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The writings of James Russell Lowell

in ten volumes
Lowell, James Russell (1819-1891)

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POEMS I.
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EARLIER POEMS
  
THRENODIA
  
THE SIRENS
  
IRENÉ
  
SERENADE
  
WITH A PRESSED FLOWER
  
THE BEGGAR
  
MY LOVE
  
SUMMER STORM
  
LOVE
  
TO PERDITA, SINGING
  
THE MOON
  
REMEMBERED MUSIC
  
SONG
  
ALLEGRA
  
THE FOUNTAIN
  
ODE
  
THE FATHERLAND
  
THE FORLORN
  
MIDNIGHT
  
A PRAYER
  
THE HERITAGE
  
THE ROSE: A BALLAD
  
SONG
  
ROSALINE
  
A REQUIEM
  
A PARABLE
  
SONG
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SONNETS
 1. 
I. TO A. C. L.
 2. 
[II. What were I, Love, if I were stripped of thee]
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[III. I would not have this perfect love of ours]
 4. 
[IV. “For this true nobleness I seek in vain]
 5. 
V. TO THE SPIRIT OF KEATS.
 6. 
[VI. Great Truths are portions of the soul of man]
 7. 
[VII. I ask not for those thoughts, that sudden leap]
 8. 
VIII. TO M. W., ON HER BIRTHDAY.
 9. 
[IX. My Love, I have no fear that thou shouldst die]
 10. 
[X. I cannot think that thou shouldst pass away]
 11. 
[XI. There never yet was flower fair in vain]
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XII. SUB PONDERE CRESCIT.
 13. 
[XIII. Beloved, in the noisy city here]
 14. 
XIV. ON READING WORDSWORTH'S SONNETS IN DEFENCE OF CAPITAL PUNISHMENT.
 15. 
XV. THE SAME CONTINUED.
 16. 
XVI. THE SAME CONTINUED.
 17. 
XVII. THE SAME CONTINUED.
 18. 
XVIII. THE SAME CONTINUED.
 19. 
XIX. THE SAME CONCLUDED.
 20. 
XX. TO M. O. S.
 21. 
[XXI. Our love is not a fading, earthly flower]
 22. 
XXII. IN ABSENCE.
 23. 
XXIII. WENDELL PHILLIPS.
 24. 
XXIV. THE STREET.
 25. 
[XXV. I grieve not that ripe Knowledge takes away]
 26. 
XXVI. TO J. R. GIDDINGS.
 27. 
[XXVII. I thought our love at full, but I did err]
  
L'ENVOI
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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
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MEMORIAL VERSES
  
THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL
  
LETTER FROM BOSTON
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POEMS II.
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POEMS III.
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POEMS IV.

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THE DANCING BEAR

Far over Elf-land poets stretch their sway,
And win their dearest crowns beyond the goal
Of their own conscious purpose; they control
With gossamer threads wide-flown our fancy's play,
And so our action. On my walk to-day,
185

A wallowing bear begged clumsily his toll,
When straight a vision rose of Atta Troll,
And scenes ideal witched mine eyes away.
“Merci, Mossieu!” the astonished bear-ward cried,
Grateful for thrice his hope to me, the slave
Of partial memory, seeing at his side
A bear immortal. The glad dole I gave
Was none of mine; poor Heine o'er the wide
Atlantic welter stretched it from his grave.
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