him as far as 1723, and there lose him. In\\nthat year he was chosen selectman.\\nNo gravestone. Perhaps overthrown when new\\nhearse-house was built, 1802.\\nHe was probably the son of John, who came from\\nBilham Comit. Salop, circa 1642.\\nThis first John was a man of considertible importance,\\nbeing twice mentioned with the honorable prefix of Mr,\\nin the town records. Name spelt with two Z s.\\nHear lyeth ye bod \\\\stone unhappily broken.\\nMr. Ihon Willber [Esq.] [I enclose this in brackets\\nas doubtful. To me it seems clear.]\\nOh^t die [illegible looks like xviii.] ill [pro6. 1693.J\\npaynt\\ndeseased seiute\\nA friend and [fath] er untoe all ye opreast,\\nHee gave ye wicked familists noe reast,\\nWhen Sat [an bljewe his Antinomian blaste,\\nWee clong to [Willber as a steadf]ast maste.\\n[AJgaynst ye horrid Qua[kers]\\nIt is greatly to be lamented that this curious epitaph\\nis mutilated. It is said that the sacrilegious British\\nsoldiers made a target of this stone during the war of\\nIndependence. How odious an animosity which\\npauses not at the grave How brutal that which\\nspares not the monuments of authentic history This\\nis not improbably from the pen of Eev. Moody Pyram,\\nwho is mentioned by Hubbard as having been noted\\nfor a silver vein of poetry. If his papers be still extant,\\na copy might possibly be recovered.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0060.jp2"}, "61": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nNo. I.\\nA LETTER\\nFROM MR. EZEKIEL BIGLOW OF JAALAM TO THE HOK.\\nJOSEPH T. BUCKINGHAM, EDITOR OF THE BOSTOi^\\nCOURIER, INCLOSIKG A POEM OF HIS SOK, MR. HOSEA\\nBIGLOW.\\nJaylem, June 1846.\\nMister Eddyter Our Hosea wuz down to Boston\\nlast week, and he see a cruetin Sarjunt a struttin round\\nas popler as a hen with 1 chicking, with 2 fellers a drum-\\nmin and fifin arter him like all nater. the sarjunt he\\nthout Hosea hedn t gut his i teeth cut cos he looked a\\nkindo^s though he^ s jest com down, so he caFlated to\\nhook him in, but Hosy woodn t take none o his sarse\\nfor all he hed much as 20 Rooster s tales stuck onto his\\nhat and eenamost enuf brass a bobbin up and down on\\nhis shoulders and figureed onto his coat and trousis, let\\nalone wut nater hed sot in his featers, to make a 6\\npounder out on.\\nwal, Hosea he com home considerabal riled, and\\narter I d gone to bed I heern Him a thrash in round like\\na short-tailed Bull in fli-time. The old Woman ses she\\n37", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0061.jp2"}, "62": {"fulltext": "38 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nto me ses she, Zekle, ses she, our Hosee s gut the chol-\\nlery or suthin anuther ses she, don t you Bee skeered,\\nses I, he s oney amakin pottery ses i, he s oilers on\\nhand at that ere busynes like Da martin, and shure\\nenuf, cum mornin, Hosy he cum down stares full chiz-\\nzle, hare on eend and cote tales flyin, and sot rite of to\\ngo reed his varses to Parson Wilbur bein he hain t aney\\ngrate shows o book larnin himself, bimeby he cum back\\nand sed the parson wuz dreffle tickled with em as i\\nhoop you will Be, and said they wuz True grit.\\nHosea ses, tain t hardly fair to call em hisn now, cos\\nthe parson kind o slicked off sum o the last varses, but\\nhe told Hosee he didn t want to put his ore in to tetch\\nto the Eest on em, bein they wuz verry well As thay\\nwuz, and then Hosy ses he sed suthin a nuther about\\nSimplex Mundishes or sum sech feller, but I guess Hosea\\nkind o didn t hear him, for I never hearn o nobody o\\nthat name in this villadge, and I ve lived here man and\\nboy 76 year cum next tater diggin, and thair ain t no\\nwheres a kitting spryer n I be.\\nIf you print em I wish you d jest let folks know who\\nhosy s father is, cos my ant Keziah used to say it s nater\\nto be cur us ses she, she ain t livin though and he s a\\nlikely kind o lad.\\nEZEKIEL BIGLOW.\\nThrash away, you 11 hev to rattle\\nOn them kittle drums o yourn,\\nTain t a knowin kind o cattle\\nThet is ketched with mouldy corn\\nAut insanit, aut versos facit. H. W,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0062.jp2"}, "63": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 39\\nPut in stiff, yon fifer feller,\\nLet folks see how spry you be,\\nGuess you 11 toot till you are yeller\\nFore you git ahold 0 me\\nThet air flag s a lettle rotten,\\nHope it ain t your Sunday s best\\nFact it takes a sight o cotton\\nTo stuff out a soger s chest\\nSence we farmers hev to pay fer t,\\nEf you must wear humps like these,\\nSposin you should try salt hay fer t.\\nIt would du ez slick ez grease.\\nT would n t suit them Southern fellers.\\nThey re a dreffle graspin set.\\nWe must oilers blow the bellers\\nWen they want their irons het\\nMay be it s all right ez preachin\\nBut my narves it kind o grates.\\nWen I see the overreachin\\n0 them nigger-drivin States.\\nThem thet rule us, them slave-traders.\\nHain t they cut a thunderin swarth,\\n(Helped by Yankee renegaders,)\\nThru the vartu o the North\\nWe begin to think it s nater\\nTo take sarse an not be riled\\nWho d expect to see a tater\\nAll on eend at bein biled", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0063.jp2"}, "64": {"fulltext": "40 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nEz fer war, I call it mnrder,\\nThere you hev it plain an flat\\nI don t want to go no furder\\nThan my Testyment fer that\\nGod hez sed so plump an fairly.\\nIt s ez long ez it is broad,\\nAn you ve gut to git up airly\\nEf you want to take in God.\\nT ain t your eppyletts an feathers\\nMake the thing a grain more right\\nTaint afollerin your bell-wethers\\nWill excuse ye in His sight\\nEf you take a sword an dror it.\\nAn go stick a feller thru,\\nGuv ment ain t to answer for it,\\nGod 11 send the bill to you.\\nWut s the use o meeting-goin\\nEvery Sabbath, wet or dry,\\nEf it s right to go amowin\\nFeller-men like oats an rye\\nI dunno but wut it s pooty\\nTraining round in bobtail coats,\\nBut it s curus Christian dooty\\nThis ere cuttin folks s throats.\\nThey may talk o Freedom s airy\\nTell they re pupple in the face,-\\nIt s a grand gret cemetary\\nFer the barthrights of our race", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0064.jp2"}, "65": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 41\\nThey jest want this Californy\\nSo s to lug new slave-states in\\nTo abuse ye, an to scorn ye.\\nAn to plunder ye like sin.\\nAin t it cute to see a Yankee\\nTake sech everlastin pains.\\nAll to git the Devil s thankee,\\nHelpin on em weld their chains\\nWy, it s jest ez clear ez figgers,\\nClear ez one an one make two.\\nChaps thet make black slaves o niggers\\nWant to make wite slaves o you.\\nTell me jest the eend I ve come to\\nArter cipherin plaguy smart.\\nAn it makes a handy sum, tu.\\nAny gump could larn by heart\\nLaborin man an laborin woman\\nHev one glory an one shame,\\nEv y thin thet s done inhuman\\nInjers all on em the same.\\nTain t by turnin out to hack folks\\nYou re goin to git your right.\\nNor by lookin down on black folks\\nCoz you re put upon by wite\\nSlavery ain t o nary color,\\nTain t the hide thet makes it wus.\\nAll itkeers fer in a feller\\nS jest to make him fill its pus.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0065.jp2"}, "66": {"fulltext": "42 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nWant to tackle me in, du ye\\nI expect you 11 hev to wait\\nWen cold lead puts daylight thru ye\\nYou 11 begin to kaFlate\\nSpose the crows wun t fall to pickin\\nAll the carkiss from your bones,\\nCoz you helped to give a lickin\\nTo them poor half-Spanish drones\\nJest go home an ask our Nancy\\nWether I d be sech a goose\\nEz to jine ye, guess you d fancy\\nThe etarnal bung wuz loose\\nShe wants me fer home consumption.\\nLet alone the hay s to mow,\\nEf you re arter folks o gumption.\\nYou ve a darned long row to hoe.\\nTake them editors thet s crowin\\nLike a cockerel three months old,\\nDon t ketch any on em goin\\nThough they he so blasted bold\\nAi7iH they a prime set o fellers\\nTore they think on t they will sprout,\\n(Like a peach thet s got the yellers,)\\nWith the meanness bustin out.\\nWal, go long to help em stealin\\nBigger pens to cram with slaves.\\nHelp the men thet s oilers dealin\\nInsults on your fathers graves", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0066.jp2"}, "67": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 43\\nHelp the strong to grind the feeble.\\nHelp the many agin the few.\\nHelp the men thet call your people\\nWitewashed slaves an peddling crew\\nMassachusetts, God forgive her.\\nShe s akneelin with the rest.\\nShe, thet ough to ha clung fer ever\\nIn her grand old eagle-nest\\nShe thet ough to stand so fearless\\nWile the wracks are round her hurled,\\nHoldin up a beacon peerless\\nTo the oppressed of all the world\\nHain t they sold your colored seamen\\nHain t they made your env ys wiz\\nWut 11 make ye act like freemen\\nWut 11 git your dander riz\\nCome, I 11 tell ye wut I m thinkin\\nIs our dooty in this fix.\\nThey d ha done t ez quick ez winkin\\nIn the days 0 seventy-six.\\nClang the bells in every steeple,\\nCall all true men to disown\\nThe tradoocers of our people.\\nThe enslavers o their own\\nLet our dear old Bay State proudly\\nPut the trumpet to her mouth.\\nLet her ring this messidge loudly\\nIn the ears of all the South", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0067.jp2"}, "68": {"fulltext": "44 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nI 11 return ye good fer evil\\nMuch ez we frail mortils can,\\nBut I wun t go help the Devil\\nMakin man the cus o^ man\\nCall me coward, call me traiter.\\nJest ez suits your mean idees,\\nHere I stand a tyrant-hater.\\nAn the friend o^ God an Peace\\nEf I d 7n^ way I hed ruther\\nWe should go to work an part,\\nThey take one way, we take t other,\\nGuess it would n t break my heart\\nMan hed ough to put asunder\\nThem thet God has noways jined\\nAn I should n t gretly wonder\\nEf there s thousands o my mind.\\n[The first recruiting sergeant on record I conceive\\nto have been that individual who is mentioned in the\\nBook of Job as going to and fro in the earth, and ivalk-\\ning up and doion ui it. Bishop Latimer will have him\\nto have been a bishop, but to me that other calling\\nwould appear more congenial. The sect of Cainites is\\nnot yet extinct, who esteemed the firstborn of Adam\\nto be the most worthy, not only because of that priv-\\nilege of primogeniture, but inasmuch as he was able to\\novercome and slay his younger brother. That was a\\nwise saying of the famous Marquis Pescara to the Papal\\nLegate, that it was impossihle for men to serve Mars\\nand Christ at the same time. Yet in time past the pro-\\nfession of arms was judged to be xar i^o^rjv that of a\\ngentleman, nor does this opinion want for strenuous", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0068.jp2"}, "69": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 45\\nupholders even in our day. Must we suppose, then,\\nthat the profession of Christianity was only intended\\nfor losels, or, at best, to aiford an opening for plebeian\\nambition Or shall we hold with that nicely meta-\\nphysical Pomeranian, Captain Vratz, who was Count\\nKonigsmark s chief instrument in the murder of Mr.\\nThynne, that the Scheme of Salvation has been ar-\\nranged with an especial eye to the necessities of the\\nupper classes, and that God would consider a gentle-\\nman and deal with him suitably to the condition and\\nprofession he had placed him in It may be said of\\nus all, Exe7nplo plus quam ratione vivirnus. H. W.]", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0069.jp2"}, "70": {"fulltext": "No. II.\\nA LETTER\\nFROM MR. HOSEA BIGLOW TO THE HON J. T. BUCK-\\nIKGHAM, EDITOR OF THE BOSTON COURIER, COVERING\\nA LETTER FROM MR. B. SAWIN, PRIVATE IN THE\\nMASSACHUSETTS REGIMENT.\\n[This letter of Mr. Sawin s was not originally written\\nin verse. Mr. Biglow, thinking it peculiarly suscep-\\ntible of metrical adornment, translated it, so to speak,\\ninto his own vernacular tongue. This is not the time\\nto consider the question, whether rhyme be a mode of\\nexpression natural to the human race. If leisure from\\nother and more important avocations be granted, I\\nwill handle the matter more at large in an appendix to\\nthe present volume. In this place I will barely remark,\\nthat I have sometimes noticed in the unlanguaged prat-\\ntlings of infants a fondness for alliteration, assonance,\\nand even rhyme, in which natural predisposition we\\nmay trace the three degrees through which our Anglo-\\nSaxon verse rose to its culmination in the poetry of\\nPope. I would not be understood as questioning in\\nthese remarks that pious theory which supposes that\\nchildren, if left entirely to themselves, would naturally\\ndiscourse in Hebrew. For this the authority of one\\nexperiment is claimed, and I could, Avith Sir Thomas\\nBrowne, desire its establishment, inasmuch as the\\n40", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0070.jp2"}, "71": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 47\\nacquirement of that sacred tongue would thereby be\\nfacilitated. I am aware that Herodotus states the\\nconclusion of Psammeticus to have been in favor of a\\ndialect of the Phrygian. But, beside the chance that\\na trial of this importance would hardly be blessed to a\\nPagan monarch whose only motive was curiosity, we\\nhave on the Hebrew side the comparatively recent\\ninvestigation of James the Fourth of Scotland. I will\\nadd to this prefatory remark, that Mr. Sawin, though\\na native of Jaalam, has never been a stated attendant\\non the religious exercises of my congregation. I con-\\nsider my humble efforts prospered in that not one of\\nmy sheep hath ever indued the wolf s clothing of\\nwar, save for the comparatively innocent diversion of a\\nmilitia training. Not that my flock are backward to\\nundergo the hardship of defensive warfare. They serve\\ncheerfully in the great army which fights even unto\\ndeath jt?ro aris et focis, accoutred with the spade, the\\naxe, the plane, the sledge, the spelling-book, and other\\nsuch effectual weapons against want and ignorance and\\nunthrift. I have taught them (under God) to esteem\\nour human institutions as but tents of a night, to be\\nstricken whenever Truth puts the bugle to her lips\\nand sounds a march to the heights of wider-viewed\\nintelligence and more perfect organization. H. W.]\\nMister Buckinum, the follerin Billet was writ hum\\nby a Yung feller of our town that wuz cussed fool\\nenuff to goe atrottin inter Miss Chiff arter a Drum and\\nfife, it ain t Nater for a feller to let on that he s sick\\no any bizness that He went intu off his own free will\\nand a Cord, but I rather cal late he s middlin tired 0\\nvoluntearin By this Time. I bleeve u may put de-", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0071.jp2"}, "72": {"fulltext": "48 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\npendunts on his statemence. For I never heered notliin\\nbad on him let Alone his havin what Parson Wilbur\\ncals a pongsliong for cocktales, and he ses it wuz a\\nsoshiashun of idees sot him agoin arter the Crootin\\nSargient cos he wore a cocktale onto his hat.\\nhis Folks gin the letter to me and i shew it to parson\\nWilbur and he ses it oughter Bee printed, send It to\\nmister Buckinnm, ses he, i don^t allers agree with him,\\nses he, but by Time,* ses he, I du like a feller that\\nain t a Feared.\\nI have intusspussed a Few refleckshuns hear and thair.\\nWe re kind o prest with Hayin.\\nEwers respecfly\\nHOSEA BIGLOW.\\nThis kind o sogerin ain t a mite like our October\\ntrainin\\nA chap could clear right out from there ef t only\\nlooked like rainin\\nAn th Gunnies, tu, could kiver up their shappoes\\nwith bandanners.\\nAn send the insines skootin to the barroom with their\\nbanners,\\n(Fear o gittin on em spotted,) an a feller could cry\\nquarter\\nIn relation to this expression, I cannot but think that\\nMr. Biglow has been too hasty in attributing it to me. Though\\nTime be a comparatively innocent personage to swear hy,\\nand though Longinus in his discourse Titpt Tipovg has com-\\nmended timely oaths as not only a useful but sublime figure\\nof speech, yet I have always kept my lips free from that\\nabomination. Odi profanum vulgus, I hate your swearing\\nand hectoring fellows. H. W.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0072.jp2"}, "73": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 49\\nEf he fired away his ramrod arter tu much rum an\\nwater.\\nKecollect wut fun we hed, you ^n I an Ezry Hollis,\\nUp there to Waltham plain last fall, ahavin the Corn-\\nwallis\\nThis sort o thing ain t yes^ like thet, I wish thet I was\\nfurder, f\\nNimepunce a day fer killin folks comes kind o* low fer\\nmurder,\\n(Wy I \\\\e worked out to slarterin^ some fer Deacon Ce-\\nphas Billins,\\nAn in the hardest times there wuz I oilers tetched ten\\nshillins.\\nThere s sutthin gits into my throat thet makes it hard\\nto swaller.\\nIt comes so nateral to think about a hempen collar\\nIt s glory, but, in spite o all my tryin to git callous,\\nI feel a kind o in a cart, aridin to the gallus.\\nBut wen it comes to dein^ killed, I tell ye I felt\\nstreaked\\nThe fust time ever I found out wy baggonets wuz\\npeaked\\nHere s how it wuz I started out to go to a fandango.\\nThe sentinul he-ups an sez, ^^Thet s furder an you\\ncan go.\\nNone o your sarse, sez I sez he, Stan back\\nAin t you a buster\\nSez I, ^I m up to all thet air, I guess I ve ben to\\nmuster\\ni halt the Site of a feller with a muskit as I du pizn But\\ntheir is fun to a cornwallis I ain t agoin to deny it.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 H. B.\\nI he means Not quite so fur i guess. H. B,\\n4", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0073.jp2"}, "74": {"fulltext": "50 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nI know wy sentinuls air sot you ain t agoin to eat\\nus\\nCaleb hain t no monopoly to court theseenoreetas\\nMy folks to hum air full ez good ez hisn be, by golly\\nAn so Gz I wuz goin by, not thinkin wut would folly,\\nThe everlastin ens he stuok his one-pronged pitchfork\\nin me\\nAn made a hole right thru my close ez ef I wuz an\\nin my.\\nWal, it beats all how big I felt hoorawin in ole Fun-\\nnel\\nWen Mister Bollesr he gin the sword to our Leftenant\\nCunnle,\\n(It s Mister Secondary Bolles,* thet writ the prize\\npeace essay\\nThet s why he did n t list himself along o us, I dessay,)\\nAn Rantoul, tu, talked pooty loud, but don t put his\\nfoot in it,\\nCoz human life s so sacred thet he s principled agin\\nit-\\nThough I myself can t rightly see it s any wus achokin\\non em\\nThan puttin bullets thru their lights, or with a bagnet\\npokin on em\\nHow dreffle slick he reeled it off, (like Blitz at our\\nlyceum\\nAhaulin ribbins from his chops so quick you skeercely\\nsee em,)\\nAbout the Anglo-Saxon race (an saxons would be\\nhandy\\nTo du the buryin down here upon the Eio Grandy),\\nthe ignerant creeter means Sekketary but he oilers stuck\\nto his books like cobbler s wax to an ile-stone. H. B.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0074.jp2"}, "75": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 51\\nAbout onr patriotic pas an onr star-spangled banner.\\nOur country s bird alookin on an singin out hosauner.\\nAn how he (Mister B. himself) wuz happy fer Amer-\\niky,\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nI felt, ez sister Patience sez, a leetle mite histericky.\\nI felt, I swon, ez though it wuz a dreffle kind o privi-\\nlege\\nAtrampin round thru Boston streets among the gutter s\\ndrivelage\\nI act lly thought it wuz a treat to hear a little drum-\\nmin\\nAn it did bonyfidy seem millanyum wuz acomin\\nWen all on us got suits (darned like them wore in the\\nstate prison)\\nAn every feller felt ez though all Mexico wuz hisn.*\\nThis ere s about the meanest place a skunk could wal\\ndiskiver\\n(Saltillo s Mexican, I b lieve, fer wut we call Saltriver).\\nThe sort o trash a feller gits to eat doos beat all nater,\\nI d give a year s pay fer a smell o one good bluenose\\ntater\\nThe country here that Mister Bolles declared to be so\\ncharmin\\nThroughout is swarmin with the most alarmin kind o\\nvarmin\\nit must be aloud that thare s a streak o nater in levin she,\\nbut it sartinly is 1 of the curusost things in nater to see a ris-\\npecktable dri goods dealer (deekon off a chutch may by) a\\nriggin himself out in the Weigh they du and struttin round\\nin the Reign aspilin his trowsis and makin wet goods of him-\\nself. Ef any thin s foolisher and moor dicklus than militerry\\ngloary it is milishy gloary. H. B,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0075.jp2"}, "76": {"fulltext": "52 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nHe talked about delishis f roots, but then it wuz a wopper\\nall.\\nThe hoU on t s mud an prickly pears, with here an\\nthere a chapparal\\nYou see a feller peekin out, an fust you know, a lariat\\nIs round your throat an you a copse, fore you can say,\\nWut air ye at\\nYou never see sech darned gret bugs (it may not be\\nirrelevant\\nTo say I ve seen a scarabceus pilularius t big ez a year\\nold elephant,)\\nThe rigiment come up one day in time to stop a red\\nbug\\nFrom runnin off with Cunnle Wright, t wuz jest a\\ncommon cimex lectularius.\\nOne night I started up on eend an thought I wuz to\\nhum agin,\\nI heern a horn, thinks I it s Sol the fisherman hez come\\nagin.\\nHis bellowses is sound enough, ez I m a livin creeter,\\nI felt a thing go thru my leg, t wuz nothin more n\\na skeeter\\nThen there s the yaller fever, tu, they call it here el\\nvomito,\\n(Come, thet wun t du, you landcrab there, I tell ye to\\nle go my toe\\nthese fellers are verry proppilly called Rank Heroes, and\\nthe more tha kill the ranker and more Herowick tha bekum.\\nH. B.\\nf it wuz tumblebug as he Writ it, but the parson put the\\nLatten instid. i sed tother maid better meeter, but he said\\ntha was eddykated peepl to Boston and tha would n t stan it\\nno how. idnow as tha wood and idnow as tha wood. H. B,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0076.jp2"}, "77": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 53\\nMy gracious it s a scorpion thet s took a shine to\\nplay with t,\\nI dars n t skeer the tarnal thing f er fear he d run away\\nwith t.)\\nAfore I come away from hum I hed a strong persuasion\\nThet Mexicans worn t human beans,* an ourang\\noutang nation,\\nA sort o folks a chap could kill an never dream on t\\narter,\\nNo more n a feller d dream o pigs thet he hed hed to\\nslarter\\nI d an idee thet they were built arter the darkie fashion\\nall,\\nAn kickin colored folks about, you know, s a kind o\\nnational\\nBut when I jined I worn t so wise ez thet air queen o\\nSheby,\\nFer, come to look at em, they ain t much diff rent from\\nwut we be,\\nAn here we air ascrougin em out o thir own do-\\nminions,\\nAshelterin em, ez Caleb sez, under our eagle s pin-\\nions,\\nWich means to take a feller up jest by the slack o s\\ntrowsis\\nAn walk him Spanish clean right out o all his homes\\nan houses\\nWal, it doos seem a curus way, but then hooraw fer\\nJackson\\nIt must be right, fer Caleb sez it s reglar Anglo-saxon.\\nhe means human beins, that s wut he means. I spose he\\nkinder thought tha wuz human beans ware the Xisle Poles\\ncomes from, H. B.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0077.jp2"}, "78": {"fulltext": "54 THE BIGLOW PAPERS,\\nThe Mexicans don t fight fair, they say, they piz n all\\nthe water.\\nAn du amazin lots o things thet is n t wut they ough to\\nBein they hain t no lead, they make their bullets out o\\ncopper\\nAn shoot the darned things at us, tu, wich Caleb sez\\nain t proper\\nHe sez they d ough to stan right up an let us pop em\\nfairly,\\n(Guess wen he ketches em at thet he 11 hev to git up\\nairly,)\\nThet our nation s bigger n theirn an so its rights air\\nbigger,\\nAn thet it s all to make ^em free thet we air pullin trig-\\nger,\\nThet Anglo Saxondom s idee s abreakin em to pieces.\\nAn thet idee s thet every man doos jest wut he damn\\npleases\\nEf I don t make his meanin clear, perhaps in some re-\\nspex I can,\\nI know thet every man don t mean a nigger or a\\nMexican\\nAn there s another thing I know, an thet is, ef these\\ncreeturs,\\nThet stick an Anglosaxon mask onto State-prison\\nfeeturs.\\nShould come to Jaalam Centre fer to argify an spout\\non t,\\nThe gals ould count the silver spoons the minnit they\\ncleared out on t.\\nThis goin ware glory waits ye hain t one agreeable\\nfeetur,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0078.jp2"}, "79": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 55\\nAn if it worn t fer wakin snakes, V d home agin short\\nmeter\\n0, would n t I be off, quick time, eft worn t that I\\nwuz sartin\\nThey d let the daylight into me to pay me fer desartin\\nI don t approve o tellin tales, but jest to you I may\\nstate\\nOur ossifers ain t wiit they wuz afore they left the Bay-\\nstate\\nThen it wuz Mister Sawin, sir, you re middlin well\\nnow, be ye\\nStep up an take a nipper, sir I m dreffle glad to see\\nye\\nBut now it s Ware s my eppylet here, Sawin, step\\nan fetch it\\nAn mind your eye, be thund rin spry, or, damn ye,\\nyou shall ketch it\\nWal, ez the Doctor sez, some pork will bile so, but by\\nmighty,\\nEf I hed some on em to hum, I d give em linkum vity,\\nI d play the rogue s march on their hides an other\\nmusic follerin\\nBut I must close my letter here, for one on em s ahol-\\nlerin\\nThese Anglosaxon ossifers, wal, tain t no use ajawin\\nI m safe enlisted fer the war,\\nYourn,\\nBIRDOFREDOM SAWIN.\\n[Those have not been wanting (as, indeed, when hath\\nSatan been to seek for attorneys who have maintained\\nthat our late inroad upon Mexico was undertaken, not\\nso much for the avenging of any national quarrel, as for", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0079.jp2"}, "80": {"fulltext": "56 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nthe spreading of free institutions and of Protestantism.\\nCapita vix duahus Anticyris medenda Verily lad-\\nmire that no pious sergeant among these new Cru-\\nsaders beheld Martin Luther riding at the front of the\\nhost upon a tamed pontifical bull, as, in that former\\ninvasion of Mexico, the zealous Diaz (spawn though he\\nwere of the Scarlet Woman) was favored with a vision\\nof St. James of Oompostella, skewering the infidels upon\\nhis apostolical lance. We read, also, that Richard of\\nthe lion heart, having gone to Palestine on a similar\\nerrand of mercy, was divinely encouraged to cut the\\nthroats of such Paynims as refused to swallow the\\nbread of life (doubtless that they might be thereafter\\nincapacitated for swallowing the filthy gobbets of Ma-\\nhound) by angels of heaven, who cried to the king and\\nhis knights, Seigneurs, tuez tuez providentially\\nusing the French tongue, as being the only one under-\\nstood by their auditors. This would argue for the pan-\\ntoglottism of these celestial intelligences, while, on the\\nother hand, the Devil teste Cotton Mather, is unversed\\nin certain of the Indian dialects. Yet must he be a\\nsemeiologist the most expert, making himself intelligible\\nto every people and kindred by signs no other dis-\\ncourse, indeed, being needful, than such as the mack-\\nerel-fisher holds with his finned quarry, who, if other\\nbait be wanting, can by a bare bit of white rag at the\\nend of a string captivate those foolish fishes. Such pis-\\ncatorial oratory is Satan cunning in. Before one he\\ntrails a hat and feather or a bare feather without a hat\\nbefore another, a Presidential chair, or a tidewaiter s\\nstool, or a pulpit in the city, no matter what. To us,\\ndangling there over our heads, they seem junkets\\ndropped out of the seventh heaven, sops dipped iu", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0080.jp2"}, "81": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 57\\nnectar, but, once in our mouths, they are all one, bits\\nof fuzzy cotton.\\nThis, however, by the way. It is time now revocare\\ngradum. While so many miracles of this sort, vouched\\nby eyewitnesses, have encouraged the arms of Papists,\\nnot to speak of those Dioscuri (whom we must conclude\\nimps of the pit) who sundry times captained the pagan\\nRoman soldiery, it is strange that our first American\\ncrusade was not in some such wise also signalized.\\nYet it is said that the Lord hath manifestly prospered\\nour armies. This opens the question, whether, when\\nour hands are strengthened to make great slaughter of\\nour enemies, it be absolutely and demonstratively cer-\\ntain that this might is added to us from above, or\\nwhether some Potentate from an opposite quarter may\\nnot have a finger in it, as there are few pies into which\\nhis meddling digits are not thrust. Would the Sancti-\\nfier and Setter-apart of the seventh day have assisted in\\na victory gained on the Sabbath, as was one in the late\\nwar Or has that day become less an object of his es-\\npecial care since the year 1697, when so manifest a pro-\\nvidence occurred to Mr. William Trowbridge, in answer\\nto whose prayers, when he and all on shipboard with\\nhim were starving, a dolphin was sent daily, which\\nwas enough to serve em only on Saturdays they still\\ncatched a couple, and on the Lord s Days they could\\ncatch none at all Haply they might have been per-\\nmitted, by way of mortification, to take some few scul-\\npins (those banes of the salt-water angler), which un-\\nseemly fish would, moreover, have conveyed to them a\\nsymbolical reproof for their breach of the day, being\\nknown in the rude dialect of our mariners as Cajye Cod\\nClergymen,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0081.jp2"}, "82": {"fulltext": "58 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nIt has been a refreshment to many nice consciences\\nto know that our Chief Magistrate would not regard\\nwith eyes of approval the (by many esteemed) sinful\\npastime of dancing, and I own myself to be so far of\\nthat mind, that I could not but set my face against this\\nMexican Polka, though danced to the Presidential pip-\\ning with a Gubernatorial second. If ever the country\\nshould be seized with another such mania de propa-\\nganda fide, I think it would be Avise to fill our bomb-\\nshells with alternate copies of the Cambridge Platform\\nand the Thirty-nine Articles, which would produce a\\nmixture of the highest explosive power, and to wrap\\nevery one of our cannon-balls in a leaf of the New Tes-\\ntament, the reading of which is denied to those who\\ngit in the darkness of Popery. Those iron evangelists\\nwould thus be able to disseminate vital religion and\\nGospel truth in quarters inaccessible to the ordinary\\nmissionary. I have seen lads, unimpregnate with the\\nmore sublimated punctiliousness of Walton, secure\\npickerel, taking their unwary siesta beneath the lily-\\npads too nigh the surface, with a gun and small shot.\\nWhy not, then, since gunpowder was unknown to the\\nApostles (not to enter here upon the question whether\\nit were discovered before that period by the Chinese),\\nsuit our metaphor to the age in which we live and say\\nshooters as well sls fishers of men\\nI do much fear that we shall be seized now and then\\nwith a Protestant fervor, as long as we have neighbor\\nNaboths whose wallowings in Papistical mire excite our\\nhorror in exact proportion to the size and desirableness\\nof their vineyards. Yet I rejoice that some earnest\\nProtestants have been made by this war, I mean those\\nwho protested against it. Fewer they were than I", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0082.jp2"}, "83": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 59\\nconld wish, for one miglit imagine America to have\\nbeen colonized by a tribe of those nondescript African\\nanimals the Aye-Ayes, so difficult a word is JVo to us\\nall. There is some malformation or defect of the vocal\\norgans, which either prevents our uttering it at all, or\\ngives it so thick a pronunciation as to be unintelligible.\\nA mouth filled with the national pudding, or watering\\nin expectation thereof, is wholly incompetent to this\\nrefractory monosyllable. An abject and herpetic Pub-\\nlic Opinion is the Pope, the Anti-Christ, for us to pro-\\ntest against e corde cordium. And by what College of\\nCardinals is this our GodVvicar, our binder and looser,\\nelected Very like, by the sacred conclave of Tag,\\nRag, and Bobtail, in the gracious atmosphere of the\\ngrog-shop. Yet it is of this that we must all be puppets.\\nThis thumps the pulpit-cushion, this guides the editor s\\npen, this wags the senator s tongue. This decides\\nwhat Scriptures are canonical, and shuffles Christ away\\ninto the Apocrypha. According to that sentence fath-\\nered upon Solon, Ootud drjiJ.6 nov xaxov epyerat ol xaS\\nixdffTo). This unclean spirit is skilful to assume various\\nshapes. I have known it to enter my own study and\\nnudge my elbow of a Saturday, under the semblance of\\na wealthy member of my congregation. It were a\\ngreat blessing, if every particular of what in the sum\\nwe call popular sentiment could carry about the name\\nof its manufacturer stamped legibly upon it. I gave a\\nstab under the fifth rib to that pestilent fallacy, Our\\ncountry, right or wrong, by tracing its original to a\\nspeech of Ensign Cilley at a dinner of the Bungtown\\nFencibles.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 H. W.]", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0083.jp2"}, "84": {"fulltext": "No. III.\\nWHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS.\\n[A FEW remarks on the following verses will not be\\nout of place. The satire in them was not meant to\\nhave any personal, but only a general, application. Of\\nthe gentleman upon whose letter they were intended as\\na commentary Mr. Biglow had never heard, till he saw\\nthe letter itself. The position of the satirist is often-\\ntimes one which he would not have chosen, had the\\nelection been left to himself. In attacking bad prin-\\nciples, he is obliged to select some individual who has\\nmade himself their exponent, and in whom they are\\nimpersonate, to the end that what he says may not,\\nthrough ambiguity, be dissipated tenues in auras. For\\nwhat says Seneca Longum iter per prcecepta, hreve et\\nefficace per exempla. A bad principle is comparatively\\nharmless while it continues to be an abstraction, nor can\\nthe general mind comprehend it fully till it is printed\\nin that large type which all men can read at sight,\\nnamely, the life and character, the sayings and doings,\\nof particular persons. It is one of the cunningest\\nfetches of Satan, that he never exposes himself directly\\nto our arrows, but, still dodging behind this neighbor\\nor that acquaintance, compels us to wound him through\\nthem, if at all. He holds our affections as hostages,\\nthe while he patches up a truce with our conscience.\\nMeanwhile, let us not forget that the aim of the true\\n60", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0084.jp2"}, "85": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. Ql\\nsatirist is not to be severe upon persons, but only upon\\nfalsehood, and, as Truth and Falsehood start from the\\nsame point, and sometimes even go along together for a\\nlittle way, his business is to follow the path of the lat-\\nter after it diverges, and to show her floundering in the\\nbog at the end of it. Truth is quite beyond the reach\\nof satire. There is so brave a simplicity in her, that\\nshe can no more be made ridiculous than an oak or\\npine. The danger of the satirist is, that continual use\\nmay deaden his sensibility to the force of language.\\nHe becomes more and more liable to strike harder than\\nhe knows or intends. He may be careful to put on his\\nboxing-gloves, and yet forget, that, the older they\\ngrow, the more plainly may the knuckles inside be felt.\\nMoreover, in the heat of contest, the eye is insensibly\\ndrawn to the crown of victory, whose tawdry tinsel\\nglitters through that dust of the ring which obscures\\nTruth s wreath of simple leaves. I have sometimes\\nthought that my young friend, Mr. Biglow, needed a\\nmonitory hand laid on his arm, aliquid sufflaminan-\\ndus erat. I have never thought it good husbandry to\\nwater the tender plants of reform with aqua fortis, yet,\\nwhere so much is to do in the beds, he were a sorry\\ngardener who should wage a whole day s war with an\\niron scuffle on those ill weeds that make the garden-\\nwalks of life unsightly, when a sprinkle of Attic salt\\nwill wither them up. Est ars etiam maledicendi, says\\nScaliger, and truly it is a hard thing to say where the\\ngraceful gentleness of the lamb merges in downright\\nsheepishness. We may conclude with worthy and wise\\nDr. Fuller, that one may be a lamb in private wrongs,\\nbut in hearing general affronts to goodness they are\\nasses which are not lions. H. W.]", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0085.jp2"}, "86": {"fulltext": "62 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nGuvENER B. is a sensible man\\nHe stays to his home an looks arter his folks\\nHe draws his furrer ez straight ez he can.\\nAn into nobody s tater-patch pokes\\nBut John P.\\nRobinson he\\nSez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.\\nMy ain t it terrible Wut shall we du\\nWe can t never choose him, o course, thet s flat\\nGuess we shall hev to come round, (don t you\\nAn go in fer thunder an guns, an all that\\nFer John P.\\nRobinson he\\nSez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.\\nGineral 0. is a dreffle smart man\\nHe s ben on all sides thet give places or pelf\\nBut consistency still wuz a part of his plan,\\nHe s ben true to one party,\u00e2\u0080\u0094 an thet is himself\\nSo John P.\\nRobinson he\\nSez he shall vote fer Gineral 0.\\nGineral C. he goes in fer the war,;\\nHe don t vally principle more n an old cud\\nWut did God make us raytional creeturs fer.\\nBut glory an gunpowder, plunder an blood\\nSo John P.\\nRobinson he\\nSez he shall vote fer Gineral C.\\nWe were gittin on nicely up here to our village.\\nWith good old idees o wut s right an wut ain t.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0086.jp2"}, "87": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 63\\nWe kind o thought Christ went agin war an^ pil-\\nlage.\\nAn thet epplyetts worn t the best mark of a saint\\nBut John P.\\nRobinson he\\nSez this kind o thing s an exploded idee.\\nThe side of our country must oilers be took,\\nAn Presidunt Polk, you know, he is our country\\nAn the angel thet writes all our sins in a book\\nPuts the debit to him, an to us the per contry\\nAn John P.\\nRobinson he\\nSez this is his view o the thing to a T.\\nParson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts-Jies\\nSez they re nothin on airth but jest fee, faw,\\nfum\\nAn thet all this big talk of our destinies\\nIs half on it ignorance, an t other half rum\\nBut John P.\\nRobinson he\\nSez it ain t no sech thing an of course, so must\\nwe.\\nParson Wilbur sez lie never heerd in his life\\nThet th Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail\\ncoats.\\nAn marched round in front of a drum an a fife.\\nTo git some on em office, an some on em votes\\nBut John P.\\nRobinson he\\nSez they did n t know everythin down in Judee.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0087.jp2"}, "88": {"fulltext": "04 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nWal, it s a niarcy we \\\\e gut folks to tell ns\\nThe rights an the wrongs o these matters, I vow,\\nGod sends country lawyers, an other wise fellers.\\nTo drive the world s team wen it gits in a slough\\nFer John P.\\nRobinson he\\nSez the world 11 go right, ef he hollers out Gee\\n[The attentive reader will doubtless have perceived in\\nthe foregoing poem an allusion to that pernicious sen-\\ntiment, Our country, right or wrong. It is an\\nabuse of language to call a certain portion of land, much\\nmore, certain personages elevated for the time being to\\nhigh station, our country. I would not sever nor loosen\\na single one of those ties by which we are united to the\\nspot of our birth, nor minish by a tittle the respect\\ndue to the Magistrate. I love our own Bay State too\\nwell to do the one, and as for the other, I have myself\\nfor nigh forty years exercised, however unworthily, the\\nfunction of Justice of the Peace, having been called\\nthereto by the unsolicited kindness of that most excellent\\nman and upright patriot, Caleb Strong. Patrim fumus\\nigne alieno luculentior is best qualified with this, TJhi\\nlilertas, ihi patria. We are inhabitants of two worlds,\\nand owe a double, but not a divided, allegiance. In vir-\\ntue of our clay, this little ball of earth exacts a certain\\nloyalty of us, while, in our capacity as spirits, we are\\nadmitted citizens of an invisible and holier fatherland.\\nThere is a patriotism of the soul whose claim absolves\\nus from our other and terrene fealty. Our true coun-\\ntry is that ideal realm which we represent to ourselves\\nunder the names of religion, duty, and, the like. Our\\nterrestrial organizations are but far-off approaches to so", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0088.jp2"}, "89": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 65\\nfair a model, and they all are verily traitors who resist\\nnot any attempt to divert them from this their original\\nintendment. When, therefore, one would have us to\\nfling up our caps and shout with the multitude, Our\\ncountry, hotvever bomided! he demands of us that we\\nsacrifice the larger to the less, the higher to the lower,\\nand that we yield to the imaginary claims of a few acres\\nof soil our duty and privilege as liegemen of Truth.\\nOur true country is bounded on the north and the south,\\non the east and the west, by Justice, and when she over-\\nsteps that invisible boundary-line by so much as a hair s\\nbreadth, she ceases to be our mother, and chooses rather\\nto be looked upon quasi noverca. That is a hard choice,\\nwhen our earthly love of country calls upon us to\\ntread one path and our duty points us to another. We\\nmust make as noble and becoming an election as did\\nPenelope between Icarius and Ulysses. Veiling our\\nfaces, we must take silently the hand of Duty to follow\\nher.\\nShortly after the publication of the foregoing poem,\\nthere appeared some comments upon it in one of the\\npublic prints which seemed to call for some animadver-\\nsion. I accordingly addressed to Mr. Buckingham, of\\nthe Boston Courier, the following letter.\\nJaalam, November 4, 1847.\\nTo the Editor of the Courier\\nRespected Sir, Calling at the post office this\\nmorning, our worthy and efficient postmaster offered\\nfor my perusal a paragraph in the Boston Morning-\\nPost of the 3d instant, wherein certain effusions of the\\npastoral muse are attributed to the pen of Mr. James\\nRussell Lowell. For aught I know or can affirm to\\n5", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0089.jp2"}, "90": {"fulltext": "QQ THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nthe contrary, this Mr. Lowell may be a very deserving,\\nperson and a youth of parts (though I have seen verses\\nof his which I could never rightly understand) and if\\nhe be such, he, I am certain, as well as I, would be\\nfree from any proclivity to appropriate to himself what-\\never of credit (or discredit) may honestly belong to an-\\nother. I am confident, that, in penning these few\\nlines, I am only forestalling a disclaimer from that\\nyoung gentleman, whose silence hitherto, when rumor\\npointed to himward, has excited in my bosom mingled\\nemotions of sorrow and surprise. Well may my young\\nparishioner, Mr. Biglow, exclaim with the poet.\\nSic vos non robis, c.\\nthough, in saying this, I would not convey the impres-\\nsion that he is a proficient in the Latin tongue, the\\ntongue, I might add, of a Horace and a Tully.\\nMr. B. does not employ his pen, I can safely say,\\nfor any lucre of worldly gain, or to be exalted by the\\ncarnal plaudits of men, digito monstrari, c. He does\\nnot wait upon Providence for mercies, and in his heart\\nmean merces. But I should esteem myself as verily de-\\nficient in my duty (who am his friend and in some\\nunworthy sort his spiritual ^t??^5 Achates, c.), if I did\\nnot step forward to claim for him whatever measure of\\napplause might be assigned to him by the judicious.\\nIf this were a fitting occasion, I might venture\\nhere a brief dissertation touching the manner and kind\\nof my young friend s poetry. But I dubitate whether\\nthis abstruser sort of speculation (though enlivened by\\nsome apposite instances from Aristophanes) would\\nsufficiently interest your oppidan readers. As regards\\ntheir satirical tone, and their plainness of speech, I", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0090.jp2"}, "91": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 67\\nwill only say, that, in my pastoral experience, I have\\nfound that the Arch-Enemy loves nothing better than\\nto be treated as a religious, moral, and intellectual\\nbeing, and that there is no apage Sathanas so potent\\nas ridicule. But it is a kind of weapon that must\\nhave a button of good-nature on the point of it.\\nThe productions of Mr. B. have been stigmatized\\nin some quarters as unpatriotic but I can vouch that\\nhe loves his native soil with that hearty, though dis-\\ncriminating, attachment which springs from an inti-\\nmate social intercourse of many years standing. In\\nthe ploughing season, no one has a deeper share in the\\nwell-being of the country than he. If Dean Swift were\\nright in saying that he who makes two blades of grass\\ngrow where one grew before confers a greater benefit\\non the state than he who taketh a city, Mr. B. might\\nexhibit a fairer claim to the Presidency than General\\nScott himself. I think that some of those disinterested\\nlovers of the hard-handed democracy, whose fingers\\nhave never touched anything rougher than the dollars\\nof our common country, would hesitate to compare\\npalms with him. It would do your heart good, re-\\nspected Sir, to see that young man mow. He cuts a\\ncleaner and wider swarth than any in his town.\\nBut it is time for me to be at my Post. It is very\\nclear that my young friend s shot has struck the lintel,\\nfor the Post is shaken (Amos ix. 1). The editor of\\nthat paper is a strenuous advocate of the Mexican war,\\nand a colonel, as I am given to understand. I presume,\\nthat, being necessarily absent in Mexico, he has left his\\njournal in some less judicious hands. At any rate the\\nPost has been too swift on this occasion. It could\\nhardly have cited a more incontrovertible line from", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0091.jp2"}, "92": {"fulltext": "68 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nany poem than that which it has selected for animad-\\nversion, namely,\\nWe kind o thought Christ went agin war an pillage.\\nIf the Post maintains the converse of this propo-\\nsition, it can hardly be considered as a safe guidepost\\nfor the moral and religious portions of its party, how-\\never many other excellent qualities of a post it may be\\nblessed with. There is a sign in London on which is\\npainted, The Green Man. It would do very well as\\na portrait of any individual who would support so un-\\nscriptural a thesis. As regards the language of the\\nline in question, I am bold to say that He who readeth\\nthe hearts of men will not account any dialect unseemly\\nwhich conveys a sound and pious sentiment. I could\\nwish that such sentiments were more common, how-\\never uncouthly expressed. Saint Ambrose affirms, that\\nVeritas a quocunque (why not, then, quomodocunque?)\\ndicatur a S2nritu sancto est. Digest also this of Bax-\\nter The plainest words are the most profitable\\noratory in the weightiest matters.\\nWhen the paragraph in question was shown to Mr.\\nBiglow, the only part of it which seemed to give him\\nany dissatisfaction was that which classed him with the\\nWhig party. He says, that, if resolutions are a nour-\\nishing kind of diet, that party must be in a very hearty\\nand flourishing condition for that they have quietly\\neaten more good ones of their own baking than he could\\nhave conceived to be possible without repletion. He\\nhas been for some years past (I regret to say) an ardent\\nopponent of those sound doctrines of protective policy\\nwhich form so prominent a portion of the creed of that\\nparty. I confess, that, in some discussions which I^", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0092.jp2"}, "93": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 59\\nhave had with him on this point in my study, he has\\ndisplayed a vein of obstinacy which I had not hitherto\\ndetected in his composition. He is also (horresco ref-\\nerens infected in no small measure with the peculiar\\nnotions of a print called the Liberator, whose heresies\\nI take every proper opportunity of combating, and of\\nwhich, I thank God, I have never read a single line.\\nI did not see Mr. B. s verses until they appeared\\nin print, and there is certainly one thing in them which\\nI consider highly improper. I allude to the personal\\nreferences to myself by name. To confer notoriety on\\nan humble individual who is laboring quietly in his vo-\\ncation, and who keeps his cloth as free as he can from\\nthe dust of the political arena (though v(b milii si non\\nevcmgelizavero), is no doubt an indecorum. The senti-\\nments which he attributes to me I will not deny to be\\nmine. They were embodied, though in a different\\nform, in a discourse preached upon the last day of\\npublic fasting, and were acceptable to my entire people\\n(of whatever political views), except the postmaster,\\nwho dissented ex officio. I observe that you sometimes\\ndevote a portion of your paper to a religious summary.\\nI should be well pleased to furnish a copy of my dis-\\ncourse for insertion in this department of your instruc-\\ntive journal. By omitting the advertisements, it might\\neasily be got within the limits of a single number, and\\nI venture to insure you the sale of some scores of copies\\nin this town. I will cheerfully render myself respon-\\nsible for ten. It might possibly be advantageous to\\nissue it as an extra. But perhaps you will not esteem\\nit an object, and I will not press it. My offer does not\\nspring from any weak desire of seeing my name in\\nprint for I can enjoy this satisfaction at any time by", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0093.jp2"}, "94": {"fulltext": "70 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nturning to the Triennial Catalogue of the University,\\nwhere it also possesses that added emphasis of Italics\\nwith which those of my calling are distinguished.\\nI would simply add, that I continue to fit ingenu-\\nous youth for college, and that I have two spacious and\\nairy sleeping apartments at this moment unoccupied.\\nIngenuas didicisse, c. Terms, which vary according\\nto the circumstances of the parents, may be known on\\napplication to me by letter, post paid. In all cases the\\nlad will be expected to fetch his own towels. This\\nrule, Mrs. W. desires me to add, has no exceptions.\\nRespectfully, your obedient servant,\\nHOMER WILBUR, A. M.\\nP. S. Perhaps the last paragraph may look like\\nan attempt to obtain the insertion of my circular gratui-\\ntously. If it should appear to you in that light, I de-\\nsire that you would erase it, or charge for it at the\\nusual rates, and deduct the amount from the proceeds\\nin your hands from the sale of my discourse, when it\\nshall be printed. My circular is much longer and\\nmore explicit, and will be forwarded without charge to\\nany who may desire it. It has been very neatly ex-\\necuted on a letter sheet, by a very deserving printer,\\nwho attends upon my ministry, and is a creditable speci-\\nmen of the typographic art. I have one hung over my\\nmantelpiece in a neat frame, where it makes a beauti-\\nful and appropriate ornament, and balances the profile\\nof Mrs. W., cut with her toes by the young lady born\\nwithout arms.\\nH. W.\\nI have in the foregoing letter mentioned General\\nScott in connection with the Presidency, because I", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0094.jp2"}, "95": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 71\\nhave been given to understand that he has blown to\\npieces and otherwise caused to be destroyed more Mexi-\\nicans than any other commander. His claim would\\ntherefore be deservedly considered the strongest. Until\\naccurate returns of the Mexicans killed, wounded, and\\nmaimed be obtained, it will be difficult to settle these\\nnice points of precedence. Should it prove that any\\nother officer has been more meritorious and destructive\\nthan General S., and has thereby rendered himself\\nmore worthy of the confidence and support of the con-\\nservative portion of our community, I shall cheerfully\\ninsert his name, instead of that of General S., in a\\nfuture edition. It may be thought, likewise, that\\nGeneral S. has invalidated his claims by too much at-\\ntention to the decencies of apparel, and the habits\\nbelonging to a gentleman. These abstruser points of\\nstatesmanship are beyond my scope. I wonder not that\\nsuccessful military achievement should attract the\\nadmiration of the multitude. Rather do I rejoice\\nwith wonder to behold how rapidly this sentiment is\\nlosing its hold upon the popular mind. It is related\\nof Thomas Warton, the second of that honored name\\nwho held the office of Poetry Professor at Oxford, that,\\nwhen one wished to find him, being absconded, as was\\nhis wont, in some obscure alehouse, he was counselled\\nto traverse the city with a drum and fife, the sound of\\nwhich inspiring music would be sure to draw the\\nDoctor from his retirement into the street. We are\\nall more or less bitten with this martial insanity.\\nNescio qud dulcedi7ie cundos ducit. I confess\\nto some infection of that itch myself. When I see a\\nBrigadier-General maintaining his insecure elevation\\nin the saddle under the severe fire of the training-field,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0095.jp2"}, "96": {"fulltext": "^2 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nand when I remember that some military enthusiasts,\\nthrough haste, inexperience, or an over-desire to lend\\nreality to those fictitious combats, will sometimes dis-\\ncharge their ramrods, I cannot but admire, while I de-\\nplore, the mistaken devotion of those heroic officers.\\nSemel insanivwius omfies. I was myself, during the\\nlate war with Great Britain, chaplain of a regiment,\\nwhich was fortunately never called to active military\\nduty. I mention this circumstance with regret rather\\nthan pride. Had I been summoned to actual warfare,\\nI trust that I might have been strengthened to bear my-\\nself after the manner of that reverend father in our\\nNew England Israel, Dr. Benjamin Colman, who, as\\nwe are told in Turell s life of him, when the vessel in\\nwhich he had taken passage for England was attacked\\nby a French privateer, fought like a philosopher and\\na Christian, and prayed all the while he charged\\nand fired. As this note is already long, I shall not\\nhere enter upon a discussion of the question, whether\\nChristians may lawfully be soldiers. I think it suffi-\\nciently evident, that, during the first two centuries\\nof the Christian era, at least, the two professions\\nwere esteemed incompatible. Consult Jortin on this\\nhead.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 H. W.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0096.jp2"}, "97": {"fulltext": "No. IV.\\nREMARKS OF INCREASE D. O PHACE, ESQUIRE, AT AN\\nEXTRUMPERY CAUCUS IN STATE STREET, REPORTED\\nBy MR. H. BIGLOW.\\n[The ingenious reader will at once understand that\\nno such speech as the following was ever totidem verbis\\npronounced. But there are simpler and less guarded\\nwits, for the satisfying of which such an explanation\\nmay be needful. For there are certain invisible lines,\\nwhich as Truth successively overpasses, she becomes\\nUntruth to one and another, of us, as a large, river,\\nflowing from one kingdom into another, sometimes\\ntakes a new name, albeit the waters undergo no change,\\nhow small soever. There is, moreover, a truth of fic-\\ntion more veracious than the truth of fact, as that of\\nthe Poet, which represents to us things and events as\\nthey ought to be, rather than servilely copies them as\\nthey are imperfectly imaged in the crooked and smoky\\nglass of our mundane affairs. It is this which makes\\nthe speech of Antonius, though originally spoken in no\\nwider a forum than the brain of Shakspeare, more\\nhistorically valuable than that other which Appian\\nhas reported, by as much as the understanding of the\\nEnglishman was more comprehensive than that of the\\nAlexandrian. Mr. Biglow, in the present instance,\\nhas only made use of a license assumed by all the his-\\ntorians of antiquity, who put into the mouths of various\\n73", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0097.jp2"}, "98": {"fulltext": "74 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\ncharacters such words as seem to them most fitting to\\nthe occasion and to the speaker. If it be objected\\nthat no such oration could ever have been delivered, I\\nanswer, that there are few assemblages for speech-mak-\\ning which do not better deserve the title of Parliamen-\\ntum Indoctorwn than did the sixth Parliament of\\nHenry the Fourth, and that men still continue to have\\nas much faith in the Oracle of Fools as ever Pantagruel\\nhad. Howell, in his letters, recounts a merry tale of\\na certain ambassador of Queen Elizabeth, who, having\\nwritten two letters, one to her Majesty and the other\\nto his wife, directed them at cross-purposes, so that the\\nQueen was beducked and bedeared and requested to send\\na change of hose, and the wife was beprincessed and\\notherwise unwontedly besuperlatived, till the one feared\\nfor the wits of her ambassador, the other for those of\\nher husband. In like manner it may be presumed that\\nour speaker has misdirected some of his thoughts, and\\ngiven to the whole theatre what he would have wished\\nto confide only to a select auditory at the back of the\\ncurtain. For it is seldom that we can get any frank\\nutterance from men, who address, for the most part, a\\nBuncombe either in this world or the next. As for\\ntheir audiences, it may be truly said of our people,\\nthat they enjoy one political institution in common\\nwith the ancient Athenians I mean a certain profitless\\nkind of ostracism^ wherewith, nevertheless, they seem\\nhitherto well enough content. For in Presidential\\nelections, and other affairs of the sort, whereas I ob-\\nserve that the oysters fall to the lot of comparatively\\nfew, the shells (such as the privileges of voting as they\\nare told to do by the ostrivori aforesaid, and of huzzaing\\nat public meetings) are very liberally distributed", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0098.jp2"}, "99": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 75\\namong the people, as being their prescriptive and quite\\nsufficient portion.\\nThe occasion of the speech is supposed to be Mr.\\nPalfrey s refusal to vote for the Whig candidate for the\\nSpeakership. H. W.]\\nNo Hez he He hain t, though Wut Voted\\nagin him\\nEf the bird of our country could ketch him, she d\\nskin him\\nI seem s though I see her, with wrath in each quill.\\nLake a chancery lawyer, afilin her bill.\\nAn grindin her talents ez sharp ez all nater,\\nTo pounce like a writ on the back 0 the traiter.\\nForgive me, my friends, ef I seem to be het.\\nBut a crisis like this must with vigor be met\\nWen an Arnold the star-spangled banner bestains,\\nHoU Fourth 0 Julys seem to bile in my veins.\\nWho ever d ha thought sech a pisonous rig\\nWould be run by a chap thet wuz chose fer a Wig\\nWe knowed wut his principles wuz fore we sent\\nhim\\nWut wuz ther in them from this vote to pervent him\\nA marciful Providunce fashioned us holler\\n0 purpose thet we might our principles swaller\\nIt can hold any quantity on em, the belly can.\\nAn bring em up ready fer use like the pelican.\\nOr more like the kangaroo, who (wich is stranger)\\nPuts her family into her pouch Aven there s danger.\\nAin t principle precious then, who s goin to use it\\nWen there s resk 0 some chap s gittin up to abuse it", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0099.jp2"}, "100": {"fulltext": "Y6 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nI can^t tell the wy on t, but notliin is so sure\\nEz thet principle kind o gits spiled by exposure\\nA man thet lets all sorts o folks git a sight on t\\nOugh to hev it all took right away, every mite on t\\nEf he can t keep it to himself when it s wise to,\\nHe ain t one it s fit to trust nothin^ so nice to.\\nBesides, ther s a wonderful power in latitude\\nTo shift a man s morril relations an attitude\\nSome flossifers think thet a fakkilty s granted\\nThe minnit it s proved to be thoroughly wanted,\\nThet a change o demand makes a change o condi-\\ntion.\\nAn thet everythin s nothin except by position\\nEz, fer instance, thet rubber-trees fust begun bearin*\\nWen p litickle conshunces come into wearin\\nThet the fears of a monkey, whose holt chanced to\\nfail,\\nDrawed the vertibry out to a prehensile tail\\nSo, wen one s chose to Congriss, ez soon ez he s in it,\\nA collar grows right round his neck in a minnit.\\nAn sartin it is thet a man cannot be strict\\nIn bein himself, wen he gits to the Deestrict,\\nThe speaker is of a different mind from Tully, who, in his\\nrecently discovered tractate De Rupublica, tells us, Nee vera\\nhabere vietutern satis est, quasi artem aliqam, nisi utare, and\\nfrom our Milton, who says, I cannot praise a fugitive and\\ncloistered virtue, unexercised and unbreathed, that never\\nsallies out and sees her adversary, but slinks out of the race\\nwhere that immortal garland is to be run for, not unthout\\ndust and heat.^ Areop. He had taken the words out of the\\nRoman s mouth, without knowing it, and might well exclaim\\nwith Austin (if a saint s name may stand sponsor for a curse),\\nPereant qui ante nos nostra diooerint H. W.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0100.jp2"}, "101": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. ^^7\\nFer a coat thet sets wal here in ole Massachusetts,\\nWen it gits on to Washinton, somehow askew sets.\\nResolves, do you say, o the Springfield Convention\\nThet s percisely the pint I was goin to mention\\nResolves air a thing we most genially keep ill.\\nThey re a cheap kind o dust fer the eyes o the people\\nA parcel o delligits jest git together\\nAn chat fer a spell o the crops an the weather,\\nThen, comin to order, they squabble awile\\nAn let off the speeches they re ferful 11 spile\\nThen Resolve, That we wunt hev an inch o slave\\nterritory\\nThet President Polk s holl perceedins air very tory\\nThet the war s a damned war, an them thet enlist in it\\nShould hev a cravat with a dreffle tight twist in it\\nThet the war is a war fer the spreadin o slavery\\nThet our army desarves our best thanks fer their\\nbravery\\nThet we re the original friends o the nation,\\nAll the rest air a paltry an base fabrication\\nThet we highly respect Messrs. A, B, an C,\\nAn ez deeply despise Messrs. E, F, an G.\\nIn this way they go to the eend o the chapter.\\nAn then they bust out in a kind of a raptur\\nAbout their own vartoo, an folk s stone-blindness\\nTo the men thet ould actilly do em a kindness,\\nThe American eagle, the Pilgrims thet landed.\\nTill on ole Plymouth Rock they git finally stranded.\\nWal, the people they listen and say, Thet s the\\nticket\\nEz fer Mexico, tain t no great glory to lick it,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0101.jp2"}, "102": {"fulltext": "YS THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nBut t would be a darned shame to go pullin^ o^ triggers\\nTo extend the aree of abusin the niggers/\\nSo they march in percessions, an git up hooraws.\\nAn tramp thru the mud fer the good o the cause^\\nAn think they re a kind o fulfillin the prophecies,\\nWen they re on y jest changin the holders of offices:\\nWare A sot afore, B is comf tably seated.\\nOne humbug s victor ous, an t other defeated.\\nEach honnable doughface gits jest wut he axes,\\nAn the people their annooal soft sodder an taxes.\\nNow, to keep unimpaired all these glorious feeturs\\nThet characterize morril an reasonin creeturs,\\nThet give every paytriot all he can cram,\\nThet oust the untrustworthy Presidunt Flam,\\nAnd stick honest Presidunt Sham in his place.\\nTo the manifest gain o the hoU human race.\\nAn to some indervidgewals on t in partickler.\\nWho love Public Opinion an know how to tickle\\nher,\\nI say thet a party with great aims liks these\\nMust stick jest ez close ez a hive full o bees.\\nI m willin a man should go tollable strong\\nAgin wrong in the abstract, fer thet kind o wrong\\nIs oilers unpop lar an never gits pitied.\\nBecause it s a crime no one never committed\\nBut he mus n t be hard on partickler sins,\\nCoz then he ll be kickin the people s own shins\\nOn y look at the Demmercrats, see wut they ve done\\nJest simply by stickin together like fun\\nThey ve sucked us right into a mis able war\\nThet no one on airth ain t responsible for", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0102.jp2"}, "103": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 79\\nThey Ve run us a huuderd cool millions in debt,\\n(An fer Demmercrat Homers ther s good plums left\\nyet);\\nThey talk agin tayriffs, but act fer a high one,\\nAn so coax all parties to build up their Zion\\nTo the people they re oilers ez slick ez molasses.\\nAn butter their bread on both sides with The Masses,\\nHalf 0 whom they ve persuaded, by way of a joke,\\nThet Washinton s mantelpiece fell upon Polk.\\nXow all 0 these blessins the Wigs might enjoy,\\nEf they d gumption enough the right means to imploy\\nFer the silver spoon born in Dermocracy s mouth\\nIs a kind of a scringe thet they hev to the South\\nTheir masters can cuss em an kick em an wale em.\\nAn they notice it less an the ass did to Balaam\\nIn this way they screw into second-rate offices\\nWich the slaveholder thinks ould substract too much\\noff his ease\\nThe file-leaders, I mean, du, fer they, by their wiles.\\nUnlike the old viper, grow fat on their files.\\nWal, the Wigs hev been tryin to grab all this prey\\nfrum em\\nAn to hook his nice spoon 0 good fortin away\\nfrum em.\\nAn they might ha succeeded, ez likely ez not\\nIn lickin the Demmercrats all round the lot,\\nEf it warn t thet, wile all faithful Wigs were their\\nknees on,\\nThat was a pithy saying of Persius, and fits our politicians\\nwithout a wrinkle, Magisterartis, ingeniiquelargitorventer.\\nH. W.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0103.jp2"}, "104": {"fulltext": "80 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nSome stuffy old codger would holler out, Treason\\nYou must keep a sharp eye on a dog thet hez bit you\\nonce.\\nAn /ain t a goin to cheat my constitoounts/\\nWen every fool knows thet a man represents\\nNot the fellers thet sent him, but them on the fence,\\nImpartially ready to jump either side\\nAn make the fust use of a turn o the tide,\\nThe waiters on Providunce here in the city,\\nWho compose wut they call a State Centerl Committy.\\nConstitoounts air henny to help a man in.\\nBut arterwards don t weigh the heft of a pin.\\nWy, the people can t all live on Uncle Sam s pus,\\nSo they ve nothin to du with t fer better or wus\\nIt s the folks thet air kind o brought up to depend\\non t\\nThet hev any consarn in t, an thet is the end on t.\\nNow here wuz New England ahevin the honor\\nOf a chance at the Speakership showered upon her\\nDo you say, She don t want no more Speakers, but\\nfewer\\nShe s hed plenty o them, wut she wants is a doer\\nFer the matter o thet, it s notorous in town\\nThet her own representatives du her quite brown.\\nBut thet s nothin to du with it wut right hed Pal-\\nfrey\\nTo mix himself up with fanatical small fry\\nWarn t we gittin on prime with our hot an cold blowin\\nAcondemnin the war wilst we kep it agoin\\nWeM assumed with gret skill a commandin position,\\nOn this side or thet, no one could n t tell wich one,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0104.jp2"}, "105": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 81\\nSo, wutever sidewipped, we d a chance at the phmder\\nAn could sue fer infringin our paytented thunder\\nWe were ready to vote fer whoever wuz eligible,\\nEf on all pints at issoo he d stay unintelligible.\\nWal, sposin we hed to gulp down our perfessions.\\nWe were ready to come out next mornin with fresh\\nones\\nBesides, ef we did, t was our business alone,\\nFer could n t we du wut we would with our own\\nAn ef a man can, wen pervisions hev riz so.\\nEat up his own words, it s a marcy it is so.\\nWy, these chaps frum the !N orth, with back-bones to\\nem, darn ^em,\\nOuld be wuth more an Gennle Tom Thumb is to Bar-\\nnum\\nTher s enough thet to office on this very plan grow.\\nBy exhibitin how very small a man can grow\\nBut an M. C. frum here oilers hastens to state he\\nBelongs to the order cfilled invertebraty,\\nWence some gret filologists judge primy fashy\\nThet M. C. is M. T. by paronomashy\\nAn these few exceptions air loosus naytury\\nFolks ould put down their quarters to stare at, like\\nfury.\\nIt s no use to open the door o success,\\nEf a member can bolt so fer nothin or less\\nWy, all o them grand constitootional pillers\\nOur four fathers fetched with em over the billers.\\nThem pillers the people so soundly hev slept on,\\nWile to slav ry, invasion, an debt they were swept on.\\nWile our Destiny higher an higher kep mountin\\n6", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0105.jp2"}, "106": {"fulltext": "82 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\n(Though I guess folks 11 stare wen she hends her ac-\\ncount in,)\\nEf members in this way go kickin agin em.\\nThey wunt hev so much ez a feather left in em.\\nAn^ ez fer this Palfrey,* we thought wen we d gut\\nhim in.\\nHe d go kindly in wutever harness we put him in\\nSupposin we did know thet he wuz a peace man\\nDoos he think he can be Uncle Samwell s policeman.\\nAn wen Sam gits tipsy an kicks up a riot,\\nLead him oft to the lockup to snooze till he s quiet\\nWy, the war is a war thet true paytriots can bear, ef\\nIt leads to the fat promised land of a tayrift\\nWe don t go an fight it, nor ain t to be driv on,\\nNor Demmercrats nuther, thet hev wut to live on\\nEf it ain t jest the thing thet s well pleasin to God,\\nIt makes us thought highly on elsewhere abroad\\nThe Rooshian black eagle looks blue in his eerie\\nAn shakes both his heads wen he hears o Monteery\\nIn the Tower Victory sets, all of a fluster,\\nAn reads, with locked doors, how we won Cherry\\nBuster\\nAn old Philip Lewis thet come an kep school here\\nFer the mere sake o scorin his ryalist ruler\\nOn the tenderest part of our kings infuturo\\nHides his crown underneath an old shut in his\\nbureau.\\nBreaks oft in his brags to a suckle o merry kings,\\nHow he often hed hided young native Amerrikins,\\nThere is truth yet in this of Juvenal,\\nDat veniam corvis, vexat censura columbas.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0106.jp2"}, "107": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 83\\nAn turnin quite faint in the midst of his fooleries,\\nSneaks down stairs to bolt the front door o the Tool-\\neries.*\\nYou say, We d ha scared em by growin in peace,\\nA plaguy sight more then by bobberies like these\\nWho is it dares say thet our naytional eagle\\nWunt much longer be classed with the birds thet air\\nregal,\\nCoz theirn be hooked beaks, an she, arter this slaughter,\\n11 bring back a bill ten times longer n sheoug t to\\nWut s your name Come, I see ye, you up-country\\nfeller.\\nYou ve put me out severil times with your beller\\nOut with it Wut Biglow I say nothin furder,\\nThet feller would like nothin better n a murder\\nHe s a traiter, blasphemer, an wut ruther worse is.\\nHe puts all his ath ism in dreffle bad verses\\nJortin is willing to allow of other miracles besides those\\nrecorded in Holy Writ, and why not of other prophecies It\\nis granting too much to Satan to suppose him, as divers of the\\nlearned have done, the inspirer of the ancient oracles. Wiser,\\nI esteem it, to give chance the credit of the successful ones.\\nWhat is said here of Louis Philippe was verified in some of its\\nminute particulars within a few months time. Enough to\\nhave made the fortune of Delphi or Hammon, and no thanks\\nto Beelzebub neither That of Seneca in Medea will suit\\nhere\\nRapida fortuna ac levis,\\nPrsecepsque regno eripuit, exsilio declit.\\nLet us allow, even to richly deserved misfortune, our com-\\nmiseration, and be not over-hasty meanwhile in our censure\\nof the French people, left for the first time to govern them-\\nselves, remembering that wise sentence of ^scliylus,\\n*A7ras 6e jpaxvi ocrrts olv veov KpaTi j.\\nn. w.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0107.jp2"}, "108": {"fulltext": "84 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nSocity ain^t safe till sech monsters air out on it.\\nRefer to the Post, ef you hev the least doubt on it\\nWy, he goes agin war, agin indirect taxes.\\nAgin sellin^ wild lands cept to settlers with axes.\\nAgin holdin o slaves, though he knows it the corner\\nOur libbaty rests on, the mis able scorner\\nIn short, he would wholly upset with his ravages\\nAll thet keeps us above the brute critters an savages.\\nAn pitch into all kinds o briles an confusions\\nThe holl of our civilized, free institutions\\nHe writes fer thet rather unsafe print, the Courier,\\nAn likely ez not hez a squintin to Foorier\\nI 11 be thet is, I mean I 11 be blest,\\nEf I hark to a word frum so noted a pest\\nI shan t talk with Jmn, my religion s too fervent.\\nGood mornin my friends, I m your most humble\\nservant.\\n[Into the question, whether the ability to express our-\\nselves in articulate language has been productive of\\nmore good or evil, I shall not here enter at large. The\\ntwo faculties of speech and of speech-making are wholly\\ndiverse in their natures. By the first we make our-\\nselves intelligible, by the last unintelligible, to our\\nfellows. It has not seldom occurred to me (noting\\nhow in our national legislature every thing runs to\\ntalk, as lettuces, if the season or the soil be unpropi-\\ntious, shoot up lankly to seed, instead of forming hand-\\nsome heads) that Babel was the first Congress, the\\nearliest mill erected for the manufacture of gabble. In\\nthese days, what with Town Meetings, School Com-\\nmittees, Boards (lumber) of one kind and another.