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James Russell Lowell (Джеймс Расселл Лоуэлл)

New Year's Eve, 1844

                 A FRAGMENT.

  The night is calm and beautiful; the snow
  Sparkles beneath the clear and frosty moon
  And the cold stars, as if it took delight
  In its own silent whiteness; the hushed earth
  Sleeps in the soft arms of the embracing blue,
  Secure as if angelic squadrons yet
  Encamped about her, and each watching star
  Gained double brightness from the flashing arms
  Of wingèd and unsleeping sentinels.
  Upward the calm of infinite silence deepens,
  The sea that flows between high heaven and earth,
  Musing by whose smooth brink we sometimes find
  A stray leaf floated from those happier shores,
  And hope, perchance not vainly, that some flower
  Which we had watered with our holiest tears,
  Pale blooms, and yet our scanty garden's best,
  O'er the same ocean piloted by love,
  May find a haven at the feet of God,
  And be not wholly worthless in his sight.
  O, high dependence on a higher Power,
  Sole stay for all these restless faculties
  That wander, Ishmael-like, the desert bare
  Wherein our human knowledge hath its home,
  Shifting their light-framed tents from day to day,
  With each new-found oasis, wearied soon,
  And only certain of uncertainty!
  O, mighty humbleness that feels with awe,
  Yet with a vast exulting feels, no less,
  That this huge Minster of the Universe,
  Whose smallest oratories are glorious worlds,
  With painted oriels of dawn and sunset;
  Whose carvèd ornaments are systems grand,
  Orion kneeling in his starry niche,
  The Lyre whose strings give music audible
  To holy ears, and countless splendors more,
  Crowned by the blazing Cross high-hung o'er all;
  Whose organ music is the solemn stops
  Of endless Change breathed through by endless Good;
  Whose choristers are all the morning stars;
  Whose altar is the sacred human heart
  Whereon Love's candles burn unquenchably,
  Trimmed day and night by gentle-handed Peace;
  With all its arches and its pinnacles
  That stretch forever and forever up,
  Is founded on the silent heart of God,
  Silent, yet pulsing forth exhaustless life
  Through the least veins of all created things.
  Fit musings these for the departing year;
  And God be thanked for such a crystal night
  As fills the spirit with good store of thoughts,
  That, like a cheering fire of walnut, crackle
  Upon the hearthstone of the heart, and cast
  A mild home-glow o'er all Humanity!
  Yes, though the poisoned shafts of evil doubts
  Assail the skyey panoply of Faith,
  Though the great hopes which we have had for man,
  Foes in disguise, because they based belief
  On man's endeavor, not on God's decree--
  Though these proud-visaged hopes, once turned to fly,
  Hurl backward many a deadly Parthian dart
  That rankles in the soul and makes it sick
  With vain regret, nigh verging on despair--
  Yet, in such calm and earnest hours as this,
  We well can feel how every living heart
  That sleeps to-night in palace or in cot,
  Or unroofed hovel, or which need hath known
  Of other homestead than the arching sky,
  Is circled watchfully with seraph fires;
  How our own erring will it is that hangs
  The flaming sword o'er Eden's unclosed gate,
  Which gives free entrance to the pure in heart,
  And with its guarding walls doth fence the meek.
  Sleep then, O Earth, in thy blue-vaulted cradle,
  Bent over always by thy mother Heaven!
  We all are tall enough to reach God's hand,
  And angels are no taller: looking back
  Upon the smooth wake of a year o'erpast,
  We see the black clouds furling, one by one,
  From the advancing majesty of Truth,
  And something won for Freedom, whose least gain
  Is as a firm and rock-built citadel
  Wherefrom to launch fresh battle on her foes;
  Or, leaning from the time's extremest prow,
  If we gaze forward through the blinding spray,
  And dimly see how much of ill remains,
  How many fetters to be sawn asunder
  By the slow toil of individual zeal,
  Or haply rusted by salt tears in twain,
  We feel, with something of a sadder heart,
  Yet bracing up our bruisèd mail the while,
  And fronting the old foe with fresher spirit,
  How great it is to breathe with human breath,
  To be but poor foot-soldiers in the ranks
  Of our old exiled king, Humanity;
  Encamping after every hard-won field
  Nearer and nearer Heaven's happy plains.

  Many great souls have gone to rest, and sleep
  Under this armor, free and full of peace:
  If these have left the earth, yet Truth remains,
  Endurance, too, the crowning faculty
  Of noble minds, and Love, invincible
  By any weapons; and these hem us round
  With silence such that all the groaning clank
  Of this mad engine men have made of earth
  Dulls not some ears for catching purer tones,
  That wander from the dim surrounding vast,
  Or far more clear melodious prophecies,
  The natural music of the heart of man,
  Which by kind Sorrow's ministry hath learned
  That the true sceptre of all power is love
  And humbleness the palace-gate of truth.
  What man with soul so blind as sees not here
  The first faint tremble of Hope's morning-star,
  Foretelling how the God-forged shafts of dawn,
  Fitted already on their golden string,
  Shall soon leap earthward with exulting flight
  To thrid the dark heart of that evil faith
  Whose trust is in the clumsy arms of Force,
  The ozier hauberk of a ruder age?
  Freedom! thou other name for happy Truth,
  Thou warrior-maid, whose steel-clad feet were never
  Out of the stirrup, nor thy lance uncouched,
  Nor thy fierce eye enticèd from its watch,
  Thou hast learned now, by hero-blood in vain
  Poured to enrich the soil which tyrants reap;
  By wasted lives of prophets, and of those
  Who, by the promise in their souls upheld,
  Into the red arms of a fiery death
  Went blithely as the golden-girdled bee
  Sinks in the sleepy poppy's cup of flame
  By the long woes of nations set at war,
  That so the swollen torrent of their wrath
  May find a vent, else sweeping off like straws
  The thousand cobweb threads, grown cable-huge
  By time's long gathered dust, but cobwebs still,
  Which bind the Many that the Few may gain
  Leisure to wither by the drought of ease
  What heavenly germs in their own souls were sown;--
  By all these searching lessons thou hast learned
  To throw aside thy blood-stained helm and spear
  And with thy bare brow daunt the enemy's front,
  Knowing that God will make the lily stalk,
  In the soft grasp of naked Gentleness,
  Stronger than iron spear to shatter through
  The sevenfold toughness of Wrong's idle shield.

James Russell Lowell's other poems:
  1. The Lost Child
  2. The Lover
  3. “Goe, Little Booke!“
  4. To E. W. G.
  5. Song (O! I must look on that sweet face once more before I die)

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