C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
The Washers of the Shroud
By James Russell Lowell (1819–1891)
A
I walked one night in mystery of dream;
A chill creeps curdling yet beneath my hair,
To think what chanced me by the pallid gleam
Of a moon-wraith that waned through haunted air.
Their halos, wavering thistle-downs of light;
The loon, that seemed to mock some goblin tryst,
Laughed; and the echoes, huddling in affright,
Like Odin’s hounds, fled baying down the night.
A movement in the stream that checked my breath:
Was it the slow plash of a wading deer?
But something said, “This water is of Death!
The Sisters wash a shroud,—ill thing to hear!”
Known to the Greek’s and to the Northman’s creed,
That sit in shadow of the mystic Tree,
Still crooning, as they weave their endless brede,
One song: “Time was, Time is, and Time shall be.”
But fair as yesterday, to-day, to-morrow,
To mourner, lover, poet, ever seemed;
Something too high for joy, too deep for sorrow,
Thrilled in their tones, and from their faces gleamed.
So sang they, working at their task the while;
“The fatal raiment must be cleansed ere dawn:
For Austria? Italy? the Sea-Queen’s isle?
O’er what quenched grandeur must our shroud be drawn?
That gathered States like children round his knees,
That tamed the wave to be his posting-horse,
Feller of forests, linker of the seas,
Bridge-builder, hammerer, youngest son of Thor’s?
When empires must be wound, we bring the shroud,
The time-old web of the implacable Three:
Is it too coarse for him, the young and proud?
Earth’s mightiest deigned to wear it,—why not he?”
Our Fowler whose proud bird would brook erewhile
No rival’s swoop in all our western air!
Gather the ravens, then, in funeral file
For him, life’s morn yet golden in his hair?
I see, half seeing. Tell me, ye who scanned
The stars, Earth’s elders, still must noblest aims
Be traced upon oblivious ocean sands?
Must Hesper join the wailing ghosts of names?”
Ye deem we choose the victor and the slain:
Say, choose we them that shall be leal and true
To the heart’s longing, the high faith of brain?
Yet there the victory lies, if ye but knew.
These twain are strong, but stronger yet the third,—
Obedience,—’tis the great tap-root that still,
Knit round the rock of Duty, is not stirred,
Though Heaven-loosed tempests spend their utmost skill.
Denounce it, but the Law before all time:
The brave makes danger opportunity;
The waverer, paltering with the chance sublime,
Dwarfs it to peril: which shall Hesper be?
To make Jove’s bolts purveyors of their maw?
Hath he the Many’s plaudits found more sweet
Than Wisdom? held Opinion’s wind for Law?
Then let him hearken for the doomster’s feet!
States climb to power by; slippery those with gold
Down which they stumble to eternal mock:
No chafferer’s hand shall long the sceptre hold,
Who, given a Fate to shape, would sell the block.
Mystic because too cheaply understood;
Dark sayings are not ours; men hear and know,
See Evil weak, see strength alone in Good,
Yet hope to stem God’s fire with walls of tow.
That offers choice of glory or of gloom;
The solver makes Time Shall Be surely his.
But hasten, Sisters! for even now the tomb
Grates its slow hinge and calls from the abyss.”
Whose large horizon, westering, star by star
Wins from the void to where on Ocean’s rim
The sunset shuts the world with golden bar,—
Not yet his thews shall fail, his eye grow dim!
That walk unblenching through the trial fires;
Not suffering, but faint heart, is worst of woes,
And he no base-born son of craven sires,
Whose eye need blench confronted with his foes.
Death’s royal purple in the foeman’s lines;
Peace, too, brings tears; and ’mid the battle din,
The wiser ear some text of God divines,—
For the sheathed blade may rust with darker sin.
But sword on thigh, and brow with purpose knit!
And let our Ship of State to harbor sweep,
Her ports all up, her battle lanterns lit,
And her leashed thunders gathering for their leap!”
Thinking of dear ones by Potomac’s side;
Again the loon laughed mocking, and again
The echoes bayed far down the night and died,
While waking I recalled my wandering brain.