\\nCongresses, Parliaments, Diets, Indian Councils, Pala-", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0108.jp2"}, "109": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 85\\nvers, and the like, there is scarce a village which has\\nnot its factories of this description driven by (milk-\\nand-) water power. I cannot conceive the confusion of\\ntongues to have been the curse of Babel, since I esteem\\nmy ignorance of other languages as a kind of Martello-\\ntower, in which I am safe from the furious bombard-\\nments of foreign garrulity. For this reason I have ever\\npreferred the study of the dead languages, those primi-\\ntive formations being Ararats upon whose silent peaks\\n1 sit secure and watch this new deluge without fear,\\nthough it rain figures {simulacra, semblances) of speech\\nforty days and nights together, as it not uncommonly\\nhappens. Thus is my coat, as it were, without but-\\ntons by which any but a vernacular wild bore can seize\\nme. Is it not possible that the Shakers may intend to\\nconvey a quiet reproof and hint, in fastening their\\nouter garments with hooks and eyes\\nThis reflection concerning Babel, which I find in no\\nCommentary, was first thrown upon my mind when an\\nexcellent deacon of my congregation (being infected\\nwith the Second Advent delusion) assured me that he\\nhad received a first instalment of the gift of tongues\\nas a small earnest of larger possessions in the like kind\\nto follow. For, of a truth, I could not reconcile it with\\nmy ideas of the Divine justice and mercy that the\\nsingle wall which protected people of other languages\\nfrom the incursions of this otherwise well-meaning prop-\\nagandist should be broken down.\\nIn reading Congressional debates, I have fancied,\\nthat, after the subsidence of those painful buzzings in\\nthe brain which result from such exercises, I detected\\na slender residuum of valuable information. I made\\nthe discovery that nothing takes longer in the saying", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0109.jp2"}, "110": {"fulltext": "86 THE BIGLOW PAPERS,\\nthan any thing else, for, as ex nihilo nihil fit, so from\\none polypus nothing any number of similar ones may be\\nproduced. I would recommend to the attention of\\nviva voce debaters and controversialists the admirable\\nexample of the monk Copres, who, in the fourth cen-\\ntury, stood for half an hour in the midst of a great fire,\\nand thereby silenced a ManichaBan antagonist who had\\nless of the salamander in him. As for those who quar-\\nrel in print, I have no concern with them here, since\\nthe eyelids are a Divinely-granted shield against all\\nsuch. Moreover, I have observed in many modern\\nbooks that the printed portion is becoming gradually\\nsmaller, and the number of blank or fly-leaves (as they\\nare called) greater. Should this fortunate tendency of\\nliterature continue, books will grow more valuable from\\nyear to year, and the whole Serbonian bog yield to the\\nadvances of firm arable land.\\nI have wondered, in the Representatives Chamber\\nof our own Commonwealth, to mark how little impres-\\nsion seemed to be produced by that emblematic fish\\nsuspended over the heads of the members. Our wiser\\nancestors, no doubt, hung it there as being the animal\\nwhich the Pythagoreans reverenced for its silence, and\\nwhich certainly in that particular does not so well merit\\nthe epithet cold-blooded, by which naturalists distin-\\nguish it, as certain bipeds, afflicted with ditch-water on\\nthe brain, who take occasion to tap themselves in\\nFanueil Halls, meeting-houses, and other places of\\npublic resort. H. W.]", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0110.jp2"}, "111": {"fulltext": "No. V.\\nTHE DEBATE IN THE SENNIT.\\nSOT TO A NUSRY RHYME.\\nThe incident which gave rise to the debate satirized\\nin the following verses was the nnsuccessful attempt of\\nDrayton and Sayres to give freedom to seventy men and\\nwomen, fellow-beings and fellow-Christians. Had Tri-\\npoli, instead of Washington, been the scene of this un-\\ndertaking, the unhappy leaders in it would have been\\nas secure of the theoretic as they now are of the practi-\\ncal part of martyrdom. I question whether the Dey of\\nTripoli is blessed with a District Attorney so benighted\\nas ours at the seat of government. Very fitly is he\\nnamed Key, who would allow himself to be made the\\ninstrument of locking the door of hope against sufferers\\nin such a cause. Not all the waters of the ocean can\\ncleanse the vile smutch of the jailer s fingers from off\\nthat little Key. Ahenea clavis, a brazen Key indeed\\nMr. Calhoun, who is made the chief speaker in this\\nburlesque, seems to think that the light of the nine-\\nteenth century is to be put oat as soon as he tinkles his\\nlittle cow-bell curfew. Whenever slavery is touched,\\nhe sets up his scare-crow of dissolving the Union.\\nThis may do for the North, but I should conjecture\\nthat something more than a pumpkin-lantern is re-\\nquired to scare manifest and irretrievable Destiny out\\n87", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0111.jp2"}, "112": {"fulltext": "88 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nof her path. Mr. Calhoun cannot let go the apron-\\nstring of the Past. The Past is a good nurse, but we\\nmust be weaned from her sooner or later, even though,\\nlike Piotinus, we should run home from school to ask\\nthe breast, after we are tolerably well-grown youths.\\nIt will not do for us to hide our faces in her lap, when-\\never the strange Future holds out her arms and asks us\\nto come to her.\\nBut we are all alike. We have all heard it said, often\\nenough, that little boys must not play with fire and\\nyet, if the matches be taken away from us and put out\\nof reach upon the shelf, we must needs get into our\\nlittle corner, and scowl and stamp and threaten the\\ndire revenge of going to bed without our supper. The\\nworld shall stop till we get our dangerous plaything\\nagain. Dame Earth, meanwhile, who has more than\\nenough household matters to mind, goes bustling hither\\nand thither as a hiss or a sputter tells her that this or\\nthat kettle of hers is boiling over, and before bedtime\\nwe are glad to eat our porridge cold, and gulp down\\nour dignity along with it.\\nMr. Calhoun has somehow acquired the name of a\\ngreat statesman, and, if it be great statesmanship to put\\nlance in rest and run a tilt at the Spirit of the Age\\nwith the certainty of being next moment hurled neck\\nand heels into the dust amid universal laughter, he de-\\nserves the title. He is the Sir Kay of our modern\\nchivalry. He should remember the old Scandinavian\\nmy thus. Thor was the strongest of gods, but he could\\nnot wrestle with Time, nor so much as lift up a fold of\\nthe great snake which knit the universe together and\\nwhen he smote the Earth, though with his terrible mal-\\nlet, it was but as if a leaf had fallen. Yet all the while", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0112.jp2"}, "113": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 39\\nit seemed to Thor that lie had only been wrestling with\\nan old woman, striving to lift a cat, and striking a\\nstupid giant on the head.\\nAnd in old times, doubtless, the giants ivere stupid,\\nand there was no better sport for the Sir Launcelots\\nand Sir Gawains than to go about cutting off their great\\nblundering heads with enchanted swords. But things\\nhave wonderfully changed. It is the giants, nowadays,\\nthat have the science and the intelligence, while the\\nchivalrous Don Quixotes of Conservatism still cumber\\nthemselves with the clumsy armor of a bygone age.\\nOn whirls the restless globe through unsounded time,\\nwith its cities and its silences, its births and funerals,\\nhalf light, half shade, but never wholly dark, and sure\\nto swing round into the happy morning at last. With\\nan involuntary smile, one sees Mr. Calhoun letting slip\\nhis pack-thread cable with a crooked pin at the end of\\nit to anchor South Carolina upon the bank and shoal of\\nthe Past.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 H. W.]\\nTO MR. bucke:n^am.\\nMR. Editer, As i wuz kinder prunin round, in a little\\nnussry sot out a year or 2 a go, the Dbait in the sennit\\ncum inter my mine An so i took Sot it to wut I call\\na nussry rime. I hev made sum onuable Gentlemun\\nspeak that dident speak in a Kind uv Poetikul lie sense\\nthe seeson is dreffle backerd up This way\\newers as ushul\\nHOSEA BIGLOW.\\nHere we stan on the Constitution, by thunder\\nIt s a fact 0 wich ther s bushils 0 proofs\\nFer how could we trample on ^t so, I wonder,\\nEf t worn^t thet it^s oilers under our hoofs", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0113.jp2"}, "114": {"fulltext": "90 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nSez John C. Calhoun, sez he\\nHuman rights hain t no more\\nRight to come on this floor.\\nNo more n the man in the moon, sez he.\\nThe North hain t no kind o bisness with nothing\\nAn you ve no idee how much bother it saves\\nWe ain t none riled by their frettin an frothin\\nWe re used to layin the string on our slaves,\\nSez John 0. Calhoun, sez he\\nSez Mister Foote,\\nI should like to shoot\\nThe holl gang, by the gret horn spoon sez he.\\nFreedom s Keystone is Slavery, thet ther s no doubt\\non.\\nIt s sutthin thet s wha d ye call it divine,\\nAn the slaves thet we oilers 7nake the most out on\\nAir them north o Mason an Dixon s line,\\nSez John C. Calhoun, sez he\\nFer all thet, sez Mangum,\\nT would be better to hang em,\\nAn so git red on em soon, sez he.\\nThe mass ough to labor an we lay on soffies,\\nThet s the reason I want to spread Freedom s area j\\nIt puts all the cunninest on us in office,\\nAn reelises our Maker s orig nal idee,\\nSez John C. Calhoun, sez he\\nThet s ez plain, sez Cass,\\nEz thet some one s an ass.\\nIt s ez clear ez the sun is at noon, sez he.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0114.jp2"}, "115": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. (jl\\nNow don t go to say I m the frieud of oppression,\\nBut keep all your spare breath fer coolin your broth,\\nFer I oilers hev strove (at least thet s my impression)\\nTo make cussed free with the rights o the North,\\nSez John C. Calhoun, sez he\\nYes, sez Davis o Miss.,\\nThe perfection o bliss\\nIs in skinnin thet same old coon, sez he.\\nSlavery s a thing thet depends on complexion.\\nIt s God s law thet fetters on black skins don t chafe\\nEf brains wuz to settle it (horrid reflection\\nWich of our onnable body d be safe\\nSez John 0. Calhoun, sez he\\nSez Mister Hannegan,\\nAfore he began agin,\\nThet exception is quite oppertpon, sez he.\\nGen nle Cass, Sir, you need n t be twitchin your col-\\nlar.\\nYour merit s quite clear by the dut on your knees.\\nAt the North we don t make no distinctions o color\\nYou can all take a lick at our shoes wen you please,\\nSez John C. Calhoun, sez he\\nSez Mister Jarnagin,\\nThey wunt hev to larn agin.\\nThey all on em know the old toon, sez he.\\nThe slavery question ain t no ways bewilderin\\nNorth an South hev one int rest, it s plain to a glance\\nNo thern men, like us patriarchs, don t sell their chil-\\ndrin,\\nBut they du sell themselves, ef they git a good\\nchance,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0115.jp2"}, "116": {"fulltext": "92 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nSez John C. Calhoun, sez he\\nSez Atherton here,\\nThis is gittin severe,\\nI wish I could dive like a loon, sez he.\\nini break up the Union, this talk about freedom.\\nAn your fact ry gals (soon ez we split) 11 make head.\\nAn gittin some Miss chief or other to lead em,\\n11 go to work raisin promiscoous Ned,\\nSez John 0. Calhoan, sez he\\nYes, the North, sez Colquitt,\\nEf we Southerners all quit.\\nWould go down like a busted balloon, sez he.\\nJest look wut is doin wut annyky s brewin\\nIn the beautiful clime o the olive an vine.\\nAll the wise aristoxy is tumblin to ruin,\\nAn the sankylots drorin an drinkin their wine,\\nSez John C. Calhoun, sez he\\nYes, sez Johnson, in France\\nThey re beginnin to dance\\nBeelzebub s own rigadoon, sez he.\\nThe South s safe enough, it don t feel a mite skeery,\\nOur slaves in their darkness an dut air tu blest\\nNot to welcome with proud hallylugers the ery\\nWen our eagle kicks yourn from the naytional nest,\\nSez John C. Calhoun, sez he\\n0, sez Westcott o Florida,\\nWut treason is horrider\\nThen our priv leges tryin to proon sez he.\\nIt s coz they re so happy, thet, wen crazy sarpints\\nStick their nose in our bizness, we git so darned riled", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0116.jp2"}, "117": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 93\\nWe think its our dooty to give pooty sharp hints,\\nThet the last crumb of Edin on airth shan t be spiled/\\nSez John C. Calhoun, sez he\\nAh/ sez Dixon H. Lewis,\\nIt perfectly true is\\nThet slavery s airth s grettest boon, sez he.\\n[It was said of old time, that riches have wings and\\nthough this be not applicable in a literal strictness to\\nthe wealth of our patriarchal brethren of the South,\\nyet it is clear that their possessions have legs, and an\\nunaccountable propensity for using them in a northerly\\ndirection. I marvel that the grand jury of Washington\\ndid not find a true bill against the North Star for aid-\\ning and abetting Drayton and Sayres. It would have\\nbeen quite of a piece with the intelligence displayed by\\nthe South on other questions connected with slavery.\\nI think that no ship of state was ever freighted with a\\nmore veritable Jonah than this same domestic institu-\\ntion of ours. Mephistopheles himself could not feign\\nso bitterly, so satirically sad a sight as this of three\\nmillions of human beings crushed beyond help or hope\\nby this one mighty argument, Our fathers knew no\\ntetter Nevertheless, it is the unavoidable destiny of\\nJonahs to be cast overboard sooner or later. Or shall\\nwe try the experiment of hiding our Jonah in a safe\\nplace, that none may lay hands on him to make jetsam\\nof him Let us, then, with equal forethought and\\nwisdom, lash ourselves to the anchor, and await, in\\npious confidence, the certain result. Perhaps our sus-\\npicious passenger is no Jonah after all, being black.\\nFor it is well known that a superintending Providence", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0117.jp2"}, "118": {"fulltext": "94 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nmade a kind of sandwich of Ham and his descendants,\\nto be devoured by the Caucasian race.\\nIn God s name, let all, who hear nearer and nearer\\nthe hungry moan of the storm and the growl of the\\nbreakers, speak out But, alas we have no right to\\ninterfere. If a man pluck an apple of mine, he shall\\nbe in danger of the justice but if he steal my brother\\nI must be silent. Who says this Our Constitution,\\nconsecrated by the callous suetude of sixty years, and\\ngrasped in triumphant argument in the left hand of\\nhim whose right hand clutches the clotted slave-whip.\\nJustice, venerable with the undethronable majesty of\\ncountless aeons, says, Speak The Past, wise with\\nthe sorrows and desolations of ages, from amid her\\nshattered fanes and wolf-housing palaces, echoes,\\nSpeak Nature, through her thousand trumpets of\\nfreedom, her stars, her sunrises, her seas, her winds,\\nher cataracts, her mountains blue with cloudy pines,\\nblows jubilant encouragement, and cries, Speak\\nFrom the soul s trembling abysses the still, small voice\\nnot vaguely murmurs, Speak But alas the Con-\\nstitution and the Honorable Mr. Bagowind, M. C,\\nsay, Be Dumb\\nIt occurs to me to suggest, as a topic of inquiry in\\nthis connection, whether, on that momentous occasion\\nwhen the goats and the sheep shall be parted, the Con-\\nstitution and the Honorable Mr. Bagowind, M. C, will\\nbe expected to take their places on the left as our\\nhircine vicars.\\nQuid sum miser tunc dicturus\\nQuern patronum rogaturus 9\\nThere is a point where toleration sinks into sheer base-", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0118.jp2"}, "119": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 95\\nness and poltroonery. The toleration of the worst\\nleads us to look on what is barely better as good enough\\nand to worship what is only moderately good. Woe to\\nthat man, or that nation, to whom mediocrity has be-\\ncome an ideal\\nHas our experiment of self-government succeeded, if\\nit barely manage to ruh and go Here, now, is a piece\\nof barbarism which Christ and the nineteenth century\\nsay shall cease, and which Messrs. Smith, Brown, and\\nothers say shall not cease. I would by no means deny\\nthe eminent respectability of these gentlemen, but I\\nconfess, that, in such a wrestling-match, I cannot help\\nhaving my fears for them.\\nJHscitejustitiam, moniti, et non temnere divos.\\nH. W.]", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0119.jp2"}, "120": {"fulltext": "No. VI.\\nTHE Pious EDITOR S CREED.\\n[At the special instance of Mr. Biglow, I preface the\\nfollowing satire with an extract from a sermon preached\\nduring the past summer, from Ezekiel xxxiv. 2\\nSon of man, prophesy against the shepherds of\\nIsrael. Since the Sabbath on which this discourse was\\ndelivered, the editor of the Jaalam Independent\\nBlunderbuss has unaccountably absented himself from\\nour house of worship.\\nI know of no so responsible position as that of the\\npublic journalist. The editor of our day bears the\\nsame relation to his time that the clerk bore to the age\\nbefore the invention of printing. Indeed, the position\\nwhich he holds is that which the clergyman should hold\\neven now. But the clergyman chooses to walk off to\\nthe extreme edge of the world, and to throw such seed\\nas he has clear over into that darkness which he calls\\nthe Next Life. As if 7iext did not mean nearest, and\\nas if any life were nearer than that immediately present\\none which boils and eddies all around him at the cau-\\ncus, the ratification meeting, and the polls Who\\ntaught him to exhort men to prepare for eternity, as\\nfor some future era of which the present forms no inte-\\ngral part The furrow which Time is even now turn-\\n96", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0120.jp2"}, "121": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 97\\ning runs through the Everlasting, and in that must he\\nplant, or nowhere. Yet he would fain believe and\\nteach that we are going to have more of eternity- than\\nwe have now. This going of his is like that of the auc-\\ntioneer, on which gone follows before we have made up\\nour minds to bid, in which manner, not three months\\nback, 1 lost an excellent copy of Chappelow on Job.\\nSo it has come to pass that the preacher, instead of\\nbeing a living force, has faded into an emblematic\\nfigure at christenings, weddings, and funerals. Or, if\\nhe exercise any other function, it is as keeper and feeder\\nof certain theologic dogmas, which, when occasion\\noffers, he unkennels with a stciboy to bark and bite\\nas t is their nature to, whence that reproach of odium\\ntheologicwn has arisen.\\nMeanwhile, see what a pulpit the editor mounts\\ndaily, sometimes with a congregation of fifty thousand\\nwithin reach of his voice, and never so much as a nod-\\nder, even, among them And from what a Bible can\\nhe choose his text, a Bible which needs no translation,\\nand which no priestcraft can shut and clasp from the\\nlaity, the open volume of the world, upon which, with\\na pen of sunshine or destroying fire, the inspired Pres-\\nent is even now writing the annals of God Methinks\\nthe editor who should understand his calling, and be\\nequal thereto, would truly deserve that title of notfxijv\\nXaajvj which Homer bestows upon princes. He would\\nbe the Moses of our nineteenth century, and whereas\\nthe old Sinai, silent now, is but a common mountain\\nstared at by the elegant tourist and crawled over by the\\nhammering geologist, he must find his tables of the\\nnew law here among factories and cities in this Wilder-\\nness of Sin (Numbers xxxiii, 12), called Progress of\\n7", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0121.jp2"}, "122": {"fulltext": "98 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nCivilization, and be the captain of our Exodus into the\\nCanaan of a truer social order.\\nNevertheless, our editor will not come so far within\\neven the shadow of Sinai as Mahomet did, but chooses\\nrather to construe Moses by Joe Smith. He takes up\\nthe crook, not that the sheep may be fed, but that he\\nmay never want a warm woollen suit and a joint of mut-\\nton.\\nImmemor, O, fidei pecorumque ohlite tuorum\\nFor which reason I would derive the name editor not\\nso much from edOy to publish, as from edo, to eat, that\\nbeing the peculiar profession to which he esteems him-\\nself called. He blows up the flames of political discord\\nfor no other occasion than that he may thereby handily\\nboil his own pot. I believe there are two thousand of\\nthese mutton-loving shepherds in the United States, and\\nof these, how many have even the dimmest perception\\nof their immense power, and the duties consequent there-\\non Here and there, haply, one. Nine hundred and\\nninety-nine labor to impress upon the people the great\\nprinciples of Tweedledum, and other nine hundred and\\nninety-nine preach with equal earnestness the gospel\\naccording to Tweedledee, H. W.]\\nI DU believe in Freedom s cause,\\nEz fur away ez Paris is\\nI love to see her stick her claws\\nIn them infarnal Pharisees\\nIt s wal enough agin a king\\nTo dror resolves an triggers,\\nBut libbaty s a kind o thing\\nThet don t agree with niggers.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0122.jp2"}, "123": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS, 99\\nI du believe the people want\\nA tax on teas an coffees,\\nThet nothin ain t extravygunt,\\nPurvidin I m in office\\nFer I hev loved my country sence\\nMy eye-teeth filled their sockets.\\nAn Uncle Sam I reverence,\\nParticularly his pockets.\\nI du believe in any plan\\n0 levyin the taxes,\\nEz long ez, like a lumberman,\\nI git jest wut I axes\\nI go free-trade thru thick an thin.\\nBecause it kind 0 rouses\\nThe folks to vote, an keeps us in\\nOur quiet customhouses.\\nI du believe it s wise an* good\\nTo sen out furrin missions,\\nThet is, on sartin understood\\nAn ort?iydox conditions\\nI mean nine thousan dolls, per ann.^\\nNine thousan more fer outfit.\\nAn me to recommend a man\\nThe place ould jest about fit.\\nI du believe in special ways\\n0 prayin an convartin\\nThe bread comes back in many days.\\nAn buttered, tu, fer sartin", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0123.jp2"}, "124": {"fulltext": "100 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nI mean in preyin till one busts\\nOn wut the party chooses.\\nAn in convartin public trusts\\nTo every privit uses.\\nI du believe hard coin the stuff\\nFer Electioneers to spout on\\nThe people s oilers soft enough\\nTo make hard money out on\\nDear Uncle Sam pervides fer his.\\nAn gives a good-sized junk to all,\\nI don t care hoio hard money is,\\nEz long ez mine s paid punctooal.\\nI du believe with all my soul\\nIn the gret Press s freedom.\\nTo pint the people to the goal\\nAn in the traces lead em\\nPalsied the arm thet forges yokes\\nAt my fat contracts squintin\\nAn withered be the nose thet pokes\\nInter the gov ment printin\\nI du believe thet I should give\\nWut s his n unto Caesar,\\nFer it s by him I move an live,\\nFrum him my bread an cheese air\\nI du believe thet all o me\\nDoth bear his souperscription,\\nWill, conscience, honor, honesty.\\nAn things o thet description.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0124.jp2"}, "125": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 101\\nI du believe in prayer an praise\\nTo him thet hez the grantin\\n0 jobs, in every thin thet pays,\\nBut most of all in Cantin\\nThis doth my cup with marcies fill.\\nThis lays all thought o sin to rest,\\nI donH believe in princerple,\\nBut, 0, I du in interest.\\nI du believe in bein this\\nOr thet, ez it may happen\\nOne way or t other hendiest is\\nTo ketch the people nappin\\nIt ain t by princerples nor men\\nMy preudunt course is steadied,\\nI scent wich pays the best, an then\\nGo into it bald headed.\\nI du believe thet hold in slaves\\nComes nat ral tu a Presidunt,\\nLet lone the rowdedow it saves\\nTo hev a wal-broke precedunt\\nFer any office, small or gret,\\nI could n t ax with no face.\\nWithout I d ben, thru dry an wet,\\nTh unrizzest kind o doughface.\\nI du believe wutever trash\\n11 keep the people in blindness,\\nThet we the Mexicuns can thrash\\nEight inter brotherly kindness,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0125.jp2"}, "126": {"fulltext": "102 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nThet bombshells, grape, an powder n ball\\nAir good-wilFs strongest magnets,\\nThet peace, to make it stick at all.\\nMust be druv in with bagnets.\\nIn short, I firmly du believe\\nIn Humbug generally,\\nPer it s a thing thet I perceive\\nTo hev a solid vally\\nThis heth my faithful shepherd ben,\\nIn pasturs sweet heth led me.\\nAn this 11 keep the people green\\nTo feed ez they hev fed me.\\n[I subjoin here another passage from my before-\\nmentioned discourse.\\nWonderful, to him that has eyes to see it rightly,\\nis the newspaper. To me, for example, sitting on the\\ncritical front bench of the pit, in my study here in\\nJaalam, the advent of my weekly journal is as that of a\\nstrolling theatre, or rather of a puppet-show, on whose\\nstage, narrow as it is, the tragedy, comedy, and farce\\nof life are played in little. Behold the whole huge\\nearth sent to me hebdomadally in a brown paper wrapper\\nHither, to my obscure corner, by wind or steam, on\\nhorseback or dromedary-back, in the pouch of the In-\\ndian runner, or clicking over the magnetic wires, troop\\nall the famous performers from the four quarters of the\\nglobe. Looked at from a point of criticism, tiny pup-\\npets they seem all, as the editor sets up his booth upon\\nmy desk and officiates as showman. Now I can truly\\nsee how little and transitory is life. The earth appears\\nalmost as a drop of vinegar, on which the solar micro-", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0126.jp2"}, "127": {"fulltext": "THE BIG LOW PAPERS. 103\\nscope of the imagination must be brought to bear in\\norder to make out anything distinctly. That animal-\\ncule there, in the pea-jacket, is Louis Philippe, just\\nlanded on the coast of England. That other, in the\\ngray surtout and cocked hat, is Napoleon Bonaparte\\nSmith, assuring France that she need apprehend no\\ninterference from him in thepresent alarming juncture.\\nAt that spot, where you seem to see a speck of some-\\nthing in motion, is an immense mass meeting. Look\\nsharper, and you will see a mite brandishing his man-\\ndibles in an excited manner. That is the great Mr.\\nSoandso, defining his position amid tumultuous and\\nirrepressible cheers. That infinitesimal creature, upon\\nwhom some score of others, as minute as he, are gazing\\nin open-mouthed admiration, is a famous philosopher,\\nexpounding to a select audience their capacity for the\\nInfinite. That scarce discernible pufflet of smoke and\\ndust is a revolution. That speck there is a reformer,\\njust arranging the lever with which he is to move the\\nworld. And lo^ there creeps forward the shadow of a\\nskeleton that blows one breath between its grinning\\nteeth, and all our distinguished actors are whisked off\\nthe slippery stage into the dark Beyond.\\nYes, the little show box has its solemner sugges-\\ntions. Now and then we catch a glimpse of a grim old\\nman, who lays down a scythe and hour-glass in the cor-\\nner while he shifts the scenes. There, too, in the dim\\nbackground, a weird shape is ever delving. Sometimes\\nhe leans upon his mattock, and gazes, as a coach whirls\\nby, bearing the newly married on their wedding jaunt,\\nor glances carelessly at a babe brought home from chris-\\ntening. Suddenly (for the scene grows larger and larger\\nas we look) a bony hand snatches back a performer in the", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0127.jp2"}, "128": {"fulltext": "104 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nmidst of his part, and him, whom yesterday two infini-\\nties (past and future) would not suffice, a handful of\\ndust is enough to cover and silence forever. Nay, we\\nsee the same fleshless fingers opening to clutch the\\nshowman himself, and guess, not without a shudder,\\nthat they are lying in wait for spectators also.\\nThink of it for three dollars a year I buy a season\\nticket to this great Globe Theatre, for which God would\\nwrite the dramas (only that we like farces, spectacles,\\nand the tragedies of Apollyon better), whose scene-\\nshifter is Time, and whose curtain is rung down by\\nDeath.\\nSuch thoughts will occur to me sometimes as I am\\ntearing off the wrapper of my newspaper. Then sud-\\ndenly that otherwise too often vacant sheet becomes\\ninvested for me with a strange kind of awe. Look\\ndeaths and marriages, notices of inventions, discoveries\\nand books, lists of promotions, of killed, wounded, and\\nmissing, news of fires, accidents, of sudden wealth and\\nas sudden poverty I hold in my hand the ends of\\nmyriad invisible electric conductors, along which trem-\\nble the joys, sorrows, wrongs, triumphs, hopes, and\\ndespairs of as many men and women everywhere. So\\nthat upon that mood of mind which seems to isolate\\nme from mankind as a spectator of their puppet-pranks,\\nanother supervenes, in which I feel that I, too, unknown\\nand unheard of, am yet of some import to my fellows.\\nFor, through my newspaper here, do not families take\\npains to send me, an entire stranger, news of a death\\namong them Are not here two who would have me\\nknow of their marriage And, strangest of all, is not\\nthis singular person anxious to have me informed that\\nhe has received a fresh supply of Dimitry Bruisgins", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0128.jp2"}, "129": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 105\\nBut to none of us does the Present (even if for a mo-\\nment discerned as such) continue miraculous. We\\nglance carelessly at the sunrise, and get used to Orion\\nand the Pleiades. The wonder wears off, and to-morrow\\nthis sheet, in which a vision w^as let down to me from\\nHeaven, shall be the wrappage to a bar of soap or the\\nplatter for a beggar s broken victuals/ H. W.]", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0129.jp2"}, "130": {"fulltext": "No. VII.\\nA LETTEK\\nFROM A CANDIDATE FOR THE PRESIDENCY IN ANSWER\\nTO SUTTIN QUESTIONS PROPOSED BY MR. HOSEA BIG-\\nLOW, INCLOSED IN A NOTE FROM MR. BIGLOW TO S. H.\\nGAY, ESQ., EDITOR OF THE NATIONAL ANTI-SLAVERY\\nSTANDARD.\\n[Curiosity may be said to be the quality which pre-\\neminently distinguishes and segregates man from the\\nlower animals. As we trace the scale of animated nature\\ndownward, we find this faculty of the mind (as it may\\ntruly be called) diminished in the savage, and quite\\nextinct in the brute. The first object which civilized\\nman proposes to himself I take to be the finding out\\nwhatsoever he can concerning his neighbors. Nihil\\nhumanimi a me alienum puto I am curious about even\\nJohn Smith. The desire next in strength to this (an\\nopposite pole, indeed, of the same magnet) is that of\\ncommunicating intelligence.\\nMen in general may be divided into the inquisitive\\nand the communicative. To the first class belong Peep-\\ning Toms, eavesdroppers, navel-contemplating Brah-\\nmins, metaphysicians, travelers, Empedocleses, spies,\\nthe various societies for promoting Khinothism, Colum-\\nbuses, Yankees, discoverers, and men of science, who\\npresent themselves to the mind as so many marks of\\n106\\n\\\\sm", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0130.jp2"}, "131": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 107\\ninterrogation wandering up and down the world, or sit-\\nting in studies and laboratories. The second class I\\nshould again subdivide into four. In the first subdi-\\nvision I would rank those who have an itch to tell us\\nabout themselves, as keepers of diaries, insignificant\\npersons generally, Montaignes, Horace Walpoles, auto-\\nbiographers, poets. The second includes those who are\\nanxious to impart information concerning other people,\\nas historians, barbers, and such. To the third belong\\nthose who labor to give us intelligence about nothing at\\nall, as novelists, political orators, the large majority of\\nauthors, preachers, lecturers, and the like. In the\\nfourth come those who are communicative from motives\\nof public benevolence, as finders of mares^-nests and\\nbringers of ill news. Each of us two-legged fowls with-\\nout feathers embraces all these subdivisions in himself\\nto a greater or less degree, for none of us so much as\\nlays an egg, or incubates a chalk one, but straightway\\nthe whole barnyard shall know it by our cackle or our\\ncluck. Omnibus lioc vitium est. There are different\\ngrades in all these classes. One will turn his telescope\\ntoward a backyard, another toward Uranus one will\\ntell you that he dined with Smith, another that he\\nsupped with Plato. In one particular, all men may be\\nconsidered as belonging to the first grand division, inas-\\nmuch as they all seem equally desirous of discovering\\nthe mote in their neighbor s eye.\\nTo one or another of these species every human be-\\ning may safely be referred. I think it beyond a per-\\nadventure that Jonah prosecuted some inquiries into the\\ndigestive apparatus of whales, and that Noah sealed up\\na letter in an empty bottle, that news in regard to him\\nmight not be wanting in case of the worst. They had", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0131.jp2"}, "132": {"fulltext": "108 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nelse been super or subter human. I conceive, also, that,\\nas there are certain persons who continually peep and\\npry at the keyhole of that mysterious door through\\nwhich, sooner or later, we all make our exits, so there\\nare doubtless ghosts fidgeting and fretting on the other\\nside of it, because they have no means of conveying\\nback to the world the scraps of news they have picked\\nup. For there is an answer ready somewhere to every\\nquestion, the great law of give and take runs through\\nall nature, and if we see a hook, we may be sure that an\\neye is waiting for it. I read in every face I meet a\\nstanding advertisement of information wanted in regard\\nto A. B., or that the friends of 0. D. can hear of him\\nby application to such a one.\\nIt was to gratify the two great passions of asking and\\nanswering that epistolary correspondence was first in-\\nvented. Letters (for by this usurped title epistles are\\nnow commonly known) are of several kinds. First,\\nthere are those which are not letters at all, as letters\\npatent, letters dismissory, letters inclosing bills, letters\\nof administration, Pliny s letters, letters of diplomacy,\\nof Cato, of Mentor, of Lords Lyttelton, Chesterfield,\\nand Orrer}^ of Jacob Behmen, Seneca (whom St. Jerome\\nincludes in his list of sacred writers), letters from abroad,\\nfrom sons in college to their fathers, letters of marque,\\nand letters generally, which are in no wise letters of\\nmark. Second, are real letters, such as those of Gray,\\nCowper, Walpole, Howel, Lamb, the first letters from\\nchildren (printed in staggering capitals) Letters from\\nNew York, letters of credit, and others, interesting for\\nthe sake of the writer or the thing written. I have\\nread also letters from Europe by a gentleman named\\nPinto^ containing some curious gossip, and which I hope", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0132.jp2"}, "133": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 109\\nto see collected for the benefit of the curious. There\\nare, besides, letters addressed to posterity, as epitaphs,\\nfor example, written for their own monuments, by mon-\\narchs, whereby we have lately become possessed of the\\nnames of several great conquerors and kings of kings,\\nhitherto unheard of and still unpronounceable, but\\nvaluable to the student of the entirely dark ages. The\\nletter which St. Peter sent to King Pepin in the year\\nof grace 755 I would place in a class by itself, as also\\nthe letters of candidates, concerning which I shall dilate\\nmore fully in a note at the end of the following poem.\\nAt present, sat prata biberiint. Only, concerning the\\nshape of letters, they are all either square or oblong, to\\nwhich general figures, circular letters and round-robins\\nalso conform themselves. H. W.]\\nDeer sir its gut to be the fashnn now to rite letters\\nto the candid 8s and i wus chose at a publick Meetin in\\nJaalam to du wut wus nessary fur that town, i writ to\\n271 ginerals and gut ansers to 209. tha air called can-\\ndid 8s but I don t see nothin candid about em. this\\nhere i wich I send wus thought satty s factory. I dunno\\nas it s ushle to print Poscrips, but as all the ansers I got\\nhed the saim, I sposed it wus best, times has gretly\\nchanged. Formaly to knock a man into a cocked hat\\nwus to use him up, but now it ony gives him a chance\\nfur the cheef madgustracy. H. B.\\nDear Sir, You wish to know my notions\\nOn sartin pints thet rile the land\\nThere s nothin thet my natur so shuns\\nEz bein mum or underhand", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0133.jp2"}, "134": {"fulltext": "110 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nI ^m a straight-spoken kind o creetur\\nThet blurts right out wut s in his head,\\nAn^ ef I \\\\e one pecooler feetur,\\nIt is a nose thet wunt be led.\\nSo, to begin at the beginnin\\nAn come direcly to the pint,\\nI think the country s underpinnin\\nIs some consid ble out o jint\\nI ain t agoin to try your patience\\nBy tellin who done this or thet,\\nI don t make no insinooations,\\nI jest let on I smell a rat.\\nThet is, I mean, it seems to me so,\\nBut, ef the public think I m wrong,\\nI wunt deny but wut I be so,\\nAn fact, it don t smell very strong\\nMy mind s tu fair to lose its balance\\nAn say wich party hez most sense\\nThere may be folks o greater talence\\nThet can t set stiddier on the fence.\\nI m an eclectic ez to choosin\\nTwixt this an thet, I m plaguy lawth\\nI leave a side thet looks like losin\\nBut (wile there s doubt) I stick to both\\nI stan upon the Constitution,\\nEz preudunt statesmun say, who ve planned\\nA way to git the most profusion\\n0 chances ez to wa7 e they 11 stand.\\nEz fer the war, I go agin it,\\nI mean to say I kind o du,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0134.jp2"}, "135": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. m\\nThet is, I mean thet, bein in it.\\nThe best way wuz to fight it thru\\nNot but wut abstract war is horrid,\\nI sign to thet with all my heart,\\nBut civlyzation doos git forrid\\nSometimes upon a powder-cart.\\nAbout thet darned Proviso matter\\nI never hed a grain o doubt,\\nNor I ain t one my sense to scatter\\nSo s no one couldn t pick it out\\nMy love fer North an Soutli is equil,\\nSo I 11 jest answer plump an frank.\\nNo matter wut may be the sequil,\\nYes, Sir, I am agin a Bank.\\nEz to the answerin o questions,\\nI m an off ox at bein druv.\\nThough I ain t one thet ary test shuns\\n11 give our folks a helpin shove\\nKind o promiscoous I go it\\nFer the holl country, an the ground\\nI take, ez nigh ez I can show it.\\nIs pooty gen ally all round.\\nI don t appruve o givin pledges\\nYou d ough to leave a feller free.\\nAn not go knockin out the wedges\\nTo ketch his fingers in the tree\\nPledges air awfle breachy cattle\\nThet preudent farmers don t turn out,\\nEz long z the people git their rattle,\\nWut is there fer m to grout about", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0135.jp2"}, "136": {"fulltext": "112 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nEz to the slaves, there^s no confusion\\nIn lyiy idees consarnin them,\\nthink they air an Institution,\\nA sort of yes yes, jest so, ahem\\nDo own any Of my merit\\nOn thet pint you yourself may jedge\\nAll is, I never drink no sperit,\\nNor I hain t never signed no pledge.\\nEz to my principles, I glory\\nIn hevin^ nothin o the sort.\\nI ain t a Wig, I ain t a Tory,\\nI m jest a candidate, in short\\nThet s fair an square an parpendicler.\\nBut, ef the Public cares a fig\\nTo hev me an thin in particler,\\nWy, I m a kind o peri-wig.\\nP. S.\\nEz we re a sort o privateerin\\n0 course, you know, it s sheer an sheer.\\nAn there is sutthin wuth your hearin\\nI 11 mention in your privit ear\\nEf you git me inside the White House,\\nYour head with ile I 11 kin o nint\\nBy gittin you inside the Lighthouse\\nDown to the eend o Jaalam Pint.\\nAn ez the North hez took to brustlin\\nAt bein scrouged frum off the roost,\\nI 11 tell ye wut 11 save all tusslin\\nAn give our side a harnsome boost,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0136.jp2"}, "137": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. II3\\nTell em tliet on the Slavery question\\nI m RIGHT, although to speak I m lawth\\nThis gives you a safe pint to rest on.\\nAn leaves me frontin South by North.\\n[And now of epistles candidatial, which are of two\\nkinds, namely, letters of acceptance, and letters defin-\\nitive of position. Our republic, on the eve of an elec-\\ntion, may safely enough be called a republic of letters.\\nEpistolary com]30sition becomes then an epidemic,\\nwhich seizes one candidate after another, not seldom\\ncutting short the thread of political life. It has come\\nto such a pass that a party dreads less the attacks\\nof its opponents than a letter from its candidate.\\nLiter a scripta manet, and it will go hard if something\\nbad cannot be made of it. General Harrison, it is well\\nunderstood, was surrounded, during his candidacy,\\nwith the cordon sanitaire of a vigilance committee.\\nNo prisoner in Spielberg was ever more cautiously de-\\nprived of writing materials. The soot was scraped\\ncarefully from the chimney-places outposts of expert\\nrifle-shooters rendered it sure death for any goose (who\\ncame clad in feathers) to approach within a certain\\nlimited distance of North Bend and all domestic fowls\\nabout the premises were reduced to the condition of\\nPlato s original man. By these precautions the Gen-\\neral was saved. Parva componere magriis, 1 remember,\\nthat, when party-spirit once ran high among my people,\\nupon occasion of the choice of a new deacon, I, having\\nmy preferences, yet not caring too openly to express\\nthem, made use of an innocent fraud to bring about\\nthat result which I deemed most desirable. My strata-\\ngem was no other than the throwing a copy of the Con;-\\n8", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0137.jp2"}, "138": {"fulltext": "114 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nplete Letter- Writer in the way of the candidate whom\\nI wished to defeat. He caught the infection, and ad-\\ndressed a short note to his constituents, in which the\\nopposite party detected so many and so grave impro-\\nprieties, (he had modelled it upon the letter of a young\\nlady accepting a proposal of marriage,) that he not only\\nlost his election, but, falling under a suspicion of Sabel-\\nlianism and I know not what, (the widow Endive as-\\nsured me that he was a Paralipomenon, to her certain\\nknowledge,) was forced to leave the town. Thus it is\\nthat the letter killeth.\\nThe object which candidates propose to themselves in\\nwriting is to convey no meaning at all. And here is a\\nquite unsuspected pitfall into which they successively\\nplunge headlong. For it is precisely in such cryptog-\\nraphies that mankind are prone to seek for and find a\\nwonderful amount and variety of significance. Onme\\nignotum iwo miriUco. How do we admire at the antique\\nworld striving to crack those oracular nuts from Delphi,\\nHammon, and elsewhere, in only one of which can I so\\nmuch as surmise that any kernel had ever lodged\\nthat, namely, wherein Apollo confessed that he was\\nmortal. One Didymus is, moreover, related to have\\nwritten six thousand books on the single subject of\\ngrammar, a topic rendered only more tenebrific by the\\nlabors of his successors, and which seems still to pos-\\nsess an attraction for authors in proportion as they\\ncan make nothing of it. A singular loadstone for\\ntheologians, also, is the Beast in the Apocalypse,\\nwhereof, in the course of my studies, I have noted two\\nhundred and three several interpretations, each lethif-\\neral to all the rest. Non 7iostrum est tmitas componere\\nUteSy yet I have myself ventured upon a two hundred", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0138.jp2"}, "139": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. II5\\nand fourth, which I embodied in a discourse preached\\non occasion of the demise of the late usurper, Napoleon\\nBonaparte, and which quieted, in a large measure, the\\nminds of my people. It is true that my views on\\nthis important point were ardently controverted by\\nMr. Shear j ash ub Holden, the then preceptor of our\\nacademy, and in other particulars a very deserving and\\nsensible young man, though possessing a somewhat\\nlimited knowledge of the Greek tongue. But his\\nheresy struck down no deep root, and, he having been\\nlately removed by the hand of Providence, I had the\\nsatisfaction of reaffirming my cherished sentiments in a\\nsermon preached upon the Lord s day immediately suc-\\nceeding his funeral. This might seem like taking an\\nunfair advantage, did I not add that he had made pro-\\nvision in his last will (being celibate) for the publica-\\ntion of a posthumous tractate in support of his own\\ndangerous opinions.\\nI know of nothing in our modern times which\\napproaches so nearly to the ancient oracle as the letter\\nof a Presidential candidate. Now, among the Greeks,\\nthe eating of beans was strictly forbidden to all such as\\nhad it in mind to consult those expert amphibologists,\\nand this same prohibition on the part of Pythagoras to\\nhis disciples is understood to imply an abstinence from\\npolitics, beans having been used as ballots. That other\\nexplication, quod videlicet sensus eo cibo oMundi existi-\\nmaret, though swpi^ov ted pngnis et calcihus by many of\\nthe learned, and not wanting the countenance of\\nCicero, is confuted by the larger experience of New\\nEngland. On the whole, I think it safer to apply here\\nthe rule of interpretation which now generally obtains\\nin regard to antique cosmogonies, myths, fables, pro-", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0139.jp2"}, "140": {"fulltext": "116 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nverbial expressions, and knotty points generally, whicli\\nis, to find a common-sense meaning, and then select\\nwhatever can be imagined the most opposite thereto.\\nIn this way we arrive at the conclusion, that the Greeks\\nobjected to the questioning of candidates. And very\\nproperly, if, as I conceive, the chief point be not to\\ndiscover what a person in that position is, or what he\\nwill do, but whether he can be elected. Vos exemplar i a\\nGrcBca nocturna versate manu, vey^sate diurna.\\nBut, since an imitation of the Greeks in this particu-\\nlar (the asking of questions being one chief privilege of\\nfreemen) is hardly to be hoped for, and our candidates\\nwill answer, whether they are questioned or not, I\\nwould recommend that these ante-electionary dialogues\\nshould be carried on by symbols, as were the diplomatic\\ncorrespondences of the Scythians and Macrobii, or con-\\nfined to the language of signs, like the famous inter-\\nview of Panurge and Goatsnose. A candidate might\\nthen convey a suitable reply to all committees of inquiry\\nby closing one eye, or by presenting them with a phial\\nof Egyptian darkness to be speculated upon by their\\nrespective constituencies. These answers would be\\nsusceptible of whatever retrospective construction the\\nexigencies of the political campaign might seem to\\ndemand, and the candidate could take his position on\\neither side of the fence with entire consistency. Or, if\\nletters must be written, profitable use might be made\\nof the Dighton rock hieroglyphic or the cuneiform\\nscript, every fresh decipherer of which is enabled to\\neduce a different meaning, whereby a sculptured stone\\nor two supplies us, and will probably continue to supply\\nposterity, with a very vast and various body of authen-\\ntic history. For even the briefest epistle in the ordi-", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0140.jp2"}, "141": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 117\\nnary chirography is dangerous. There is scarce any\\nstyle so compressed that superfluous words may not be\\ndetected in it. A severe critic might curtail that\\nfamous brevity of Caesar s by two-thirds, drawing his\\npen through the supererogatory veni and vidi. Per-\\nhaps, after all, the surest footing of hope is to be found\\nin the rapidly increasing tendency to demand less and\\nless of qualification in candidates. Already have states-\\nmanship, experience, and the possession (nay, the pro-\\nfession, even) of principles been rejected as superfluous,\\nand may not the patriot reasonably hope that the ability\\nto write will follow At present, there may be death\\nin pot-hooks as well as pots, the loop of a letter may\\nsuffice for a bow-string, and all the dreadful heresies of\\nAnti-slavery may lurk in a flourish.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 H. W-l", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0141.jp2"}, "142": {"fulltext": "No. vrii.\\nA SECOND LETTER FROM B. SAWIN, Esq.\\n[In the following epistle, we behold Mr. Sawin re-\\nturning, a miles emeritus, to the bosom of his family.\\nQuantum mutatus! The good Father of us all had\\ndoubtless intrusted to the keeping of this child of his\\ncertain faculties of a constructive kind. He had put\\nin him a share of that vital force, the nicest economy of\\nevery minute atom of which is necessary to the perfect\\ndevelopment of Humanity. He had given him a brain\\nand heart, and so had equipped his soul with the two\\nstrong wings of knowledge and love, whereby it can\\nmount to hang its nest under the eaves of heaven.\\nAnd this child, so dowered, he had intrusted to the\\nkeeping of his vicar, the State. How stands the ac-\\ncount of that stewardship The State, or Society,\\n(call her by what name you will, had taken no manner\\nof thought of him till she saw him swept out into the\\nstreet, the pitiful leavings of last night s debauch,\\nwith cigar-ends, lemon-parings, tobacco-quids, slops,\\nvile stenches, and the whole loathsome next-morning of\\nthe barroom, an own child of the Almighty God I\\nremember him as he was brought to be christened, a\\nruddy, rugged babe and now there he wallows, reeking,\\nseething, the dead corpse, not of a man, but of a soul,\\na putrefying lump, horrible for the life that is in it.\\nComes the wind of heaven, that good Samaritan, and\\n118", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0142.jp2"}, "143": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. II9\\nparts the hair upon his forehead, nor is too nice to kiss\\nthose parched, cracked lips the morning opens upon\\nhim her eyes fall of pitying sunshine, the sky yearns\\ndown to him, and there he lies fermenting. sleep\\nlet me not profane thy holy name by calling that\\nstertorous unconsciousness a slumber I By and by\\ncomes along the State, God s vicar. Does she say,\\nMy poor, forlorn foster-child Behold here a force\\nwhich I will make dig and plant and build for me\\nNot so, but, ^Here is a recruit ready-made to my\\nhand, a piece of destroying energy lying uprofitably\\nidle/^ So she claps an ugly gray suit on him, puts a\\nmusket in his grasp, and sends him off, with Guber-\\nnatorial and other godspeeds, to do duty as a destroyer.\\nI made one of the crowd at the last Mechanics Fair,\\nand, with the rest, stood gazing in wonder at a perfect\\nmachine, with its soul of fire, its boiler-heart that sent\\nthe hot blood pulsing along the iron arteries, and its\\nthews of steel. And while I was admiring the adapta-\\ntion of means to end, the harmonious involutions of con-\\ntrivance, and the never-bewildered complexity, I saw a\\ngrimed and greasy fellow, the imperious engine s lackey\\nand drudge, whose sole office was to let fall, at intervals,\\na drop or two of oil upon a certain joint. Then my soul\\nsaid within me. See there a piece of mechanism to which\\nthat other you marvel at is but as the rude first effort\\nof a child, a force which not merely suffices to set a\\nfew wheels in motion, but which can send an impulse\\nall through the infinite future, a contrivance, not\\nfor turning out pins, or stitching buttonholes, but for\\nmaking Hamlets and Lears. And yet this thing of iron\\nshall be housed, waited on, guarded from rust and dust,\\nand it shall be a crime but so much as to scratch it with", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0143.jp2"}, "144": {"fulltext": "120 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\na pin while the other, with its fire of God in it shall\\nbe buffeted hither and thither, and finally sent carefnlly\\na thousand miles to be the target for a Mexican cannon-\\nball. Unthrifty Mother State My heart burned\\nwithin me for pity and indignation, and I renewed this\\ncovenant with my own soul, In aliis mansiieUis ero,\\nat, in hlasphemiis contra Christu7n, non ita. H. W.]\\nI SPOSE you wonder ware I be I can t tell, fer the soul\\no me,\\nExacly ware I be myself, meanin by thet the holl o\\nme.\\nWen I left hum, I hed two legs, an they worn t bad\\nones neither,\\n(The scaliest trick they ever played wuz bringin on me\\nhither,)\\nNow one on em s I dunno ware they thought I wuz\\nadyin\\nAn sawed it off because they said twuz kin o mor-\\ntifyin\\nI m willin to believe it wuz, an yit I don t see, nuther,\\nWy one should take to f eelin cheap a minnit sooner n\\nt other,\\nSence both wuz equilly to blame but things is ez they\\nbe\\nIt took on so they took it off, an thet s enough fer me\\nThere s one good thing, though, to be said about my\\nwooden new one,\\nThe liquor can t git into it ez t used to in the true one\\nSo it saves drink an then, besides, a feller could n t\\nbeg\\nA gretter blessin then to hev one oilers sober peg", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0144.jp2"}, "145": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 121\\nIt s true a chap s in want o* two fer follerin a drum.\\nBut all the march I ra up to now is jest to Kingdom\\nCome.\\nI ve lost one eye, but thet s a loss it s easy to supply\\nOut o the glory thet I \\\\e gut, fer thet is all my eye\\nAn one is big enough, I guess, by diligently usin it.\\nTo see all I shall ever git by way o pay fer losin it\\nOfficers, I notice, who git paid fer all our thumps an\\nkickins.\\nDa wal by keepin single eyes arter the fattest pickins\\nSo, ez the eye s put fairly out, I 11 larn to go with-\\nout it.\\nAn not allow myself to be no gret put out about it.\\nNow, le me see, thet is n t all I used, fore leavin\\nJaalam,\\nTo count things on my finger-eends, but sutthin seems\\nto ail em\\nWare s my left hand 0, darn it, yes, I recollect wut s\\ncome on t\\nI hain t no left arm but my right, an thet s gut jest a\\nthumb on t\\nIt ain t so hendy ez it wuz to cal late a sum on t.\\nI ve had some ribs broke, six (I b lieve), I hain t\\nkep no account on em\\nWen pensions git to be the talk, I 11 settle the amount\\non em.\\nAn now I m speakin about ribs, it kin o brings to\\nmind\\nOne thet I could n t never break, the one I lef be-\\nhind\\nEf you should see her, jest clear out the spout o your\\ninvention", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0145.jp2"}, "146": {"fulltext": "122 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nAn pour the longest sweetnin in about an annooal\\npension.\\nAn kin o hint (in case, you know, the critter should\\nrefuse to be\\nConsoled) I ain t so xpensive now to keep ez wut I used\\nto be\\nThere s one arm less, ditto one eye, an then the leg\\nthet s wooden\\nCan be took off an sot away wenever ther s a puddin\\nI spose you think I m comin back ez opperlunt ez\\nthunder,\\nWith shiploads o gold images an varus sorts o plunder\\nWal, fore I vullinteered, I thought this country wuz a\\nsort o\\nCanaan, a reg lar Promised Land flowin with rum an\\nwater.\\nWare propaty growed up like time, without no cultiva-\\ntion.\\nAn gold wuz dug ez taters be among our Yankee\\nnation.\\nWare nateral advantages were pufficly amazin\\nWare every rock there wuz about with precious stuns\\nwuz blazin\\nWare mill-sites filled the country up ez thick ez you\\ncould cram em,\\nAn desput rivers run about abeggin folks to dam em\\nThen there were meetinhouses, tu, chockful o gold an\\nsilver\\nThet you could take, an no one could n t hand ye in no\\nbill fer\\nThet s wut I thonght afore I went, thet s wut them\\nfellers told us", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0146.jp2"}, "147": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 123\\nThet stayed to hum an speechified an to the buzzards\\nsold us\\nI thought thet gold mines could be gut cheaper than\\nchina asters.\\nAn see myself acomin back like sixty Jacob Astors\\nBut sech idees soon melted down an did n t leave a\\ngrease-spot\\nI vow my holl sheer o the spiles would n t come nigh\\na V spot\\nAlthough, most any wares we ve ben, you need n t break\\nno locks.\\nNor run no kin o risks, to fill your pocket full o\\nrocks.\\nI guess I mentioned in my last some o the nateral\\nfeeturs\\n0 this all-fiered buggy hole in th way o awfle cree-\\nturs,\\nBut I fergut to name (new things to speak on so\\nabounded)\\nHow one day you 11 most die o thust, an fore the next\\ngit drown ded.\\nThe clymit seerns to me just like a teapot made o*\\npewter\\nOur Prudence hed, thet would n t pour (all she could\\ndu) to suit her\\nFust place the leaves ould choke the spout, so s not a\\ndrop ould dreen out.\\nThen Prude ould tip an tip an tip, till the holl kit\\nbust clean out.\\nThe kiver-hinge-pin bein lost, tea-leaves an tea an\\nkiver\\nould all come down kerswosh ez though the dam broke\\nin a river.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0147.jp2"}, "148": {"fulltext": "124 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nJest so t is here holl months there ain t a day o rainy\\nweather.\\nAn jest ez th officers ould be alayin heads to-\\ngether\\nEz t how they d mix their drink at sech a milingtary\\ndeepot,\\nT ould pour ez though the lid wuz off the everlastin\\nteapot.\\nThe cons quence is, thet I shall take, wen Fm allowed\\nto leave here.\\nOne piece o propaty along, an thet s the shakin\\nfever\\nIt s reggilar employment, though, an thet ain t thought\\nto harm one,\\nNor t ain t so tiresome ez it wuz with t other leg an\\narm on\\nAn it s a consolation, tu, although it does n t pay.\\nTo hev it said you re some gret shakes in any kin o\\nway.\\nT worn t very long, I tell ye wut, I thought o fortin-\\nmakin\\nOne day a reg lar shiver-de-freeze, an next ez good ez\\nbakin\\nOne day abrilin in the sand, then smoth rin in the\\nmashes,\\nGit up all sound, be put to bed a mess o hacks an\\nsmashes.\\nBut then, thinks I, at any rate there s glory to be\\nhed,\\nThet s an investment, arter all, that may n t turn out\\nso bad\\nBut somehow, wen we d fit an licked, I oilers found\\nthe thanks", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0148.jp2"}, "149": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 125\\nGut kin o lodged afore they come ez low down ez the\\nranks\\nThe Gin rals gut the biggest sheer, the Gunnies next,\\nan so on,\\nWe never gut a blasted mite o glory ez I know on\\nAn spose we hed, I wonder how you re goin to con-\\ntrive its\\nDivision so s to give a piece to twenty thousand\\nprivits\\nEt you should multiply by ten the portion o the brav st\\none.\\nYou would n t git more n half enough to speak of on a\\ngrave-stun\\nWe git the licks, we re jest the grist thet s put into\\nWar s hoppers\\nLeftenants is the lowest grade thet helps pick up the\\ncoppers.\\nIt may suit folks thet go agin a body with a soul in t.\\nAn ain t contented with a hide without a bagnet hole\\nin t\\nBut glory is a kin o thing shan t pursue no furder,\\nCoz thet s the off cers parquisite, yourn s on y jest\\nthe murder.\\nWal, arter I gin glory up, thinks I at least there s one\\nThing in the bills we ain t bed yit, an thet s the glori-\\nous fu:n\\nEf once we git to Mexico, we fairly may presume we\\nAll day an night shall revel in the halls o Montezumy.\\nI 11 tell ye wut my revels wuz, an see how you would\\nlike em\\nJVe never gut inside the hall the nighest ever come\\nWuz stan in sentry in the sun (an fact, it seemed a\\ncent ry)", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0149.jp2"}, "150": {"fulltext": "126 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nA ketchin smells o biled an roast thet come out thru\\nthe entry,\\nAn hearing ez I sweltered thru my passes an repasses,\\nA rat-tat-too o knives an forks, a clink ty- clink o\\nglasses\\nI can t tell oS the bill o fare the Gin rals bed inside\\nAll I know is, thet out o doors a pair o soles wuz fried.\\nAn not a hundred miles away frum ware this child wuz\\nposted,\\nA Massachusetts citizen wuz baked an biled an roasted\\nThe on y thing like revellin thet ever come to me\\nWuz bein routed out o sleep by thet darned revelee.\\nThey say the quarrel s settled now fer my part I \\\\e\\nsome doubt on t,\\nT 11 take more fish-skin than folks think to take the\\nrile clean out on t\\nAt any rate, I m so used up I can t do no more fightin\\nThe on y chance thet s left to me is politics or writin\\nKow, ez the people s gut to hev a milingtary man.\\nAn I ain t nothin else jest now, I ve hit upon a plan\\nThe can idatin line, you know, ould suit me to a T,\\nAn ef I lose, t wunt hurt my ears to lodge another\\nflea\\nSo I 11 set up ez can idate fer any kin o office,\\n(I mean fer any thet includes good easy-cheers an\\nsoffies\\nFer ez to runnin fer a place ware work s the time o*\\nday.\\nYou know thet s wut I never did, except the other\\nway;)\\nEf it ^s the Presidential cheer fer wich I d better rnn^", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0150.jp2"}, "151": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 127\\nWut two legs any wares about could keep up with my\\none\\nThere ain t no kin o quality in can idates, it s said,\\nSo useful ez a wooden leg, except a wooden head\\nThere s nothin ain t so poppylar (wy, it s a parfect sin\\nTo think wut Mexico hez paid fer Santy Anny s pin\\nThen I hain t gut no principles, an sence I wuz knee-\\nhigh,\\nI never did hev any gret, ez you can testify\\nI m decided peace-man, tu, an go agin the war,\\nFer now the hoU on t s gone an past, wut is there to\\ngo /or?\\nEf, wile you re lectioneerin round, some curus chaps\\nshould beg\\nTo know my views o state affairs, jest answer wooden\\nLEG\\nEf they ain t settisfied with thet, an kin o pry an\\ndoubt\\nAn ax fer sutthin deffynit, jest say oke eye put out\\nThet kin o talk I guess you 11 find 11 answer to a\\ncharm.\\nAn wen you re druv tu nigh the wall, hoi up my miss-\\nin arm\\nEf they should nose round fer a pledge, put on a\\nvartoous look\\nAn tell em thet s precisely wut I never gin nor took\\nThen you can call me Timbertoes, that s wut the\\npeople likes\\nSutthin combinin morril truth with phrases sech ez\\nstrikes\\nSome say the people s fond o this, or thet, or wut you\\nplease,\u00e2\u0080\u0094", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0151.jp2"}, "152": {"fulltext": "128 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nI tell ye wut the people want is jest correct idees\\nOld Timbertoes/ you see, s, a creed it s safe to be\\nquite bold on,\\nTher s nothin in t the other side can any ways git\\nhold on\\nIt s a good tangible idee, a sutthin to embody\\nThet valooable class o men who look thru brandy-\\ntoddy\\nIt gives a Party Platform, tu, jest level with the mind\\nOf all right-thinkin honest folks thet mean to go it\\nblind\\nThen there air other good hooraws to dror on ez you\\nneed em,\\nSech ez the oke-eyed Slakterer, the bloody Birdo-\\nFREDUM\\nThem s wut takes hold o folks thet think, ez well ez o\\nthe masses.\\nAn makes you sartin o the aid o^ good men of all\\nclasses.\\nThere s one thing I m in doubt about in order to be\\nPresidunt,\\nIt s absolutely ne ssary to be a Southern residunt\\nThe Constitution settles thet, an also thet a feller\\nMust own a nigger o some sort, jet black, or brown, or\\nyeller.\\nNow I hain t no objections agin particklar climes.\\nNor agin ownin anythin (except the truth sometimes),\\nBut, ez I hain t no capital, up there among ye, may be.\\nYou might raise funds enough fer me to buy a low-\\npriced baby,\\nAn then, to suit the No thern folks, who feel obleeged\\nto say", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0152.jp2"}, "153": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 129\\nThey hate an cuss the very thing they vote fer every\\nday,\\nSay you re assured I go full butt fer Libbaty s diffusion\\nAn made the purchis on y jest to spite the Institoo-\\ntion\\nBut, golly there s the currier s hoss upon the pavement\\npawin\\nI ll be more xplicit in my next.\\nYourn,\\nBIRDOFREDUM SAWIN.\\n[We have now a tolerably fair chance of estimating\\nhow the balance-sheet stands between our returned\\nvolunteer and glory. Supposing the entries to be set\\ndown on both sides of the account in fractional parts\\nof one hundred, we shall arrive at something like the\\nfollowing result\\nCr. B. Sawin, Esq., in account with (Blank) Glory. Dr.\\nBy loss of one leg, 20 To one 675th three cheers in\\ndo. one arm, 15 Faneuil Hall, 30\\ndo. four fingers, 5 do. do. on\\ndo. One eye, 10 occasion of presentation of\\nthe breaking of six ribs, 6 sword to Colonel Wright, 25\\nhaving served under one suit of gray clothes\\nColonel Gushing one (ingeniously unbecoming), 15\\nmonth, 44 musical entertainments\\n(drum and fife six months), 5\\none dinner after return, 1\\nchance of pension, 1\\nprivilege of drawing long-\\nbow during rest of natural\\nlife, 23\\n100 100\\nE. E.\\n9", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0153.jp2"}, "154": {"fulltext": "130 THE BIGLOW PAPERS,\\nIt would appear that Mr. Sawin found the actual\\nfeast curiously the reverse of the bill of fare advertised\\nill Faneuil Hall and other places. His primary object\\nseems to have been the making of his fortune. Quce-\\nrenda pecunia primum, virtus post nummos. He hoisted\\nsail for Eldorado, and shipwrecked on Point Tribula-\\ntion. Qu id non mortalia p)ectora cogis auri sacra fames 9\\nThe speculation has sometimes crossed my mind, in that\\ndreary interval of drought which intervenes between\\nquarterly stipendiary showers, that Providence, by the\\ncreation of a money-tree, might have simplified wonder-\\nfully the sometimes perplexing problem of human life.\\nWe read of bread-trees, the butter for which lies ready-\\nchurned in Irish bogs. Milk-trees we are assured of in\\nSouth America, and stout Sir John Hawkins testifies\\nto water-trees in the Canaries. Boot-trees bear abun-\\ndantly in Lynn and elsewhere and I have seen, in the\\nentries of the wealthy, hat-trees with a fair show of\\nfruit. A family-tree I once cultivated myself, and\\nfound therefrom but a scanty yield, and that quite\\ntasteless and innutritions. Of trees bearing men we\\nare not without examples as those in the park of Louis\\nthe Eleventh of France. Who has forgotten, moreover,\\nthat olive-tree, growing in the Athenian s back-garden\\nwith its strange uxorious crop, for the general propa-\\ngation of which, as of a new and precious variety, the\\nphilosopher Diogenes, hitherto uninterested in arbori-\\nculture, was so zealous In the sylva of our own\\nSouthern States, the females of my family have called\\nmy attention to the china-tree. Not to multiply ex-\\namples, I will barely add to my list the birch-tree, in\\nthe smaller branches of which has been implanted so\\nmiraculous a virtue for communicating the Latin and", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0154.jp2"}, "155": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 131\\nGreek languages, and which may well, therefore, be\\nclassed among the trees producing necessaries of life,\\nvenerabiU donum fatalis virgce. That money-trees ex-\\nisted in the golden age there want not prevalent reasons\\nfor our believing. For does not the old proverb, when\\nit asserts that money does not grow on ez^cr^/bush, imply\\na fortiori that there were certain bushes which did\\nproduce it Again, there is another ancient saw to\\nthe effect that money is the root of all evil. From\\nwhich two adages it may be safe to infer that the afore-\\nsaid species of tree first degenerated into a shrub, then\\nabsconded underground, and finally, in our iron age,\\nvanished altogether. In favorable exposures it may be\\nconjectured that a specimen or two survived to a great\\nage, as in the garden of the Hesperides and, indeed,\\nwhat else could that tree in the Sixth ^neid have been,\\nwith a branch whereof the Trojan hero procured ad-\\nmission to a territory, for the entering of which money\\nis a surer passport than to a certain other more profit-\\nable (too) foreign kingdom Whether these specula-\\ntions of mine have any force in them, or whether they\\nwill not rather, by most readers, be deemed impertinent\\nto the matter in hand, is a question which I leave to\\nthe determination of an indulgent posterity. That\\nthere were, in more primitive and happier times, shops\\nwhere money was sold, and that, too, on credit and at\\na bargain, I take to be matter of demonstration. For\\nwhat but a dealer in this article was that ^olus who\\nsupplied Ulysses with motive power for his fleet in\\nbags What that Ericus, king of Sweden, who is said\\nto have kept the winds in his cap What, in more\\nrecent times, those Lapland Nomas who traded in\\nfavorable breezes All which will appear the more", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0155.jp2"}, "156": {"fulltext": "132 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nclearly when we consider, that, even to this day, rais-\\niiig the wind is proverbial for raising money, and that\\nbrokers and banks were invented by the Venetians at a\\nlater period.\\nAnd now for the imi^rovement of this digression. I\\nfind a parallel to Mr. Sawin s fortune in an adventure\\nof my own. For, shortly after I had first broached to\\nmyself the before-stated natural-historical and archaeo-\\nlogical theories, as I was passing, lime neyotia peiuUis\\nmecum revolvens, through one of the obscure suburbs of\\nour New England metropolis, my eye was attracted by\\nthese words upon a signboard, Cheap Cash-Store.\\nHere was at once the confirmation of my speculations,\\nand the substance of my hopes. Here lingered the\\nfragment of a happier past, or stretched out the first\\ntremulous organic filament of a more fortunate future.\\nThus glowed the distant Mexico to the eyes of Sawin,\\nas he looked through the dirty pane of the recruiting-\\noffice window, or speculated from the summit of that\\nmirage-Pisgah which the imps of the bottle are so cun-\\nning in raising up. Already had my Alnaschar-fancy\\n(even during that first half-believing glance) expended\\nin various useful directions the funds to be obtained\\nby pledging the manuscript of a proposed volume of\\ndiscourses. Already did a clock ornament the tower\\nof the Jaalam meeting-house, a gift appropriately, but\\nmodestly, commemorated in the parish and town\\nrecords, both, for now many years, kept by myself.\\nAlready had my son Seneca completed his course at the\\nUniversity. Whether, for the moment, we may not be\\nconsidered as actually lording it over those Baratarias\\nwith the viceroyalty of which Hope invests us, and\\nwhether we are ever so warmly housed as in our Span-", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0156.jp2"}, "157": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 133\\nish castles, would afford matter of argument. Enough\\nthat I found that signboard to be no other than a bait\\nto the trap of a decayed grocer. Nevertheless, I bought\\na pound of dates (getting short weight by reason of im-\\nmense flights of harpy flies who pursued and lighted\\nupon their prey even in the very scales), which pur-\\nchase I made, not only with an eye to the little ones at\\nhome, but also as a figurative reproof of that too fre-\\nquent habit of my mind, which, forgetting the due order\\nof chronology, will often persuade me that the happy\\nsceptre of Saturn is stretched over this Astraea-forsaken\\nnineteenth century.\\nHaving glanced at the ledger of Glory under the title\\nSaivin, i?., let us extend our investigations, and dis-\\ncover if that instructive volume does not contain some\\ncharges more personally interesting to ourselves. I\\nthink we should be more economical of our resources,\\ndid we thoroughly appreciate the fact, that, whenever\\nBrother Jonathan seems to be thrusting his hand into\\nhis own pocket, he is, in fact, picking ours. I confess\\nthat the late muck which the country has been running\\nhas materially changed my views as to the best method\\nof raising revenue. If, by means of direct taxation,\\nthe bills for every extraordinary outlay were brought\\nunder our immediate eye, so that, like thrifty house-\\nkeepers, we could see Avhere and how fast the money\\nwas going, we should be less likely to commit extrava-\\ngances. At present, these things are managed in such\\na hugger-mugger way, that we know not what we pay\\nfor the poor man is charged as much as the rich\\nand, while we are saving and scrimping at the spigot,\\nthe government is drawing off at the bung. If we\\ncould know that a part of the money we expend for", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0157.jp2"}, "158": {"fulltext": "134 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\ntea and coffee goes to buy powder and balls, and that\\nit is Mexican blood which makes the clothes on our\\nbacks more costly, it would set some of us athinking.