130 'Harass her not: thy heat and stir But greater coyness breed in her; Yet thou mayst find, ere Age's frost, Thy long apprenticeship not lost, Learning at last that Stygian Fate Unbends to him that knows to wait. The Muse is womanish, nor deigns Her love to him that pules and plains; With proud, averted face she stands To him that wooes with empty hands. Make thyself free of Manhood's guild; Pull down thy barns and greater build; The wood, the mountain, and the plain Wave breast-deep with the poet's grain; Pluck thou the sunset's fruit of gold, Glean from the heavens and ocean old; 140 From fireside lone and trampling street Let thy life garner daily wheat; The epic of a man rehearse, Be something better than thy verse; Make thyself rich, and then the Muse Shall court thy precious interviews, Shall take thy head upon her knee, And such enchantment lilt to thee, That thou shalt hear the life-blood flow From farthest stars to grass-blades low, 150 And find the Listener's science still Transcends the Singer's deepest skill!' 1855? MASACCIO IN THE BRANCACCI CHAPEL HE came to Florence long ago, 1860. And painted here these walls, that shone A man-(or woman-)-uensis; The Gods thought not it would amuse As with a hem! the queen of prudes At the first pause Zeus said, 'Well sung! - Fine very fine! but I must go; They stand in need of me there; With the next gap, Mars said, 'For me Then Venus lisped, 'I'm sorely tried, Then Bacchus, - 'I must say good-by, I meet a man at four, to try His words woke Hermes. Ah!' he said, 'I so love moral theses!' Then winked at Hebe, who turned red, 20 30 40 50 The many-volumed thunder. Some augurs counted nine, some, ten; Some said 't was war, some, famine, And all, that other-minded men Would get a precious Proud Pallas sighed, 'It will not do; Then, packing up a peplus clean, The verses? Some in ocean swilled, And gave two strong narcotics birth, Years after, when a poet asked As one whose soul its wings had tasked Put all your beauty in your rhymes, THE DEAD HOUSE 2 60 70 80 1857. 1 HERE once my step was quickened, 1 In the first number of the Atlantic Monthly, of which Lowell was editor. 2 I have a notion that the inmates of a house should never be changed. When the first occupants go out it should be burned, and a stone set up with Sacred to the memory of a HOME' on it. Suppose the body were eternal, and that when one spirit went out another took the lease. How frightful the strange expression of the eyes would be! I fancy sometimes that the look in the eyes of a familiar house changes when aliens have come into it. For certainly a dwelling adapts itself to its occupants. The front door of a hospitable man opens easily and looks broad, and you can read Welcome! on every step that leads to it. (Lowell's Letters, vol. i, pp. 283, 284. Quoted by permission of Messrs. Harper and Brothers.) For the first form of the poem, see Scudder's Life of Lowell, vol. i, pp. 435-437. |