CREDIDIMUS JOVEM REGNARE by James Russell Lowell: Summary, Meaning & Analysis
Lowell reflects nostalgically on a time when people accepted the stories about gods and the universe without question.
The poem
O days endeared to every Muse, When nobody had any Views, Nor, while the cloudscape of his mind By every breeze was new designed, Insisted all the world should see Camels or whales where none there be! O happy days, when men received From sire to son what all believed, And left the other world in bliss, Too busy with bedevilling this! 10 Beset by doubts of every breed In the last bastion of my creed, With shot and shell for Sabbath-chime, I watch the storming-party climb, Panting (their prey in easy reach), To pour triumphant through the breach In walls that shed like snowflakes tons Of missiles from old-fashioned guns, But crumble 'neath the storm that pours All day and night from bigger bores. 20 There, as I hopeless watch and wait The last life-crushing coil of Fate, Despair finds solace in the praise Of those serene dawn-rosy days Ere microscopes had made us heirs To large estates of doubts and snares, By proving that the title-deeds, Once all-sufficient for men's needs, Are palimpsests that scarce disguise The tracings of still earlier lies, 30 Themselves as surely written o'er An older fib erased before. So from these days I fly to those That in the landlocked Past repose, Where no rude wind of doctrine shakes From bloom-flushed boughs untimely flakes; Where morning's eyes see nothing strange, No crude perplexity of change, And morrows trip along their ways Secure as happy yesterdays. 40 Then there were rulers who could trace Through heroes up to gods their race, Pledged to fair fame and noble use By veins from Odin filled or Zeus, And under bonds to keep divine The praise of a celestial line. Then priests could pile the altar's sods, With whom gods spake as they with gods, And everywhere from haunted earth Broke springs of wonder, that had birth 50 In depths divine beyond the ken And fatal scrutiny of men; Then hills and groves and streams and seas Thrilled with immortal presences, Not too ethereal for the scope Of human passion's dream or hope. Now Pan at last is surely dead, And King No-Credit reigns instead, Whose officers, morosely strict, Poor Fancy's tenantry evict, 60 Chase the last Genius from the door, And nothing dances any more. Nothing? Ah, yes, our tables do, Dramming the Old One's own tattoo, And, if the oracles are dumb, Have we not mediums! Why be glum? Fly thither? Why, the very air Is full of hindrance and despair! Fly thither? But I cannot fly; My doubts enmesh me if I try, 70 Each Liliputian, but, combined, Potent a giant's limbs to bind. This world and that are growing dark; A huge interrogation mark, The Devil's crook episcopal. Still borne before him since the Fall, Blackens with its ill-omened sign The old blue heaven of faith benign. Whence? Whither? Wherefore? How? Which? Why? All ask at once, all wait reply. 80 Men feel old systems cracking under 'em; Life saddens to a mere conundrum Which once Religion solved, but she Has lost--has Science found?--the key. What was snow-bearded Odin, trow, The mighty hunter long ago, Whose horn and hounds the peasant hears Still when the Northlights shake their spears? Science hath answers twain, I've heard; Choose which you will, nor hope a third; 90 Whichever box the truth be stowed in, There's not a sliver left of Odin. Either he was a pinchbrowed thing, With scarcely wit a stone to fling, A creature both in size and shape Nearer than we are to the ape, Who hung sublime with brat and spouse By tail prehensile from the boughs, And, happier than his maimed descendants, The culture-curtailed _in_dependents, 100 Could pluck his cherries with both paws, And stuff with both his big-boned jaws; Or else the core his name enveloped Was from a solar myth developed, Which, hunted to its primal shoot, Takes refuge in a Sanskrit root, Thereby to instant death explaining The little poetry remaining. Try it with Zeus, 'tis just the same; The thing evades, we hug a name; 110 Nay, scarcely that,--perhaps a vapor Born of some atmospheric caper. All Lempriere's fables blur together In cloudy symbols of the weather, And Aphrodite rose from frothy seas But to illustrate such hypotheses. With years enough behind his back, Lincoln will take the selfsame track, And prove, hulled fairly to the cob, A mere vagary of Old Prob. 120 Give the right man a solar myth, And he'll confute the sun therewith. They make things admirably plain, But one hard question _will_ remain: If one hypothesis you lose, Another in its place you choose, But, your faith gone, O man and brother, Whose shop shall furnish you another? One that will wash, I mean, and wear, And wrap us warmly from despair? 