\\nDuring the present fall, I have often pictured to my-\\nself a government official entering my study and hand-\\ning me the following bill\\nWashington, Sept. 30, 1848.\\nRev. Homer Wilbur to lllncle Samuel, Dr.\\nTo his share of work done in Mexico on partnership\\naccount, sundry jobs, as below,\\nkilling, maiming, and wounding about 5,000 Mex-\\n2.00\\nslaughtering one woman carrying water to\\nwounded, iq\\nextra work on two different Sabbaths (one bom-\\nbardment and one assault) whereby the Mex-\\nicans were prevented from defiling themselves\\nwith the idolatries of high mass, .3.50\\nthrowing an especially fortunate and Protestant\\nbombshell into the Cathedral at Vera Cruz,\\nwhereby several female Papists were slain at\\nthe altar, 50\\nhis proportion of cash paid for conquered terri-\\n1.75\\nhis proportion do for conquering terri-\\nto^^ 1.50\\nmanuring do. with new superior compost called\\nAmerican Citizen,\\n.50\\nextending the area of freedom and Protestantism, .01\\nglory,\\nImmediate payment is requested.\\n.01\\n$9.87\\nN. B. Thankful for former favors, U. S. requests a coUv\\ntinuance of patronage. Orders executed with neatness and", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0158.jp2"}, "159": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 135\\ndespatch. Terms as low as those of any other contractor\\nfor the same kind and style of work.\\n[I can fancy the official answering my look of horror\\nwith, Yes, Sir, it looks like a high charge, Sir but\\nin these days slaughtering is slaughtering/ Verily, I\\nwould that every one understood that it was for it\\ngoes about obtaining money under the false pretence of\\nbeing glory. For me, I have an imagination which\\nplays me uncomfortable tricks. It happens to me\\nsometimes to see a slaughterer on his way home from\\nhis day s work, and forthwith my imagination puts a\\ncocked-hat upon his head and epaulettes upon his\\nshoulders, and sets him up as a candidate for the\\nPresidency. So, also, on a recent public occasion, as\\nthe place assigned to the Eeverend Clergy is just\\nbehind that of Officers of the Army and Kavy in\\nprocessions, it was my fortune to be seated at the din-\\nner-table over against one of these respectable persons.\\nHe was arrayed as (out of his own profession) only kings,\\ncourt-officers, and footmen are in Europe, and Indians\\nin America. Now what does my over-officious imagi-\\nnation but set to work upon him, strip him of his gay\\nlivery, and present him to me coatless, his trowsers\\nthrust into the tops of a pair of boots thick with clotted\\nblood, and a basket on his arm out of which lolled a\\ngore-smeared axe, thereby destroying my relish for the\\ntemporal mercies upon the board before me H. W.]", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0159.jp2"}, "160": {"fulltext": "No. IX.\\nA THIRD LETTER FROM B. SAWIN, Esq.\\n[Upois the following letter slender comment will be\\nneedful. In what river Selemnns has Mr. Sawin\\nbathed, that he has become so swiftly oblivious of his\\nfomer loves From an ardent and (as befits a soldier)\\nconfident wooer of that coy bride, the popular favor,\\nwe see him subside of a sudden into the (I trust not\\njilted) Cincinnatus, returning to his plough with a\\ngoodly-sized branch of willow in his hand figuratively\\nreturning, however, to a figurative plough, and from\\nno profound affection for that honored implement of\\nhusbandry, (for which, indeed, Mr. Sawin never dis-\\nplayed any decided predilection.) but in order to be\\ngracefully summoned therefrom to more congenial\\nlabors. It would seem that the character of the an-\\ncient Dictator had become part of the recognized stock\\nof our modern political comedy, though, as our term of\\noffice extends to a quadrennial length, the parallel is\\nnot so minutely exact as could be desired. It is suffi-\\nciently so, however, for purposes of scenic representa-\\ntion. An humble cottage (if built of logs, the better)\\nforms the Arcadian background of the stage. This\\nrustic paradise is labelled Ashland, Jaalam, North\\nBend, Marshfield, Kinderhook, or Baton Rouge, as\\noccasion demands. Before the door stands a something\\n136", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0160.jp2"}, "161": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 137\\nwith one handle (the other painted in proper perspec-\\ntive), which represents, in happy ideal vagueness, the\\nplough. To this the defeated candidate rushes with\\ndelirious joy, welcomed as a father by appropriate\\ngroups of happy laborers, or from it the successful one\\nis torn with difficulty, sustained alone by a noble\\nsense of public duty. Only I have observed, that, if\\nthe scene be laid at Baton Rouge or Ashland, the\\nlaborers are kept carefully in the background, and are\\nheard to shout from behind the scenes in a singular\\ntone resembling ululation, and accompanied by a sound\\nnot unlike vigorous clapping. This, however, may be\\nartistically in keeping with the habits of the rustic\\npopulation of those localities. The precise connection\\nbetween agricultural pursuits and statesmanship I have\\nnot been able, after diligent inquiry, to discover. But,\\nthat my investigations may not be barren of all fruit, I\\nwill mention one curious statistical fact, which I con-\\nsider thoroughly established, namely, that no real\\nfarmer ever attains practically beyond a seat in General\\nCourt, however theoretically qualified for more exalted\\nstation.\\nIt is probable that some other prospect has been\\nopened to Mr. Sawin, and that he has not made this\\ngreat sacrifice without some definite understanding in\\nregard to a seat in the cabinet or a foreign mission.\\nIt may be supposed that we of Jaalam were not un-\\ntouched by a feeling of villatic pride in beholding our\\ntownsman occupying so large a space in the public eye.\\nAnd to me, deeply revolving the qualifications necessary\\nto a candidate in these frugal times, those of Mr. S.\\nseemed peculiarly adapted to a successful campaign.\\nThe loss of a leg, an arm, an eye, and four fingers,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0161.jp2"}, "162": {"fulltext": "138 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nreduced him so nearly to the condition of a voxetprm^\\nterea nihil, that I could think of nothing but the loss\\nof his head by which his chance could have been bet-\\ntered. But since he has chosen to balk our suffrages,\\nwe must content ourselves with what we can get, re-\\nmembering lactucas non esse dandas, dum cardui mifi.\\nciant.~R. W.\\nI SPOSE you recollect thet I explained my gennle views\\nIn the last billet thet I writ, Vay down from Veery\\nCruze,\\nJest arter I d a kind o ben spontanously sot up\\nTo run unanimously fer the Presidential cup\\n0 course it worn t no wish o mine, t wuz ferflely dis-\\ntressin,\\nBut poppiler enthusiasm gut so almighty pressin\\nThet, though like sixty all along I fumed an fussed an\\nsorrered.\\nThere did n t seem no ways to stop their bringin on me\\nf orrerd\\nFact is, they udged the matter so, I could n t help ad-\\nmittin\\nThe Father o his Country s shoes no feet but mine\\nould fit in,\\nBesides the savin o the soles fer ages to succeed,\\nSeein thet with one wannut foot, a pair d be more n I\\nneed\\nAn tell ye wut, them shoes 11 want a thund rin sight\\no patchin\\nEf this ere fashion is to last we ve gut into o* hatchin\\nA pair o second Washintons fer every new election,\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nThough, fur ez number one s consarned, I don t make\\nno objection.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0162.jp2"}, "163": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. I39\\nI wuz agoin^ on to say thet wen at fust I saw\\nThe masses would stick to t I wuz the Country s father-\\nn-law,\\n(They would ha hed it Father, but I told em t would\\nn t du,\\nOoz thet wuz sutthin of a sort they could n t split in tu,\\nAn Washinton hed hed the thing laid fairly to his\\ndoor,\\nNor dars n t say t worn t his n, much ez sixty year\\nafore,\\nBut t ain t no matter ez to thet wen I wuz nomer-\\nnated,\\nT worn t natur but wut I should feel consid able elated.\\nAn wile the hooraw o the thing wuz kind 0 noo an\\nfresh,\\nI thought our ticket would ha caird the country with a\\nresh.\\nSence I ve come hum, though, an looked round, I think\\nI seem to find\\nStrong argimunts ez thick ez fleas to make me change\\nmy mind\\nIt s clear to any one whose brain ain t fur gone in a\\nphthisis,\\nThet hail Columby s happy land is goin thru a crisis.\\nAn t would n t noways du to hev the people s mind\\ndistracted\\nBy bein all to once by sev ral pop lar names attackted\\nT would save holl haycartloads 0 fuss an three four\\nmonths 0 jaw,\\nEf some illustrous paytriot should back out an with-\\ndraw", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0163.jp2"}, "164": {"fulltext": "140 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nSo, ez I ain t a crooked stick, jest like like ole (I\\nswow,\\nI dunno ez I know his name) I ^11 go back to my\\nplough.\\nNow, t ain t no more n is proper n right in sech a\\nsitooation\\nTo hint the course you think 11 be the savin o the\\nnation\\nTo funk right out o p lit cal strife ain t thought to be\\nthe thing.\\nWithout you deacon off the toon you want your folks\\nshould sing\\nSo I edvise the noomrous friends thet s in one boat\\nwith me\\nTo jest up killock, jam right down their helium hard\\na lee,\\nHaul the sheets taut, an laying out upon the Suthun\\ntack,\\nMake f er the safest port they can, wich, think, is Ole\\nZack.\\nNext thing you ll want to know, I spose, wut argi-\\nmunts I seem\\nTo see that makes me think this ere 11 be the strong-\\nest team\\nFust place, I ve ben consid ble round in barrooms an\\nsaloons\\nAgethrin public sentiment, mongst Demmercrats and\\nCoons,\\nAn t ain t ve y off en thet I meet a chap but wut goes\\nin\\nFer Eough an Ready, fair an square, hufs, taller,\\nhorns, an skin\\nI don t deny but wut, fer one, ez fur ez I could see.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0164.jp2"}, "165": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 141\\nI didn t like at fust the Pheladelphy nomernee\\nI could ha pinted to a man thet wuz, I guess, a peg\\nHigher than him, a soger, tu, an with a wooden leg\\nBut every day with more an more 0 Taylor zeal I m\\nburnin\\nSeein wich way the tide thet sets to office is aturnin\\nWy, into Beller s we notched the votes down on three\\nsticks,\\nT wuz Birdofredum 07ie, Cass anglit, an Taylor tweyity-\\nsix,\\nAn bein the on y canderdate thet wuz upon the\\nground.\\nThey said t wuz no more n right thet I should pay\\nthe drinks all round\\nEf I d expected sech a trick, I would n t ha cut my\\nfoot\\nBy goin an votin fer myself like a consumed coot\\nIt did n t make no diff rence, though I wish I may be\\ncust,\\nEf Bellers wuz n t slim enough to say he would n t\\ntrust\\nAnother pint thet influences the minds 0 sober jedges\\nIs thet the Gin ral hez n t gut tied hand an foot with\\npledges\\nHe hez n t told ye wut he is, an so there ain t no\\nknowin\\nBut wut he may turn out to be the best there is agoin\\nThis, at the on y spot thet pinched, the shoe directly\\neases,\\nCoz every one is free to xpect percisely wut he pleases\\nI want free-trade you don t the Gin ral is n^t bound\\nto neither", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0165.jp2"}, "166": {"fulltext": "142 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nI vote my way you, yonrn an both air sooted to a\\nT there.\\nOle Rongh an Ready, tu, s a Wig, but without bein^\\nultry\\n(He s like a holsome hayinday, thet s warm, but is n t\\nsultry)\\nHe s jest wut I should call myself, a kin o scratch, ez\\nt ware,\\nThet ain t exactly all a wig nor wholly your own\\nhair\\nI ve ben a Wig three weeks myself, jest o this mod rate\\nsort.\\nAn don t find them an Demmercrats so different ez I\\nthought\\nThey both act pooty much alike, an push an scrouge\\nan cus\\nThey re like two pickpockets in league for Uncle Sam-\\nwell s pns\\nEach takes a side, an then they squeeze the old man in\\nbetween em.\\nTurn all his pockets wrong side out an quick ez light-\\nnin clean em\\nTo nary one on em I d trust a secon -handed rail\\nNo furder off an I could sling a bullock by the tail.\\nWebster sot matters right in thet air Mashfiel speech\\no his n\\nTaylor, sez he, ain t nary ways the one thet I d a\\nchizzen,\\nNor he ain t fittin fer the place, an like ez not he ain t\\nNo more n a tough ole bullethead, an no gret of a\\nsaint\\nBut then, sez he, obsarve my pint, he s jest ez good\\nto vote fer", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0166.jp2"}, "167": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 143\\nEz though the greasin on him worn t a thing to hire\\nChoate fer\\nAin t it ez easy done to drop a ballot in a box\\nFer one ez t is fer t other, fer the bulldog ez the fox\\nIt takes a mind like Dannel s, fact, ez big ez all ou\\ndoors.\\nTo find out thet it looks like rain arter it fairly pours\\nI gree with him, it ain t so dreffle troublesome to\\nvote\\nFer Taylor arter all,\u00e2\u0080\u0094 it s jest to go an change your\\ncoat\\nWen he s once greased, you ll swaller him an never\\nknow on t, source.\\nUnless he scratches, goin down, with them air G-in ral s\\nspurs.\\nI ve ben a votin Demmercrat, ez reg lar ez a clock.\\nBut don t find goin Taylor gives my narves no gret f a\\nshock\\nTruth is, the cutest leadin Wigs, ever sence fust they\\nfound\\nWich side the bread gut buttered on, hev kep a edgin\\nround\\nThey kin o slipt the planks frum out th ole platform\\none by one\\nAn made it gradooally noo, fore folks know d wut wuz\\ndone.\\nTill, fur z I know, there ain t an inch thet I could lay\\nmy han on.\\nBut I, or any Demmercrat, feels comf table to stan on.\\nAn ole Wig doctrines act lly look, their occ pants bein\\ngone,\\nLonesome ez staddles on a mash without no hayricks\\non.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0167.jp2"}, "168": {"fulltext": "144 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nI spose it s time now I shall give my thoughts upon the\\nplan,\\nThet chipped the shell at Buffalo, o^ settin up ole\\nVan.\\nI used to vote fer Martin, but, I swan, I m clean dis-\\ngusted,\\nHe ain t the man thet I can say is fittin to be trusted\\nHe ain^t half antislav ry ^nough, nor I ain t sure, ez some\\nbe.\\nHe d go in fer abolishin* the Deestrick o^ Columby\\nAn now I come to recollect, it kin o makes me\\nsick z\\nA horse, to think o wut he wuz in eighteen thirty-six.\\nAn then, another thing 1 guess, though mebby I am\\nwrong.\\nThis Buff lo plaster ain t agoin^ to dror almighty\\nstrong\\nSome folks, I know, hev gut th idee thet No thun dough\\n11 rise.\\nThough, fore I see it riz an baked, I would n t trust\\nmy eyes\\nT will take more emptins, a long chalk, than this noo\\nparty s gut,\\nTo give sech heavy cakes ez them a start, I tell ye\\nwut.\\nBut even ef they caird the day, there would n t be no\\nendurin\\nTo stand upon a platform with sech critters ez Van\\nBuren\\nAn his son John, tu, I can t think how thet air chap\\nshould dare\\nTo speak ez he doos wy, they say he used to cuss an\\nswear", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0168.jp2"}, "169": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 145\\nI spose he never read the hymn thet tells how down the\\nstairs\\nA feller with long legs wnz throwed thet would n t say\\nhis prayers.\\nThis brings me to another pint the leaders o the party\\nAin^t jest sech men ez I can act along with free an\\nhearty\\nThey ain t not quite respectable, an wen a feller s mor-\\nrils\\nDon t toe the straightest kin o mark, wy, him an me\\njest quarrils.\\nI went to a free soil meetin once, an wut d ye think\\nI see\\nA feller wuz aspoutin there thet act lly come to me,\\nAbout two year ago last spring, ez nigh ez I can jedge,\\nAn axed me ef I didn t want to sign the Temprunce\\npledge\\nHe s one o them thet goes about an sez you hed n t\\nough to\\nDrink nothin mornin noon, or night, stronger an\\nTaunton water.\\nThere s one rule I ve ben guided by, in settlin how\\nto vote, oilers,\\nI take the side thet is n t took by them consarned tee-\\ntotallers.\\nEz f er the niggers, I ve ben South, an thet hez changed\\nmy mind\\nA lazier, more ungrateful set you could n t nowers\\nfind.\\nYou know I mentioned in my last thet I should buy a\\nnigger,\\n10", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0169.jp2"}, "170": {"fulltext": "146 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nEf I could make a purchase at a pooty moderate fig-\\nger\\nSo, ez there ^s nothin in the world I ^m fonder of an\\ngunnin\\nI closed a bargin finally to take a feller runnm^\\nI shou dered queen s-arm an stumped out, an wen I\\ncome t th swamp,\\nT worn t very long afore I gut upon the nest o Pomp\\nI come acrost a kin o hut, an playin round the door,\\nSome little woolly-headed cubs, ez many z six or more.\\nAt fust I thought o firin but thi7ih twice is safest\\noilers\\nThere ain t, thinks I, not one on em but s wuth his\\ntwenty dollars,\\nOr would be, ef I hed em back into a Christian land,\\nHow temptin all on em would look upon an auction-\\nstand!\\n(Not but wut hate Slavery in th abstract, stem to\\nstarn,\\nI leave it ware our fathers did, a privit State consarn.)\\nSoon z they see me, they yelled an run, but Pomp wuz\\nout ahoein\\nA leetle patch o corn he hed, or else there ain t no\\nknowin\\nHe would n t ha took a pop at me but I hed gut the\\nstart.\\nAn wen he looked, I vow he groaned ez though he d\\nbroke his heart\\nHe done it like a wite man, tu, ez nat ral ez a pictur.\\nThe imp dunt, pis nous hypocrite wus an a boy con-\\nstrictur.\\nYou can t gum 7ne, I tell ye now, an so you need n t\\ntry,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0170.jp2"}, "171": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. I47\\nI ^xpect my eye-teeth every mail so jest sliet up/ sez I.\\nDon t go to actin ugly now, or else I 11 jest let strip,\\nYou d best draw kindly, seein z how I ve gut ye on\\nthe hip\\nBesides, you darned ole fool, it ain t no gret of a dis-\\naster\\nTo be benev lently druv back to a contented master.\\nWare you hed Christian priv ledges you don t seem\\nquite aware of.\\nOr you d ha never run away from bein well took care\\nof;\\nEz fer kin treatment, wy, he wuz so fond on ye, he said\\nHe d give a fifty spot right out, to git ye, live or dead\\nWite folks ain t sot by half ez much member I run\\naway.\\nWen I wuz bound to Cap n Jakes, to Mattysqumscot bay;\\nDon know him, likely Spose not wal, the mean ole\\ncodger went\\nAn oifered wut reward, think? Wal, it worn t no less\\nn a cent.\\nWal, I jest gut em into line, an druv em on afore me,\\nThe pis nous brutes, I d no idee 0 the ill-will they bore\\nme\\nWe walked till som ers about noon, an then it grew so\\nhot\\nI thought it best to camp awile, so I chose out a spot\\nJest under a magnoly tree, an there right down I sot\\nThen I unstrapped my wooden leg, coz it begun to\\nchafe.\\nAn laid it down jest by my side, supposin all wuz safe\\nI made my darkies all set down around me in a ring.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0171.jp2"}, "172": {"fulltext": "148 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nAn sot an kin o ciphered up how much the lot would\\nbring\\nBut, wile I drinked the peaceful cup of a pure heart\\nan mind,\\n(Mixed with some wiskey, now an then,) Pomp he\\nsnaked up behind,\\nAn creepin, grad lly close tu, ez quiet ez a mink.\\nJest grabbed my leg, and then pulled foot, quicker an\\nyoa could wink,\\nAn come to look, they each on em hed gut behin a\\ntree.\\nAn Pomp poked out the leg a piece, jest so ez I could\\nsee.\\nAn yelled to me to throw away my pistils an my gun.\\nOr else thet they d cair off the leg an fairly cut the run.\\nI vow I didn t b lieve there wuz a decent alligatur\\nThet hed a heart so destitoot o common human natur\\nHowever, ez there worn t no help, I finally give in\\nAn, heft my arms away to git my leg safe back agin.\\nPomp gethered all the weapins up, an then he come\\nan grinned.\\nHe showed his ivory some, I guess, an sez, You re\\nfairly pinned\\nJest buckle on your leg agin, an git right up an come,\\nT wun t du fer fammerly men like me to be so long\\nfrom hum.\\nAt fust I put my foot right down an swore I would n t\\nbudge.\\nJest ez you choose, sez he, quite cool, either be\\nshot or trudge.\\nSo this black-hearted monster took an act lly druv me,\\nback\\nAlong the very feet marks o my happy mornin track", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0172.jp2"}, "173": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 149\\nAn kep* me prisoner bout six months, an worked me,\\ntu, like sin.\\nTill I hed gut his corn an his Carliny taters in\\nHe made me larn him readin tu, (although the crittur\\nsaw\\nHow much it hut my morril sense to act agin the law,)\\nSo st he could read a Bible he d gut an axed ef I\\ncould pint\\nThe North Star out hut there I put his nose some\\nout o jint,\\nFer I weeled roun about sou west, an lookin up a bit.\\nPicked out a middlin shiny one an tole him thet wuz it.\\nFin lly, he took me to the door, an givin me a kick,\\nSez Ef you know wut s best for ye, be off, now,\\ndouble-quick\\nThe winter-time s a comin on, an though I gut ye\\ncheap.\\nYou re so darned lazy, I don t think you re hardly\\nwuth your keep\\nBesides, the childrin s growin up, an you ain t jest\\nthe model\\nI d like to hev em immertate, an so you d better\\ntoddle!\\nNow is there any thin on airth 11 ever prove to me\\nThet renegader slaves like him air fit fer bein free\\nD you think they 11 suck me in to jine the Buff lo\\nchaps, an them\\nKank infidels thet go agin the Scriptur l cus o Shem\\nNot by a jugf all sooner n thet, I d go thru fire an\\nwater\\nWen I hev once made up my mind, a meet nhus ain t\\nsetter", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0173.jp2"}, "174": {"fulltext": "150 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nNo, not though all the crows thet flies to pick my bones\\nwnz cawin\\nI guess we ^re in a Christian land,\\nYourn,\\nBIRDOFREDUM SAWIN.\\n[Here, patient reader, we take leave of each other, I\\ntrust with some mutual satisfaction. I seiypdiient, for I\\nlove not that kind which skims dippingly over the sur-\\nface of the page, as swallows over a pool before rain.\\nBy such no pearls shall be gathered. But if no pearls\\nthere be (as, indeed the world is not without example of\\nbooks wherefrom the longest-winded diver shall bring\\nup no more than his proper handful of mud), yet let us\\nhope that an oyster or two may reward adequate perse-\\nverance. If neither pearls nor oysters, yet is patience\\nitself a gem worth diving deeply for.\\nIt may seem to some that too much space has been\\nusurped by my own private lucubrations, and some may\\nbe fain to bring against me that old jest of him who\\npreached all his hearers out of the meeting-house save\\nonly the sexton, who, remaining for yet a little space,\\nfrom a sense of official duty, at last gave out also, and,\\npresenting the keys, humbly requested our preacher to\\nlock the doors, when he should have wholly relieved\\nhimself of his testimony. I confess to a satisfaction in\\nthe self act of preaching, nor do I esteem a discourse to\\nbe wholly thrown away even upon a sleeping or unintel-\\nligent auditory. I cannot easily believe that the Gos-\\npel of Saint John, which Jacques Cartier ordered to be\\nread in the Latin tongue to the Canadian savages, upon\\nhis first meeting with them, fell altogether upon stony\\nground. For the earnestness of the preacher is a sermon", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0174.jp2"}, "175": {"fulltext": "THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 151\\nappreciable by dullest intellects and most alien ears.\\nIn this wise did Episcopius convert many to his opin-\\nions, who yet understood not the language in which he\\ndiscoursed. The chief thing is, that the messenger be-\\nlieve that he has an authentic message to deliver. For\\ncounterfeit messengers that mode of treatment which\\nFather John de Piano Carpini relates to have prevailed\\namong the Tartars would seem effectual, and, perhaps,\\ndeserved enough. For my own part, I may lay claim to\\nso much of the spirit of martyrdom as would have led\\nme to go into banishment with those clergymen whom\\nAlphonso the Sixth of Portugal drave out of his king-\\ndom for refusing to shorten their pulpit eloquence. It\\nis possible, that, having been invited into my brother\\nBiglow^s desk, I may have been too little scrupulous in\\nusing it for the venting of my own peculiar doctrines to\\na congregation drawn together in the expectation and\\nwith the desire of hearing him.\\nI am not wholly unconscious of a peculiarity of mental\\norganization which impels me, like the railroad-engine\\nwith its train of cars, to run backward for a short distance\\nin order to obtain a fairer start. I may compare myself\\nto one fishing from the rocks when the sea runs high,\\nwho, misinterjoreting the suction of the undertow for the\\nbiting of some larger fish, jerks suddenly, and finds that\\nhehas caugJit I)oito?n, hauling in upon the end of his line\\na trail of various aigm, among which, nevertheless, the\\nnaturalist may haply find somewhat to repay the dis-\\nappointment of the angler. Yet have I conscientiously\\nendeavored to adapt myself to the impatient temper of\\nthe age, daily degenerating more and more from the\\nhigh standard of our pristine New England. To the\\ncatalogue of lost arts I would mournfully add also that", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0175.jp2"}, "176": {"fulltext": "152 THE BIGLOW PAPERS.\\nof listening to two-hour sermons. Surely we have been\\nabridged into a race of pigmies. For, truly, in those\\nof the old discourses yet subsisting to us in print, the\\nendless spinal column of divisions and subdivisions can\\nbe likened to nothing so exactly as to the vertebrae of the\\nsaurians, whence the theorist may conjecture a race of\\nAnakim proportionate to the withstanding of these other\\nmonsters. I say Anakim rather than Nephelim, because\\nthere seem reasons for supposing that the race of those\\nwhose heads (though no giants) are constantly enveloped\\nin clouds (which that name imports) will never become\\nextinct. The attempt to vanquish the innumerable\\nheads of one of those aforementioned discourses may\\nsupply us with a plausible interpretation of the second\\nlabor of Hercules, and his successful experiment with\\nfire affords us a useful precedent.\\nBut while I lament the degeneracy of the age in this\\nregard, I cannot refuse to succumb to its influence.\\nLooking out through my study window, I see Mr. Big-\\nlow at a distance busy in gathering his Baldwins, of\\nwhich, to judge by the number of barrels lying about\\nunder the trees, his crop is more abundant than my own,\\nby which sight I am admonished to turn to those\\norchards of the mind wherein my labors may be more\\nprospered, and apply myself diligently to the prepara-\\ntion of my next Sabbath s discourse. H. W.]", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0176.jp2"}, "177": {"fulltext": "A FABLE FOR CRITICS.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0177.jp2"}, "178": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0178.jp2"}, "179": {"fulltext": "Reader walk up at once {it will soon be too late) and buy at\\na perfectly ruinous rate\\nFABLE FOE CRITICS;\\nOR, BETTER,\\nlike, as a thing that the reader s first fancy may strike, an\\nold fashioned title-page,\\nsuch as presents a tabular view of the volumes contents.)\\nA GLANCE\\nAT A FEW OF OUR LITERARY PROGENIES\\n{Mrs. Malaprofs word.)\\nFROM\\nTHE TUB OF DIOGENES;\\nA VOCAL AND MUSICAL MEDLEY.\\nTHAT IS,\\nA SERIES OF JOKES\\nB^ H monbettul (Siuts\\nwho accompanies himself with a rub-a-dub-dub, full of spirit and\\ngrace, on the top of the tub.\\nSET FOKTH IN\\nOctober, the 2\\\\st day, in the year 48.\\nG. P. PUTNAM, BROADWAY.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0179.jp2"}, "180": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0180.jp2"}, "181": {"fulltext": "It being the commonest mode of procedure, I premise\\na few candid remarks\\nTo THE Reader\\nThis trifle, begun to please only myself and my own\\nprivate fancy, was laid on the shelf. But some friends,\\nwho had seen it, induced me, by dint of saying they\\nliked it, to put it in print. That is, having come to\\nthat very conclusion, I consulted them when it could\\nmake no confusion. For, (though in the gentlest of\\nways,) they had hinted it was scarce worth the while, I\\nshould doubtless have printed it.\\nI began it, intending a Fable, a frail, slender thing,\\nrhyme-ywinged, with a sting in its tail. But, by add-\\nings and alterings not previously planned, digressions\\nchance-hatched, like birds eggs in the sand, and\\ndawdlings to suit every whimsy s demand, (always free-\\ning the bird which I held in my hand, for the two\\nperched, perhaps out of reach, in the tree,) it grew\\nby degrees to the size which you see. I was like the\\nold woman that carried the calf, and my neighbors,\\nlike hers, no doubt, wonder and laugh, and when, my\\nstrained arms with their grown burthen full, I call it\\nmy Fable, they call it a bull.\\nHaving scrawled at full gallop (as far as that goes)\\nin a style that is neither good verse nor bad prose, and\\nbeing a person whom nobody knows, some people will\\nsay I am rather more free with my readers than it is\\n157", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0181.jp2"}, "182": {"fulltext": "158 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS.\\nbecoming to be, that I seem to expect them to wait on\\nmy leisure in following wherever I wander at pleasure,\\nthat, in short, I take more than a young author s law-\\nful ease, and laugh in a queer way so like Mephis-\\ntopheles, that the public will doubt, as they grope\\nthrough my rhythm, if in truth I am making fun at\\nthem or ivith them.\\nSo the excellent Public is hereby assured that the\\nsale of my book is already secured. For there is not a\\npoet throughout the whole land, but will purchase a\\ncopy or two out of hand, in the fond expectation of\\nbeing amused in it, by seeing his betters cut-up and\\nabused in it. Now, I find, by a pretty exact calcula-\\ntion, there are something like ten thousand bards in\\nthe nation, of that special variety whom the Review\\nand Magazine critics call lofty and trtte, and about\\nthirty thousand {this tribe is increasing) of the kinds\\nwho are termed full of promise and pleasiyig. The\\nPublic will see by a glance at this schedule, that they\\ncannot expect me to be over-sedulous about courting\\ntliem, since it seems I have got enough fuel made sure\\nof for boiling my pot.\\nAs for such of our poets as find not their names men-\\ntioned once in my pages, with praises or blames, let\\nthem SEND iiq THEIR CARDS, without further delay,\\nto my friend G. P. Putj^^am, Esquire, in Broadway,\\nwhere a list will be kept with the strictest regard to\\nthe day and the hour of receiving the card. Then,\\ntaking them up as I chance to have time, (that is, if\\ntheir names can be twisted in rhyme,) I will honestly\\ngive each his proper positioi^, at the rate of Oi^E\\nauthor to each new edition. Thus a PREMIUM is\\noffered sufiiciently high (as the magazines say when", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0182.jp2"}, "183": {"fulltext": "A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 159\\nthey tell their best lie) to induce bards to club their\\nresources and buy the balance of every edition, until\\nthey have all of them fairly been run through the mill.\\nOne word to such readers (judicious and wise) as read\\nbooks with something behind the mere eyes, of whom\\nin the country, perhaps, there are two, including my-\\nself, gentle reader, and you. All the characters sketched\\nin this slight jeic d esprit, though, it may be, they seem,\\nhere and there, rather free, and drawn from a Mephis-\\ntophelian stand-point, are meant to be faithful, and that\\nis the grand point, and none but an owl would feel sore\\nat a rub from a jester who tells you, without any sub-\\nterfuge, that he sits in Diogenes tub.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0183.jp2"}, "184": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0184.jp2"}, "185": {"fulltext": "A FABLE FOE THE CRITICS.\\nPhcebus, sitting one day in a laurel- tree s shade,\\nWas reminded of Daphne, of whom it was made,\\nFor the god being one day too warm in his wooing.\\nShe took to the tree to escape his pursuing\\nBe the cause what it might, from his offers she\\nshrunk.\\nAnd, Ginevra-like, shut herself up in a trunk\\nAnd, though t was a step into which he had driven\\nher.\\nHe somehow or other had never forgiven her\\nHer memory he nursed as a kind of a tonic,\\nSomething bitter to chew when he d play the Byronic,\\nAnd I can t count the obstinate nymphs that he\\nbrought over,\\nBy a strange kind of smile he put on when he thought\\nof her.\\nMy case is like Dido s, he sometimes remarked,\\nWhen I last saw my love, she was fairly embark d\\nLet hunters from me take this saw when they need it,\\nYou re not always sure of your game when you ve\\ntree d it.\\nJust conceive such a change taking place in one s\\nmistress\\nII 161", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0185.jp2"}, "186": {"fulltext": "102 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS.\\nWhat romance would be left who can flatter or\\nkiss trees\\nAnd for mercy s sake, how could one keep up a dia-\\nlogue\\nWith a dull wooden thing that will live and will die a\\nlog,\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nNot to say that the thought would forever intrude\\nThat you ve less chance to win her the more she is\\nwood\\nAh it went to my heart, and the memory still grieves.\\nTo see those loved graces all taking their leaves\\nThose charms beyond speech, so enchanting but\\nnow.\\nAs they left me forever, each making its bough\\nIf her tongue had a tang sometimes more than was\\nright.\\nHer new bark is worse than ten times her old bite.\\nNow, Daphne, before she was happily treeified,\\nOver all other flowers the lily had deified.\\nAnd when she expected the god on a visit,\\nT was before he had made his intentions explicit,)\\nSome buds she arranged with a vast deal of care.\\nTo look as if artlessly twined in her hair.\\nWhere they seemed, as he said, when he paid his ad-\\ndresses,\\nLike the day breaking through the long night of her\\ntresses\\nSo, whenever he wished to be quite irresistible.\\nLike a man with eight trumps in his hand at a whist-\\ntable,\\n(I feared me at first that the rhyme was untwistable.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0186.jp2"}, "187": {"fulltext": "A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 16\\no\\nThough I might have lugged in an alhision to Christa-\\nbel,)-\\nHe would take up a lily, and gloomily look in it,\\nAs 1 shall at the when they cut up my book in it.\\nWell, here, after all the bad rhyme I \\\\e been spinning,\\nI ve got back at last to my story s beginning\\nSitting there as I say, in the shade of his mistress.\\nAs dull as a volume of old Chester mysteries,\\nOr as those puzzling specimens, which, in old histories.\\nWe read of his verses the Oracles, namely,\\n(I wonder the Greeks should have swallowed them\\ntamely.\\nFor one might bet safely whatever he has to risk.\\nThey were laid at his door by some ancient Miss\\nAsterisk,\\nAnd so dull that the men who retailed them out doors\\nGot the ill name of augurs, because they were\\nbores,)\\nFirst, he mused what the animal substance or herb is\\nWould induce a moustache, for you know he s im-\\nlerhis\\nThen he shuddered to think how his youthful posi-\\ntion\\nWas assailed by the age of his son the physician\\nAt some poems he glanced, had been sent to him\\nlately.\\nAnd the metre and sentiment puzzled him greatly\\nMehercle I d make such proceedin2:s felonious,\\nHave they all of them slept in the cave of Trophonius\\nLook well to your seat, t is like taking an airing\\nOn a corduroy road, and that out of repairing\\nIt leads one, t is true, through the primitive forest,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0187.jp2"}, "188": {"fulltext": "16^ A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS.\\nGrand natural features but, then, one has no rest\\nYou just catch a glimpse of some ravishing distance.\\nWhen a jolt puts the whole of it out of existence,\\nWhy not use their ears, if they happen to have any\\nHere the laurel-leaves murmured the name of poor\\nDaphne.\\n0, weep with me. Daphne,^ he sighed, for you\\nknow it s\\nA terrible thing to be pestered with poets\\nBut, alas, she is dumb, and the proverb holds good,\\nShe never will cry till she s out of the wood\\nWhat would n t I give if I never had known of her\\nT were a kind of relief had I something to groan over\\nIf I had but some letters of hers, now, to toss over,\\nI might turn for the nonce a Byronic philosopher.\\nAnd bewitch all the flats by bemoaning the loss of her.\\nOne needs something tangible though to begin on\\nA loom, as it were, for the fancy to spin on\\nWhat boots all your grist it can never be ground\\nTill the breeze makes the arms of the windmill go\\nround,\\n(Or, if t is a water-mill, alter the metaphor.\\nAnd say it won t stir, save the wheel be well wet afore.\\nOr lug in some stuff about water **so dreamily,\\nIt is not a metaphor, though, t is a simile\\nA lily, perhaps, would set my mill agoing.\\nFor just at this season, I think, they are blowing.\\nHere, somebody, fetch one, not very far hence\\nThey re in bloom by the score, t is but climbing a\\nfence\\nThere s a poet hard by, who does nothing but fill his\\nWhole garden, from one end to t other, with lilies", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0188.jp2"}, "189": {"fulltext": "A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 1(55\\nA very good plan, were it not for satiet}^,\\nOne longs for a weed here and there, for variety\\nThough a weed is no more than a flower in disguise.\\nWhich is seen tlirough at once, if love gives a man\\neyes.\\nNow there happened to be among Phoebus s follow-\\ners,\\nA gentleman, one of the omnivorous swallowers\\nWho bolt every book that comes out of the press.\\nWithout the least question of larger or less.\\nWhose stomachs are strong at the expense of their\\nhead,\\nFor reading new books is like eating new bread.\\nOne can bear it at first, but by gradual steps he\\nIs brought to death s door of a mental dyspepsy.\\nOn a previous stage of existence, our Hero\\nHad ridden outside, with the glass below zero\\nHe had been, t is a fact you may safely rely on.\\nOf a very old stock a most eminent scion,\\nA stock all fresh quacks their fierce boluses ply on,\\nWho stretch the new boots Earth s unwilling to try\\non,\\nWhom humbugs of all shapes and sorts keep their eye\\non.\\nWhose hair s in the mortar of every new Zion,\\nWho, when whistles are dear, go directly and buy one.\\nWho think slavery a crime that we must not say fie\\non,\\nWho hunt, if they e er hunt at all, with the lion,\\n(Though they hunt lions also, whenever they spy one,)\\nWho contrive to make every good fortune a wry one.\\nAnd at last choose the hard bed of honor to die on,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0189.jp2"}, "190": {"fulltext": "1(36 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS.\\nWhose pedigree traced to earth s earliest years,\\nIs longer than any thing else but their ears\\nIn short, he was sent into life with the wrong key,\\nHe unlocked the door, and stept forth a poor donkey.\\nThough kicked and abused by his bipedal betters,\\nYet he filled no mean place in the kingdom of letters\\nFar happier than many a literary hack.\\nHe bore only paper-mill rags on his back\\n(For it makes a vast difference which side the mill\\nOne expends on the paper his labor and skill\\nSo, when his soul waited a new transmigration,\\nAnd Destiny balanced twixt this and that station,\\nNot having much time to expend upon bothers,\\nEemembering he d had some connections with authors,\\nAnd considering his four legs had grown paralytic,\\nShe set him on too, and he came forth a critic.\\nThrough his babyhood no kind of pleasure he took\\nIn any amusement but tearing a book\\nFor him there was no intermediate stage.\\nFrom babyhood up to strait-laced middle age\\nThere were years when he did n t wear coat-tails\\nbehind.\\nBut a boy he could never be rightly defined\\nLike the Irish Good Folk, though in length scarce a\\nspan.\\nFrom the womb he came gravely, a little old man\\nWhile other boys trousers demanded the toil\\nOf the motherly fingers on all kinds of soil,\\nEed, yellow, brown, black, clayey, gravelly, loamy.\\nHe sat in a corner and read Viri Eom^e.\\nHe never was known to unbend or to revel once\\nIn base, marbles, hockey, or kick up the devil once", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0190.jp2"}, "191": {"fulltext": "A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 167\\nHe was just one of those who excite the benevolence\\nOf old prigs who sound the souFs depths with a\\nledger J\\nAnd are on the look out for some young men to\\nedger-\\n-cate, as fliey call it, who won t be too costly.\\nAnd who ^11 afterward take to the ministry mostly\\nWho always wear spectacles, always look bilious.\\nAlways keep on good terms with each materfamilias\\nThroughout the whole parish, and manage to rear\\nTen boys like themselves, on four hundred a year\\nWho, fulfilling in turn the same fearful conditions.\\nEither preach through their noses, or go upon missions.\\nIn this way our hero got safely to College,\\nWhere he bolted alike both his commons and knowl-\\nedge\\nA reading-machine, always wound up and going.\\nHe mastered whatever was not worth the knowing,\\nAppeared in a gown, and a vest of black satin,\\nTo spout such a Gothic oration in Latin,\\nThat Tully could never have made out a word in it,\\n(Though himself was the model the author preferred\\nin it,)\\nAnd grasping the parchment which gave him in fee.\\nAll the mystic and so-forths contained in A. B.,\\nHe was launched (life is always compared to a sea,)\\nWith just enough learning, and skill for the using it.\\nTo prove he d a brain, by forever confusing it.\\nSo worthy Saint Benedict, piously burning\\nWith the holiest zeal against secular learning,\\nNesciensque scienter, as writers express it,\\nIndoctusque sapienter d Roma recessU,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0191.jp2"}, "192": {"fulltext": "168 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS.\\n^T would be endless to tell yon the things that he\\nknew,\\nAll separate facts, undeniably true.\\nBut with him or each other they M nothing to do\\nNo power of combining, arranging, discerning,\\nDigested the masses he learned into learning\\nThere was one thing in life he had practical knowledge\\nfor,\\n(And, this you will think, he need scarce go to college\\nfor,)\\nNot a deed would he do, not a word would he uttsr,\\nTill heM weighed its relations to plain bread and\\nbutter.\\nWhen he left Alma Mater, he practised his wits\\nIn compiling the journals^ historical bits,\\nOf shops broken open, men falling in fits.\\nGreat fortunes in England bequeathed to poor printers.\\nAnd cold spells, the coldest for many past winters,\\nThen, rising by industry, knack, and address.\\nGot notices up for an unbiassed press,\\nWith a mind so well poised, it seemed equally made for\\nApplause or abuse, just which chanced to be paid for\\nFrom this point his progress was rapid and sure,\\nTo the post of a regular heavy reviewer.\\nAnd here I must say, he wrote excellent articles\\nOn the Hebraic points, or the force of Greek particles.\\nThey filled up the space nothing else was prepared for.\\nAnd nobody read that which nobody cared for\\nIf any old book reached a fiftieth edition.\\nHe could fill forty pages with safe erudition\\nHe could gauge the old books by the old set of rules.\\nAnd his very old nothings pleased very old fools", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0192.jp2"}, "193": {"fulltext": "A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 169\\nBut give him a new book, fresh out of the heart.\\nAnd you put him at sea without compass or chart,\\nHis blunders aspired to the rank of an art\\nFor his lore was engraft, something foreign that grew\\nin him.\\nExhausting the sap of the native and true in him.\\nSo that when a man came with a soul that was new in\\nhim,\\nCarving new forms of truth out of Nature^s old granite.\\nNew and old at their birth, like Le Verrier s planet.\\nWhich, to get a true judgment, themselves must\\ncreate\\nIn the soul of their critic the measure and weight.\\nBeing rather themselves a fresh standard of grace.\\nTo compute their own judge, and assign him his place,\\nOur reviewer would crawl all about it and round it.\\nAnd, reporting each circumstance just as he found it.\\nWithout the least malice, his record would be\\nProfoundly aesthetic as that of a flea.\\nWhich, supping on Wordsworth, should print, for our\\nsakes,\\nRecollections of nights with the Bard of the Lakes,\\nOr, borue by an Arab guide, ventured to render a\\nGeneral view of the ruins at Denderah.\\nAs I said, he was never precisely unkind.\\nThe defect in his brain was mere absence of mind\\nIf he boasted, ^t was simply that he was self-made,\\nA position which I, for one, never gainsaid.\\nMy respect for my Maker supposing a skill\\nIn his works which our hero would answer but ill\\nAnd I trust that the mould which he used may be\\ncracked, or he.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0193.jp2"}, "194": {"fulltext": "170 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS.\\nMade bold by success^, may make broad his phylactery.\\nAnd set up a kind of a man-manufactory.\\nAn event which I shudder to think about, seeing\\nThat Man is a moral, accountable being.\\nHe meant well enough, but was still in the way.\\nAs a dunce always is, let him be where he may\\nIndeed, they appear to come into existence\\nTo impede other folks with their awkward assistance\\nIf you set up a dunce on the very North pole.\\nAll alone with himself, I believe, on my soul.\\nHe d manage to get betwixt somebody^s shins.\\nAnd pitch him down bodily, all in his sins.\\nTo the grave polar bears sitting round on the ice.\\nAll shortening their grace, to be in for a slice\\nOr, if he found nobody else there to pother,\\nWhy, one of his legs would just trip up the other.\\nFor there s nothing we read of in torture s inventions,\\nLike a well-meaning dunce, with the best of intentions.\\nA terrible fellow to meet in society,\\nNot the toast that he buttered was ever so dry at tea\\nThere he d sit at the table and stir in his sugar.\\nCrouching close for a spring, all the while, like a\\ncougar\\nBe sure of your facts, of your measures and weights.\\nOf your time he ^s as fond as an Arab of dates\\nYou 11 be telling, perhaps, in your comical way.\\nOf something you ve seen in the course of the day\\nAnd, just as you re tapering out the conclusion.\\nYou venture an ill-fated classic allusion,\\nThe girls have all got their laughs ready, when, whack\\nThe cougar comes down on your thunderstruck back", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0194.jp2"}, "195": {"fulltext": "A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 171\\nYou had left out a comma, your Greek s put in joint,\\nAnd i^ointed at cost of your story s whole point.\\nIn the course of the evening, you venture on certain\\nSoft speeches to Anne, in the shade of the curtain\\nYou tell her your heart can be likened to one flower,\\nAnd that, oh most charming of women, s the sun-\\nflower,\\nWhich turns here a clear nasal voice, to your terror.\\nFrom outside the curtain, says, that s all an error.\\nAs for him, he s no matter, he never grew tender.\\nSitting after a ball, with his feet on the fender.\\nShaping somebody s sweet features out of cigar smoke,\\n(Though he d willingly grant you that such doings are\\nsmoke\\nAll women he damns with ^nutabile semper,\\nAnd if ever he felt something like love s distemper,\\nT was toward a young lady who spoke ancient Mexican,\\nAnd assisted her father in making a lexicon\\nThough I recollect hearing him get quite ferocious\\nAbout one Mary Clausum, the mistress of Grotius,\\nOr something of that sort, but, no more to bore ye.\\nWith character-painting, I 11 turn to my story.\\nNow, Apollo, who finds it convenient sometimes\\nTo get his court clear of the makers of rhymes.\\nThe genus, I think it is called, irritahile.\\nEvery one of whom thinks himself treated most shab-\\nbily.\\nAnd nurses a what is it immedicahile,\\nAVhich keeps him at boiling-point, hot for a quarrel.\\nAs bitter as wormwood, and sourer than sorrel.\\nIf any poor devil but looks at a laurel\\nApollo, I say, being sick of their rioting.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0195.jp2"}, "196": {"fulltext": "172 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS.\\n(Though he sometimes acknowledged their verse had a\\nquieting\\nEffect after dinner, and seemed to suggest a\\nEe treat to the shrine of a tranquil siesta,)\\nKept our Hero at hand, who, by means of a bray.\\nWhich he gave to the life, drove the rabble away\\nAnd if that would n t do, he was sure to succeed.\\nIf he took his review out and offered to read\\nOr, failing in plans of this milder description.\\nHe would ask for their aid to get up a subscription.\\nConsidering that authorship was n t a rich craft.\\nTo print the American drama of Witchcraft.\\nStay, I 11 read you a scene, but he hardly began.\\nEre Apollo shrieked Help and the authors all ran\\nAnd once, when these purgatives acted with less spirit.\\nAnd the desperate case asked a remedy desperate.\\nHe drew from his pocket a foolscap epistle.\\nAs calmly as if t were a nine-barrelled pistol.\\nAnd threatened them all with the judgment to come.\\nOf A wandering Star s first impressions of Rome.\\nStop I stop with their hands o er their ears\\nscreamed the Muses,\\nHe may go off and murder himself, if he chooses,\\nT was a means self-defence only sanctioned his trying,\\nT is mere massacre now that the enemy s flying\\nIf he s forced to t again, and we happen to be there.\\nGive us each a large handkerchief soaked in strong\\nether.\\nI called this a Fable for Critics you think it s\\nMore like a display of my rhythmical trinkets\\nMy plot, like an icicle, s slender and slippery.\\nEvery moment more slender, and likely to slip awry.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0196.jp2"}, "197": {"fulltext": "A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 173\\nAnd the reader unwilling loco desiperej\\nIs free to jump over as much of my frippery\\nAs he fancies, and, if he s a provident skipper, he\\nMay have an Odyssean sway of the gales.\\nAnd get safe into port, ere his patience all fails\\nMoreover, although t is a slender return\\nFor your toil and expense, yet my paper will burn.\\nAnd, if you have manfully struggled thus far with\\nme.\\nYou may e en twist me up, and just light your cigar\\nwith me\\nIf too angry for that, you can tear me in pieces,\\nAnd my membra disjecta consign to the breezes,\\nA fate like great Ratzau s, whom one of those bores.\\nWho beflead with bad verses poor Louis Quatorze,\\nDescribes, (the first verse somehow ends with victoire,)\\nAs dispersant partout ct ses memhres ef sa gloire\\nOr, if I were over-desirous of earning\\nA repute among noodles for classical learning,\\nI could pick you a score of allusions, I wis.\\nAs new as the jests of Didaskalos Us\\nBetter still, I could make out a good solid list\\nFrom recondite authors who do not exist,\\nBut that would be naughty at least, I could twist\\nSomething out of Absyrtus, or turn your inquiries\\nAfter Milton s prose metaphor, drawn from Osiris\\nBut, as Cicero says he won t say this or that,\\n(A fetch, I must say, most transparent and flat,)\\nAfter saying whate er he could possibly think of,\\nI simply will state that I pause on the brink of\\nA mire, ankle-deep, of deliberate confusion.\\nMade up of old jumbles of classic allusion.\\nSo, when you were thinking yourselves to be pitied,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0197.jp2"}, "198": {"fulltext": "174 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS.\\nJust conceive how much harder your teeth you M have\\ngritted.\\nAn t were not for the dulness I We kindly omitted.\\nI d apologize here for my many digressions,\\nWere it not that I m certain to trip into fresh ones,\\nT is so hard to escape if you get in their mesh once\\nJust reflect, if you please, how t is said by Horatius,\\nThat Maeonides nods now and then, and, my gracious\\nIt certainly does look a little bit ominous\\nWhen he gets under way with ton cVapameihomenos.\\n(Here a something occurs which I ll just clap a rhyme to.\\nAnd say it myself, ere a Zoilus has time to,\\nAny author a nap like Van Winkle^s may take.\\nIf he only contrive to keep readers awake.\\nBut he 11 very soon find himself laid on the shelf.\\nIf they fall a nodding when he nods himself.)\\nOnce for all, to return, and to stay, will I, nill I\\nWhen Phoebus expressed his desire for a lily,\\nOur hero, whose homoeopathic sagacity\\nWith an ocean of zeal mixed his drop of capacity.\\nSet off for the garden as fast as the wind,\\n(Or, to take a comparison more to my mind.\\nAs a sound politician leaves conscience behind,)\\nAnd leaped the low fence, as a party hack jumps\\nO er his principles, when something else turns up\\ntrumps.\\nHe was gone a long time, and Apollo meanwhile.\\nWent over some sonnets of his with a file.\\nFor of all compositions, he thought that the sonnet\\nBest repaid all the toil you expended upon it", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0198.jp2"}, "199": {"fulltext": "A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 1Y5\\nIt should reach with one impulse the end of its course.\\nAnd for one final blow collect all of its force\\nNot a verse should be salient, but each one should\\ntend\\nWith a wave-like up-gathering to burst at the end\\nSo, condensing the strength here, there smoothing a\\nwry kink.\\nHe was killing the time, when up walked Mr.\\nAt a few steps behind him, a small man in glasses\\nWent dodging about, muttering murderers asses\\nFrom out of his pocket a paper he d take.\\nWith the proud look of martyrdom tied to its stake,\\nAnd, reading a squib at himself, he ^d say, Here I\\nsee\\nGainst American letters a bloody conspiracy.\\nThey are all by my personal enemies written\\nI must post an anonymous letter to Britain,\\nAnd show that this gall is the merest suggestion\\nOf spite at my zeal on the Copyright question.\\nFor, on this side the water, t is prudent to pull\\nO er the eyes of the public their national wool,\\nBy accusing of slavish respect to John Bull,\\nAll American authors who have more or less\\nOf that anti-American humbug success.\\nWhile in private we re always embracing the knees\\nOf some twopenny editor over the seas.\\nAnd licking his critical shoes, for you know t is\\nThe whole aim of our lives to get one English no-\\ntice\\nMy American puffs I would willingly burn all,\\n(They re all from one source, monthly, weekly, diur-\\nnal)\\nTo get but a kick from a transmarine journal", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0199.jp2"}, "200": {"fulltext": "176 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS.\\nSo, culling the gibes of each critical scorner\\nAs if they were plums, and himself were Jack Horner,\\nHe came cautiously on, peeping round every corner.\\nAnd into each hole where a weasel might pass in.\\nExpecting the knife of some critic assassin.\\nWho stabs to the heart with a caricature.\\nNot so bad as those daubs of the Sun, to be sure.\\nYet done with a dagger-o-type, whose vile portraits\\nDisperse all one s good, and condense all one s poor\\ntraits.\\nApollo looked up, hearing footsteps approaching.\\nAnd slipped out of sight the new rhymes he was broach-\\ning.\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nGood day, Mr. I m happy to meet\\nWith a scholar so ripe, and a critic so neat.\\nWho through Grub-street the soul of a gentleman\\ncarries,\\nWhat news from that suburb of London and Paris\\nWhich latterly makes such shrill claims to monopolize\\nThe credit of being the New World s metropolis\\nWhy, nothing of consequence, save this attack\\nOn my friend there, behind, by some pitiful hack.\\nWho thinks every national author a poor one,\\nThat is n t a copy of something that s foreign.\\nAnd assaults the American Dick\\nNay, t is clear\\nThat your Damon there s fond of a flea in his ear.\\nAnd, if no one else furnished them gratis, on tick\\nHe would buy some himself, just to hear the old click\\nWhy, I honestly think, if some fool in Japan", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0200.jp2"}, "201": {"fulltext": "A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 177\\nShould turn up his nose at the Poems on Man/\\nYour friend there by some inward instinct would know\\nit,\\nWould get it translated, reprinted, and show it\\nAs a man might take off a high stock to exhibit\\nThe autograph round his own neck of the gibbet.\\nNor would let it rest so, but fire column after column.\\nSigned Cato, or Brutus, or something as solemn.\\nBy way of displaying his critical crosses.\\nAnd tweaking that poor transatlantic proboscis.\\nHis broadsides resulting (and this there s no doubt of,)\\nIn successively sinking the craft they re fired out of.\\nNow nobody knows when an author is hit.\\nIf he don t have a public hysterical fit\\nLet him only keep close in his snug garret s dim ether.\\nAnd nobody d think of his critics or him either\\nIf an author have any least fibre of worth in him.\\nAbuse would but tickle the organ of mirth in him.\\nAll the critics on earth cannot crush with their ban.\\nOne word that s in tune with the nature of man.\\nWell, perhaps so meanwhile I have brought you a\\nbook,\\nInto which if you 11 just have the goodness to look.\\nYou may feel so delighted, when you have got through\\nit.\\nAs to think it not unworth your while to review it.\\nAnd I think I can promise your thoughts, if you do,\\nA place in the next Democratic Review.\\nThe most thankless of gods yon must surely have\\ntho t me.\\nFor this is the forty-fourth copy you ve brought me,\\n12", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0201.jp2"}, "202": {"fulltext": "178 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS.\\nI have given them away, or at least I have tried,\\nBut I ve forty-two left, standing all side by side,\\n(The man who accepted that one copy, died,)\\nFrom one end of a shelf to the other they reach,\\nWith the author s respects neatly written in each.\\nThe publisher, sure, will proclaim a Te Deum,\\nWhen he hears of that order the British Museum\\nHas sent for one set of what books were first printed\\nIn America, little or big, for ^t is hinted\\nThat this is the first truly tangible hope he\\nHas ever had raised for the sale of a copy.\\nV ve thought very often t would be a good thing\\nIn all public collections of books, if a wing\\nWere set off by itself, like the seas from the dry\\nlands.\\nMarked Literature suited to desolate islands,\\nAnd filled with such books as could never be read\\nSave by readers of proofs, forced to do it for\\nbread,\\nSuch books as one s wrecked on in small country-\\ntaverns.\\nSuch as hermits might mortify over in caverns.\\nSuch as Satan, if printing had then been invented.\\nAs the climax of woe, would to Job have presented.\\nSuch as Crusoe might dip in, although there are few so\\nOutrageously cornered by fate as poor Crusoe\\nAnd since the philanthropists just now are banging\\nAnd gibbeting all who re in favor of hanging,\\n(Though Cheever has proved that the Bible and Altar\\nWere let down from Heaven at the end of a halter.\\nAnd that vital religion would dull and grow callous,\\nTJnrefreshed, now and then^ with a sniff of the\\ngaUows,)\u00e2\u0080\u0094", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0202.jp2"}, "203": {"fulltext": "A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 179\\nAnd folks are beginniug to think it looks odd.\\nTo choke a poor scamp for the glory of God\\nAnd that He who esteems the Virginia reel\\nA bait to draw saints from their spiritual weal.\\nAnd regards the quadrille as a far greater knavery\\nThan crushing His African children with slavery,\\nSince all who take part in a waltz or cotillion\\nAre mounted for hell on the DeviFs own pillion,\\nWho, as every true orthodox Christian Avell knows.\\nApproaches the heart through the door of the\\ntoes,\\nThat He, I was saying, whose judgments are\\nstored\\nFor such as take steps in despite of his word.\\nShould look with delight on the agonized prancing\\nOf a wretch who has not the least ground for his\\ndancing.\\nWhile the State, standing by, sings a verse from the\\nPsalter\\nAbout offering to God on his favorite halter.\\nAnd, when the legs droop from their twitching diver-\\ngence,\\nSells the clothes to the Jew, and the corpse to the sur-\\ngeons\\nNow, instead of all this, I think I can direct you\\nall\\nTo a criminal code both humane and effectul\\nI propose to shut up every doer of wrong\\nWith these desperate books, for such terms, short\\nor long.\\nAs by statute in such cases made and provided.\\nShall be by your wise legislators decided", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0203.jp2"}, "204": {"fulltext": "180 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS.\\nThus Let murderers be shut, to grow wiser and\\ncooler,\\nAt hard labor for life on the works of Miss\\nPetty thieves, kept from flagranter crimes by their\\nfears,\\nShall peruse Yankee Doodle a blank term of years,\\nThat American Punch, like the English, no doubt\\nJust the sugar and lemons and spirit left out.\\nBut stay, here comes Tityrus Griswold, and leads on\\nThe flocks whom he first plucks alive, and then feeds\\non,\\nA loud cackling swarm, in whose feathers warm-\\ndrest,\\nHe goes for as perfect a swan, as the rest.\\nThere comes Emerson first, whose rich words,\\nevery one.\\nAre like gold nails in temples to hang trophies on.\\nWhose prose is grand verse, while his verse, the Lord\\nknows.\\nIs some of it pr No t is not even prose\\nr m speaking of metres some poems have welled\\nFrom those rare depths of soul that have ne er been\\nexcelled\\nThey re not epics, but that does n t matter a pin.\\nIn creating, the only hard thing s to begin\\nA grass-blade s no easier to make than an oak,\\nIf you ve once found the way, you ve achieved the\\ngrand stroke\\nIn the worst of his poems are mines of rich matter,\\nBut thrown in a heap with a crush and a clatter\\nNow it is not one thing nor another alone", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0204.jp2"}, "205": {"fulltext": "A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. Igl\\nMakes a poem, but rather the general tone,\\nThe something pervading, uniting the whole.\\nThe before unconceived, unconceivable soul,\\nSo that just in removing this trifle or that, you\\nTake away, as it were, a chief limb of the statue\\nRoots, wood, bark, and leaves, singly perfect may be.\\nBut, clapt hodge-podge together, they don t make a\\ntree.\\nBut, to come back to Emerson, (whom by the\\nway,\\nI believe we left waiting,) his is, we may say,\\nA Greek head on right Yankee shoulders, whose range\\nHas Olympus for one pole, for t other the Exchange\\nHe seems, to my thinking, (although I m afraid\\nThe comparison must, long ere this, have been\\nmade,)\\nA Plotinus- Montaigne, where the Egyptian s gold\\nmist\\nAnd tlie Gascon s shrewd wit cheek-by-jowl co-exist\\nAll admire, and yet scarcely six converts he s got\\nTo I don t (nor they either) exactly know what\\nFor though he builds glorious temples, t is odd\\nHe leaves never a doorway to get in a god.\\nT is refreshing to old-fashioned people like me.\\nTo meet such a primitive Pagan as he.\\nIn whose mind all creation is duly respected\\nAs parts of himself just a little projected\\nAnd who s willing to worship the stars and the sun,\\nA convert to nothing but Emerson.\\nSo perfect a balance there is in his head,\\nThat he talks of things sometimes as if they were\\ndead j", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0205.jp2"}, "206": {"fulltext": "182 A Fable for the critics.\\nLife, nature, love, God, and affairs of that sort.\\nHe looks at as merely ideas in short.\\nAs if they were fossils stuck round in a cabinet.\\nOf such vast extent that our earth s a mere dab in it\\nComposed just as he is inclined to conjecture her,\\nNamely, one part pure earth, ninety-nine parts pure\\nlecturer\\nYou are filled with delight at his clear demonstration.\\nEach figure, word, gesture, just fits the occasion,\\nWith the quiet precision of science he 11 sort em.\\nBut you can t help suspecting the whole dipost mor-\\ntem.\\nThere are persons, mole-blind to the soul s make\\nand style.\\nWho insist on a likeness twixt him and Carlyle\\nTo compare him with Plato would be vastly fairer,\\nCarlyle s the more burly, but E. is the rarer\\nHe sees fewer objects, but clearlier, truelier,\\nIf C. s as original, E. s more peculiar\\nThat he s more of a man you might say of the one.\\nOf the other he s more of an Emerson\\nC. s the Titan, as shaggy of mind as of limb,\\nE. the clear-eyed Olympian, rapid and slim\\nThe one s two-thirds Norseman, the other half Greek,\\nWhere the one s most abounding, the other s to seek\\nC. s generals require to be seen in the mass,\\nE. s specialties gain if enlarged by the glass\\nC. gives nature and God his own fits of the blues,\\nAnd rims common-sense things with mystical hues,\\nE. sits in a mystery calm and intense.\\nAnd looks coolly around him with sharp common-\\nsense", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0206.jp2"}, "207": {"fulltext": "A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. Igg\\nC. shows you how every-day matters unite\\nWith the dim transdiurnal recesses of night,\\nWhile E., in a plain, preternatural way.\\nMakes mysteries matters of mere every day\\nC. draws all his characters quite a la Fuseli,\\nHe don t sketch their bundles of muscles and thews\\nilly.\\nBut he paints with a brush so untamed and j^rofuse.\\nThey seem nothing but bundles of muscles and thews\\nE. is rather like Flaxman, lines strait and severe.\\nAnd a colorless outline, but full, round, and clear\\nTo the men he thinks worthy he frankly accords\\nThe design of a white marble statue in words.\\nC. labors to get at the centre, and then\\nTake a reckoning from there of his actions and men\\nE. calmly assumes the said centre as granted.\\nAnd, given himself, has whatever is wanted.\\nHe has imitators in scores, who omit\\nKg part of the man but his wisdom and wit,\\nWho go carefully o er the sky-blue of his brain.\\nAnd when he has skimmed it once, skim it again\\nIf at all they resemble him, you may be sure it is\\nBecause their shoals mirror his mists and obscurities.\\nAs a mud-puddle seems deep as heaven for a minute.\\nWhile a cloud that floats o er is reflected within it.\\nThere comes for instance to see him s rare\\nsport.\\nTread in Emerson s tracks with legs painfully short\\nHow he jumps, how he strains, and gets red in the\\nface.\\nTo keep step with the mystagogue s natural pace", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0207.jp2"}, "208": {"fulltext": "184 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS.\\nHe follows as close as a stick to a rocket.\\nHis fingers exploring the prophet s each pocket.\\nFie, for shame, brother bard with good fruit of your\\nown\\nCan t you let neighbor Emerson s orchards alone\\nBesides, t is no use, you 11 not find e en a core,\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nhas picked up all the windfalls before.\\nThey might strip every tree, and E. never would catch\\nem.\\nHis Hesperides have no rude dragon to watch em\\nWhen they send him a dishfull, and ask him to try em.\\nHe never suspects how the sly rogues came by em\\nHe wonders why t is there are none such his trees on,\\nAnd thinks em the best he has tasted this season.\\nYonder, calm as a cloud, Alcott stalks in a dream.\\nAnd fancies himself in thy groves. Academe,\\nWith the Parthenon nigh, and the olive-trees o er him.\\nAnd never a fact to perplex him or bore him.\\nWith a snug room at Plato s, when night comes, to\\nwalk to,\\nAnd people from morning till midnight to talk to.\\nAnd from midnight till morning, nor snore in their\\nlistening\\nSo he muses, his face with the joy of it glistening,\\nEor his highest conceit of a happiest state is\\nWhere they d live upon acorns, and hear him talk\\ngratis\\nAnd indeed, I believe, no man ever talked better\\nEach sentence hangs perfectly poised to a letter\\nHe seems piling words, but there s royal dust hid\\nIn the heart of each sky-piercing pyramid.\\nWhile he talks he is great, but goes out like a taper,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0208.jp2"}, "209": {"fulltext": "A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 185\\nIf you shut him up closely with pen, ink, and paper\\nYet his fingers itch for em from morning till night.\\nAnd he thinks he does wrong if he don t always write\\nIn this, as in all things, a lamb among men,\\nHe goes to sure death when he goes to his pen.\\nClose behind him is Brownson, his mouth very full\\nWith attempting to gulp a Gregorian bull\\nAVho contrives, spite of that, to pour out as he goes\\nA stream of transparent and forcible prose\\nHe shifts quite about, then proceeds to expound\\nThat t is merely the earth, not himself, that turns\\nround,\\nAnd wishes it clearly impressed on your mind.\\nThat the weather-cock rules and not follows the wind\\nProving first, then as deftly confuting each side.\\nWith no doctrine pleased that s not somewhere denied.\\nHe lays the denier away on the shelf.\\nAnd then down beside him lies gravely himself.\\nHe s the Salt Kiver boatman, who always stands will-\\ning\\nTo convey friend or foe without charging a shilling.\\nAnd so fond of a trip that, when leisure s to spare.\\nHe 11 row himself up, if he can t get a fare.\\nThe worst of it is, that his logic s so strong,\\nThat of two sides he commonly chooses the wrong\\nIf there is only one, why, he 11 split it in two.\\nAnd first pummel this half, then that, black and blue.\\nThat white s white needs no proof, but it takes a deep\\nfellow\\nTo prove it jet-black, and that jet-black is yellow.\\nHe offers the true faith to drink in a sieve,\\nWhen it reaches your lips there s naught left to believe", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0209.jp2"}, "210": {"fulltext": "186 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS.\\nBut a few silly- (syllo-, I mean,) -gisms that squat em\\nLike tadpoles, o erjoyed with the mud at the bottom.\\nThere is Willis, so natty and jaunty and gay.\\nWho says his best things in so foppish a way.\\nWith conceits and pet phrases so thickly o erlaying em.\\nThat one hardly knows whether to thank him for say-\\ning em\\nOver-ornament ruins both poem and prose.\\nJust conceive of a muse with a ring in her nose\\nHis prose had a natural grace of its own.\\nAnd enough of it, too, if he d let it alone\\nBut he twitches and jerks so, one fairly gets tired,\\nAnd is forced to forgive where he might have admired\\nYet whenever it slips away free and unlaced.\\nIt runs like a stream with a musical waste.\\nAnd gurgles along with the liquidest sweep\\nT is not deep as a river, but who d have it deep\\nIn a country where scarcely a village is found\\nThat has not its author sublime and profound.\\nFor some one to be slightly shoal is a duty.\\nAnd Willis s shallowness makes half his beauty.\\nHis prose winds along with a blithe, gurgling error.\\nAnd reflects all of Heaven it can see in its mirror.\\nT is a narrowish strip, but it is not an artifice,\\nT is the true out-of-doors with its genuine hearty phiz\\nIt is Nature herself, and there s something in that.\\nSince most brains reflect but the crown of a hat.\\nNo volume I know^ to read under a tree,\\nMore truly delicious than his A I Abri,\\nWith the shadows of leaves flowing over your book.\\nLike ripple-shades netting the bed of a brook\\nWith June coming softly your shoulder to look over,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0210.jp2"}, "211": {"fulltext": "A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 187\\nBreezes waiting to turn every leaf of your book over,\\nAnd Nature to criticise still as you read,\\nThe page that bears that is a rare one indeed.\\nHe s so innate a cockney, that had he been born\\nWhere plain bare-skin s the only full-dress that is\\nworn.\\nHe d have given his own such an air that you d say\\nT had been made by a tailor to lounge in Broadway.\\nHis nature s a glass of champagne with the foam on t.\\nAs tender as Fletcher, as witty as Beaumont\\nSo his best things are done in the flush of the moment.\\nIf he wait, all is spoiled he may stir it and shake it.\\nBut the fixed air once gone, he can never re-make it\\nHe might be a marvel of easy delightfulness.\\nIf he would not sometimes leave the r out of spright-\\nfulness\\nAnd he ought to let Scripture alone t is self-slaughter.\\nFor nobody likes inspiration and water.\\nHe d have been just the fellow to sup at the Mermaid,\\nCracking jokes at rare Ben, with an eye to the bar-\\nmaid.\\nHis wit running up as Canary ran down,\\nThe topmost bright bubble on the wave of The Town.\\nHere comes Parker, the Orson of parsons, a man\\nWhom the Church undertook to put under her ban,\\n(The Church of Socinus, I mean) his opinions\\nBeing So- (ultra) -cinian, they shocked the Socinians\\nThey believed faith I m puzzled I think I may call\\nTheir belief a believing in nothing at all,\\nOr something of that sort I know they all went\\nFor a general union of total dissent", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0211.jp2"}, "212": {"fulltext": "188 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS.\\nHe went a step farther without cough or hem.\\nHe frankly avowed he believed not in them\\nAnd, before he could be jumbled up or prevented.