John Greenleaf Whittier

Dead Petra in her hill-tomb sleeps, Her stones of emptiness remain; Around her sculptured mystery sweeps

I. Sound over all waters, reach out from all lands, The chorus of voices, the clasping of hands;

Talk not of sad November, when a day Of warm, glad sunshine fills the sky of noon, And a wind, borrowed from some morn of June,

Bland as the morning breath of June The southwest breezes play; And, through its haze, the winter noon

Thrice welcome from the Land of Flowers And golden-fruited orange bowers To this sweet, green-turfed June of ours!

The circle is broken, one seat is forsaken, One bud from the tree of our friendship is shaken; One heart from among us no longer shall thrill

One morning of the first sad Fall, Poor Adam and his bride Sat in the shade of Eden's wall,

Friend of my many years When the great silence falls, at last, on me, Let me not leave, to pain and sadden thee,

'Tis over, Moses! All is lost! I hear the bells a-ringing; Of Pharaoh and his Red Sea host

O thicker, deeper, darker growing, The solemn vista to the tomb Must know henceforth another shadow,

"Here, while the loom of Winter weaves The shroud of flowers and fountains, I think of thee and summer eves

The river hemmed with leaning trees Wound through its meadows green; A low, blue line of mountains showed

The name the Gallic exile bore, St. Malo! from thy ancient mart, Became upon our Western shore

Scarce had the solemn Sabbath-bell Ceased quivering in the steeple, Scarce had the parson to his desk

We saw the slow tides go and come, The curving surf-lines lightly drawn, The gray rocks touched with tender bloom

Up, laggards of Freedom! our free flag is cast To the blaze of the sun and the wings of the blast; Will ye turn from a struggle so bravely begun,

Beneath thy skies, November! Thy skies of cloud and rain, Around our blazing camp-fires

This day, two hundred years ago, The wild grape by the river's side, And tasteless groundnut trailing low,

To-day the plant by Williams set Its summer bloom discloses; The wilding sweethrier of his prayers

To kneel before some saintly shrine, To breathe the health of airs divine, Or bathe where sacred rivers flow,

Men of the North-land! where's the manly spirit Of the true-hearted and the unshackled gone? Sons of old freemen, do we but inherit

Take our hands, James Russell Lowell, Our hearts are all thy own; To-day we bid thee welcome

Oh, dwarfed and wronged, and stained with ill, Behold! thou art a woman still! And, by that sacred name and dear,

The firmament breaks up. In black eclipse Light after light goes out. One evil star, Luridly glaring through the smoke of war,

When first I saw our banner wave Above the nation's council-hall, I heard beneath its marble wall

In the old days (a custom laid aside With breeches and cocked hats) the people sent Their wisest men to make the public laws.

'Midst the men and things which will Haunt an old man's memory still, Drollest, quaintest of them all,

The tree of Faith its bare, dry boughs must shed That nearer heaven the living ones may climb; The false must fail, though from our shores of time

Through the long hall the shuttered windows shed A dubious light on every upturned head; On locks like those of Absalom the fair,

The day's sharp strife is ended now, Our work is done, God knoweth how! As on the thronged, unrestful town

The clouds, which rise with thunder, slake Our thirsty souls with rain; The blow most dreaded falls to break

PRELUDE Along the roadside, like the flowers of gold That tawny Incas for their gardens wrought,

As they who watch by sick-beds find relief Unwittingly from the great stress of grief And anxious care, in fantasies outwrought

George Fuller Haunted of Beauty, like the marvellous youth Who sang Saint Agnes' Eve! How passing fair

I write my name as one, On sands by waves o'errun Or winter's frosted pane,

O dearest bloom the seasons know, Flowers of the Resurrection blow, Our hope and faith restore;

On these green banks, where falls too soon The shade of Autumn's afternoon, The south wind blowing soft and sweet,

Andrew Rykman's dead and gone; You can see his leaning slate In the graveyard, and thereon

Once more, dear friends, you meet beneath A clouded sky Not yet the sword has found its sheath,

'The spring comes slowly up this way.' - Christabel. 'T is the noon of the spring-time, yet never a bird

I said I stood upon thy grave, My Mother State, when last the moon Of blossoms clomb the skies of June.

ABOLITION OF SLAVERY IN THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA, When first I saw our banner wave Above the nation's council-hall,

"Jove means to settle Astraea in her seat again, And let down his golden chain

Poor and inadequate the shadow-play Of gain and loss, of waking and of dream, Against life's solemn background needs must seem

When on my day of life the night is falling, And, in the winds from unsunned spaces blown, I hear far voices out of darkness calling

The tent-lights glimmer on the land, The ship-lights on the sea; The night-wind smooths with drifting sand

Bowdoin Street, Boston, 1877. The end has come, as come it must To all things; in these sweet June days

"With a cold and wintry noon-light. On its roofs and steeples shed, Shadows weaving with t e sunlight

Gone hath the Spring, with all its flowers, And gone the Summer's pomp and show, And Autumn, in his leafless bowers,

Over the threshold of his pleasant home Set in green clearings passed the exiled Friend, In simple trust, misdoubting not the end.

Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn, The clustered spires of Frederick stand

Up the streets of Aberdeen, By the kirk and college green, Rode the Laird of Ury;

I. "And where now, Bayard, will thy footsteps tend?" My sister asked our guest one winter's day.

God's love and peace be with thee, where Soe'er this soft autumnal air Lifts the dark tresses of thy hair.

