On this Hallow Even (or the eve of All Saints’ Day), I share a poem by Cambridge MA native James Russell Lowell (born in Cambridge 1819, died in Cambridge 1891). Along with Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and John Greenleaf Whittier, Lowell belongs to the group of writers called the Fireside Poets, a group of New England writers who were among the first American poets that rivaled the popularity of British poets. Happy Hallowe’en!
Jeremy Bruns
All-Saints
One feast, of holy days the crest,
I, though no Churchman, love to keep,
All-Saints,--the unknown good that rest
In God's still memory folded deep;
The bravely dumb that did their deed,
And scorned to blot it with a name,
Those of the plain heroic breed,
That loved Heaven's silence more than fame.
Such lived not in the past alone,
But thread to-day the unheeding street,
And stairs to Sin and Famine known
Sing with the welcome of their feet;
The den they enter grows a shrine,
The grimy sash an oriel burns,
Their cup of water warms like wine,
Their speech is filled from heavenly urns.
About their brows to me appears
An aureole traced in tenderest light,
The rainbow-gleam of smiles through tears
In dying eyes, by them made bright,
Of souls that shivered on the edge
Of that chill ford repassed no more,
And in their mercy felt the pledge
And sweetness of the farther shore.
James Russell Lowell, alt.