\\nFrom their orthodox kind of dissent he dissented.\\nThere was heresy here, you perceive, for the right\\nOf privately judging means simply that light\\nHas been granted to 7ne, for deciding on you.\\nAnd, in happier times, before Atheism grew.\\nThe deed contained clauses for cooking you, too.\\nNow at Xerxes and Knut we all laugh, yet our foot\\nWith the same wave is wet that mocked Xerxes and\\nKnut\\nAnd we all entertain a sincere private notion,\\nThat our Thus far will have a great weight with the\\nocean.\\nT was so with our liberal Christians they bore\\nWith sincerest conviction their chairs to the shore\\nThey brandished their worn theological birches.\\nBade natural progress keep out of the Churches,\\nAnd expected the lines they had drawn to prevail\\nWith the fast-rising tide to keep out of their pale\\nThey had formerly dammed the Pontifical See,\\nAnd the same thing, they thought, would do nicely\\nfor P.\\nBut he turned up his nose at their murmuring and\\nshamming.\\nAnd cared (shall I say not a d\u00e2\u0080\u0094 for their dam-\\nming\\nSo they first read him out of their Church, and next\\nminute\\nTurned round and declared he had never been in it.\\nBut the ban was too small or the man was too big,\\nFor he recks not their bells, books, and candles a fig", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0212.jp2"}, "213": {"fulltext": "A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 189\\n(He don t look like a man who would stay treated\\nshabbily,\\nSophrouiscus son s head o er the features of Eab-\\nelais\\nHe bangs and bethwacks them, their backs he salutes\\nWith the whole tree of knowledge torn up by the roots\\nHis sermons with satire are plenteously ver juiced.\\nAnd he talks in one breath of Confutzee, Cass, Zer-\\nduscht\\nJack Robinson, Peter the Hermit, Strap, Dathan,\\nGush, Pitt (not the bottomless, that he s no faith in).\\nPan, Pillicock, Shakspeare, Paul, Toots, Monsieur\\nTonson,\\nAldebaran, Alcander, Ben Khorat, Ben Jonson,\\nThoth, Richter, Joe Smith, Father Paul, Judah Monis,\\nMusa3us, Muretus, /x Scorpionis,\\nMaccabee, Maccaboy, Mac Mac ah Machiavelli,\\nCondorcet, Count d Orsay, Conder, Say, Ganganelli,\\nOrion, O Connell, the Chevalier D O,\\n(Whom the great Sully speaks of,) to ;ra^, the great\\ntoe\\nOf the statue of Jupiter, now made to pass\\nFor that of Jew Peter by good Romish brass,\\n(You may add for yourselves, for I find it a bore.\\nAll the names you have ever, or not, heard before.\\nAnd when you ve done that why, invent a few more.)\\nHis hearers can t tell you on Sunday beforehand.\\nIf in that day s discourse they 11 be Bibled or Koraned,\\nFor he s seized the idea (by his martyrdom fired,)\\nThat all men (not orthodox) may he inspired\\nYet, though wisdom profane with his creed he may\\nweave in.\\nHe makes it quite clear what he does nH believe in.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0213.jp2"}, "214": {"fulltext": "190 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS.\\nWhile some, who decry him, think all Kingdom Come\\nIs a sort of a, kind of a, species of Hum,\\nOf which, as it were, so to speak, not a crumb\\nWould be left, if we did n t keep carefully mum,\\nAnd, to make a clean breast, that t is perfectly plain\\nThat all kinds of wisdom are somewhat profane\\nNow P/s creed than this may be lighter or darker.\\nBut in one thing, t is clear, he has faith, namely\\nParker\\nAnd this is what makes him the crowd-drawing preacher.\\nThere s a back-ground of god to each hard-working\\nfeature.\\nEvery word that he speaks has been fierily furnaced\\nIn the blast of a life that has struggled in earnest\\nThere he stands, looking more like a ploughman than\\npriest.\\nIf not dreadfully awkward, not graceful at least.\\nHis gestures all downright and same, if you will,\\nAs of brown-fisted Hobnail in hoeing a drill.\\nBut his periods fall on you, stroke after stroke.\\nLike the blows of a lumberer felling an oak.\\nYou forget the man wholly, you re thankful to meet\\nWith a preacher who smacks of the field and the street.\\nAnd to hear, you re not over-particular whence.\\nAlmost Taylor s profusion, quite Latimer s sense.\\nThere is Bryant, as quiet, as cool, and as digni-\\nfied.\\nAs a smooth, silent iceberg, that never is ignified.\\nSave when by reflection t is kindled o nights\\nWith a semblance of flame by the chill Northern\\nLights.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0214.jp2"}, "215": {"fulltext": "A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. I9I\\nHe may rank (Griswold says so) first bard of your\\nnation,\\n(There s no doubt that he stands in supreme iceola-\\ntion,)\\nYour topmost Parnassus he may set his heel on.\\nBut no warm applauses come, peal following peal on,\\nHe s too smooth and too polished to hang any zeal on\\nUnqualified merits, I 11 grant, if you choose, he has\\nem,\\nBut he lacks the one merit of kindling enthusiasm\\nIf he stir you at all, it is just, on my soul.\\nLike being stirred up with the very North Pole.\\nHe is very nice reading in summer, but inter\\nNos, we don t want extra freezing in winter\\nTake him up in the depth of July, my advice is.\\nWhen you feel an Egyptian devotion to ices.\\nBut, deduct all you can, there s enough that s right\\ngood in him.\\nHe has a true soul for field, river, and wood in him\\nAnd his heart, in the midst of brick walls, or where er\\nit is.\\nGlows, softens, and thrills with the tenderest chari-\\nties,\\nTo you mortals that delve in this trade- rid den planet\\nNo, to old Berkshire s hills, with their limestone and\\ngranite.\\nIf you re one who iyi loco (add foco here) desipis,\\nYou will get of his outermost heart (as I guess) a piece\\nBut you d get deeper down if you came as a precipice.\\nAnd would break the last seal of its inwardest foun-\\ntain.\\nIf you only could palm yourself off for a mountain.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0215.jp2"}, "216": {"fulltext": "192 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS.\\nMr. Quivis, or somebody quite as discerning,\\nSome scholar who s hourly expecting his learning,\\nCalls B. the American Wordsworth but Wordsworth\\nIs worth near as much as your whole tuneful herd s\\nworth.\\nNo, don t be absurd, he s an excellent Bryant\\nBut, my friends, you ll endanger the life of your client.\\nBy attempting to stretch him up into a giant\\nIf you choose to compare him, I think there are two\\nper-\\n-sons fit for a parallel Thomson and Cowper\\nI don t mean exactly, there s something of each.\\nThere s T. s love of nature, C. s penchant to preach\\nJust mix up their minds so that C. s spice of craziness\\nShall balance and neutralize T. s turn for laziness.\\nAnd it gives you a brain cool, quite frictionless, quiet.\\nWhose internal police nips the buds of all riot,\\nA brain like a permanent strait-jacket put on\\nThe heart which strives vainly to burst oif a button,\\nA brain which, without being slow or mechanic.\\nDoes more than a larger less drilled, more volcanic\\nHe s a Cowper condensed, with no craziness bitten.\\nAnd the advantage that Wordsworth before him has\\nwritten.\\nBut, my dear little bardlings, don t prick up your\\nears,\\nNor suppose I would rank you and Bryant as peers\\nIf I call him an iceberg, I don t mean to say\\n1 To demonstrate quickly and easily how per-\\nversely absurd t is to sound this name Cowper,\\nAs people in general call him named super,\\nI just add that he rhymes it himself with horse-trooper.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0216.jp2"}, "217": {"fulltext": "A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. I93\\nI ll ere is nothing in that which is grand, in its way\\nlie is almost the one of your poets that knows\\nHow much grace, strength, and dignity lie in Re-\\npose\\nIf he sometimes fall short, he is too wise to mar\\nHis thought s modest fulness by going too far\\nT would be well if your authors should all make a\\ntrial\\nOf what virtue there is in severe self-denial,\\nAnd measure their writings by Hesiod s staff,\\nWhich teaches that all has less value than half.\\nThere is Whittier, whose swelling and vehement\\nheart\\nStrains the strait-breasted drab of the Quaker apart.\\nAnd reveals the live Man, still supreme and erect\\nUnderneath the bemummying wrappers of sect\\nThere was ne er a man born who had more of the\\nswing\\nOf the true lyric bard and all that kind of thing\\nAnd his failures arise, (though perhaps he don t know\\nit,)\\nFrom the very same cause that has made him a\\npoet,\\nA fervor of mind which knows no separation\\nTwixt simple excitement and pure inspiration.\\nAs my Pythoness erst sometimes erred from not know-\\ning\\nIf t were I or mere wind through her tripod was blow-\\ning\\nLet his mind once get head in its favorite direction\\nAnd the torrent of verse bursts the dams of reflec-\\ntion,\\n^3", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0217.jp2"}, "218": {"fulltext": "194: A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS.\\nWhile., borne with the rush of the meter along.\\nThe poet may chance to go right or go wrong,\\nContent with the whirl and delirium of song\\nThen his grammar s not always correct, nor his rhymes,\\nAnd he s prone to repeat his own lyrics sometimes,\\nNot his best, though, for those are struck off at white-\\nheats\\nWhen the heart in his breast like a trip-hammer\\nbeats,\\nAnd can ne er be repeated again any more\\nThan they could have been carefully plotted before\\nLike old what s-his-name there at the battle of Hast-\\nings,\\n(Who, however, gave more than mere rhythmical bast-\\nings,)\\nOur Quaker leads off metaphorical fights\\nFor reform and whatever they call human rights,\\nBoth singing and striking in front of the war\\nAnd hitting his foes with the mallet of Thor\\nAnne liaec, one exclaims, on beholding his knocks,\\nVestisfilii tni, 0, leather-clad Fox\\nCan that be thy son, in the battle s mid din,\\nPreaching brotherly love and ther. driving it in\\nTo the brain of the tough old Goliatl/ of sin.\\nWith the smoothest of pebbles from Castaly s spring\\nImpressed on his hard moral sense with a sling\\nAll honor and praise to the right-hearted bard\\nWho was true to The Voice when such service was\\nhard.\\nWho himself was so free he dared sing for the slave\\nWhen to look but a protest in silence was brave\\nAll honor and praise to the women and men", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0218.jp2"}, "219": {"fulltext": "A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. I95\\nWho spoke out for the dumb and the down-trodden\\nthen!\\nI need not to name them, already for each\\nI see History preparing the statue and niche\\nThey were harsh, but shall you be so shocked at hard\\nwords\\nWho have beaten your pruning hooks up into swords.\\nWhose rewards and hurrahs men are surer to gain\\nBy the reaping of men and of women than grain\\nWhy should you stand aghast at their fierce wordy war,\\nif\\nYou scalp one another for Bank or for Tariff\\nYour calling them cut-throats and knaves all day\\nlong\\nDon t prove that the use of hard language is wrong\\nWhile the World s heart beats quicker to think of such\\nmen\\nAs signed Tyranny s doom with a bloody steel-pen,\\nWhile on Fourth-of -Julys beardless orators fright one\\nWith hints at Harmodius and Aristogeiton,\\nYou need not look shy at your sisters and brothers\\nWho stab with sharp words for the freedom of\\nothers\\nNo, a wreath, twine a wreath for the loyal and true\\nWho, for sake of the many, dared stand with the few,\\nNot of blood-spattered laurel for enemies braved.\\nBut of broad, peaceful oak-leaves for citizens saved\\nHere comes Dana, abstractedly loitering along.\\nInvolved in a paulo-post-future of song.\\nWho 11 be going to write what 11 never be written\\nTill the Muse, ere he thinks of it, gives him the\\nmitten,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0219.jp2"}, "220": {"fulltext": "196 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS.\\nWho is so well aware of how things should be done,\\nThat his own works displease him before they^-e\\nbegun,\\nWho so well all that makes up good poetry knows.\\nThat the best of his poems is written in prose\\nAll saddled and bridled stood Pegasus waiting.\\nHe was booted and spurred, but he loitered debating.\\nIn a very grave question his soul was immersed,\\nWhich foot in the stirrup he ought to put first\\nAnd, while this point and that he judicially dwelt on.\\nHe, somehow or other, had written Paul Felton,\\nWhose beauties or faults, whichsoever you see there.\\nYou 11 allow only genius could hit upon either.\\nThat he once was the Idle Man none will deplore.\\nBut I fear he will never be any thing more\\nThe ocean of song heaves and glitters before him.\\nThe depth and the vastness and longing sweep o er\\nhim,\\nHe knows every breaker and shoal on the chart.\\nHe has the Coast Pilot and so on by heart.\\nYet he spends his whole life, like the man in the\\nfable.\\nIn learning to swim on his library-table.\\nThere swaggers John Neal, who has wasted in\\nMaine\\nThe sinews and chords of his pugilist brain.\\nWho might have been poet, but that, in its stead,\\nhe\\nPreferred to believe that he was so already\\nToo hasty to wait till Art s ripe fruit should drop.\\nHe must pelt down an unripe and colicky crop\\nWho took to the law, and had this sterling plea for it,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0220.jp2"}, "221": {"fulltext": "A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 107\\nIt required him to quarrel, and paid him a fee for it\\nA man who s made less than he might have, because\\nHe always has thought himself more than he was,\\nWho, with very good natural gifts as a bard.\\nBroke the strings of his lyre out by striking too hard.\\nAnd cracked half the notes of a truly fine voice.\\nBecause song drew less instant attention than noise.\\nAh, men do not know how much strength is in poise.\\nThat he goes the farthest who goes far enough,\\nAnd that all beyond that is just bother and stuff.\\nNo vain man matures, he makes too much new wood\\nHis blooms are too thick for the fruit to be good\\n^T is the modest man ripens, t is he that achieves,\\nJust what s needed of sunshine and shade he receives\\nGrapes, to mellow, require the cool dark of their\\nleaves\\nNeal wants balance he throws his mind always too\\nfar.\\nAnd whisks out flocks of comets, but never a star\\nHe has so much muscle, and loves so to show it.\\nThat he strips himself naked to prove he s a poet.\\nAnd, to show he could leap Art s wide ditch, if he\\ntried.\\nJumps clean o er it, and into the hedge t other side.\\nHe has strength, but there s nothing about him in\\nkeeping\\nOne gets surelier onward by walking than leaping\\nHe has used his own sinews himself to distress.\\nAnd had done vastly more had he done vastly less\\nIn letters, too soon is as bad as too late.\\nCould he only have waited he might have been great,\\nBut he plumped into Helicon up to the waist.\\nAnd muddied the stream ere he took his first taste.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0221.jp2"}, "222": {"fulltext": "198 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS.\\nThere is Hawthorne, with genius so shrinking and\\nrare\\nThat you hardly at first see the strength that is there\\nA frame so robust, with a nature so sweet.\\nSo earnest, so graceful, so solid, so fleet.\\nIs worth a descent from Olympus to meet\\nT is as if a rough oak that for ages had stood.\\nWith his gnarled bony branches like ribs of the wood.\\nShould bloom, after cycles of struggle and scathe.\\nWith a single anemone trembly and rathe\\nHis strength is so tender, his wildness so meek.\\nThat a suitable parallel sets one to seek,\\nHe s a John Bunyan Fouque, a Puritan Tieck\\nWhen Nature was shaping him, clay was not granted\\nFor making so full-sized a man as she wanted,\\nSo, to fill out her model, a little she spared\\nFrom some finer-grained stuff for a woman prepared,\\nAnd she could not have hit a more excellent plan\\nFor making him fully and perfectly man.\\nThe success of her scheme gave her so much delight.\\nThat she tried it again, shortly after, in Dwight\\nOnly, while she was kneading and shaping the clay,\\nShe sang to her work in her sweet childish way.\\nAnd found, when she d put the last touch to his soul,\\nThat the music had somehow got mixed with the whole.\\nHere s Cooper, who s written six volumes to show\\nHe s as good as a lord well, let s grant that he s so\\nIf a person prefer that description of praise.\\nWhy, a coronet s certainly cheaper than bays\\nBut he need take no pains to convince us he s not\\n(As his enemies say) the American Scott.\\nChoose any twelve men, and let C. read aloud", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0222.jp2"}, "223": {"fulltext": "A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. I99\\nThat one of his novels of which he s most proud.\\nAnd I d lay any bet that, without ever quitting\\nTheir box, they ^d be all, to a man, for acquitting.\\nHe has drawn you one character, though, that is new,\\nOne wildflower he s plucked that is wet with the dew\\nOf this fresh Western world, and, the thing not to\\nmince,\\nHe has done naught but copy it ill ever since\\nHis Indians, with proper respect be it said.\\nAre just Natty Bumpo daubed over with red.\\nAnd his very Long Toms are the same useful Nat,\\nKigged up in duck pants and a sou^-wester hat,\\n(Though, once in a Coffin, a good chance was found\\nTo have slipt the old fellow away underground.)\\nAll his other men-figures are clothes upon sticks.\\nThe dernier chemise of a man in a fix,\\n(As a captain besieged, when his garrison s small.\\nSets up caps upon poles to be seen o er the wall\\nAnd the women he draws from one model don t vary,\\nAll sappy as maples and flat as a prairie.\\nWhen a character s wanted, he goes to the task\\nAs a cooper would do in composing a cask\\nHe picks out the staves, of their qualities heedful.\\nJust hoops them together as tight as is needful.\\nAnd, if the best fortune should crown the attempt, he\\nHas made at the most something wooden and empty.\\nDon t suppose I would underrate Cooper s abilities.\\nIf I thought you d do that, I should feel very ill at ease\\nThe men who have given to 07ie character life\\nAnd objective existence, are not very rife,\\nYou may number them all, both prose-writers and\\nsingers.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0223.jp2"}, "224": {"fulltext": "200 A l^^ABLE FOR THE CRITICS.\\nWithout overrunning the bounds of your fingers.\\nAnd Natty won t go to oblivion quicker\\nThan Adams the parson or Primrose the vicar.\\nThere is one thing in Cooper I like, too, and that\\nis\\nThat on manners he lectures his countrymen gratis\\nNot precisely so either, because, for a rarity.\\nHe is paid for his tickets in unpopularity.\\nNow he may overcharge his American pictures.\\nBut you 11 grant there s a good deal of truth in his\\nstrictures\\nAnd I honor the man who is willing to sink\\nHalf his present repute for the freedom to think,\\nAnd, when he has thought, be his cause strong or\\nweak.\\nWill risk t other half for the freedom to speak.\\nCaring naught for what vengeance the mob has in\\nstore,\\nLet that mob be the upper ten thousand or lower.\\nThere are truths you Americans need to be told.\\nAnd it never 11 refute them to swagger and scold\\nJohn Bull, looking o er the Atlantic, in choler\\nAt your aptness for trade, says you worship the dollar\\nBut to scorn such i-dollar-try s what very few do,\\nAnd John goes to that church as often as you do.\\nNo matter what John says, don t try to outcrow him,\\nT is enough to go quietly on and outgrow him\\nLike most fathers. Bull hates to see Number One\\nDisplacing himself in the mind of his son.\\nAnd detests the same faults in himself he d neglected\\nWhen he sees them again in his child s glass reflected", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0224.jp2"}, "225": {"fulltext": "A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 201\\nTo love one another you re too likely by half,\\nIf he is a bull, you re a pretty stout calf.\\nAnd tear your own pasture for naught but to show\\nWhat a nice pair of horns you re beginning to grow.\\nThere are one or two things I should just like to\\nhint,\\nFor you don t often get the truth told you in print\\nThe most of you (this is what strikes all beholders)\\nHave a mental and physical stoop in the shoulders\\nThough you ought to be free as the winds and the\\nwaves,\\nYou ve the gait and the manners of runaway slaves\\nTho you brag of your New World, you don t half\\nbelieve in it.\\nAnd as much of the Old as is possible vreave in it\\nYour goddess of freedom, a tight, buxom girl.\\nWith lips like a cherry and teeth like a pearl.\\nWith eyes bold as Here s, and hair floating free.\\nAnd full of the sun as the spray of the sea.\\nWho can sing at a husking or romp at a shearing.\\nWho can trip through the forests alone without fearing.\\nWho can drive home the cows with a song through the\\ngrass.\\nKeeps glancing aside into Europe s cracked glass.\\nHides her red hands in gloves, pinches up her lithe\\nwaist.\\nAnd makes herself wretched with transmarine taste\\nShe loses her fresh country charm when she takes\\nAny mirror except her own rivers and lakes.\\nYou steal Englishmen s books and think English-\\nmen s thought.\\nWith their salt on her tail your wild eagle is caught", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0225.jp2"}, "226": {"fulltext": "202 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS.\\nYour literature suits its each whisper and motion\\nTo what will be thought of it over the ocean\\nThe cast clothes of Europe your statesmanship tries\\nAnd mumbles again the old blarneys and lies\\nForget Europe wholly, your veins throb with blood\\nTo which the dull current in hers is but mud\\nLet her sneer, let her say your experiment fails.\\nIn her voice there s a tremble e en now while she rails,\\nAnd your shore will soon be in the nature of things\\nCovered thick with gilt driftwood of runaway kings,\\nWhere alone, as it were in a Longfellow^s Waif,\\nHer fugitive pieces will jBnd themselves safe.\\n0, my friends, thank your God, if you have one, that he\\n^Twixt the Old World and you set the gulf of a sea\\nBe strong-backed, brown-handed, upright as your pines,\\nBy the scale of a hemisphere shape your designs,\\nBe true to yourselves and this new nineteenth age.\\nAs a statue by Powers, or a picture by Page,\\nPlough, dig, sail, forge, build, carve, paint, make all\\nthings new.\\nTo your own New- World instincts contrive to be true.\\nKeep your ears open wide to the Future s first call.\\nBe whatever you will, but yourselves first of all.\\nStand fronting the dawn on Toil s heaven-scaling peaks.\\nAnd become my new race of more practical Greeks.\\nHem your likeness at present, I shudder to tell o t.\\nIs that you have your slaves, and the Greek had his\\nhelot.\\nHere a gentleman present, who had in his attic\\nMore pepper than brains, shrieked The man s a\\nfanatic,\\nI m a capital tailor with warm tar and feathers,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0226.jp2"}, "227": {"fulltext": "A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 203\\nAnd will make him a suit that 11 serve in all weathers\\nBut we 11 argue the point first, I m willing to\\nreason t.\\nPalaver before condemnation s but decent,\\nSo, through my humble person. Humanity begs\\nOf the friends of true freedom a loan of bad eggs.\\nBut Apollo let one such a look of his show forth\\nAs when rjis vuxrj ior/.w Sy and so forth.\\nAnd the gentleman somehow slunk out of the way.\\nBut, as he was going, gained courage to say,\\nAt slavery in the abstract my whole soul rebels,\\nI am as strongly opposed to t as any one else.\\nAy, no doubt, but whenever I ve happened to meet\\nWith a wrong or a crime, it is always concrete,\\nAnswered Phoebus severely then turning to us,\\nThe mistakes of such fellows as just made the fuss\\nIs only in taking a great busy nation\\nFor a part of their pitiful cotton-plantation.\\nBut there comes Miranda, Zeus where shall I flee to\\nShe has such a penchant for bothering me too\\nShe always keeps asking if I don t observe a\\nParticular likeness twixt her and Minerva\\nShe tells me my efforts in verse are quite clever\\nShe s been travelling now, and will be worse than ever\\nOne would think, though, a sharp-sighted noter she d\\nbe\\nOf all that s worth mentioning over the sea.\\nFor a woman must surely see well, if she try.\\nThe whole of whose being s a capital I\\nShe will take an old notion and make it her own\\nBy saying it o er in her Sybilline tone.\\nOr persuade you t is something tremendously deep.\\nBy repeating it so as to put you to sleep", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0227.jp2"}, "228": {"fulltext": "204 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS.\\nAnd she well may defy any mortal to see through it.\\nWhen once she has mixed up her infinite me through\\nit.\\nThere is one thing she owns in her own single right.\\nIt is native and genuine namely, her spite\\nThough, when acting as censor, she privately blows\\nA censor of vanity neath her own nose.\\nHere Miranda came up, and said, Phoebus! you\\nknow\\nThat the infinite Soul has its infinite woe,\\nAs I ought to know, having lived cheek by jowl.\\nSince the day I was born, with the Infinite Soul\\nI myself introduced, I myself, I alone.\\nTo my Land s better life authors solely my own,\\nWho the sad heart of earth on their shoulders have\\ntaken.\\nWhose works sound a depth by Life s quiet unshaken.\\nSuch as Shakspeare, for instance, the Bible, and\\nBacon,\\nNot to mention my own works Time s nadir is fleet,\\nAnd, as for myself, I m quite out of conceit,\\nQuite out of conceit I m enchanted to hear it.\\nCried Apollo aside, Who d have tliought she was\\nnear it\\nTo be sure one is apt to exhaust those commodities\\nHe uses too fast, yet in this case as odd it is\\nAs if Neptune should say to his turbots and whitings,\\nI m as much out of salt as Miranda s own writings,\\n(Which, as she in her own happy manner has said,\\nSound a depth, for t is one of the functions of lead.)\\nShe often has asked me if I could not find", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0228.jp2"}, "229": {"fulltext": "A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 205\\nA place somewhere near nie that suited her mind\\nI know but a single one vacant, which she.\\nWith her rare talent that way, would fit to a T.\\nAnd it would not imply any pause of cessation\\nIn the work she esteems her peculiar vocation,\\nShe may enter on duty to-day, if she chooses.\\nAnd remain Tiring-woman for life to the Muses.\\n(Miranda meanwhile has succeeded in driving\\nUp into a corner, in spite of their striving,\\nA small flock of terrified victims, and there.\\nWith an I-turn-thc-crank-of-the-Universe air\\nAnd a tone which, at least to 7ny fancy, appears\\nNot so much to be entering as boxing your ears.\\nIs unfolding a tale (of herself, I surmise.\\nFor t is dotted as thick as a peacock s with I s.)\\nApropos of Miranda, I 11 rest on my oars\\nAnd drift through a trifling digression on bores,\\nFor, though not wearing ear-rings in more majorti7n,\\nOur ears are kept bored just as if we still wore em.\\nThere was one feudal custom worth keeping, at least.\\nBoasted bores made a part of each well-ordered feast.\\nAnd of all quiet pleasures the very ne plus\\nWas in hunting wild bores as the tame ones hunt us.\\nArchaeologiaus, I know, who have personal fears\\nOf this wise application of hounds and of spears,\\nHave tried to make out, with a zeal more than\\nwonted,\\nT was a kind of wild swine that our ancestors hunted\\nBut I 11 never believe that the age which has strewn\\nEurope o er with cathedrals, and otherwise shown\\nThat it knew what was what, could by chance not\\nhave knowji.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0229.jp2"}, "230": {"fulltext": "206 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS.\\n(Spending, too, its chief time with its buff on, no\\ndoubt,)\\nWhich beast t would improve the world most to thin out,\\nI divide bores myself, in the manner of rifles.\\nInto two great divisions, regardless of trifles\\nThere s your smooth-bore and screw-bore, who do not\\nmuch vary\\nIn the weight of cold lead they respectively carry.\\nThe smooth-bore is one in whose essence the mind\\nNot a corner nor cranny to cling by can find\\nYou feel as in nightmares sometimes, when you slip\\nDown a steep slated roof where there s nothing to grip,\\nYou slide and you slide, the blank horror increases.\\nYou had rather by far be at once smashed to pieces,\\nYou fancy a whirlpool below white and frothing.\\nAnd finally drop off and light upon nothing.\\nThe screw-bore has twists in him, faint predilections\\nFor going just wrong in the tritest directions\\nWhen he s wrong he is flat, when he s right he can t\\nshow it.\\nHe 11 tell you what Snooks said about the new poet,^\\nOr how Fogrum was outraged by Tennyson s Princess\\nHe has spent all his spare time and intellect since his\\nBirth in perusing, on each art and science.\\nJust the books in which no one puts any reliance.\\nAnd though 7iemo, we re told, lioris omnibus sapity\\nThe rule will not fit him, however you shape it.\\nFor he has a perennial foison of sappiness\\nHe has just enough force to spoil half your day s hap-\\npiness,\\nIf you call Snooks an owl, he will show by his looks\\nThat he s morally certain you re jealous of Snooks.)", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0230.jp2"}, "231": {"fulltext": "A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 207\\nAnd to make him a sort of mosquito to be with,\\nBut just not enough to dispute or agree with.\\nThese sketches I made (not to be too explicit)\\nFrom two honest fellows who made me a visit.\\nAnd broke, like the tale of the Bear and the Fiddle,\\nMy reflections on Halleck short off by the middle\\nI shall not now go into the subject more deeply.\\nFor I notice that some of my readers look sleep ly,\\nI will barely remark that, ^mongst civilized nations.\\nThere ^s none that displays more exemplary patience\\nUnder all sorts of boring, at all sorts of hours.\\nFrom all sorts of desperate persons, than ours.\\nNot to speak of our j^apers, our state legislatures.\\nAnd other such trials for sensitive natures.\\nJust look for a moment at Congress, appalled.\\nMy fancy shrinks back from the phantom it called\\nWhy, there s scarcely a member unworthy to frown\\n^Neath what Fourier nicknames the Boreal crown\\nOnly think what that infinite bore-pow r could do\\nIf applied with a utilitarian view\\nSuppose, for example, we shipped it with care\\nTo Sahara s great desert and let it bore there.\\nIf they held one short session and did nothing else,\\nThey d fill the whole waste with Artesian wells.\\nBut t is time now with pen phonographic to follow\\nThrough some more of his sketches our laughing\\nApollo\\nThere comes Harry Franco, and, as he draws near.\\nYou find that s a smile which you took for a sneer\\nOne half of him contradicts t other, his wont\\nIs to say very sharp things and do very blunt", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0231.jp2"}, "232": {"fulltext": "208 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS.\\nHis manner s as hard as his feelings are tender.\\nAnd a sortie he 11 make when he means to surrender\\nHe in joke half the time when he seems to be\\nsternest.\\nWhen he seems to be joking, be sure he s in earnest\\nHe has common sense in a way that s uncommon.\\nHates humbug and cant, loves his friends like a\\nwoman.\\nBuilds his dislikes of cards and his friendships of oak.\\nLoves a prejudice better than aught but a joke,\\nIs half upright Quaker, half downright Come-outer,\\nLoves freedom too well to go stark mad about her,\\nQuite artless himself is a lover of Art,\\nShuts you out of his secrets and into his heart,\\nAnd though not a poet, yet all must admire\\nIn his letters of Pinto his skill on the liar.\\nThere comes Poe with his raven, like Barnaby\\nRudge,\\nThree-fifths of him genius and two-fifths sheer fudge.\\nWho talks like a book of iambs and pentameters.\\nIn a way to make people of common-sense damn metres.\\nWho has written some things quite the best of their\\nkind\\nBut the heart somehow seems all squeezed out by the\\nmind.\\nWho but hey-day What s this Messieurs Mat-\\nthews and Poe,\\nYou must n t fling mud-balls at Longfellow so.\\nDoes it make a man worse that his character s such\\nAs to make his friends love him (as you think) too\\nmuch\\nWhy, there is not a bard at this moment alive", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0232.jp2"}, "233": {"fulltext": "A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 209\\nMore willing than he that his fellows should thrive\\nWhile you are abusing him thus, even now\\nHe would help either one of you out of a slough\\nYou may say that he s smooth and all that till you re\\nhoarse,\\nBut remember that elegance also is force\\nAfter polishing granite as much as you will.\\nThe heart keeps its tough old persistency still\\nDeduct all you can that still keeps you at bay,\\nWhy, he 11 live till men weary of Collins and Gray\\nI m not over-fond of Greek metres in English,\\nTo me rhyme s a gain, so it be not too jinglish,\\nAnd your modern hexameter verses are no more\\nLike Greek ones than sleek Mr. Pope is like Homer\\nAs the roar of the sea to the coo of a pigeon is.\\nSo, compared to your moderns, sounds old Melesigenes\\nI may be too partial, the reason, perhaps, o t is\\nThat I ve heard the old blind man recite his own\\nrhapsodies.\\nAnd my ear with that music impregnate may be.\\nLike the poor exiled shell with the soul of the sea.\\nOr as one can t bear Strauss when his nature is cloven\\nTo its deeps within deeps by the stroke of Beethoven\\nBut, set that aside, and t is truth that I speak.\\nHad Theocritus written in English, not Greek,\\nI believe that his exquisite sense would scarce change\\na line\\nIn that rare, tender, virgin-like pastoral Evangeline.\\nThat s not ancient nor modern, its place is apart\\nWhere time has no sway, in the realm of pure Art,\\nT is a shrine of retreat from Earth s hubbub and\\nstrife\\nAs quiet and chaste as the author s own life,\\n4", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0233.jp2"}, "234": {"fulltext": "210 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS.\\nThere comes Philothea, her face all aglow.\\nShe has just been dividing some poor creature^s woe.\\nAnd can t tell which pleases her most, to relieve\\nHis want, or his story to hear and believe\\nNo doubt against many deep griefs she prevails.\\nFor her ear is the refuge of destitute tales\\nShe knows well that silence is sorrow s best food,\\nAnd that talking draws off from the heart its black\\nblood,\\nSo she 11 listen with patience and let you unfold\\nYour bundle of rags as ^t were pure cloth of gold,\\nWhich, indeed, it all turns to as soon as she s touched it.\\nAnd, (to borrow a phrase from the nursery,) muclied it.\\nShe has such a musical taste, she will go\\nAny distance to hear one who draws a long bow\\nShe will swallow a wonder by njere might and main\\nAnd thinks it geometry s fault if she s fain\\nTo consider things flat, inasmuch as they re plain\\nFacts with her are accomplished, as Frenchmen would\\nsay.\\nThey will prove all she wishes them to either way,\\nAnd, as fact lies on this side or that, we must try,\\nIf we re seeking the truth, to find where it don t lie\\nI was telling her once of a marvellous aloe\\nThat for thousands of years had looked spindling and\\nsallow.\\nAnd, though nursed by the fruitfullest powers of mud.\\nHad never vouchsafed e en so much as a bud.\\nTill its owner remarked as a sailor, you know.\\nOften will in a calm, that it never would blow.\\nFor he wished to exhibit the plant, and designed\\nThat its blowing should help him in raising the wind\\nAt last it was told him that if he should water", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0234.jp2"}, "235": {"fulltext": "A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 211\\nIts roots with the blood of his unmarried daughter,\\n(Who was born, as her mother, a Calvinist said.\\nWith a Baxter s effectual call on her head,)\\nIt would blow as the obstinate breeze did when by a\\nLike decree of her father died Iphigenia\\nAt first he declared he himself would be blowed\\nEre his conscience with such a foul crime he would load\\nBut the thought, coming oft, grew less dark than\\nbefore,\\nAnd he mused, as each creditor knocked at his door.\\nIf this were but done they would dun me no more\\nI told Philothea his struggles and doubts,\\nAnd how he considered the ins and the outs\\nOf the visions he had, and the dreadful dyspepsy.\\nHow he went to the seer that lives at Po keepsie,\\nHow the seer advised him to sleep on it first\\nAnd to read his big volume in case of the worst.\\nAnd further advised he should pay him five dollars\\nFor writing ^Utttt ^ViXdy on his wristbands and collars\\nThree years and ten days these dark words he had studied\\nWhen the daughter was missed,and the aloe had budded\\nI told how he watched it grow large and more large.\\nAnd wondered how much for the show he should charge.\\nShe had listened with utter indifference to this, till\\nI told how it bloomed, and discharging its pistil\\nWith an aim the Eumenides dictated, shot\\nThe botanical filicide dead on the spot\\nIt had blown, but he reaped not his horrible gains,\\nFor it blew with such force as to blow out his brains.\\nAnd the crime was blown also, because on the wad.\\nWhich was paper, was writ Visitation of God,\\nAs well as a thrilling account of the deed\\nWhich the coroner kindly allowed me to read.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0235.jp2"}, "236": {"fulltext": "212 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS:\\nWell, my friend took this story up just, to be sure,\\nAs one might a poor foundling that s laid at one s door\\nShe combed it and washed it and clothed it and fed it,\\nAnd as if t were her own child most tenderly bred it,\\nLaid the scene (of the legend, I mean,) faraway a-\\n-mong the green vales underneath Himalaya.\\nAnd by artist-like touches, laid on here. and there,\\nMade the whole thing so touching, I frankly declare\\nI have read it all thrice, and, perhaps I am weak.\\nBut I found every time there were tears on my cheek.\\nThe pole, science tells us, the magnet controls,\\nBut she is a magnet to emigrant Poles,\\nAnd folks with a mission that nobody knows.\\nThrong thickly about her as bees round a rose\\nShe can fill up the carets in such, make their scope\\nConverge to some focus of rational hope.\\nAnd, with sympathies fresh as the morning, their\\ngall\\nCan transmute into honey, but this is not all\\nNot only for those she has solace, oh, say.\\nVice s desperate nursling adrift in Broadway,\\nWho clingest, with all that is left of thee human,\\nTo the last slender spar from the wreck of the woman.\\nHast thou not found one shore where those tired droop-\\ning feet\\nCould reach firm mother-earth, one full heart on whose\\nbeat\\nThe soothed head in silence reposing could hear\\nThe chimes of far childhood throb thick on the ear\\nAh, there s many a beam from the fountain of day\\nThat to reach us unclouded, must pass, on its way.\\nThrough the soul of a woman, and hers is wide ope", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0236.jp2"}, "237": {"fulltext": "A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. ^13\\nTo the influence of Heaven as the blue eyes of Hope\\nYes, a great soul is hers, one that dares to go in\\nTo the prison, the slave-hut, the alleys of sin,\\nAnd to bring into each, or to find there, some line\\nOf the never completely out-trampled divine\\nIf her heart at high floods swamps her brain now and\\nthen,\\nT is but richer for that when the tide ebbs agen,\\nAs, after old Nile has subsided, his plain\\nOverflows with a second broad deluge of grain\\nWhat a wealth would it bring to the narrow and sour\\nCould they be as a Child but for one little hour\\nWhat Irving thrice welcome, warm heart anc^\\nfine brain.\\nYou bring back the happiest spirit from Spain,\\nAnd the gravest sweet humor, that ever w^ere there\\nSince Cervantes met death in his gentle despair\\nNay, don t be embarrassed, nor look so beseeching,\\nI sha n t run directly against my own preaching.\\nAnd, having just laughed at their Raphaels and\\nDantes,\\nGo to setting you np beside matchless Cervantes\\nBut allow me to speak what I honestly feel,\\nTo a true poet-heart add the fun of Dick Steele,\\nThrow in all of Addison, mums the chill.\\nWith the whole of that partnership s stock and good\\nwill.\\nMix well, and while stirring, hum o er, as a spell.\\nThe fine old English Gentleman, simmer it well.\\nSweeten just to your own private liking, then strain.\\nThat only the finest and clearest remain,\\nLet it stand out of doors till a soul it receives", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0237.jp2"}, "238": {"fulltext": "214 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS.\\nFrom the warm lazy sun loitering down through green\\nleaves,\\nAnd you 11 find a choice nature, not wholly deserv-\\ning\\nA name either English or Yankee, just Irving.\\nThere goes, but stet nofninis umbra, his name\\nYou 11 be glad enough, some day or other, to claim,\\nAnd will all crowd about him and swear that you knew\\nhim\\nIf some English hack-critic should chance to review\\nhim\\nThe old porcos ante ne projiciatis\\nMargaritas, for him you have verified gratis\\nWhat matters his name Why, it may be Sylvester,\\nJudd, Junior, or Junius, Ulysses, or Nestor,\\nFor aught know or care H is enough that I look\\nOn the author of Margaret, the first Yankee book\\nWith the soul of Down East in t, and things farther\\nEast,\\nAs far as the threshold of morning, at least.\\nWhere awaits the fair dawn of the simple and true,\\nOf the day that comes slowly to make all things new.\\n^T has a smack of pine woods, of bare field and bleak\\nhill\\nSuch as only the breed of the Mayflower could till.\\nThe Puritan s shown in it, tough to the core.\\nSuch as prayed, smiting Agag on red Marston moor\\nWith an unwilling humor, half-choked by the drouth\\nIn brown hollows about the inhospitable mouth\\nWith a soul full of poetry, though it has qualms\\nAbout finding a happiness out of the Psalms\\nFull of tenderness, too, though it shrinks in the dark,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0238.jp2"}, "239": {"fulltext": "A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 215\\nHamadryad-like, under the coarse, shaggy bark\\nThat sees visions, knows wrestlings of God with the\\nWill,\\nAnd has its own Sinais and thunderings still.\\nHere, Forgive me, Apollo, I cried, while I\\npour\\nMy heart out to my birth-place 0, loved more and\\nmore\\nDear Baystate, from whose rocky bosom thy sons\\nShould suck milk, strong-will-giving, brave such as\\nruns\\nIn the veins of old Graylock, who is it that dares\\nCall thee pedler, a soul wrapt in bank-books and shares\\nIt is false She s a Poet I see, as I write.\\nAlong the far railroad the steam-snake glide white,\\nThe cataract-throb of her mill-hearts I hear.\\nThe swift strokes of trip-hammers weary my ear,\\nSledges ring upon anvils, through logs the saw screams.\\nBlocks swing up to their place, beetles drive home the\\nbeams\\nIt is songs such as these that she croons to the din\\nOf her fast-flying shuttles, year out and year in,\\nWhile from earth s farthest corner there comes not a\\nbreeze\\nBut wafts her the buzz of her gold-gleaning bees\\nWhat though those horn hands have as yet found small\\ntime\\nFor painting and sculpture and music and rhyme\\nThese will come in due order, the need that pressed\\nsorest\\nWas to vanquish the seasons, the ocean, the forest.\\nTo bridle and harness the rivers, the steam,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0239.jp2"}, "240": {"fulltext": "216 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS.\\nMaking that whirl her mill-wheels, this tug in her\\nteam,\\nTo vassalize old tyrant Winter, and make\\nHim delve surlily for her on river and lako\\nWhen this New World was parted, she strove not to\\nshirk\\nHer lot in the heirdom, the tough, silent Work,\\nThe hero-share ever, from Herakles down\\nTo Odin, the Earth s iron sceptre and crown\\nYes, thou dear, noble Mother if ever men s praise\\nCould be claimed for creating heroical lays,\\nThou hast won it if ever the laurel divine\\nCrowned the Maker and Builder, that glory is thine\\nThy songs are right epic, they tell how this rude\\nRock-rib of our earth here was tamed and subdued\\nThou hast written them plain on the face of the\\nplanet\\nIn brave, deathless letters of iron and granite\\nThou hast printed them deep for all time they are\\nset\\nFrom the same runic type-fount and alphabet\\nWith thy stout Berkshire hills and the arms of thy\\nBay,\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nThey are staves from the burly old Mayflower lay.\\nIf the drones of the Old World, in querulous ease.\\nAsk thy Art and thy Letters, point proudly to these.\\nOr, if they deny these are Letters and Art,\\nToil on with the same old invincible heart\\nThou art rearing the pedestal broad-based and grand\\nWhereon the fair shapes of the Artist shall stand.\\nAnd creating, through labors undaunted and long,\\nThe true theme for all Sculpture and Painting and\\nSong", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0240.jp2"}, "241": {"fulltext": "A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 217\\nBut my good mother Baystate wants no praise of\\nmine.\\nShe learned from her mother a precept divine\\nAbout something that butters no parsnips, hev forte\\nIn another direction lies, work is her sport,\\n(Though she 11 curtsey and set her cap straight, that\\nshe will.\\nIf you talk about Plymouth and one Bunker s hill.)\\nThe dear, notable good wife by this time of night.\\nHer hearth is swept clean, and her fire burning bright.\\nAnd she sits in a chair (of home plan and make) rock-\\ning.\\nMusing much, all the while, as she darns on a stock-\\ning.\\nWhether turkeys will come pretty high next Thanks-\\ngiving,\\nWhether flour 11 be so dear, for as sure as she s\\nliving,\\nShe will use rye-and-injun then, whether the pig\\nBy this time ain t got pretty tolerable big.\\nAnd whether to sell it outright will be best.\\nOr to smoke hams and shoulders and salt down the\\nrest,\\nAt this minute, she d swop all my verses, ah, cruel\\nFor the last patent stove that is saving of fuel\\nSo I ll just let Apollo go on, for his phiz\\nShows I ve kept him awaiting too long as it is.\\nIf our friend, there, who seems a reporter, is\\nthrough\\nWith his burst of emotion, our theme we 11 pursue,\\nSaid Apollo some smiled, and, indeed, I must own\\nThere was something sarcastic, perhaps, in his tone", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0241.jp2"}, "242": {"fulltext": "218 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS.\\nThere s Holmes, who is matchless among you for\\nwit\\nA Leyden-jar always full-charged, from which flit\\nThe electrical tingles of hit after hit\\nIn long poems t is painful sometimes and invites\\nA thought of the way the new Telegraph writes,\\nWhich pricks down its little sharp sentences spitefully\\nAs if you got more than you d title to rightfully.\\nAnd if it were hoping its wild father Lightning\\nWould flame in for a second and give you a frightening.\\nHe has perfect sway of what I call a sham metre,\\nBut many admire it, the English hexameter.\\nAnd Campbell, I think, wrote most commonly worse,\\nWith less nerve, swing, and fire in the same kind of verse.\\nNor e er achieved aught in t so worthy of praise\\nAs the tribute of Holmes to the grand Marseillaise.\\nYou went crazy last year over Bulwer s New Timon\\nWhy, if B., to the day of his dying, should rhyme on.\\nHeaping verses on verses and tomes upon tomes.\\nHe could ne er reach the best point and vigor of\\nHolmes.\\nHis are just the fine hands, too, to weave you a lyric\\nFull of fancy, fun, feeling, or spiced with satiric\\nIn so kindly a measure, that nobody knows\\nWhat to do but e en join in the laugh, friends and foes.\\nThere is Lowell, who s striving Parnassus to climb\\nWith a whole bale of isms tied together with rhyme.\\nHe might get on alone, spite of brambles and boulders.\\nBut he can t with that bundle he has on his shoulders.\\nThe top of the hill he will ne er come nigh reaching\\nTill he learns the distinction twixt singing and preach-\\ning", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0242.jp2"}, "243": {"fulltext": "A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 219\\nHis lyre has some chords that would ring pretty well.\\nBut he ^d rather by half make a drum of the shell,\\nAnd rattle away till he s old as Methusalem,\\nAt the head of a march to the last new Jerusalem.\\nThere goes Halleck whose Fanny s a pseudo Don\\nJuan,\\nWith the wickedness out that gave salt to the true one.\\nHe s a wit, though, I hear, of the very first order.\\nAnd once made a pun on the words soft Recorder\\nMore than this, he s a very great poet, I m told.\\nAnd has had his works published in crimson and gold,\\nWith something they call Illustrations, to wit.\\nLike those with which Chapman obscured Holy Writ,^\\nWhich are said to illustrate, because, as I view it.\\nLike luciis a non, they precisely don t do it\\nLet a man who can write what himself understands\\nKeep clear, if he can, of designing men s hands.\\nWho bury the sense, if there s any worth having.\\nAnd then very honestly call it engraving.\\nBut, to quit badinage, which there is n t much wat in,\\nNo doubt Halleck s better than all he has written\\nIn his verse a clear glimpse you will frequently find,\\nIf not of a great, of a fortunate mind.\\nWhich contrives to be true to its natural loves\\nIn a world of back-offices, ledgers and stoves.\\nWhen his heart breaks away from the brokers and banks.\\nAnd kneels in its own private shrine to give thanks.\\nThere s a genial manliness in him that earns\\nOur sincerest respect, (read, for instance, his Burns\\nAnd we can t but regret (seek excuse where we may)\\nThat so much of a man has been peddled away.\\n1 (Cuts rightly called wooden, as all must admit.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0243.jp2"}, "244": {"fulltext": "220 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS.\\nBut what s that a mass-meeting No, there\\ncome in lots\\nThe American Disraelis, Bulwers, and Scotts,\\nAnd in short the American everything-elses.\\nEach charging the others with envies and jealousies\\nBy the way, ^t is a fact that displays what profusions\\nOf all kinds of greatness bless free institutions,\\nThat while the Old World has produced barely eight\\nOf such poets as all men agree to call great.\\nAnd of other great characters hardly a score,\\n(One might safely say less than that rather than more,)\\nWith you every year a whole crop is begotten.\\nThey ^re as much of a staple as corn, or as cotton\\nWhy, there s scarcely a huddle of log-huts and shanties\\nThat has not brought forth its own Miltons and Dantes\\nI myself know ten Byrons, one Coleridge, three Shelleys,\\nTwo Raphaels, six Titians, (I think) one Apelles,\\nLeonardos and Rubenses plenty as lichens.\\nOne (but that one is plenty) American Dickens,\\nA whole flock of Lambs, any number of Tennysons,\\nIn short, if a man has the luck to have any sons.\\nHe may feel pretty certain that one out of twain\\nWill be some very great person over again.\\nThere is one inconvenience in all this which lies\\nIn the fact that by contrast we estimate size,*\\nAnd, when there are none except Titans, great stature\\nIs only a simple proceeding of nature.\\nWhat puff the strained sails of your praise shall you\\nfurl at, if\\nThat is in most cases we do, but not all,\\nPast a doubt, there are men who are innately small,\\nSuch as Blank, who, without being minished a tittle,\\nMight stand for a type of the Absolute Little.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0244.jp2"}, "245": {"fulltext": "A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 221\\nThe calmest degree that you know is superlative\\nAt Rome, all whom Charon took into his wherry must,\\nAs a matter of course, be well issimtised and errimused,\\nA Greek, too, could feel, while in that famous boat he\\ntost,\\nThat his friends would take care he was t^To^ed and\\na raro?ed.\\nAnd formerly we, as through grave-yards we past,\\nThought the world went from bad to worse fearfully\\nfast;\\nLet us glance for a moment, t is well worth the\\npains,\\nAnd note what an average grave-yard contains\\nThere lie levellers levelled, duns done up themselves.\\nThere are booksellers finally laid on their shelves.\\nHorizontally there lie upright politicians,\\nDose-a-dose with their patients sleep faultless phy-\\nsicians.\\nThere are slave-drivers quietly whipt under-ground.\\nThere book-binders, done up in boards, are fast\\nbound.\\nThere card-players wait till the last trump be played.\\nThere all the choice spirits get finally laid.\\nThere the babe that ^s unborn is supplied with a\\nberth.\\nThere men without legs get their six feet of earth.\\nThere lawyers repose, each wrapt up in his case.\\nThere seekers of office are sure of a place.\\nThere defendant and plaintiff get equally cast.\\nThere shoemakers quietly stick to the last.\\nThere brokers at length become silent as stocks.\\nThere stage-drivers sleep without quitting their box.\\nAnd so forth and so forth and so forth and so on.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0245.jp2"}, "246": {"fulltext": "222 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS.\\nWith this kind of stuff one might endlessly go on\\nTo come to the point, I may safely assert you\\nWill find in each yard every cardinal virtue\\nEach has six truest patriots four discoverers of\\nether.\\nWho never had thought on ^t nor mentioned it\\neither\\nTen poets, the greatest who ever wrote rhyme\\nTwo hundred and forty first men of their time\\nOne person whose portrait just gave the least hint\\nIts original had a most horrible squint\\nOne critic, most (what do they call it reflective.\\nWho never had used the phrase ob- or subjective\\nForty fathers of Freedom, of whom twenty bred\\nTheir sons for the rice-swamps, at so much a head.\\nAnd their daughters for faugh thirty mothers of\\nGracchi\\nNon-resistants who gave many a spiritual black-eye\\nEight true friends of their kind, one of whom was a\\njailor\\nFour captains almost as astounding as Taylor\\nTwo dozen of Italy s exiles who shoot us his\\nKaisership daily, stern pen-and-ink Brutuses,\\nWho, in Yankee back-parlors, with crucified smile,\\nMount serenely their country s funereal pile\\nNinety-nine Irish heroes, ferocious rebellers\\nGainst the Saxon in cis-marine garrets and cellars.\\nWho shake their dread fists o er the sea and all\\nthat,\\n1 (And at this just conchision will surely arrive,\\nThat the goodness of earth is more dead than alive.)\\n2 Not forgetting their tea and their toast, though, the\\nwhile,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0246.jp2"}, "247": {"fulltext": "A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 223\\nAs long as a copper drops into the hat\\nNine hundred Teutonic republicans stark\\nFrom Vaterland^s battles just won in the Park,\\nWho the happy profession of martyrdom take\\nWhenever it gives them a chance at a steak\\nSixty-two second Washingtons two or three Jacksons\\nAnd so many everythings else that it racks one s\\nPoor memory too much to continue the list.\\nEspecially now they no longer exist\\nI would merely observe that you \\\\e taken to giving\\nThe puffs that belong to the dead to the living.\\nAnd that somehow your trump-of-contemporary-doom s\\ntones\\nIs tuned after old dedications and tombstones/\\nHere the critic came in and a thistle presented\\nFrom a frown to a smile the god s features relented,\\nAs he stared at his envoy, who, swelling with pride.\\nTo the god s asking look, nothing daunted, replied,\\nYou re surprised, I suppose, I was absent so long,\\nBut your godship respecting the lilies was wrong\\nI hunted the garden from one end to t other.\\nAnd got no reward but vexation and bother.\\nTill, tossed out with weeds in a corner to wither.\\nThis one lily I found and made haste to bring hither.\\nDid he think I had given him a book to review\\nI ought to have known what the fellow would do,\\nMuttered Phoebus aside, for a thistle will pass\\nBeyond doubt for the queen of all flowers with an ass\\nHe has chosen in just the same way as he d choose\\n1 Turn back now to page goodness only knows what,\\nAnd take a fresh hold on the thread of my plot.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0247.jp2"}, "248": {"fulltext": "224 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS.\\nHis specimens out of the books he reviews\\nAnd now, as this offers an excellent text,\\nI 11 give em some brief hints on criticism next.\\nSo, musing a moment, he turned to the crowd.\\nAnd, clearing his voice, spoke as follows aloud,\\nMy friends, in the happier days of the muse.\\nWe were luckily free from such things as reviews\\nThen naught came between with its fog to make clearer\\nThe heart of the poet to that of his hearer\\nThen the poet brought heaven to the people, and they\\nFelt that they, too, were poets in hearing his lay\\nThen the poet was prophet, the past in his soul\\nPre-created the future, both parts of one whole\\nThen for him there was nothing too great or too small,\\nFor one natural deity sanctified all\\nThen the bard owned no clipper and meter of moods\\nSave the spirit of silence that hovers and broods\\nO er the seas and the mountains, the rivers and woods\\nHe asked not earth s verdict, forgetting the clods,\\nHis soul soared and sang to an audience of gods\\nT was for them that he measured the thought and the\\nline.\\nAnd shaped for their vision the perfect design,\\nWith as glorious a foresight, a balance as true.\\nAs swung out the worlds in the infinite blue\\nThen a glory and greatness invested man s heart.\\nThe universal, which now stands estranged and apart.\\nIn the free individual moulded, was Art\\nThen the forms of the Artist seemed thrilled with de-\\nsire\\nFor something, as yet unattained, fuller, higher.\\nAs once with her lips, lifted hands, and eyes listening.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0248.jp2"}, "249": {"fulltext": "A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 225\\nAnd her whole upward soul in her countenance glisten-\\ning,\\nEurydice stood like a beacon unfired,\\nWhich, once touched with flame, will leap heav nward\\ninspired\\nAnd waited with answering kindle to mark\\nThe first gleam of Orpheus that pained the red Dark\\nThen painting, song, sculpture, did more than relieve\\nThe need that men feel to create and believe.\\nAnd as, in all beauty, who listens with love,\\nHears these words oft repeated beyond and above,\\nSo these seemed to be but the visible sign\\nOf the grasp of the soul after things more divine\\nThey were ladders the Artist erected to climb\\nO^er the narrow horizon of space and of time,\\nAnd we see there^the footsteps by which men had\\ngained f\\nTo the one rapturous glimpse of the never-attained.\\nAs shepherds could erst sometimes trace in the sod\\nThe last spurning print of a sky-cleaving god.\\nBut now, on the poet s dis-privacied moods\\nWith do this and do that the pert critic intrudes\\nWhile he thinks he s been barely fulfilling his duty\\nTo interpret twixt men and their own sense of beauty,\\nAnd has striven, while others sought honor or pelf,\\nTo make his kind happy as he was himself.\\nHe finds he s been guilty of horrid offences\\nIn all kinds of moods, numbers, genders, and tenses\\nHe s been oh and 5?^^jective, what Kettle calls Pot.\\nPrecisely, at all events, what he ought not.\\nYou have done this, says one judge done that, says\\nanother\\nIS", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0249.jp2"}, "250": {"fulltext": "226 FABLE FOR THE CRITICS.\\nYolc should have done this, grumbles one that, says\\nt other\\nNever mind what he touches, one shrieks out Tahoo\\nAnd while he is wondering what he shall do.\\nSince each suggests opposite topics for song.\\nThey all shout together youWe right or youWe wrong\\nNature fits all her children with something to do.\\nHe who would write and can^t write, can surely review,\\nCan set up a small booth as critic and sell us his\\nPetty conceit and his pettier jealousies\\nThus a lawyer s apprentice, just out of his teens.\\nWill do for the Jeffrey of six magazines\\nHaving read Johnson s lives of the poets half through.\\nThere s nothing on earth he s not competent to\\nHe reviews with as much nonchalance as he whistles,\\nHe goes through a book and just picks out the thistles\\nIt matters not whether he blame or commend.\\nIf he s bad as a foe, he s far worse as a friend\\nLet an author but write what s above his poor scope.\\nAnd he 11 go to work gravely and twist up a rope.\\nAnd, inviting the world to see punishment done.\\nHang himself up to bleach in the wind and the sun\\nT is delightful to see, when a man comes along\\nWho has any thing in him peculiar and strong,\\nEvery cockboat that swims clear its fierce (pop-) gun-\\ndeck at him\\nAnd make as he passes its ludicrous Peck at him,\\nHere Miranda came up and began, As to that,\\nApollo at once seized his gloves, cane, and hat.\\nAnd seeing the place getting rapidly cleared,\\nI, too, snatched my notes and forthwith disappeared.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0250.jp2"}, "251": {"fulltext": "THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL.\\nPRELUDE TO PART FIRST.\\nOver his keys the musing organist,\\nBeginning doubtfully and far away.\\nFirst lets his fingers wander as they list.\\nAnd builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay\\nThen, as the touch of his loved instrument\\nGives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme,\\nFirst guessed by faint auroral flushes sent\\nAlong the wavering vista of his dream.\\nNot only around our infancy\\nDoth heaven with all its splendors lie\\nDaily, with souls that cringe and blot.\\nWe Sinais climb and know it not\\nOver our manhood bend the skies\\nAgainst our fallen and traitor lives\\nThe great winds utter prophecies\\nWith our faint hearts the mountain strives\\nIts arms outstretched, the druid wood\\nWaits with its benedicite\\nAnd to our age^s drowsy blood\\nStill shouts the inspiring sea.\\nEarth gets its price for what Earth gives us\\nThe beggar is taxed for a corner to die in,\\n227", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0251.jp2"}, "252": {"fulltext": "^28 T^HE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL.\\nThe priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us,\\nWe bargain for the graves we lie in\\nAt the Devil s booth are all things sold,\\nEach ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold\\nFor a cap and bells our lives we pay.\\nBubbles we earn with a whole soul s tasking\\nT is heaven alone that is given away,\\nT is only God may be had for the asking\\nThere is no price set on the lavish summer\\nAnd June may be had by the poorest comer.\\nAnd what is so rare as a day in June\\nThen, if ever, come perfect days\\nThen Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune.\\nAnd over it softly her warm ear lays\\nWhether we look, or whether we listen.\\nWe hear life murmur, or see it glisten\\nEvery clod feels a stir of might.\\nAn instinct within it that reaches and towers.\\nAnd, grasping blindly above it for light.\\nClimbs to a soul in grass and flowers\\nThe flush of life may well be seen\\nThrilling back over hills and valleys\\nThe cowslip startles in meadows green.\\nThe buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,\\nAnd there s never a leaf or a blade too mean\\nTo be some happy creature s palace\\nThe little bird sits at his door in the sun,\\nAtilt like a blossom among the leaves,\\nAnd lets his illumined being o errun\\nWith the deluge of summer it receives\\nHis mate feels the eggs beneath her wings.\\nAnd the heart in her dumb breast flutters -and sings", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0252.jp2"}, "253": {"fulltext": "THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 229\\nHe sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,\\nIn the nice ear of Nature which song is the best\\nNow is the high-tide of the year, -U. ivji-vx_\\nAnd whatever of life hath ebbed away\\nComes flooding back, with a ripply cheer.\\nInto every bare inlet and creek and bay\\nNow the heart is so full that a drop overfills it,\\nWe are happy now because God so wills it\\nNo matter how barren the past may have been,\\nT is enough for us now that the leaves are green\\nWe sit in the warm shade and feel right well\\nHow the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell\\nWe may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing\\nThat skies are clear and grass is growing\\nThe breeze comes whispering in our ear,\\nThat dandelions are blossoming near.\\nThat maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing.\\nThat the river is bluer than the sky,\\nThat the robin is plastering his house hard by\\nAnd if the breeze kept the good news back.\\nFor other couriers we should not lack\\nWe could guess it all by yon heifer s lowing,\\nAnd hark how clear bold chanticleer.\\nWarmed with the new wine of the year,\\nTells all in his lusty crowing\\nJoy comes, grief goes, we know not how\\nEverything is happy now.\\nEverything is upward striving\\nT is easy now for the heart to be trne\\nAs for grass to be green or skies to be blue,\\nT is the natural way of living", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0253.jp2"}, "254": {"fulltext": "230 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL.\\nWho knows whither the clonds have fled\\nIn the unscarred heaven they leave no wake\\nAnd the eyes forget the tears they have shed,\\nThe heart forgets its sorrow and ache\\nThe soul partakes the season s youth,\\nAnd the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe\\nLie deep neath a silence pure and smooth,\\nLike burnt-out craters healed with snow.\\nWhat wonder if Sir Launfal now\\nRemembered the keeping of his vow\\nPART FIRST.\\nI.\\nMy golden spurs now bring to me.\\nAnd bring to me my richest mail.\\nFor to-morrow I go over land and sea\\nIn search of the Holy Grail\\nShall never a bed for me be spread.\\nNor shall a pillow be under my head.\\nTill I begin my vow to keep\\nHere on the rushes will I sleep.\\nAnd perchance there may come a vision true\\nEre day create the world anew.\\nSlowly Sir LaunfaFs eyes grew dim.\\nSlumber fell like a cloud on him.\\nAnd into his soul the vision flew.\\n11.\\nThe crows flapped over by twos and threes.\\nIn the pool drowsed the cattle up to their knees.\\nThe little birds sang as if it were\\nThe one day of summer in all the year,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0254.jp2"}, "255": {"fulltext": "THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 231\\nAnd the very leaves seemed to sing on the trees\\nThe castle alone in the landscape lay\\nLike an outpost of winter, dull and gray\\nT was the proudest hall in the North Countree,\\nAnd never its gates might opened be,\\nSave to lord or lady of high degree\\nSummer besieged it on every side.\\nBut the churlish stone her assaults defied\\nShe could not scale the chilly wall.\\nThough around it for leagues her pavilions tall\\nStretched left and right.\\nOver the hills and out of sight\\nGreen and broad was every tent.\\nAnd out of each a murmur went\\nTill the breeze fell off at night.\\nIII.\\nThe drawbridge dropped with a surly clang.\\nAnd through the dark arch a charger sprang,\\nBearing Sir Launfal, the maiden knight.\\nIn his gilded mail, that flamed so bright\\nIt seemed the dark castle had gathered all\\nThose shafts the fierce sun had shot over its wall\\nIn his siege of three hundred summers long.\\nAnd, binding them all in one blazing sheaf.\\nHad cast them forth so, young and strong.\\nAnd lightsome as a locust-leaf.\\nSir Launfal flashed forth in his unscarred mail.\\nTo seek in all climes for the Holy Grail.\\nIV.\\nIt was morning on hill and stream and tree,\\nAnd morning in the young knight s heart", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0255.jp2"}, "256": {"fulltext": "232 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL.\\nOnly the castle moodily\\nRebuffed the gifts of the sunshine free.\\nAnd gloomed by itself apart\\nThe season brimmed all other things up\\nFull as the rain fills the pitcher-plant s cup.\\nV.\\nAs Sir Launfal made morn through the darksome gate.\\nHe was ware of a leper, crouched by the same.\\nWho begged with his hand and moaned as he sate\\nAnd a loathing over Sir Launfal came\\nThe sunshine went out of his soul with a thrill.\\nThe flesh neath his armor did shrink and crawl,\\nAnd midway its leap his heart stood still\\nLike a frozen waterfall\\nFor this man, so foul and bent of stature.\\nRasped harshly against his dainty nature.\\nAnd seemed the one blot on the summer morn,\\nSo he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn.\\nVI.\\nThe leper raised not the gold from the dust\\nBetter to me the poor man s crust.\\nBetter the blessing of the poor.\\nThough I turn me empty from his door\\nThat is no true alms which the hand can hold\\nHe gives nothing but worthless gold\\nWho gives from a sense of duty\\nBut he who gives but a slender mite,\\nAnd gives to that which is out of sight,\\nThat thread of the all-sustaining Beauty\\nWhich runs through all and doth all unite,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0256.jp2"}, "257": {"fulltext": "The vision o^ sir latjnfal. 233\\nThe hand cannot clasp the whole of his alms.\\nThe heart outstretches its eager palms,\\nFor a god goes with it and makes it store\\nTo the soul that was starving in darkness before.\\nPRELUDE TO PART SECOND. y^W-\\nDown swept the chill wind from the mountain peak.\\nFrom the snow five thousand summers old\\nOn open wold and hill-top bleak\\nIt had gathered all the cold.\\nAnd whirled it like sleet on the wanderer s cheek\\nIt carried a shiver everywhere\\nFrom the unleafed boughs and pastures bare\\nThe little brook heard it and built a roof\\nNeath which he could house him, winter-proof\\nAll night by the white stars frosty gleams\\nHe groined his arches and matched his beams\\nSlender and clear were his crystal spars\\nAs the lashes of light that trim the stars\\nHe sculptured every summer delight\\nIn his halls and chambers out of sight\\nSometimes his tinkling waters slipt\\nDown through a frost-leaved forest-crypt.\\nLong, sparkling aisles of steel-stemmed trees\\nBending to counterfeit a breeze\\nSometimes the roof no fretwork knew\\nBut silvery mosses that downward grew\\nSometimes it was carved in sharp relief\\nWith quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf\\nSometimes it was simply smooth and clear\\nFor the gladness of heaven to shine through, and here\\nHe had caught the nodding bulrush-tops\\nAnd liung them thickly with diamond drops.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0257.jp2"}, "258": {"fulltext": "234 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL.\\nThat crystalled the beams of moon and sun,\\nAnd made a star of every one\\nNo mortal builder s most rare device\\nCould match this winter-palace of ice\\nT was as if every image that mirrored lay\\nIn his depths serene through the summer day.\\nEach fleeting shadow of earth and sky,\\nLest the happy model should be lost.\\nHad been mimicked in fairy masonry\\nBy the elfin builders of the frost. p ^jj\\nWithin the hall are song and laughter.\\nThe cheeks of Christmas grow red and jolly,\\nAnd sprouting is every corbel and rafter\\nWith lightsome green of ivy and holly\\nThrough the deep gulf of the chimney wide\\nWallows the Yule-log s roaring tide\\nThe broad flame-pennons droop and flap\\nAnd belly and tug as a flag in the wind\\nLike a locust shrills the imprisoned sap.\\nHunted to death in its galleries blind\\nAnd swift little troops of silent sparks,\\nNow pausing, now scattering away as in fear.\\nGo threading the soot-forest s tangled darks\\nLike herds of startled deer.\\nBut the wind without was eager and sharp.\\nOf Sir Launfal s gray hair it makes a harp,\\nAnd rattles and wrings\\nThe icy strings,\\nSinging, in dreary monotone,\\nA Christmas carol of its own,\\nWhose burden still, as he might guess,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0258.jp2"}, "259": {"fulltext": "THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 235\\nW as Shelterless, shelterless, shelterless\\nThe voice of the seneschal flared like a torch\\nAs he shouted the wanderer away from the porch,\\nAnd he sat in the gateway and saw all night\\nThe great hall-fire, so cheery and bold,\\nThrough the window-slits of the castle old,\\nBuild out its piers of ruddy light\\nAgainst the drift of the cold.\\nPART SECOND.\\nI.\\nThere was never a leaf on a bush or tree,\\nThe bare boughs rattled shudderingly\\nThe river was dumb and could not speak.\\nFor the frost s swift shuttles its shroud had spun\\nA single crow on the tree-top bleak\\nFrom his shining feathers shed off the cold sun\\nAgain it was morning, but shrunk and cold,\\nAs if her veins were sapless and old.\\nAnd she rose up decrepitly\\nFor a last dim look at earth and sea.\\nII.\\nSir Launfal turned from his own hard gate.\\nFor another heir in his earldom sate\\nAn old, bent man, worn out and frail.\\nHe came back from seeking the Holy Grail\\nLittle he recked of his earldom s loss,\\nNo more on his surcoat was blazoned the cross.\\nBut deep in his soul the sign he wore.\\nThe badge of the suffering and the poor.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0259.jp2"}, "260": {"fulltext": "236 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL.\\nIII.\\nSir LaunfaFs raiment thin and spare\\nWas idle mail Against the barbed air.\\nFor it was just at the Christmas time\\nSo he mused, as he sat, of a sunnier clime.\\nAnd sought for a shelter from cold and snow\\nIn the light and warmth of long ago\\nHe sees the snake-like caravan crawl\\nO er the edge of the desert, black and small,\\nThen nearer and nearer, till, one by one,\\nHe can count the camels in the sun.\\nAs over the red-hot sands they pass\\nTo where, in its slender necklace of grass,\\nThe little spring laughed and leapt in the shade.