130 While they are clearing up our puzzles, And clapping prophylactic muzzles On the Actæon's hounds that sniff Our devious track through But and If, Would they'd explain away the Devil And other facts that won't keep level, But rise beneath our feet or fail, A reeling ship's deck in a gale! God vanished long ago, iwis, A mere subjective synthesis; 140 A doll, stuffed out with hopes and fears, Too homely for us pretty dears, Who want one that conviction carries, Last make of London or of Paris. He gone, I felt a moment's spasm, But calmed myself, with Protoplasm, A finer name, and, what is more, As enigmatic as before; Greek, too, and sure to fill with ease Minds caught in the Symplegades 150 Of soul and sense, life's two conditions, Each baffled with its own omniscience. The men who labor to revise Our Bibles will, I hope, be wise, And print it without foolish qualms Instead of God in David's psalms: Noll had been more effective far Could he have shouted at Dunbar, 'Rise, Protoplasm!' No dourest Scot Had waited for another shot. 160 And yet I frankly must confess A secret unforgivingness, And shudder at the saving chrism Whose best New Birth is Pessimism; My soul--I mean the bit of phosphorus That fills the place of what that was for us-- Can't bid its inward bores defiance With the new nursery-tales of science. What profits me, though doubt by doubt, As nail by nail, be driven out, 170 When every new one, like the last, Still holds my coffin-lid as fast? Would I find thought a moment's truce, Give me the young world's Mother Goose With life and joy in every limb, The chimney-corner tales of Grimm! Our dear and admirable Huxley Cannot explain to me why ducks lay, Or, rather, how into their eggs Blunder potential wings and legs 180 With will to move them and decide Whether in air or lymph to glide. Who gets a hair's-breadth on by showing That Something Else set all agoing? Farther and farther back we push From Moses and his burning bush; Cry, 'Art Thou there?' Above, below, All Nature mutters _yes_ and _no!_ 'Tis the old answer: we're agreed Being from Being must proceed, 190 Life be Life's source. I might as well Obey the meeting-house's bell, And listen while Old Hundred pours Forth through the summer-opened doors, From old and young. I hear it yet, Swelled by bass-viol and clarinet, While the gray minister, with face Radiant, let loose his noble bass. If Heaven it reached not, yet its roll Waked all the echoes of the soul, 200 And in it many a life found wings To soar away from sordid things. Church gone and singers too, the song Sings to me voiceless all night long, Till my soul beckons me afar, Glowing and trembling like a star. Will any scientific touch With my worn strings achieve as much? I don't object, not I, to know My sires were monkeys, if 'twas so; 210 I touch my ear's collusive tip And own the poor-relationship. That apes of various shapes and sizes Contained their germs that all the prizes Of senate, pulpit, camp, and bar win May give us hopes that sweeten Darwin. Who knows but from our loins may spring (Long hence) some winged sweet-throated thing As much superior to us As we to Cynocephalus? 220 This is consoling, but, alas, It wipes no dimness from the glass Where I am flattening my poor nose, In hope to see beyond my toes, Though I accept my pedigree, Yet where, pray tell me, is the key That should unlock a private door To the Great Mystery, such no more? Each offers his, but one nor all Are much persuasive with the wall 230 That rises now as long ago, Between I wonder and I know, Nor will vouchsafe a pin-hole peep At the veiled Isis in its keep. Where is no door, I but produce My key to find it of no use. Yet better keep it, after all, Since Nature's economical, And who can tell but some fine day (If it occur to her) she may, 240 In her good-will to you and me, _Make_ door and lock to match the key?
Lowell reflects nostalgically on a time when people accepted the stories about gods and the universe without question. He acknowledges that modern science has shattered that comforting certainty. He's torn between the old faith he struggles to keep and the new scientific explanations that seem empty. The poem concludes with a resigned shrug and a hint of dry hope: perhaps one day the universe will provide a door that fits the key we've been holding onto.
Line-by-line
O days endeared to every Muse, / When nobody had any Views,
Beset by doubts of every breed / In the last bastion of my creed,
So from these days I fly to those / That in the landlocked Past repose,
Now Pan at last is surely dead, / And King No-Credit reigns instead,
Fly thither? Why, the very air / Is full of hindrance and despair!
What was snow-bearded Odin, trow, / The mighty hunter long ago,
They make things admirably plain, / But one hard question _will_ remain:
And yet I frankly must confess / A secret unforgivingness,
I don't object, not I, to know / My sires were monkeys, if 'twas so;
Yet better keep it, after all, / Since Nature's economical,
Tone & mood
The tone blends wry humor with a sense of melancholy — imagine a man chuckling at a funeral he knows is partly for himself. Lowell is genuinely mourning the loss of a world sustained by shared myths and faith, but he's too honest and witty to pretend that grief is straightforward. The poem shifts between mock-heroic nostalgia and dry satire (like the Protoplasm and Cromwell jokes), alongside moments of true emotional exposure, particularly when he recalls a hymn drifting through the summer church doors. Overall, it reads like a highly educated man engaging in a lengthy internal dialogue, grappling with uncomfortable truths.
Symbols & metaphors
- The besieged fortress — The speaker's religious faith is under persistent assault from Victorian science and biblical criticism. The military imagery — shot, shell, breach, storming-party — makes the intellectual crisis feel intensely physical and urgent.
- The key without a door — The human desire for meaning and a sense of something greater. The speaker holds onto this key—his ability to wonder and his ancient religious instinct—but struggles to find a place for it in today’s world. Importantly, he chooses to keep it regardless.