Between the gates of birth and death An old and saintly pilgrim passed, With look of one who witnesseth

"A noteless stream, the Birchbrook runs Beneath its leaning trees; That low, soft ripple is its own,

John Brown of Ossawatomie spake on his dying day: "I will not have to shrive my soul a priest in Slavery's pay. But let some poor slave-mother whom I have striven to free,

We praise not now the poet's art, The rounded beauty of his song; Who weighs him from his life apart

Bear him, comrades, to his grave; Never over one more brave Shall the prairie grasses weep,

Before my drift-wood fire I sit, And see, with every waif I burn, Old dreams and fancies coloring it,

On receiving a sprig of heather in blossom. No more these simple flowers belong To Scottish maid and lover;

Call him not heretic whose works attest His faith in goodness by no creed confessed. Whatever in love's name is truly done

In the solemn days of old, Two men met in Boston town, One a tradesman frank and bold,

To the God of all sure mercies let my blessing rise today, From the scoffer and the cruel He hath plucked the spoil away; Yes, he who cooled the furnace around the faithful three,

I. Our fathers' God! from out whose hand The centuries fall like grains of sand,

How bland and sweet the greeting of this breeze To him who flies From crowded street and red wall's weary gleam,

Not vainly did old poets tell, Nor vainly did old genius paint God's great and crowning miracle,

Men said at vespers: "All is well!" In one wild night the city fell; Fell shrines of prayer and marts of gain

Still linger in our noon of time And on our Saxon tongue The echoes of the home-born hymns

Just God! and these are they Who minister at thine altar, God of Right! Men who their hands with prayer and blessing lay

The beaver cut his timber With patient teeth that day, The minks were fish-wards, and the crows

From the Mahabharata. Heed how thou livest. Do no act by day Which from the night shall drive thy peace away.

A railway conductor who lost his life in an accident on a Connecticut railway, May 9, 1873. Conductor Bradley, (always may his name Be said with reverence!) as the swift doom came,

I. Friend of the Slave, and yet the friend of all; Lover of peace, yet ever foremost when

O Dearly loved! And worthy of our love! No more Thy aged form shall rise before

I would the gift I offer here Might graces from thy favor take, And, seen through Friendship's atmosphere,

Bearer of Freedom's holy light, Breaker of Slavery's chain and rod, The foe of all which pains the sight,

Night on the city of the Moor! On mosque and tomb, and white-walled shore, On sea-waves, to whose ceaseless knock

"Put up the sword!" The voice of Christ once more Speaks, in the pauses of the cannon's roar, O'er fields of corn by fiery sickles reaped

"Long since, a dream of heaven I had, And still the vision haunts me oft; I see the saints in white robes clad,

On page of thine I cannot trace The cold and heartless commonplace, A statue's fixed and marble grace.

We wait beneath the furnace-blast The pangs of transformation; Not painlessly doth God recast

Hands off! thou tithe-fat plunderer! play No trick of priestcraft here! Back, puny lordling! darest thou lay

Dry the tears for holy Eva, With the blessed angels leave her; Of the form so soft and fair

Our fellow-countrymen in chains! Slaves, in a land of light and law! Slaves, crouching on the very plains

How has New England's romance fled, Even as a vision of the morning! Its rites foredone, its guardians dead,

"They hear Thee not, O God! nor see; Beneath Thy rod they mock at Thee; The princes of our ancient line

In calm and cool and silence, once again I find my old accustomed place among My brethren, where, perchance, no human tongue

At the unveiling of his statue. Among their graven shapes to whom Thy civic wreaths belong,

Painted Upon a Porte Livre. How strange to greet, this frosty morn, In graceful counterfeit of flowers,

The Persian's flowery gifts, the shrine Of fruitful Ceres, charm no more; The woven wreaths of oak and pine

The age is dull and mean. Men creep, Not walk; with blood too pale and tame To pay the debt they owe to shame;

My heart was heavy, for its trust had been Abused, its kindness answered with foul wrong; So, turning gloomily from my fellow-men,

With clearer light, Cross of the South, shine forth In blue Brazilian skies; And thou, O river, cleaving half the earth

Harriet Beecher Stowe's Letters from Italy. The tall, sallow guardsmen their horsetails have spread, Flaming out in their violet, yellow, and red;

Around Sebago's lonely lake There lingers not a breeze to break The mirror which its waters make.

O painter of the fruits and flowers, We own wise design, Where these human hands of ours

In trance and dream of old, God's prophet saw The casting down of thrones. Thou, watching lone The hot Sardinian coast-line, hazy-hilled,

The storm and peril overpast, The hounding hatred shamed and still, Go, soul of freedom! take at last

He has done the work of a true man, Crown him, honor him, love him. Weep, over him, tears of woman,

"Who gives and hides the giving hand, Nor counts on favor, fame, or praise, Shall find his smallest gift outweighs

Outbound, your bark awaits you. Were I one Whose prayer availeth much, my wish should be Your favoring trad-wind and consenting sea.

Another hand is beckoning us, Another call is given; And glows once more with Angel-steps

I spread a scanty board too late; The old-time guests for whom I wait Come few and slow, methinks, to-day.

The sunlight glitters keen and bright, Where, miles away, Lies stretching to my dazzled sight

O river winding to the sea! We call the old time back to thee; From forest paths and water-ways

The summer warmth has left the sky, The summer songs have died away; And, withered, in the footpaths lie

Dream not, O Soul, that easy is the task Thus set before thee. If it proves at length, As well it may, beyond thy natural strength,

With wisdom far beyond her years, And graver than her wondering peers, So strong, so mild, combining still

An Algonquin legend. Happy young friends, sit by me, Under May's blown apple-tree,

The tossing spray of Cocheco's fall Hardened to ice on its rocky wall, As through Dover town in the chill, gray dawn,

Right in the track where Sherman Ploughed his red furrow, Out of the narrow cabin,

SUNG AT CHRISTMAS BY THE SCHOLARS OF ST. HELENA'S ISLAND, S. C. O none in all the world before Were ever glad as we!

