The Fatherland

by James Russell Lowell

The Fatherland 

Where is the true man's fatherland?

Is it where he by chance is born?

Doth not the yearning spirit scorn

In such scant borders to be spanned?

Oh yes! his fatherland must be

As the blue heaven wide and free!

Is it alone where freedom is,

Where God is God and man is man?

Doth he not claim a broader span

For the soul's love of home than this?

Oh yes! his fatherland must be

As the blue heaven wide and free!

Where'er a human heart doth wear

Joy's myrtle-wreath or sorrow's gyves,

Where'er a human spirit strives

After a life more true and fair,

There is the true man's birthplace grand,

His is a world-wide fatherland!

Where'er a single slave doth pine,

Where'er one man may help another,-

Thank God for such a birthright, brother,-

That spot of earth is thine and mine!

There is the true man's birthplace grand,

His is a world-wide fatherland! 

Trial 

Whether the idle prisoner through his grate

Watches the waving of the grass-tuft small,

Which, having colonized its rift i' th' wall,

Accepts God's dole of good or evil fate,

And from the sky's just helmet draws its lot

Daily of shower or sunshine, cold or hot;-

Whether the closer captive of a creed,

Cooped up from birth to grind out endless chaff,

Sees through his treadmill-bars the noonday laugh,

And feels in vain, his crumpled pinions breed;-

Whether the Georgian slave look up and mark,

With bellying sails puffed full, the tall cloud-bark

Sink northward slowly,-thou alone seem'st good,

Fair only thou, O Freedom, whose desire

Can light in muddiest souls quick seeds of fire,

And strain life's chords to the old heroic mood.

Yet are there other gifts more fair than thine,

Nor can I count him happiest who has never

Been forced with his own hand his chains to sever,

And for himself find out the way divine;

He never knew the aspirer's glorious pains,

He never earned the struggle's priceless gains.

Oh, block by block, with sore and sharp endeavor,

Lifelong we build these human natures up

Into a temple fit for Freedom's shrine,

And, Trial ever consecrates the cup

Wherefrom we pour her sacrificial wine. 

Rhoecus 

God sends his teachers unto every age,

To every clime, and every race of men,

With revelations fitted to their growth

And shape of mind, nor gives the realm of Truth

Into the selfish rule of one sole race:

Therefore each form of worship that hath swayed

The life of man, and given it to grasp

The master-key of knowledge, reverence,

Infolds some germs of goodness and of right;

Else never had the eager soul, which loathes 

The slothful down of pampered ignorance,

Found in it even a moment's fitful rest.

There is an instinct in the human heart

Which makes that all the fables it hath coined,

To justify the reign of its belief

And strengthen it by beauty's right divine,

Veil in their inner cells a mystic gift,

Which, like the hazel twig, in faithful hands,

Points surely to the hidden springs of truth.

For, as in nature naught is made in vain, 

But all things have within their hull of use

A wisdom and a meaning which may speak

Of spiritual secrets to the ear

Of spirit; so, in whatsoe'er the heart

Hath fashioned for a solace to itself,

To make its inspirations suit its creed,

And from the niggard hands of falsehood wring

Its needful food of truth, there ever is

A sympathy with Nature, which reveals,

Not less than her own works, pure gleams of light 

And earnest parables of inward lore.

Hear now this fairy legend of old Greece,

As full of gracious youth, and beauty still

As the immortal freshness of that grace

Carved for all ages on some Attic frieze.

A youth named Rhoecus, wandering in the wood,

Saw an old oak just trembling to its fall,

And, feeling pity of so fair a tree,

He propped its gray trunk with admiring care,

And with a thoughtless footstep loitered on. 

But, as he turned, he heard a voice behind

That murmured 'Rhoecus!' 'Twas as if the leaves,

Stirred by a passing breath, had murmured it,

And, while he paused bewildered, yet again

It murmured 'Rhoecus!' softer than a breeze.

He started and beheld with dizzy eyes

What seemed the substance of a happy dream

Stand there before him, spreading a warm glow

Within the green glooms of the shadowy oak.

It seemed a woman's shape, yet far too fair 

To be a woman, and with eyes too meek

For any that were wont to mate with gods.

All naked like a goddess stood she there,

And like a goddess all too beautiful

To feel the guilt-born earthliness of shame.

