Читать книгу The Complete Poetical Works of James Russell Lowell - James Russell Lowell - Страница 182

A legend that grew in the forest's hush

Slowly as tear-drops gather and gush,

When a word some poet chanced to say

Ages ago, in his careless way,

Brings our youth back to us out of its shroud

Clearly as under yon thunder-cloud

I see that white sea-gull. It grew and grew,

From the pine-trees gathering a sombre hue,

Till it seems a mere murmur out of the vast

Norwegian forests of the past; 10

And it grew itself like a true Northern pine,

First a little slender line,

Like a mermaid's green eyelash, and then anon

A stem that a tower might rest upon,

Standing spear-straight in the waist-deep moss,

Its bony roots clutching around and across,

As if they would tear up earth's heart in their grasp

Ere the storm should uproot them or make them unclasp;

Its cloudy boughs singing, as suiteth the pine,

To snow-bearded sea-kings old songs of the brine, 20

Till they straightened and let their staves fall to the floor,

Hearing waves moan again on the perilous shore

Of Vinland, perhaps, while their prow groped its way

'Twixt the frothed gnashing tusks of some ship-crunching bay.

So, pine-like, the legend grew, strong-limbed and tall,

As the Gypsy child grows that eats crusts in the hall;

It sucked the whole strength of the earth and the sky,

Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter, all brought it supply;

'Twas a natural growth, and stood fearlessly there,

True part of the landscape as sea, land, and air; 30

For it grew in good times, ere the fashion it was

To force these wild births of the woods under glass,

And so, if 'tis told as it should be told,

Though 'twere sung under Venice's moonlight of gold,

You would hear the old voice of its mother, the pine,

Murmur sealike and northern through every line,

And the verses should grow, self-sustained and free,

Round the vibrating stem of the melody,

Like the lithe moonlit limbs of the parent tree.

Yes, the pine is the mother of legends; what food 40

For their grim roots is left when the thousand-yeared wood,

The dim-aisled cathedral, whose tall arches spring

Light, sinewy, graceful, firm-set as the wing

From Michael's white shoulder, is hewn and defaced

By iconoclast axes in desperate waste,

And its wrecks seek the ocean it prophesied long,

Cassandra-like, crooning its mystical song?

Then the legends go with them—even yet on the sea

A wild virtue is left in the touch of the tree,

And the sailor's night-watches are thrilled to the core 50

With the lineal offspring of Odin and Thor.

Yes, wherever the pine-wood has never let in,

Since the day of creation, the light and the din

Of manifold life, but has safely conveyed

From the midnight primeval its armful of shade,

And has kept the weird Past with its child-faith alive

Mid the hum and the stir of To-day's busy hive.

There the legend takes root in the age-gathered gloom,

And its murmurous boughs for their sagas find room.

Where Aroostook, far-heard, seems to sob as he goes 60

Groping down to the sea 'neath his mountainous snows;

Where the lake's frore Sahara of never-tracked white,

When the crack shoots across it, complains to the night

With a long, lonely moan, that leagues northward is lost,

As the ice shrinks away from the tread of the frost;

Where the lumberers sit by the log-fires that throw

Their own threatening shadows far round o'er the snow,

When the wolf howls aloof, and the wavering glare

Flashes out from the blackness the eyes of the bear,

When the wood's huge recesses, half-lighted, supply 70

A canvas where Fancy her mad brush may try,

Blotting in giant Horrors that venture not down

Through the right-angled streets of the brisk, whitewashed town,

But skulk in the depths of the measureless wood

Mid the Dark's creeping whispers that curdle the blood,

When the eye, glanced in dread o'er the shoulder, may dream,

Ere it shrinks to the camp-fire's companioning gleam,

That it saw the fierce ghost of the Red Man crouch back

To the shroud of the tree-trunk's invincible black;

There the old shapes crowd thick round the pine-shadowed camp, 80

Which shun the keen gleam of the scholarly lamp,

And the seed of the legend finds true Norland ground,

While the border-tale's told and the canteen flits round.