“Her cheaper broods in palaces She raises under glasses, But souls like these, heav’n’s hostages, Spring shelterless as grasses: They share Earth’s blessing and her bane, The common sun and shower; What makes your pain to them is gain, Your weakness is their power. XIX. “These larger hearts must feel the rolls Of stormier-waved temptation; These star-wide souls between their poles Bear zones of tropic passion. He loved much!--that is gospel good, Howe’er the text you handle; From common wood the cross was hewed, By love turned priceless sandal. XX. “If scant his service at the kirk, He _paters_ heard and _aves_ From choirs that lurk in hedge and birk, From blackbird and from mavis; The cowering mouse, poor unroofed thing, In him found Mercy’s angel; The daisy’s ring brought every spring To him Love’s fresh evangel! XXI. “Not he the threatening texts who deals Is highest ’mong the preachers, But he who feels the woes and weals Of all God’s wandering creatures. He doth good work whose heart can find The spirit ’neath the letter; Who makes his kind of happier mind, Leaves wiser men and better. XXII. “They make Religion be abhorred Who round with darkness gulf her, And think no word can please the Lord Unless it smell of sulphur. Dear Poet-heart, that childlike guessed The Father’s loving kindness, Come now to rest! Thou didst His hest, If haply ’twas in blindness!” XXIII. Then leapt heaven’s portals wide apart, And at their golden thunder With sudden start I woke, my heart Still throbbing-full of wonder. “Father,” I said, “'tis known to Thee How Thou thy Saints preparest; But this I see,--Saint Charity Is still the first and fairest!” XXIV. Dear Bard and Brother! let who may Against thy faults be railing, (Though far, I pray, from us be they That never had a failing!) One toast I’ll give, and that not long, Which thou wouldst pledge if present,-- To him whose song, in nature strong, Makes man of prince and peasant! IN AN ALBUM. The misspelt scrawl, upon the wall By some Pompeian idler traced, In ashes packed (ironic fact!) Lies eighteen centuries uneffaced, While many a page of bard and sage, Deemed once mankind’s immortal gain, Lost from Time’s ark, leaves no more mark Than a keel’s furrow through the main. O Chance and Change! our buzz’s range Is scarcely wider than a fly’s; Then let us play at fame to-day, To-morrow be unknown and wise; And while the fair beg locks of hair, And autographs, and Lord knows what, Quick! let us scratch our moment’s match, Make our brief blaze, and be forgot! Too pressed to wait, upon her slate Fame writes a name or two in doubt; Scarce written, these no longer please, And her own finger rubs them out: It may ensue, fair girl, that you Years hence this yellowing leaf may see, And put to task, your memory ask In vain, “This Lowell, who was he?”