Ode recited at the Harvard commemoration, July 21, 1865.

by James Russell Lowell
[Reprinted by permission.]


Weak-winged is song,
     Nor aims at that clear-ethered height
Whither the brave deed climbs for light:
     We seem to do them wrong,
Bringing our robin's-leaf to deck their hearse
     Who in warm life-blood wrote their nobler verse,
Our trivial song to honor those who come
     With ears attuned to strenuous trump and drum,
And shaped in squadron-strophes their desire,
     Live battle-odes whose lines were steel and fire:
Yet sometimes feathered words are strong,
     A gracious memory to buoy up and save
From Lethe's dreamless ooze, the common grave
     Of the unventurous throng.


To-day our Reverend Mother welcomes home
     Her wisest Scholars, those who understood
The deeper teaching of her mystic tome,
     And offered their fresh lives to make it good:
No lore of Greece or Rome,
     No science peddling with the names of things,
Or reading stars to find inglorious fates,
     Can lift our life with wings
Far from Death's idle gulf that for the many waits,
     And lengthen out our dates
With that clear fame whose memory sings
     In manly hearts to come, and nerves them and dilates:
Nor such thy teaching, Mother of us all!
     Not such the trumpet-call
Of thy diviner mood,
     That could thy sons entice
From happy homes and toils, the fruitful nest
     Of those half-virtues which the world calls best,
Into War's tumult rude;
     But rather far that stern device
The sponsors chose that round thy cradle stood
     In the dim, unventured wood,
The Veritas that lurks beneath
     The letter's unprolific sheath,
Life of whate'er makes life worth living,
     Seed-grain of high emprise, immortal food,
One heavenly thing whereof earth hath the giving.


Many loved Truth, and lavished life's best oil
     Amid the dust of books to find her,
Content at last, for guerdon of their toil,
     With the cast mantle she hath left behind her.
Many in sad faith sought for her,
     Many with crossed hands sighed for her;
But these, our brothers, fought for her,
     At life's dear peril wrought for her,
So loved her that they died for her,
     Tasting the raptured fleetness
Of her divine completeness:
     Their higher instinct knew
Those love her best who to themselves are true,
     And what they dare to dream of dare to do;
They followed her and found her
     Where all may hope to find,
Not in the ashes of the burnt-out mind,
     But beautiful, with danger's sweetness round her;
Where faith made whole with deed
     Breathes its awakening breath
Into the lifeless creed,
     They saw her plumed and mailed,
With sweet, stern face unveiled,
     And all-repaying eyes, look proud on them in death.


Our slender life runs rippling by, and glides
     Into the silent hollow of the past;
What is there that abides
     To make the next age better for the last?
Is earth too poor to give us
     Something to live for here that shall outlive us,—
Some more substantial boon
     Than such as flows and ebbs with Fortune's fickle moon?
The little that we see
     From doubt is never free;
The little that we do
     Is but half-nobly true;
With our laborious hiving
     What men call treasure, and the gods call dross,
Life seems a jest of Fate's contriving,
     Only secure in every one's conniving,
A long account of nothings paid with loss,
     Where we poor puppets, jerked by unseen wires,
After our little hour of strut and rave,
     With all our pasteboard passions and desires,
Loves, hates, ambitions, and immortal fires,
     Are tossed pell-mell together in the grave.
But stay! No age was e'er degenerate
     Unless men held it at too cheap a rate,
For in our image still is shaped our fate
     Ah, there is something here
Unfathomed by the cynic's sneer,
     Something that gives our feeble light
A high immunity from Night,
     Something that leaps life's narrow bars
To claim its birthright with the hosts of heaven;
     A seed of sunshine that doth leaven
Our earthly dulness with the beams of stars,
     And glorify our clay
With light from fountains elder than the Day;
     A conscience more divine than we,
A gladness fed with secret tears,
     A vexing, forward-reaching sense
Of some more noble permanence;
     A light across the sea,
Which haunts the soul and will not let it be,
     Still glimmering from the heights of undegenerate years.