Not unto us who did but seek The word that burned within to speak, Not unto us this day belong

Thou dwellest not, O Lord of all In temples which thy children raise; Our work to thine is mean and small,

All things are Thine: no gift have we, Lord of all gifts, to offer Thee; And hence with grateful hearts to-day,

Amidst these glorious works of Thine, The solemn minarets of the pine, And awful Shasta's icy shrine,

O thou, whose presence went before Our fathers in their weary way, As with Thy chosen moved of yore

O Holy Father! just and true Are all Thy works and words and ways, And unto Thee alone are due

Thine are all the gifts, O God! Thine the broken bread; Let the naked feet be shod,

Kloster Kedar, Ephrata, Pennsylvania (1738) Sister Maria Christina sings: Wake, sisters, wake! the day-star shines;

Oh, none in all the world before Were ever glad as we! We're free on Carolina's shore,

I. "Encore un hymne, O ma lyre Un hymn pour le Seigneur,

I. The mercy, O Eternal One! By man unmeasured yet,

'Neath skies that winter never knew The air was full of light and balm, And warm and soft the Gulf wind blew

So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn Which once he wore! The glory from his gray hairs gone

Immortal love, forever full, Forever flowing free, Forever shared, forever whole,

As a guest who may not stay Long and sad farewells to say Glides with smiling face away,

A track of moonlight on a quiet lake, Whose small waves on a silver-sanded shore Whisper of peace, and with the low winds make

Have I not voyaged, friend beloved, with thee On the great waters of the unsounded sea, Momently listening with suspended oar

"In the fair land o'erwatched by Ischia's mountains, Across the charmed bay Whose blue waves keep with Capri's silver fountains

Still sits the school-house by the road, A ragged beggar sleeping; Around it still the sumachs grow,

She came and stood in the Old South Church, A wonder and a sign, With a look the old-time sibyls wore,

The evil days have come, the poor Are made a prey; Bar up the hospitable door,

The new world honors him whose lofty plea For England's freedom made her own more sure, Whose song, immortal as its theme, shall be

For Dorothea L. Dix. Stranger and traveller, Drink freely and bestow

The Eagle, stooping from yon snow-blown peaks, For the wild hunter and the Bison seeks, In the changed world below; and finds alone

For Dr Henry L Bowditch With warning hand I mark Time's rapid flight From life's glad morning to it's solemn night;

Through Thy clear spaces, Lord, of old, Formless and void the dead earth rolled; Deaf to Thy heaven's sweet music, blind

Across the sea I heard the groans Of nations in the intervals Of wind and wave. Their blood and bones

From purest wells of English undefiled None deeper drank than he, the New World's child, Who in the language of their farm-fields spoke

A score of years had come and gone Since the Pilgrims landed on Plymouth stone, When Captain Underhill, bearing scars

O dwellers in the stately towns, What come ye out to see? This common earth, this common sky,

"Tie stille, barn min! Imorgen kommer Fin, Fa'er din,

O Norah, lay your basket down, And rest your weary hand, And come and hear me sing a song

As Adam did in Paradise, To-day the primal right we claim Fair mirror of the woods and skies,

Out from Jerusalem The king rode with his great War chiefs and lords of state,

After the Danish of Christian Winter. Where, over heathen doom-rings and gray stones of the Horg, In its little Christian city stands the church of Vordingborg,

Where ceaseless Spring her garland twines, As sweetly shall the loved one rest, As if beneath the whispering pines

Type of two mighty continents! combining The strength of Europe with the warmth and glow Of Asian song and prophecy, the shining

It is done! Clang of bell and roar of gun Send the tidings up and down.

From the Mahabharata. Before the Ender comes, whose charioteer Is swift or slow Disease, lay up each year

A blush as of roses Where rose never grew! Great drops on the bunch-grass,

Yes, pile the marble o'er him! It is well That ye who mocked him in his long stern strife, And planted in the pathway of his life

Last week the Lord be praised for all His mercies To His unworthy servant! I arrived Safe at the Mission, via Westport; where

No Berserk thirst of blood had they, No battle-joy was theirs, who set Against the alien bayonet

A strength Thy service cannot tire, A faith which doubt can never dim, A heart of love, a lip of fire,

I need not ask thee, for my sake, To read a book which well may make Its way by native force of wit

Secretary of the Boston young men's anti-slavery society. Gone before us, O our brother, To the spirit-land!

A moony breadth of virgin face, By thought unviolated; A patient mouth, to take from scorn

They tell me, Lucy, thou art dead, That all of thee we loved and cherished Has with thy summer roses perished;

She sang alone, ere womanhood had known The gift of song which fills the air to-day Tender and sweet, a music all her own

A Harvest Idyl. Proem. I call the old time back: I bring my lay

Massachusetts Bay, 1760. The robins sang in the orchard, the buds into blossoms grew; Little of human sorrow the buds and the robins knew!

From the heart of Waumbek Methna, from the lake that never fails, Falls the Saco in the green lap of Conway's intervales; There, in wild and virgin freshness, its waters foam and flow,

The blast from Freedom's Northern hills, upon its Southern way, Bears greeting to Virginia from Massachusetts Bay: No word of haughty challenging, nor battle bugle's peal,

Maud Muller on a summer's day, Raked the meadow sweet with hay. Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth

A beautiful and happy girl, With step as light as summer air, Eyes glad with smiles, and brow of pearl,

One Sabbath day my friend and I After the meeting, quietly Passed from the crowded village lanes,

Know'st thou, O slave-cursed land How, when the Chian's cup of guilt Was full to overflow, there came

"Who stands on that cliff, like a figure of stone, Unmoving and tall in the light of the sky, Where the spray of the cataract sparkles on high,

'Tis morning over Norridgewock, On tree and wigwam, wave and rock. Bathed in the autumnal sunshine, stirred

Ah! weary Priest! with pale hands pressed On thy throbbing brow of pain, Baffled in thy life-long quest,

The moon has set: while yet the dawn Breaks cold and gray, Between the midnight and the morn

I. Franconia from the Pemigewasset Once more, O Mountains of the North, unveil Your brows, and lay your cloudy mantles by

Unnoted as the setting of a star He passed; and sect and party scarcely knew When from their midst a sage and seer withdrew

Beneath the moonlight and the snow Lies dead my latest year; The winter winds are wailing low

In my dream, methought I trod, Yesternight, a mountain road; Narrow as Al Sirat's span,

Addressed to Francis Greenleaf Allison of Burlington, New Jersey. You scarcely need my tardy thanks, Who, self-rewarded, nurse and tend

The pines were dark on Ramoth hill, Their song was soft and low; The blossoms in the sweet May wind

I mourn no more my vanished years Beneath a tender rain, An April rain of smiles and tears,

Stand still, my soul, in the silent dark I would question thee, Alone in the shadow drear and stark

Accompanying manuscripts presented to a friend. 'T is said that in the Holy Land The angels of the place have blessed

The autumn-time has come; On woods that dream of bloom, And over purpling vines,

A picture memory brings to me I look across the years and see Myself beside my mother's knee.

