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O'er history's fields on every side,
To Ind and Egypt, Rome and Greece.
Whatever moulds of various brain
E’er shaped the world to wea) or woe,
Whatever empires' wax and wane,
To him that hath not eyes in vain,
Our village-microcosm can show.

WHEN I was a beggarly boy,

And lived in a cellar damp,
I had not a friend nor a toy,

But I had Aladdin's lamp;
When I could not sleep for the cold,

I had fire enough in my brain,
And builded, with roofs of gold,

My beautiful castles in Spain !
Since then I have toiled day and night,

I have money and power good store, But I'd give all my lamps of silver bright

For the one that is mine no more; Take, Fortune, whatever you choose, You gave, and may

snatch again; I have nothing 't would pain me to lose,

For I own no more castles in Spain !

Come back our ancient walks to tread, Dear haunts of lost or scattered friends, Old Harvard's scholar-factories red, Where song and smoke and laughter sped The nights to proctor-haunted ends.

Constant are all our former loves, Unchanged the icehouse-girdled pond, Its hemlock glooms, its shadowy coves, Where floats the coot and never moves, Its slopes of long-tamed green beyond.


Our old familiars are not laid,
Though snapt our wands and sunk our

books; They beckon, not to be gainsaid, Where, round broad meads that mowers

wade, The Charles his steel-blue sickle crooks.

Where, as the cloudbergs eastward blow, From glow to gloom the hillsides shift Their plumps of orchard-trees arow, Their lakes of rye that wave and flow, Their snowy whiteweed's summer drift.

TO J[OHN] F[RANCIS] H[EATH] NINE years have slipt like hour-glass sand From life's still-emptying globe away, Since last, dear friend, I clasped your

hand, And stood upon the impoverished land, Watching the steamer down the bay. I held the token which you gave, While slowly the smoke-pennon curled O’er the vague rim 'tween sky and wave, And shut the distance like a grave, Leaving me in the colder world; The old, worn world of hurry and heat, The young, fresh world of thought and

scope; While you, where beckoning billows fleet Climb far sky-beaches still and sweet, Sank wavering down the ocean-slope. You sought the new world in the old, I found the old world in the new, All that our human hearts can bold, The inward world of deathless mould, The same that Father Adam knew.

There have we watched the West unfurl
A clond Byzantium newly born,
With flickering spires and domes of pearl,
And vapory surfs that crowd and curl
Into the sunset's Golden Horn.

There, as the flaming occident
Burned slowly down to ashes gray,
Night pitched o'erhead her silent tent,
And glimmering gold from Hesper sprent
Upon the darkened river lay,
Where a twin sky but just before
Deepened, and double swallows skimmed,
And from a visionary shore
Hung visioned trees, that more and more
Grew dusk as those above were dimmed.

He needs no ship to cross the tide, Who, in the lives about him, sees Fair window-prospects opening wide

Then eastward saw we slowly grow Clear-edged the lines of roof and spire,

Thence climbs an influence more benign Through pulse and nerve, through heart

and brain ; Sacred to me those fibres fine That first clasped earth. Oh, ne'er be

mine The alien sun and alien rain !

While great elm-masses blacken slow,
And linden-ricks their round heads show
Against a flush of widening fire.
Doubtful at first and far away,
The moon-flood creeps more wide and

Up a ridged beach of cloudy gray,
Curved round the east as round a bay,
It slips and spreads its gradual tide.
Then suddenly, in lurid mood,
The disk looms large o'er town and field
As upon Adam, red like blood,
'Tween him and Eden's happy wood,
Glared the commissioned angel's shield.

These nourish not like homelier glows
Or waterings of familiar skies,
And nature fairer blooms bestows
On the heaped hush of wintry snows,
In pastures dear to childhood's eyes,
Than where Italian earth receives
The partial sunshine's ampler boons,
Where vines carve friezes 'neath the eaves,
And, in dark firinaments of leaves,
The orange lifts its golden moons.

Or let us seek the seaside, there
To wander idly as we list,
Whether, on rocky headlands bare,
Sharp cedar-horns, like breakers, tear
The trailing fringes of gray mist,

Or whether, under skies full flown,
The brightening surfs, with foamy din,
Their breeze-caught forelocks backward

Against the beach's yellow zone
Curl slow, and plunge forever in.

THE NOMADES What Nature makes in any mood To me is warranted for good, Though long before I learned to see She did not set us moral theses, And scorned to have her sweet caprices Strait-waistcoated in you or me.

And, as we watch those canvas towers
That lean along the horizon's rim,
“ Sail on,” I'll say; “may sunniest hours
Convoy you from this land of ours,
Since from my side you bear not him!”

I, who take root and firmly cling,
Thought fixedness the only thing ;
Why Nature made the butterflies,
(Those dreams of wings that float and

At noon the slumberous poppies over,)
Was something hidden from mine eyes,
Till once, upon a rock's brown bosom,
Bright as a thorny cactus-blossom,
I saw a butterfly at rest ;
Then first of both I felt the beauty;
The airy whim, the grim-set duty,
Each from the other took its best.

