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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.
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[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]
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[IV. “For this true nobleness I seek in vain]
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V. TO THE SPIRIT OF KEATS.
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[VI. Great Truths are portions of the soul of man]
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[VII. I ask not for those thoughts, that sudden leap]
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VIII. TO M. W., ON HER BIRTHDAY.
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[IX. My Love, I have no fear that thou shouldst die]
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[X. I cannot think that thou shouldst pass away]
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[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]
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XIV. ON READING WORDSWORTH'S SONNETS IN DEFENCE OF CAPITAL PUNISHMENT.
 15. 
XV. THE SAME CONTINUED.
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XVI. THE SAME CONTINUED.
 17. 
XVII. THE SAME CONTINUED.
 18. 
XVIII. THE SAME CONTINUED.
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XIX. THE SAME CONCLUDED.
 20. 
XX. TO M. O. S.
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[XXI. Our love is not a fading, earthly flower]
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XXII. IN ABSENCE.
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XXIII. WENDELL PHILLIPS.
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XXIV. THE STREET.
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[XXV. I grieve not that ripe Knowledge takes away]
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XXVI. TO J. R. GIDDINGS.
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[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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DEATH OF QUEEN MERCEDES

Hers all that Earth could promise or bestow,—
Youth, Beauty, Love, a crown, the beckoning years,
Lids never wet, unless with joyous tears,
A life remote from every sordid woe,
And by a nation's swelled to lordlier flow.
What lurking-place, thought we, for doubts or fears,
When, the day's swan, she swam along the cheers
Of the Alcalá, five happy months ago?
The guns were shouting Io Hymen then
That, on her birthday, now denounce her doom;
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The same white steeds that tossed their scorn of men
To-day as proudly drag her to the tomb.
Grim jest of fate! Yet who dare call it blind,
Knowing what life is, what our humankind?
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