INSCRIBED TO ROBERT C. WATERSTON, OF BOSTON I give thee joy! I know to thee The dearest spot on earth must be

Nauhaught, the Indian deacon, who of old Dwelt, poor but blameless, where his narrowing Cape Stretches its shrunk arm out to all the winds

"God bless New Hampshire! from her granite peaks Once more the voice of Stark and Langdon speaks. The long-bound vassal of the exulting South

The winding way the serpent takes The mystic water took, From where, to count its beaded lakes,

Not on Penobscot's wooded bank the spires Of the sought City rose, nor yet beside The winding Charles, nor where the daily tide

Climbing a path which leads back never more We heard behind his footsteps and his cheer; Now, face to face, we greet him standing here

A pious magistrate! sound his praise throughout The wondering churches. Who shall henceforth doubt That the long-wished millennium draweth nigh?

O Ary Scheffer! when beneath thine eye, Touched with the light that cometh from above, Grew the sweet picture of the dear Lord's love,

All day the darkness and the cold Upon my heart have lain, Like shadows on the winter sky,

The years are but half a score, And the war-whoop sounds no more With the blast of bugles, where

O storied vale of Merrimac Rejoice through all thy shade and shine, And from his century's sleep call back

His laurels fresh from song and lay, Romance, art, science, rich in all, And young of heart, how dare we say

We give thy natal day to hope, O Country of our love and prayer! Thy way is down no fatal slope,

Immortal Love, forever full, Forever flowing free, Forever shared, forever whole,

For a summer festival at 'The Laurels' on the Merrimac. Once more on yonder laurelled height The summer flowers have budded;

The South-land boasts its teeming cane, The prairied West its heavy grain, And sunset's radiant gates unfold

The threads our hands in blindness spin No self-determined plan weaves in; The shuttle of the unseen powers

Now, joy and thanks forevermore! The dreary night has wellnigh passed, The slumbers of the North are o'er,

Blest land of Judea! thrice hallowed of song, Where the holiest of memories pilgrim-like throng; In the shade of thy palms, by the shores of thy sea,

Not with the splendors of the days of old, The spoil of nations, and barbaric gold; No weapons wrested from the fields of blood,

How sweetly on the wood-girt town The mellow light of sunset shone! Each small, bright lake, whose waters still

I. Light, warmth, and sprouting greenness, and o'er all Blue, stainless, steel-bright ether, raining down

I love the old melodious lays Which softly melt the ages through, The songs of Spenser's golden days,

A bending staff I would not break, A feeble faith I would not shake, Nor even rashly pluck away

Make, for he loved thee well, our Merrimac, From wave and shore a low and long lament For him, whose last look sought thee, as he went

The Rabbi Ishmael, with the woe and sin Of the world heavy upon him, entering in The Holy of Holies, saw an awful Face

"O Mother Earth! upon thy lap Thy weary ones receiving, And o'er them, silent as a dream,

One day, along the electric wire His manly word for Freedom sped; We came next morn: that tongue of fire

"I shall not soon forget that sight The glow of Autumn's westering day, A hazy warmth, a dreamy light,

On the wide lawn the snow lay deep, Ridged o'er with many a drifted heap; The wind that through the pine-trees sung

Friend of mine! whose lot was cast With me in the distant past; Where, like shadows flitting fast,

We live by Faith; but Faith is not the slave Of text and legend. Reason's voice and God's, Nature's and Duty's, never are at odds.

As Islam's Prophet, when his last day drew Nigh to its close, besought all men to say Whom he had wronged, to whom he then should pay

Beside that milestone where the level sun, Nigh unto setting, sheds his last, low rays On word and work irrevocably done,

Still, as of old, in Beavor's Vale, O man of God! our hope and faith The Elements and Stars assail,

The roll of drums and the bugle's wailing Vex the air of our vales-no more; The spear is beaten to hooks of pruning,

Thank God for the token! one lip is still free, One spirit untrammelled, unbending one knee! Like the oak of the mountain, deep-rooted and firm,

Greystone, Aug. 4, 1886. Once more, O all-adjusting Death! The nation's Pantheon opens wide;

As o'er his furrowed fields which lie Beneath a coldly dropping sky, Yet chill with winter's melted snow,

In the valuable and carefully prepared History of Marblehead, published in 1879 by Samuel Roads, Jr., it is stated that the crew of Captain Ireson, rather than himself, were responsible for the abandonment of the disabled vessel. To screen themselves they charged their captain with the crime. In view of this the writer of the ballad addressed the following letter to the historian: OAK KNOLL, DANVERS, 5 mo. 18, 1880. MY DEAR FRIEND: I heartily thank thee for a copy of thy History of Marblehead. I have read it with great interest and think good use has been made of the abundant material. No town in Essex County has a record more honorable than Marblehead; no one has done more to develop the industrial interests of our New England seaboard, and certainly none have given such evidence of self-sacrificing patriotism. I am glad the story of it has been at last told, and told so well. I have now no doubt that thy version of Skipper Ireson's ride is the correct one. My verse was founded solely on a fragment of rhyme which I heard from one of my early schoolmates, a native of Marblehead. I supposed the story to which it referred dated back at least a century. I knew nothing of the participators, and the narrative of the ballad was pure fancy. I am glad for the sake of truth and justice that the real facts are given in thy book. I certainly would not knowingly do injustice to any one, dead or living.

