LITMIR.BIZ

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giant trees whose hoary branches keep

      Their quiet vigil where his fathers sleep,

      ’Neath the green sod upon whose peaceful breast

      He too had hoped to lay him down to rest—

      The woods through whose dark shades, unknown to fear,

      He roamed as freely as the bounding deer,

      The streams so well his boyish footsteps knew,

      Pleased with the tossings of the mock canoe,

      And the vast mountains, round whose foreheads proud

      Curled the dark grandeur of the roaming cloud,

      From whose unfathomed breast he oft has heard

      In thunder-tones the good Great Spirit’s word.

      Lo, where he stands upon yon towering peak

      That echoes with the startled eagle’s shriek,

      His scalp-tuft floating wildly to the gale

      Which howls an answer to his mournful wail,

      Leaning his arm upon an unbent bow,

      He thus begins in accents sad and low:

      “ ‘We must go! for already more near and more near

      The tramp of the paleface falls thick on the ear—

      Like the roar of the blast when the storm-spirit comes

      In the clang of the trumps and the death-rolling drums.

      Farewell to the spot where the pine-trees are sighing

      O’er the flowery turf where our fathers are lying!

      Farewell to the forests our young hunters love,

      We shall soon chase the deer with our fathers above!

      “ ‘We must go! and no more shall our council-fires glance

      On the senate of chiefs or the warriors’ dance,

      No more in its light shall youth’s eagle eye gleam,

      Or the glazed eye of age become young in its beam.

      Wail! wail! for our nation; its glory is o’er,

      These hills with our war-songs shall echo no more,

      And the eyes of our bravest no more shall look bright

      As they hear of the deeds of their fathers in fight!

      “ ‘In the home of our sires we have lingered our last,

      Our death-song is swelling the moan of the blast,

      Yet to each hallowed spot clings fond memory still,

      Like the mist that makes lovely yon far distant hill.

      The eyes of our maidens are heavy with weeping,

      The fire ’neath the brow of our young men is sleeping,

      And the half-broken hearts of the aged are swelling,

      As the smoke curls its last round their desolate dwelling!

      “ ‘We must go! but the wailings ye wring from us here

      Shall crowd your foul prayers from the Great Spirit’s ear,

      And when ye pray for mercy, remember that Heaven

      Will forgive (so ye taught us) as ye have forgiven!

      Ay, slay! and our souls on the pinions of prayer

      Shall mount freely to Heaven and seek justice there,

      For the flame of our wigwams points sadly on high

      To the sole path of mercy ye’ve left us—to die!

      “ ‘God’s glad sun shone as warm on our once peaceful homes

      As when gilding the pomp of your proud swelling domes,

      And His wind sang a pleasanter song to the trees

      Than when rustling the silk in your temples of ease;

      For He judges not souls by their flesh-garment’s hue,

      And His heart is as open for us as for you;

      Though He fashioned the Redman of duskier skin,

      Yet the Paleface’s breast is far darker within!

      “ ‘We are gone! the proud Redman hath melted like snow

      From the soil that is tracked by the foot of his foe;

      Like a summer cloud spreading its sails to the wind,

      We shall vanish and leave not a shadow behind.

      The blue old Pacific roars loud for his prey,

      As he taunts the tall cliffs with his glittering spray,

      And the sun of our glory sinks fast to his rest,

      All darkly and dim in the clouds of the west!’

      “The cadence ends, and where the Indian stood

      The rock looks calmly down on lake and wood,

      Meet emblem of that lone and haughty race

      Whose strength hath passed in sorrow from its place.”

      The exile ended with the last week in August. “I shall be coming down next week, Thursday or Friday at farthest.”

      VALEDICTORY EXERCISES OF THE HARVARD CLASS OF 1838.

       transcription

      Commencement fell that year on the 29th of August, and Lowell received his degree of Bachelor of Arts with the rest of his class.

      I believe it is fair to tell an anecdote here of that summer, because the one person who could be offended by it is himself the only authority for it, and he used to tell the story with great personal gusto.

      This cynic was in Rome that spring, where Dr. Lowell and Mrs. Lowell had been spending the winter. Indeed, I suppose if Dr. Lowell had been in Cambridge, the episode of rustication in Concord would never have come into his son’s life. The cynic was one of those men who seem to like to say disagreeable things whenever they can, and he thus described, I think in print, a visit he made to Dr. Lowell:—

      “Dr. Lowell had not received his letters from Boston, and I had mine; so I thought I would go and tell him the Boston news. I told him that the parts for Commencement were assigned, and that Rufus Ellis was the first scholar and was to have the oration. But I told him that his son, James Lowell, had been rusticated and would not return to Cambridge until Commencement week! And I told him that the class had chosen James their class poet. ‘Oh dear!’ said Dr. Lowell, ‘James promised me that he would quit writing poetry and would go to work.’ ”

      I am afraid that most fathers, even at the end of this century, would be glad to receive such a promise from a son. In this case, James Lowell certainly went to work, but, fortunately for the rest of us, he did not “quit writing poetry.”

CHAPTER V

       BOSTON IN THE FORTIES

       Table of Contents

      I despair of making any person appreciate the ferment in which any young person moved who came into the daily life of Boston in the days when Lowell left college. I have tried more than once, and without the slightest success. But this reader must believe me that nobody was “indifferent” then, even if he do not understand why.

      Here was a little community, even quaint in some of its customs, sure of

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