[Poems by Lowell in] American Literature :: :: University of Virginia Library

Emilia slept: she dreamed of cloud-soft laces
Woven out of cobwebs by imprisoned queens;
Of musical clocks with smiles upon their faces
That skipped those hours in silence that are Spleen's;
Of china, triumph of all times & races,
Fortuny [?] fans, crane-silvered Gesso [?] screens,
And pearls to play at hideseek in her hair
Lustrous as moons & happy to be there;

Of Cabinets with secret drawers so hidden
The very dealers could not find them out,

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But which a spring concealed shoots forth unbidden
Touched as her aimless finger roved about,
Revealing gems collectors would have ridden
A thousand leagues to see or steal,—no doubt
Shut there when Christians of decided views
Avenged their Lord by murdering wealthy Jews.

She dreamed of many a kindness yet to do
And a smile flitted o'er her features mobile,
That faded as along the passage grew
A sound between a shuffle & hobble
Mixed with a voice that thrilled her through & through,
And sobs suppressed that ended in a gobble;
The door flew wide & in there stalked a turkey
Looming Gargantuan through the midnight murky.

A turkey's ghost I mean, for such there are
Though Huxley swear there can be no such thing;
And she perceived the ghost of a guitar
(Would they were all ghosts!) 'neath one shadowy wing;
On this It strummed a short prelusive bar,
And choking down a sob began to sing
In words like these: I give the sense alone,—
Emilia's dreams have music all her own.

Between the Darro & Xenil
Her garden held my happy coop,
A life, if modest, yet genteel,
Forbid to soar, it need not stoop.

A tranquil life, without a dream
That could beneath the surface sink
More than the flush upon a stream
From poppies flaming on its brink.

Two duties had I, both so plain
They never cheated me of rest;
To eat my fill of golden grain
And then to slumber & digest.

'Twas such a life as men would choose
Did Jove but listen to their prayer,
Fortunio's purse, the widow's curse,
The winter of the dormant bear.

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But I had more: a vision came,
Gracious beyond the reach of trope,
That kindled life to purer flame
And gave ambition nobler scope.

I saw her on a Morn of May,
While heaven still lingers in the hours,
As sweet & innocent as they,
Bringing their sunshine to her flowers.

Then I resolved of Southern Spain
The rarest essences to hoard,
And after death to rise again
The glory of her Xmas board.

So from maize, chestnuts, barley, corn,
The ethereal parts did I secrete,
Until one bright December morn
The ideal turkey stood complete.

Nothing in me that was not pure
As she to whom my fancies ran,
And for whose sake I could endure,
(I sometimes thought) to be a man.

Sweet Ceres built my atoms up
With all the triumphs of her care;
The mountain lymph supplied my cup,
My breath was Andalusian air.

My end I pass; enough to say
That, cased in cedar, as was fit,
And strewn with flowers, I rolled away
To beauty, goodness, grace & wit.

'Twas sad to die: yet comfort much
To know that, after brief eclipse
The immortal part of me should touch
A moment those enchanting lips.

But wicked men & void of soul
Whom mortals aduaneros call,
The jewel from its setting stole,—
Worst crime conceived since Adam's fall.

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Alas, must gallinaceous schemes
Of postobituary bliss
End, like poor mortals' futile dreams,
In disillusion such as this?

No, there are Fates & Furies too
That in the guilty stomach dwell,
With vengeful skill their torments brew,
And turn that Eden to a hell.

I joined with theirs my cunning hate
To give my ravishers their meed,
In nightmare on their bosoms sate,
And with their entrails disagreed.

Ah, little thought the guilty four,
Stamped with the signet of the Beast,
What tortures Midnight had in store,
Ripe fruit of that Thyestian feast.

One, searching North & searching South,
To find a pool three inches deep,
Submerged his desperate nose & mouth
And doth on Manzanares sleep.

One with the cord that bound my tomb
Did to the nearest tree proceed
(Ten leagues) & copied in his doom
Poor Judas's one virtuous deed.

One, who would fain his sin atone
By fasting till his latest breath,
Spent all upon the Spanish loan
And, waiting interest, starves to death.

And fourth, most desperate of all,
At once for grim Sangredo sent,
Who came obedient to his call
And had avenged me ere he went.

Farewell bright dreams & soft repose
To the clear soul that spends its power

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In gracious deeds & never knows
How goodness doubles Beauty's dower!

Custom-house officers.