'As the Spirits of Darkness be stronger in the dark, so Good Spirits, which be Angels of Light, are augmented not only by the Divine light of the Sun, but also by our common Wood Fire: and as the Celestial Fire drives away dark spirits, so also this our Fire of Wood doth the same.' - Cor. AGRIPPA, Occult Philosophy, Book I. ch. v 'Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,

Where are we going? where are we going, Where are we going, Rubee? Lord of peoples, lord of lands,

Oh, praise an' tanks! De Lord he come To set de people free; An' massa tink it day ob doom,

A tale for Roman guides to tell To careless, sight-worn travellers still, Who pause beside the narrow cell

"To the winds give our banner! Bear homeward again!" Cried the Lord of Acadia,

Though flowers have perished at the touch Of Frost, the early comer, I hail the season loved so much,

Is this the land our fathers loved, The freedom which they toiled to win? Is this the soil whereon they moved?

A cloud, like that the old-time Hebrew saw On Carmel prophesying rain, began To lift itself o'er wooded Cardigan,

Lake Winnipesaukee I. NOON. White clouds, whose shadows haunt the deep,

O Mother State! the winds of March Blew chill o'er Auburn's Field of God, Where, slow, beneath a leaden arch

A gold fringe on the purpling hem Of hills the river runs, As down its long, green valley falls

The subtle power in perfume found Nor priest nor sibyl vainly learned; On Grecian shrine or Aztec mound

Tauler, the preacher, walked, one autumn day, Without the walls of Strasburg, by the Rhine, Pondering the solemn Miracle of Life;

Here is the place; right over the hill Runs the path I took; You can see the gap in the old wall still,

Weary of jangling noises never stilled, The skeptic's sneer, the bigot's hate, the din Of clashing texts, the webs of creed men spin

A free paraphrase of the German. To weary hearts, to mourning homes, God's meekest Angel gently comes

Speak and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far away, O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican array, Who is losing? who is winning? are they far or come they near?

Spare me, dread angel of reproof, And let the sunshine weave to-day Its gold-threads in the warp and woof

Blessings on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan! With thy turned-up pantaloons,

The land, that, from the rule of kings, In freeing us, itself made free, Our Old World Sister, to us brings

The flags of war like storm-birds fly, The charging trumpets blow; Yet rolls no thunder in the sky,

From the green Amesbury hill which bears the name Of that half mythic ancestor of mine Who trod its slopes two hundred years ago,

December 17, 1891. Blossom and greenness, making all The winter birthday tropical,

Gallery of sacred pictures manifold, A minster rich in holy effigies, And bearing on entablature and frieze

Welcome home again, brave seaman! with thy thoughtful brow and gray, And the old heroic spirit of our earlier, better day; With that front of calm endurance, on whose steady nerve in vain

The fagots blazed, the caldron's smoke Up through the green wood curled; "Bring honey from the hollow oak,

We had been wandering for many days Through the rough northern country. We had seen The sunset, with its bars of purple cloud,

Piero Luca, known of all the town As the gray porter by the Pitti wall Where the noon shadows of the gardens fall,

The pleasant isle of Rugen looks the Baltic water o'er, To the silver-sanded beaches of the Pomeranian shore; And in the town of Rambin a little boy and maid

O lonely bay of Trinity, O dreary shores, give ear! Lean down unto the white-lipped sea

Not always as the whirlwind's rush On Horeb's mount of fear, Not always as the burning bush

From pain and peril, by land and main, The shipwrecked sailor came back again; And like one from the dead, the threshold cross'd

For the fairest maid in Hampton They needed not to search, Who saw young Anna favor

I do believe, and yet, in grief, I pray for help to unbelief; For needful strength aside to lay

A Christian! going, gone! Who bids for God's own image? for his grace, Which that poor victim of the market-place

No aimless wanderers, by the fiend Unrest Goaded from shore to shore; No schoolmen, turning, in their classic quest,

Low in the east, against a white, cold dawn, The black-lined silhouette of the woods was drawn, And on a wintry waste

"Get ye up from the wrath of God's terrible day! Ungirded, unsandalled, arise and away! 'T is the vintage of blood, 't is the fulness of time,

I did but dream. I never knew What charms our sternest season wore. Was never yet the sky so blue,

Behind us at our evening meal The gray bird ate his fill, Swung downward by a single claw,

Across the frozen marshes The winds of autumn blow, And the fen-lands of the Wetter

Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard! Heap high the golden corn! No richer gift has Autumn poured

I know not, Time and Space so intervene, Whether, still waiting with a trust serene, Thou bearest up thy fourscore years and ten,

Across the Stony Mountains, o'er the desert's drouth and sand, The circles of our empire touch the western ocean's strand; From slumberous Timpanogos, to Gila, wild and free,

The cross, if rightly borne, shall be No burden, but support to thee;" So, moved of old time for our sake,

Sunlight upon Judha's hills! And on the waves of Galilee; On Jordan's stream, and on the rills

In that black forest, where, when day is done, With a snake's stillness glides the Amazon Darkly from sunset to the rising sun,

In Westminster's royal halls, Robed in their pontificals, England's ancient prelates stood

They sat in silent watchfulness The sacred cypress-tree about, And, from beneath old wrinkled brows,

We have opened the door, Once, twice, thrice! We have swept the floor,

What flecks the outer gray beyond The sundown's golden trail? The white flash of a sea-bird's wing,

The Brownie sits in the Scotchman's room, And eats his meat and drinks his ale, And beats the maid with her unused broom,

He had bowed down to drunkenness, An abject worshipper: The pride of manhood's pulse had grown

The land was pale with famine And racked with fever-pain; The frozen fiords were fishless,

Far away in the twilight time Of every people, in every clime, Dragons and griffins and monsters dire,

It chanced that while the pious troops of France Fought in the crusade Pio Nono preached, What time the holy Bourbons stayed his hands

Through heat and cold, and shower and sun, Still onward cheerly driving! There's life alone in duty done,

Amidst thy sacred effigies Of old renown give place, O city, Freedom-loved! to his

O Friends! with whom my feet have trod The quiet aisles of prayer, Glad witness to your zeal for God

From gold to gray Our mild sweet day Of Indian Summer fades too soon;

The goodman sat beside his door One sultry afternoon, With his young wife singing at his side

Father! to Thy suffering poor Strength and grace and faith impart, And with Thy own love restore

Of A Virginia Slave Mother To Her Daughters Sold Into Southern Bondage. Gone, gone, sold and gone To the rice-swamp dank and lone.

