Lowell has a passion, if we may use the word, for images of quiet beauty. He seems to worship nature; he is evidently a dreamer. We venture to predict that he has spent many a day loitering through the summer woods, or lingering by the side of some silvery stream. He is a close observer—as what genius is not? There is a freshness about his writings which convinces you that he has not drawn his notions of the country, like many even of our rural poets, from books. He writes freely and therefore gracefully. His images of nature come to us with a delicious freshness, reminding us of forest nooks, sylvan retreats, and the fragrance of new mown hay. He seems to be peculiarly fond of water, and of the music which its dropping or its flow occasions, Thus:
“Thy voice is like a fountain
Leaping up in still starlight,
And I never weary counting
Its clear droppings lone or single,
Or when in one full gush they mingle,
Shooting in melodious light!”
“And thy light laughter rang as clear
As water drops I loved to hear
In days of boyhood as they fell