Apart from his considerable criticism Lowell contributed to the volumes which he edited chiefly poems and political articles. He printed the “Ode to Happiness” already referred to, the notable verses on “Italy, 1859,” and the striking poem, “The Dead House,” which has an autobiographic interest, not from its being the record of an incident or even from the mood which it reflects, but from the fact that Lowell could write it at all and disclaim any personal connection with the theme. Mr. Norton has printed an interesting comment on the poem by Lowell,[125] and in another letter written a few days later Lowell adds: “I have touched here and there the poem I sent, and think of putting it in the _Atlantic_. Did you like it? It is pure fancy, though founded on a feeling I have often had,--but for æsthetic reasons I put an ‘inexpressive she’ into it.” In how healthy a mind must he have been, and how graciously healed in his new life to write thus without having his own great grief thrust itself between him and his poem. Yet there was a poem entitled “The Home,” written at the same time which was rather a record of personal experience than a universal mood caught in terms of common life, and he cast it aside therefore and never printed it. It has its place in a memoir of his life. “Here once my step was quickened, Here beckoned the opening door, And _welcome!_ thrilled from the threshold To the foot it had felt before. “A glow came forth to meet me, The blithe flame laughed in the grate, And shadows that danced on the ceiling Danced faster with mine for a mate. “‘Glad to see you, old friend,’ yawned the armchair, ‘This corner, you know, is your seat;’ ‘Rest your slippers on me,’ beamed the fender, ‘I brighten at touch of your feet.’ “‘We know the practised finger,’ Said the books, ‘that seems all brain,’ And the shy page rustled the secret It had kept till I came again. “Hummed the pillow, ‘My down once trembled On nightingales’ throats that flew Through the twilight gardens of Hafix To gather quaint dreams for you.’ “Ah me! if the Past have heartsease, It hath also rue for men:-- I come back: those unhealed ridges Were not in the churchyard then! “But (I think) the house is unaltered-- I will go and ask to look At the rooms that were once familiar To my life as its bed to the brook. “Unaltered! alas for the sameness That makes the change but more! How estranged seems the look of the windows, How grates my foot on the floor! “To learn this simple lesson Need I go to Paris or Rome, That the many make a household, But only one the Home? “‘Twas a smile, ’twas a garment’s rustle, ’Twas nothing that you could phrase, But the whole dumb dwelling grew conscious And put on her looks and ways.