\\nAnd with its own self like an infant played.\\nAnd waved its signal of palms.\\nIV.\\nFor Christ s sweet sake, I beg an alms\\nThe happy camels may reach the spring,\\nBut Sir Launfal sees naught save the grewsome thing,\\nThe leper, lank as the rain-blanched bone.\\nThat cowers beside him, a thing as lone\\nAnd white as the ice-isles of Northern seas\\nIn the desolate horror of his disease.\\nV.\\nAnd Sir Launfal said, I behold in thee\\nAn image of Him who died on the tree\\nThou also hast had thy crown of thorns,\\nThou also hast had the world s buffets and scorns,\\nAnd to thy life were not denied", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0260.jp2"}, "261": {"fulltext": "THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 237\\nThe wounds iu the hands and feet and side\\nMild Mary s Son, acknowledge me\\nBehold, through him, I give to thee\\nVI.\\nThen the soul of the leper stood up in his eyes\\nAnd looked at Sir Launfal, and straightway he\\nRemembered in what a haughtier guise\\nHe had flung an alms to leprosie,\\nWhen he caged his young life up in gilded mail\\nAnd set forth in search of the Holy Grail.\\nThe heart within him was ashes and dust\\nHe parted in twain his single crust.\\nHe broke the ice on the streamlet s brink.\\nAnd gave the leper to eat and drink,\\nT was a mouldy crust of coarse brown bread,\\nT was water out of a w^ooden bowl,\\nYet with fine wheaten bread was the leper fed.\\nAnd t was red wine he drank with his thirsty soul.\\nVII.\\nAs Sir Launfal mused with a downcast face,\\nA light shone round about the place\\nThe leper no longer crouched at his side.\\nBut stood before him glorified,\\nShining and tall and fair and straight\\nAs the pillar that stood by the Beautiful Gate,\\nHimself the Gate whereby men can\\nEnter the temple of God in Man.\\nVIII.\\nHis Avords were shed softer than leaves from the pine.\\nAnd they fell on Sir Launfal as snows on the brine.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0261.jp2"}, "262": {"fulltext": "238 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL.\\nThat miDgle their softness and quiet in one\\nWith the shaggy unrest they float down upon\\nAnd the voice that was calmer than silence said,\\nLo it is I, be not afraid\\nIn many climes, without avail,\\nThou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail\\nBehold, it is here, this cup which thou\\nDidst fill at the streamlet for me but now\\nThis crust is my body broken for thee.\\nThis water His blood that died on the tree\\nThe Holy Supper is kept, indeed.\\nIn whatso we share with another s need\\nNot what we give, but what we share,\\nFor the gift without the giver is bare\\nWho gives himself with his alms feeds three, jS^\\nHimself, his hungering neighbor, and me.\\nIX.\\nSir Launfal awoke as from a swound\\nThe Grail in r!iy castle here is found\\nHang my idle armor up on the wall.\\nLet it be the spider s banquet-hall\\nHe must be fenced with stronger mail\\nWho would seek and find the Holy Grail.\\nX.\\nThe castle gate stands open now.\\nAnd the wanderer is welcome to the hall\\nAs the hangbird is to the elm-tree bough\\nNo longer scowl the turrets tall.\\nThe Summer s long siege at last is o er\\nWhen the first poor outcast went in at the door.\\nShe entered with him in disguise.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0262.jp2"}, "263": {"fulltext": "THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 239\\nAnd mastered the fortress by surprise\\nThere is no spot she loves so well on ground,\\nShe lingers and smiles there the whole year round\\nThe meanest serf on Sir Launfal s land\\nHas hall and bower at his command\\nAnd there s no poor man in the North Countree\\nBut is lord of the earldom as much as he.\\nNote. According to the mythology of the Romancers, the\\nSan Greal, or Holy Grail, was the cup out of which Jesus par-\\ntook of the last supper with his disciples. It was brought\\ninto England by Joseph of Arimathea, and remained there,\\nan object of pilgrimage and adoration, for many years in the\\nkeeping of his lineal descendants. It was incumbent upon\\nthose who had charge of it to be chaste in thought, word and\\ndeed but one of the keepers having broken this condition,\\nthe Holy Grail disappeared. From that time it was a favorite\\nenterprise of the knights of Arthur s court to go in search of\\nit. Sir Galahad was at last successful in finding it, as may be\\nread in the seventeenth book of the Romance of King Arthur.\\nTennyson has made Sir Galahad the subject of one of the\\nmost exquisite of his poems.\\nThe plot (if I may give that name to anything so slight) of\\nthe foregoing poem is my own, and, to serve its purposes, I\\nhave enlarged the circle of competition in search of the mirac-\\nulous cup in such a manner as to include, not only other\\npersons than the heroes of the Round Table, but also a period\\nof time subsequent to the date of King Arthur s reign.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0263.jp2"}, "264": {"fulltext": "APPLEDOEE.\\nHow looks Appledore in a storm\\nI have seen it when its crags seemed frantic,\\nButting against the maddened Atlantic,\\nWhen surge after surge would heap enorme,\\nCliffs of Emerald topped with snow,\\nThat lifted and lifted and then let go\\nA great white avalanche of thunder,\\nA grinding, blinding, deafening ire\\nMonadnock might have trembled under\\nAnd the island, whose rock-roots pierce below\\nTo where they are warmed with the central fire,\\nYou could feel its granite fibres racked.\\nAs it seemed to plunge with a shudder and thrill\\nEight at the breast of the swooping hill.\\nAnd to rise again, snorting a cataract\\nOf rage-froth from every cranny and ledge,\\nWhile the sea drew its breath in hoarse and deep,\\nAnd the next vast breaker curled its edge.\\nGathering itself for a mighty leap.\\nNorth, east, and south there are reefs and breakers.\\nYou would never dream of in smooth weather,\\nThat toss and gore the sea for acres.\\nBellowing and gnashing and snarling together;\\nLook northward where Duck Island lies.\\nAnd over its crown you will see arise,\\nAgainst a background of slaty skies,\\n240", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0264.jp2"}, "265": {"fulltext": "APPLEDORE. 241\\nA row of pillars still and white\\nThat glimmer and then are out of sight,\\nAs if the moon should suddenly kiss,\\nWhile you crossed the dusty desert by night,\\nThe long colonnades of Persepolis,\\nAnd then as sudden a darkness should follow\\nTo gulp the whole scene at a single swallow,\\nThe city s ghost, the drear brown waste.\\nAnd the string of camels, clumsy-paced\\nLook southward for White Island light,\\nThe lantern stands ninety feet o er the tide\\nThere is first a half-mile of tumult and fight,\\nOf dash and roar and tumble and fright.\\nAnd surging bewilderment wild and wide.\\nWhere the breakers struggle left and right,\\nThen a mile or more of rushing sea.\\nAnd then the light-house slim and lone\\nAnd whenever the whole weight of ocean is thrown\\nFull and fair on White Island head,\\nA great mist-jotun you will see\\nLifting himself up silently\\nHigh and huge o er the light-house top.\\nWith hands of wavering spray outspread.\\nGroping after the little tower.\\nThat seems to shrink, and shorten and cower.\\nTill the monster s arms of a sudden drop.\\nAnd silently and fruitlessly\\nHe sinks again into the sea.\\nYou, meanwhile, where drenched you stand.\\nAwaken once more to the rush and roar\\nAnd on the rock-point tighten your hand,\\nAs you turij ancl see a valley deep,\\nJ 6", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0265.jp2"}, "266": {"fulltext": "242 TO THE DANDELION.\\nThat was not there a moment before,\\nSuck rattling down between you and a heap\\nOf toppling billow, whose instant fall\\nMust sink the whole island once for all\\nOr watch the silenter, stealthier seas\\nFeeling their way to you more and more\\nIf they once should clutch you high as the knees\\nThey would whirl you down like a sprig of kelp,\\nBeyond all reach of hope or help\\nAnd such in a storm is Appledore.\\nTO THE DANDELION.\\nDear common flower, that grow st beside the way.\\nFringing the dusty road with harmless gold.\\nFirst pledge of blithesome May,\\nWhich children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold.\\nHigh-hearted buccaneers, o erjoyed that they\\nAn Eldorado in the grass have found,\\nWhich not the rich earth s ample round\\nMay match in wealth thou art more dear to me\\nThan all the prouder Summer-blooms may be.\\nGold such as thine ne er drew the Spanish prow\\nThrough the primeval hush of Indian seas,\\nNor wrinkled the lean brow\\nOf age, to rob the lover s heart of ease\\nTis the Spring s largess, which she scatters now\\nTo rich and poor alike, with lavish hand,\\nThough most hearts never understand\\nTo take it at God s value, but pass by\\nThe offered wealth with unrewarded eye.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0266.jp2"}, "267": {"fulltext": "TO THE DANDELION. 243\\nThou art my tropics and mine Italy\\nTo look at thee unlocks a warmer clime\\nThe eyes thou givest me\\nAre in the heart and heed not space or time\\nNot in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee\\nFeels a more Summer-like, warm ravishment\\nIn the white lily s breezy tent,\\nHis fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first\\nFrom the dark green thy yellow circles burst.\\nThen think I of deep shadows in the grass,\\nOf meadows where in sun the cattle graze.\\nWhere, as the breezes pass.\\nThe gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways,\\nOf leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass,\\nOr whiten in the wind, of waters blue\\nThat from the distance sparkle through\\nSome woodland gap, and of a sky above\\nWhere one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move.\\nMy childhood s earliest thoughts are linked with thee\\nThe sight of thee calls back the robin s song.\\nWho from the dark old tree\\nBeside the door, sang clearly all day long.\\nAnd I, secure in childish piety,\\nListened as if I heard an angel sing\\nWith news from Heaven, which he could bring\\nFresh every day to my untainted ears,\\nWhen birds and flowers and I were happy peers.\\nThou art the type of those meek charities\\nWhich make up half the nobleness of life,\\nThose cheap delights the wise\\nPluck from the dusty wayside of earth s strife", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0267.jp2"}, "268": {"fulltext": "244 TO THE DANDELION.\\nWords of frank cheer^ glances of friendly eyes,\\nLove s smallest coin, which yet to some may give\\nThe morsel that may keep alive\\nA starving heart, and teach it to behold\\nSome glimpse of God where all before was cold.\\nThy winged seeds, whereof the winds take care,\\nAre like the words of poet and of sage\\nWhich through the free heaven fare,\\nAnd, now unheeded, in another age\\nTake root, and to the gladdened future bear\\nThat witness which the present would not heed,\\nBringing forth many a thought and deed,\\nAnd, planted safely in the eternal sky.\\nBloom into stars which earth is guided by.\\nFull of deep love thou art, yet not more full\\nThan all thy common brethren of the ground.\\nWherein, were we not dull,\\nSome words of highest wisdom might be found\\nYet earnest faith from day to day may cull\\nSome syllables, which, rightly joined, can make\\nA spell to soothe life s bitterest ache,\\nAnd ope Heaven s portals, which are near us still.\\nYea, nearer ever than the gates of 111.\\nHow like a prodigal doth nature seem,\\nWhen thou, for all thy gold, so common art\\nThou teachest me to deem\\nMore sacredly of every human heart.\\nSince each reflects in joy its scanty gleam\\nOf Heaven, and could some wondrous secret show,\\nDid we but pay the love we owe,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0268.jp2"}, "269": {"fulltext": "DARA. 245\\nAnd with a child s undoubting wisdom look\\nOn all these living pages of God s book.\\nBut let me read thy lesson right or no,\\nOf one good gift from thee my heart is sure\\nOld I shall never grow\\nWhile thou each year dost come to keep me pure\\nWith legends of my childhood ah, we owe\\nWell more than half life s holiness to these\\nNature s first lowly influences,\\nAt thought of which the heart s glad doors burst ope,\\nIn dreariest days, to welcome peace and hope.\\nDARA.\\nWhei^ Persia s sceptre trembled in a hand\\nWilted by harem-heats, and all the land\\nWas hovered over by those vulture ills\\nThat snuff decaying empire from afar.\\nThen, with a nature balanced as a star,\\nDara arose, a shepherd of the hills.\\nHe, who had governed fleecy subjects well.\\nMade his own village, by the self-same spell,\\nSecure and peaceful as a guarded fold.\\nTill, gathering strength by slow and wise degrees,\\nUnder his sway, to neighbor villages\\nOrder returned, and faith and justice old.\\nNow, when it fortuned that a king more wise\\nEndued the realm with brain and hands and eyes,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0269.jp2"}, "270": {"fulltext": "246 DARA.\\nHe sought on every side men brave and just,\\nAnd having heard the mountain-shepherd s praise,\\nHow he rendered the mould of elder days,\\nTo Dara gave a satrapy in trust.\\nSo Dara shepherded a province wide,\\nNor in his viceroy s sceptre took more pride\\nThan in his crook before but Envy finds\\nMore soil in cities than on mountains bare.\\nAnd the frank sun of spirits clear and rare\\nBreeds poisonous fogs in low and marish minds.\\nSoon it was whispered at the royal ear\\nThat, though wise Dara s province, year by year,\\nLike a great sponge, drew wealth and plenty up.\\nYet, when he squeezed it at the king s behest.\\nSome golden drops, more rich than all the rest.\\nWent to the filling of his private cup.\\nFor proof, they said that wheresoe er he went\\nA chest, beneath whose weight the camel bent,\\nAVent guarded, and no other eye had seen\\nWhat was therein, save only Dara s own,\\nYet, when t was opened all his tent was known\\nTo glow and lighten with heapt jewels sheen.\\nThe king set forth for Dara s province straight,\\nWhere, as was fit, outside his city s gate\\nThe viceroy met him with a stately train\\nAnd there, with archers circled, close at hand,\\nA camel with the chest was seen to stand,\\nThe king grew red, for thus the guilt was plain.\\nOpen me now, he cried, ^^yon treasure-chest\\nT was done, and only a worn shepherd s vest", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0270.jp2"}, "271": {"fulltext": "TO J. F. H. 247\\nWas found within some blushed and hung the head,\\nNot Dara open as the sky s blue roof\\nHe stood, and 0, my lord, behold the proof\\nThat I was worthy of my trust he said.\\nFor ruling men, lo all the charm I had\\nMy soul, in those coarse vestments ever clad.\\nStill to the unstained past kept true and leal,\\nStill on these plains could breathe her mountain air.\\nAnd Fortune s heaviest gifts serenely bear.\\nWhich bend men from the truth, and make them\\nreel.\\nTo govern wisely I had shown small skill\\nWere I not lord of simple Dara still\\nThat sceptre kept, I cannot lose my way\\nStrange dew in royal eyes grew round and bright\\nAnd thrilled the trembling lids before t was night\\nTwo added provinces blessed Dara s sway.\\nTO J. F. H.\\nNine years have slipped like hour-glass sand\\nFrom life s fast-emptying globe away.\\nSince last, dear friend, I clasped your hand,\\nAnd lingered on the impoverished land.\\nWatching the steamer down the bay.\\nI held the keepsake which you gave,\\nUntil the dim smoke-pennon curled\\nO er the vague rim tween sky and wave,\\nAnd closed the distance like a grave.\\nLeaving me to the outer world", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0271.jp2"}, "272": {"fulltext": "248 TO J. F. H.\\nThe old worn world of hurry and heat,\\nThe young, fresh world of thought and scope\\nWhile you, where silent surges fleet\\nToward far sky beaches still and sweet,\\nSunk wavering down the ocean-slope.\\nCome back our ancient walks to tread.\\nOld haunts of lost or scattered friends,\\nAmid the Muses factories red,\\nWhere song, and smoke, and laughter sped\\nThe nights to proctor-hunted ends.\\nOur old familiars are not laid,\\nThough snapped our wands and sunk our books,\\nThey beckon, not to be gainsaid.\\nWhere, round broad meads which mowers wade,\\nSmooth Charles his steel-blue sickle crooks\\nWhere, as the cloudbergs eastward blow.\\nFrom glow to gloom the hillside shifts\\nIts lakes of rye that surge and flow.\\nIts plumps of orchard-trees arow.\\nIts snowy white-weed s summer drifts.\\nOr let us to Nantasket, there\\nTo wander idly as we list.\\nWhether, on rocky hillocks bare.\\nSharp cedar-points, like breakers, tear\\nThe trailing fringes of gray mist.\\nOr whether, under skies clear-blown,\\nThe heightening surfs with foamy din.\\nTheir breeze-caught forelocks backward blown\\nAgainst old Neptune s yellow zone.\\nCurl slow, and plunge forever in.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0272.jp2"}, "273": {"fulltext": "PROMETHEUS. 249\\nFor years thrice three, wise Horace said,\\nA poem rare let silence bind\\nAnd love may ripen in the shade,\\nLike ours, for nine long seasons laid\\nIn crypts and arches of the mind.\\nThat right Falernian friendship old\\nWill we, to grace our feast, call up.\\nAnd freely pour the juice of gold,\\nThat keeps lifers pulses warm and bold.\\nTill Death shall break the empty cup.\\nPROMETHEUS.\\nOne after one the stars have risen and set,\\nSparkling upon the hoarfrost on my chain\\nThe Bear that prowled all night about the fold\\nOf the ]^orth-Star, hath shrunk into his den.\\nScared by the blithesome footsteps of the Dawn,\\nWhose blushing smile floods all the Orient\\nAnd now bright Lucifer grows less and less.\\nInto the heaven s blue quiet deep withdrawn.\\nSunless and starless all, the desert sky\\nArches above me, empty as this heart\\nFor ages hath been empty of all joy\\nExcept to brood upon its silent hope.\\nAs o er its hope of day the sky doth now.\\nAll night have I heard voices deeper yet\\nThe deep, low breathing of the silence grew.\\nWhile all about, muffled in awe, there stood\\nShadows, or forms, or both, clear-felt at heart\\nBut, when I turned to front them, far along\\nOnly a shudder through the midnight ran,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0273.jp2"}, "274": {"fulltext": "250 PROMETHEUS.\\nAnd the dense stillness walled me closer round\\nBut still I heard them wander up and down\\nThat solitude, and flappings of dusk wings\\nDid mingle with them, whether of those hags\\nLet slip upon me once from Hades deep.\\nOr of yet direr torments, if such be,\\n1 could but guess and then toward me came\\nA shape as of a woman very pale\\nIt was, and calm its cold eyes did not move,\\nAnd mine moved not, but only stared on them.\\nTheir moveless awe went through my brain like ice\\nA skeleton hand seemed clutching at my heart.\\nAnd a sharp chill, as if a dank night fog\\nSuddenly closed me in, was all I felt\\nAnd then, methought, I heard a freezing sigh,\\nA long, deep, shivering sigh, as from blue lips\\nStiffening in death, close to mine ear. I thought\\nSome doom was close upon me, and I looked\\nAnd saw the red moon through the heavy mist.\\nJust setting, and it seemed as it were falling.\\nOr reeling to its fall, so dim and dead\\nAnd palsy-struck it looked. Then all sounds merged\\nInto the rising surges of the pines.\\nWhich, leagues below me, clothing the gaunt loins\\nOf ancient Caucasus with hairy strength.\\nSent up a murmur in the morning-wind,\\nSad as the wail that from the populous earth\\nAll day and night to high Olympus soars.\\nFit incense to thy wicked throne, Jove.\\nThy hated name is tossed once more in scorn\\nFrom off my lips, for I will tell thy doom.\\nAnd are these tears Nay, do not triumph, Jove", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0274.jp2"}, "275": {"fulltext": "PROMETHEUS. 251\\nThey are wrung from me but by the agonies\\nOf prophecy, like those sparse drops which fall\\nFrom clouds in travail of the lightning, when\\nThe great wave of the storm, high-curled and black,\\nRolls steadily onward to its thunderous break.\\nWhy art thou made a god of, thou poor type\\nOf anger, and revenge, and cunning force\\nTrue Power was never born of brutish Strength,\\nNor sweet Truth suckled at the shaggy dugs\\nOf that old she-wolf. Are thy thunderbolts,\\nThat scare the darkness for a space, so strong\\nAs the prevailing patience of meek Light,\\nWho, with the invincible tenderness of peace.\\nWins it to be a portion of herself\\nWhy art thou made a god of, thou, who hast\\nThe never-sleeping terror at thy heart.\\nThat birthright of all tyrants, worse to bear\\nThan this thy ravening bird on which I smile\\nThou swear st to free me, if I will unfold\\nWhat kind of doom it is whose omen flits\\nAcross thy heart, as o er a troop of doves\\nThe fearful shadow of the kite. What need\\nTo know that truth whose knowledge cannot save\\nEvil its errand hath, as well as Good\\nWhen thine is finished, thou art known no more\\nThere is a higher purity than thou,\\nAnd higher purity is greater strength\\nThy nature is thy doom, at which thy heart\\nTrembles behind the thick wall of thy might.\\nLet man but hope, and thou art straightway chilled\\nWith thought of that drear silence and deep night\\nWhich, like a dream, shall swallow thee and thine\\nLet man but will, and thou art god no more", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0275.jp2"}, "276": {"fulltext": "252 PROMETHEUS.\\nMore capable of ruin than the gold\\nAnd ivory that image thee on earth.\\nHe who hurled down the monstrous Titan-brood\\nBlinded with lightnings, with rough thunders stunned.\\nIs weaker than a simple human thought.\\nMy slender voice can shake thee, as the breeze,\\nThat seems but apt to stir a maiden s hair.\\nSways huge Oceanus from pole to pole\\nFor I am still Prometheus, and foreknow\\nIn my wise heart the end and doom of all.\\nYes, I am still Prometheus, wiser grown\\nBy years of solitude that holds apart\\nThe past and future, giving the soul room\\nTo search into itself and long commune\\nWith this eternal silence more a god\\nIn my long-suffering and strength to meet\\nWith equal front the direst shafts of fate.\\nThan thou in thy faint-hearted despotism,\\nGirt with thy baby-toys of force and wrath.\\nYes, I am that Prometheus who brought down\\nThe light to man which thou in selfish fear\\nHad st to thyself usurped his by sole right.\\nFor Man hath right to all save Tyranny\\nAnd which shall free him yet from thy frail throne.\\nTyrants are but the spawn of Ignorance,\\nBegotten by the slaves they trample on,\\nWho, could they win a glimmer of the light,\\nAnd see that Tyranny is always weakness,\\nOr Fear with its own bosom ill at ease,\\nAVould laugh away in scorn the sand-wove chain\\nWhich their own blindness feigned for adamant.\\nWrong ever builds on (quicksands, but the Right", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0276.jp2"}, "277": {"fulltext": "PROMETHEUS. 253\\nTo the firm centre lays its moveless base.\\nThe tyrant trembles if the air but stirs\\nThe innocent ringlets of a child s free hair,\\nAnd crouches, when the thouglit of some great spirit,\\nWith world-wide murmur, like a rising gale.\\nOver men s hearts, as over standing corn,\\nEushes, and bends them to its own strong will.\\nSo shall some thought of mine yet circle earth\\nAnd puff away thy crumbling altars, Jove.\\nAnd, would^st thou know of my supreme revenge,\\nPoor tyrant, even now dethroned in heart,\\nEealmless in soul, as tyrants ever are.\\nListen and tell me if this bitter peak.\\nThis never-glutted vulture, and these chains\\nShrink not before it, for it shall befit\\nA sorrow-taught, unconquered Titan-heart.\\nMen, when their death is on them, seem to stand\\nOn a precipitous crag that overhangs\\nThe abyss of doom, and in that depth to see,\\nAs in a glass, the features dim and huge\\nOf things to come, the shadows, as it seems.\\nOf what have been. Death never fronts the wise,\\nNot fearfully, but with clear promises\\nOf larger life, on whose broad vans upborne,\\nTheir outlook widens, and they see beyond\\nThe horizon of the Present and the Past,\\nEven to the very source and end of things.\\nSuch am I now immortal woe hath made\\nMy heart a seer, and my soul a judge\\nBetween the substance and the shadow of Truth.\\nThe sure supremeness of the Beautiful,\\nBy all the martyrdoms made doubly sure\\nOf such ^s I am, this is my revenge,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0277.jp2"}, "278": {"fulltext": "254 PROMETHEUS.\\nWhich of my wrongs builds a triumphal arch\\nThrough which I see a sceptre and a throne.\\nThe pipings of glad shepherds on the hills.\\nTending the flocks no more to bleed for thee\\nThe songs of maidens pressing with white feet\\nThe vintage on thine altars poured no more\\nThe murmurous bliss of lovers, underneath\\nDim grape-vine bowers, whose rosy bunches press\\nNot half so closely their warm cheeks, unscared\\nBy thoughts of thy brute lusts the hive-like hum\\nOf peaceful commonwealths, where sunburnt Toil\\nEeaps for itself the rich earth made its own\\nBy its own labor, lightened with glad hymns\\nTo an omnipotence which thy mad bolts\\nWould cope with as a spark with the vast sea,\\nEven the spirit of free love and peace.\\nDuty s sure recompense through life and death\\nThese are such harvests as all master-spirits\\nReap, haply not on earth, but reap no less\\nBecause the sheaves are bound by hands not theirs\\nThese are the bloodless daggers wherewithal\\nThey stab fallen tyrants, this their high revenge\\nFor their best part of life on earth is when,\\nLong after death, prisoned and pent no more,\\nTheir thoughts, their wild dreams even, have become\\nPart of the necessary air men breathe\\nWhen, like the moon, herself behind a cloud,\\nThey shed down light before us on life s sea,\\nThat cheers us to steer onward still in hope.\\nEarth with her twining memories ivies o er\\nTheir holy sepulchres, the chainless sea\\nIn tempest or wild calm repeats their thoughts,\\nThe lightning and the thunder, all free things.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0278.jp2"}, "279": {"fulltext": "PROMETHEUS. 255\\nHave legends of them for the ears of men.\\nAll other glories are as falling stars,\\nBut universal Nature watches theirs\\nSuch strength is won by love of human kind.\\nNot that I feel that hunger after fame,\\nWhich souls of a half -greatness are beset with\\nBut that the memory of noble deeds\\nCries shame upon the idle and the vile,\\nAnd keeps the heart of Man forever up\\nTo the heroic level of old time.\\nTo be forgot at first is little pain\\nTo a heart conscious of such high intent\\nAs must be deathless on the lips of men\\nBut, having been a name, to sink and be\\nA something which the world can do without.\\nWhich, having been or not, would never change\\nThe lightest pulse of fate this is indeed\\nA cup of bitterness the worst to taste,\\nAnd this thy heart shall empty to the dregs.\\nOblivion is lonelier than this peak\\nBehold thy destiny Thou think st it much\\nThat I should brave thee, miserable god\\nBut I have braved a mightier than thou.\\nEven the temptings of this soaring heart\\nWhich might have made me, scarcely less than thou,\\nA god among my brethren weak and blind.\\nScarce less than thou, a pitiable thing.\\nTo be down-trodden into darkness soon\\nBut now I am above thee, for thou art\\nThe bungling workmanship of fear, the block\\nThat scares the swart Barbarian but I\\nAm what myself have made, a nature wise", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0279.jp2"}, "280": {"fulltext": "256 PROMETHEUS.\\nWith finding in itself the types of all,\\nWith watching from the dim verge of the time\\nWhat things to be are visible in the gleams\\nThrown forward on them from the luminous past\\nWise with the history of its own frail heart.\\nWith reverence and sorrow, and with love\\nBroad as the world for freedom and for man.\\nThou and all strength shall crumble, except Love,\\nBy whom and for whose glory ye shall cease\\nAnd, when thou art but a dim moaning heard\\nFrom out the pitiless glooms of Chaos, I\\nShall be a power and a memory,\\nA name to scare all tyrants with, a light\\nTJnsetting as the pole-star, a great voice\\nHeard in the breathless pauses of the fight\\nBy truth and freedom ever waged with wrong,\\nClear as a silver trumpet, to awake\\nHuge echoes that from age to age live on\\nIn kindred spirits, giving them a sense\\nOf boundless power from boundless suffering wrung.\\nAnd many a glazing eye shall smile to see\\nThe memory of my triumph (for to meet\\nWrong with endurance, and to overcome\\nThe present with a heart that looks beyond,\\nAre triumph), like a prophet eagle, perch\\nUpon the sacred banner of the right.\\niEvil springs up, and flowers, and bears no seed,\\nAnd feeds the green earth with its swift decay,\\nLeaving it richer for the growth of truth\\nBut Good, once put in action or in thought.\\nLike a strong oak, doth from its boughs shed down\\nThe ripe germs of a forest, Thou, weak god.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0280.jp2"}, "281": {"fulltext": "PROMETHEUS. 257\\nShalt fade and be forgotten but this soul.\\nFresh-living still in the serene abyss,\\nIn every heaving shall partake, that grows\\nFrom heart to heart among the sons of men\\nAs the ominous hum before the earthquake runs\\nFar through the iEgean from roused isle to isle\\nForeboding wreck to palaces and shrines.\\nAnd mighty rents in many a cavernous error\\nThat darkens the free light to man This heart\\nUnscarred by thy grim vulture, as the truth\\nGrows but more lovely neath the beaks and claws\\nOf Harpies blind that fain would soil it, shall\\nIn all the throbbing exultations share\\nThat wait on freedom s triumphs, and in all\\nThe glorious agonies of martyr-spirits\\nSharp lightning-throes to split the jagged clouds\\nThat veil the future, showing them the end\\nPain s thorny crown for constancy and truth,\\nGirding the temples like a wreath of stars.\\nThis is a thought, that, like the fabled laurel.\\nMakes my faith thunder-proof, and thy dread bolts\\nFall on me like the silent flakes of snow\\nOn the hoar brows of aged Caucasus\\nBut, thought far more blissful, they can rend\\nThis cloud of flesh, and make my soul a star\\nUnleash thy crouching thunders noAv, Jove\\nFree this high heart which, a poor captive long,\\nDoth knock to be let forth, this heart which still.\\nIn its invincible manhood, overtops\\nThy puny godship as this mountain doth\\nTlie pines that moss its roots. even now.\\nWhile from my peak of suffering I look down,\\n^7", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0281.jp2"}, "282": {"fulltext": "258 PROMETHEUS.\\nBeholding with a far-spread gush of hope\\nThe sunrise of that Beauty in whose face.\\nShone all around with love, no man shall look\\nBut straightway like a god he is uplift\\nUnto the throne long empty for his sake,\\nAnd clearly oft foreshadowed in wide dreams\\nBy his free inward nature, which nor thou,\\nXor any anarch after thee, can bind\\nFrom working its great doom now, now set free\\nThis essence, not to die, but to become\\nPart of that awful Presence which doth haunt\\nThe palaces of tyrants, to scare off,\\nWith its grim eyes and fearful whisperings\\nAnd hideous sense of utter loneliness.\\nAll hope of safety, all desire of peace,\\nAll but the loathed foref eeling of blank death\\nPart of that spirit which doth ever brood\\nIn patient calm on the unpilfered nest\\nOf man s deep heart, till mighty thoughts grow\\nfledged\\nTo sail with darkening shadow o er the world,\\nUntil they swoop, and their pale quarry make\\nOf some o erbloated wrong that spirit which\\nScatters great hopes in the seed-field of man,\\nLike acorns among grain, to grow and be\\nA roof for freedom in all coming time.\\nBut no, this cannot be for ages yet.\\nIn solitude unbroken, shall I hear\\nThe angry Caspian to the Euxine shout.\\nAnd Euxine answer with a muffled roar.\\nOn either side storming the giant walls\\nOf Caucasus with leagues of climbing foam,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0282.jp2"}, "283": {"fulltext": "PROMETHEUS. 259\\n(Less, from my height, than flakes of downy snow)\\nThat draw back baffled but to hurl again.\\nSnatched up in wrath and horrible turmoil,\\nMountain on mountain, as the Titans erst,\\nMy brethren, scaling the high seat of Jove,\\nHeaved Pelion upon Ossa s shoulders broad,\\nIn vain emprise. The moon will come and go\\nWith her monotonous vicissitude\\nOnce beautiful, when I was free to walk\\nAmong my fellows and to interchange\\nThe influence benign of loving eyes.\\nBut now by aged use grown wearisome\\nFalse thought most false for how could 1 endure\\nThese crawling centuries of lonely woe\\nUnshamed by weak complaining, but for thee,\\nLoneliest, save me, of all created things,\\nMild-eyed Astarte, my best comforter,\\nWith thy pale smile of sad benignity\\nYear after year will pass away and seem\\nTo me, in mine eternal agony,\\nBut as the shadows of dumb summer-clouds.\\nWhich I have watched so often darkening o^er\\nThe vast Sarmatian plain, league-wide at first.\\nBut, with still swiftness, lessening on and on\\nTill cloud and shadow meet and mingle where\\nThe gray horizon fades into the sky.\\nFar, far to northward. Yes, for ages yet\\nMust I lie here upon my altar huge,\\nA sacrifice for man. Sorrow will be.\\nAs it hath been, his portion endless doom,\\nWhile the immortal with the mortal linked\\nDreams of its wings and pines for what it dreams\\nWith upward yearn unceasing. Better so", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0283.jp2"}, "284": {"fulltext": "260 ROSALINE.\\nFor wisdom is meek sorrow s patient child,\\nAnd empire over self, and all the deep\\nStrong charities that make men seem like gods\\nAnd love, that makes them be gods, from her breasts\\nSucks in the milk that makes mankind one blood.\\nGood never comes unmixed, or so it seems.\\nHaving two faces, as some images\\nAre carved, of foolish gods one face is ill,\\nBut one heart lies beneath, and that is good.\\nAs are all hearts, when we explore their depths.\\nTherefore, great heart, bear up thou art but type\\nOf what all lofty spirits endure, that fain\\nWould win men back to strength and peace through\\nlove\\nEach hath his lonely peak, and on each heart\\nEnvy, or scorn, or hatred, tears lifelong\\nWith vulture beak yet the high soul is left.\\nAnd faith, which is but hope grown wise, and love,\\nAnd patience which at last shall overcome.\\nCambridge, Mass., June, 1843.\\nROSALINE.\\nThou look^d st on me all yesternight.\\nThine eyes were blue, thy hair was bright\\nAs when we murmured our troth plight\\nBeneath the thick stars, Rosaline\\nThy hair was braided on thy head\\nAs on the day we two were wed,\\nMine eyes scarce knew if thou wert dead-\\nBut my shrunk heart knew, Rosaline", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0284.jp2"}, "285": {"fulltext": "ROSALINE. 261\\nThe deathwatcli tickt behind the wall.\\nThe blackness rustled like a pall.\\nThe moaning wind did rise and fall\\nAmong the bleak pines, Eosaline\\nMy heart beat thickly in mine ears\\nThe lids may shut out fleshly fears,\\nBut still the spirit sees and hears,\\nIts eyes are lidless, Eosaline\\nA wildness rushing suddenly,\\nA knowing some ill shape is nigh,\\nA wish for death, a fear to die\\nIs not this vengeance, Eosaline\\nA loneliness that is not lone,\\nA love quite withered up and gone,\\nA strong soul trampled from its throne\\nWhat would st thou further, Eosaline\\nT is lone such moonless nights as these,\\nStrange sounds are out upon the breeze,\\nAnd the leaves shiver in the trees,\\nAnd then thou comest, Eosaline\\nI seem to hear the mourners go,\\nWith long black garments trailing slow,\\nAnd plumes a-nodding to and fro.\\nAs once I heard them, Eosaline\\nThy shroud it is of snowy white.\\nAnd, in the middle of the night.\\nThou standest moveless and upright,\\nGazing upon me, Eosaline\\nThere is no sorrow in thine eyes.\\nBut evermore that meek surprise", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0285.jp2"}, "286": {"fulltext": "262 ROSALINE.\\nOh, God her gentle spirit tries\\nTo deem me guiltless, Rosaline\\nAbove thy grave the Eobin sings,\\nAnd swarms of bright and happy things\\nFlit all about with sunlit wings\\nBut I am cheerless, Rosaline\\nThe violets on the hillock toss,\\nThe gravestone is overgrown with moss.\\nFor nature feels not any loss\\nBut I am cheerless, Rosaline\\nAh why wert thou so lowly bred\\nAVhy was my pride galled on to wed\\nHer who brought lands and gold instead\\nOf thy heart s treasure, Rosaline\\nAVhy did I fear to let thee stay\\nTo look on me and pass away\\nForgivingly, as in its May,\\nA broken flower, Rosaline\\nI thought not, when my dagger strook,\\nOf thy blue eyes I could not brook\\nThe past all pleading in one look\\nOf utter sorrow, Rosaline\\nI did not know when thou wert dead\\nA blackbird whistling overhead\\nThrilled through my brain I Avould have fled\\nBut dared not leave thee, Rosaline\\nA low, low moan, a light twig stirred\\nBy the upspringing of a bird,\\nA drip of blood were all I heard\\nThen deathly stillness, Rosaline", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0286.jp2"}, "287": {"fulltext": "ROSALINE. 263\\nThe sun rolled down, and very soon.\\nLike a great fire, the awful moon\\nRose, stained with blood, and then a swoon\\nCrept chilly o er me, Rosaline\\nThe stars came out and, one by one.\\nEach angel from his silver throne\\nLooked down and saw what I had done\\nI dared not hide me, Rosaline I\\nI crouched I feared thy corpse would cry\\nAgainst me to God s quiet sky,\\nI thought I saw the blue lips try\\nTo utter something, Rosaline\\nI waited with a maddened grin\\nTo hear that voice all icy thin\\nSlide forth and tell my deadly sin\\nTo hell and heaven, Rosaline\\nBut no voice came, and then it seemed\\nThat if the very corpse had screamed\\nThe sound like sunshine glad had streamed\\nThrough that dark stillness, Rosaline\\nDreams of old quiet glimmered by,\\nAnd faces loved in infancy\\nCame and looked on me mournfully.\\nTill my heart melted, Rosaline\\nI saw my mother s dying bed,\\nI heard her bless me, and I shed\\nCool tears but lo the ghastly dead\\nStared me to madness, Rosaline\\nAnd then amid the silent night\\nI screamed with horrible delight.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0287.jp2"}, "288": {"fulltext": "264: ROSALINE.\\nAnd in my brain an awful light\\nDid seem to crackle, Kosaline\\nIt is my curse sweet mem ries fall\\nFrom me like snow and only all\\nOf that one night, like cold worms crawl\\nMy doomed heart over, Rosaline\\nThine eyes are shut they nevermore\\nWill leap thy gentle words before\\nTo tell the secret o er and o er\\nThou could st not smother, Eosaline\\nThine eyes are shut they will not shine\\nWith happy tears, or, through the vine\\nThat hid thy casement, beam on mine\\nSunfull with gladness, Rosaline\\nThy voice I nevermore shall hear.\\nWhich in old times did seem so dear.\\nThat, ere it trembled in mine ear.\\nMy quick heart heard it, Rosaline\\nWould I might die I were as well.\\nAy, better, at my home in hell.\\nTo set for aye a burning spell\\nTwixt me and memory, Rosaline\\nWhy wilt thou haunt me with thine eyes.\\nWherein such blessed memories.\\nSuch pitying forgiveness lies.\\nThan hate more bitter, Rosaline\\nWoe s me I know that love so high\\nAs thine, true soul, could never die.\\nAnd with mean clay in churchyard lie\\nWould God it were so^ Rosaline", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0288.jp2"}, "289": {"fulltext": "A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 265\\nSOXNET.\\nIf some small savor creep into my rhyme\\nOf the old poets, if some words 1 use,\\nNeglected long, which have the lusty thews\\nOf that gold-haired and earnest-hearted time.\\nWhose loving joy and sorrow all sublime\\nHave given our tongue its starry eminence,\\nIt is not pride, God knows, but reverence\\nWhich hath grown in me since my childhood s prime\\nWherein I feel that my poor lyre is strung\\nWith soul-strings like to theirs, and that I have\\nNo right to muse their holy graves among,\\nIf I can be a custom-fettered slave.\\nAnd, in mine own true spirit, am not brave\\nTo speak what rusheth upward to my tongue.\\nA GLANCE BEHIND THE CUETAIN.\\nWe see but half the causes of our deeds,\\nSeeking them wholly in the outer life.\\nAnd heedless of the encircling spirit-world\\nWhich, though unseen, is felt, and sows in us\\nAll germs of pure and world-wide purposes.\\nFrom one stage of our being to the next\\nWe pass unconscious o er a slender bridge.\\nThe momentary work of unseen hands.\\nWhich crumbles down behind us looking back,\\nWe see the other shore, the gulf between.\\nAnd, marvelling how we won to where we stand.\\nContent ourselves to call the builder Chance.\\nWe trace the wisdom to the apple s fall.\\nNot to the soul of Newton, ripe with all", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0289.jp2"}, "290": {"fulltext": "266 A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN.\\nThe hoarded thoughtfulness of earnest years,\\nAnd waiting but one ray of sunlight more\\nTo blossom fully.\\nBut whence came that ray\\nWe call our sorrows destiny, but ought\\nEather to name our high successes so.\\nOnly the instincts of great souls are Fate,\\nAnd have predestined sway all other things.\\nExcept by leave of us, could never be.\\nFor Destiny is but the breath of God\\nStill moving in us, the last fragment left\\nOf our unf alien nature, waking oft\\nWithin our thought to beckon us beyond\\nThe narrow circle of the seen and known.\\nAnd always tending to a noble end.\\nAs all things must that overrule the soul,\\nAnd for a space unseat the helmsman, Will.\\nThe fate of England and of freedom once\\nSeemed wavering in the heart of one plain man\\nOne step of his, and the great dial-hand\\nThat marks the destined progress of the world\\nIn the eternal round from wisdom on\\nTo higher wisdom, had been made to pause\\nA hundred years. That step he did not take\\nHe knew not why, nor we, but only God\\nAnd lived to make his simple oaken chair\\nMore terrible and grandly beautiful.\\nMore full of majesty, than any throne.\\nBefore or after, of a British king.\\nUpon the pier stood two stern-visaged men,\\nLooking to where a little craft lay moored.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0290.jp2"}, "291": {"fulltext": "A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 267\\nSwayed by the lazy current of the Thames,\\nWhich weltered by in muddy listlessness.\\nGrave men they were, and battliugs of fierce thought\\nHad scared away all softness from their brows,\\nAnd ploughed rough furrows there before their time.\\nCare, not of self, but of the common weal,\\nHad robbed their eyes of youth, and left instead\\nA look of patient power and iron will,\\nAnd something fiercer, too, that gave broad hint\\nOf the plain weapons girded at their sides.\\nThe younger had an aspect of command\\nNot such as trickles down, a slender stream.\\nIn the shrunk channel of a great descent\\nBut such as lies entowered in heart and head,\\nAnd an arm prompt to do the ^hests of both.\\nHis was a brow where gold were out of place.\\nAnd yet it seemed right worthy of a crown\\n(Though he despised such)*, were it only made\\nOf iron, or some serviceable stuff\\nThat would have matched his sinewy brown face.\\nThe elder, although such he hardly seemed\\n(Care makes so little of some five short years).\\nBore a clear, honest face, where scholarship\\nHad mildened somewhat of its rougher strength,\\nTo sober courage, such as best befits\\nThe unsullied temper of a well-taught mind,\\nYet left it so as one could plainly guess\\nThe pent volcano smouldering underneath.\\nHe spoke the other, hearing, kept his gaze\\nStill fixed, as on some problem in the sky.\\nCROiiWELL, we are fallen on evil times I\\nThere was a day when England had wide room", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0291.jp2"}, "292": {"fulltext": "268 A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN.\\nFor honest men as well as foolish kmgs\\nBut now the uneasy stomach of the time\\nTurns squeamish at them both. Therefore let us\\nSeek out that savage clime where men as yet\\nAre free there sleeps the vessel on the tide,\\nHer languid sails but drooping for the wind\\nAll things are fitly cared for, and the Lord\\nWill watch as kindly o^ er the Exodus\\nOf us his servants now, as in old time.\\nWe have no cloud or fire, and haply we\\nMay not pass dryshod through the ocean-stream\\nBut, saved or lost, all things are in His hand.\\nSo spake he, and meantime the other stood\\nWith wide, gray eyes still reading the blank air,\\nAs if upon the sky s blue wall he saw\\nSome mystic sentence written by a hand\\nSuch as of old did scare the Assyrian king,\\nGirt with his satraps in the blazing feast.\\n^Hampdeist, a moment since, my purpose was\\nTo fly with thee\u00e2\u0080\u0094 for I will call it flight,\\nNor flatter it with any smoother name\\nBut something in me bids me not to go\\nAnd I am one, thou knowest, who, unscared\\nBy what the weak deem omens, yet give heed\\nAnd reverence due to whatsoe er my soul\\nWhispers of warning to the inner ear.\\nWhy should we fly Nay, why not rather stay\\nAnd rear again our Zion s crumbled walls.\\nNot as of old the walls of Thebes were built\\nBy minstrel twanging, but, if need should be.\\nWith the more potent music of our swords\\nThink st thou that score of men beyond the sea", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0292.jp2"}, "293": {"fulltext": "A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 269\\nClaim more God s care than all of England here\\nNo when He moves His arm, it is to aid\\nWhole peoples, heedless if a few be crushed.\\nAs some are ever when the destiny\\nOf man takes one stride onward nearer home.\\nBelieve it, t is the mass of men He loves.\\nAnd where there is most sorrow and most want,\\nWhere the high heart of man is trodden down\\nThe most, t is not because He hides His face\\nFrom them in wrath, as purblind teachers prate.\\nNot so there most is He, for there is He\\nMost needed. Men who seek for Fate abroad\\nAre not so near His heart as tliey who dare\\nFrankly to face her where she faces them.\\nOn their own threshold, where their souls are strong\\nTo grapple with and throw her, as I once,\\nBeing yet a boy, did throw this puny king.\\nWho now has grown so dotard as to deem\\nThat he can wrestle with an angry realm.\\nAnd throw the brawned Antaeus of men s rights.\\nNo, Hampden they have half-way conquered Fate\\nWho go half-way to meet her as will I.\\nFreedom hath yet a work for me to do\\nSo speaks that inward voice which never yet\\nSpake falsely, when it urged the spirit on\\nTo noble deeds for country and mankind.\\nWhat should we do in that small colony\\nOf pinched fanatics, who would rather choose\\nFreedom to clip an inch more from their hair\\nThan the great chance of setting England free\\nNot there amid the stormy wilderness\\nShould we learn wisdom or, if learned, what room", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0293.jp2"}, "294": {"fulltext": "270 A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN.\\nTo put it into act\u00e2\u0080\u0094 else worse than naught\\nWe learn our souls more, tossing for an hour\\nUpon this huge and ever vexed sea\\nOf human thought, where kingdoms go to wreck\\nLike fragile bubbles yonder in the stream,\\nThan in a cycle of New England sloth,\\nBroke only by some petty Indian war.\\nOr quarrel for a letter, more or less.\\nIn some hard word, which, spelt in either way,\\nXot their most learned clerks can understand.\\nNew times demand new measures and new men\\nThe world advances, and in time outgrows\\nThe laws that in our father s day were best\\nAnd, doubtless, after us, some purer scheme\\nWill be shaped out by wiser men than we,\\nMade wiser by the steady growth of truth.\\nWe cannot bring Utopia at once\\nBut better almost be at work in sin\\nThan in a brute inaction browse and sleep.\\nNo man is born into the world whose work\\nIs not born with him there is always work.\\nAnd tools to work withal, for those who will\\nAnd blessed are the horny hands of toil\\nThe busy world shoves angrily aside\\nThe man who stands with arms a-kimbo set,\\nUntil occasion tells him what to do\\nAnd he who waits to have his task marked out,\\nShall die and leave his errand unfulfilled.\\nOur time is one that calls for earnest deeds.\\nReason and Government, like two broad seas,\\nYearn for each other with outstretched arms\\nAcross this narrow isthmus of the throne,\\nAnd roll their white surf higher every day.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0294.jp2"}, "295": {"fulltext": "A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 271\\nThe field lies wide before us, where to reap\\nThe easy harvest of a deathless name,\\nThough with no better sickles than our swords.\\nMy soul is not a palace of tlie past,\\nWhere outworn creeds, like Rome s gray senate\\nquake,\\nHearing afar the VandaFs trumpet hoarse,\\nThat shakes old systems with a thunder-fit.\\nThe time is ripe, and rotten-ripe, for change\\nThen let it come I have no dread of what\\nIs called for by the instinct of mankind.\\nNor think I that God s world would fall apart\\nBecause we tear a parchment more or less.\\nTruth is eternal, but her effluence.\\nWith endless change, is fitted to the hour\\nHer mirror is turned forward, to reflect\\nThe promise of the future, not the past.\\nI do not fear to follow out the truth.\\nAlbeit along the precipice s edge.\\nLet us speak plain there is more force in names\\nThan most men dream of and a lie may keep\\nIts throne a whole age longer, if it skulk\\nBehind the shield of some fair-seeming name.\\nLet us call tyrants tyrants, and maintain\\nThat only freedom comes by grace of God,\\nAnd all that comes not by his grace must fall\\nFor men in earnest have no time to waste\\nIn patching fig-leaves for the naked truth.\\nI will have one more grapple with the man\\nCharles Stuart whom the boy overcame,\\nThe man stands not in awe of. I perchance\\nAm one raised up by the Almighty arm", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0295.jp2"}, "296": {"fulltext": "272 A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN.\\nTo witness some great truth to all the world.\\nSouls destined to overleap the vulgar lot.\\nAnd mould the world unto the scheme of God,\\nHave a foreconsciousness of their high doom.\\nAs men are known to shiver at the heart,\\nWhen the cold shadow of some coming ill\\nCreeps slowly o er their spirits unawares\\nHath Good less power of prophecy than HI\\nHow else could men whom God hath called to\\nsway\\nEarth s rudder, and to steer the barque of Truth,\\nBeating against the wind toward her port.\\nBear all the mean and buzzing grievances.\\nThe petty martyrdoms wherewith Sin strives\\nTo weary out the tethered hope of Faith,\\nThe sneers, the unrecognizing look of friends,\\nWho worship the dead corpse of old king Custom,\\nWhere it doth lie in state within the Church,\\nStriving to cover up the mighty ocean\\nAVith a man s palm, and making even the truth\\nLie for them, holding up the glass reversed.\\nTo make the hope of man seem further off\\nMy God when I read o er the bitter lives\\nOf men whose eager hearts were quite too great\\nTo beat beneath the cramped mode of the day.\\nAnd see them mocked at by the world they love.\\nHaggling with prejudice for pennyworths\\nOf that reform which their hard toil will make\\nThe common birthright of the age to come\\nWhen I see this, spite of my faith in God,\\nI marvel how their hearts bear up so long\\nNor could they, but for this same prophecy.\\nThis inward feeling of the glorious end.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0296.jp2"}, "297": {"fulltext": "A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 273\\nDeem me not fond but in my warmer youth,\\nEre my heart s bloom was soiled and brushed away,\\nI had great dreams of mighty things to come\\nOf conquest whether by the sword or pen,\\nI knew not but some conquest I would have.\\nOr else swift death now, wiser grown in years,\\nI find youth s dreams are but the flutterings\\nOf those strong wings whereon the soul shall soar\\nIn after time to win a starry throne\\nAnd therefore cherish them, for they were lots\\nWhich I, a boy, cast in the helm of Fate.\\nXor will I draw them, since a man s right hand,\\nA right hand guided by an earnest soul.\\nWith a true instinct, takes the golden prize\\nFrom out a thousand blanks. What men call luck.\\nIs the prerogative of valiant souls.\\nThe fealty life pays its rightful kings.\\nThe helm is shaking now, and I will stay\\nTo pluck my lot forth it were sin to flee\\nSo they two turned together one to die\\nFighting for freedom on the bloody field\\nThe other, far more happy, to become\\nA name earth wears forever next her heart\\nOne of the few that have a right to rank\\nWith the true Makers for his spirit wrought\\nOrder from Chaos proved that right divine\\nDwelt only in the excellence of Truth\\nAnd far within old Darkness hostile lines\\nAdvanced and pitched the shining tents of Light,\\nNor shall the grateful Muse forget to tell,\\nThat not the least among his many claims\\nTo deathless honor he was Milton s friend.\\ni8", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0297.jp2"}, "298": {"fulltext": "274 SONG.\\nA man not second among those who lived\\nTo show us that the poet s lyre demands\\nAn arm of tougher sinew than the sword.\\nA SONG.\\nViolet sweet violet\\nThine eyes are full of tears\\nAre they wet\\nEven yet\\nWith the thought of other years,\\nOr with gladness are they full,\\nFor the night so beautiful.\\nAnd longing for those far-off spheres\\nLoved one of my youth thou wast,\\nOf my merry youth,\\nAnd I see.\\nTearfully,\\nAll the fair and sunny past.\\nAll its openness and truth.\\nEver fresh and green in thee\\nAs the moss is in the sea.\\nThy little heart, that hath with love\\nGrown colored like the sky above.\\nOn which thou lookest ever,\\nCan it know\\nAll the woe\\nOf hope for what returneth never.\\nAll the sorrow and the longing\\nTo these hearts of ours belonging\\nOut on it no foolish pining", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0298.jp2"}, "299": {"fulltext": "THE MOON. 275\\nFor the sky\\nDims thine eye,\\nOr for the stars so calmly shining\\nLike thee let this soul of mine\\nTake hue from that wherefor I long,\\nSelf-stayed and high, serene and strong,\\nNot satisfied with hoping but divine.\\nViolet dear Violet I\\nThy blue eyes are only wet\\nWith joy and love of him who sent thee.\\nAnd, for the fulfilling sense\\nOf that glad obedience\\nWhich made thee all which N ature meant thee!\\nTHE MOON.\\nMy soul was like the sea\\nBefore the moon was made\\nMoaning in vague immensity,\\nOf its own strength afraid,\\nUnrestful and unstaid.\\nThrough every rift it foamed in vain\\nAbout its earthly prison,\\nSeeking some unknown thing in pain,\\nAnd sinking restless back again.\\nFor yet no moon had risen\\nIts only voice a vast dumb moan\\nOf utterless anguish speaking.\\nIt lay unhopefully alone\\nAnd lived but in an aimless seeking.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0299.jp2"}, "300": {"fulltext": "^76 THE FATHERLAND.\\nSo was my soul but when t was full\\nOf unrest to overloading,\\nA voice of something beautiful\\nWhispered a dim foreboding,\\nAnd yet so soft, so sweet, so low,\\nIt had not more of joy than woe\\nAnd, as the sea doth oft lie still,\\nMaking his waters meet.\\nAs if by an unconscious will.\\nFor the moon^s silver feet.\\nLike some serene, unwinking eye\\nThat waits a certain destiny.\\nSo lay my soul within mine eyes\\nWhen thou its sovereign moon didst rise.\\nAnd now, howe er its waves above\\nMay toss and seem uneaseful.\\nOne strong, eternal law of love\\nWith guidance sure and peaceful.\\nAs calm and natural as breath\\nMoves its great deeps through Life and Death.\\nTHE FATHERLAND.\\nAVhere is the true man^s fatherland\\nIs it where he by chance is born\\nDoth not the free- winged spirit scorn\\nIn such pent borders to be spanned\\nOh yes his fatherland must be\\nAs the blue heavens wide and free\\nIs it alone where freedom is,\\nWhere God is God and man is man", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0300.jp2"}, "301": {"fulltext": "A PARABLE. 277\\nDoth he not claim a broader span\\nFor the soul s love of home than this\\nOh yes his fatherland must be\\nAs the blue heavens wide and free\\nWhere er a human heart doth wear\\nJoy s myrtle wreath, or sorrow s gyves.\\nWhere er a human spirit strives\\nAfter a life more pure and fair,\\nThere is the true man s birthplace grand\\nHis is a world-wide fatherland\\nWhere er a single slave doth pine,\\nWhere er one man may help another\\nThank God for such a birthright, brother\\nThat spot of earth is thine and mine\\nThere is the true man s birthplace grand\\nHis is a world-wide fatherland\\nA PARABLE.\\nWork and footsore was the Prophet\\nWhen he reached the holy hill\\nGod has left the earth, he murmured,\\nHere his presence lingers still.\\nGod of all the olden prophets.\\nWilt thou talk with me no more\\nHave I not as truly loved thee\\nAs thy chosen ones of yore\\nHear me, guider of my fathers,\\nLo, an humble heart is mine\\nBy thy mercy I beseech thee,\\nGrant thy servant but a sign", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0301.jp2"}, "302": {"fulltext": "278 A PARABLE.\\nBowing then his head, he listened\\nFor an answer to his prayer\\nNo loud burst of thunder followed,\\nNot a murmur stirred the air\\nBut the tuft of moss before him\\nOpened while he waited yet.\\nAnd from out the rock s hard bosom\\nSprang a tender violet.\\nGod I thank thee, said the Prophet,\\nHard of heart and blind was I,\\nLooking to the holy mountain\\nFor the gift of prophecy.\\nStill thou speakest with thy children\\nFreely as in Eld sublime.\\nHumbleness and love and patience\\nGive dominion over Time.\\nHad I trusted in my nature.\\nAnd had faith in lowly things.\\nThou thyself wouldst then have sought me,\\nAnd set free my spirit s wings.\\nBut I looked for signs and wonders\\nThat o er men should give me sway\\nThirsting to be more than mortal,\\nI was even less than clay.\\nEre I entered on my journey,\\nAs I girt my loins to start.\\nRan to me my little daughter,\\nThe beloved of my heart j", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0302.jp2"}, "303": {"fulltext": "ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND S CHILD. 279\\nIn her hand she held a flower.\\nLike to this as like may be,\\nWhich beside my very threshold\\nShe had plucked and brought to me/\\nON THE DEATH OF A FEIEND S CHILD.\\nDeath never came so nigh to me before,\\nNor showed me his mild face Oft I had mused\\nOf calm and peace and deep forgetfulness,\\nOf folded hands, closed eyes, and heart at rest.\\nAnd slumber sound beneath a flowery turf,\\nOf faults forgotten, and an inner place\\nKept sacred for us in the heart of friends\\nBut these were idle fancies satisfied\\nWith the mere husk of this great Mystery,\\nAnd dwelling in the outward shows of things.\\nHeaven is not mounted to on wings of dreams,\\nNor doth the unthankful happiness of youth\\nAim thitherward, but floats from bloom to bloom.\\nWith earth s warm patch of sunshine well content\\nT is sorrow builds the shining ladder up\\nWhose golden rounds are our calamities.\\nWhereon our firm feet planting, nearer God\\nThe spirit climbs, and hath its eyes unsealed.\\nTrue is it that Death s face seems stern and cold.\\nWhen he is sent to summon those we love.\\nBut all God s angels come to us disguised\\nSorrow and sickness, poverty and death.\\nOne after other lift their frowning masks.\\nAnd we behold the seraph s face beneath,\\nAll radiant with the glory and the calm", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0303.jp2"}, "304": {"fulltext": "280 ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND S CHILD.\\nOf having looked upon the smile of God.\\nWith every anguish of our earthly past\\nThe spirit s sight grows clearer this was meant\\nWhen Jesus touched the blind man s lids with clay.\\nLife is the jailer. Death the angel sent\\nTo draw the unwilling bolts and set us free.\\nHe flings not ope the ivory gate of Eest\\nOnly the fallen spirit knocks at that\\nBut to benigner regions beckons us,\\nTo destinies of more rewarded toil.\\nIn the hushed chamber, sitting by the dead,\\nIt grates on us to hear the flood of life\\nWhirl rustling onward, senseless of our loss.\\nThe bee hums on around the blossomed vine\\nWhirs the light humming-bird the cricket chirps\\nThe locust s shrill alarum stings the ear\\nHard by, the cock shouts lustily from farm to farm.\\nHis cheery brothers, telling of the sun.\\nAnswer, till far away the joyance dies\\nWe never knew before how God had filled\\nThe summer air with happy living sounds\\nAll round us seems an overplus of life.\\nAnd yet the one dear heart lies cold and still.\\nIt is most strange, when the great Miracle\\nHath for our sakes been done when we have had\\nOur inwardest experience of God,\\nWhen with his presence still the room expands,\\nAnd is awed after him, that naught is changed,\\nThat Nature s face looks unacknowledging.\\nAnd the mad world still dances heedless on\\nAfter its butterflies, and gives no sigh.\\nT is hard at first to see it all aright", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0304.jp2"}, "305": {"fulltext": "ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND S CHILD. 281\\nIn vain Faith blows her trump to summon back\\nHer scattered troop yet, through the clouded glass\\nOf our own bitter tears, we learn to look\\nUndazzled on the kindness of God^s face\\nEarth is too dark, and Heaven alone shines through.\\nHow changed, dear friend, are thy part and thy\\nchild s\\nHe bends above thy cradle now, or holds\\nHis warning finger out to be thy guide\\nThou art the nursling now he watches thee\\nSlow learning, one by one, the secret things\\nWhich are to him used sights of every day\\nHe smiles to see thy wondering glances con\\nThe grass and pebbles of the spirit world,\\nTo thee miraculous and he will teach\\nThy knees their due observances of prayer.\\nChildren are God s apostles, day by day.\\nSent forth to preach of love, and hope, and peace\\nNor hath thy babe his mission left undone.\\nTo me, at least, his going hence hath given\\nSerener thoughts and nearer to the skies.\\nAnd opened a new fountain in my heart\\nFor thee, my friend, and all and oh, if Death\\nMore near approaches, meditates, and clasps\\nEven now some dearer, more reluctant hand,\\nGod, strengthen thou my faith, that I may see\\nThat t is thine angel who, with loving haste,\\nUnto the service of the inner shrine\\nDoth waken thy beloved with a kiss\\nCambridge, Mass., Sept. 3, 1844.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0305.jp2"}, "306": {"fulltext": "282 AN INCIDENT IN A RAILROAD CAR.\\nAN INCIDENT IN A RAILROAD CAE.\\nHe spoke of Burns men rude and rough\\nPressed round to hear the praise of one\\nWhose breast was made of manly, simple stuff.\\nAs homespun as their own.\\nAnd, when he read, they forward leaned\\nAnd heard, with eager hearts and ears,\\nHis birdlike songs whom glory never weaned\\nFrom humble smiles and tears.\\nSlowly there grew a tender awe,\\nSunlike o er faces brown and hard.\\nAs if in him who read they felt and saw\\nSome presence of the bard.\\nIt was a sight for sin and wrong.\\nAnd slavish tyranny to see,\\nA sight to make our faith more pure and strong\\nIn high Humanity.\\nI thought, these men will carry hence.\\nPromptings their former life above,\\nAnd something of a finer reverence\\nFor beauty, truth, and love.\\nGod scatters love on every side.\\nFreely among his children all.\\nAnd always hearts are lying open wide\\nAVherein some grains may fall.\\nThere is no wind but sows some seeds\\nOf a more true and open life,\\nWhich burst unlooked for into high-souled deeds\\nWith wayside beauty rife.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0306.jp2"}, "307": {"fulltext": "AN INCIDENT IN A RAILROAD CAR. 283\\nWe find within these souls of ours\\nSome wild germs of a higher birth,\\nWhich in the poet s tropic heart bears flowers\\nWhose fragrance fills the earth.\\nWithin the hearts of all men lie\\nThese promises of wider bliss,\\nWhich blossom into hopes that cannot die,\\nIn sunny hours like this.\\nAll that hath been majestical\\nIn life or death since time began.\\nIs native in the simple heart of all.\\nThe angel heart of man.\\nAnd thus among the untaught poor\\nGreat deeds and feelings find a home\\nWhich casts in shadow all the golden lore\\n01 classic Greece or Rome.\\nOh mighty brother-soul of man.\\nWhere er thou art, in low or high.\\nThy skyey arches with exulting span\\nO er-roof infinity.\\nAll thoughts that mould the age begin\\nDeep down within the primitive soul,\\nAnd, from the many, slowly upward wing\\nTo One who grasps the whole.\\nIn his broad breast, the feeling deep\\nWhich struggled on the many s tongue.\\nSwells to a tide of Thought whose surges leap\\nO er the weak throne of wrong.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0307.jp2"}, "308": {"fulltext": "284 AN INCIDENT OF THE FIRE AT HAMBURGH.\\nNever did poesy appear\\nSo full of Heav n to me as when\\nI saw how it would pierce through pride and fear.\\nTo lives of coarsest men.\\nIt may be glorious to write\\nThoughts that shall glad the two or three\\nHigh souls like those far stars that come in sight\\nOnce in a century.\\nBut better far it is to speak\\nOne simple word which now and then\\nShall waken their free nature in the weak\\nAnd friendless sons of men\\nTo write some earnest verse or line,\\nWhich, seeking not the praise of Art,\\nShall make a clearer faith and manhood shine\\nIn the unlearned heart.\\nBoston, April, 1842.\\nAN INCIDENT OF THE FIRE AT HAMBURGH.\\nThe tower of old Saint Nicholas soared upward to the\\nskies.\\nLike some huge piece of nature s make, the growth of\\ncenturies\\nYou could not deem its crowding spires a work of\\nhuman art.\\nThey seemed to struggle lightward so from a sturdy\\nliving heart.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0308.jp2"}, "309": {"fulltext": "AN INCIDENT OF THE FIRE AT HAMBURGH. 285\\nNot Nature s self more freely speaks in crystal or in\\noak\\nThan, through the pious builder s hand, in that gray\\npile she spoke\\nAnd as from acorn springs the oak, so, freely and\\nalone.\\nSprang from his heart this hymn to God, sung in\\nobedient stone.\\nIt seemed a wondrous freak of chance, so perfect, yet\\nso rough,\\nA whim of Nature crystallized slowly in granite tough\\nThe thick spires yearned toward the sky in quaint\\nharmonious lines.\\nAnd in broad sunlight basked and slept, like a grove\\nof blasted pines.\\nNever did rock or stream or tree lay claim with better\\nright\\nTo all the adorning sympathies of shadow and of light\\nAnd, in that forest petrified, as forester there dwells\\nStout Herman, the old sacristan, sole lord of all its\\nbells.\\nSurge leaping after surge, the fire roared onward, red\\nas blood,\\nTill half of Hamburgh lay engulfed beneath the eddy-\\ning flood,\\nFor miles away, the fiery spray poured down its deadly\\nrain.\\nAnd back and forth the billows drew, and paused, and\\nbroke again.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0309.jp2"}, "310": {"fulltext": "286 AN INCIDENT OF THE FIRE AT HAMBURGH.\\nFrom square to square, with tiger leaps, still on and\\non it came\\nThe air to leeward trembled with the pantings of the\\nflame,\\nAnd church and palace, which even now stood whelmed\\nbut to the knee,\\nLift their black roofs like breakers lone amid the rush-\\ning sea.\\nUp in his tower old Herman sat and watched with\\nquiet look\\nHis soul had trusted God too long to be at last forsook\\nHe could not fear, for surely God a pathway would\\nunfold\\nThrough this red sea, for faithful hearts, as once he\\ndid of old.\\nBut scarcely can he cross himself, or on his good\\nsaint call,\\nBefore the sacrilegious flood o erleaped the church-\\nyard wall.\\nAnd, ere a pater half was said, ^mid smoke and crack-\\nling glare.\\nHis island tower scarce just its head above the wide\\ndespair.\\nUpon the peril s desperate peak his heart stood up\\nsublime\\nHis first thought was for God above, his next was for\\nhis chime\\nSing now, and make your voices heard in hymns of\\npraise, cried he,\\nAs did the Israelites of old, safe-walking through\\nthe sea", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0310.jp2"}, "311": {"fulltext": "SONNETS. 287\\nThrough this red sea our God hath made our pathway\\nsafe to shore\\nOur promised laud stands full in sight shout now as\\nne er before.\\nAnd, as the tower came crashing down, the bells, in\\nclear accord,\\nPealed forth the grand old German hymn All good\\nsouls praise the Lord\\nso:n nets.\\nI.\\nAs the broad ocean endlessly upheaveth,\\nWith the majestic beating of his heart,\\nThe mighty tides, whereof its rightful part\\nEach sea-wide gulf and little weed receiveth\\nSo, through hij soul who earnestly believeth,\\nLife from the universal Heart doth flow.\\nWhereby some conquest of the eternal woe\\nBy instinct of God^s nature he achieveth\\nA fuller pulse of this all-powerful Beauty\\nInto the poet s gulf -like heart doth tide.\\nAnd he more keenly feels the glorious duty\\nOf serving Truth despised and crucified\\nHappy, unknowing sect or creed, to rest\\nAnd feel God flow forever through his breast.\\nII.\\nOnce hardly in a cycle blossometh\\nA flower-like soul ripe with the seeds of song\\nA spirit foreordained to cope with wrong,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0311.jp2"}, "312": {"fulltext": "288 SONNETS.\\nWhose divine thoughts are natural as breath,\\nWho the old Darkness thickly scattereth\\nWith starry words which shoot prevailing light\\nInto the deeps, and wither with the blight\\nOf serene Truth the coward heart of Death\\nWoe if such spirit sell his birthright high,\\nAnd mock with lies the longing soul of man\\nYet one age longer must true Culture lie.\\nSoothing her bitter fetters as she can.\\nUntil new messages of love outstart\\nAt the next beating of the infinite Heart.\\nIII.\\nThe love of all things springs from love of one\\nWider the soul s horizon hourly grows.\\nAnd over it with fuller glory flows\\nThe sky-like spirit of God a hope begun\\nIn doubt and darkness, neath a fairer sun\\nCometh to fruitage, if it be of Truth\\nAnd to the law of meekness, faith, and ruth.\\nBy inward sympathy shall all be won\\nThis thou shouldst know, who from the painted\\nfeature\\nOf shifting Fashion, couldst thy brethren turn\\nUnto the love of ever youthful nature.\\nAnd of a beauty fadeless and eterne\\nAnd always t is the saddest sight to see\\nAn old man faithless in Humanity.\\nIV.\\nA poet cannot strive for despotism\\nHis harp falls shattered for it still must be\\nThe instinct of great spirits to be free,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0312.jp2"}, "313": {"fulltext": "SONNETS. 289\\nAnd the sworn foes of cunning barbarism.\\nHe who has deepest searched the wide abysm\\nOf that life-giving Soul which men call fate,\\nKnows that to put more faith in lies and hate\\nThan truth and love, is the worst atheism\\nUpward the soul forever turns her eyes\\nThe next hour always shames the hour before\\nOne beauty at its highest prophesies\\nThat by whose side it shall seem mean and poor\\nNo Godlike thing knows aught of less and less.\\nBut widens to the boundless Perfectness.\\nV.\\nTherefore think not the Past is wise alone.\\nFor Yesterday knows nothing of the Best,\\nAnd thou shalt love it only as the nest\\nWhence glory- winged things to Heaven have flown.\\nTo the great Soul alone are all things known,\\nPresent and future are to her as past.\\nWhile she in glorious madness doth forecast\\nThat perfect bud which seems a flower full-blown\\nTo each new Prophet, and yet always opes\\nFuller and fuller with each day and hour.\\nHeartening the soul with odor of fresh hopes.\\nAnd longings high and gushings of wide power\\nYet never is or shall be fully blown\\nSave in the forethought of the Eternal One.\\nVI.\\nFar yond this narrow parapet of Time,\\nWith eyes uplift, the poet s soul should look\\nInto the Endless Promise, nor should brook\\n12", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0313.jp2"}, "314": {"fulltext": "290 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT.\\nOne prying doubt to shake his faith sublime\\nTo him the earth is ever in her prime\\nAnd dewiness of morning he can see\\nGood lying hid, from all eternity,\\nWithin the teeming womb of sin and crime\\nHis soul shall not be cramped by any bar\\nHis nobleness should be so Godlike high\\nThat his least deed is perfect as a star,\\nHis common look majestic as the sky,\\nAnd all o erflooded with a light from far,\\nUndimmed by clouds of weak mortality.\\nBoston, April 2, 1842.\\nTHE UNHAPPY LOT OF ME. KNOTT.\\nPART I.\\nShowing how he built his house and his wife moved into it.\\nMy worthy friend, A. Gordon Knott,\\nErom business snug withdrawn.\\nWas much contented with a lot\\nWhich would contain a Tudor cot\\nTwixt twelve feet square of garden-plot,\\nAnd twelve feet more of lawn.\\nHe had laid business on the shelf\\nTo give his taste expansion.\\nAnd, since no man, retired with pelf,\\nThe building mania can shun,\\nKnott, being middle-aged himself,\\nKesolved to build (unhappy elf\\nA mediaeval mansion.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0314.jp2"}, "315": {"fulltext": "THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 291\\nHe called an architect in counsel\\nI want, said he, a you know what.\\nYou are a builder, I am Knott,)\\nA thing complete from chimney-pot\\nDown to the very groundsel\\nHere s a half -acre of good land\\nJust have it nicely mapped and planned\\nAnd make your workmen drive on\\nMeadow there is, and upland too,\\nAnd I should like a water-view,\\nD you think you could contrive one\\n(Perhaps the pump and trough would do,\\nIf painted a judicious blue\\nThe woodland Fve attended to\\n(He meant three pines stuck up askew,\\nTwo dead ones and a live one.)\\nA pocket- full of rocks t would take\\nTo build a house of free-stone.\\nBut then it is not hard to make\\nWhat nowadays is the stone\\nThe cunning painter in a trice\\nYour house s outside petrifies.\\nAnd people think it very gneiss\\nWithout inquiring deeper\\nMy money never shall be thrown\\nAway on such a deal of stone.