And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with a spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon. It was two by the village clock, When he came to the bridge in Concord town. And the twitter of birds among the trees, And one was safe and asleep in his bed You know the rest. In the books you have read, Then crossing the fields to emerge again So through the night rode Paul Revere; A cry of defiance and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, In the hour of darkness and peril and need, 66 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL, one of the most famous of American poets and essayists, was born at Cambridge, Mass., in 1819; died there in 1891. He graduated from Harvard and took up the study of law, but soon gave it up for literature. Among his early writings were a volume of poems in 1844, and "The Vision of Sir Launfal," one of his most beautiful pieces in 1848. His "Biglow Papers" became very popular for their quaint humor and satire. In 1855 he succeeded Longfellow as Professor of modern Languages at Harvard. Among his best works are, in addition to those mentioned above, 66 "The Cathedral," 'Heartsease and Rue," "Under the Willows" and "American Ideas for English Readers." His life had many interests in addition to those of literature. The Civil War stirred him deeply and brought forth some of his finest work. He was Minister to Spain, and later Minister to England. He, as well as Longfellow, made a warm place for himself in the hearts of the British people, and after his death a window to his memory was placed in the chapter house of Westminster Abbey. Lowell saw clearly the cleavage between right and wrong, and used with great effect his prose and verse to aid causes that had strongly appealed to him. His pen was his weapon, and he used it well. THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL Ο PRELUDE TO PART FIRST VER his keys the musing organist, Beginning doubtfully and far away, First lets his fingers wander as they list, And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay; Then, as the touch of his loved instrument Doth heaven with all its splendors lie; Over our manhood bend the skies; With out faint hearts the mountain strives; Waits with its Benedicite; And to our age's drowsy blood Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us: Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking: 'Tis heaven alone that is given away, 'Tis only God may be had for the asking; No price is set on the lavish summer; June may be had by the poorest comer. And what is so rare as a day in June? And over it softly her warm ear lays; Every clod feels a stir of might, An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And groping blindly above it for light, Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; The flush of life may well be seen Thrilling back over hills and valleys; The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,— In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best? Now is the high tide of the year, And whatever of life hath ebbed away Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer, Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; The breeze comes whispering in our ear That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, That the robin is plastering his house hard by: And if the breeze kept the good news back, We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,— Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; Everything is upward striving; "Tis as easy now for the heart to be true As for grass to be green or skies to be blue, "Tis the natural way of living: Who knows whither the clouds have fled? In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake; And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, The heart forgets its sorrow and ache; The soul partakes the season's youth, And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, Like burnt-out craters healed with snow. What wonder if Sir Launfal now Remembered the keeping of his vow? PART FIRST Y golden spurs now bring to me, mail, Shall never a bed for me be spread, Here on the rushes will I sleep, And perchance there may come a vision true Slowly Sir Launfal's eyes grew dim; And into his soul the vision flew. |