For years thrice three, wise Horace said,
A poem rare let silence bind;
And love may ripen in the shade,
Like ours, for nine long seasons laid
In deepest arches of the mind.

Come back! Not ours the Old World's

good, The Old World's ill, thank God, not ours; But here, far better understood, The days enforce our native mood, And challenge all our manlier powers. Kindlier to me the place of birth That first my tottering footsteps trod ; There may be fairer spots of earth, But all their glories are not worth The virtue in the native sod.

Clearer it grew than winter sky
That Nature still had reasons why ;
And, shifting sudden as a breeze,
My fancy found no satisfaction,
No antithetic sweet attraction,
So great as in the Nomades.

Scythians, with Nature not at strife, Light Arabs of our complex life, They build no houses, plant no mills

And yet I felt it everywhere ;

Walked I the woodland's aisles along. It seemed to brush me with its hair ;

Bathed I, I heard a mermaid's song.

How sweet it was! A buttercup

Could bold for me a day's delight, A bird could lift my fancy up

To ether free from cloud or blight.

To utilize Time's sliding river,
Content that it flow waste forever,
If they, like it, may have their wills.
An hour they pitch their shifting tents
In thoughts, in feelings, and events ;
Beneath the palm-trees, on the grass,
They sing, they dance, make love, and

chatter, Vex the grim temples with their clatter, And make Truth's fount their looking

glass. A picnic life ; from love to love, From faith tó faith they lightly move, And yet, hard-eyed philosopher, The flightiest maid that ever hovered To me your thought-webs fine discovered, No lens to see them through like her. So witchingly her finger-tips To Wisdom, as away she trips, She kisses, waves such sweet farewells To Duty, as she laughs “To-morrow!” That botb from that mad contrast borrow A perfectness found nowhere else. The beach-bird on its pearly verge Follows and fies the whispering surge, While, in his tent, the rock-stayed shell Awaits the flood's star-timed vibrations, And both, the flutter and the patience, The sauntering poet loves them well. Fulfil so much of God's decree As works its problem out in thee, Nor dream that in thy breast alone The conscience of the changeful seasons, The Will that in the planets reasons With space-wide logic, has its throne. Thy virtue makes not vice of mine, Unlike, but none the less divine ; Thy toil adorns, not chides, my play ; Nature of sameness is so chary, With such wild whim the freakish fairy Picks presents for the christening-day.

Who was the nymph? Nay, I will see,

Methought, and I will know her near; If such, divined, her charm can be,

Seen and possessed, how triply dear! So every magic art I tried,

And spells as numberless as sand,
Until, one evening, by my side

I saw her glowing fulness stand.
I turned to clasp her, but “Farewell,”

Parting she sighed, “we meet no more; Not by my hand the curtain fell

That leaves you conscious, wise, and poor.

“Since you have found me out, I go;

Another lover I must find, Content his happiness to know,

Nor strive its secret to unwind."


In 1834 Lowell contributed to The Crayon, then just started by W. J. Stillman, a poem, My Appledore Gallery, which reappears in part in the following poem under a slightly changed title. In sending the first portion to Mr. Still.

he wrote: * You may add a note, if you like, saying that Appledore is one of the Isles of Shoals, off Portsmouth, N. H., discovered by the great Captain Smith, and once named after him. A cairn on the apex of Appledore is said to be of his building."



I A HEAP of bare and splintery crags Tumbled about by lightning and frost, With rifts and chasms and storm-bleached

jags, That wait and growl for a ship to be lost; No island, but rather the skeleton Of a wrecked and vengeance-smitten one, Where, æons ago, with half-shut eye, The sluggish saurian crawled to die, Gasping under titanic ferns;

A PRESENCE both by night and day,

That made my life seem just begun, Yet scarce a presence, rather say

The warning aureole of one.

Ribs of rock that seaward jut,

And on the whole island never a tree Granite shoulders and boulders and snags, Save a score of sumachs, high as your knee, Round which, though the winds in heaven That crouch in hollows where they may, be shut,

(The cellars where once stood a village, The nightmared ocean murmurs and yearns, men say) Welters, and swashes, and tosses, and turns, Huddling for warmth, and never grew And the dreary black seaweed lolls and Tall enough for a peep at the sea; Wags;

A general dazzle of open blue; Only rock from shore to shore,

A breeze always blowing and playing ratOnly a moan through the bleak clefts

tat blown,

With the bow of the ribbon round your hat; With sobs in the rifts where the coarse kelp A score of sheep that do nothing but stare shifts,

Up or down at you everywhere; Falling and lifting, tossing and drifting, Three or four cattle that chew the cud And under all a deep, dull roar,

Lying about in a listless despair; Dying and swelling, forevermore, - A medrick that makes you look overhead Rock and moan and roar alone,

With short, sharp scream, as he sights his And the dread of some nameless thing un- prey, known,

And, dropping straight and swift as lead, These make Appledore.

