 | Uncollected Poems of James Russell Lowell |  |
224
XIII
Alas for poor Philosophy! that she
In her old age should come to beggary
And turn a tailoress, who from her throne
Once ruled fair Greece, and called the world her own.
Those days are gone, when poet, hero, sage
In rapture brooded o'er her speaking page,
And fixed in breathless wonder, silent hung
On the proud lessons swelling from her tongue,
Then spread her truths to earth's remotest bound
Till haughty Error trembled at the sound.
Those days are gone, and now her only friends
Are misty rhapsodists, whom Heaven sends
To form a contrast with the blessed light,
And make Truth's holy lustre seem more bright.
Who, blessed with souls scarce larger than a broker's,
Would furnish them to pots and pans and pokers,
And, having made a “universal soul,”
Forget their own in thinking of the whole;
Who, seeking nothing, wander on through space,
Flapping their half-fledged wings in Reason's face,
And if they chance the vestal flame to find,
That burns a beacon to the storm-tost mind,
Like senseless insects dish within the fire,
And sink forgotten in their funeral pyre.
Few ever meet with such a glorious end,
Or towards the light their aimless ramblings bend;
But, having fretted out their little age,
Sink into chaos, and their sleepy page,
Lining some trunk, shall be the only note
That what's-his-name their author lived and wrote.
In her old age should come to beggary
And turn a tailoress, who from her throne
Once ruled fair Greece, and called the world her own.
Those days are gone, when poet, hero, sage
In rapture brooded o'er her speaking page,
And fixed in breathless wonder, silent hung
On the proud lessons swelling from her tongue,
Then spread her truths to earth's remotest bound
Till haughty Error trembled at the sound.
Those days are gone, and now her only friends
Are misty rhapsodists, whom Heaven sends
To form a contrast with the blessed light,
And make Truth's holy lustre seem more bright.
Who, blessed with souls scarce larger than a broker's,
Would furnish them to pots and pans and pokers,
And, having made a “universal soul,”
Forget their own in thinking of the whole;
Who, seeking nothing, wander on through space,
Flapping their half-fledged wings in Reason's face,
And if they chance the vestal flame to find,
That burns a beacon to the storm-tost mind,
Like senseless insects dish within the fire,
And sink forgotten in their funeral pyre.
Few ever meet with such a glorious end,
Or towards the light their aimless ramblings bend;
But, having fretted out their little age,
Sink into chaos, and their sleepy page,
Lining some trunk, shall be the only note
That what's-his-name their author lived and wrote.
Woe for Religion too, when men, who claim
To place a “Reverend” before their name,
Ascend the Lord's own holy place to preach
In strains that Kneeland had been proud to reach,
And which, if measured by judge Thatcher's scale,
Had doomed their author to the county jail!
When men just girding for the holy strife,
Their hands just cleansed to break the bread of life,
Whose souls, made whole, should never count it loss
With their own blood to witness for the cross,
Invite a man their Christian zeal to crown
By preaching earnestly the gospel—down,
Applaud him when he calls of earthy make
That ONE who spake as never yet man spake,
And tamely hear the anointed Son of God
Made like themselves an animated clod!
To place a “Reverend” before their name,
Ascend the Lord's own holy place to preach
In strains that Kneeland had been proud to reach,
And which, if measured by judge Thatcher's scale,
Had doomed their author to the county jail!
When men just girding for the holy strife,
225
Whose souls, made whole, should never count it loss
With their own blood to witness for the cross,
Invite a man their Christian zeal to crown
By preaching earnestly the gospel—down,
Applaud him when he calls of earthy make
That ONE who spake as never yet man spake,
And tamely hear the anointed Son of God
Made like themselves an animated clod!
They call such doctrines startling, strange, and new,
But then they're his, you know, and must be true;
The universal mind requires a change,
Its insect wings must have a wider range,
It wants no mediator—it can face
In its own littleness the Throne of Grace;
For miracles and “such things” 't is too late,
To trust in them is now quite out of date,
They're all explainable by nature's laws—
Ay! if you only could find out their CAUSE!
I know in these wise days 't is very flat
To ask for any thing so small as that,
But all mankind are not transparent eyes,
They only see things of their usual size,
And, when the very grass beneath their feet
Grows by a law that only God can mete,
Strive not to analyze that mighty will
Which raised the dead, and made the tempest still.
Such doctrines new! they've been repeated oft
Since first the Jews at their Redeemer scoffed,
Stained their vile hands with the Messiah's gore,
And filled the bitter cup to running o'er!
Alas! that Christian ministers should dare
To preach the views of Gibbon and Voltaire!
Alas! that one whose life, and gentle ways,
E'en hate could find it in its heart to praise,
Whose intellect is equalled but by few,
Should strive for what he'd weep to find were true!
But then they're his, you know, and must be true;
The universal mind requires a change,
Its insect wings must have a wider range,
It wants no mediator—it can face
In its own littleness the Throne of Grace;
For miracles and “such things” 't is too late,
To trust in them is now quite out of date,
They're all explainable by nature's laws—
Ay! if you only could find out their CAUSE!
I know in these wise days 't is very flat
To ask for any thing so small as that,
But all mankind are not transparent eyes,
They only see things of their usual size,
And, when the very grass beneath their feet
Grows by a law that only God can mete,
Strive not to analyze that mighty will
Which raised the dead, and made the tempest still.
Such doctrines new! they've been repeated oft
Since first the Jews at their Redeemer scoffed,
Stained their vile hands with the Messiah's gore,
And filled the bitter cup to running o'er!
Alas! that Christian ministers should dare
To preach the views of Gibbon and Voltaire!
Alas! that one whose life, and gentle ways,
E'en hate could find it in its heart to praise,
Whose intellect is equalled but by few,
Should strive for what he'd weep to find were true!
| Uncollected Poems of James Russell Lowell | |