"Bring out your dead!" The midnight street Heard and gave back the hoarse, low call; Harsh fell the tread of hasty feet,

For ages on our river borders, These tassels in their tawny bloom, And willowy studs of downy silver,

Hurrah! the seaward breezes Sweep down the bay amain; Heave up, my lads, the anchor!

Traveller! on thy journey toiling By the swift Powow, With the summer sunshine falling

A few brief years have passed away Since Britain drove her million slaves Beneath the tropic's fiery ray:

My thoughts are all in yonder town, Where, wept by many tears, To-day my mother's friend lays down

He comes, he comes, the Frost Spirit comes, you may trace his footsteps now, On the naked woods and the blasted fields and the brown hill's withered brow. He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees where their pleasant green came forth,

Last night, just as the tints of autumn's sky Of sunset faded from our hills and streams, I sat, vague listening, lapped in twilight dreams,

Around Sebago's lonely lake There lingers not a breeze to break The mirror which its waters make.

I. The suns of eighteen centuries have shone Since the Redeemer walked with man, and made

From the hills of home forth looking, far beneath the tent-like span Of the sky, I see the white gleam of the headland of Cape Ann. Well I know its coves and beaches to the ebb-tide glimmering down,

Tritemius of Herbipolis, one day, While kneeling at the altar's foot to pray, Alone with God, as was his pious choice,

With fifty years between you and your well-kept wedding vow, The Golden Age, old friends of mine, is not a fable now. And, sweet as has life's vintage been through all your pleasant past,

Where the Great Lake's sunny smiles Dimple round its hundred isles, And the mountain's granite ledge

Of all that Orient lands can vaunt Of marvels with our own competing, The strangest is the Haschish plant,

To a young physician, with Dore's picture of Christ healing the sick. So stood of old the holy Christ Amidst the suffering throng;

My lady walks her morning round, My lady's page her fleet greyhound, My lady's hair the fond winds stir,

O strong, upwelling prayers of faith, From inmost founts of life ye start, The spirit's pulse, the vital breath

"O for a knight like Bayard, Without reproach or fear; My light glove on his casque of steel,

The burly driver at my side, We slowly climbed the hill, Whose summit, in the hot noontide,

In the old Hebrew myth the lion's frame, So terrible alive, Bleached by the desert's sun and wind, became

I have not felt, o'er seas of sand, The rocking of the desert bark; Nor laved at Hebron's fount my hand,

Against the wooded hills it stands, Ghost of a dead home, staring through Its broken lights on wasted lands

I. Far from his close and noisome cell, By grassy lane and sunny stream,

Have ye heard of our hunting, o'er mountain and glen, Through cane-brake and forest, the hunting of men? The lords of our land to this hunting have gone,

It was late in mild October, and the long autumnal rain Had left the summer harvest-fields all green with grass again; The first sharp frosts had fallen, leaving all the woodlands gay

From Institutes of Manu. The soul itself its awful witness is. Say not in evil doing, "No one sees,"

Voice of a people suffering long, The pathos of their mournful song, The sorrow of their night of wrong!

We cross the prairie as of old The pilgrims crossed the sea, To make the West, as they the East,

The Khan came from Bokhara town To Hamza, santon of renown. "My head is sick, my hands are weak;

Under the great hill sloping bare To cove and meadow and Common lot, In his council chamber and oaken chair,

Ere down yon blue Carpathian hills The sun shall sink again, Farewell to life and all its ills,

The shadows round the inland sea Are deepening into night; Slow up the slopes of Ossipee

I. Through the streets of Marblehead Fast the red-winged terror sped;

Summer's last sun nigh unto setting shines Through yon columnar pines, And on the deepening shadows of the lawn

I. O'er the bare woods, whose outstretched hands Plead with the leaden heavens in vain,

"From these wild rocks I look to-day O'er leagues of dancing waves, and see The far, low coast-line stretch away

The day is closing dark and cold, With roaring blast and sleety showers; And through the dusk the lilacs wear

"Let there be light!" God spake of old, And over chaos dark and cold, And through the dead and formless frame

A tender child of summers three, Seeking her little bed at night, Paused on the dark stair timidly.

Some die too late and some too soon, At early morning, heat of noon, Or the chill evening twilight. Thou,

As they who, tossing midst the storm at night, While turning shoreward, where a beacon shone, Meet the walled blackness of the heaven alone,

Wildly round our woodland quarters Sad-voiced Autumn grieves; Thickly down these swelling waters

In sky and wave the white clouds swam, And the blue hills of Nottingham Through gaps of leafy green

A strong and mighty Angel, Calm, terrible, and bright, The cross in blended red and blue

Sad Mayflower! watched by winter stars, And nursed by winter gales, With petals of the sleeted spars,

The elder folks shook hands at last, Down seat by seat the signal passed. To simple ways like ours unused,

How sweetly come the holy psalms From saints and martyrs down, The waving of triumphal palms

Well speed thy mission, bold Iconoclast! Yet all unworthy of its trust thou art, If, with dry eye, and cold, unloving heart,

'The Indians speak of a beautiful river, far to the south, which they call Merrimac.' - SIEUR. DE MONTS, 1604. Stream of my fathers! sweetly still

In the minister's morning sermon He had told of the primal fall, And how thenceforth the wrath of God

When Freedom, on her natal day, Within her war-rocked cradle lay, An iron race around her stood,

"All hail!" the bells of Christmas rang, "All hail!" the monks at Christmas sang, The merry monks who kept with cheer

By fire and cloud, across the desert sand, And through the parted waves, From their long bondage, with an outstretched hand,

Dark the halls, and cold the feast, Gone the bridemaids, gone the priest. All is over, all is done,

The wave is breaking on the shore, The echo fading from the chime; Again the shadow moveth o'er

Gift from the cold and silent Past! A relic to the present cast, Left on the ever-changing strand

Our vales are sweet with fern and rose, Our hills are maple-crowned; But not from them our fathers chose

Above, below, in sky and sod, In leaf and spar, in star and man, Well might the wise Athenian scan

A sound as if from bells of silver, Or elfin cymbals smitten clear, Through the frost-pictured panes I hear.

