Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,
It is a fact," sez he.

"The surest plan to make a Man Is, think him so, J. B.,

Ez much ez you or me!"

Our folks believe in Law, John;
An' it's for her sake, now,
They 've left the axe an' saw, John,
The anvil an' the plough.

4.20

430

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, Ef 't warn't for law," sez he, "There 'd be one shindy from here to Indy;

An' thet don't suit J. B.

(When 't ain't 'twixt you an' me!)"

We know we 've got a cause, John,

Thet 's honest, just, an' true;

We thought 't would win applause, John,
Ef nowheres else, from you.

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess
His love of right," sez he,

"Hangs by a rotten fibre o' cotton:
There's natur' in J. B.,

Ez wal 'z in you an' me!"

440

The South says, "Poor folks down!" John,
An' "All men up!" say we,-
White, yaller, black, an' brown, John:
Now which is your idee?

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,

John preaches wal," sez he;

"But, sermon thru, an' come to du,
Why, there's the old J. B.
A-crowdin' you an' me!"

Shall it be love, or hate, John?
It's you thet 's to decide;

Ain't your bonds held by Fate, John,
Like all the world's beside?

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess
Wise men forgive," sez he,

"But not forgit; an' some time yit
Thet truth may strike J. B.,
Ez wal ez you an' me!"

God means to make this land, John,
Clear thru, from sea to sea,
Believe an' understand, John,
The wuth o' bein' free.

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,
God's price is high," sez he;
"But nothin' else than wut He sells
Wears long, an' thet J. B.
May larn, like you an' me!"
December, 1861.

450

460

The Atlantic Monthly, Feb., 1862.

Nothin' don't seem like wut it wuz;

50

I can't see wut there is to hender, An' yit my brains jes' go buzz, buzz, Like bumblebees agin a winder; 'fore these times come, in all airth's row, Ther' wuz one quiet place, my head in, Where I could hide an' think,-but now It's all one teeter, hopin', dreadin'.

Where 's Peace? I start, some clearblown night,

When gaunt stone walls grow numb an' number,

An', creakin' 'cross the snow-crus' white, Walk the col' starlight into summer; 60 Up grows the moon, an' swell by swell

Thru the pale pasturs silvers dimmer Than the last smile thet strives to tell O' love gone heavenward in its shim

mer.

I hev been gladder o' sech things

Than cocks o' spring or bees o' clover, They filled my heart with livin' springs, But now they seem to freeze 'em over; Sights innercent ez babes on knee, Peaceful ez eyes o' pastur'd cattle, 70 Jes' coz they be so, seem to me

To rile me more with thoughts o' battle.

Indoors an' out by spells I try;

Ma'am Natur' keeps her spin'wheel goin',

But leaves my natur' stiff and dry

Ez fiel's o' clover arter mowin'; An' her jes' keepin' on the same,

Calmer 'n a clock, an' never carin', An' findin' nary thing to blame,

Is wus than ef she took to swearin'. 80

Snow-flakes come whisperin' on the pane The charm makes blazin' logs so pleasant,

But I can't hark to wut they 're say'n',

With Grant or Sherman ollers present; The chimbleys shudder in the gale,

Thet lulls, then suddin takes to flappin' Like a shot hawk, but all 's ez stale To me ez so much sperit-rappin'.

Or up the slippery knob I strain
An' see a hundred hills like islan's
Lift their blue woods in broken chain
Out o' the sea o' snowy silence;
The farm-smokes, sweetes' sight on airth,
Slow thru the winter air a-shrinkin'
Seem kin' o' sad, an' roun' the hearth
Of empty places set me thinkin'.

Beaver roars hoarse with meltin' snows,

An' rattles di'mon's from his granite; Time wuz, he snatched away my prose, An' into psalms or satires ran it; But he, nor all the rest thet once Started my blood to country-dances, 110 Can't set me goin' more 'n a dunce Thet hain't no use for dreams an' fancies.

Rat-tat-tat-tattle thru the street

I hear the drummers makin' riot, An' I set thinkin' o' the feet

Thet follered once an' now are quiet,White feet ez snowdrops innercent,

Thet never knowed the paths o' Satan, Whose comin' step ther' 's ears thet won't,

No, not lifelong, leave off awaitin'. 120

Why, hain't I held 'em on my knee?1
Did n't I love to see 'em growin',
Three likely lads ez wal could be,

Hahnsome an' brave an' not tu knowin'?

I set an' look into the blaze Whose natur', jes' like theirn, keeps climbin',

Ez long 'z it lives, in shinin' ways,

An' half despise myself for rhymin'.

Wut 's words to them whose faith an' truth

On War's red techstone rang true metal. Who ventered life an' love an' youth 131 For the gret prize o' death in battle?

1 Lowell had three nephews who were killed during the war.

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, 50
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 60
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.

Some more substantial boon

Than such as flows and ebbs with For-
tune'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

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 beaconing from the heights of undegenerate years.