Whither leads the path
     To ampler fates that leads?
Not down through flowery meads,
     To reap an aftermath
Of youth's vainglorious weeds,
     But up the steep, amid the wrath
And shock of deadly-hostile creeds,
     Where the world's best hope and stay
By battle's flashes gropes a desperate way,
     And every turf the fierce foot clings to bleeds.
Peace hath her not ignoble wreath,
     Ere yet the sharp, decisive word
Reddens the cannon's lips, and while the sword
     Dreams in its easeful sheath:
But some day the live coal behind the thought,
     Whether from Baal's stone obscene,
Or from the shrine serene
     Of God's pure altar brought,
Bursts up in flame; the war of tongue and pen
     Learns with what deadly purpose it was fraught,
And, helpless in the fiery passion caught,
     Shakes all the pillared state with shock of men:
Some day the soft Ideal that we wooed
     Confronts us fiercely, foe-beset, pursued,
And cries reproachful, ‘Was it, then, my praise,
     And not myself was loved? Prove now thy truth;
I claim of thee the promise of thy youth;
     Give me thy life, or cower in empty phrase,
The victim of thy genius, not its mate!’
     Life may be given in many ways,
And loyalty to Truth be sealed
     As bravely in the closet as the field,
So generous is Fate;
     But then to stand beside her,
When craven churls deride her,
     To front a lie in arms and not to yield,—
This shows, methinks, God's plan
     And measure of a stalwart man,
Limbed like the old heroic breeds,
     Who stands self-poised on manhood's solid earth,
Not forced to frame excuses for his birth,
     Fed from within with all the strength he needs.


Such was he, our Martyr-Chief,
     Whom late the Nation he had led,
With ashes on her head,
     Wept with the passion of an angry grief:
Forgive me, if from present things I turn
     To speak what in my heart will beat and burn,
And hang my wreath on his world-honored urn.
     Nature, they say, doth dote,
And cannot make a man
     Save on some worn-out plan,
Repeating ZZZus by rote:
     For him her Old-World mould aside she threw,
And, choosing sweet clay from the breast
     Of the unexhausted West,
With stuff untainted shaped a hero new,
     Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true.
How beautiful to see
     Once more a shepherd of mankind indeed,
Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead;
     One whose meek flock the people joyed to be,
Not lured by any cheat of birth,
     But by his clear-grained human worth,
And brave old wisdom of sincerity!
     They knew that outward grace is dust;
They could not choose but trust
     In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill,
And supple-tempered will
     That bent like perfect steel to spring again and thrust.
Nothing of Europe here,
     Or, then, of Europe fronting mornward still,
Ere any names of Serf and Peer
     Could Nature's equal scheme deface;
Here was a type of the true elder race,
     And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face to face.
His was no lonely mountain-peak of mind,
     Thrusting to thin air o'er our cloudy bars,
A seamark now, now lost in vapors blind;
     Broad prairie rather, genial, level-lined,
Fruitful and friendly for his humankind,
     Yet also known to Heaven and friend with all its stars.
I praise him not; it were too late;
     And some innative weakness there must be
In him who condescends to victory
     Such as the Present gives, and cannot wait,
Safe in himself as in a fate.
     So always firmly he:
He knew to bide his time,
     And can his fame abide,
Still patient in his simple faith sublime,
     Till the wise years decide.
Great captains, with their guns and drums,
     Disturb our judgment for the hour,
But at last silence comes:
     These all are gone, and, standing like a tower,
Our children shall behold his fame,
     The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man,
Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame,
     New birth of our new soil, the first American.


Long as man's hope insatiate can discern
     Or only guess some more inspiring goal
Outside of Self, enduring as the pole,
     Along whose course the flying axles burn
Of spirits bravely pitched, earth's manlier brood;
     Long as below we cannot find
The need that stills the inexorable mind;
     So long this faith to some ideal Good,
Under whatever mortal names it masks,
     Freedom, Law, Country, this ethereal mood
That thanks the Fates for their severer tasks,
     Feeling its challenged pulses leap,
While others skulk in subterfuges cheap,
     And, set in Danger's van, has all the boon it asks,
Shall win man's praise and woman's love,
     Shall be a wisdom that we set above
All other skills and gifts to culture dear,
     A virtue round whose forehead we enwreathe
Laurels that with a living passion breathe
     When other crowns are cold and soon grow sear.
What brings us thronging these high rites to pay,
     And seal these hours the noblest of our year,
Save that our brothers found this better way?