Leagues north, as fly the gull and auk, Point Judith watches with eye of hawk; Leagues south, thy beacon flames, Montauk!

Is it the palm, the cocoa-palm, On the Indian Sea, by the isles of balm? Or is it a ship in the breezeless calm?

"A! fredome is a nobill thing! Fredome mayse man to haif liking. Fredome all solace to man giffis;

All night above their rocky bed They saw the stars march slow; The wild Sierra overhead,

So, this is all, the utmost reach Of priestly power the mind to fetter! When laymen think, when women preach,

Thank God for rest, where none molest, And none can make afraid; For Peace that sits as Plenty's guest

Still in thy streets, O Paris! doth the stain Of blood defy the cleansing autumn rain; Still breaks the smoke Messina's ruins through,

"Great peace in Europe! Order reigns From Tiber's hills to Danube's plains!" So say her kings and priests; so say

Prelude I sing the Pilgrim of a softer clime And milder speech than those brave men's who brought

Lift again the stately emblem on the Bay State's rusted shield, Give to Northern winds the Pine-Tree on our banner's tattered field. Sons of men who sat in council with their Bibles round the board,

An incident of the Sepoy mutiny. Pipes of the misty moorlands, Voice of the glens and hills;

Longfellow. With a glory of winter sunshine Over his locks of gray,

The proudest now is but my peer, The highest not more high; To-day, of all the weary year,

On the isle of Penikese, Ringed about by sapphire seas, Fanned by breezes salt and cool,

Along the aisle where prayer was made, A woman, all in black arrayed, Close-veiled, between the kneeling host,

Its windows flashing to the sky, Beneath a thousand roofs of brown, Far down the vale, my friend and I

The time of gifts has come again, And, on my northern window-pane, Outlined against the day's brief light,

Look on him! through his dungeon grate, Feebly and cold, the morning light Comes stealing round him, dim and late,

I have been thinking of the victims bound In Naples, dying for the lack of air And sunshine, in their close, damp cells of pain,

I. Not without envy Wealth at times must look On their brown strength who wield the reaping-hook."

Saint Patrick, slave to Milcho of the herds Of Ballymena, wakened with these words 'Arise, and flee

Up and down the village streets Strange are the forms my fancy meets, For the thoughts and things of to-day are hid,

Oh, greenly and fair in the lands of the sun, The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run, And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold,

From the well-springs of Hudson, the sea-cliffs of Maine, Grave men, sober matrons, you gather again; And, with hearts warmer grown as your heads grow more cool,

The Quaker of the olden time! How calm and firm and true, Unspotted by its wrong and crime,

Robert Rawlin! Frosts were falling When the ranger's horn was calling Through the woods to Canada.

Out and in the river is winding The links of its long, red chain, Through belts of dusky pine-land

All grim and soiled and brown with tan, I saw a Strong One, in his wrath, Smiting the godless shrines of man

Token of friendship true and tried, From one whose fiery heart of youth With mine has beaten, side by side,

I heard the train's shrill whistle call, I saw an earnest look beseech, And rather by that look than speech

The gulf of seven and fifty years We stretch our welcoming hands across; The distance but a pebble's toss

Who, looking backward from his manhood's prime, Sees not the spectre of his misspent time? And, through the shade

No bird-song floated down the hill, The tangled bank below was still; No rustle from the birchen stem,

My old Welsh neighbor over the way Crept slowly out in the sun of spring, Pushed from her ears the locks of gray,

A drear and desolate shore! Where no tree unfolds its leaves, And never the spring wind weaves

They left their home of summer ease Beneath the lowland's sheltering trees, To seek, by ways unknown to all,

Ho! thou who seekest late and long A License from the Holy Book For brutal lust and fiendish wrong,

The fourteen centuries fall away Between us and the Afric saint, And at his side we urge, to-day,

The sky is ruddy in the east, The earth is gray below, And, spectral in the river-mist,

Ho! workers of the old time styled The Gentle Craft of Leather! Young brothers of the ancient guild,

Years since (but names to me before), Two sisters sought at eve my door; Two song-birds wandering from their nest,

Annie and Rhoda, sisters twain, Woke in the night to the sound of rain, The rush of wind, the ramp and roar

The shade for me, but over thee The lingering sunshine still; As, smiling, to the silent stream

"All ready?" cried the captain; "Ay, ay!" the seamen said; "Heave up the worthless lubbers,

Beams of noon, like burning lances, through the tree-tops flash and glisten, As she stands before her lover, with raised face to look and listen. Dark, but comely, like the maiden in the ancient Jewish song:

Where Time the measure of his hours By changeful bud and blossom keeps, And, like a young bride crowned with flowers,

My ear is full of summer sounds, Of summer sights my languid eye; Beyond the dusty village bounds

When the reaper's task was ended, and the summer wearing late, Parson Avery sailed from Newbury, with his wife and children eight, Dropping down the river-harbor in the shallop "Watch and Wait."