'Rhoecus, I am the Dryad of this tree,'

Thus she began, dropping her low-toned words

Serene, and full, and clear, as drops of dew,

'And with it I am doomed to live and die;

The rain and sunshine are my caterers, 

Nor have I other bliss than simple life;

Now ask me what thou wilt, that I can give,

And with a thankful joy it shall be thine.'

Then Rhoecus, with a flutter at the heart,

Yet by the prompting of such beauty bold,

Answered: 'What is there that can satisfy

The endless craving of the soul but love?

Give me thy love, or but the hope of that

Which must be evermore my nature's goal.'

After a little pause she said again,

But with a glimpse of sadness in her tone, 

'I give it, Rhoecus, though a perilous gift;

An hour before the sunset meet me here.'

And straightway there was nothing he could see

But the green glooms beneath the shadowy oak,

And not a sound came to his straining ears

But the low trickling rustle of the leaves,

And far away upon an emerald slope

The falter of an idle shepherd's pipe.

Now, in those days of simpleness and faith, 

Men did not think that happy things were dreams

Because they overstepped the narrow bourn

Of likelihood, but reverently deemed

Nothing too wondrous or too beautiful

To be the guerdon of a daring heart.

So Rhoecus made no doubt that he was blest,

And all along unto the city's gate

Earth seemed to spring beneath him as he walked,

The clear, broad sky looked bluer than its wont,

And he could scarce believe he had not wings, 

Such sunshine seemed to glitter through his veins

Instead of blood, so light he felt and strange.

Young Rhoecus had a faithful heart enough,

But one that in the present dwelt too much,

And, taking with blithe welcome whatsoe'er

Chance gave of joy, was wholly bound in that,

Like the contented peasant of a vale,

Deemed it the world, and never looked beyond.

So, haply meeting in the afternoon

Some comrades who were playing at the dice, 

He joined them, and forgot all else beside.

The dice were rattling at the merriest,

And Rhoecus, who had met but sorry luck,

Just laughed in triumph at a happy throw,

When through the room there hummed a yellow bee

That buzzed about his ear with down-dropped legs

As if to light. And Rhoecus laughed and said,

Feeling how red and flushed he was with loss,

'By Venus! does he take me for a rose?'

And brushed him off with rough, impatient hand. 

But still the bee came back, and thrice again

Rhoecus did beat him off with growing wrath.

Then through the window flew the wounded bee,

And Rhoecus, tracking him with angry eyes,

Saw a sharp mountain-peak of Thessaly

Against the red disk of the setting sun,-

And instantly the blood sank from his heart,

As if its very walls had caved away.

Without a word he turned, and, rushing forth,

Ran madly through the city and the gate, 

And o'er the plain, which now the wood's long shade,

By the low sun thrown forward broad and dim,

Darkened wellnigh unto the city's wall.

Quite spent and out of breath he reached the tree,

And, listening fearfully, he heard once more

The low voice murmur 'Rhoecus!' close at hand:

Whereat he looked around him, but could see

Naught but the deepening glooms beneath the oak.

Then sighed the voice, 'O Rhoecus! nevermore

Shalt thou behold me or by day or night, 

Me, who would fain have blessed thee with a love

More ripe and bounteous than ever yet

Filled up with nectar any mortal heart:

But thou didst scorn my humble messenger,

And sent'st him back to me with bruised wings,

We spirits only show to gentle eyes,

We ever ask an undivided love,

And he who scorns the least of Nature's works

Is thenceforth exiled and shut out from all.

Farewell! for thou canst never see me more.' 

Then Rhoecus beat his breast, and groaned aloud,

And cried, 'Be pitiful! forgive me yet

This once, and I shall never need it more!'

'Alas!' the voice returned, 'tis thou art blind,

Not I unmerciful; I can forgive,

But have no skill to heal thy spirit's eyes;

Only the soul hath power o'er itself.'

With that again there murmured 'Nevermore!'

And Rhoecus after heard no other sound,

Except the rattling of the oak's crisp leaves, 

Like the long surf upon a distant shore,

Raking the sea-worn pebbles up and down.

The night had gathered round him: o'er the plain

The city sparkled with its thousand lights,

And sounds of revel fell upon his ear

Harshly and like a curse; above, the sky,

With all its bright sublimity of stars,

Deepened, and on his forehead smote the breeze:

Beauty was all around him and delight,

But from that eve he was alone on earth.