We sit here in the Promised Land
     That flows with Freedom's honey and milk;
But 't was they won it, sword in hand,
     Making the nettle danger soft for us as silk.
We welcome back our bravest and our best;—
     Ah me! not all! some come not with the rest,
Who went forth brave and bright as any here!
     I strive to mix some gladness with my strain,
But the sad strings complain,
     And will not please the ear;
I sweep them for a paean, but they wane
     Again and yet again
Into a dirge, and die away in pain.
     In these brave ranks I only see the gaps,
Thinking of dear ones whom the dumb turf wraps,
     Dark to the triumph which they died to gain:
Fitlier may others greet the living,
     For me the past is unforgiving;
I with uncovered head
     Salute the sacred dead,
Who went, and who return not.—Say not so!
     'T is not the grapes of Canaan that repay,
But the high faith that failed not by the way;
     Virtue treads paths that end not in the grave;
No ban of endless night exiles the brave;
     And to the saner mind
We rather seem the dead that stayed behind.
     Blow, trumpets, all your exultations blow!
For never shall their aureoled presence lack:
     I see them muster in a gleaming row,
With ever-youthful brows that nobler show;
     We find in our dull road their shining track;
In every nobler mood
     We feel the orient of their spirit glow,
Part of our life's unalterable good,
     Of all our saintlier aspiration;
They come transfigured back,
     Secure from change in their high-hearted ways,
Beautiful evermore, and with the rays
     Of morn on their white Shields of Expectation!


Who now shall sneer?
     Who dare again to say we trace
Our lines to a plebeian race?
     Roundhead and Cavalier!
Dreams are those names erewhile in battle loud;
     Forceless as is the shadow of a cloud,
They live but in the ear:
     That is best blood that hath most iron in 't
To edge resolve with, pouring without stint
     For what makes manhood dear.
Tell us not of Plantagenets,
     Hapsburgs, and Guelfs, whose thin bloods crawl
Down from some victor in a border brawl!
     How poor their outworn coronets,
Matched with one leaf of that plain civic wreath
     Our brave for honor's blazon shall bequeath,
Through whose desert a rescued Nation sets
     Her heel on treason, and the trumpet hears
Shout victory, tingling Europe's sullen ears
     With vain resentments and more vain regrets!


Not in anger, not in pride,
     Pure from passion's mixture rude
Ever to base earth allied,
     But with far-heard gratitude,
Still with heart and voice renewed,
     To heroes living and dear martyrs dead,
The strain should close that consecrates our brave.
     Lift the heart and lift the head!
Lofty be its mood and grave,
     Not without a martial ring,
Not without a prouder tread
     And a peal of exultation:
Little right has he to sing
     Through whose heart in such an hour
Beats no march of conscious power,
     Sweeps no tumult of elation!
'T is no Man we celebrate,
     By his country's victories great,
A hero half, and half the whim of Fate,
     But the pith and marrow of a Nation
Drawing force from all her men,
     Highest, humblest, weakest, all,
For her day of need, and then
     Pulsing it again through them,
Till the basest can no longer cower,
     Feeling his soul spring up divinely tall,
Touched but in passing by her mantle-hem.
     Come back, then, noble pride, for 't is her dower!
How could poet ever tower,
     If his passions, hopes, and fears,
If his triumphs and his tears,
     Kept not measure with his people?
Boom, cannon, boom to all the winds and waves!
     Clash out, glad bells, from every rocking steeple!
Banners, advance with triumph, bend your staves!
     And from every mountain-peak
Let beacon-fire to answering beacon speak,
     Katahdin tell Monadnock, Whiteface he,
And so leap on in light from sea to sea,
     Till the glad news be sent
Across a kindling continent,
     Making earth feel more firm and air breathe braver:--
‘Be proud! for she is saved, and all have helped to save her!
     She that lifts up the manhood of the poor,
She of the open soul and open door,
     With room about her hearth for all mankind!
The helm from her bold front she may unbind,
     Send all her handmaid armies back to spin,
And bids her navies, that so lately hurled
     Their crashing battle, hold their thunders in:
No challenge sends she to the elder world,
     That looked askance and hated; a light scorn
Plays on her mouth, as round her mighty knees
     She calls her children back, and waits the morn
Of nobler day, enthroned between her subject seas.’


Bow down, dear Land, for thou hast found release!
     Thy God, in these distempered days,
Hath taught thee the sure wisdom of His ways,
     And through thine enemies hath wrought thy peace!
Bow down in prayer and praise!
     O Beautiful! my Country! ours once more!
Smoothing thy gold of war-dishevelled hair
     O'er such sweet brows as never other wore,

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