Splits the water with sudden thud; –

This is Appledore by day.
These make Appledore by night:
Then there are monsters left and right; A common island, you will say;
Every rock is a different monster;

But stay a moment: only climb
All you have read of, fancied, dreamed, Up to the highest rock of the isle,
When you waked at night because you Stand there alone for a little while,

And with gentle approaches it grows subThere they lie for half a mile,

lime, Jumbled together in a pile,

Dilating slowly as you win And (though you know they never once A sense from the silence to take it in. stir)

So wide the loneness, so lucid the air, If you look long, they seem to be moving The granite beneath you so savagely bare, Just as plainly as plain can be,

You well might think you were looking Crushing and crowding, wading and shov

down ing

From some sky-silenced mountain's crown, Out into the awful sea,

Whose waist-belt of pines is wont to tear Where you can hear them snort and spout Locks of wool from the topmost cloud. With pauses between, as if they were listen- | Only be sure you go alone, ing,

For Grandeur is inaccessibly proud, Then tumult anon when the surf breaks And never yet has backward thrown glistening

Her veil to feed the stare of a crowd; In the blackness where they wallow about. To more than one was never shown

That awful front, nor is it fit

That she, Cothurnus-shod, stand bowed All this you would scarcely comprehend, Until the self-approving pit Should you see the isle on a sunny day ; Enjoy the gust of its own wit Then it is simple enough in its way, - In babbling plaudits cheaply loud; Two rocky bulges, one at each end,

She hides her mountains and her sea With a smaller bulge and a hollow between; From the barriers of scenery, Patches of whortleberry and bay;

Who hunt down sunsets, and huddle and Accidents of open green,

bay, Sprinkled with loose slabs square and gray, Mouthing and mumbling the dying day. Like graveyards for ages deserted; a few Unsocial thistles ; an der or two,

Trust me, 't is something to be cast Foamed over with blossoms white as spray; Face to face with one's Šelf at last,


To be taken out of the fuss and strife, And like the others does not slip
The endless clatter of plate and knife, Behind the sea's unsteady brink;
The bore of books and the bores of the Though, if a cloud-shade chance to dip

Upon it a moment, 't will suddenly sink, From the singular mess we agree to call Levelled and lost in the darkened main, Life,

Till the sun builds it suddenly up again, Where that is best which the most fools As if with a rub of Aladdin's lamp. vote is,

On the mainland you see a misty camp And planted firm on one's own two feet Of mountains pitched tumultuously: So nigb to the great warm heart of God, That one looming so long and large You almost seem to feel it beat

Is Saddleback, and that point you see Down from the sunshine and up from the Over yon low and rounded marge, sod;

Like the boss of a sleeping giant's targe
To be compelled, as it were, to notice Laid over his breast, is Ossipee;
All the beautiful changes and chances That shadow there may be Kearsarge;
Through which the landscape flits and That must be Great Haystack; I love

these names,
And to see how the face of common day Wherewith the lonely farmer tames
Is written all over with tender histories, Nature to mute companionsbip
When you study it that intenser way With his own mind's domestic mood,
In wbich a lover looks at his mistress. And strives the surly world to clip

In the arms of familiar habitude. Till now you dreamed not what could be 'T is well he could not contrive to make done

A Saxon of Agamenticus: With a bit of rock and a ray of sun ; He glowers there to the north of us, But look, how fade the lights and shades Wrapt in his blanket of blue haze, Of keen bare edge and crevice deep ! Unconvertibly savage, and scorns to take How doubtfully it fades and fades,

The white man's baptism or his ways. And glows again, yon craggy steep,

Him first on shore the coaster divines O’er which, through color's dreamiest Through the early gray, and sees him grades,

shake The musing sunbeams pause and creep! The morning mist from his scalp-lock of Now pink it blooms, now glimmers gray,

pines; Now shadows to a filmy blue,

Him first the skipper makes out in the Tries one, tries all, and will not stay,

west, But flits from opal hue to hue,

Ere the earliest sunstreak shoots tremuAnd runs through every tenderest range

lous, Of change that seems not to be change, Plashing with orange the palpitant lines So rare the sweep, so nice the art,

Of mutable billow, crest after crest,
That lays no stress on any part,

And murmurs Agamenticus !
But shifts and lingers and persuades; As if it were the name of a saint.
So soft that sun-brush in the west,

But is that a mountain playing cloud,
That asks no costlier pigments' aids, Or a cloud playing mountain, just there,
But mingling knobs, Haws, angles, dints,
Indifferent of worst or best,

Look along over the low right shoulder Enchants the cliffs with wraiths and hints Of Agamenticus into that crowd And gracions preludings of tints,

Of brassy thunderheads behind it; Where all seems fixed, yet all evades, Now you have caught it, but, ere you are And indefinably pervades

older Perpetual movement with perpetual rest! By half an hour, you will lose it and find it

A score of times; while you look 't is gone,

And, just as you 've given it up, anon Away northeast is Boone Island light; It is there again, till your weary eyes You might mistake it for a ship,

Fancy they see it waver and rise, Only it stands too plumb upright,

With its brother clouds; it is Agiochook,

so faint ?


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