- Pan's death — The conclusion of a magical, myth-filled world. Lowell draws on the old legend that a voice proclaimed 'Great Pan is dead' when Christ was born and gives it a new twist: now Pan dies once more with the rise of scientific materialism.
- Protoplasm — A representation of how scientific language can seem impressive yet fails to convey real-life experiences. Lowell argues that if you replace 'God' with 'Protoplasm' in the Psalms, you're merely trading one enigma for another, dressed up in Greek terminology.
- The hymn through summer doors — A memory of shared religious emotion — bass viol, clarinet, and a gray minister's voice — something science simply can't replicate. It captures the emotional and social role of faith that no theory can replace.
- The giant question mark — Shaped like a bishop's crook (his 'crook episcopal'), it obscures the old blue sky of faith. It symbolizes the unanswerable questions modernity has brought forth: Where do we come from? Where are we going? Why are we here? — questions that religion used to address but science has yet to resolve.
Historical context
Lowell wrote this poem in the latter half of the nineteenth century, a time when Darwin's *On the Origin of Species* (1859), advances in biblical textual criticism, and the rise of comparative mythology were challenging the beliefs of educated Victorians on both sides of the Atlantic. The title translates from Latin to 'We believed that Jupiter reigned' — a line from Ovid's *Tristia* that captures the poem's main lament: we once had faith, and now we're unsure what to believe. Lowell was a Harvard professor, diplomat, and one of the most notable American writers of his time. He found himself torn between a liberal Protestant upbringing and the pervasive skepticism of that era. Figures like T.H. Huxley (mentioned in the poem) gained attention by supporting Darwin, while scholars like Max Müller were simplifying all mythology into solar metaphors. Lowell's poem is a candid, humorous, and deeply felt reaction to that intellectual atmosphere.
FAQ
The title is derived from Ovid's *Tristia* and translates to 'We believed that Jupiter reigned.' Ovid used it to convey a naive, outdated belief. Lowell takes this idea to set the tone for the entire poem: we *once* believed the gods held power, but that certainty has vanished. The use of the past tense is crucial — it's already a thing of the past.
Thomas Henry Huxley was Darwin's most renowned supporter, earning the nickname 'Darwin's Bulldog.' Lowell isn't critiquing him — he genuinely refers to him as 'admirable.' His argument is that even Huxley, despite his brilliance, cannot account for the incredible improbability of a duck egg holding the instructions for wings and the instinct to use them. Science can detail the mechanism but not the miracle behind it.
It's from Jonathan Swift's *Gulliver's Travels*, where the tiny Lilliputians bind the giant Gulliver with countless tiny threads. Lowell uses this image to illustrate how his doubts function: each doubt seems insignificant by itself, but collectively they paralyze him. He finds himself unable to return to the familiar comfort of his previous beliefs because his own skepticism holds him back.
In the Victorian era, scholar Max Müller suggested that many ancient myths—like those about Zeus, Odin, and other gods—were originally metaphors for the sun and weather, which were gradually misinterpreted over the years into literal tales about deities. Lowell sees this theory as both clever and destructive: it simplifies everything and ultimately leaves nothing intact. He quips that with enough time, even Abraham Lincoln could be turned into a 'solar myth.'
Protoplasm was a buzzword in the 1860s and 70s, referring to the fundamental living substance of cells. Huxley famously lectured on it, labeling it the 'physical basis of life.' Lowell's joke points out that swapping 'God' for 'Protoplasm' in the Psalms doesn't clarify anything — it merely replaces one mysterious term with another, more elaborate one. The Cromwell joke takes this further: picture Oliver Cromwell rallying his troops at the Battle of Dunbar by yelling 'Rise, Protoplasm!' — it wouldn’t have made any difference.
Not exactly. He embraces evolution with a good sense of humor—he even makes a joke about touching the vestigial tip of his ear as a playful nod to his ape ancestors. His concern is more specific: science excels at detailing *how* things function but falls short of fulfilling the emotional and existential roles that religion used to provide. It doesn't offer warmth, community, or a compelling reason to get out of bed. That's the emptiness he's lamenting.
It's a mix of cautious and almost humorous hope. The speaker chooses to hold onto his 'key'—his quest for meaning and transcendence—even though the modern world offers no door for it. He believes that Nature is efficient and doesn't waste anything, so perhaps one day she'll create a door that fits. This isn't a bold declaration of faith; it's more like a man deciding to keep a key in his pocket just in case, because discarding it would feel like a bigger loss.
A palimpsest is a manuscript that has been scraped clean and rewritten, yet still reveals traces of the original text beneath. Lowell uses this term to illustrate what biblical critics discovered: the scriptures, once regarded as original divine texts, were themselves layered over older writings, which in turn were based on even older sources. Each layer of 'truth' is essentially a revision of an earlier narrative. This paints a striking picture of how scriptural authority has eroded over time.