\\nWhen stone of deal is cheaper.\\nAnd so the greenest of antiques\\nWas reared for Knott to dwell in\\nThe architect worked hard for weeks\\nIn venting all his private peaks\\nUpon the roof, whose crop of leaks", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0315.jp2"}, "316": {"fulltext": "292 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT.\\nHad satisfied Fluellen.\\nWhatever anybody had\\nOut of the common, good or bad,\\nKnott had it all worked well in,\\nA donjon-keep, where clothes might dry,\\nA porter s lodge that was a sty,\\nA campanile slim and high.\\nToo small to hang a bell in\\nAll up and down and here and there,\\nWith Lord-knows-whats of round and square\\nStuck on at random everywhere.\\nIt was a house to make one stare.\\nAll corners and all gables\\nLike dogs let loose upon a bear.\\nTen emulous styles, stahoyed with care.\\nThe whole among them seemed to tear.\\nAnd all the oddities to spare\\nWere set upon the stables.\\nKnott was delighted with a pile\\nApproved by fashion s leaders\\n(Only he made the builder smile\\nBy asking every little while,\\nWhy that was called the Twodoor style\\nWhich certainly had three doors\\nYet better for this luckless man\\nIf he had put a downright ban\\nUpon the thing in limine\\nFor, though to quit affairs his plan,\\nEre many days, poor Knott began\\nPerforce accepting draughts, that ran\\nAll ways except up chimney\\nThe house, though painted stone to mock,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0316.jp2"}, "317": {"fulltext": "THE UNHAPPY LOT OP MR. KNOTT. 293\\nWith nice white lines round every block,\\nSome trepidation stood in,\\nWhen tempests (with petrific shock,\\nSo to speak) made it really rock,\\nThough not a whit less wooden\\nAnd painted stone, howe er well done.\\nWill not take in the prodigal sun\\nWhose beams are never quite at one\\nWith our terrestrial lumber\\nSo the wood shrank around the knots,\\nAnd gaped in disconcerting spots.\\nAnd there were lots of dots and rots\\nAnd crannies without number,\\nWherethrough, as you may well presume,\\nThe wind, like water through a flume.\\nCame rushing in ecstatic.\\nLeaving, in all three floors, no room\\nThat was not a rheumatic\\nAnd, what with points and squares and rounds\\nGrown shaky on their poises.\\nThe house at night was full of pounds.\\nThumps, bumps, creaks, scratchings, raps till\\nZounds\\nCried Knott, this goes beyond all bounds,\\nI do not deal in tongues and sounds,\\nNor have I let my house and grounds\\nTo a family of N^oyeses\\nBut though Knott^s house was full of airs.\\nHe had but one a daughter\\nAnd, as he owned much stocks and shares,\\nMany who wished to render theirs\\nSuch vain, unsatisfying cares.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0317.jp2"}, "318": {"fulltext": "294 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT.\\nAnd needed wives to sew their tears,\\nIn matrimony sought her\\nThey vowed her gold they wanted not,\\nTheir faith would never falter.\\nThey longed to tie this single Knott\\nIn the Hymeneal halter\\nSo daily at the door they rang.\\nCards for the belle delivering.\\nOr in the choir at her they sang.\\nAchieving such a rapturous twang\\nAs set her nerves a-shivering.\\nNow Knott had quite made up his mind\\nThat Colonel Jones should have her\\nNo beauty he, but oft we find\\nSweet kernels ^neath a roughish rind.\\nSo hoped his Jenny d be resigned\\nAnd make no more palaver\\nGlanced at the fact that love was blind,\\nThat girls were ratherish inclined\\nTo pet their little crosses.\\nThen nosologically defined\\nThe rate at which the system pined\\nIn those unfortunates who dined\\nUpon that metaphoric kind\\nOf dish their own proboscis.\\nBut she, with many tears and moans.\\nBesought him not to mock her.\\nSaid t was too much for flesh and bones.\\nTo marry mortgages and loans.\\nThat fathers hearts were stocks and stones.\\nAnd that sheM go, when Mrs. Jones,\\nTo Davy Jones s locker", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0318.jp2"}, "319": {"fulltext": "THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 295\\nThen gave her head a little toss\\nThat said as plain as ever was,\\nIf men are always at a loss\\nMere womankind to bridle\\nTo try the thing on woman cross,\\nWere fifty times as idle\\nFor she a strict resolve had made\\nAnd registered in private,\\nThat either she would die a maid,\\nOr else be Mrs. Dr. Slade,\\nIf woman could contrive it\\nAnd, though the wedding-day was set,\\nJenny was more so, rather,\\nDeclaring, in a pretty pet,\\nThat, howsoe^e they spread their net.\\nShe would out Jennyral them yet.\\nThe colonel and her father.\\nJust at this time the Public s eyes\\nWere keenly on the watch, a stir\\nBeginning slowly to arise\\nAbout those questions and replies.\\nThose raps that unwrapped mysteries\\nSo rapidly at Rochester.\\nAnd Knott, already nervous grown\\nBy lying much awake alone.\\nAnd listening, sometimes to a moan.\\nAnd sometimes to a clatter.\\nWhene er the wind at night would rouse\\nThe ginger-bread-work on his house.\\nOr when some hasty-tempered mouse,\\nBehind the plastering made a towse\\nAbout a family matter.\\nBegan to wonder if his wife,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0319.jp2"}, "320": {"fulltext": "296 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT.\\nA paralytic half her life,\\nWhich made it more surprising.\\nMight not, to rule him from her urn,\\nHave taken a peripatetic turn\\nFor want of exorcising.\\nThis thought, once nestled in his head,\\nEre long contagious grew, and spread\\nInfecting all his mind with dread.\\nUntil at last he lay in bed\\nAnd heard his wife, with well-known tread,\\nEntering the kitchen through the shed,\\n(Or was t his fancy mocking\\nOpening the pantry, cutting bread.\\nAnd then (she M been some ten years dead)\\nClosets and drawers unlocking\\nOr, in his room, (his breath grew thick)\\nHe heard the long familiar click\\nOf slender needles flying quick.\\nAs if she knit a stocking\\nFor whom he prayed that years might flit\\nWith pains rheumatic shooting,\\nBefore those ghostly things she knit\\nUpon his unfleshed sole might fit.\\nHe did not fancy it a bit.\\nTo stand upon that footing\\nAt other times, his frightened hairs\\nAbove the bed-clothes trusting.\\nHe heard her, full of household cares,\\n(No dream entrapped in supper s snares^\\nThe foal of horrible nightmares.\\nBut broad awake, as he declares,)\\nGo bustling up and down the stairs,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0320.jp2"}, "321": {"fulltext": "THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR, KNOTT. 297\\nOr setting back last evening^s chairs,\\nOr with the poker thrusting\\nThe raked-up sea-coal s hardened crust\\nAnd what impossible it must\\nHe knew she had returned to dust,\\nAnd yet could scarce his senses trust,\\nHearing her as she poked and fussed\\nAbout the parlor, dusting\\nNight after night he strove to sleep\\nAnd take his ease in spite of it\\nBut still his flesh would chill and creep.\\nAnd, though two night-lamps he might keep,\\nHe could not so make light of it.\\nAt last, quite desperate, he goes\\nAnd tells his neighbors all his woes.\\nWhich did but their amount enhance\\nThey made such mockery of his fears,\\nThat soon his days were of all jeers.\\nHis nights of the rueful countenance\\n^I thought most folks, one neighbor said,\\nGave up the ghost when they were dead,\\nAnother gravely shook his head.\\nAdding, ^from all we hear, it s\\nQuite plain poor Knott is going mad\\nFor how can he at once be sad\\nAnd think he s full of spirits\\nA third declared he knew a knife\\nWould cut this Knott much quicker,\\nThe surest way to end all strife.\\nAnd lay the spirit of a wife.\\nIs just to take and lick her\\nA temperance man caught up the word,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0321.jp2"}, "322": {"fulltext": "298 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT.\\nAh, yes, he groaned, I ve always heard\\nOur poor friend always slanted\\nTow rd taking liquor overmuch\\nI fear these spirits may be Dutch,\\n(A sort of gins, or something such,)\\nWith which his house is haunted\\nI see the thing as clear as light\\nIf Knott would give up getting tight.\\nNaught farther would be wanted\\nSo all his neighbors stood aloof\\nAnd, that the spirits neath his roof\\nWere not entirely up to proof.\\nUnanimously granted.\\nKnott knew that cocks and sprites were foes.\\nAnd so bought up. Heaven only knows\\nHow many, though he wanted crows\\nTo give ghosts cause, as I suppose.\\nTo think that day was breaking\\nMoreover, what he called his park.\\nHe turned into a kind of ark,\\nFor dogs, because a little bark\\nIs a good tonic in the dark,\\nIf one is given to waking\\nBut things went on from bad to worse.\\nHis curs were nothing but a curse,\\nAnd, what was still more shocking.\\nFoul ghosts of living fowl made scoff\\nAnd would not think of going off\\nIn spite of all his cocking.\\nShanghais, Bucks-counties, Dominiques,\\nMalays (that did n t lay for weeks,)\\nPolanders, Bantams, Dorkings,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0322.jp2"}, "323": {"fulltext": "f\\nTHE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 299\\nWaiving the cost, no trifling ill,\\n(Since each brought in his little bill)\\nBy day or night were never still.\\nBut every thought of rest would kill\\nWith cacklings and with quorkings\\nHenry the Eighth of wives got free\\nBy a way he had of axing\\nBut poor Knott s Tudor henery\\nWas not so fortunate, and he\\nStill found his trouble waxing\\nAs for the dogs, the rows they made,\\nAnd how they howled, snarled, barked, and bayed.\\nBeyond all human knowledge is\\nAll night, as wide awake as gnats.\\nThe terriers rumpused after rats,\\nOr, just for practice, taught their brats\\nTo worry cast-off shoes and hats.\\nThe bull-dogs settled private spats,\\nAll chased imaginary cats.\\nOr raved behind the fence s slats\\nAt real ones, or, from their mats.\\nWith friends miles off, held pleasant chats.\\nOr, like some folks in white cravats,\\nContemptuous of sharps and flats,\\nSat up and sang dogsologies.\\nPART II.\\nShowing what is meant by a flow of Spirits.\\nAt first the ghosts were somewhat shy.\\nComing when none but Knott was nigh,\\nAnd people said t was all their eye,\\n(Or rather his) a flam, the sly", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0323.jp2"}, "324": {"fulltext": "300 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT.\\nDigestion s machination\\nSome recommended a wet sheet.\\nSome a nice broth of pounded peat.\\nSome a cold flat-iron to the feet.\\nSome a decoction of lamVs-bleat\\nSome a southwesterly grain of wheat\\nMeat was by some pronounced unmeet,\\nOthers thought fish most indiscreet.\\nAnd that t was worse than all to eat\\nOf vegetables, sour or sweet,\\n(Except, perhaps, the skin of beet,)\\nIn such a concatenation\\nOne quack his button gently plucks\\nAnd murmurs biliary ducks\\nSays Knott, I never ate one\\nBut all, though brimming full of wrath,\\nHomeo, Alio, Hydropath,\\nConcurred in this that Mother s path\\nTo death s door was the straight one.\\nBut, spite of medical advice.\\nThe ghosts came thicker, and a spice\\nOf mischief grew apparent\\nNor did they only come at night.\\nBut seemed to fancy broad daylight.\\nTill Knott, in horror and affright.\\nHis unoffending hair rent\\nWhene er, with handkerchief on lap,\\nHe made his elbow-chair a trap\\nTo catch an after-dinner nap.\\nThe spirits, always on the tap.\\nWould make a sudden raiJ, raj), raj),\\nThe half-spun cord of life to snap,\\n(xind what is life without its nap", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0324.jp2"}, "325": {"fulltext": "THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 30I\\nBut threadbareness and mere mishap\\nAs t were with a percussion cap\\nThe trouble^s climax capping\\nIt seemed a party dried and grim\\nOf mummies had come to visit him,\\nEach getting off from every limb\\nIts multitudinous wrapping\\nScratchings sometimes the walls ran round.\\nThe merest penny-weights of sound\\nSometimes t was only by the pound\\nThey carried on their dealing,\\nA thumping neatli the parlor floor.\\nThump bump thump bumping o er and o er.\\nAs if the vegetables in store,\\n(Quiet and orderly before,)\\nWere all together pealing\\nYou would have thought the thing was done\\nBy the Spirit of some son of a gun.\\nAnd that a forty-two pounder.\\nOr that the ghost which made such sounds\\nCould be none other than John Pounds,\\nOf Eagged Schools the founder.\\nThrough three gradations of affright.\\nThe awful noises reached their height\\nAt first they knocked nocturnally.\\nThen, for some reason, changing quite,\\n(As mourners, after six months flight.\\nTurn suddenly from dark to light,)\\nBegan to knock diurnally,\\nAnd last, combining all their stocks\\n(Scotland was ne er so full of Knox,)\\nInto one Chaos, (father of Nox),", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0325.jp2"}, "326": {"fulltext": "302 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT.\\nNode pluit they showered knocks.\\nAnd knocked, knocked, knocked eternally;\\nEver upon the go, like buoys,\\n(Wooden sea-urchins)^ all Knott s joys,\\nThey turned to trouble and a noise\\nThat preyed on him internally.\\nSoon they grew wider in their scope\\nWhenever Knott a door would ope.\\nIt would ope not, or else elope\\nAnd fly back (curbless as a trope\\nOnce started down a stanza s slope\\nBy a bard that gave it too much rope\u00e2\u0080\u0094)\\nLike a clap of thunder slamming\\nAnd, when kind Jenny brought his hat,\\n(She always, when he walked, did that,)\\nJust as upon his head it sat.\\nSubmitting to his settling pat\\nSome unseen hand would jam it flat.\\nOr give it such a furious bat\\nThat eyes and nose went cramming\\nUp out of sight, and consequently.\\nAs when in life it paddled free.\\nHis beaver caused mucli damning\\nIf these things seem overstrained to be.\\nBead the account of Doctor Dee,\\nT is in our college library\\nEead Wesley s circumstantial plea.\\nAnd Mrs. Crow, more like a bee.\\nSucking the nightshade s honied fee.\\nAnd Stilling s Pneumatology\\nConsult Scot, Glanvil, grave Wie-\\nrus, and both Mathers further, see", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0326.jp2"}, "327": {"fulltext": "THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 303\\nWebster, Casaubon, James First^s trea-\\ntise, a right royal Q. E. D.\\nWrit with the moon in perigee,\\nBodin de Demonomanie\\n(Accent that last line gingerly)\\nAll full of learning as the sea\\nOf fishes, and all disagree,\\nSave in Satlianas apage\\nOr, what will surely put a flea\\nIn unbelieving ears with glee.\\nOut of a paper (sent to me\\nBy some friend who forgot to P\\nA Y I use cryptography\\nLest I his vengeful pen should dree\\nHis P S T A G E)\\nThings to the same eifect I cut,\\nAbout the tantrums of a ghost,\\nNot more than three weeks since, at most,\\nNear Stratford, in Connecticut.\\n[Heavens what a sentence that is\\nI throw it in, though, gratis,\\nAnd, taking* breath, anew\\nCatch up my legend s clew.]\\nKnott s Upas daily spread its roots,\\nSent up on all sides livelier shoots.\\nAnd bore more pestilential fruits\\nThe ghosts behaved like downright brutes,\\nThey snipped holes in his Sunday suits.\\nPractised all night on octave flutes,\\nPut peas (not peace) into his boots.\\nWhereof grew corns in season.\\nThey scotched his sheets, and, what was worse,\\nStuck his silk night-cap full of burs^", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0327.jp2"}, "328": {"fulltext": "30.1: THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT.\\nTill he, in language plain and terse,\\n(But much unlike a Bible verse),\\nSwore he should lose his reason.\\nOf course such doings, far and wide,\\nWith rumors filled the country-side,\\nAnd (as it is our nation s pride\\nTo think a Truth s not verified\\nTill with majorities allied,)\\nParties sprung up, affirmed, denied.\\nAnd candidates with questions plied.\\nWho like the circus-riders, tried\\nAt once both hobbies to bestride.\\nAnd each with his opponent vied\\nIn being inexplicit.\\nEarnest inquirers multiplied\\nFolks, whose tenth cousins lately died,\\nWrote letters long, and Knott replied\\nAll who could either walk or ride.\\nGathered to wonder or deride.\\nAnd paid the house a visit\\nHorses were at his pine-trees tied,\\nMourners in every corner sighed,\\nWidows brought children there that cried,\\nSwarms of lean Seekers, eager-eyed,\\n(People Knott never could abide,)\\nInto each hole and cranny pried\\nWith strings of questions cut and dried\\nFrom the Devout Inquirer s Guide,\\nFor the wise spirits to decide\\nAs, for example, is it\\nTrue that the damned are fried or boiled\\nWas the Earth s axis greased or oiled", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0328.jp2"}, "329": {"fulltext": "THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 305\\nWho cleaned the moon when it was soiled\\nHow heal diseased potatoes\\nDid spirits have the sense of smell\\nWhere would departed spinsters dwell\\nIf the late Zenas Smith were well\\nIf Earth were solid or a shell\\nWere spirits fond of Doctor Fell\\nDid the bull toll Cock-Robin s knell\\nWhat remedy would bugs expel\\nIf Paine s invention were sell\\nDid spirits by Webster s system spell\\nWas it a sin to be a belle\\nDid dancing sentence folks to hell\\nIf so, then where most torture fell\\nOn little toes or great toes\\nIf life s true seat were in the brain\\nDid Ensign mean to marry Jane\\nBy whom, in fact, was Morgan slain\\nCould matter ever suffer pain\\nWhat would take out a cherry-stain\\nWho picked the pocket of Seth Crane,\\nOf Waldo precinct, State of Maine\\nWas Sir John Franklin sought in vain\\nDid primitive Christians ever train\\nWhat was the family-name of Cain\\nThem spoons, were they by Betty ta en\\nWould earth-worm poultice cure a sprain\\nWas Socrates so dreadful plain\\nWhat teamster guided Charles s wain\\nWas Uncle Ethan mad or sane\\nAnd could his will in force remain\\nIf not, what counsel to retain\\nDid Le Sage steal Gil Bias from Spain\\n20", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0329.jp2"}, "330": {"fulltext": "306 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT.\\nWas Junius writ by Thomas Paine\\nWere clucks discomforted by rain\\nHoiu did Britannia rule the main\\nWas Jonas coming back again\\nWas vital truth upon the wane\\nDid ghosts, to scare folks, drag a chain\\nWho was our Huldah s chosen swain\\nDid none have teeth pulled without payin\\nEre ether was invented\\nWhether mankind would not agree.\\nIf the universe were tuned in C\\nWhat was it ailed Lucindy s knee\\nWhether folks eat folks in Feejee\\nWhether his name would end with T\\nIf Saturn s rings were two or three\\nAnd what bump in Phrenology\\nThey truly represented\\nThese problems dark, wherein they groped,\\nWherewith man s reason vainly coped,\\nNow that the spirit world was oped,\\nIn all humility they hoped\\nWould be resolved instanter\\nEach of the miscellaneous rout\\nBrought his, or her, own little doubt,\\nAnd wished to pump the spirits out,\\nThrough his, or her, own private spout,\\nInto his, or her, decanter.\\nPART III.\\nWherein it is shown that the most ardent Spirits are more\\nornamental thanuseful.\\nMany a speculating wight\\nCame by express-trains, day and night.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0330.jp2"}, "331": {"fulltext": "THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 307\\nTo see if Knott would sell his right,\\nMeaning to make the ghosts a sight\\nWhat they called a meenaygerie\\nOne threatened, if he would not trade,\\nHis run of custom to invade,\\n(He could not these sharp folks persuade\\nThat he was not, in some way, paid,)\\nAnd stamp him as a plagiary,\\nBy coming down, at one fell swoop.\\nWith THE ORIGINAL knocking troupe\\nCome recently from Hades,\\nWho (for a quarter-dollar heard)\\nWould ne^er rap out a hasty word\\nWhence any blame might be incurred\\nFrom the most fastidious ladies\\nThe late lamented Jesse Soule\\nTo stir the ghosts up with a pole\\nAnd be director of the whole.\\nWho was engaged the rather\\nFor the rare merits he d combine,\\nHaving been in the spirit line,\\nWhich trade he only did resign\\nWith general applause, to shine.\\nAwful in mail of cotton fine.\\nAs ghost of Hamlet s father\\nAnother a fair plan reveals\\nNever yet hit on, which, he feels.\\nTo Knott s religious sense appeals\\nWe ll have your house set up on wheels,\\nA speculation pious\\nFor music we can shortly find\\nA barrel-organ that will grind\\nPsalm-tunes (an instrument designed", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0331.jp2"}, "332": {"fulltext": "308 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT.\\nFor the Xew England tour) refined\\nFrom secular drosses, and inclined\\nTo an unworldly turn (combined\\nWith no sectarian bias\\nThen, travelling by stages slow,\\nUnder the style of Knott Co.,\\nI would accompany the show\\nAs moral lecturer, the foe\\nOf Rationalism you could throw\\nThe rappings in, and make them go\\nStrict Puritan principles, you know,\\n(How do you make em with your toe\\nAnd the receipts which thence might flow.\\nWe could divide between us\\nStill more attractions to combine.\\nBeside these services of mine,\\nI will throw in a very fine\\n(It would do nicely for a sign)\\nOriginal Titian s Venus.\\nAnother offered handsome fees\\nIf Knott would get Demosthenes.\\n(Nay, his mere knuckles, for more ease,)\\nTo rap a few short sentences\\nOr if, for want of proper keys.\\nHis Greek might make confusion.\\nThen, just to get a rap from Burke,\\nTo recommend a little work\\nOn Public Elocution.\\n{Non7iulla Mc desunt\\nMeliora quae sunt.\\nMeanwhile the spirits made replies\\nTo all the reverent wliats and icliys,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0332.jp2"}, "333": {"fulltext": "THE UNHAPPY LOT OP MR. KNOTT. 309\\nResolving doubts of every size,\\nAnd giving seekers grave and wise,\\nWho came to know their destinies,\\nA rap-turous reception\\nWhen unbelievers void of grace\\nCame to investigate the place,\\n(Creatures of Sadducistic race,\\nWith grovelling intellects and base)\\nThey could not find the slightest trace\\nTo indicate deception\\nIndeed, it is declared by some\\nThat spirits (of this sort) are glum,\\nAlmost, or wholly, deaf and dumb,\\nAnd (out of self-respect) quite mum\\nTo sceptic natures cold and numb.\\nWho of this kind of Kingdom Come,\\nHave not a just conception\\nTrue, there were people who demurred\\nThat, though the raps no doubt were heard\\nBoth under them and o er them.\\nYet, somehow, when a search they made.\\nThey found Miss Jenny sore afraid.\\nOr Jenny s lover, Doctor Slade,\\nEqually awe-struck and dismayed,\\nOr Deborah, the chamber-maid.\\nWhose terrors, not to be gainsaid.\\nIn laughs hysteric were displayed,\\nWas always there before them\\nThis had its due effect with some\\nWho straight departed, muttering. Hum\\nTransparent hoax and Gammon\\nBut these were few believing souls\\nCame, day by day, in larger shoals,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0333.jp2"}, "334": {"fulltext": "310 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT.\\nAs the ancients to the windy holes\\n^Neath Delphi s tripod brought their doles,\\nOr to the shrine of Ammon.\\nThe spirits seemed exceeding tame,\\nCall whom you fancied and he came\\nThe shades august of eldest fame\\nYou summoned with an awful ease\\nAs grosser spirits gurgled out\\nFrom chair and table with a spout,\\nIn Auerbach s cellar once, to flout\\nThe senses of the rabble rout.\\nWhere er the gimlet twirled about\\nOf cunning Mephistopheles\\nSo did these spirits seem in store.\\nBehind the wainscot or the door.\\nReady to thrill the being s core\\nOf every enterprising bore\\nWith their astounding glamour\\nWhatever ghost one wished to hear.\\nBy strange coincidence, was near\\nTo make the past or future clear,\\n(Sometimes in shocking grammar,)\\nBy raps and taps, now there, now here\\nIt seemed as if the spirit queer\\nOf some departed auctioneer\\nWere doomed to practise by the year\\nWith the spirit of his hammer\\nWhate er you asked was answered, yet\\nOne could not very deeply get\\nInto the obliging spirits debt,\\necause they used the alphabet\\nIn all communications.\\nAnd new revealings (though sublime)", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0334.jp2"}, "335": {"fulltext": "THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 311\\nRapped out, one letter at a time,\\nWith boggles, hesitations,\\nStoppings, beginnings o er again.\\nAnd getting matters into train.\\nCould hardly overload the brain\\nAVith too excessive rations.\\nSince just to ask if two a7id tiuo\\nReally make four 9 or, Hoiu d ye do9\\nAnd get the fit replies thereto\\nIn the tramundane rat-tat-too,\\nMight ask a whole day s patience.\\nT was strange mongst other things) to find\\nIn what odd sets the ghosts combined,\\nHappy forthwith to thump any\\nPiece of intelligence inspired,\\nThe truth whereof had been inquired\\nBy some one of the company\\nFor instance. Fielding, Mirabeau,\\nOrator Henley, Cicero,\\nPaley, John Zisca, Marivaux,\\nMelanchthon, Robertson, Junot,\\nScaliger, Chesterfield, Rousseau,\\nHakluyt, Boccaccio, South, De Foe,\\nDiaz, Josephus, Richard Roe,\\nOdin, Arminius, Charles le gros.\\nTiresias, the late James Crow,\\nCasablanca, Grose, Prideaux,\\nOld Grimes, young Korval, Swift, Brissot,\\nMaimonides, the Chevalier D ^0,\\nSocrates, Fenelon, Job, Stow,\\nThe inventor of Elixir pro,\\nEuripides, Spinoza, Poe,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0335.jp2"}, "336": {"fulltext": "312 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT.\\nConfucius, Hiram Smith, and Fo,\\nCame (as it seemed, somewhat de trop)\\nWith a disembodied Esquimaux,\\nTo say that it was so and so.\\nWith Franklin s Expedition\\nOne testified to ice and snow.\\nOne that the mercury was low,\\nOne that his progress was quite slow,\\nOne that he much desired to go,\\nOne that the cook had frozen his toe,\\n(Dissented from by Dandolo,\\nWordsworth, Cynaegirus, Boileau,\\nLa Hontan and Sir Thomas Roe,)\\nOne saw twelve white bears in a row,\\nOne saw eleven and a crow,\\nWith other things we could not know\\n(Of great statistic value, though)\\nBy our mere mortal vision.\\nSometimes the spirits made mistakes,\\nAnd seemed to play at ducks and drakes.\\nWith bold inquiry s heaviest stakes\\nIn science or in mystery\\nThey knew so little (and that wrong)\\nYet rapped it out so bold and strong,\\nOne would have said the entire throng\\nHad been Professors of History\\nWhat made it odder was, that those\\nWho, you would naturally suppose,\\nCould solve a question, if they chose,\\nAs easily as count their toes\\nWere just the ones that blundered\\nOne day, Ulysses happening down,\\nA reader of Sir Thomas Browne", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0336.jp2"}, "337": {"fulltext": "THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 313\\nAnd who (with him) had wondered\\nWhat song it was the Sirens sang,\\nAsked the shrewd Ithacan bang hang\\nWith this response the chamber rang,\\nI guess it was Old Hundred.\\nAnd Franklin, being asked to name\\nThe reason why the lightning came,\\nReplied, Because it thundered.\\nOn one sole point the ghosts agreed,\\nOne fearful point, than which, indeed,\\nNothing could seem absurder\\nPoor Colonel Jones they all abused.\\nAnd finally downright accused\\nThe poor old man of murder\\nT was thus by dreadful raps was shown\\nSome spirit s longing to make known\\nA bloody fact, which he alone\\nA\u00c2\u00a5as privy to, (such ghosts more prone\\nIn Earth s affairs to meddle are\\nWho are you with awe-stricken looks,\\nAll ask his airy knuckles he crooks,\\nAnd raps, *^I was Eliab Snooks,\\nThat used to be a pedler\\nSome on ye still are on my books\\nWhereat, to inconspicuous nooks,\\n(More fearing this than common spooks,)\\nShrank each indebted meddler\\nFurther the vengeful ghost declared\\nThat while his earthly life was spared.\\nAbout the country he had fared,\\nA duly licensed follower\\nOf that much-wandering trade that wins", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0337.jp2"}, "338": {"fulltext": "314 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR KNOTT.\\nSlow profit from the sale of tins,\\nAnd various kinds of hollow-ware\\nThat Colonel Jones enticed him in\\nPretending that he wanted tin,\\nThere slew him with a rolling-pin.\\nHid him in a potato-bin,\\nAnd (the same night) him ferried\\nAcross Great Pond to t other shore,\\nAnd there on land of Widow Moore,\\nJust where you turn to Larkin s store,\\nUnder a rock him buried\\nSome friends (who happened to be by)\\nHe called upon to testify\\nThat what he said was not a lie,\\nAnd that he did not stir this\\nFoul matter out of any spite\\nBut from a simple love of right\\nWhich statement the Xine Worthies,\\nRabbi Akiba, Charlemagne,\\nSeth, Colley Cibber, General Wayne,\\nCambyses, Tasso, Tubal-Cain,\\nThe owner of a castle in Spain,\\nJehangire and the Widow of Nain,\\n(The friends aforesaid) made more plain\\nAnd by loud raps attested\\nTo the same purport testified\\nPlato, John Wilkes and Colonel Pride\\nWho knew said Snooks before he died,\\nHad in his wares invested.\\nThought him entitled to belief\\nAnd freely could concur, in brief\\nIn everything the rest did.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0338.jp2"}, "339": {"fulltext": "THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 315\\nEliab this occasion seized,\\n(Distinctly here the Spirit sneezed)\\nTo say that he should ne er be eased\\nTill Jenny married whom she pleased,\\nFree from all checks and urgin s\\n(This spirit dropped his final g s)\\nAnd that, unless Knott quickly sees\\nThis done, the spirits to appease,\\nThey would come back his life to tease\\nAs thick as mites in ancient cheese,\\nAnd let his house on an endless lease\\nTo the ghosts (terrific rappers these\\nAnd veritable Eumenides,)\\nOf the Eleven Thousand Virgins\\nKnott was perplexed and shook his head,\\nHe did not wish his child to wed\\nWith a suspected murderer,\\n(For,- true or false, the rumor spread,)\\nBut as for this riled life he led,\\nIt would not answer, so he said,\\nTo have it go no furderer.\\nAt last, scarce knowing what it meant,\\nReluctantly he gave consent\\nThat Jenny, since t was evident\\nThat she would follow her own bent,\\nShould make her own election\\nFor that appeared the only way\\nThese frightful noises to allay\\nWhich had already turned him gray\\nAnd plunged him in dejection.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0339.jp2"}, "340": {"fulltext": "316 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT.\\nAccordingly^, this artless maid\\nHer father s ordinance obeyed.\\nAnd, all in whitest crape arrayed,\\n(Miss Pulsifer the dresses made\\nAnd wishes here the fact displayed\\nThat she still carries on the trade,\\nThe third door south from Bagg s Arcade,)\\nA very faint I do essayed\\nAnd gave her hand to Hiram Slade,\\nFrom which time forth, the ghosts were laid\\nAnd ne er gave trouble after\\nBut the Selectmen, be it known,\\nDug underneath the aforesaid stone.\\nWhere the poor pedler s corpse was thrown.\\nAnd found thereunder a jaw-bone.\\nThough, when the crowner sat thereon.\\nHe nothing hatched, except alone\\nSuccessive broods of laughter\\nIt was a frail and dingy thing,\\nIn which a grinder or two did cling.\\nIn color like molasses.\\nWhich surgeons, called from far and wide,\\nUpon the horror to decide.\\nHaving put on their glasses,\\nKeported thus To judge by looks.\\nThese bones, by some queer hooks or crooks,\\nMay have belonged to Mr. Snooks,\\nBut, as men deepest read in books\\nAre perfectly aware, bones.\\nIf buried, fifty years or so.\\nLose their identity and grow\\nFrom human bones to bare bones.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0340.jp2"}, "341": {"fulltext": "THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 317\\nStill, if to Jaalam you go down.\\nYou 11 find two parties in the town.\\nOne headed by Benaiah Brown,\\nAnd one by Perez Tinkham\\nThe first believe the ghosts all through.\\nAnd vow that they shall never rue\\nThe happy chance by which they knew\\nThat people in Jupiter are blue,\\nAnd very fond of Irish stew.\\nTwo curious facts which Prince Lee Boo\\nRapped clearly to a chosen few\\nWhereas the others think em\\nA trick got up by Doctor Slade\\nWith Deborah the chamber-maid\\nAnd that sly cretur Jenny,\\nThat all the revelations wise.\\nAt which the Brownites made big eyes,\\nMight have been given by Jared Keyes,\\nA natural fool and ninny.\\nAnd, last week, did n t Eliab Snooks,\\nCome back with never better looks.\\nAs sharp as new bought mackerel hooks,\\nAnd bright as a new pin, eh\\nGood Parson Wilbur, too, avers\\n(Though to be mixed in parish stirs\\nIs worse than handling chestnut-burs)\\nThat no case to his mind occurs\\nWhere spirits ever did converse\\nSave in a kind of guttural Erse,\\n(So say the best authorities\\nAnd that a charge by raps conveyed,\\nShould be most scrupulously weighed\\nAnd searched into before it is", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0341.jp2"}, "342": {"fulltext": "318 HAKON S LAY.\\nMade public, since it may give pain\\nThat cannot soon be cured again,\\nAnd one word may infix a stain\\nWhich ten cannot glo s over,\\nThough speaking for his private part,\\nHe is rejoiced with all his heart\\nMiss Knott missed not her lover.\\nDecember, 1850.\\nHAKON S LAY.\\nThek Thorstein looked at Hakon, where he sate,\\nMute as a cloud amid the stormy hall.\\nAnd said ^^0, Skald, sing now an olden song.\\nSuch as our fathers heard who led great lives\\nAnd, as the bravest on a shield is borne\\nAlong the waving host that shouts him king.\\nSo rode their thrones upon the thronging seas\\nThen the old man arose, white-haired he stood,\\nWhite-bearded, and with eyes that looked afar\\nFrom their still region of perpetual snow.\\nOver the little smokes and stirs of men\\nHis head was bowed with gathered flakes of years.\\nAs winter bends the sea-foreboding pine,\\nBut something triumphed in his brow and eye.\\nWhich whoso saw it, could not see and crouch\\nLoud rang the emptied beakers as he mused.\\nBrooding his eyried thoughts then, as an eagle\\nCircles smooth-winged above the wind-vexed woods..\\nSo wheeled his soul into the air of song\\nHigh o er the stormy hall and thus he sang", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0342.jp2"}, "343": {"fulltext": "HAKON S LAY. 319\\nThe fletcher for his arrow-shaft picks out\\nWood closest-grained, long-seasoned, straight as light\\nAnd, from a quiver full of such as these.\\nThe wary bow-man, matched against his peers,\\nLong doubting, singles yet once more the best.\\nWho is it that can make such shafts as Fate\\nWhat archer of his arrows is so choice.\\nOr hits the white so surely They are men,\\nThe chosen of her quiver nor for her\\nWill every reed suffice, or cross-grained stick\\nAt random from life s vulgar fagot plucked\\nSuch answer household ends but she will have\\nSouls straight and clear, of toughest fibre, sound\\nDown to the heart of heart from these she strips\\nAll needless stuff, all sapwood, hardens them,\\nFrom circumstance untoward feathers plucks\\nCrumpled and cheap, and barbs with iron will\\nThe hour that passes is her quiver-boy\\nAVhen she draws bow, ^t is not across the wind.\\nNor Against the sun, her haste-snatched arrow sings.\\nFor sun and wind have plighted faith to her\\nEre men have heard the sinew twang, behold.\\nIn the butt s heart her trembling messenger\\nThe song is old and simple that I sing\\nGood were the days of yore, when men were tried\\nBy ring of shields, as now by ring of gold\\nBut, while the gods are left, and hearts of men.\\nAnd the free ocean, still the days are good\\nThrough the broad Earth roams Opportunity\\nAnd knocks at every door of hut or hall,\\nUntil she finds the brave soul that she wants,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0343.jp2"}, "344": {"fulltext": "320 TO THE FUTURE.\\nHe ceased, and instantly the frothy tide\\nOf interrupted wassail roared along\\nBut Leif, the son of Eric, sate apart\\nMusing, and, with his eyes upon the fire,\\nSaw shapes of arrows, lost as soon as seen\\nBut then with that resolve his heart was bent.\\nWhich, like a humming shaft, through many a strife\\nOf day and night across the unventured seas.\\nShot the brave prow to cut on Vinland sands\\nThe first rune in the Saga of the West.\\nTO THE FUTUEE.\\n0, Lais D of Promise from what Pisgah s height\\nCan I behold thy stretch of peaceful bowers\\nThy golden harvests flowing out of sight.\\nThy nestled homes and sun-illumined towers\\nGazing upon the sunset s high-heaped gold,\\nIts crags of opal and of chrysolite,\\nIts deeps on deeps of glory that unfold\\nStill brightening abysses.\\nAnd blazing precipices.\\nWhence but a scanty leap it seems to heaven.\\nSometimes a glimpse is given,\\nOf thy more gorgeous realm, thy more unstinted\\nblisses.\\n0, Land of Quiet to thy shore the surf\\nOf the perturbed Present rolls and sleeps\\nOur storms breathe soft as June upon thy turf\\nAnd lure out blossoms to thy bosom leaps,\\nAs to a mother s, the o er wearied heart.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0344.jp2"}, "345": {"fulltext": "TO THE FUTURE. 321\\nHearing far off and dim the toiling mart,\\nThe hurrying feet, the curses without number.\\nAnd, circled with the glow Elysian,\\nOf thine exulting vision,\\nOut of its very cares wooes charms for peace and\\nslumber.\\nTo thee the Earth lifts up her fettered hands\\nAnd cries for vengeance with a pitying smile\\nThou blessest her, and she forgets her bands.\\nAnd her old woe-worn face a little while\\nGrows young and noble unto thee the Oppressor\\nLooks, and is dumb with awe\\nThe eternal law\\nWhich makes the crime its own blindfold redresser,\\nShadows his heart with perilous foreboding,\\nAnd he can see the grim-eyed Doom\\nFrom out the trembling gloom\\nIts silent-footed steeds toward his palace goading.\\nWhat promises hast thou for Poet s eyes.\\nAweary of the turmoil and the wrong\\nTo all their hopes what over-joyed replies\\nWhat undreamed ecstasies for blissful song\\nThy happy plains no war-trump s brawling clangor\\nDisturbs, and fools the poor to hate the poor\\nThe humble glares not on the high with auger\\nLove leaves no grudge at less, no greed for more\\nIn vain strives Self the godlike sense to smother\\nFrom the soul s deeps\\nIt throbs and leaps\\nThe noble neath foul rags beholds his long-lost brother,\\n31", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0345.jp2"}, "346": {"fulltext": "322 TO THE FUTURE.\\nTo thee the Martyr looketh, and his fires\\nUnlock their fangs and leave his spirit free\\nTo thee the Poet ^mid his toil aspires,\\nAnd grief and hunger climb about his knee\\nWelcome as children thou upholdest\\nThe lone Inventor by his demon haunted\\nThe Prophet cries to thee when hearts are coldest.\\nAnd, gazing o er the midnight s bleak abyss.\\nSees the drowsed soul awaken at thy kiss.\\nAnd stretch its happy arms and leap up disenchanted.\\nThou bringest vengeance, but so loving kindly\\nThe guilty thinks it pity taught by thee\\nFierce tyrants drop the scourges wherewith blindly\\nTheir own souls they were scarring conquerors see\\nWith horror in their hands the accursed spear\\nThat tore the meek One s side on Calvary,\\nAnd from their trophies shrink with ghastly fear\\nThou, too, art the Forgiver,\\nThe beauty of mane s soul to man revealing\\nThe arrows from thy quiver\\nPierce error s guilty heart, but only pierce for healing.\\n0, whither, whither, glory-winged dreams.\\nFrom out Life s sweat and turmoil would ye bear\\nme\\nShut, gates of Fancy, on your golden gleams.\\nThis agony of hopeless contrast spare me\\nFade, cheating glow, and leave me to my night\\nHe is a coward who would borrow\\nA charm against the present sorrow\\nFrom the vague Future s promise of delight\\nAs life s alarums nearer roll,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0346.jp2"}, "347": {"fulltext": "OUT OF DOORS. 323\\nThe ancestral buckler calls.\\nSelf-clanging, from the walls\\nIn the high temple of the soul\\nWhere are most sorrows, there the poet s sphere is,\\nTo feed the soul with patience.\\nTo heal its desolations\\nWith words of unshorn truth, with love that never\\nwearies.\\nOUT OF DOORS.\\nT IS good to be abroad in the sun,\\nHis gifts abide when day is done\\nEach thing in nature from his cup\\nGathers a several virtue up\\nThe grace within its being s reach\\nBecomes the nutriment of each.\\nAnd the same life imbibed by all\\nMakes each most individual\\nHere the twig-bending peaches seek\\nThe glow that mantles in their cheek\\nHence comes the Indian-summer bloom\\nThat hazes round the basking plum.\\nAnd, from the same impartial light,\\nThe grass sucks green, the lily white.\\nLike these the soul, for sunshine made,\\nGrows wan and gracile in the shade.\\nHer faculties, which God decreed\\nVarious as Summer s daedal breed.\\nWith one sad color are imbued,\\nShut from the sun that tints their blood", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0347.jp2"}, "348": {"fulltext": "324 ^UT OF DOORS.\\nThe shadow of the poet s roof\\nDeadens the dyes of warp and woof\\nWhatever of ancient song remains\\nHas fresh air flowing in its veins.\\nFor Greece and eldest Ind knew well\\nThat out of doors, with world-wide swell\\nArches the student s lawful cell.\\nAway, unfruitful lore of books.\\nFor whose vain idiom we reject\\nThe spirit^ s mother-dialect,\\nAliens among the birds and brooks.\\nDull to interpret or believe\\nWhat gospels lost the woods retrieve.\\nOr what the eaves-dropping violet\\nEeports from God, who walketh yet\\nHis garden in the hush of eve\\nAway, ye pedants city -bred,\\nUnwise of heart, too wise of head,\\nWho handcuff Art with thus and so.\\nAnd in each other s footprints tread.\\nLike those who walk through drifted snow\\nWho, from deep study of brick walls\\nConjecture of the water-falls,\\nBy six square feet of smoke-stained sky\\nCompute those deeps that overlie\\nThe still tarn s heaven-anointed eye,\\nAnd, in your earthen crucible,\\nWith chemic tests essay to spell\\nHow nature works in field and dell\\nSeek we where Shakspeare buried gold\\nSuch hands no charmed witch-hazel hold;\\nTo beach and rock repeats the sea", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0348.jp2"}, "349": {"fulltext": "A HEVERIE. 325\\nThe mystic 0;je7i Sesame\\nOld Greylock s voices not in vain\\nComment on Milton s mountain strain.\\nAnd cunningly the various wind\\nSpenser s locked music can unbind.\\nA REVERIE.\\nIn the twilight deep and silent\\nComes thy spirit unto mine,\\nWhen the moonlight and the starlight\\nOver cliff and woodland shine,\\nAnd the quiver of the river\\nSeems a thrill of joy benign.\\nThen I rise and wander slowly\\nTo the headland by the sea,\\nWhen the evening star throbs setting\\nThrough the cloudy cedar tree,\\nAnd from under, mellow thunder\\nOf the surf comes fitfully.\\nThen within my soul I feel thee\\nLike a gleam of other years.\\nVisions of my childhood murmur\\nTheir old madness in my ears.\\nTill the pleasance of thy presence\\nCools my heart with blissful tears.\\nAll the wondrous dreams of boyhood\\nAll youth s fiery thirst of praise\\nAll the surer hopes of manhood\\nBlossoming in sadder days\\nJoys that bound me, griefs that crowned me", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0349.jp2"}, "350": {"fulltext": "326 A REVERIE.\\nWith a better wreath than bays\\nAll the longings after freedom\\nThe vague love of human kind,\\nWandering far and near at random\\nLike a winged seed in the wind\\nThe dim yearnings and fierce burnings\\nOf an undirected mind\\nAll of these, oh best beloved,\\nHappiest present dreams and past.\\nIn thy love find safe fulfilment,\\nEipened into truths at last\\nFaith and beauty, hope and duty\\nTo one centre gather fast.\\nHow my nature, like an ocean,\\nAt the breath of thine awakes.\\nLeaps its shores in mad exulting\\nAnd in foamy thunder breaks,\\nThen downsinking, lieth shrinking\\nAt the tumult that it makes\\nBlazing Hesperus hath sunken\\nLow within the pale-blue west.\\nAnd with golden splendor crowneth\\nThe horizon^s piny crest\\nThoughtful quiet stills the riot\\nOf wild longing in my breast.\\nHome I loiter through the moonlight.\\nUnderneath the quivering trees.\\nWhich, as if a spirit stirred them.\\nSway and bend, till by degrees\\nThe far surge s murmur merges\\nIn the rustle of the breeze.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0350.jp2"}, "351": {"fulltext": "IN SADNESS. 327\\nm SADNESS.\\nThere is not in this life of ours\\nOne bliss unmixed with fears,\\nThe hope that wakes our deepest powers\\nA face of sadness wears,\\nAnd the dew that showers our dearest flowers\\nIs the bitter dew of tears.\\nFame waiteth long, and lingereth\\nThrough weary nights and moms\\nAnd evermore the shadow Death\\nWith mocking finger scorns\\nThat underneath the laurel wreath\\nShould be a wreath of thorns.\\nThe laurel leaves are cool and green.\\nBut the thorns are hot and sharp.\\nLean Hunger grins and stares between\\nThe poet and his harp\\nThough of Love s sunny sheen his woof have been.\\nGrim want thrusts in the warp.\\nAnd if beyond this darksome clime\\nSome fair star Hope may see,\\nThat keeps unjarred the blissful chime\\nOf its golden infancy\\nWhere the harvest-time of faith sublime\\nNot always is to be\\nYet would the true soul rather choose\\nIts home where sorrow is.\\nThan in a sated peace to lose\\nIts life s supremest bliss", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0351.jp2"}, "352": {"fulltext": "328 IN SADNESS.\\nThe rainbow hues that bend profuse\\nO er cloudy spheres like this\\nThe want, the sorrow and the pain,\\nThat are Love s right to cure\\nThe sunshine bursting after rain\\nThe gladness insecure\\nThat makes us fain strong hearts to gain\\nTo do and to endure.\\nHigh natures must be thunder-scarred\\nWith many a searing wrong\\nFrom mother Sorrow s breasts the bard\\nSucks gifts of deepest song.\\nNor all unmarred with struggles hard\\nWax the Soul s sinews strong.\\nDear Patience, too, is born of woe.\\nPatience that opes the gate\\nWherethrough the soul of man must go\\nUp to each noble state,\\nWhose voice s flow so meek and low\\nSmooths the bent brows of Fate.\\nThough Fame be slow, yet Death is swift.\\nAnd, o er the spirit s eyes,\\nLife after life doth change and shift\\nWith larger destinies\\nAs on we drift, some wider rift\\nShows us serener skies.\\nAnd though naught falleth to us here\\nBut gains the world counts loss.\\nThough all we hope of wisdom clear", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0352.jp2"}, "353": {"fulltext": "FAREWELL. 329\\nWhen climbed to seems but dross.\\nYet all, though ne er Christ s faith they wear.\\nAt least may share his cross.\\nFAEEWELL.\\nParewell as the bee round the blossom\\nDoth murmur drowsily,\\nSo murmureth round my bosom\\nThe memory of thee\\nLingering, it seems to go,\\nWhen the wind more full doth flow\\nWaving the flower to and fro.\\nBut still returneth, Marian\\nMy hope no longer burneth.\\nWhich did so fiercely burn.\\nMy joy to sorrow turneth.\\nAlthough loath, loath to turn\\nI would forget\\nAnd yet and yet\\nMy heart to thee still yearneth, Marian\\nFair as a single star thou shinest.\\nAnd white as lilies are\\nThe slender hands wherewith thou twinest\\nThy heavy auburn hair\\nThou art to me\\nA memory\\nOf all that is divinest\\nThou art so fair and tall.\\nThy looks so queenly are.\\nThy very shadow on the wall.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0353.jp2"}, "354": {"fulltext": "330 FAREWELL.\\nThy step upon the stair,\\nThe thought that thou art nigh,\\nThe chance look of thine eye\\nAre more to me than all, Marian,\\nAnd will be till I die\\nAs the last quiver of a bell\\nDoth fade into the air,\\nWith a subsiding swell\\nThat dies we know not where.\\nSo my hope melted and was gone\\nI raised mine eyes to bless the star\\nThat shared its light with me so far\\nBelow its silver throne.\\nAnd gloom and chilling vacancy\\nWere all was left to me,\\nIn the dark, bleak night I was alone\\nAlone in the blessed Earth, Marian,\\nFor what were all to me\\nIts love, and light, and mirth, Marian,\\nIf I were not with thee\\nMy heart will not forget thee\\nMore than the moaning brine\\nForgets the moon when she is set\\nThe gush when first I met thee\\nThat thrilled my brain like wine.\\nDoth thrill as madly yet\\nMy heart cannot forget thee,\\nThough it may droop and pine.\\nToo deeply it had set thee\\nIn every love of mine\\nNo new moon ever cometh,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0354.jp2"}, "355": {"fulltext": "FAREWELL. 331\\nNo flower ever bloometh.\\nNo twilight ever gloometh,\\nBut I m more only thine.\\nOh look not on me, Marian,\\nThine eyes are wild and deep,\\nAnd they have won me, Marian,\\nFrom peacefulness and sleep\\nThe sunlight doth not sun me.\\nThe meek moonshine doth shun me..\\nAll sweetest voices stun me\\nThere is no rest\\nWithin my breast\\nAnd I can only weep, Marian\\nAs a landbird far at sea\\nDoth wander through the sleet\\nAnd drooping downward wearily\\nFinds no rest for her feet,\\nSo wandereth my memory\\nO er the years when we did meet\\nI used to say that everything\\nPartook a share of thee,\\nThat not a little bird could sing.\\nOr green leaf flutter on a tree.\\nThat nothing could be beautiful\\nSave part of thee were there.\\nThat from thy soul so clear and full\\nAll bright and blessed things did cull\\nThe charm to make them fair\\nAnd now I know\\nThat it was so,\\nThy spirit through the earth doth flow\\nAnd face me whereso er I go", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0355.jp2"}, "356": {"fulltext": "332 FAREWELL.\\nWhat right hath perfectness to give\\nSuch weary weight of woe\\nUnto the soul which cannot live\\nOn anything more low\\nOh leave me, leave me, Marian,\\nThere s no fair thing 1 see\\nBut doth deceive me, Marian,\\nInto sad dreams of thee\\nA cold snake gnaws my heart\\nAnd crushes round my brain,\\nAnd I should glory but to part\\nSo bitterly again,\\nFeeling the slow tears start\\nAnd fall in fiery rain\\nThere s a wide ring round the moon.\\nThe ghost-like clouds glide by.\\nAnd I hear the sad winds croon\\nA dirge to the lowering sky\\nThere s nothing soft or mild\\nIn the pale moon s sickly light.\\nBut all looks strange and wild\\nThrough the dim, foreboding night\\nI think thou must be dead\\nIn some dark and lonely place.\\nWith candles at thy head.\\nAnd a pall above thee spread\\nTo hide thy dead, cold face\\nBut I can see thee underneath\\nSo pale, and still, and fair.\\nThine eyes closed smoothly and a wreath\\nOf flowers in thy hair\\nI nevei sa^^^ thy face so Qle^,?", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0356.jp2"}, "357": {"fulltext": "A DIRGE. 333\\nWhen thou wast with the living,\\nAs now beneath the pall, so drear,\\nAnd stiff, and unforgiving\\nI cannot flee thee, Marian,\\nI cannot turn away.\\nMine eyes must see thee, Marian,\\nThrough salt tears night and day.\\nA DIRGE.\\nPoet lonely is thy bed,\\nAnd the turf is overhead\\nCold earth is thy cover\\nBut thy heart hath found release,\\nAnd it slumbers full of peace\\nNeath the rustle of green trees\\nAnd the warm hum of the bees,\\nMid the drowsy clover\\nThrough thy chamber, still as death,\\nA smooth gurgle wandereth.\\nAs the blue stream murmureth\\nTo the blue sky over.\\nThree paces from the silver strand.\\nGently in the fine, white sand.\\nWith a lily in thy hand.\\nPale as snow, they laid thee\\nIn no coarse earth wast thou hid.\\nAnd no gloomy coffin-lid\\nDarkly overweighed thee.\\nSilently as snow-flakes drift.\\nThe smooth sand did sift and sift", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0357.jp2"}, "358": {"fulltext": "334 A DIRGE.\\nO er the bed they made thee\\nAll sweet birds did come and sing\\nAt thy sunny burying\\nChoristers unbidden,\\nAnd, beloved of sun and dew,\\nMeek forget-me-nots upgrew\\nWhere thine eyes so large and blue\\nNeath the turf were hidden.\\nWhere thy stainless clay doth lie,\\nBlue and open is the sky,\\nAnd the white clouds wander by,\\nDreams of summer silently\\nDarkening the river\\nThou hearest the clear water run\\nAnd the ripples every one.\\nScattering the golden sun.\\nThrough thy silence quiver\\nVines trail down upon the stream,\\nInto its smooth and glassy dream\\nA green stillness spreading.\\nAnd the shiner, perch, and bream\\nThrough, the shadowed waters gleam\\nGainst the current heading.\\nWhite as snow, thy winding sheet\\nShelters thee from head to feet.\\nSave thy pale face only\\nThy face is turned toward the skies,\\nThe lids lie meekly o er thine eyes.\\nAnd the low-voiced pine-tree sighs\\nO er thy bed so lonely.\\nAll thy life thou lov dst its shade", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0358.jp2"}, "359": {"fulltext": "A DIRGE. 335\\nUnderneath it tho^ art laid,\\nIn an endless shelter\\nThou hearest it forever sigh\\nAs the wind s vague longings die\\nIn its branches dim and high\\nThou hear st the waters gliding by\\nSlumberously welter.\\nThou wast full of love and truth.\\nOf forgiveness and ruth\\nThy great heart with hope and youth\\nTided to o erflowing.\\nThou didst dwell in mysteries,\\nAnd there lingered on thine eyes\\nShadows of serener skies,\\nAwfully wild memories,\\nThat were like foreknowing\\nThrough the earth thou would st have gone,\\nLighted from within alone.\\nSeeds from flowers in Heaven grown\\nWith a free hand sowing.\\nThou didst remember well and long\\nSome fragments of thine angel-song,\\nAnd strive, through want of woe and wrong,\\nTo win the world unto it\\nThy sin it was to see and hear\\nBeyond To-day s dim hemisphere\\nBeyond all mists of hope and fear,\\nInto a life more true and clear.\\nAnd dearly thou didst rue it\\nLight of the new world thou hadst won,\\nO erflooded by a purer sun", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0359.jp2"}, "360": {"fulltext": "336 A DIRGE.\\nSlowly Fate s ship came drifting on,\\nAnd through the dark, save thou, not one\\nCaught of the land a token.\\nThou stood st upon the farthest prow.\\nSomething within thy soul said Now\\nAnd leaping forth with eager brow.\\nThou feirst on shore heart-broken.\\nLong time thy brethren stood in fear\\nOnly the breakers far and near.\\nWhite with their anger, they could hear\\nThe sounds of land, whicli thy quick ear\\nCaught long ago, they heard not.\\nAnd, when at last they reached the strand.\\nThey found thee lying on the sand\\nWith some wild flowers in thy hand,\\nBut thy cold bosom stirred not\\nThey listened, but they heard no sound\\nSave from the glad life all around\\nA low, contented murmur.\\nThe long grass flowed adown the hill,\\nA hum rose from a hidden rill,\\nBut thy glad heart, that knew no ill\\nBut too much love, lay dead and still\\nThe only thing that sent a chill\\nInto the heart of summer.\\nThou didst not seek the poet s wreath\\nBut too soon didst win it\\nWithout i was green, but underneath\\nWere scorn and loneliness and death.\\nGnawing the brain with burning teeth.\\nAnd making mock within it.\\nThou, who wast full of nobleness,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0360.jp2"}, "361": {"fulltext": "A DIRGE. 337\\nWhose very life-blood t was to bless.\\nWhose soul s one law was giving,\\nMust bandy words with wickedness.\\nHaggle with hunger and distress.\\nTo win that death which worldliness\\nCalls bitterly a living.\\nThou sow st no gold, and shalt not reap\\nMuttered earth, turning in her sleep\\nCome home to the Eternal Deep\\nMurmured a voice, and a wide sweep\\nOf wings through thy souFs hush did creep.\\nAs of thy doom overflying\\nIt seemed that thy strong heart would leap\\nOut of thy breast, and thou didst weep.\\nBut not with fear of dying\\nMen could not fathom thy deep fears.\\nThey could not understand thy tears.\\nThe hoarded agony of years\\nOf bitter self-denying.\\nSo once, when high above the spheres\\nThy spirit sought its starry peers.\\nIt came not back to face the jeers\\nOf brothers who denied it\\nStar-crowned, thou dost possess the deeps\\nOf God, and thy white body sleeps\\nWhere the lone pine forever keeps\\nPatient watch beside it.\\nPoet underneath the turf.\\nSoft thou sleepest, free from morrow,\\nThou hast struggled through the surf\\nOf wild thoughts and want and sorrow.\\nM", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0361.jp2"}, "362": {"fulltext": "338 A DIRGE.\\nNow, beneath the moaning pine,\\nFull of rest, thy body lieth,\\nWhile far up is clear sunshine,\\nUnderneath a sky divine.\\nHer loosed wings thy spirit trieth\\nOft she strove to spread them here.\\nBut they were too white and clear\\nFor our dingy atmosphere.\\nThy body findeth ample room\\nIn its still and grassy tomb\\nBy the silent river\\nBut thy spirit found the earth\\nNarrow for the mighty birth\\nWhich it dreamed of ever\\nThou wast guilty of a rhyme\\nLearned in a benigner clime.\\nAnd of that more grievous crime.\\nAn ideal too sublime\\nFor the low-hung sky of Time.\\nThe calm spot where thy body lies\\nGladdens thy soul in Paradise,\\nIt is so still and holy\\nThy body sleeps serenely there.\\nAnd well for it thy soul may care.\\nIt was so beautiful and fair,\\nLily white so wholly.\\nFrom so pure and sweet a frame\\nThy spirit parted as it came,\\nGentle as a maiden\\nJ^ow it lieth full of rest", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0362.jp2"}, "363": {"fulltext": "FANCIES ABOUT A ROSEBUD, 339\\nSods are lighter on its breast\\nThan the great, prophetic guest\\nWherewith it was laden.\\nFANCIES ABOUT A ROSEBUD,\\nPEESSED lij^ Aif OLD COPY OF SPENSEK.\\nWho prest you here The Past can tell,\\nWhen summer skies were bright above,\\nAnd some full heart did leap and swell\\nBeneath the white new moon of love.\\nSome Poet, haply, when the world\\nShowed like a calm sea, grand and blue.\\nEre its cold, inky waves had curled\\nO er the numb heart once warm and true\\nWhen, with his soul brimful of morn.\\nHe looked beyond the vale of Time,\\nJSTor saw therein the dullard scorn\\nThat made his heavenliness a crime\\nWhen, musing o er the Poets olden,\\nHis soul did like a sun upstart\\nTo shoot its arrows, clear and golden.\\nThrough slavery s cold and darksome heart.\\nAlas too soon the veil is lifted\\nThat hangs between the soul and pain,\\nToo soon the morning-red hath drifted\\nInto dull cloud, or fallen in rain I", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0363.jp2"}, "364": {"fulltext": "S40 FANCIES ABOUT A ROSEBUD,\\nOr were you prest by one who nurst\\nBleak memories of love gone by,\\nWhose heart, like a star fallen, burst\\nIn dark and erring vacancy\\nTo him you still were fresh and green\\nAs when you grew upon the stalk,\\nAnd many a breezy summer scene\\nCame back and many a moonlit walk\\nAnd there would be a hum of bees,\\nA smell of childhood in the air,\\nAnd old, fresh feelings cooled the breeze\\nThat, like loved fingers, stirred his hair\\nThen would you suddenly be blasted\\nBy the keen wind of one dark thought.\\nOne nameless woe, that had outlasted\\nThe sudden blow whereby t was brought.\\nOr were you prest here by two lovers\\nWho seemed to read these verses rare.\\nBut found between the antique covers\\nAVhat Spenser could not prison there\\nSongs which his glorious soul had heard,\\nBut his dull pen could never write.\\nWhich flew, like some gold-winged bird,\\nThrough the blue heaven out of sight\\nMy heart is with them as they sit,\\nI see the rosebud in her breast,\\nI see her small hand taking it\\nFrom out its odorous, snowy nest", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0364.jp2"}, "365": {"fulltext": "NEW YEAR S EVE, 1844. 341\\nI hear him swear that he will keep it,\\nIn memory of that blessed day,\\nTo smile on it or over-weep it\\nWhen she and spring are far away.\\nAh me I needs must droop my head.\\nAnd brush away a happy tear,\\nFor they are gone, and, dry and dead.\\nThe rosebud lies before me here.\\nYet is it in no stranger s hand.\\nFor I will guard it tenderly.\\nAnd it shall be a magic wand\\nTo bring mine own true love to me.\\nMy heart runs o er with sweet surmises.\\nThe while my fancy weaves her rhyme.\\nKind hopes and musical surprises\\nThrong round me from the olden time.\\nI do not care to know who prest you\\nEnough for me to feel and know\\nThat some heart s love and longing blest you,\\nKnitting to-day with long-ago.\\nNEW YEAE S EVE, 1844.\\nA FRAGMENT.\\nThe night is calm and beautiful the snow\\nSparkles beneath the clear and frosty moon\\nAnd the cold stars, as if it took delight\\nIn its own silent whiteness the hushed earth\\nSleeps in the soft arms of the embracing blue.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0365.jp2"}, "366": {"fulltext": "342 NEW YEAR S EVE, 1844.\\nSecure as if angelic squadrons yet\\nEncamped about her, and each watching star\\nGained double brightness from the flashing arms\\nOf winged and unsleeping sentinels.\\nUpward the calm of infinite silence deepens,\\nThe sea that flows between high heaven and earth,\\nMusing by whose smooth brink we sometimes find\\nA stray leaf floated from those happier shores.\\nAnd hope, perchance not vainly, that some flower,\\nWhich we had watered with our holiest tears.\\nPale blooms, and yet our scanty garden s best,\\nO er the same ocean piloted by love.\\nMay flnd a haven at the feet of God,\\nAnd be not wholly worthless in his sight.\\n0, high dependence on a higher Power,\\nSole stay for all these restless faculties\\nThat wander, Ishmael-like, the desert bare\\nWherein our human knowledge hath its home.\\nShifting their light-framed tents from day to day.\\nWith each new-found oasis, wearied soon.\\nAnd only certain of uncertainty\\n0, mighty humbleness that feels with awe,\\nYet with a vast exulting feels, no less.\\nThat this huge Minister of the Universe,\\nWhose smallest oratories are glorious worlds.\\nWith painted oriels of dawn and sunset\\nWhose carved ornaments are systems grand,\\nOrion kneeling in his starry niche.\\nThe Lyre whose strings give music audible\\nTo holy ears, and countless splendors more.\\nCrowned by the blazing Cross high-hung o er all\\nWhose organ music is the solemn stops\\nOf endless Change breathed through by endless Good", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0366.jp2"}, "367": {"fulltext": "NEW YEAR S EVE, 1844. 343\\nWhose choristers are all the morning stars\\nWhose altar is the sacred human heart\\nWhereon Love s candles burn unquenchably.\\nTrimmed day and night by gentle-handed Peace\\nWith all its arches and its pinnacles\\nThat stretch forever and forever up,\\nIs founded on the silent heart of God,\\nSilent, yet pulsing forth exhaustless life\\nThrough the least veins of all created things.\\nFit musings these for the departing year\\nAnd God be thanked for such a crystal night\\nAs fills the spirit with good store of thoughts,\\nThat, like a cheering fire of walnut, crackle\\nUpon the hearthstone of the heart, and cast\\nA mild-home glow o er all Humanity\\nYes, though the poisoned shafts of the evil doubts\\nAssail the skyey panoply of Faith,\\nThough the great hopes which we have had for man.\\nFoes in disguise, because they based belief\\nOn man^s endeavor, not on God s decree\\nThough these proud- visaged hopes, once turned to fly.\\nHurl backward many a deadly Parthian dart\\nThat rankles in the soul and makes it sick\\nWith vain regret, nigh verging on despair\\nYet, in such calm and earnest hours as this.\\nWe well can feel how every living heart\\nThat sleeps to-night in palace or in cot.\\nOr unroofed hovel, or which need hath known\\nOf other homestead than the arching sky.\\nIs circled watchfully with seraph fires\\nHow our own erring will it is that hangs\\nThe flaming sword o er Eden s unclosed gate,\\nWhich gives free entrance to the pure in heart,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0367.jp2"}, "368": {"fulltext": "344 NEW YEAR S EVE, 1844.\\nAnd with its guarding walls dotli fence the meek.\\nSleep then, Earth, in thy blue-vaulted cradle.\\nBent over always by thy mother Heaven\\nWe all are tall enough to reach God s hand,\\nAnd angels are no taller looking back\\nUpon the smooth wake of a year o erpast,\\nWe see the black clouds furling, one by one,\\nFrom the advancing majesty of Truth,\\nAnd something won for Freedom, whose least gain\\nIs as a firm and rock-built citadel\\nWherefrom to launch fresh battle on her foes\\nOr, leaning from the time s extremest prow.\\nIf we gaze forward through the blinding spray,\\nAnd dimly see how much of ill remains,\\nHow many fetters to be sawn asunder\\nBy the slow toil of individual zeal.\\nOr haply rusted by salt tears in twain.\\nWe feel, with something of a sadder heart,\\nYet bracing up our bruised mail the while.\\nAnd fronting the old foe with fresher spirit.\\nHow great it is to breathe with human breath,\\nTo be but poor foot-soldiers in the ranks\\nOf our old exiled king, Humanity\\nEncamping after every hard-won field\\nNearer and nearer Heaven^s happy plains.\\nMany great souls have gone to rest, and sleep\\nUnder this armor, free and full of peace\\nIf these have left the earth, yet Truth remains.\\nEndurance, too, the crowning faculty\\nOf noble minds, and Love, invincible\\nBy any weapons and these hem us round\\nWith silence such that all the groaning clank", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0368.jp2"}, "369": {"fulltext": "NEW YEAR S EVE, 1844. 345\\nOf this mad engine men have made of earth\\nDulls not some ears for catching purer tones.\\nThat wander from the dim surrounding vast,\\nOr far more clear melodious. prophecies,\\nThe natural music of the heart of man,\\nWhich by kind Sorrow s ministry hath learned\\nThat the true sceptre of all power is love\\nAnd humbleness the palace-gate of truth.\\nWhat man with soul so blind as sees not here\\nThe first faint tremble of Hope s morning-star.\\nForetelling how the God-forged shafts of dawn,\\nFitted already on their golden string,\\nShall soon leap earthward with exulting flight\\nTo thrid the dark heart of that evil faith\\nWhose trust is in the clumsy arms of Force,\\nThe ozier hauberk of a ruder age\\nFreedom thou other name for happy Truth,\\nThou warrior-maid, whose steel-clad feet were never\\nOut of the stirrup, nor thy lance uncouched.\\nNor thy fierce eye enticed from its watch.\\nThou hast learned now, by hero-blood in vain\\nPoured to enrich the soil which tyrants reap\\nBy wasted lives of prophets, and of those\\nWho, by the promise in their souls upheld.\\nInto the red arms of a fiery death\\nWent blithely as the golden-girdled bee\\nSinks in the sleepy poppy s cup of flame\\nBy the long woes of nations set at war.\\nThat so the swollen torrent of their wrath\\nMay find a vent, else sweeping off like straws\\nThe thousand cobweb threads, grown cable-huge\\nBy time s long gathered dust, but cobwebs still.\\nWhich bind the Many that the Few may gain", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0369.jp2"}, "370": {"fulltext": "346 A MYSTICAL BALLAD.\\nLeisure to wither by the drought of ease\\nWhat heavenly germs in their own souls were sown\\nBy all these searching lessons thou hast learned\\nTo throw aside thy blood-stained helm and spear\\nAnd with thy bare brow daunt the enemy s front.\\nKnowing that God will make the lily stalk,\\nIn the soft grasp of naked Gentleness,\\nStronger than iron spear to shatter through\\nThe sevenfold toughness of Wrong s idle shield.\\nA MYSTICAL BALLAD.\\nI.\\nThe sunset scarce had dimmed away\\nInto the twilight s doubtful gray\\nOne long cloud o er the horizon lay,\\nNeath which, a streak of bluish white.\\nWavered between the day and night\\nOver the pine trees on the hill\\nThe trembly evening-star did thrill.\\nAnd the new moon, with slender rim.\\nThrough the elm arches gleaming dim,\\nFilled memory s chalice to the brim.\\nII.\\nOn such an eve the heart doth grow\\nFull of surmise, and scarce can know\\nIf it be now or long ago,\\nOr if indeed it doth exist\\nA wonderful enchanted mist\\nFrom the new moon doth wander out,\\nWrapping all things in mystic doubt.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0370.jp2"}, "371": {"fulltext": "A MYSTICAL BALLAD. 347\\nSo that this world doth seem untrue,\\nAnd all our fancies to take hue\\nFrom some life ages since gone through.\\nIII.\\nThe maiden sat and heard the flow\\nOf the west wind so soft and low\\nThe leaves scarce quivered to and fro\\nUnbound, her heavy golden hair\\nRippled across her bosom bare,\\nWhich gleamed with thrilling snowy white\\nFar through the magical moonlight\\nThe breeze rose with a rustling swell.\\nAnd from afar there came the smell\\nOf a long-forgotten lily-bell.\\nIV.\\nThe dim moon rested on the hill,\\nBut silent, without thought or will.\\nWhere sat the dreamy maiden still\\nAnd now the moon s tip, like a star.\\nDrew down below the horizon s bar\\nTo her black noon the night hath grown.\\nYet still the maiden sits alone.\\nPale as a corpse beneath a stream\\nAnd her white bosom still doth gleam\\nThrough the deep midnight like a dream.\\nV.\\nCloudless the morning came and fair.\\nAnd lavishly the sun doth share\\nHis gold among her golden hair.\\nKindling it all, till slowly so", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0371.jp2"}, "372": {"fulltext": "348 A MYSTICAL BALLAD.\\nA glory round her head doth glow\\nA withered flower is in her hand,\\nThat grew in some far distant land.\\nAnd, silently transfigured,\\nWith wide calm eyes, and undrooped head,\\nThey found the stranger-maiden dead.\\nVI.\\nA youth, that morn, neath other skies.\\nFelt sudden tears burn in his eyes,\\nAnd his heart throng with memories\\nAll things without him seemed to win\\nStrange brotherhood with things within,\\nAnd he forever felt that he\\nWalked in the midst of mystery,\\nAnd thenceforth, why, he could not tell.\\nHis heart would curdle at the smell\\nOf his once-cherished lily-bell.\\nVII.\\nSomething from him had passed away\\nSome shifting trembles of clear day,\\nThrough starry crannies in his clay.\\nGrew bright and steadfast, more and more.\\nWhere all had been dull earth before\\nAnd, through these chinks, like him of old.\\nHis spirit converse high did hold\\nWith clearer loves and wider powers.\\nThat brought him dewy fruits and flowers\\nFrom far Elysian groves and bowers.\\nVIII.\\nJust on the farther bound of sense,\\nUnproved by outward evidence,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0372.jp2"}, "373": {"fulltext": "A MYSTICAL BALLAD. 349\\nBut known by a deep influence\\nWhich through our grosser clay doth shine\\nWith light unwaning and divine.\\nBeyond where highest thought can fly\\nStretcheth the world of Mystery\\nAnd they not greatly overween\\nWho deem that nothing true hath been\\nSave the unspeakable Unseen.\\nIX.\\nOne step beyond life s work-day things,\\nOne more beat of the sours broad wings\\nOne deeper sorrow sometimes brings\\nThe spirit into that great Vast\\nWhere neither future is nor past\\nNone knoweth how he entered there,\\nBut, waking, finds his spirit where\\nHe thought an angel could not soar.\\nAnd, what he called false dreams before,\\nThe very air about his door.\\nX.\\nThese outward seemings are but shows\\nWhereby the body sees and knows\\nFar down beneath, forever flows\\nA stream of subtlest sympathies\\nThat make our spirits strangely wise\\nIn awe, and fearful bodings dim\\nWhich, from the sense s outer rim,\\nStretch forth beyond our thought and sight.\\nFine arteries of circling light,\\nPulsed outward from the Infinite,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0373.jp2"}, "374": {"fulltext": "350 A YEAR S LIFE.\\nOPEN^IKG POEM TO\\nA YEAR S LIFE.\\nHope first the youthful Poet leads,\\nAnd he is glad to follow her\\nKind is she, and to all his needs\\nWith a free hand doth minister.\\nBut, when sweet Hope at last hath fled,\\nCometh her sister. Memory\\nShe wreathes Hope s garlands round her head,\\nAnd strives to seem as fair as she.\\nThen Hope comes back, and by the hand\\nShe leads a child most fair to see,\\nWho with a joyous face doth stand\\nUniting Hope and Memory.\\nSo brighter grew the Earth around,\\nAnd bluer grew the sky above\\nThe Poet now his guide hath found.\\nAnd follows in the steps of Love.\\nDEDICATION\\nTO VOLUME OF POEMS EISTTITLED\\nA YEAR S LIFE.\\nThe gentle Una I have loved.\\nThe snowy maiden, pure and mild.\\nSince ever by her side I roved.\\nThrough ventures strange, a wondering child,\\nIn fantasy a Red Cross Knight,\\nBurning for her dear sake to fight.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0374.jp2"}, "375": {"fulltext": "THRENODIA. 351\\nIf there be one who can, like her,\\nMake sunshine in life s shady places,\\nOne in whose holy bosom stir\\nAs many gentle household graces\\nAnd such I think there needs must be\\nWill she accept this book from me\\nTHRENODIA.\\nGone, gone from us and shall we see\\nThose sybil-leaves of destiny,\\nThose calm eyes, nevermore\\nThose deep, dark eyes so warm and bright,\\nWherein the fortunes of the man\\nLay slumbering in prophetic light.\\nIn characters a child might scan\\nSo bright, and gone forth utterly\\nstern word Nevermore\\nThe stars of those two gentle eyes\\nWill shine no more on earth\\nQuenched are the hopes that had their birth.\\nAs we watched them slowly rise.\\nStars of a mother s fate\\nAnd she would read them o er and o er,\\nPondering, as she sate.\\nOver their dear astrology,\\nWhich she had conned and conned before.\\nDeeming she needs must read aright\\nWhat was writ so passing bright.\\nAnd yet, alas she knew not why.\\nHer voice would falter in its song,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0375.jp2"}, "376": {"fulltext": "352 THRENODIA.\\nAnd tears would slide from out her eye,\\nSilent, as they were doing wrong.\\nHer heart was like a wind-flower, bent\\nEven to breaking with the balmy dew,\\nTurning its heavenly nourishment\\n(That filled with tears its eyes of blue.\\nLike a sweet suppliant that weeps in prayer,\\nMaking her innocency show more fair.\\nAlbeit unwitting of the ornament,)\\nInto a load too great for it to bear\\nstern word Nevermore\\nThe tongue, that scarce had learned to claim\\nAn entrance to a mother s heart\\nBy that dear talisman, a mother s name,\\nSleeps all forgetful of its art\\n1 loved to see the infant soul\\n(How mighty in the weakness\\nOf its untutored meekness\\nPeep timidly from out its nest,\\nHis lips, the while.\\nFluttering with half-fledged words.