And only in after-years he—
"Remembered the gradual patience
That fell from that cloud like snow,
Flake by flake, healing and hiding
The scar of our deep-plunged woe."
For many years a pair of tiny baby-shoes, half-worn, hung over a picture-frame in the poet's study, and told their sad tale of the little feet that had gone on before. Like Sydney Smith, Lowell learned to think that "children are horribly insecure,—that the life of a parent is the life of a gambler;" and he held the one who still remained to him with a trembling grasp for a long time. Happily, she was spared to him, and still adds interest and pleasure to his life.
Mr. and Mrs. Lowell went to Europe in 1851, and spent a year in travel, partly for the benefit of Mrs. Lowell's health, which was always delicate. They spent the greater part of their time in Italy, although they made brief tours in France, Switzerland, and England. About a year after their return Mrs. Lowell died, and another little mound in Sweet Auburn was
"Folded close under deepening snow."
During the nine years of their married life all had been peaceful and beautiful, and now there seemed nothing left but—
"To the spirit its splendid conjectures,
To the flesh its sweet despair,"
and many hopeless tears over—
"the thin-worn locket
With its anguish of deathless hair."
For a long time the heart of the poet would admit of no consolation. He replied to every attempt to soften his grief,—