“We were not meant to plod along the earth, Strange to ourselves and to our fellows strange. We were not meant to struggle from our birth To skulk and creep, and in mean pathways range; Act! with stern truth, large faith, and loving will! Up and be doing! God is with us still.” The following lines will cheer many a lonely heart in its sore distress: “Be of good courage, bear up to the end, And on thine after way rejoicing go! We all must suffer, if we aught would know; Life is a teacher stern, and wisdom’s crown Is oft a crown of thorns, whence, trickling down, Blood, mix’d with tears, blinding our eyes doth flow; But Time, a gentle nurse, shall wipe away This bloody sweat—” Here are three lines which deserve to pass into a proverb: “_Be noble!_ and the nobleness that lies In other men, sleeping but never dead Will rise in majesty to meet thine own;” Lowell has a passion, if we may use the word, for images of quiet beauty. He seems to worship nature; he is evidently a dreamer. We venture to predict that he has spent many a day loitering through the summer woods, or lingering by the side of some silvery stream. He is a close observer—as what genius is not? There is a freshness about his writings which convinces you that he has not drawn his notions of the country, like many even of our rural poets, from books. He writes freely and therefore gracefully. His images of nature come to us with a delicious freshness, reminding us of forest nooks, sylvan retreats, and the fragrance of new mown hay. He seems to be peculiarly fond of water, and of the music which its dropping or its flow occasions, Thus: “Thy voice is like a fountain Leaping up in still starlight, And I never weary counting Its clear droppings lone or single, Or when in one full gush they mingle, Shooting in melodious light!” “And thy light laughter rang as clear As water drops I loved to hear In days of boyhood as they fell Tinkling far down the dim, still well.” “Weary never, still thou trillest Spring-gladsome lays, As of moss-rimmed water brooks Murmuring through pebbly nooks In quiet summer days.” “And like a moonbeam was her hair That falls where flowing ripples are, In summer evening, Isabel!”