\\nOr hushing to a smile\\nThat more than words expressed,\\nWhen his glad mother on him stole\\nAnd snatched him to her breast\\n0, thoughts were brooding in those eyes.\\nThat would have soared like strong-winged birds\\nFar, fax into the skies.\\nGladdening the earth with song\\nAnd gushing harmonies.\\nHad he but tarried with us long\\nstern word Nevermore", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0376.jp2"}, "377": {"fulltext": "THRENODIA. 353\\nHow peacefully they rest,\\nCrossfolded there\\nUpon his little breast,\\nThose small, white hands that ne er were still before.\\nBut ever sported with his mother s hair,\\nOr the plain cross that on her breast she wore\\nHer heart no more will beat\\nTo feel the touch of that soft palm.\\nThat ever seemed a new surprise\\nSending glad thoughts up to her eyes\\nTo bless him with their holy calm\\nSweet thoughts they made her eyes as sweet.\\nHow quiet are the hands\\nThat wove those pleasant bands\\nBut that they do not rise and sink\\nAVith his calm breathing, I should think\\nThat he were dropped asleep\\nAlas too deep, too deep\\nIn this his slumber\\nTime scarce can number\\nThe years ere he will wake again\\n0, may we see his eyelids open then\\nstern word Nevermore\\nAs the airy gossamere.\\nFloating in the sunlight clear.\\nWhere er it toucheth clinging tightly\\nRound glossy leaf or stump unsightly,\\nSo from his spirit wandered out\\nTendrils spreading all about.\\nKnitting all things to its thrall\\nWith a perfect love of all\\nstern word Nevermore\\n23", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0377.jp2"}, "378": {"fulltext": "354 THRENODIA.\\nHe did but float a little way\\nAdown the stream of time,\\nAVith dreamy eyes watching the ripples play,\\nOr listening to their fairy chime\\nHis slender sail\\nNe er felt the gale\\nHe did but float a little way.\\nAnd, putting to the shore\\nWhile yet ^t was early day,\\nWent calmly on his way,\\nTo dwell with us no more\\nNo jarring did he feel,\\nNo grating on his vessel s keel\\nA strip of silver sand\\nMingled the waters with the land\\nWhere he was seen no more\\nstern word Nevermore\\nFull short his journey was no dust\\nOf earth into his sandals clave\\nThe weary weight that old men must.\\nHe bore not to the grave.\\nHe seemed a cherub who had lost his way\\nAnd wandered hither, so his stay\\nWith us was short, and t was most meet\\nThat he should be no delver in Earth^ s clod.\\nNor need to pause and cleanse his feet\\nTo stand before his God\\nblest word Evermore", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0378.jp2"}, "379": {"fulltext": "THE SERENADE. 355\\nTHE SERENADE.\\nGentle, Lady, be thy sleeping,\\nPeaceful may thy dreamings be.\\nWhile around thy soul is sweeping,\\nDreamy-winged, our melody\\nChant we. Brothers, sad and slow,\\nLet our song be soft and low,\\nAs the voice of other years.\\nLet our hearts within us melt,\\nTo gentleness, as if we felt\\nThe dropping of our mother s tears.\\nLady now our song is bringing\\nBack again thy childhood^s hours\\nHearest thou the humbee singing\\nDrowsily among the flowers\\nSleepily, sleepily\\nIn the noontide swayeth he.\\nHalf-rested on the slender stalks\\nThat edge those well-known garden walks\\nHearest thou the fitful whirring\\nOf the humbird s viewless wings\\nFeel st not round thy heart the stirring\\nOf childhood s half-forgotten things\\nSeest thou the dear old dwelling\\nWith the woodbine round the door\\nBrothers, soft her breast is swelling\\nWith the busy thoughts of yore\\nLowly sing ye, sing ye mildly.\\nRouse her spirit not so wildly,\\nLest she sleep not any more.\\nT is the pleasant summertide,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0379.jp2"}, "380": {"fulltext": "356 TlIE SERENAM;\\nOpen stands the window wide^\\nWhose voices, Lady, art thou drinking\\nWho sings that best beloved tune\\nIn a clear note, rising, sinking.\\nLike a thrush s song in June\\nWhose laugh is that which rings so clear\\nAnd joyous in thine eager ear\\nLower, Brothers, yet more low\\nWeave the song in mazy twines\\nShe heareth now the west wind blow\\nAt evening through the clump of pines\\nmournful is their tune,\\nAs of a crazed thing\\nWho, to herself alone.\\nIs ever murmuring,\\nThrough the night and through the day,\\nFor something that hath passed away.\\nOften, Lady, hast thou listened.\\nOften have thy blue eyes glistened.\\nWhere the summer evening breeze\\nMoaned sadly through those lonely trees.\\nOr with the fierce wind from the north\\nWrung their mournful music forth.\\nEver the river floweth\\nIn an unbroken stream,\\nEver the west wind bloweth.\\nMurmuring as he goeth,\\nAnd mingling with her dream\\nOnward still the river sweepeth\\nWith a sound of long-agone\\nLowly, Brothers, lo she weepeth,\\nShe is now no more alone", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0380.jp2"}, "381": {"fulltext": "SONG. 357\\nLong-loved forms and long-loved faces\\nEound about her pillow throng,\\nThrough her memory s desert places\\nFlow the waters of our song.\\nLady if thy life be holy\\nAs when thou wert yet a child.\\nThough our song be melancholy,\\nIt will stir no anguish wild\\nFor the soul that hath lived well.\\nFor the soul that child-like is,\\nThere is quiet in the spell\\nThat brings back early memories.\\nSONG.\\nI.\\nLift up the curtains of thine eyes\\nAnd let their light outshine\\nLet me adore the mysteries\\nOf those mild orbs of thine,\\nWhich ever queenly calm do roll.\\nAttuned to an ordered soul\\nII.\\nOpen thy lips yet once again\\nAnd, while my soul doth hush\\nWith awe, pour forth that holy strain\\nWhich seemeth me to gush,\\nA fount of music, running o er\\nFrom thy deep spirit s inmost core", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0381.jp2"}, "382": {"fulltext": "358 THE DEPARTED.\\nThe melody that dwells in thee\\nBegets in me as well\\nA spiritual harmony,\\nA mild and blessed spell\\nFar, far above earth s atmosphere\\nI rise, whene er thy voice I hear.\\nTHE DEPARTED.\\nNot they alone are the departed.\\nWho have laid them down to sleep\\nIn the grave narrow and lonely,\\nNot for them only do I vigils keep,\\nNot for them only am I heavy-hearted,\\nNot for them only\\nMany, many, there are many\\nWho no more are with me here,\\nAs cherished, as beloved as any\\nWhom I have seen upon the bier.\\nI weep to think of those old faces,\\nTo see them in their grief or mirth\\nI weep\u00e2\u0080\u0094 for there are empty places\\nAround my heart s once crowded hearth\\nThe cold ground doth not cover them.\\nThe grass hath not grown over them.\\nYet are they gone from me on earth\\nhow more bitter is this weeping.\\nThan for those lost ones who are sleeping\\nWhere sun will shine and flowers blow,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0382.jp2"}, "383": {"fulltext": "THE DEPARTED. 359\\nWhere gentle winds will whisper low,\\nAnd the stars have them in their keeping\\nWherefore from me who loved you so,\\nwherefore did ye go\\n1 have shed full many a tear,\\nI have wrestled oft in prayer\\nBut ye do not come again\\nHow could anything so dear,\\nHow could anything so fair,\\nVanish like the summer rain\\nNo, no, it cannot be.\\nBut ye are still with me\\nAnd yet, where art thou,\\nChildhood, with sunny brow\\nAnd floating hair\\nWhere art thou hiding now\\nI have sought thee everywhere.\\nAll among the shrubs and flowers\\nOf those garden-walks of ours\\nThou art not there\\nWhen the shadow of Night s wings\\nHath darkened all the Earth,\\nI listen for thy gambolings\\nBeside the cheerful hearth\\nThou art not there\\nI listen to the far-off bell,\\nI murmur o er the little songs\\nWhich thou didst love so well,\\nPleasant memories come in throngs\\nAnd mine eyes are blurred with tears.\\nBut no glimpse of thee appears", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0383.jp2"}, "384": {"fulltext": "360 THE DEPARTED.\\nLonely am I in the AVinter, lonely in the Spring,\\nSummer and harvest bring no trace of thee\\nOh whither, whither art thou wandering.\\nThou who didst once so cleave to me\\nAnd love is gone\\nI have seen him come,\\nI have seen him, too, depart,\\nLeaving desolate his home.\\nHis bright home in my heart.\\nI am alone\\nCold, cold is his hearth-stone.\\nWide open stands the door\\nThe frolic and the gentle one\\nShall I see no more, no more\\nAt the fount the bowl is broken,\\nI shall drink it not again,\\nAll my longing prayers are spoken.\\nAnd felt, ah, woe is me, in vain\\nOh, childish hopes and childish fancies,\\nWhither have ye fled away\\nI long for you in mournful trances,\\nI long for you by night and day\\nBeautiful thoughts that once were mine.\\nMight I but win you back once more,\\nMight ye about my being twine\\nAnd cluster as ye did of yore\\ndo not let me pray in vain\\nHow good and happy I should be,\\nHow free from every shade of pain,\\nIf ye would come again to me\\n0, come again come, come again", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0384.jp2"}, "385": {"fulltext": "THE DEPARTED. 361\\nHath the sun forgot its brightness,\\nHave the stars forgot to shine.\\nThat they bring not their wonted lightness\\nTo this weary heart of mine\\n*T is not the sun that shone on thee,\\nHappy childhood, long ago\\nNot the same stars silently\\nLooking on the same bright snow\\nNot the same that Love and I\\nTogether watched in days gone by\\nNo, not the same, alas for me\\nWould God that those who early went\\nTo the house dark and low.\\nFor whom our mourning heads were bent,\\nFor whom our steps were slow\\n0, would that these alone had left us.\\nThat Fate of these alone had reft us,\\nWould God indeed that it were so\\nMany leaves too soon must wither,\\nMany flowers too soon must die.\\nMany bright ones wandering hither.\\nWe know not whence, we know not why.\\nLike the leaves and like the flowers.\\nVanish, ere the summer hours.\\nThat brought them to us, have gone by.\\nfor the hopes and for the feelings,\\nChildhood, that I shared with thee\\nThe high resolves, the bright revealings\\nOf the soul s might, which thou gav st me,\\nGentle Love, woe worth the day.\\nWoe worth the hour when thou wert born,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0385.jp2"}, "386": {"fulltext": "862 THE BOBOLINK.\\nWoe worth the day thou fled st away\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nA shade across the wind- waved corn\\nA dewdrop falling from the leaves\\nChance-shaken in a summer s morn\\nWoe, woe is me my sick heart grieves,\\nCompanionless and anguish-worn\\nI know it well, our manly years\\nMust be baptized in bitter tears\\nFull many fountains must run dry\\nThat youth has dreamed for long hours by.\\nChoked by convention s siroc blast\\nOr drifting sands of many cares\\nSlowly they leave us all at last.\\nAnd cease their flowing unawares.\\nTHE BOBOLINK.\\nAjs ACREON of the meadow,\\nDrunk with the joy of spring\\nBeneath the tall pine s voiceful shadow\\nI lie and drink thy jargoning\\nMy soul is full with melodies,\\nOne drop would overflow it.\\nAnd send the tears into mine eyes\\nBut what car st thou to know it\\nThy heart is free as mountain air.\\nAnd of thy lays thou hast no care.\\nScattering them gayly everywhere,\\nHappy, unconscious poet\\nUpon a tuft of meadow grass.\\nWhile thy loved-one tends the nest,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0386.jp2"}, "387": {"fulltext": "THE BOBOLINK. 363\\nThou swayest as the breezes pass,\\nUnburthening thine o erfull breast\\nOf the crowded songs that fill it.\\nJust as joy may choose to will it.\\nLord of thy love and libert}.\\nThe blithest bird of merry May,\\nThou turnest thy bright eyes on me.\\nThat say as plain as eye can say x.\\nHere sit we, here in the summer weather,\\nI and my modest mate together\\nWhatever your wise thoughts may be.\\nUnder that gloomy old pine tree.\\nWe do not value them a feather/\\nXow, leaving earth and me benind.\\nThou beatest up against the wind,\\nOr, floating slowly down before it.\\nAbove thy grass-hid nest thou flutterest\\nAnd thy bridal love-song utterest,\\nRaining showers of music o er it,\\nWeary never, still thou thrillest.\\nSpring-gladsome lays,\\nAs of moss-rimmed water-brooks\\nMurmuring through pebbly nooks\\nIn quiet summer days.\\nMy heart with happiness thou fillest,\\nI seem again to be a boy\\nAVatching thee, gay, blithesome lover.\\nO er the bending grass-tops hover.\\nQuivering thy wings for joy.\\nThere s something in the apple-blossom,\\nThe greening grass and bobolink s song,\\nThat wakes again within my bosom", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0387.jp2"}, "388": {"fulltext": "364 THE BOBOLINK.\\nFeelings which have slumbered long.\\nAs long, long years ago I wandered,\\nI seem to wander even yet,\\nThe hours the idle school-boy squandered.\\nThe man would die ere he^d forget.\\nhours that frosty eld deemed wasted,\\nNodding his gray head toward my books,\\n1 dearer prize the lore I tasted\\nWith you, among the trees and brooks.\\nThan all that I have gained since then\\nFrom learned books or study-withered men\\nNature, thy soul was one with mine.\\nAnd, as a sister by a younger brother\\nIs loved, each flowing to the other.\\nSuch love for me was thine.\\nOr wert thou not more like a loving mother\\nWith sympathy and loving power to heal.\\nAgainst whose heart my throbbing heart I d lay\\nAnd moan my childish sorrows all away.\\nTill calm and holiness would o er me steal\\nWas not the golden sunset a dear friend\\nFound I no kindness in the silent moon.\\nAnd the green trees, whose tops did sway and bend.\\nLow singing evermore their pleasant tune\\nFelt I no heart in dim and solemn woods\\nNo loved-one s voice in lonely solitudes\\nYes, yes unhoodwinked then my spirit s eyes,\\nBlind leaders had not taught me to be wise.\\nDear hours which now again I over-live,\\nHearing and seeing with the ears and eyes\\nOf childhood, ye were bees, that to the hive\\nQf my young heart came laden with rich prize^", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0388.jp2"}, "389": {"fulltext": "THE BOBOLINK. 365\\nGathered in fields and woods and sunny dells, to be\\nMy spirit s food in days more wintery.\\nYea, yet again ye come ye come\\nAnd, like a child once more at home\\nAfter long sojourning in alien climes,\\nI lie upon my mother s breast.\\nFeeling the blessedness of rest,\\nAnd dwelling in the light of other times.\\nye whose living is not LifCy\\nWhose dying is but death.\\nSong, empty toil and petty strife,\\nBounded with loss of breath\\nGo, look on Nature s countenance,\\nDrink in the blessing of her glance\\nLook on the sunset, hear the wind.\\nThe cataract, the awful thunder\\nGo, worship by the sea\\nThen, and then only, shall ye find,\\nWith ever-growing wonder,\\nMan is not all in all to ye\\nGo with a meek and humble soul.\\nThen shall the scales of self unroll\\nFrom off your eyes the weary packs\\nDrop from your heavy-laden backs\\nAnd ye shall see.\\nWith reverent and hopeful eyes.\\nGlowing with new-born energies.\\nHow great a thing it is to be", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0389.jp2"}, "390": {"fulltext": "366 SONG.\\nFORGETFULNESS.\\nThere s a haven of sure rest\\nFrom the loud world s bewildering stress\\nAs a bird dreaming on her nest,\\nAs dew hid in a rose s breast,\\nAs Hesper in the glowing West\\nSo the heart sleeps\\nIn thy calm deeps,\\nSerene Forgetfulness\\nNo sorrow in that place may be.\\nThe noise of life grows less and less\\nAs moss far down within the sea,\\nAs, in white lily caves, a bee.\\nAs life in a hazy reverie\\nSo the heart s wave\\nIn thy dim cave.\\nHushes, Forgetfulness\\nDuty and care fade far away\\nWhat toil may be we cannot guess\\nAs a ship anchored in the bay.\\nAs a cloud at summer-noon astray,\\nAs water-blooms in a breezeless day\\nSo, neath thine eyes.\\nThe full heart lies,\\nAnd dreams, Forgetfulness\\nSONG.\\nI.\\nWhat reck I of the stars, when I\\nMay gaze into thine eyes,\\nO er which the brown hair flowingly\\nIs parted niaidenwise", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0390.jp2"}, "391": {"fulltext": "THE POET. 367\\nFrom thy pale forehead, calm and bright,\\nOver thy cheeks so rosy white\\nII.\\nWhat care I for the red moon-rise\\nFar liefer would I sit\\nAnd watch the joy within thine eyes\\nGush up at sight of it\\nThyself my queenly moon shall be,\\nRuling my heart s deep tides for me\\nIII.\\nWhat heed I if the sky be blue\\nSo are thy holy eyes.\\nAnd bright with shadows ever new\\nOf changeful sympathies.\\nWhich in thy soul s unruffled deep\\nRest evermore, but never sleep.\\nTHE POET.\\nHe who hath felt Life s mystery\\nPress on him like thick night.\\nWhose soul hath known no history\\nBut struggling after light\\nHe who hath seen dim shapes arise\\nIn the soundless depths of soul.\\nWhich gaze on him with meaning eyes\\nFull of the mighty whole,\\nYet will no word of healing speak.\\nAlthough he pray night-long,\\n0, help me, save me I am weak.\\nAnd ye are wondrous strong", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0391.jp2"}, "392": {"fulltext": "36b THE POET.\\nWho, in the midnight dark and deep.\\nHath felt a voice of might\\nCome echoing through the halls of sleep\\nFrom the lone heart of Night,\\nAnd, starting from his restless bed,\\nHath watched and wept to know\\nWhat meant that oracle of dread\\nThat stirred his being so\\nHe who hath felt how strong and great\\nThis Godlike soul of man,\\nAnd looked full in the eyes of Fate,\\nSince Life and Thought began\\nThe armor of whose moveless trust\\nKnoweth no spot of weakness.\\nWho hath trod fear into the dust\\nBeneath the feet of meekness\\nHe who hath calmly borne his cross.\\nKnowing himself the king\\nOf time, nor counted it a loss\\nTo learn by suffering\\nAnd who hath worshipped woman still\\nWith a pure soul and lowly,\\nNor ever hath in deed or will\\nProfaned her temple holy\\nHe is the Poet, him unto\\nThe gift of song is given,\\nWhose life is lofty, strong, and true,\\nWho never fell from Heaven\\nHe is the Poet, from his lips\\nTo live forevermore,\\nMajestical as full-sailed ships.\\nThe words of Wisdom pour.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0392.jp2"}, "393": {"fulltext": "FLOWERS. 369\\nFLOWERS.\\nHail be thou, holie hearbe,\\nGrowing on the ground,\\nAll in the mount Calvary\\nFirst wert thou found\\nThou art good for manie a sore,\\nThou healest manie a wound,\\nIn the name of sweete Jesus\\nI take thee from the ground.\\nAncient Charm-verse,\\nI.\\nvVhen, from a pleasant ramble, home\\nFresh-stored with quiet thoughts, I come,\\nI pluck some wayside flower\\nAnd press it in the choicest nook\\nOf a much-loved and oft-read book\\nAnd, when upon its leaves I look\\nIn a less happy hour.\\nDear memory bears me far away\\nUnto her fairy bower.\\nAnd on her breast my head I lay,\\nWhile, in a motherly, sweet strain,\\nShe sings me gently back again\\nTo by-gone feelings, until they\\nSeem children born of yesterday.\\nII.\\nYes, many a story of past hours\\nI read in these dear withered flowers,\\nAnd once again I seem to be\\nLying beneath the old oak tree,\\n24", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0393.jp2"}, "394": {"fulltext": "37\u00c2\u00a9 FLOWERS.\\nAnd looking up into the sky,\\nThrough thick leaves rifted fitfully.\\nLulled by the rustling of the vine,\\nOr the faint low of far-off kine\\nAnd once again I seem\\nTo watch the whirling bubbles flee,\\nThrough shade and gleam alternately,\\nDown the vine-bowered stream\\nOr neath the odorous linden trees.\\nWhen summer twilight lingers long,\\nTo hear the flowing of the breeze\\nAnd unseen insects slumberous song.\\nThat mingle into one and seem\\nLike dim murmurs of a dream\\nFair faces, too, I seem to see,\\nSmiling from pleasant eyes at me.\\nAnd voices sweet I hear.\\nThat, like remembered melody.\\nFlow through my spirit s ear.\\nA poem every flower is,\\nAnd every leaf a line.\\nAnd with delicious memories\\nThey fill this heart of mine\\nNo living blossoms are so clear\\nAs these dead relics treasured here\\nOne tells of love, of friendship one,\\nLove s quiet after-sunset time.\\nWhen the all-dazzling light is gone.\\nAnd, with the soul s low vesper-chime.\\nO er half its heaven doth out-flow", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0394.jp2"}, "395": {"fulltext": "FLOWERS. 371\\nA holy calm and steady glow.\\nSome are gay feast-soDg, some are dirges,\\nIn some a joy with sorrow merges\\nOne sings the shadowed woods, and one\\nthe roar\\nOf ocean s everlasting surges.\\nTumbling upon the beach s hard-beat floor,\\nOr sliding backward from the shore\\nTo meet the landward waves and slowly\\nplunge once more.\\nflowers of grace, I bless ye all\\nBy the dear faces ye recall\\nIV.\\nUpon the banks of Life s deep streams\\nFull many a flower grows\\nWhich with a wondrous fragrance teems,\\nAnd in the silent water gleams,\\nAnd trembles as the water floweth.\\nMany a one the wave upteareth,\\nWashing ever the roots away.\\nAnd far upon its bosom beareth,\\nTo bloom no more in Youth s glad May\\nAs farther on the river runs.\\nFlowing more deep and strong.\\nOnly a few pale, scattered ones\\nAre seen the dreary banks along\\nAnd where those flowers do not grow,\\nThe river floweth dark and chill,\\nIts voice is sad, and with its flow\\nMingles ever a sense of ill\\nThen, Poet, thou who gather dost\\nOf Life s best flowers the brightest,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0395.jp2"}, "396": {"fulltext": "372 FLOWERS.\\n0, take good heed they be not lost\\nWhile with the angry flood thou fightest\\nV.\\nIn the cool grottos of the soul.\\nWhence flows thought s crystal river,\\nWhence songs of joy forever roll\\nTo Him who is the Giver\\nThere store thou them, where fresh and\\ngreen\\nTheir leaves and blossoms may be seen,\\nA spring of joy that faileth never\\nThere store thou them, and they shall be\\nA blessing and a peace to thee,\\nAnd in their youth and purity\\nThou shalt be young forever\\nThen, with their fragrance rich and rare.\\nThy living shall be rife.\\nStrength shall be thine thy cross to bear.\\nAnd they shall be a chaplet fair,\\nBreathing a pure and holy air,\\nTo crown thy holy life.\\nVI.\\nPoet above all men blest.\\nTake heed that thus thou store them\\nLove, Hope, and Faith shall ever rest.\\nSweet birds (upon how sweet a nest\\nWatchfully brooding o er them.\\nAnd from those flowers of Paradise\\nScatter thou many a blessed seed,\\nWHerefrom an offspring may arise", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0396.jp2"}, "397": {"fulltext": "FLOWERS. 373\\nTo cheer the hearts and light the eyes\\nOf after-voyagers in their need.\\nThey shall not fall on stony ground,\\nBut, yielding all their hundred-fold.\\nShall shed a peacefulness around.\\nWhose strengthening joy may not be told,\\nSo shall thy name be blest of all.\\nAnd thy remembrance never die\\nFor of that seed shall surely fall\\nIn the fair garden of Eternity.\\nExult then in the nobleness\\nOf this thy work so holy,\\nYet be not thou one jot the less\\nHumble and meek and lowly.\\nBut let thine exultation be\\nThe reverence of a bended knee\\nAnd by thy life a poem write.\\nBuilt strongly day by day\\nAnd on the rock of Truth and Right\\nIts deep foundations lay.\\nVII.\\nIt is thy DUTY Guard it well\\nEor unto thee hath much been given.\\nAnd thou canst make this life a Hell,\\nOr JacobVladder up to Heaven.\\nLet not thy baptism in Life s wave\\nMake thee like him whom Homer sings\\nA sleeper in a living grave.\\nCallous and hard to outward things\\nBut open all thy soul and sense\\nTo every blessed influence\\nThat from the heart of Nature springs", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0397.jp2"}, "398": {"fulltext": "374: THE LOVER.\\nThen shall thy Lif e-fiowers be to thee.\\nWhen thy best years are told,\\nAs much as these have been to me\\nYea, more, a thousand-fold\\nTHE LOVER.\\nI.\\nGo from the world from East to West,\\nSearch every land beneath the sky.\\nYou cannot find a man so blest,\\nA king so powerful as I,\\nThough you should seek eternally.\\nII.\\nFor I a gentle lover be,\\nSitting at my loved-one s side\\nShe giveth her whole soul to me\\nWithout a wish or thought of pride.\\nAnd she shall be my cherished bride.\\nIII.\\nNo show of gaudiness hath she,\\nShe doth not flash with jewels rare\\nIn beautiful simplicity\\nShe weareth leafy garlands fair.\\nOr modest flowers in her hair.\\nIV.\\nSometimes she dons a robe of green.\\nSometimes a robe of snowy white.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0398.jp2"}, "399": {"fulltext": "TO E. W. G. 375\\nBut, in whatever garb she s seen,\\nIt seems most beautiful and right.\\nAnd is the loveliest to my sight.\\nV.\\nNot I her lover am alone.\\nYet unto all she doth suffice.\\nNone jealous is, and every one\\nReads love and truth within her eyes.\\nAnd deemeth her his own dear prize.\\nVI.\\nAnd so thou art. Eternal Nature\\nYes, bride of Heaven, so thou art\\nThou wholly loves t every creature.\\nGiving to each no stinted part.\\nBut filling every peaceful heart.\\nTO E. W. G.\\n^Dear Child dear happy Girl if thou appear\\nHeedless untouched with awe or serious thought.\\nThy nature is not therefore less divine\\nThou liest in Abraham s bosom all the year\\nAnd worship st at the Templets inner shrine,\\nGod being with thee when we know it not.\\nWordsworth,\\nAs through a strip of sunny light\\nA white dove flashes swiftly on,\\nSo suddenly before my sight\\nThou gleamed st a moment and wert gone\\nAnd yet I long shall bear in mind\\nThe pleasant thoughts thou leftist behind.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0399.jp2"}, "400": {"fulltext": "376 TO E. W. G.\\nThou mad^st me happy with thine eyes.\\nAnd happy with thine open smile,\\nAnd, as I write, sweet memories\\nCome thronging round me all the while\\nThou mad st me happy with thine eyes\\nAnd gentle feelings long forgot\\nLooked up and oped their eyes.\\nLike violets when they see a spot\\nOf summer in the skies.\\nAround thy playful lips did glitter\\nHeat-lightnings of a girlish scorn\\nHarmless they were, for nothing bitter\\nIn thy dear heart was ever born\\nThat merry heart that could not lie\\nWithin its warm nest quietly.\\nBut ever from each full, dark eye\\nWas looking kindly night and morn.\\nThere was an archness in thine eyes.\\nBorn of the gentlest mockeries.\\nAnd thy light laughter rang as clear\\nAs water-drops I loved to hear\\nIn days of boyhood, as they fell\\nTinkling far down the dim, still well\\nAnd with its sound come back once more\\nThe feelings of my early years.\\nAnd half aloud I murmured o er\\nSure I have heard that sound before.\\nIt is so pleasant in mine ears.\\nWhenever thou didst look on me\\nI thought of merry birds,\\nAnd something of spring s melody", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0400.jp2"}, "401": {"fulltext": "TO E. W. G. 377\\nCame to me in thy words\\nThy thoughts did dance and bound along\\nLike happy children in their play.\\nWhose hearts run over into song\\nFor gladness of the summer s day\\nAnd mine grew dizzy with the sight.\\nStill feeling lighter and more light.\\nTill, joining hands, they whirled away.\\nAs blithe and merrily as they.\\nI bound a larch-twig round with flowers.\\nWhich thou didst twine among thy hair.\\nAnd gladsome were the few, short hours\\nWhen I was with thee there\\nSo now that thou art far away.\\nSafe-nestled in thy warmer clime.\\nIn memory of a happier day\\nI twine this simple wreath of rhyme.\\nDost mind how she, whom thou dost love\\nMore than in light words may be said.\\nA coronal of amaranth wove\\nAbout thy duly-sobered head.\\nWhich kept itself a moment still\\nThat she might have her gentle will\\nThy childlike grace and purity\\nkeep forevermore.\\nAnd as thou art, still strive to be,\\nThat on the farther shore\\nOf time s dark waters ye may meet.\\nAnd she may twine around thy brow\\nA wreath of those bright flowers that grow\\nWhere blessed angels set their feet", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0401.jp2"}, "402": {"fulltext": "378 ISABEL.\\nISABEL.\\nAs THE leaf upon the tree.\\nFluttering, gleaming constantly,\\nSuch a lightsome thing was she,\\nMy gray and gentle Isabel I\\nHer heart was fed with love-springs sweet.\\nAnd in her face you d see it beat\\nTo hear the sound of welcome feet\\nAnd were not mine so, Isabel\\nShe knew it not, but she was fair.\\nAnd like a moonbeam was her hair.\\nThat falls where flowing ripples are\\nIn summer evenings, Isabel\\nHer heart and tongue were scarce apart.\\nUnwittingly her lips would part.\\nAnd love came gushing from her heart.\\nThe woman^s heart of Isabel.\\nSo pure her flesh-garb, and like dew.\\nThat in her features glimmered through\\nEach working of her spirit true.\\nIn wondrous beauty, Isabel\\nA sunbeam struggling through thick leaves,\\nA reaper^s song mid yellow sheaves.\\nLess gladsome were my spirit grieves\\nTo think of thee, mild Isabel\\nI know not when I loved thee first\\nNot loving, I had been accurst.\\nYet, having loved, my heart will burst.\\nLonging for thee, dear Isabel", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0402.jp2"}, "403": {"fulltext": "MUSIC. 379\\nWith silent tears mv cheeks are wet,\\nI would be calm, I would forget.\\nBut thy blue eyes gaze on me yet.\\nWhen stars have risen, Isabel.\\nThe winds mourn for thee, Isabel,\\nThe flowers expect thee in the dell.\\nThy gentle spirit loved them well.\\nAnd I for thy sake, Isabel\\nThe sunsets seem less lovely now\\nThan when, leaf checkered, on thy brow\\nThey fell as lovingly as thou\\nLingered^st till moon-rise, Isabel\\nAt dead of night I seem to see\\nThy fair, pale features constantly\\nUpturned in silent prayer for me.\\nO er moveless clasped hands, Isabel\\nI call thee, thou dost not reply\\nThe stars gleam coldly on thine eye.\\nAs like a dream thou flittest by.\\nAnd leav st me weeping, Isabel\\nMUSIC.\\nT.\\nI SEEM to lie with drooping eyes,\\nDreaming sweet dreams.\\nHalf longings and half memories.\\nIn woods where streams\\nWith trembling shades and whirling gleams.\\nMany and bright,\\nIn song and light.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0403.jp2"}, "404": {"fulltext": "380 MUSIC.\\nAre ever, ever flowing\\nWhile the wind, if we list to the rustling grass,\\nWhich numbers his footsteps as they pass,\\nSeems scarcely to be blowing\\nAnd the far-heard voice of Spring,\\nFrom sunny slopes comes wandering.\\nCalling the violets from the sleep,\\nThat bound them under the snow-drifts deep.\\nTo open their childlike, asking eyes\\nOn the new summer s paradise.\\nAnd mingled with the gurgling waters\\nAs the dreamy witchery\\nOf Achelous silver-voiced daughters\\nRose and fell with the heaving sea.\\nWhose great heart swelled with ecstasy\\nThe song of many a floating bird.\\nWinding through the rifted trees.\\nIs dreamily half-heard\\nA sister stream of melodies\\nRippled by* the flutterings\\nOf rapture-quivered wings.\\nII.\\nAnd now beside a cataract\\nI lie, and through my soul.\\nFrom over me and under.\\nThe never-ceasing thunder\\nArousingly doth roll\\nThrough the darkness all compact.\\nThrough the trackless sea of gloom.\\nSad and deep T hear it boom\\nAt intervals the cloud is cracked", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0404.jp2"}, "405": {"fulltext": "MUSIC. 381\\nAnd a livid flash doth hiss\\nDownward from its floating home,\\nLighting up the precipice\\nAnd the never-resting foam\\nWith a dim and ghastly glare.\\nWhich, for a heart-beat, in the air,\\nShows the sweeping shrouds\\nOf the midnight clouds\\nAnd their wildly-scattered hair.\\nIII.\\nNow listening to a woman s tone,\\nIn a wood I sit alone\\nAlone because our souls are one\\nAll around my heart it flows.\\nLulling me in deep repose\\nI fear to speak, I fear to move.\\nLest I should break the spell I love\\nLow and gentle, calm and clear.\\nInto my inmost soul it goes.\\nAs if my brother dear,\\nWho is no longer here.\\nHad bended from the sky\\nAnd murmured in my ear\\nA strain of that high harmony.\\nWhich they may sing alone\\nWho worship round the throne.\\nIV.\\nNow in a fairy boat.\\nOn the bright waves of song,\\nPull merrily I float.\\nMerrily float along", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0405.jp2"}, "406": {"fulltext": "382 MUSIC.\\nMy helm is veered, I care not how,\\nMy white sail bellies over me.\\nAnd bright as gold the ripples be\\nThat plash beneath the bow\\nBefore, behind.\\nThey feel the wind.\\nAnd they are dancing joyonsly\\nWhile, faintly heard, along the far-off shore\\nThe surf goes plunging with a lingering roar\\nOr anchored in a shadowy cove.\\nEntranced with harmonies.\\nSlowly I sink and rise\\nAs the slow waves of music move.\\nY.\\nNow softly dashing.\\nBabbling, plashing.\\nMazy, dreamy.\\nFaint and streamy.\\nRipples into ripples melt.\\nNot so strongly heard as felt\\nNow rapid and quick.\\nWhile the heart beats thick.\\nThe music^ s silver wavelets crowd,\\nDistinct and clear, but never loud\\nAnd now all solemnly and slow.\\nIn mild, deep tones they warble low.\\nLike the glad song of angels, when\\nThey sang good will and peace to men\\nNow faintly heard and far,\\nAs if the spirit s ears\\nHad caught the anthem of a star", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0406.jp2"}, "407": {"fulltext": "MUSIC. 383\\nChanting with his brother-spheres\\nIn the midnight dark and deep.\\nWhen the body is asleep\\nAnd wondrous shadows pour in streams\\nFrom the twofold gate of dreams\\nNow onward roll the billows, swelling\\nWith a tempest-sound of might.\\nAs of voices doom foretelling\\nTo the silent ear of Night\\nAnd now a mingled ecstasy\\nOf all sweet sounds it is\\nwho may tell the agony\\nOf rapture such as this\\nVI.\\nI have drunk of the drink of immortals,\\n1 have drunk of the life-giving wine.\\nAnd now I may pass the bright portals\\nThat open into a realm divine\\nI have drunk it through mine ears\\nIn the ecstasy of song,\\nWhen mine eyes would fill with tears\\nThat its life were not more long\\nI have drunk it through mine eyes\\nIn beauty s every shape.\\nAnd now around my soul it lies.\\nNo juice of earthly grape\\nWings wings are given to me,\\nI can flutter, I can rise.\\nLike a new life gushing through me\\nSweep the heavenly harmonies I", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0407.jp2"}, "408": {"fulltext": "384 SONG.\\nSONG.\\nI MUST look on that sweet face once more before I\\ndie\\nGod grant that it may lighten up with joy when I draw\\nnigh;\\nGod grant that she may look on me as kindly as she\\nseems\\nIn the long night, the restless night, i the sunny land\\nof dreams\\n1 hoped, I thought, she loved me once, and yet, I know\\nnot why.\\nThere is a coldness in her speech, and a coldness in her\\neye.\\nSomething that in another s look would not seem cold\\nto me.\\nAnd yet like ice I feel it chill the heart of memory.\\nShe does not come to greet me so frankly as she did.\\nAnd in her utmost openness I feel there s something\\nhid;\\nShe almost seems to shun me, as if she thought that I\\nMight win her gentle heart again to feelings long\\ngone by.\\nI sought the first spring-buds for her, the fairest and\\nthe best.\\nAnd she wore them for their loveliness upon her spot^\\nless breast,\\nThe blood-root and the violet, the frail anemone.\\nShe wore them, and alas I deemed it was for love of\\nme", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0408.jp2"}, "409": {"fulltext": "SONG. 385\\nAs flowers in a darksome place stretch forward to the\\nlight.\\nSo to the memory of her I turn hy day and night\\nAs flowers in a darksome place grow thin and pale and\\nwan,\\nSo is it with my darkened heart, now that her light is\\ngone.\\nThe thousand little things that love doth treasure up\\nfor aye.\\nAnd brood upon with moistened eyes when she that s\\nloved s away,\\nThe word, the look, the smile, the blush, the ribbon\\nthat she wore.\\nEach day they grow more dear to me, and pain me\\nmore and more.\\nMy face I cover with my hands, and bitterly I weep.\\nThat the quick-gathering sands of life should choke a\\nlove so deep,\\nAnd that the stream, so pure and bright, must turn it\\nfrom its track.\\nOr to the heart-springs, whence it rose, roll its full\\nwaters back\\nAs calm as doth the lily float close by the lakelet s\\nbrim.\\nSo calm and spotless, down time s stream, her peaceful\\ndays did swim.\\nAnd I had longed, and dreamed, and prayed, that\\nclosely by her side,\\nDown to a haven still and sure, my happy life might\\nglide.\\n25", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0409.jp2"}, "410": {"fulltext": "386 lANTHE.\\nBut now, alas those golden days of youth and hope\\nare o er,\\nAnd I must dream those dreams of joy, those guiltless\\ndreams no more\\nYet there is something in my heart that whispers\\nceaselessly,\\nWould God that I might see that face once more\\nbefore I die\\ny\\nlANTHE.\\nThere is a light within her eyes.\\nLike gleams of wandering fire-flies\\nFrom light to shade it leaps and moves\\nWhenever in her soul arise\\nThe holy shapes of things she loves\\nFitful it shines and changes ever.\\nLike star-lit ripples on a river.\\nOr summer sunshine on the eaves\\nOf silver-trembling poplar leaves,\\nWhere the lingering dew-drops quiver.\\nI may not tell the blessedness\\nHer mild eyes send to mine,\\nThe sunset-tinted haziness\\nOf their mysterious shine.\\nThe dim and holy mournfulness\\nOf their mellow light divine\\nThe shadow of the lashes lie\\nOver them so lovingly,\\nThat they seem to melt away\\nIn a doubtful twilight-gray.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0410.jp2"}, "411": {"fulltext": "lANTHE. 387\\nWhile I watch the stars arise\\nIn the evening of her eyes,\\n1 love it, yet I almost dread\\nTo think what it foresliadoweth\\nAnd, when I mnse how I have read\\nThat such strange light betokened death\\nInstead of fire-fly gleams, I see\\nWild corpse- lights gliding waver ingly.\\n11.^\\nWith wayward thoughts her eyes are bright.\\nLike shiftings of the northern-light.\\nHither, thither, swiftly glance they.\\nIn a mazy twining dance they,\\nLike ripply lights the sunshine weaves.\\nThrown backward from a shaken nook.\\nBelow some tumbling water-brook.\\nOn the overarching platan-leaves,\\nAll through her glowing face they flit.\\nAnd rest in their deep dwelling-place.\\nThose fathomless blue eyes of hers,\\nTill, from her burning soul re-lit.\\nWhile her upheaving bosom stirs.\\nThey stream again across her face\\nAnd with such hope and glory fill it,\\nDeath could not have the heart to chill it.\\nYet when their wild light fades again,\\nI feel a sudden sense of pain.\\nAs if, while yet her eyes were gleaming.\\nAnd like a shower of sun-lit rain\\nBright fancies from her face were streaming.\\nHer trembling soul might flit away\\nAs swift and suddenly as they.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0411.jp2"}, "412": {"fulltext": "388 lANTHE.\\nIII.\\nA wild, inspired earnestness\\nHer inmost being fills.\\nAnd eager self-forgetf ulness,\\nThat speaks not what it wills,\\nBut what unto her soul is given,\\nA living oracle from Heaven,\\nWhich scarcely in her breast is born\\nWhen on her trembling lips it thrills.\\nAnd, like a burst of golden skies\\nThrough storm-clouds on a sudden torn.\\nLike a glory of the morn.\\nBeams marvellously from her eyes.\\nAnd then, like a Spring-swollen river.\\nRoll the deep waves of her full-hearted thought\\nCrested with sun-lit spray.\\nHer wild lips curve and quiver.\\nAnd my rapt soul, on the strong tide npcaught,\\nUnwittingly is borne away.\\nLulled by a dreamful music ever.\\nFar through the solemn twilight-gray\\nOf hoary woods through valleys green\\nWhich the trailing vine embowers,\\nAnd where the purple-clustered grapes are seen\\nDeep-glowing through rich clumps of waving flowers-\\nNow over foaming rapids swept\\nAnd with maddening rapture shook\\nNow gliding where the water-plants have slept\\nFor ages in a moss-rimmed nook\\nEnwoven by a wild-eyed band\\nOf earth-forgetting dreams,\\nI float to a delicious land", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0412.jp2"}, "413": {"fulltext": "lANTHE. 389\\nBy a sunset heaven spanned,\\nAnd musical with streams\\nAround, the calm, majestic forms\\nAnd god-like eyes of early Greece I see.\\nOr listen, till my spirit warms,\\nTo songs of courtly chivalry.\\nOr weep, unmindful if my tears be seen.\\nFor the meek, suffering love of poor Undine.\\nIV.\\nHer thoughts are never memories,\\nBut ever changeful, ever new,\\nFresh and beautiful as dew\\nThat in a dell at noontide lies.\\nOr, at the close of summer day.\\nThe pleasant breath of new-mown hay\\nSwiftly they come and pass\\nAs golden birds across the sun,\\nAs light-gleams on tall meadow-grass\\nWhich the wind just breathes upon.\\nAnd when she speaks, her eyes I see\\nDown-gushing through their silken lattices.\\nLike stars that quiver tremblingly\\nThrough leafy branches of the trees.\\nAnd her pale cheeks do flush and glow\\nWith speaking flashes bright and rare\\nAs crimson North-lights on new-fallen snow.\\nFrom out the veiling of her hair\\nHer careless hair that scatters down\\nOn either side her eyes,\\nA waterfall leaf-tinged with brown\\nAnd lit with the sunrise.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0413.jp2"}, "414": {"fulltext": "390 lANTHE.\\nV.\\nWhen first I saw her, not of earth,\\nBut heavenly both in grief and mirth,\\nI thought her she did seem\\nAs fair and full of mystery,\\nAs bodiless, as forms we see\\nIn the rememberings of a dream\\nA moon-lit mist, a strange, dim light.\\nCircled her spirit from my sight\\nEach day more beautiful she grew.\\nMore earthly every day.\\nYet that mysterious, moony hue\\nFaded not all away\\nShe has a sister s sympathy\\nWith all the wanderers of the sky,\\nBut most I ve seen her bosom stir\\nWhen moonlight round her fell.\\nFor the mild moon it loveth her,\\nShe loveth it as well.\\nAnd of their love perchance this grace\\nWas born into her wondrous face.\\nI cannot tell how it may be.\\nFor both, methinks, can scarce be true.\\nStill, as she earthly grew to me.\\nShe grew more heavenly too\\nShe seems one born in Heaven\\nWith earthly feelings.\\nFor, while unto her soul are given\\nMore pure revealings\\nOf holiest love and truth,\\nYet is the mildness of her eyes\\nMade up of quickest sympathies.\\nOf kindliness and ruth j", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0414.jp2"}, "415": {"fulltext": "lANTHE. 391\\nSo, though some shade of awe doth stir\\nOur souls for one so far above us.\\nWe feel secure that she will love us,\\nAnd cannot keep from loving her.\\nShe is a poem, which to me\\nIn speech and look is written bright,\\nAnd to her life s rich harmony\\nDoth ever sing itself aright\\nDear, glorious creature\\nWith eyes so dewy bright,\\nAnd tenderest feeling\\nItself revealing\\nIn every look and feature.\\nWelcome as a homestead light\\nTo one long-wandering in a clouded night\\n0, lovelier for her woman s weakness.\\nWhich yet is strongly mailed\\nIn armor of courageous meekness\\nAnd faith that never failed\\nVI.\\nEarly and late, at her soul s gate.\\nSits Chastity in warderwise,\\nNo thoughts unchallenged, small or great.\\nGo thence into her eyes\\nNor may a low, unworthy thought\\nBeyond that virgin warder win.\\nNor one, whose password is not oughts\\nMay go without or enter in.\\nI call her, seeing those pure eyes.\\nThe Eve of a new Paradise,\\nWhich she by gentle word and deed.\\nAnd look no less, doth still create", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0415.jp2"}, "416": {"fulltext": "!92 LOVE S ALTAR.\\nAbout her, for her great thoughts breed\\nA calm that lifts us from our fallen state,\\nAnd makes us while with her both good and great-\\nNor is their memory wanting in our need\\nWith stronger loving, every hour,\\nTurneth my heart to this frail flower,\\nWhich, thoughtless of the world, hath grown\\nTo beauty and meek gentleness.\\nHere in a fair world of its own\\nBy woman s instinct trained alone\\nA lily fair which God did bless,\\nAnd which from Nature s heart did draw\\nLove, wisdom, peace, and Heaven s perfect law.\\nLOVE S ALTAR.\\nI.\\nI BUILT an altar in my soul,\\nI build ed it to one alone\\nAnd ever silently I stole.\\nIn happy days of long-agone.\\nTo make rich offerings to that o:n E.\\nII.\\nT was garlanded with purest thought.\\nAnd crowned with fancy s flowers bright.\\nWith choicest gems t was all inwrought\\nOf truth and feeling in my sight\\nIt seemed a spot of cloudless light.\\nIII.\\nYet when I made my offering there.\\nLike Cain s, the incense would not rise", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0416.jp2"}, "417": {"fulltext": "IViY LOVE. 393\\nBack on ray heart down-sank the prayer.\\nAnd altar-stone and sacrifice\\nGrew hateful in my tear-dimmed eyes.\\nIV.\\nO er-grown with age s mosses green,\\nThe little altar firmly stands\\nIt is not, as it once hath been,\\nA selfish shrine these time-taught hands\\nBring incense now from many lands.\\nY.\\nKnowledge doth only widen love\\nThe stream, that lone and narrow rose.\\nDoth, deepening ever, onward move.\\nAnd with an even current flows\\nCalmer and calmer to the close.\\nVI.\\nThe love, that in those early days\\nGirt round my spirit like a wall,\\nHath faded like a morning haze.\\nAnd flames, unpent by self s mean thrall.\\nRise clearly to the perfect all.\\nMY LOVE.\\nI.\\nNot as all other women are\\nIs she that to my soul is dear\\nHer glorious fancies come from far\\nBeneath the silver evening-star,\\nAnd yet her heart is ever near.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0417.jp2"}, "418": {"fulltext": "394 MY LOVE.\\nII.\\nGreat feelings hath she of her own\\nWhich lesser souls may never know\\nGod giveth them to her alone.\\nAnd sweet they are as any tone\\nWherewith the wind may choose to blow.\\nIII.\\nYet in herself she dwelleth not.\\nAlthough no home were half so fair,\\nNo simplest duty is forgot.\\nLife hath no dim and lowly spot\\nThat doth not in her sunshine share.\\nIV.\\nShe doeth little kindnesses.\\nWhich most leave undone, or despise.\\nFor naught that sets one heart at ease.\\nAnd giveth happiness or peace,\\nIs low-esteemed in her eyes.\\nV.\\nShe hath no scorn of common things,\\nAnd, though she seem of other birth,\\nKound us her heart entwines and clings.\\nAnd patiently she folds her wings\\nTo tread the humble paths of earth.\\nYi.\\nBlessing she is God made her so,\\nAnd deeds of week-day holiness\\nFall from her noiseless as the snow.\\nNor hath she ever chanced to know\\nThat aught were easier than to bless.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0418.jp2"}, "419": {"fulltext": "MY LOVE. 395\\nVII.\\nShe is most fair, and thereunto\\nHer life doth rightly harmonize\\nFeeling or thought that was not true\\nNe er made less beautiful the blue\\nUnclouded heaven of her eyes.\\nVIII.\\nOn Nature she doth muse and brood\\nWith such a still and love-clear eye\\nShe is so gentle and so good\\nThe very flowers in the wood\\nDo bless her with their sympathy.\\nIX.\\nShe is a woman one in whom\\nThe spring-time of her childish years\\nHath never lost its fresh perfume.\\nThough knowing well that life hath room\\nFor many blights and many tears.\\nX.\\nAnd youth in her a home will find,\\nWhere he may dwell eternally\\nHer soul is not of that weak kind\\nWhich better love the life behind\\nThan that which is, or is to be.\\nXI.\\nI love her with a love as still\\nAs a broad river s peaceful might.\\nWhich, by high tower and lowly mill.\\nGoes wandering at its own will.\\nAnd yet doth ever flow aright.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0419.jp2"}, "420": {"fulltext": "396 WITH A. PRESSED FLOWER.\\nXII.\\nAnd, on its fall, deep breast serene,\\nLike quiet isles my duties lie\\nIt flows around them and between,\\nAnd makes them fresh and fair and green.\\nSweet homes wherein to live and die.\\nWITH A PRESSED FLOWER.\\nThis little flower from afar\\nHath come from other lands to thine\\nFor, once, its white and drooping star\\nCould see its shadow in the Rhine.\\nPerchance some fair-haired German maid\\nHath plucked one from the self-same stalk.\\nAnd numbered over, half afraid,\\nIts petals in her evening walk.\\nHe loves me, loves me not, she cries\\nHe loves me more than earth or Heaven,\\nAnd then glad tears have filled her eyes\\nTo find the number was uneven.\\nSo, Love, my heart doth wander forth\\nTo farthest lands beyond the sea.\\nAnd search the fairest spots of earth\\nTo find sweet flowers of thought for thee.\\nA type this tiny blossom is\\nOf what my heart doth every day.\\nSeeking for pleasant fantasies\\nTo brood upon when thou rt away.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0420.jp2"}, "421": {"fulltext": "IMPARTIALITY. 397\\nAnd thou must count its petals well,\\nBecause it is a gift from me\\nAnd the last one of all shall tell\\nSomething F ve often told to thee.\\nBut here at home, where we were born,\\nThou wilt find flowers just as true,\\nDown bending every summer morn\\nWith freshness of New England dew.\\nFor Nature, ever right in love.\\nHath given them the same sweet tongue.\\nWhether with German skies above.\\nOr here our granite rocks among.\\nIMPARTIALITY.\\nI.\\nI CANNOT say a scene is fair\\nBecause it is beloved of thee.\\nBut I shall love to linger there.\\nFor sake of thy dear memory\\nI would not be so coldly just\\nAs to love only what I must.\\nII.\\nI cannot say a thought is good\\nBecause thou foundest joy in it\\nEach soul must choose its proper food\\nWhich Nature hath decreed most fit\\nBut I shall ever deem it so\\nBecause it made thy heart o erflow.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0421.jp2"}, "422": {"fulltext": "398 BELLEROPHON.\\nIII.\\nI love thee for that thon art fair\\nAnd thau +^^hr spirit joys in aught\\nCreateth a n^w beauty there,\\nWith thine own dearest image fraught\\nAnd love, for others sake that springs.\\nGives half their charm to lovely things.\\nBELLEROPHON.\\nDEDICATED TO MY FRIEND, JOHN F. HEATH.\\nI.\\nI FEEL the bandages unroll\\nThat bound my inward seeing\\nFreed are the bright wings of my soul.\\nTypes of my god-like being\\nHigh thoughts are swelling in my heart\\nAnd rushing through my brain\\nMay I never more lose part\\nIn my souFs realm again I\\nAll things fair, where er they be.\\nIn earth or air, in sky or sea,\\nI have loved them all, and taken\\nAll within my throbbing breast\\nNo more my spirit can be shaken\\nFrom its calm and kingly rest\\nLove hath shed its light around me,\\nLove hath pierced the shades that bound me\\nMine eyes are opened, I can see\\nThe universe s mystery.\\nThe mighty heart and core\\nOf After and Before\\nI seC;, and I am weak no more", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0422.jp2"}, "423": {"fulltext": "BELLEROPHON. 399\\nII.\\nUpward upward evermore.\\nTo Heaven s open gate I soar\\nLittle thoughts are far behina me,\\nWhich, when custom weaves together,\\nAll the nobler man can tether\\nCobwebs now no more can bind me\\nNow fold thy wings a little while.\\nMy tranced soul, and lie\\nAt rest on this Calypso-isle\\nThat floats in mellow sky,\\nA thousand isles with gentle motion\\nEock upon the sunset ocean\\nA thousand isles of thousand hues.\\nHow bright how beautiful how rare\\nInto my spirit they infuse\\nA purer, a diviner air\\nThe earth is growing dimmer.\\nAnd now the last faint glimmer\\nHath faded from the hill\\nBut in my higher atmosphere\\nThe sun-light streameth red and clear.\\nFringing the islets still\\nLove lifts us to the sun-light.\\nThough the whole world would be dark\\nLove, wide Love, is the one light.\\nAll else is but a fading spark\\nLove is the nectar which doth fill\\nOur soul s cup even to overflowing.\\nAnd, warming heart, and thought, and will.\\nDoth lie within us mildly glowing.\\nFrom its own centre raying out\\nBeauty and Truth on all without.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0423.jp2"}, "424": {"fulltext": "400 BELLEROPHON\\nIII.\\nEach on his golden throne.\\nFull royally, alone,\\nI see the stars above me.\\nWith sceptre and with diadem\\nMildly they look down and love me.\\nFor I have ever yet loved them\\nI see their ever-sleepless eyes\\nWatching the growth of destinies\\nCalm, sedate.\\nThe eyes of Fate,\\nThey wink not, nor do roll,\\nBut search the depths of soul\\nAnd in those mighty depths they see\\nThe germs of all Futurity,\\nWaiting but the fitting time\\nTo burst and ripen into prime.\\nAs in the womb of mother Earth\\nThe seeds of plants and forests lie\\nAge upon age and never die\\nSo in the souls of all men wait,\\nUndyingly the seeds of Fate\\nChance breaks the clod and forth they spring,\\nFilling blind men with wondering.\\nEternal stars with holy awe.\\nAs if a present God I saw,\\nI look into those mighty eyes\\nAnd see great destinies arise.\\nAs in those of mortal men\\nFeelings glow and fade again\\nAll things below, all things above.\\nAre open to the eyes of Love.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0424.jp2"}, "425": {"fulltext": "BELLEROPHON. 40I\\nIV.\\n26\\nOf Knowledge Love is master-key.\\nKnowledge of Beauty passing dear\\nIs each to each, and mutually\\nEach one doth make the other clear\\nBeauty is Love, and what we love\\nStraightway is beautiful.\\nSo is the circle round and full.\\nAnd so dear Love doth live and move\\nAnd have his being.\\nFinding his proper food\\nBy sure inseeing.\\nIn all things pure and good.\\nWhich he at will doth cull.\\nLike a joyous butterfly\\nHiving in the sunny bowers\\nOf the souFs fairest flowers.\\nOr, between the earth and sky,\\nWandering at liberty\\nFor happy, happy hours\\nV.\\nThe thoughts of Love are Poesy,\\nAs this fair earth and all we see\\nAre the thoughts of Deity\\nAnd Love is ours by our birthright\\nHe hath cleared mine inward sight\\nGlorious shapes with glorious eyes\\nRound about my spirit glance.\\nShedding a mild and golden light\\nOn the shadowy face of Night\\nTo unearthly melodies.\\nHand in hand, they weave their dancej", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0425.jp2"}, "426": {"fulltext": "4:02 SOMETHING NATURAL.\\nWhile a deep, ambrosial lustre\\nFrom their rounded limbs doth shine.\\nThrough many a rich and golden cluster\\nOf streaming hair divine.\\nIn our gross and earthly hours\\nWe cannot see the Love-given powers\\nWhich ever round the soul await\\nTo do its sovereign will,\\nWhen, in its moments calm and still.\\nIt re-assumes its royal state,\\nNor longer sits with eyes downcast,\\nA beggar, dreaming of the past,\\nAt its ovi^n palace-gate.\\nVI.\\nI too am a Maker and a Poet\\nThrough my whole soul I feel it and know it\\nMy veins are fired with ecstasy\\nAll-mother Earth\\nDid ne er give birth\\nTo one who shall be matched with me\\nThe lustre of my coronal\\nShall cast a dimness over all.\\nAlas alas what have I spoken\\nMy strong, my eagle wings are broken.\\nAnd back again to earth I fall\\nSOMETHING NATUKAL.\\nI.\\nWhei^ first I saw thy soul-deep eyes.\\nMy heart yearned to thee instantly.\\nStrange longing in my soul did rise", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0426.jp2"}, "427": {"fulltext": "THE SIRENS. 403\\nI cannot tell the reason why,\\nBut I must love thee till I die.\\nII.\\nThe sight of thee hath well-nigh grown\\nAs needful to me as the light\\nI am unrestful when alone.\\nAnd my heart doth not beat aright\\nExcept it dwell within thy sight.\\nIII.\\nAnd yet and yet selfish love\\nI am not happy even with thee\\nI see thee in thy brightness move.\\nAnd cannot well contented be,\\nSave thou should^st shine alone for me.\\nIV.\\nWe should love beauty even as flowers\\nFor all, t is said, they bud and blow.\\nThey are the world s as well as ours\\nBut thou alas God made thee grow\\nSo fair, I cannot love thee so\\nTHE SIRENS.\\nThe sea is lonely, the sea Is dreary.\\nThe sea is restless and uneasy\\nThou seekest quiet, thou art weary.\\nWandering thou knowest not whither\\nOur little isle is green and breezy.\\nCome and rest thee come hither.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0427.jp2"}, "428": {"fulltext": "404 THE SIRENS.\\nCome to this peaceful home of ours,\\nWhere evermore\\nThe low west- wind creeps panting up the shore\\nTo be at rest among the flowers\\nFull of rest, the green moss lifts.\\nAs the dark waves of the sea\\nDraw in and out of rocky rifts,\\nCalling solemnly to thee.\\nWith voices deep and hollow\\nTo the shore\\nFollow follow\\nTo be at rest for evermore\\nFor evermore\\nLook how the gray, old Ocean\\nFrom the depths of his heart rejoices,\\nHeaving with a gentle motion,\\nWhen he hears our restful voices\\nList how he sings in an undertone.\\nChiming with our melody\\nAnd all sweet sounds of earth and air\\nMelt into one low voice alone.\\nThat murmurs over the weary sea\\nAnd seems to sing from everywhere\\nHere mayest thou harbor peacefully.\\nHere mayest thou rest from the aching oar\\nTurn thy curved prow ashore,\\nAnd in our green isle rest for evermore\\nFor evermore\\nAnd echo half wakes in the wooded hill.\\nAnd, to her heart so calm and deep.\\nMurmurs over in her sleep,\\nDoubtfully pausing and murmuring still,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0428.jp2"}, "429": {"fulltext": "THE SIRENS. 405\\nEvermore\\nThus, on Life s weary sea,\\nHeareth the marinere\\nVoices sweet, from far and near.\\nEver singing low and clear,\\nEver singing longingly.\\nIs it not better here to be,\\nThan to be toiling late and soon\\nIn the dreary night to see\\nNothing but the blood-red moon\\nGo up and down into the sea\\nOr, in the loneliness of day.\\nTo see the still seals only.\\nSolemnly lift their faces gray.\\nMaking it yet more lonely\\nIs it not better, than to hear\\nOnly the sliding of the wave\\nBeneath the plank, and feel so near\\nA cold and lonely grave,\\nA restless grave, where thou shalt lie\\nEven in death unquietly\\nLook down beneath thy wave-worn bark.\\nLean over the side and see\\nThe leaden eye of the side-long shark\\nUpturned patiently,\\nEver waiting there for thee\\nLook down and see those shapeless forms.\\nWhich ever keep their dreamless sleep\\nFar down within the gloomy deep.\\nAnd only stir themselves in storms.\\nRising like islands from beneath.\\nAnd snorting through the angry spray,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0429.jp2"}, "430": {"fulltext": "406 THE SIRENS.\\nAs the frail vessel perisheth\\nIn the whirls of their unwieldy play\\nLook down Look down\\nUpon the seaweed, slimy and dark.\\nThat waves its arms so lank and brown,\\nBeckoning for thee\\nLook down beneath thy wave-worn bark\\nInto the cold depth of the sea\\nLook down Look down\\nThus, on Life s lonely sea,\\nHeareth the marinere\\nVoices sad, from far and near.\\nEver singing full of fear.\\nEver singing drearfully,\\nHere all is pleasant as a dream\\nThe wind scarce shaketh down the dew.\\nThe green grass floweth like a stream\\nInto the ocean s blue\\nListen listen\\nHere is a gush of many streams.\\nA song of many birds,\\nAnd every wish and longing seems\\nLulled to a numbered flow of words\\nListen listen\\nHere ever hum the golden bees\\nUnderneath full- blossomed trees.\\nAt once with glowing fruit and flower crowned\\nThe sand is so smooth, the yellow sand.\\nThat thy keel will not grate, as it touches the land\\nAll around, with a slumberous sound.\\nThe singing waves slide up the strand.\\nAnd there, where the smooth wet pebbles be,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0430.jp2"}, "431": {"fulltext": "A FEELING- 407\\nThe waters gurgle longingly.\\nAs if they fain would seek the shore,\\nTo be at rest from the ceaseless roar.\\nTo be at rest for evermore\\nFor evermore.\\nThus, on Life s gloomy sea,\\nHeareth the marinere\\nVoices sweet, far and near.\\nEver singing in his ear,\\nHere is rest and peace for thee\\nNantasket, July, 1840.\\nA FEELING.\\nThe flowers and the grass to me\\nAre eloquent reproachfully\\nFor would they wave so pleasantly\\nOr look so fresh and fair,\\nIf a man, cunning, hollow, mean.\\nOr one is anywise unclean.\\nWere looking on them there\\nNo he hath grown so foolish- wise\\nHe cannot see with childhood s eyes\\nHe hath forgot that purity\\nAnd lowliness which are the key\\nOf Nature s mysteries\\nNo he hath wandered off so long\\nFrom his own place of birth.\\nThat he hath lost his mother-tongue.\\nAnd, like one come from far-off lands,\\nForgetting and forgot, he stands\\nBeside his mother s hearth.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0431.jp2"}, "432": {"fulltext": "408 THE BEGGAR.\\nTHE BEGGAR.\\nA Beggar through the world am I,\\nFrom place to place I wander by\\nFill up my pilgrim s scrip for me.\\nFor Christ s sweet sake and charity\\nA little of thy steadfastness,\\nEounded with leafy gracefulness,\\nOld oak, give me\\nThat the world s blasts may round me blow,\\nAnd I yield gently to and fro,\\nWhile my stout-hearted trunk below\\nAnd firm-set roots unmoved be.\\nSome of thy stern, unyielding might.\\nEnduring still through day and night\\nRude tempest-shock and withering blight\\nThat I may keep at bay\\nThe changeful April sky of chance\\nAnd the strong tide of circumstance\\nGive me, old granite gray.\\nSome of thy mournf ulness serene,\\nSome of thy never-dying green.\\nPut in this scrip of mine\\nThat grief may fall like snowflakes light.\\nAnd deck me in a robe of white.\\nReady to be an angel bright\\nsweetly-mournful pine.\\nA little of thy merriment.\\nOf thy sparkling, light content.\\nGive me my cheerful brook", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0432.jp2"}, "433": {"fulltext": "SERENADE. 409\\nThat I may still be full of glee\\nAnd gladsomeness, wherever I be,\\nThough fickle fate hath prisoned me\\nIn some neglected nook.\\nYe have been very kind and good\\nTo me, since Pve been in the wood\\nYe have gone nigh to fill my heart\\nBut good-by, kind friends, every one,\\nI ve far to go ere set of sun\\nOf all good things I would have part.\\nThe day was high ere I could start,\\nAnd so my journey s scarce begun.\\nHeaven help me how could I forget\\nTo beg of thee, dear violet\\nSome of thy modesty,\\nThat flowers here as well, unseen.\\nAs if before the world thou^dst been,\\ngive, to strengthen me.\\nSERENADE.\\nFrom the close-shut windows gleams no spark,\\nThe night is chilly, the night is dark.\\nThe poplars shiver, the pine-trees moan.\\nMy hair by the autumn breeze is blown.\\nUnder thy window I sing alone.\\nAlone, alone, ah woe alone\\nThe darkness is pressing coldly around.\\nThe windows shake with a lonely sound.\\nThe stars are hid and the night is drear.\\nThe heart of silence throbs in thine ear.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0433.jp2"}, "434": {"fulltext": "410 IRENE.\\nIn thy chamber thou sittest alone.\\nAlone, alone, ah woe alone\\nThe world is happy, the world is wide.\\nKind hearts are beating on every side\\nAh, why should we lie so curled\\nAlone in the shell of this great world\\nWhy should we any more be alone\\nAlone, alone, ah woe alone\\nt is a bitter and dreary word.\\nThe saddest by man s ear ever heard\\nWe each are young, we each have a heart.\\nWhy stand we ever coldly apart\\nMust we forever, then, be alone\\nAlone, alone, ah woe alone\\nIRENE.\\nHers is a spirit deep and crystal-clear\\nCalmly beneath her earnest face it lies.\\nFree without boldness, meek without a fear.\\nQuicker to look than speak its sympathies\\nFar down into her large and patient eyes\\nI gaze, deep-drinking of the infinite,\\nAs, in the mid-watch of a clear, still night,\\nI look into the fathomless blue skies.\\nSo circled lives she with Love s holy light.\\nThat from the shade of self she walketh free\\nThe garden of her soul still keepeth she\\nAn Eden where the snake did never enter\\nShe hath a natural, wise sincerity.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0434.jp2"}, "435": {"fulltext": "IRENE. 411\\nA simple truthfulness, and these have lent her\\nA dignity as moveless as the centre\\nSo that no influence of earth can stir\\nHer steadfast courage, or can take away\\nThe holy peacefulness, which, night and day.\\nUnto her queenly soul doth minister.\\nMost gentle is she her large charity\\n(An all unwitting, childlike gift in her)\\nNot freer is to give than meek to bear\\nAnd, though herself not unacquaint with care.\\nHath in her heart wide room for all that be\\nHer heart that hath no secrets of its own.\\nBut open is as eglantine full-blown.\\nCloudless forever is her brow serene.\\nSpeaking calm hope and trust within her, whence\\nWelleth a noiseless spring of patience\\nThat keepeth all her life so fresh, so green\\nAnd full of holiness, that every look.\\nThe greatness of her woman s soul revealing.\\nUnto me bringeth blessing, and a feeling\\nAs when I read in God s own holy book.\\nA graciousness in giving that doth make\\nThe small st gift greatest, and a sense most meek\\nOf worthiness, that doth not fear to take\\nFrom others, but which always fears to speak\\nIts thanks in utterance, for the giver s sake\\nThe deep religion of a thankful heart,\\nWhich rests instinctively with Heaven s law\\nWith a full peace, that never can depart\\nFrom its own steadfastness a holy awe\\nFor holy things, not those which men call holy,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0435.jp2"}, "436": {"fulltext": "4:12 IRENE.\\nBut such are as revealed to the eyes\\nOf a true woman s soul bent down and lowly\\nBefore the face of daily mysteries\\nA love that blossoms soon, but ripens slowly\\nTo the full goldenness of fruitful prime.\\nEnduring with a firmness that defies\\nAll shallow tricks of circumstance and time,\\nBy a sure insight knowing where to cling,\\nAnd where it clingeth never withering\\nThese are Irene s dowry which no fate\\nCan shake from their serene, deep-builded state.\\nIn-seeing sympathy is hers, which chasteneth\\nNo less than loveth, scorning to be bound\\nWith fear of blame, and yet which ever hasteneth\\nTo pour the balm of kind looks on the wound.\\nIf they be wounds which such sweet teaching makes.\\nGiving itself a pang for others sakes\\nNo want of faith, that chills with side-long eye.\\nHath she no jealousy, no Levite pride\\nThat passeth by upon the other side\\nFor in her soul there never dwelt a lie.\\nEight from the hand of God her spirit came\\nUnstained, and she hath ne er forgotten whence\\nIt came, nor wandered far from thence.\\nBut laboreth to keep her still the same.\\nNear to her place of birth, that she may not\\nSoil her white raiment with an earthly spot.\\nYet sets she not her soul so steadily\\nAbove, that she forgets her ties to earth.\\nBut her whole thought would almost seem to be\\nHow to make glad one lowly human hearth", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0436.jp2"}, "437": {"fulltext": "THE LOST CHILD. 413\\nFor with a gentle courage she doth strive\\nIn thought and word and feeling so to live\\nAs to make earth next Heaven and her heart\\nHerein doth show its most exceeding worth.\\nThat, bearing in our frailty her just part,\\nShe hath not shrunk from evils of this life.\\nBut hath gone calmly forth into the strife.\\nAnd all its sins and sorrows hath withstood\\nWith lofty strength of patient womanhood\\nFor this I love her great soul more than all,\\nThat, being bound, like us, with earthly thrall.\\nShe walks so bright and Heaven-wise therein\\nToo wise, too meek, too womanly to sin.\\nExceeding pleasant to mine eyes is she\\nLike a lone star through riven storm-clouds seen\\nBy sailors, tempest-tost upon the sea.\\nTelling of rest and peaceful heavens nigh.\\nUnto my soul her star-like soul hath been.\\nHer sight as full of hope and calm to me\\nFor she unto herself hath builded high\\nA home serene, wherein to lay her head,\\nEarth^s noblest thing a Woman perfected.\\nTHE LOST CHILD.\\nI.\\nI WANDERED down the sunny glade\\nAnd ever mused, my love, of thee\\nMy thoughts, like little children, played,\\nAs gayly and as guilelessly.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0437.jp2"}, "438": {"fulltext": "414: THE CHURCH.\\nII.\\nIf any chanced to go astray,\\nMoaning in fear of coming harms,\\nHope brought the wanderer back alway.\\nSafe nestled in her snowy arms.\\nIII.\\nFrom that soft nest the happy one\\nLooked up at me and calmly smiled\\nIts hair shone golden in the sun.\\nAnd made it seem a heavenly child.\\nIV.\\nDear Hope s blue eyes smiled mildly down.\\nAnd blest it with a love so deep,\\nThat, like a nursling of her own.\\nIt clasped her neck and fell asleep.\\nTHE CHURCH.\\nI.\\nI LOVE the rites of England s chnrch\\nI love to hear and see\\nThe priest and people reading slow\\nThe solemn Litany\\nI love to hear the glorious swell\\nOf chanted psalm and prayer.\\nAnd the deep organ s bursting heart.\\nThrob through the shivering air.\\nII.\\nChants, that a thousand years have heard,\\nI love to hear again.\\nFor visions of the olden time\\nAre wakened by the strain", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0438.jp2"}, "439": {"fulltext": "THE CHURCH. 415\\nWith gorgeous hues the window-glass\\nSeems suddenly to glow,\\nAnd rich and red the streams of light\\nDown through the chancel flow.\\nIII.\\nAnd then I murmur, Surely God\\nDelighteth here to dwell\\nThis is the temple of his Son\\nWhom he doth love so well\\nBut, when I hear the creed which saith.\\nThis church alone is His,\\nI feel within my soul that He\\nHath purer shrines than this.\\nIV.\\nFor his is not the builded church.\\nNor organ-shaken dome\\nIn every thing that lovely is\\nHe loves and hath his home\\nAnd most in soul that loveth well\\nAll things which he hath made.\\nKnowing no creed but simple faith\\nThat may not be gainsaid.\\nV.\\nHis church is universal Love,\\nAnd whoso dwells therein\\nShall need no customed sacrifice\\nTo vi^ash away his sin\\nAnd music in its aisles shall swell.\\nOf lives upright and true.\\nSweet as dreamed sounds of angel-harps\\nDown-(]^uivering through the blue.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0439.jp2"}, "440": {"fulltext": "41 :V THE UNLOVELY.\\nVI.\\nThey shall not ask a litany,\\nThe souls that worship there,\\nBut every look shall be a hymn.\\nAnd every word a prayer\\nTheir service shall be written bright\\nIn calm and holy eyes.\\nAnd every day from fragrant hearts\\nFit incense shall arise.\\nTHE UNLOVELY.\\nThe pretty things that others wear\\nLook strange and out of place on me,\\nI never seem dressed tastefully.\\nBecause I am not fair\\nAnd, when I would most pleasing seem.\\nAnd deck myself with joyful care,\\nI find it is an idle dream.\\nBecause I am not fair.\\nIf I put roses in my hair.\\nThey bloom as if in mockery\\nNature denies her sympathy.\\nBecause 1 am not fair\\nAlas I have a warm, true heart.\\nBut when I show it people stare\\nI must forever dwell apart.\\nBecause I am not fair.\\nI am least happy being where\\nThe hearts of others are most light.\\nAnd strive to keep me out of sight.\\nBecause I am not fair j", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0440.jp2"}, "441": {"fulltext": "THE UNLOVELY. 417\\nThe glad ones often give a glance,\\nAs I am sitting lonely there,\\nTliat asks me why I do not dance\\nBecause I am not fair.\\nAnd if to smile on them I dare.\\nFor that my heart with love runs o er.\\nThey say What is she laughing for\\nBecause I am not fair\\nLove scorned or misinterpreted\\nIt is the hardest thing to bear\\nI often wish that I were dead.\\nBecause 1 am not fair.\\nIn joy or grief I must not share,\\nFor neither smiles nor tears on me\\nWill ever look becomingly.\\nBecause I am not fair\\nWhole days I sit alone and cry,\\nAnd in my grave I wish I were\\nYet none will weep me if I die,\\nBecause I am not fair.\\nMy grave will be so lone and bare,\\nI fear to think of those dark hours.\\nFor none will plant it o er with flowers,\\nBecause I am not fair\\nThey will not in the summer come\\nAnd speak kind words above me there\\nTo me the grave will be no home,\\nBecause I am not fair,\\n27", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0441.jp2"}, "442": {"fulltext": "418 LOVE-SONG.\\nLOVE-SONG.\\nNearer to thy mother-heart.\\nSimple Nature, press me,\\nLet me know thee as thou art.\\nFill my soul and bless me\\nI have loved thee long and well,\\nI have loved thee heartily\\nShall I never with thee dwell.\\nNever be at one with thee\\nInward, inward to thy heart,\\nKindly Nature, take me.\\nLovely even as thou art.\\nFull of loving make me\\nThou knowest naught of dead-cold forms,\\nKnowest naught of littleness,\\nLifeful Truth thy being warms.\\nMajesty and earnestness.\\nHomeward, homeward to thy heart.\\nDearest Nature, call me\\nLet no halfness, no mean part.\\nAny longer thrall me\\nI will be thy lover true,\\nI will be a faithful soul,\\nThen circle me, then look me through.\\nFill me with the mighty Whole.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0442.jp2"}, "443": {"fulltext": "SONG. 419\\nSONG.\\nAll things are sad\\nI go and ask of Memory,\\nThat she tell sweet tales to me\\nTo make me glad\\nAnd she takes me by the hand,\\nLeadeth to old places,\\nShoweth the old faces\\nIn her hazy mirage-land\\n0, her voice is sweet and low.\\nAnd her eyes are fresh to mine\\nAs the dew\\nGleaming through\\nThe half-unfolded Eglantine,\\nLong ago, long ago\\nBut I feel that I am only\\nYet more sad, and yet more lonely\\nThen I turn to blue-eyed Hope,\\nAnd beg of her that she will ope\\nHer golden gates for me\\nShe is fair and full of grace.\\nBut she hath the form and face\\nOf her mother Memory\\nClear as air her glad voice ringeth,\\nJoyous are the songs she singeth.\\nYet I hear them mournfully\\nThey are songs her mother taught her.\\nCrooning to her infant daughter.\\nAs she lay upon her knee.\\nMany little ones she bore me.\\nWoe is me in by-^one hours.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0443.jp2"}, "444": {"fulltext": "420 SONG.\\nWho danced along and sang before me.\\nScattering my way with flowers\\nOne by one\\nThey are gone,\\nAnd their silent graves are seen.\\nShining fresh with mosses green.\\nWhere the rising sunbeams slope\\nO er the dewy land of Hope.\\nBut, when sweet Memory faileth,\\nAnd Hope looks strange and cold\\nWhen youth no more availeth,\\nAnd Grief grows over bold\\nWhen softest winds are dreary.\\nAnd summer sunlight weary,\\nAnd sweetest things uncheery\\nWe know not why\\nWhen the crown of our desires\\nWeighs upon the brow and tires.\\nAnd we would die,\\nDie for, ah we know not what,\\nSomething we seem to have forgot.\\nSomething we had, and now have not\\nWhen the present is a weight\\nAnd the future seems our foe,\\nAnd with shrinking eyes we wait,\\nAs one who dreads a sudden blow\\nIn the dark, he knows not whence\\nWhen Love at last his bright eye closes,\\nAnd the bloom upon his face,\\nThat lends him such a living grace.\\nIs a shadow from the roses\\nWherewith we have decked his bier.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0444.jp2"}, "445": {"fulltext": "A LOVE-DREAM. 421\\nBecause he once was passing dear\\nWhen we feel a leaden sense\\nOf nothingness and impotence,\\nTill we grow mad\\nThen the body saith,\\nThere s but one true faith\\nAll things are sad\\nA LOVE-DREAM.\\nPleasant thoughts come wandering.\\nWhen thou art far, from thee to me\\nOn their silver wings they bring\\nA very peaceful ecstasy,\\nA feeling of eternal spring\\nSo that Winter half forgets\\nEverything but that thou art.\\nAnd, in his bewildered heart,\\nDreameth of the violets.\\nOr those bluer flowers that ope.\\nFlowers of steadfast love and hope.\\nWatered by the living wells.\\nOf memories dear, and dearer prophecies^\\nWhen young spring forever dwells\\nIn the sunshine of thine eyes.\\nI have most holy dreams of thee.\\nAll night I have such dreams\\nAnd, when I awake, reality\\nNo whit the darker seems\\nThrough the twin gates of Hope and Memory\\nThey pour in crystal streams\\nFrom out an angel s calmed eyes.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0445.jp2"}, "446": {"fulltext": "422 A LOVE-DREAM.\\nWho, from twilight till sunrise,\\nFar away in the upper deep,\\nPoised upon his shining wings,\\nOver us his watch doth keep,\\nAnd, as he watcheth, ever sings.\\nThrough the still night I hear him sing,\\nDown-looking on onr sleep\\nI hear his clear, clear harp-strings ring,\\nAnd, as the golden notes take wing,\\nGently dow-nv^ard hovering.\\nFor very joy I weep\\nHe singeth songs of holy Love,\\nThat quiver through the depths afar.\\nWhere the blessed spirits are,\\nAnd lingeringly from above\\nShower till the morning star\\nHis silver shield hath buckled on\\nAnd sentinels the dawn alone,\\nQuivering his gleamy spear\\nThrough the dusky atmosphere.\\nAlmost, my love, I fear the morn.\\nWhen that blessed voice shall cease.\\nLest it should leave me quite forlorn,\\nStript of my snowy robe of peace\\nAnd yet the bright reality\\nIs fairer than all dreams can be,\\nFor, through my spirit, all day long.\\nRing echoes of that angel-song\\nIn melodious thoughts of thee\\nAnd well I know it cannot die\\nTill eternal morn shall break.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0446.jp2"}, "447": {"fulltext": "FOURTH OF JULY ODE. 423\\nFor, throngli life s slumber, thou and I\\nWill keep it for each other s sake,\\nAnd it shall not be silent when we wake.\\nFOURTH OF JULY ODE.\\nI.\\nOur fathers fought for Liberty,\\nThey struggled long and well.\\nHistory of their deeds can tell\\nBut did they leave us free\\nII.\\nAre we free from vanity.\\nFree from pride, and free from self.\\nFree from love of power and pelf.\\nFrom everything that ^s beggarly\\nIII.\\nAre we free from stubborn will.\\nFrom low hate and malice small.\\nFrom opinion s tyrant thrall\\nAre none of us our own slaves still\\nIV.\\nAre we free to speak our thought.\\nTo be happy, and be poor.\\nFree to enter Heaven s door.\\nTo live and labor as we ought\\nV.\\nAre we then made free at last\\nFrom the fear of what men say,\\nFree to reverence To-day,\\nFree from the slavery of the Past", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0447.jp2"}, "448": {"fulltext": "424 SPHINX.\\nVI.\\nOur fathers fought for liberty,\\nThey struggled long and well.\\nHistory of their deeds can tell-\\nBut ourselves must set us free.\\nSPHINX.\\nI.\\nWhy mourn we for the golden prime\\nWhen our young souls tvere kingly, strong, and true\\nThe soul is greater than all time.\\nIt changes not, but yet is ever new.\\nII.\\nBut that the soul is noble, we\\nCould never know what nobleness had been\\nBe what ye dream and earth shall see\\nA greater greatness than she e^er hath seen.\\nIII.\\nThe flower pines not to be fair.\\nIt never askeLh to be sweet and dear.\\nBut gives itself to sun and air,\\nAnd so is fresh and full from year to year.\\nIV.\\nNothing in Nature weeps its lot.\\nNothing, save man, abides in memory.\\nForgetful that the Past is what\\nOurselves may choose the coming time to be.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0448.jp2"}, "449": {"fulltext": "I\\nSPHINX. 425\\nV.\\nAll things are circular the Past\\nWas given us to make the Future great\\nAnd the void Future shall at last\\nBe the strong rudder of an after fate.\\nVI.\\nWe sit beside the Sphinx of Life,\\nWe gaze into its void, unanswering eyes.\\nAnd spend ourselves in idle strife\\nTo read the riddle of their mysteries.\\nYII.\\nArise be earnest and be strong\\nThe Sphinx s eyes shall suddenly grow clear,\\nAnd speak as phiin to thee ere long,\\nAs the dear maiden s who holds thee most dear.\\nVIII.\\nThe meaning of all things in us\\nYea, in the lives we give our souls doth lie\\nMake, then, their meaning glorious\\nBy such a life as need not fear to die\\nIX.\\nThere is no heart-beat in the day.\\nWhich bears a record of the smallest deed.\\nBut holds within its faith alway\\nThat which in doubt we vainly strive to read.\\nX.\\nOne seed contains another seed,\\nAnd that a third, and so for evermore\\nAnd promise of as great a deed\\nLies folded in the deed that went before.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0449.jp2"}, "450": {"fulltext": "426 GOE, LITTLE BOOKE.\\nXI.\\nSo ask not fitting space or time.\\nYet could not dream of things which could not be\\nEach day shall make the next sublime,\\nAnd Time be swallowed in Eternity.\\nXII.\\nGod bless the Present it is all\\nIt has been Future, and it shall be Past\\nAwake and live thy strength recall.\\nAnd in one trinity unite them fast.\\nXIII.\\nAction and Life lo here the key\\nOf all on earth that seemeth dark and wrong\\nWin this and, with it, freely ye\\nMay enter that bright realm for which ye long.\\nXIV.\\nThen all these bitter questionings\\nShall with a full and blessed answer meet\\nPast worlds, whereof the Poet sings,\\nShall be the earth beneath his snow-white fleet.\\nGOE, LITTLE BOOKE\\nGo, LITTLE book the world is wide,\\nThere s room and verge enough for thee\\nFor thou hast learned that only pride\\nLacketh fit opportunity,\\nWhich comes unbid to modesty.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0450.jp2"}, "451": {"fulltext": "**GOE, LITTLE BOOKE. 427\\nGo win thy way with gentleness\\nI send thee forth, my first-born child.\\nQuite, quite alone, to face the stress\\nOf fickle skies and pathways wild.\\nWhere few can keep them undefiled.\\nThou earnest from a poet^s heart,\\nA warm, still home, and full of rest\\nFar from the pleasant eyes thou art\\nOf those who know and love thee best.\\nAnd by whose hearthstones thou wert blest.\\nGo knock thou softly at the door\\nWhere any gentle spirits bin.\\nTell them thy tender feet are sore.\\nWandering so far from all thy kin,\\nAnd ask if thou may enter in.\\nBeg thou a cup-full from the spring\\nOf Charity, in Christ s dear name\\nFew will deny so small a thing,\\nNor ask unkindly if thou came\\nOf one whose life might do thee shame.\\nWe all are prone to go astray.\\nOur hopes are bright, our lives are dim\\nBut thou art pure, and if they say,\\nWe know thy father, and our whim\\nHe pleases not, plead thou for him.\\nFor many are by whom all truth.\\nThat speaks not in their mother-tongue.\\nIs stoned to death with hands unruth.\\nOr hath its patient spirit wrung\\nCold words and colder looks among.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0451.jp2"}, "452": {"fulltext": "428 GOE, LITTLE BOOKE.\\nYet fear uot for skies are fair\\nTo all whose souls are fair within\\nThou wilt find shelter everywhere\\nWith those to whom a different skin\\nIs not a damning proof of sin.\\nBut, if all others are unkind,\\nThere s one heart whither thou canst fly\\nFor shelter from the biting wind\\nAnd, in that home of purity,\\nIt were no bitter thing to die.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0452.jp2"}, "453": {"fulltext": "SONNETS.\\nI.\\nDISAPPOINTMENT.\\nI PRAY thee call not tliis society\\n1 asked for bread, thou givest me a stone\\nI am an hungered, and I find not one\\nTo give me meat, to joy or grieve with me\\nI find not here what I went out to see\\nSouls of true men, of women who can move\\nThe deeper, better part of us to love.\\nSouls that can hold with mine communion free.\\nAlas must then these hopes, these longings high.\\nThis yearning of the soul for brotherhood.\\nAnd all that makes us pure, and wise, and good,\\nCome broken-hearted, home again to die\\nNo, Hope is left, and prays with bended head,\\nGive us this day, God, our daily bread\\nII.\\nGreat human nature, whither art thou fled\\nAre these things creeping forth and back agen,\\nThese hollow formalists and echoes, men\\nArt thou. entombed with the mighty dead\\nIn God s name, no not yet hath all been said.\\nOr done, or longed for, that is truly great\\n429", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0453.jp2"}, "454": {"fulltext": "430 SONNETS.\\nThese pitiful dried crusts will never sate\\nNatures for which pure Truth is daily bread\\nWe were not meant to plod along the earth.\\nStrange to ourselves and to our fellows strange\\nWe were not meant to struggle from our birth.\\nTo skulk and creep^ and in mean pathways range\\nAct with stern truth, large faith, and loving will I\\nUp and be doing God is with us still.\\nIII.\\nTO A FRIEKD.\\nOi^E strip of bark may feed the broken tree.\\nGiving to some few limbs a sickly green\\nAnd one light shower on the hills, I ween.\\nMay keep the spring from drying utterly.\\nThus seemeth it with these our hearts to be\\nHope is the strip of bark, the shower of rain.\\nAnd so they are not wholly crushed with pain.\\nBut live and linger on, for sadder sight to see\\nMuch do they err, who tell us that the heart\\nMay not be broken what, then, can we call\\nA broken heart, if this may not be so.\\nThis death in life, when, shrouded in its pall.\\nShunning and shunned, it dwelleth all apart.\\nIts power, its love, its sympathy laid low\\nIV.\\nSo may it be, but let it not be so,\\n0, let it not be so with thee, my friend\\nBe of good courage, bear up to the end.\\nAnd on thine after way rejoicing go\\nWe all must suffer, if we aught Avould know\\nLife is a teacher stern, and wisdom s crown", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0454.jp2"}, "455": {"fulltext": "SONNNTS. 431\\nIs oft a crown of thorns, whence, trickling down,\\nBlood, mixed with tears, blinding her eyes doth flow\\nBut Time, a gentle nurse, shall wipe away\\nThis bloody sweat, and thou shalt find on earth.\\nThat woman is not all in all to Love,\\nBut, living by a new and second birth.\\nThy soul shall see all things below, above.\\nGrow bright and brighter to the perfect day.\\nV.\\nCHILD of Nature most meek and free.\\nMost gentle spirit of true nobleness\\nThou doest not a worthy deed the less\\nBecause the world may not its greatness see\\nWhat were a thousand triumphings to thee.\\nWho, in thyself, art as a perfect sphere\\nWrapt in a bright and natural atmosphere\\nOf mighty-souledness and majesty\\nThy soul is not too high for lowly things.\\nFeels not its strength seeing its brother weak,\\nNot for itself unto itself is dear.\\nBut for that it may guide the wanderings\\nOf fellow-men, and to their spirits speak\\nThe lofty faith of heart that knows no fear.\\nVI.\\nFor this true nobleness I seek in vain.\\nIn woman and in man I find it not,\\nI almost weary of my earthly lot,\\nMy life-springs are dried up with burning pain/\\nThou find st it not I pray thee look again.\\nLook i7iivard through the depths of thine own soul\\nHow is it with thee Art thou sound and whole\\nDoth narrow search show thee no earthly stain", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0455.jp2"}, "456": {"fulltext": "432 SONNETS.\\nBe noble and the nobleness that lies\\nIn other men, sleeping but never dead,\\nWill rise in majesty to meet thine own\\nThen wilt thou see it gleam in many eyes,\\nThen will pure light around thy path be shed.\\nAnd thou wilt nevermore be sad and lone.\\nVII.\\nTO\\nDeem it no Sodom-fruit of vanity,\\nOr fickle fantasy of unripe youth\\nWhich ever takes the fairest shows for truth.\\nThat I should wish my verse beloved of thee\\n^T is love s deep thirst which may not quenched be\\nThere is a gulf of longing and unrest,\\nA wild love-craving not to be represt,\\nWhereto, in all our hearts, as to the sea,\\nThe streams of feeling do for ever flow.\\nTherefore it is that thy well-meted praise\\nFalleth so shower-like and fresh on me,\\nFilling those springs which else had sunk full low.\\nLost in the dreary desert-sands of woe,\\nOr parched by passion s fierce and withering blaze.\\nVIII.\\nMight I but be beloved, and, most fair\\nAnd perfect-ordered soul, beloved of thee.\\nHow should I feel a cloud of earthly care.\\nIf thy blue eyes were ever clear to me\\nO woman s Jove flower most bright and rare\\nThat blossom st brightest in extremest need.\\nWoe, woe is me that thy so precious seed\\nIs ever sown by Fancy s changeful air.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0456.jp2"}, "457": {"fulltext": "SONNETS. 433\\nAnd grows sometimes in poor and barren hearts.\\nWho can be little even in the light\\nOf thy meek holiness while souls more great\\nAre left to wander in a starless night,\\nPraying unheard and yet the hardest parts\\nBefit those best who best can cope with Fate.\\nIX.\\nWhy should we ever weary of this life\\nOur souls should widen ever, not contract.\\nGrow stronger, and not harder, in the strife,\\nFilling each moment with a noble act\\nIf we live thus, of vigor all compact,\\nDoing our duty to our fellow-men,\\nAnd striving rather to exalt our race\\nThan our poor selves, with earnest hand or pen\\nWe shall erect our names a dwelling-place\\nWhich not all ages shall cast down agen\\nOffspring of Time shall then be born each hour.\\nWhich, as of old, earth lovingly shall guard,\\nTo live forever in youth s perfect flower.\\nAnd guide her future children Heavenward.\\nX.\\nGREEK MOUNTAIN S.\\nYe mountains, that far off lift up your heads.\\nSeen dimly through their canopies of blue.\\nThe shade of my unrestful spirit sheds\\nDistance-created beauty over you\\nI am not well content with this far view\\nHow may I know what foot of loved-one treads\\nYour rocks moss-grown and sun-dried torrent beds\\nWe should love all things better, if we knew\\n28", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0457.jp2"}, "458": {"fulltext": "^34 SONNETS.\\nWhat claims the meanest have upon our hearts\\nPerchance even now some eye, that would be bright\\nTo meet my own, looks on your mist-robed forms\\nPerchance your grandeur a deep joy imparts\\nTo souls that have encircled mine with light\\nbrother-heart, with thee my spirit warms\\nXI.\\nMy friend, adown Life s valley, hand in hand,\\nWith grateful change of grave and merry speech\\nOr song, our hearts unlocking each to each.\\nWe 11 journey onward to the silent land\\nAnd when stern Death shall loose that loving band.\\nTaking in his cold hand a hand of ours.\\nThe one shall strew the other s grave with flowers,\\nNor shall his heart a moment be unmanned.\\nMy friend and brother if thou goest first.\\nWilt thou no more re-visit me below\\nYea, when my heart seems happy, causelessly\\nAnd swells, not dreaming why, as it would burst\\nWith joy unspeakable my soul shall know\\nThat thou, unseen, art bending over me.\\nXII.\\nVerse cannot say how beautiful thou art.\\nHow glorious the calmness of thine eyes.\\nFull of unconquerable energies.\\nTelling that thou hast acted well thy part.\\nNo doubt or fear thy steady faith can start.\\nNo thought of evil dare come nigh to thee.\\nWho hast the courage meek of purity.\\nThe self-stayed greatness of a loving heart.\\nStrong with serene, enduring fortitude\\nWhere er tjiou art, that seems thy fitting plaet.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0458.jp2"}, "459": {"fulltext": "SONNETS. 48g\\nFor not of forms, but Nature, art thou child\\nAnd lowest things put on a noble grace\\nWhen touched by ye, patient, Ruth-like, mild\\nAnd spotless hands of earnest womanhood.\\nXIII.\\nThe soul would fain its loving kindness tell,\\nBut custom hangs like lead upon the tongue\\nThe heart is brimful, hollow crowds among.\\nWhen it finds one whose life and thought are well\\nUp to the eyes its gushing love doth swell,\\nThe angel cometh and the waters move.\\nYet it is fearful still to say I love,*^\\nAnd words come grating as a jangled bell.\\nmight we only speak but what we feel,\\nMight the tongue pay but what the heart doth owe,\\nNot Heaven s great thunder, when, deep peal on peal.\\nIt shakes the earth, could rouse our spirits so,\\nOr to the soul such majesty reveal,\\nAs two short words half -spoken faint and low\\nXIV.\\n1 SAW a gate a harsh voice spake and said,\\nThis is the gate of Life above was writ,\\nLeave hope behind, all ye who enter it\\nThen shrank my heart within itself for dread\\nBut, softer than the summer rain is shed,\\nWords dropt upon my soul, and they did say,\\nFear nothing, Faith shall save thee, watch and\\npray\\nSo, without fear I lifted up my head,\\nAnd lo that writing was not, one fair word\\nWas carven in its stead, and it was Love.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0459.jp2"}, "460": {"fulltext": "436 SONNETS.\\nThen rained once more those sweet tones from above\\nWith healing on their wings I humbly heard,\\nI am the Life, ask and it shall be given\\nI am the way, by me ye enter Heaven\\nXV.\\nI WOULD not have this perfect love of ours\\nGrow from a single root, a single stem.\\nBearing no goodly fruit, but only flowers\\nThat idly hide Lifers iron diadem\\nIt should grow alway like that Eastern tree\\nWhose limbs take root and spread forth constantly\\nThat love for one, from which there doth not spring\\nWide love for all, is but a worthless thing.\\nNot in another world, as poets prate.\\nDwell we apart, above the tide of things.\\nHigh floating o er earth s clouds on faery wings\\nBut onr pure love doth ever elevate\\nInto a holy bond of brotherhood\\nAll earthly things, making them pure and good.\\nXVI.\\nTo the dark, narrow house where loved ones go.\\nWhence no steps outward turn, whose silent door\\nNone but the sexton knocks at any more,\\nAre they not sometimes with us yet below\\nThe longings of the soul would tell us so\\nAlthough, so pure and flne their being s essence.\\nOur bodily eyes are witless of their presence.\\nYet not within the tomb their spirits glow,\\nLike wizard lamps pent up, but whensoever\\nWith great thoughts worthy of their high behests\\nOur souls are filled, those bright ones with us be.\\nAs, in the patriarch s tent, his angel guests", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0460.jp2"}, "461": {"fulltext": "SONNETS. 437\\nlet us live so worthily, that never\\nWe may be far from that blest company.\\nXVII.\\n1 FAIN vv^oiild give to thee the loveliest things,\\nFor lovely things belong to thee of right.\\nAnd thou hast been as peaceful to my sight,\\nAs the still thoughts that summer twilight brings\\nBeneath the shadow of thine angel wings\\nlet me live let me rest in thee.\\nGrowing to thee more and more utterly.\\nUpbearing and upborne, till outward things\\nAre only as they share in thee a part\\nLook kindly on me, let thy holy eyes\\nBless me from the deep fulness of thy heart\\nSo shall my soul in its right strength arise.\\nAnd nevermore shall pine and shrink and start.\\nSafe-sheltered in thy full-souled sympathies.\\nXVIII.\\nMuch I had mused of Love, and in my soul\\nThere was one chamber where I dared not look,\\nSo much its dark and dreary voidness shook\\nMy spirit, feeling that I was not whole\\nAll my deep longings flowed toward one goal\\nFor long, long years, but were not answered.\\nTill Hope was drooping, Faith well-nigh stone-dead.\\nAnd I was still a blind, earth-delving mole\\nYet did I know that God was wise and good,\\nAnd would fulfil my being late or soon\\nNor was such thought in vain, for, seeing thee.\\nGreat Love rose up, as, o er a black pine wood,\\nRound, bright, and clear, upstarteth the full moon,\\nFilling my soul with glory utterly.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0461.jp2"}, "462": {"fulltext": "438 SONNETS.\\nXIX.\\nSayest thou, most beautiful, that thou wilt wear\\nFlowers and leafy crowns when thou art old,\\nAnd that thy heart shall never grow so cold\\nBut they shall love to wreath thy silvered hair\\nAnd into age s snows the hope of spring-tide bear\\n0, in thy childlike wisdom s moveless hold\\nDwell ever still the blessings manifold\\nOf purity, of peace, and untaught care\\nFor other s hearts, around thy pathway shed.\\nAnd thou shalt have a crown of deathless flowers\\nTo glorify and guard thy blessed head\\nAnd give their freshness to thy life s last hours\\nAnd, when the Bridegroom calleth, they shall be\\nA wedding-garment white as snow for thee.\\nXX.\\nPoet who sittest in thy pleasant room,\\nWarming thy heart with idle thoughts of love,\\nAnd of a holy life that leads above,\\nStriving to keep life s spring-flowers still in bloom.\\nAnd lingering to snuff their fresh perfume\\n0, there were other duties meant for thee.\\nThan to sit down in peacefulness and Be\\n0, there are brother-hearts that dwell in gloom.\\nSouls loathsome, foul, and black with daily sin,\\nSo crusted o er with baseness, that no ray\\nOf heaven s blessed light may enter in\\nCome down, then, to the hot and dusty way.\\nAnd lead them back to hope and peace again\\nFor, save in Act, thy Love is all in vain.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0462.jp2"}, "463": {"fulltext": "SONNETS. 439\\nXXI.\\nNO MORE BUT SO\\nNo more but so Only with uncold looks.\\nAnd with a hand not laggard to clasp mine,\\nThink st thou to pay what debt of love is thine\\nNo more but so Like gushing water- orooKs,\\nFreshening and making green the dimmest nooks\\nOf thy friend^s soul thy kindliness should flow\\nBut, if ^t is bounded by not saying no,\\nI can find more of friendship in my books,\\nAll lifeless though they be, and more, far more\\nIn every simplest moss, or flower, or tree\\nOpen to me thy heart of hearts^ deep core.\\nOr never say that I am dear to thee\\nCall me not Friend, if thou keep close the door\\nThat leads into thine inmost sympathy.\\nXXII.\\nTO A VOICE HEARD IN MOUNT AUBURN.\\nLike the low warblings of a leaf -hid bird.\\nThy voice came to me through the screening trees.\\nSinging the simplest, long-known melodies\\nI had no glimpse of thee, and yet I heard\\nAnd blest thee for each clearly-carolled word\\nI longed to thank thee, and my heart would frame\\nMary or Ruth, some sisterly, sweet name\\nFor thee, yet could I not my lips have stirred\\nI knew that thou wert lovely, that thine eyes\\nWere blue and downcast, and methought large tears.\\nUnknown to thee, up to their lids must rise\\nWith half-sad memories of other years,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0463.jp2"}, "464": {"fulltext": "440 SONNETS.\\nAs to thyself alone thou sangest o er\\nWords that to childhood seemed to say No More!\\nXXIII.\\nON READING SPENSER AGAIN.\\nDear, gentle Spenser thou my soul dost lead,\\nA little child again, through Fairy land,\\nBy many a bower and stream of golden sand.\\nAnd many a sunny plain whose light doth breed\\nA sunshine in my happy heart, and feed\\nMy fancy with sweet visions I become\\nA knight, and with my charmed arms would roam\\nTo seek for fame in many a wondrous deed\\nOf high emprise for I have seen the light\\nOf Una s angel s face, the golden hair\\nAnd backward eyes of startled Florimel i\\nAnd, for their holy sake, I would outdare\\nA host of cruel Paynims in the fight,\\nOr Archimage and all the powers of Hell.\\nXXIV.\\nLight of mine eyes with thy so trusting look.\\nAnd thy sweet smile of charity and love.\\nThat from a treasure well u plaid above,\\nAnd from a hope in Christ its blessing took\\nLight of my heart which, when it could not brook\\nThe coldness of another s sympathy.\\nFinds ever a deep peace and stay in thee.\\nWarm as the sunshine of a mossy nook\\nLight of my soul who, by thy saintliness\\nAnd faith that acts itself in daily life.\\nCanst raise me above weakness, and canst bless\\nThe hardest thraldom of my earthly strife", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0464.jp2"}, "465": {"fulltext": "SONNETS. 441\\nI dare not say how much thon art to me\\nEven to myself and 0, far less to thee\\nXXV.\\nSilent as one who treads on new-fallen snow.\\nLove came upon me ere I was aware\\nNot light of heart, for there was troublous care\\nUpon his eyelids, drooping them full low.\\nAs with sad memory of a healed woe\\nThe cold rain shivered in his golden hair.\\nAs if an outcast lot had been his share,\\nAnd he seemed doubtful whither he should go\\nThen he fell on my neck, and, in my breast\\nHiding his face, awhile sobbed bitterly.\\nAs half in grief to be so long distrest.\\nAnd half in joy at his security\\nAt last, uplooking from his place of rest.\\nHis eyes shone blessedness and hope on me.\\nXXYI.\\nA GENTLENESS that grows of steady faith\\nA joy that sheds its sunshine everywhere\\nA humble strength and readiness to bear\\nThose burthens which strict duty everlay th\\nUpon our soals which unto sorrow saith,\\nHere is no soil for thee to strike thy roots,\\nHere only grow those sweet and precious fruits\\nWhich ripen for the soul that well obey^th\\nA patience which the world can neither give\\nNor take away a courage strong and high,\\nThat dares in simple usefulness to live.\\nAnd without one sad look behind to die", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0465.jp2"}, "466": {"fulltext": "442 SONNETS.\\nWhen that day comes these tell me that our lovt\\nIs building for itself a home above.\\nXXVII.\\nWhen the glad soul is full to overflow,\\nUnto the tongue all power it denies.\\nAnd only trusts its secret to the eyes\\nFor, by an inborn wisdom, it doth know\\nThere is no other eloquence but so\\nAnd, when the tongue s weak utterance doth suffice.\\nPrisoned within the body s cell it lies,\\nRemembering in tears its exiled woe\\nThat word w^hich all mankind so long to hear.\\nWhich bears the spirit back to whence it came,\\nMaketh the sullen clay as crystal clear.\\nAnd will not be enclouded in a name\\nIt is a truth which we can feel and see\\nBut is as boundless as Eternity.\\nXXVIII.\\nTO THE EVENING-STAR.\\nWhen we have once said lowly ^Evening-Star!\\nWords give no more for, in thy silver pride.\\nThou shinest as nought else can shine beside\\nThe thick smoke, coiling round the sooty bar\\nForever, and the customed lamp-light mar\\nThe stillness of my thought seeing things glide\\nSo samely then I ope my windows wide.\\nAnd gaze in peace to where thou shin sfc afar.\\nThe wind that comes across the faint-white snow\\nSo freshly, and the river dimly seen,\\nSeem like new things that never had been so", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0466.jp2"}, "467": {"fulltext": "SONNETS. 443\\nBefore and thou art bright as thou hast been\\nSince thy white rays put sweetness in the eyeis\\nOf the first souls that loved in Paradise.\\nXXIX.\\nEEADIKG.\\nAs one who on some well-known landscape looks.\\nBe it alone, or with some dear friend nigh.\\nEach day beholdeth fresh variety,\\nNew harmonies of hills, and trees, and brooks\\nSo is it with the worthiest choice of books.\\nAnd oftenest read if thou no meaning spy.\\nDeem there is meaning wanting in thine eyes\\nWe are so lured from judgment by the crooks\\nAnd winding ways of covert fantasy.\\nOr turned unwittingly down beaten tracks\\nOf our foregone conclusions, that we see.\\nIn our own want, the writer s misdeemed lacks\\nIt is with true books as with Nature, each\\nNew day of living doth new insight teach,\\nXXX.\\nTO AFTER A SNOW-STORM.\\nBlue as thine eyes the river gently flows\\nBetween his banks, which, far as eye can see.\\nAre whiter than aught else on earth may be,\\nSave mmost thoughts that in thy soul repose\\nThe trees, all crystalled by the melted snows,\\nSparkle with gems and silver, such as we\\nIn childhood saw mong groves of Faerie,\\nAnd the dear skies are sunuy-blue as those", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0467.jp2"}, "468": {"fulltext": "444\\nSONNETS.\\nStill as thy heart, when next mine own it lies\\nIn love s full safety, is the bracing air\\nThe earth is all enwrapt with draperies\\nSnow-white as that pure love might choose to wear\\nfor one moment s look into thine eyes,\\nTo share the joy such scene would kindle there", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0468.jp2"}, "469": {"fulltext": "SONNETS ON NAMES.\\nI.\\nEDITH.\\nA Lily with its frail cup filled with dew,\\nDown-bending modestly, snow-white and pale.\\nShedding faint fragrance round its native vale.\\nMinds me of thee, Sweet Edith, mild and true,\\nAnd of thy eyes so innocent and blue,\\nThy heart is fearful as a startled hare.\\nYet hath in it a fortitude to bear\\nFor Love s sake, and a gentle faith which grew\\nOf Love need of a stay whereon to lean,\\nFelt in thyself, hath taught thee to uphold\\nAnd comfort others, and to give, unseen.\\nThe kindness thy still love cannot withhold\\nMaiden, I would my sister thou hadst been.\\nThat round thee I my guarding arms might fold.\\nII.\\nROSE.\\nMy ever-lightsome, ever-laughing Rose,\\nWho always speakest first and thinkest last.\\nThy full voice is as clear as bugle-blast\\nRight from the ear down to the heart it goes\\nAnd says, I m beautiful as who but knows\\nThy name reminds me of old romping days,\\n445", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0469.jp2"}, "470": {"fulltext": "446 SONNETS ON NAMES.\\nOf kisses stolen in dark passage-ways.\\nOr in the parlor, if the mother-nose\\nGave sign of drowsy watch. I wonder where\\nAre gone thy tokens, given with a glance\\nSo full of everlasting love till morrow.\\nOr a day s endless grieving for the dance\\nLast night denied, backed with a lock of hair.\\nThat spake of broken hearts and deadly sorrow\\nIII.\\nMAKY.\\nDark hair, dark eyes not too dark to be deep\\nAnd fnll of feeling, yet enongh to glow\\nWith fire when angered feelings never slow.\\nBut which seem rather watching to forthleap\\nFrom her full breast a gently-flowing sweep\\nOf words in common talk, a torrent-rush.\\nWhenever through her soul swift feelings gush,\\nA heart less ready to be gay than weep,\\nYet cheerful ever a calm matron-smile.\\nThat bids God bless you a chaste simpleness.\\nWith somewhat, too, of proper pride, in dress\\nThis portrait to my mind s eye came, the while\\nI thought of thee, the well-grown woman Mary,\\nWhilome a gold-haired, laughing little fairy.\\nIV.\\nCAROLINE.\\nA STAIDNESS sobers o er her pretty face.\\nWhich something but ill-hidden in her eyes,\\nAnd a quaint look about her lips denies\\nA lingering love of girlhood you can trace", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0470.jp2"}, "471": {"fulltext": "SONNETS ON NAMES. U7\\nIn her checked hiugh and half-restrained pace\\nAnd, when she bears herself most womanly,\\nIt seems as if a watchful mother s eye\\nKept down with sobering glance her childish grace\\nYet oftentimes her nature gushes free\\nAs water long held back by little hands.\\nWithin a pump, and let forth suddenly.\\nUntil, her task remembering, she stands\\nA moment silent, smiling doubtfully.\\nThen laughs aloud and scorns her hated bands.\\nV.\\nANKE.\\nThere is a pensiveness in quiet Anne,\\nA mournful drooping of the full gray eye.\\nAs if she had shook hands with misery,\\nAnd known some care since her short life began\\nHer cheek is seriously pale, nigh wan.\\nAnd, though of cheerfulness there is no lack,\\nYou feel as if she must be dressed in black\\nYet is she not of those who, all they can.\\nStrive to be gay, and striving, seem most sad\\nHers is not grief, but silent soberness\\nYou would be startled if you saw her glad.\\nAnd startled if you saw her weep, no less\\nShe walks through life, as, on the Sabbath day.\\nShe decorously glides to church to pray.\\nTHE END.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0471.jp2"}, "472": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0472.jp2"}, "473": {"fulltext": "A. L. BURrS PUBLICATIONS\\nFor Young People\\nBY POPULAR WRITERS,\\n52-58 Duane Street, New York.\\nBonnie Prince Charlie A Tale of Fontenoy and Culloden. By\\nG. A. Henty. With 13 full-page Illustrations by GORDON\\nBrowne. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.\\nThe adventures of the son of a Scotch officer in Fr^-nch service.\\nThe boy, brought up by a Glasgow bailie, is a rested for aiding a\\nJacobite agent, escapes, is wrecked on the French coast, reaches\\nParis, and serves with the French army at Dettingen. He kills\\nhis father s foe in a duel, and escaping to the coast, shares the\\nadventures of Prince Charlie, but finally settles happily in Scot-\\nland.\\nRonald, the hero, is very like the hero of Quentin Durward. The lad s\\njourney across France, and his hairbreadth escapes, make up as good a nar-\\nrative of the kind as we have ever read. For freshness of treatment and\\nvariety of incident Mr. Henty has surpassed himself. Spectator.\\nWith Clive in India; or, the Beginnings of an Empire. By\\nG. A. Henty. With 12 full-page Illustrations by Gordon\\nBrowne. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.\\nThe period between the landing of Clive as a young writer in\\nIndia and the close of his career was critical and eventful in the\\nextreme. At its commencement the English were traders existing\\non sufferance of the native princes. At its close they were masters\\nof Bengal and f the greater part of Southern India. The author\\nhas given a full and accurate account of the events of that stirring\\ntime, and battles and sieges follow each other in rapid succession,\\nwhile he combines with his narrative a tale of daring and adven-\\nture, which gives a lifelike interest to the volume.\\nHe has taken a period of Indian Listory of the most vital importance,\\nand he has embroidered on the historical facts a story which of itself is deeply\\ninteresting. Young people assuredly will be delighted with the volume.\\nScotsvian.\\nThe Lion of the North A Tale of Gustavus Adolphus and the\\nWars of Religion. By G. A. Henty. With full-page Illus-\\ntrations by John Schonberg. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.\\nIn this story Mr. Hen y gives the history of the first i art of the\\nThirty Years War. The issue had its importance, which has ex-\\ntended to the present day, as it established religious freedom\\nin Germany. The army of the chivalrous king of Sweden was\\nlargely composed of Scotchmen, and among these was the hero of\\nthe story.\\nThe tale is a clever and instructive piece of history, and as boys may be\\ntrusted tp rea4 it conscientiously, they can hardly fail to be profited. riwie*", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0473.jp2"}, "474": {"fulltext": "A. L. BURT S PUBLICATIONS.\\nThe Dragon and the Raven; or, The Days of King Alfred. By\\nG. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by C. J. Stani-\\nLAND, R.I. 12mo, cloth, price |1. 00.\\nIn this story the author gives an account of the fierce struggle\\nbetween Saxon and Dane for supremacy in England, and presents\\na vivid picture of the misery and ruin to which the country was\\nreduced by the ravages of the sea-wolves. The hero, a young\\nSaxon thane, takes part in all the battles fought by King Alfred.\\nHe is driven from his home, takes to the sea and resists the Danes\\non their own element, and being pursued by them up the Seine,\\nis present at the long and desperate siege of Paris.\\nTreated in a manner most attractive to the boyish reader. Athenceum.\\nThe Young Carthaginian A Story of the Times of Hannibal.\\nBy G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by C. J. Stani-\\nLAND, R.I. 13mo, cloth, price $1.00.\\nBoys reading the history of the Punic Wars have seldom a keen\\nappreciation of the merits of the contest. That it was at first a\\nstruggle for empire, and afterward for existence on the part of\\nCarthage, that Hannibal vv^as a great and skillful general, that he\\ndefeated the Romans at Trebia, Lake Trasimenus, and Cannae,\\nand all but took Rome, represents pretty nearly the sum total of\\ntheir knowledge. To let them know more about this momentous\\nstruggle for the empire of the world Mr. Henty has written this\\nstory, which not only gives in graphic style a brilliant descrip-\\ntion of a most interesting period of history, but is a tale of ex-\\nciting adventure sure to secure the interest of the reader.\\nWell constructed and vividly told. From first to last nothing stays the\\ninterest of the narrative. It bears us along as on a Jstream whose current\\nvaries in direction, but never loses its force. Saturday Review.\\nIn Freedom s Cause A Story of Wallace and Bruce. ByG. A.\\nHenty. With full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne.\\n12mo, cloth, price $1.00.\\nIn this story the author relates the stirring tale of the Scottish\\nWar of Independence. The extraordinary valor and personal\\nprowess of Wallace and Bruce rival the deeds of the mythical\\nheroes of chivalry, and indeed at one time Wallace was ranked\\nwith these legendary personages. The researches of modern\\nhistorians have shown, however, that he was a living, breathing\\nman and a valiant champion. The hero of the tale fought under\\nboth Wallace and Bruce, and while the strictest historical accuracy\\nhas been maintained with respect to public events, the work is\\nfull of hairbreadth scapes and wild adventure.\\nIt is written in the author s best style. Full of the wildest and most re-\\nmarkable achievements, it is a tale of great interest, which a boy, once he has\\nbegun it, will not willingly put on one side. 27ie Schoolmaster.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0474.jp2"}, "475": {"fulltext": "A. L. BURT S PUBLICATIONS.\\nWith Lee in Virginia A Story of the American Civil War. By\\nG. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by Gordon\\nBrowne. 12ino, cloth, price $1.00.\\nThe story of a young Virginian planter, who, after bravely\\nproving his sympathy with the slaves of brutal masters, serves\\nwith no less courage and enthusiasm under Lee and Jackson\\nthrough the most exciting events of the struggle. He has many\\nhairbreadth escapes, is seveial times wounded and twice taken\\nprisoner; but his courage and readiness and, in two cases, the\\ndevotion of a black servant and of a runaway slave whom he had\\nassisted, bring him safely through all difficulties.\\nOne of the best stories for lads which Mr. Henty has yet written. The\\npicture is full of Ufa and color, and the stirring and romantic incidents are\\nskillfully blended with the personal interest and charm of the story.\\nStandard.\\nBy England s Aid or. The Freeing of the Netherlands (1585-\\n1604). By G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by\\nAlfred Pearse, and Maps. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.\\nThe story of two English lads who go to Holland as pages in\\nthe service of one of the fighting Veres. After many adven-\\ntures by sea and land, one of the lads finds himself on board a\\nSpanish ship at the time of the defeat of the Armada, and escapes\\nonly to fall into the hands of the Corsairs. He is successful in\\ngetting back to Spain under the protection of a wealthy merchant,\\nand regains his native country after the capture of Cadiz.\\nIt is an admirable book for youngsters. It overflows with stirrirg inci-\\ndent and exciting adventure, and the color of the era and of the sc^ne are\\nfinely reproduced. The illustrations add to its attractiveness. Posfon\\nGazette.\\nBy Right of Conquest or, With Cortez in Mexico. By G. A.\\nHenty. With full-page Illustrations by W. S. Stagey, and\\nTwo Maps. 13mo, cloth, price $1.50.\\nThe conquest of Mexico by a small band of resolute men under\\nthe magnificent leadership of Cortez is always rightly ranked\\namong the most romantic and daring exploits in history. With\\nthis as the groundwork of his story Mr. Henty has interwoven the\\nadventures of an English youth, Roger Hawkshaw, the sole sur-\\nvivor of the good ship Swan, which had sailed from a Devon port\\nto challenge the mercantile supremacy o* the Spaniards in the\\nNew World. He is beset by many perils among the natives, but\\nis saved by his own judgment and strength, and by the devotion\\nof an Aztec princess. At last by a ruse he obtains the protection\\nof the Spaniards, and after the fall of Mexico he succeeds in re-\\ngaining his native shore, with a fortune and a charming Aztec\\nbride.\\nBy Right of Conquest is the nearest approach to a perfectly successful\\nhistorical tale that Mr. Henty has yet published. ^icademy.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0475.jp2"}, "476": {"fulltext": "A. L. BURT S PUBLICATIONS.\\nIn the Reign of Terror The Adventures of a Westminster Boy.\\nBy G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by J. Sch6n-\\nBERG. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.\\nHarry Sandwith, a Westminster boy, becomes a resident at the\\nchateau of a French marquis, and afttr various adventures accom-\\npanies the family to Paris at the crisis of the Revolution. Im-\\nprisonment and death reduce their number, and the hero finds\\nhimself beset by perils vs^ith the three young daughters of the\\nhouse in his charge. After hairbreadth escapes they reach Nan-\\ntes. There the ^irls are condemned to death in the coffin-ships,\\nbut are saved by the unfailing courage of their boy protector.\\nHarry Sandwith, the Westminster boy, may fairly be said to beat Mr.\\nHenty s record. His adventures will delight boys by the audacity and peril\\nthey depict. The story is one of Mr. Henty s best. ^Saturday\\nReview.\\nWith Wolfe in Canada or. The Winning of a C^ontinent. By\\nG. A. Henty. With full -page Illustrations by Gordon\\nBrowne. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.\\nIn the present volume Mr. Henty gives an account of the strug-\\ngle between Britain and France for supremacy in the North\\nAmerican continent. On the issue of this war depended not only\\nthe d stinies of North America, but to a large extent those of the\\nmothei* countries themselves. The fall of Quebec decided that\\nthe Anglo-Saxon race should predominate in the New World;\\nthat Britain, and not France, should take the lead among the\\nnations of Europe; and that English and American commerce, the\\nEnglish language, and English literature, should spread right\\nround the globe.\\nIt is not or\\\\y a lesson in history as instructively as it is graphically told,\\nbut also a deeply interesting and often thrilling tale of adventure and peril by\\nflood and field. Illustrated London News.\\nTrue to the Old Flag A Tale of the American War of Inde-\\npendence. By G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by\\nGordon Browne. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.\\nIn this story the author has gone to the accounts of officers who\\ntook part in the conflict, and lads will find that in no war in which\\nAmerican and British soldiers have be jn engaged did they behave\\nwith greater courage and good conduct The historical portion of\\nthe book being accompanied with numerous thrilling adventures\\nwith the redskins on the shores of Lai e Huron, a story of exciting\\ninterest is interwoven with the general narrative and carried\\nthrough the book.\\nDoes justice to the pluck and determination of the British soldiers during\\nthe unfortunate struggle against American emancipation. The son of an\\nAmerican loyalist, who remains true to our flag, falls among the hostile red-\\nskins in thnt very Huron country which has been endeared to us by the ex\\nplolts of Hawkeye and Chingachgook. TTie Times.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0476.jp2"}, "477": {"fulltext": "A. L. BURT S PUBLICATIONS.\\nThe Lion of St. Mark A Tale of Venice iu the Fourteenth\\nCentury. By G. A. Hentt. With full-page Illustrations by\\nGordon Browne. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.\\nA story of Venice at a period when her strength and splendor\\nwere put to the severest tests. The hero displays a fine sense and\\nmanliness which carry him safely through an atmosphere of in-\\ntrigue, crime, and bloodshed. He contributes largely to the vic-\\ntories of the Venetians at Porto d Auzo and Chioggia, and finally\\nwins the band of the daughter of one of the chief men of Venice.\\nEvery boy should read The Lion of St. Mark. Mr. Henry has never pro-\\nduced a story more delightful, more wholesome, or more vivacious. Satur-\\nday Review.\\nA Final Reckoning^: A Tale of Bush Life in Australia. ByG. A.\\nHenty. With full-page Illustrations by W. B. Wollen.\\n12mo, cloth, price $1.00,\\nThe hero, a young English lad. after rather a stormy boyhood,\\nemigrates to Australia, and gets employment as an officer in the\\nmounted police. A few years of active work on the frontier,\\nwhere he has many a brush with b^th natives and bushrangers,\\ngain him promotion to a captaincy, and he eventually settles\\ndown to the peaceful life of a squatter.\\nMr. Henty has never published a more readable, a more carefully con-\\nstructed, or a better written story than this. Spectator.\\nUnder Drake s Flag A Tale of the Spanish Main. By G. A.\\nHenty. With full- page Illustrations by Gordon Browne.\\n12mo, cloth, price $1.00.\\nA story of the days when England and Spain struggled for the\\nsupremacy of the sea. The heroes sail as lads with Drake in the\\nPacific expedition, and in his great voyage of circumnavigation.\\nThe historical portion of the story is absolutely to be relied upon.\\nbut this will perhaps be less attractive than the great variety of\\nexciting adventure through which the young heroes pass in the\\ncourse of their voyages.\\nA book of adventure, where the hero meets with experience enough, one\\nwould think, to turn his hair gray. Harper s Monthly Magazine.\\nBy Sheer Pluck A Tale of the Ashanti War. By G. A. Henty.\\nWith full- page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. 12mo,\\ncloth, price $1.00.\\nThe author has woven, in a tale of thrilling interest, all the de-\\ntails of the Ashanti campaign, of which he was himself a witness.\\nHis hero, after many exciting adventures in the interior, is de-\\ntained a prisoner by the king just before the outbreak of the war,\\nbut escapes, and accompanies the English expedition on their\\nmarch to Coomassie.\\nMr. Henty keeps up his reputation as a writer of boys stories. By Sheer\\nPluck will be eagerly re d. ^\u00e2\u0080\u0094Athenoeufn.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0477.jp2"}, "478": {"fulltext": "6 A. L, BURT^S PUBLICATIONS.\\nBy Pike and Dyke A Tale of tlie Rise of the Dutch Republic.\\nBy G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by Maynard\\nBrown, and 4 Maps. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.\\nIn this story Mr. Henty traces the adventures and brave deeds\\nof an English boy in the household of the ablest man of his age\\nWilliam the Silent. Edward Martin, the son of an English sea-\\ncaptain, enters the service of the Prince as a volunteer, and is em-\\nployed by him in many dangerous and responsible missions, in the\\ndischarge of which he passes through the great sieges of the time.\\nHe u timately settles down as Sir Edward Martin.\\nBoys with a turn for historical research will be enchanted with the book,\\nwhile the rest who only care for adventure.will be students in spite of them-\\nselves. St. James Gazette.\\nSt. George for England A Tale of Cressy and Poitiers. By\\nG. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by Gordon\\nBrowne. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.\\nNo portion of English history is more crowded with great events\\nthan that of the reign of Edward III. Cressy and Poitiers; the\\ndestruction of the Spanish tieet; the plague of the Black Death;\\ntbe Jacquerie rising; these are treated by the author in St.\\nGeorge for England. The hero of tbe story, although of good\\nfamily, begins life as a London apprentice, but after countless adi\\nventures and perils becomes by valor and good conduct the squire,\\nand at last the trusted friend of the Black Prince.\\nMr. Henty has developed for himself a type of historical novel for boys\\nwhich bids fair to supplement, on their behalf, the historical labors of Sir\\nWalter Scott in the land of fiction. T7ie Standard.\\nCaptain s Kidd s Gold Tbe True Story of an Adventurous Sailor\\nBoy. By James Franklin FiTTS. 13rno, clotli, price $1.00.\\nThere is something fascinating to the average youth in tlievery\\nidea of buried treasure. A vision arises before his eyes of swarthy\\nPortuguese and Spanish rascals, with black beards and gleaming\\neyes sinister-looking fellows who once on a time haunted the\\nSpanish Main, sneaking out from some hidden creek in their long,\\nlow schooner, of picaroonish rake and sheer, to attack an unsus-\\npecting trading craft. There were many famous sea rovers in\\ntheir day, but none more celebrated tban Capt. Kidd. Perhaps\\nthe most fascinating tale of all is Mr. Fitts true story of an adven.\\nturous American boy, who receives from his dying father an\\nancient bit of vellum, which the latter obtained in a curious way.\\nThe document bears obscure directions purporting to locate a cer-\\ntain island in the Bahama group, and a considerable treasure\\nburied there by two of Kidd s crew. The hero of this book,\\nPaul Jones Garry, is an ambitious, persevering lad, of salt-water\\nNew England ancestry, and bis efforts to reach the island and\\nsecure the money form one of the most absorbing tales for our\\nyouth that has come from the press.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0478.jp2"}, "479": {"fulltext": "A. L. BURT S PUBLICATIONS.\\nCaptain Bayley s Heir A Tale of the Gold Fields of California.\\nBy G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by H. M.\\nPaget. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.\\nA frank, manly lad and his cousin are rivals in the heirship of a\\nconsiderable property. The former falls into a trap laid by the\\nlatter, and while under a false accusation of theft foolishly leaves\\nEngland for America. He works his passage before the mast,\\njoins a small band of hunters, crosses a tract of country infested\\nwith Indians to the Californian gold diggings, and is successful\\nboth as digger and trader.\\nMr. Henty is careful to mingle instruction with entertainment; and the\\nhumorous touches, especially in the sketch of John Holl, the Westminster\\ndustman, Dickens himself could hardly have excelled.* Christian Leader.\\nFor Name and Fame or, Through Afghan Passes. By G. A.\\nHenty. With full -page Illustrations by Gordon Browne.\\n12mo, cloth, price $1.00.\\nAn interesting story of the last war in Afghanistan. The hero,\\nafter being wrecked and going through many stirring adventures\\namong the Malays, finds his way to Calcutta and enlists in a regi-\\nment proceeding to join the arujy at the Afghan passes. He ac-\\ncompanies the force under General Roberts to the Peiwar Kotal,\\nis wounded, taken prisoner, carried to Cabul, whence he is trans-\\nferred to Candahar, and takes part in the final defeat of the army\\nof Ayoub Khan.\\nThe best feature of the book\u00e2\u0080\u0094 apart from the interest of its scenes of ad-\\nventure\u00e2\u0080\u0094is its honest effort to do justice to the patriotism of the Afghan\\npeople. Z)ai7y News.\\nCaptured by Apes The Wonderful Adventures of a Young\\nAnimal Trainer. By Harry Prentice. 12mo, cloth, $1.00.\\nThe scene of this tale is laid on an island in the Malay Archi-\\npelago. Philip Garland, a young animal collector and trainer, of\\nNew York, sets sail for Eastern seas in quest of a new stock of\\nliving curiosities. The vessel is wrecked off the coast of Borneo\\nand young Garland, the sole survivor of the disaster, is cast ashore\\non a small island, and captured by the apes that overrun the\\nplace. The lad discovers tbat the ruling spirit of the monkey\\ntribe is a gigantic and vicious baboon, whom he identifies as\\nGoliah, an animal at one time in his possession and with whose\\ninstruction he Lad been especially diligent. The brute recognizes\\nhim, and with a kind of malignant satisfaction puts his former\\nmaster through the same course of training he had himself ex-\\nperienced with a faithfulness of detail which shows how astonish-\\ning is monkey recollection. Very novel indeed is the way by\\nwhich the young man escapes death. Mr. Prentice has certainly\\nworked a new vein on juvenile fiction, and the ability with which\\nhe handles a diflScult subject stamps him as a writer of undoubted\\nskill.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0479.jp2"}, "480": {"fulltext": "S A. L. BURT S PUBLICATIONS.\\nThe Bravest of the Brave or, With Peterborough in Spain.\\nBy G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by H. M.\\nPaget. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.\\nThere are few great leaders whose lives and actions have so\\ncompletely fallen into oblivion as those of the Earl of Peter-\\nborough. This is largely due to the fact that they were over-\\nshadowed by the glory and successes of Marlborough. His career\\nas general extended over little more than a year, and yet, in that\\ntime, he showed a genius for warfare which has never been sur-\\npassed.\\nMr. Henty never loses sight of the moral purpose of his work\u00e2\u0080\u0094 to enforce\\nthe doctrine of courage and truth. Lads will read The Bravest of the Brave\\nwith pleasure and profit; of that we are quite sure. Daily Telegraph.\\nThe Cat of Bubastes A Story of Ancient Egypt. By G. A.\\nHenty. With full page Illustrations. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.\\nA story which will give young readers an unsurpassed insight\\ninto the customs of the Egyptian people. Amuba, a prince of the\\nRebu nation, is carried with his charioteer Jethro into slavery.\\nThey become inmates of the house of Ameres, the Egyptian high-\\npiiest. and are happy in his service until the priest s son acci-\\ndentally kills the sacred cat of Bubastes. In an outburst of popular\\nfury Ameres is killed, and it rests with Jethro and Amuba to\\nsecure the escape of the high-priest s son and daughter.\\nThe story, from the critical moment of the killing of the sacred cat to the\\nperilous exodus into Asia with which it closes, is very skillfully constructed\\nand full of exciting adventvu es. It is admirably illustrated. Saturday\\nReview.\\nWith Washington at Monmouth A Story of Three Phila-\\ndelphia Boys. By James Otis. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.\\nThree Philadelphia boys, Seth Graydon whose mother con-\\nducted a boarding-house which was patronized by the British\\nofficers; Enoch Ball, son of that Mrs. Ball whose dancing\\nschool was situated on Letitia Street, and little Jacob, son of\\nChris, the Baker, serve as the principal characters. The\\nstory is laid during the winter when Lord Howe held possession\\nof the city, and the lads aid the cause by a-sisting the American\\nspies who make r gular and frequent visits from Valley Forge.\\nOne reads here of home-life in the captive city when bread was\\nscarce among the people of the lower classes, and a reckless prodi-\\ngality shown by the British officers, who passed the winter in\\nfeasting and merry-making while the members of the patriot army\\nbut a few miles away were suffering from both cold and hunger.\\nThe story abounds with pictures of Colonial life skillfully\\ndrawn, and the glimpses of Washington s soldiers which are given\\nshow that the work has not been hastily done, or without con-\\nsiderable study.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0480.jp2"}, "481": {"fulltext": "A. L. BURT S PUBLICATIONS.\\nFor the Temple: A Tale of the Fall of Jerusalem. By G. A.\\nHenty. With full-page Illustrations by S. J. Solomon. 13mo,\\ncloth, price $1.00.\\nMr. Henty here weaves into the record of Josephus an admirable\\nand attractive story. The troubles in the district of Tiberias, the\\nmarch of the legions, the sieges of Jotapata, of Gamala, and of\\nJerusalem, form the impressive and carefully studied historic\\nsetting to the figure of the lad who passes from the vineyard to\\nthe service of Josephus, becomes the leader of a guerrilla baud of\\npatriots, fights bravely for the Temple, and after a brief term of\\nslavery at Alexandria, returns to his Galilean home with the favor\\nof Titus.\\nMr. Henty s graphic prose pictures of the hopeless Jewish resistance to\\nRoman sway add another leaf to his record of the famous wars of the world.\\nGraphic.\\nFacing Death or. The Hero of the Vaughan Pit. A Tale of\\nthe Coal Mines. By G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustra-\\ntions by Gordon Browne. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.\\nFacing Death is a story with a purpose. It is intended to\\nshow that a lad who makes up his mind firmly and resolutely that\\nhe will rise in life, and who is prepared to face toil and ridicule\\nand hardship to carry out his determination, is sure to succeed.\\nThe hero of the story is a typical British boy, dogged, earnest,\\ngenerous, and though shamefaced to a degree, is ready to face\\ndeath in the discharge of duty.\\nThe tale is well written and well illustrated, and there is much reality in\\nthe characters. If any father, clergyman, or schoolmaster is on the lookout\\nfor a good book to give as a present to a boy who is worth his salt, this is the\\nbook we would recommend. Standard.\\nTom Temple s Career. By Horatio Alger. 12mo, cloth,\\nprice $1.00.\\nTom Temple, a bright, self-reliant lad, by the death of his\\nfather becomes a boarder at the home of Nathan Middleton, a\\npenurious insurance agent. Though well paid for keeping the\\nboy, Nathan and his wife endeavor to bring Master Tom in line\\nwith their parsimonious habits. The lad ingeniously evades their\\nefforts and revolutionizes the household. As Tom is heir to\\n$40,000, he is regarded as a person of some importance until by\\nan unfortunate combination of circumstances his fortune shrinks\\nto a few hundreds. He leaves Plympton village to seek work in\\nNew York, whence he undertakes an important mission to Cali-\\nfornia, around which center the most exciting incidents of his\\nyoung career. Some of his adventures in the far west are so\\nstartling that the reader will scarcely close the book until the last\\npage shall have been reached. The tale is written in Mr. Alger s\\nmost fascinating style, and is bound to please the very large class\\nof boys who regard this popular author as a prime favorite.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0481.jp2"}, "482": {"fulltext": "10 A. L. BURT S PUBLICATIONS.\\nMaori and Settler: A Story of the New Zealand War. By\\nG. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by Alfred Pearse.\\n12rao, cloth, price $1.00.\\nThe Renshaws emigrate to New Zealand during the period of\\nthe war with the natives. Wilfrid, a strong, self-reliant, coura-\\ngeous lad, is the mainstay of the household. He has for his friend\\nMr. Atherton, a botanist and naturalist of herculean strength and\\nunfailing nerve and humor. In the adventures among the Maoris,\\nthere are many breathless moments in which the odds seem hope-\\nlessly against the party, but they succeed in establishing them-\\nselves happily in one of the pleasant New Zealand valleys.\\nBrimful of adventure, of humorous and interesting conversation, and\\nvivid pictures of colonial life. Schoolmaster.\\nJulian Mortimer|: A Brave Boy s Struggle for Home and Fortune.\\nBy Harry Castlemon. 13mo, cloth, price $1.00.\\nHere is a story that will warm every boy s heart. There is\\nmystery enough to keep any lad s imagination wound up to the\\nhighest pitch. The scene of the story lies west of the Mississippi\\nRiver, in the days when emigrants made their perilous way across\\nthe great plains to the land of gold. One of the startling features\\nof the book is the attack upon the wagon train by a large party of\\nIndians. Our hero is a lad of uncommon nerve and pluck, a brave\\nyoung American in every sense of the word. He enlists and holds\\nthe reader s sympathy from the outset. Surrounded by an un-\\nknown and constant peril, and assisted by the unswerving fidelity\\nof a stalwart trapper, a real rough diamond, our hero achieves the\\nmost happy results. Harry Castlemon has written many enter-\\ntaining stories for boys, and it would seem almost superfluous to\\nsay anything in his praise, for the youth of America regard him\\nas a favorite author.\\nCarrots: Just a Little Boy. By Mrs. Molesworth, With\\nIllustrations by Walter Crane. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents.\\nOne of the cleverest and most pleasing stories it has been our good for-\\ntune to meet with for some time. Carrots and his sister are delightful little\\nbeings, whom to read about is at once to become very fond of. Examiner.\\nA genuine children s book; we ve seen em seize it, and read it greedily.\\nChildren are first-rate critics, and thoroughly appreciate Walter Crane s\\nillustrations. Punc/i.\\nMopsa the Fairy. By Jean Ingelow. With Eight page\\nIllustrations. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents.\\nMrs. Ingelow is, to our mind, the most charming of all living writers for\\nchildren, and Mopsa alone ought to give her a kind of pre-emptive right to\\nthe love and gratitude of our young folks. It requires genius to conceive a\\npurely imaginary work which must of necessity deal with the supernatural,\\nwithout running into a mere rior of fantastic absurdity; but genius Miss In-\\ngelow has and the story of Jack is as careless and joyous, but as delicate,\\nas a picture of childhood. Eclectic.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0482.jp2"}, "483": {"fulltext": "A. L. BURT S PUBLICATIONS. 11\\nA Jaunt Through Java The Story of a Journey to the Sacred\\nMountain. By Edward S. Ellis. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.\\nThe central interest of this story is found in the thrilling ad-\\nventures of two cousins, Hermon and Eustace Hadley, on their\\ntrip across the island of Java, from Samarangtothe Sacred Moun-\\ntain. In a land where the Royal Bengal tiger runs at large;\\nwhere the rhinoceros and other fierce beasts are to be met with\\nat unexpected moments; it is but natural that the heroes of this\\nbook should have a lively experience. Hermon not only dis-\\ntinguishes himself by killing a full-grown tiger at short range,\\nbut meets with the most startling adventure of the journey.\\nThere is much in this narrative to instruct as well a~ entertain the\\nreader, and so deftly has Mr. Ellis used his material that there is\\nnot a dull page in the book. The two heroes are brave, manly\\nyoung fellows, bubbling over with boyish independence. They\\ncope with the many diflBculties that arise during the trip in a fear-\\nless way that is bound to win the admiration of every lad who is\\nso fortunate as to read their adventures.\\nWrecked on Spider Island; or. How Ned Rogers Found the\\nTreasure. By James Otis. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.\\nA down-east plucky lad who ships as cabin boy, not from\\nlove of adventure, but because it is the only course remaining by\\nwhich he can gain a livelihood. While in his bunk, seasick,\\nNed Rogers hears the captain and mate discussing their plans for\\nthe willful wreck of the brig in order to gain the insurance. Once\\nit is known he is in possession of the secret the captain maroons\\nhim on Spider Island, explaining to the crew that the boy is\\nafflicted with leprosy. While thus involuntarily playing the part\\nof a Crusoe, Ned discovers a wreck submerged in the sand, and\\noverhauling the timbers for the purpose of gathering material\\nwith which to build a hut finds a considerable amount of treasure.\\nRaising the wreck; a voyage to Havana under sail; shipping there\\na crew and running for Savannah; the attempt of the crew to\\nseize the little craft after learning of the treasure on board, and,\\nas a matter of course, the successful ending of the journey, all\\nserve to make as entertaining a story of sea-life as the most\\ncaptious boy could desire.\\nGeoff and Jim: A Story of School Life. By Ismay Thorn. Il-\\nlustrated by A. G. Walker. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents.\\nThis is a prettily told story of the life spent by two motherless bairns at\\na small preparatory school. Both Geoff and Jim are very lovable characters,\\nonly Jim is the more so; and the scrapes he gets into and the trials he en-\\ndures will, no doubt, interest a large circle of young readers. C/iwrc/i\\nTimes.\\nThis is a capital children s story, the characters well portrayed, and the\\nbook tastefully bound and well illustrated/ Sc/iooZmasfer.\\nThe story can be heartily recommended as a present for boys.\\nStandard.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0483.jp2"}, "484": {"fulltext": "12 A. L. BURT S PUBLICATIONS.\\nThe Castaways or, On tlie Florida Reefs. By James Otis.\\n12iiio, clotb, price $1.00.\\nThis tale smacks of the salt sea. It is just the kind of story\\nthat the majority of boys yearn for. From the moment that the\\nSea Queen dispenses with the services of the tug in lower New\\nYork bay till the breeze leaves her becalmed off the coast of\\nFlorida, one can almost hear the whistle of the wind through her\\nrigging, the creak of her straining cordage as she heels to the\\nleeward, and feel her rise to the snow-capped waves which her\\nsharp bow cuts into twin streaks of foam. Off Marquesas Keys\\nshe floats in a dead calm. Ben Clark, the hero of the story, and\\nJake, the cook, spy a turtle asleep upon the glassy surface of the\\nwater. They determine to capture him, and take a boat for that\\npurpose, and just as they succeed in catching him a thick fog\\ncuts them off from the vessel, and then their troubles bei:in.\\nThey take refuge on board a drifting hulk, a storm arises and they\\nare cast ashore upon a low sandy key. Their adventures from\\nthis point cannot fail to charm the reader. As a writer for young\\npeople Mr. Otis is a prime favorite. His style is captivating, and\\nnever for a moment does he allow the interest to flag. In The\\nCastaways he is at his best.\\nTom Thatcher s Fortune. By Horatio Alger, Jr. 12mo,\\ncloth, price $1.00.\\nLike all of Mr. Alger s heroes, Tom Thatcher is a brave, am-\\nbitious, unselfish boy. He supports his mother and sister on\\nmeager wages earned as a shoe-pegger in John Simpson s factory.\\nThe story begins with Tom s discharge from the factory, because\\nMr. Simpson felt annoyed with the lad for interrogating him too\\nclosely about his missing father. A few days afterward Tom\\nlearns that which induces him to start overlandfor California with\\nthe view of probing the family mystery. He meets with many ad-\\nventures. Ultimately he returns to his native village, bringing con-\\nsternation to the soul of John Simpson, who only escapes the con-\\nsequences of his villainy by making full restitution to the man\\nwhose friendship he had betrayed. The story is told in that en-\\ntertaining way which has made Mr. Alger s name a household\\nword in so many homes.\\nBirdie A Tale of Child lafe. By H= L. Childe-Pemberton.\\nIllustrated by H. W. Rainey. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cants.\\nThe story is quaint and simple, but there is a freshness about it that\\nmakes one Hear again the ringing laugh and the cheery shout of children at\\nplay which charmed his earlier years. New York Express.\\nPopular Fairy Tales. By the Brothers Grimm, Profusely\\nIllustrated, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.\\nFrom first to last, almost without exception, these stories are delightful,\\n\u00e2\u0096\u00a0^Athenoeum,", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0484.jp2"}, "485": {"fulltext": "A, L. BURT S PUBLICATIONS. 13\\nWith Lafayette at Yorktown A Story of How Two Boys\\nJoined the Continental Army. By James Otis. 12mo, cloth,\\nprice $1.00.\\nThe two boys are from Portsmouth, N. H., and are introduced\\nin August, 1781, when on the point of leaving home to enlist in\\nCol. Scammell s regiment, then stationed near New York City.\\nTheir method of traveling is on horseback, and the author has\\ngiven an interesting account of what was expected from boys in\\nthe Colonial days. The lads, after no slight amount of adventure,\\nare sent as messengers not soldiers into the south to find the\\ntroops under Lafayette. Once with that youthful general they\\nare given employment as spies, and enter the British camp,\\nbringing away valuable information. The pictures of camp-life\\nare carefully drawn, and the portrayal of Lafayette s character is\\nthoroughly well done. The story is wholesome in tone, as are all\\nof Mr. Otis* works. There is no lack of exciting incident which\\nthe youthful reader craves, but it is healthful excitement brim-\\nming with facts which every boy should be familiar with, and\\nwhile the reader is following the adventures of Ben Jaffreys and\\nNed Allen he is acquiring a fund of historical lore which will\\nremain in his memory long after that which he has memorized\\nfrom text-books has been forgotten.\\nLost in the Canon Sam Willett s Adventures on the Great\\nColorado. By Alfred R. Calhoun. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.\\nThis story hinges on a fortune left to Sam Willett, the hero,\\nand the fact that it will pass to a disreputable relative if the lad\\ndies befou be shall have reached his majority. The Vigilance\\nCommittee of Hurley s Gulch arrest Sam s father and an associate\\nfor the crime of murder. Their lives depend on the production\\nof the receipt given for money paid. This is in Sam s possession\\nat the camp on the other side of the canon. A messenger is dis-\\npatched to get it. He reaches the lad in the midst of a fearful\\nstorm which floods the canon. His father s peril urges Sam to\\naction. A raft is built on which the boy and his friends essay to\\ncross the torrent. They fail to do so, and a desperate trip down\\nthe stream ensues. How the party finally escape from the hor-\\nrors of their situation and Sam reaches Hurley s Gulch in the very\\nnick of time, is described in a graphic style that stamps Mr. Cal-\\nhoun as a master of his art.\\nJack A Topsy Turvy Story. By C. M. Crawley-Boevey.\\nWith upward of Thirty Illustrations by H. J. A. Miles.\\n12mo, cloth, price 75 cents.\\nThe illustrations deserve particular mention, as they add largely to the\\ninterest of this amusing volume for children. Jack falls asleep with his mind\\nfull of the subject of the fishpond, and is very much surprised presently to\\nfind himself an inhabitant of Waterworld, where he goes thougn wonderful\\n\u00e2\u0096\u00a0^nd edifying adventures. A handsome and pleasant boQk. \u00e2\u0080\u0094X,i^erari/ World.\\nikaa", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0485.jp2"}, "486": {"fulltext": "14 A. L. BURT S PUBLICATIONS.\\nSearch for the Silver City A Tale of Adventure in Yucatan.\\nBy James Otis. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.\\nTwo American lads, Teddy Wright and Neal Emery, embark\\non the steam yacht Day Dream for a short summer cruise to the\\ntropics. Homeward bound the yacht is destroyed by fire. All\\nhands take to the boats, but during the night the boat is cast upon\\nthe coast of Yucatan. They come across a young American\\nnamed Cammings, who entertains them with the story of the\\nwonderful Silver City, of the Chan Santa Cruz Indians. Cum-\\nmings proposes with the aid of a faithful Indian ally to brave\\nthe perils of the swamp and carry off a number of the golden\\nimages from the temples. Pursued with relentless vigor for days\\ntheir situation is desperate. At last their escape is effected in an\\nastonishing manner. Mr. Otis has built his story on an historical\\nfoundation. It is so full of exciting incidents that the reader is\\nquite carried away with the novelty and realism of the narrative.\\nFrank Fowler, the Cash Boy. By Horatio Alger, Jr. 12mo,\\ncloth, price $1.00.\\nThrown upon his own resources Frank Fowler, a poor boy,\\nbravely determines to make a living for himself and his foster-\\nsister Grace. Going to New York he obtains a situation as cash\\nboy in a dry goods store. He renders a service to a wealthy old\\ngentleman named Wharton, who takes a fancy to the lad. Frank,\\nafter losing his place as cash boy, is enticed by an enemy to a\\nlonesome part of New Jersey and held a prisoner. This move re-\\ncoils upon the plotter, for it leads to a clue that enables the lad to\\nestablish his real identity. Mr. Alger s stories are not only un-\\nusually interesting, but they convey a useful lesson ot pluck and\\nmanly independence.\\nBudd Boyd s Triumph or, the Boy Firm of Fox Island. By\\nW^iLLiAM p. Chipman. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.\\nThe scene of this story is laid on the upper part of Narragansett\\nBay, and the leading incidents have a strong salt-water flavor.\\nOwing to the conviction of his father for forgery and theft, Budd\\nBoyd is compelled to leave his home and strike out for himself.\\nChance brings Budd in contact with Judd Floyd. The two boys,\\nbeing ambitious and clear sighted, form a partnership to catch\\nand sell fish. The scheme is successfully launched, but the un-\\nexpected appearance on the scene of Thomas Bagsley, the man\\nwhom Budd believes guilty of the crimes attributed to liis father,\\nleads to several disagreeable complications that nearly caused the\\nlad s ruin. His pluck and good sense, however, carry him through\\nhis troubles. In following the career of the boy firm of Boyd\\nFloyd, the youthful reader will find a useful lesson that industry\\nand perseverance are bound to lead to ultimate success.", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0486.jp2"}, "487": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0487.jp2"}, "488": {"fulltext": "t\\nDeacidified using the Bookkeeper process.\\nNeutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide\\nTreatment Date: Sept. 2009\\nPreservationTechnologies\\nA WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION\\n1 1 1 Thomson Park Drive\\nCranberry Township, PA 16066\\n(724)779-2111\\nJ", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0488.jp2"}, "489": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0489.jp2"}, "490": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3577", "width": "2126", "jp2-path": "earlypoemsofjame00lowe_0490.jp2"}}