In the outskirts of the village On the river's winding shores Stand the Occidental plane-trees,

I would not sin, in this half-playful strain, Too light perhaps for serious years, though born Of the enforced leisure of slow pain,

Beneath the low-hung night cloud That raked her splintering mast The good ship settled slowly,

I wandered lonely where the pine-trees made Against the bitter East their barricade, And, guided by its sweet

Raze these long blocks of brick and stone, These huge mill-monsters overgrown; Blot out the humbler piles as well,

God called the nearest angels who dwell with Him above: The tenderest one was Pity, the dearest one was Love. "Arise," He said, "my angels! a wail of woe and sin

Read at the unveiling of the bust of Elizabeth Fry at the Friends' School, Providence, R. I. A. D. 1209. Amidst Thuringia's wooded hills she dwelt,

Smoothing soft the nestling head Of a maiden fancy-led, Thus a grave-eyed woman said:

The Rabbi Nathan two-score years and ten Walked blameless through the evil world, and then, Just as the almond blossomed in his hair,

Sweetest of all childlike dreams In the simple Indian lore Still to me the legend seems

"O Lady fair, these silks of mine are beautiful and rare, The richest web of the Indian loom, which beauty's queen might wear; And my pearls are pure as thy own fair neck, with whose radiant light they vie;

The Benedictine Echard Sat by the wayside well, Where Marsberg sees the bridal

"Why urge the long, unequal fight, Since Truth has fallen in the street, Or lift anew the trampled light,

The sword was sheathed: in April's sun Lay green the fields by Freedom won; And severed sections, weary of debates,

I wait and watch: before my eyes Methinks the night grows thin and gray; I wait and watch the eastern skies

Beside a stricken field I stood; On the torn turf, on grass and wood, Hung heavily the dew of blood.

Calm on the breast of Loch Maree A little isle reposes; A shadow woven of the oak

Against the sunset's glowing wall The city towers rise black and tall, Where Zorah, on its rocky height,

Up from the sea, the wild north wind is blowing Under the sky's gray arch; Smiling, I watch the shaken elm-boughs, knowing

I ask not now for gold to gild With mocking shine a weary frame; The yearning of the mind is stilled,

Among the legends sung or said Along our rocky shore, The Wishing Bridge of Marblehead

I. Along Crane River's sunny slopes Blew warm the winds of May,

It was the pleasant harvest time, When cellar-bins are closely stowed, And garrets bend beneath their load,

From Alton Bay to Sandwich Dome, From Mad to Saco river, For patriarchs of the primal wood

From Alton Bay to Sandwich Dome, From Mad to Saco river, For patriarchs of the primal wood

Voice of the Holy Spirit, making known Man to himself, a witness swift and sure, Warning, approving, true and wise and pure,

Yes, let them gather! Summon forth The pledged philanthropy of Earth. From every land, whose hills have heard

The harp at Nature's advent strung Has never ceased to play; The song the stars of morning sung

Rivermouth Rocks are fair to see, By dawn or sunset shone across, When the ebb of the sea has left them free,

She sings by her wheel at that low cottage door, Which the long evening shadow is stretching before; With a music as sweet as the music which seems

I. Fate summoned, in gray-bearded age, to act A history stranger than his written fact,

The great work laid upon his twoscore years Is done, and well done. If we drop our tears, Who loved him as few men were ever loved,

We see not, know not; all our way Is night, with Thee alone is day From out the torrent's troubled drift,

Lines written after a summer day's excursion. Fair Nature's priestesses! to whom, In hieroglyph of bud and bloom,

With a copy of Woolman's journal. Maiden! with the fair brown tresses Shading o'er thy dreamy eye,

Luck to the craft that bears this name of mine, Good fortune follow with her golden spoon The glazed hat and tarry pantaloon;

On her return from Europe. How smiled the land of France Under thy blue eye's glance,

Is this thy voice whose treble notes of fear Wail in the wind? And dost thou shake to hear, Act'on-like, the bay of thine own hounds,

On receiving a basket of sea-mosses. Thanks for thy gift Of ocean flowers,

If I have seemed more prompt to censure wrong Than praise the right; if seldom to thine ear My voice hath mingled with the exultant cheer

Thrice welcome to thy sisters of the East, To the strong tillers of a rugged home, With spray-wet locks to Northern winds released,

Poet and friend of poets, if thy glass Detects no flower in winter's tuft of grass, Let this slight token of the debt I owe

You flung your taunt across the wave We bore it as became us, Well knowing that the fettered slave

Men! if manhood still ye claim, If the Northern pulse can thrill, Roused by wrong or stung by shame,

Seeress of the misty Norland, Daughter of the Vikings bold, Welcome to the sunny Vineland,

An autograph. Graceful in name and in thyself, our river None fairer saw in John Ward's pilgrim flock,

So spake Esaias: so, in words of flame, Tekoa's prophet-herdsman smote with blame The traffickers in men, and put to shame,

John Pierpont, the eloquent preacher and poet of Boston. Not as a poor requital of the joy With which my childhood heard that lay of thine,

On a blank leaf of "poems printed, not published. Well thought! who would not rather hear The songs to Love and Friendship sung

Thy error, Fremont, simply was to act A brave man's part, without the statesman's tact, And, taking counsel but of common sense,

On reading her poem in "The Standard. The sweet spring day is glad with music, But through it sounds a sadder strain;

What though around thee blazes No fiery rallying sign? From all thy own high places,

Thine is a grief, the depth of which another May never know; Yet, o'er the waters, O my stricken brother!

An epistle not after the manner of Horace. Old friend, kind friend! lightly down Drop time's snow-flakes on thy crown!

With a copy of "The Supernaturalism Of New England." Dear Sister! while the wise and sage Turn coldly from my playful page,

This, the last of Mr. Whittier's poems, was written but a few weeks before his death. Among the thousands who with hail and cheer Will welcome thy new year,

O state prayer-founded! never hung Such choice upon a people's tongue, Such power to bless or ban,

The cannon's brazen lips are cold; No red shell blazes down the air; And street and tower, and temple old,

Strike home, strong-hearted man! Down to the root Of old oppression sink the Saxon steel. Thy work is to hew down. In God's name then

Olor Iscanus queries: 'Why should we Vex at the land's ridiculous miserie?' So on his Usk banks, in the blood-red dawn

Thou hast fallen in thine armor, Thou martyr of the Lord With thy last breath crying "Onward!"

Gone to thy Heavenly Father's rest! The flowers of Eden round thee blowing, And on thine ear the murmurs blest

God bless ye, brothers! in the fight Ye 're waging now, ye cannot fail, For better is your sense of right

O people-chosen! are ye not Likewise the chosen of the Lord, To do His will and speak His word?

Statesman, I thank thee! and, if yet dissent Mingles, reluctant, with my large content, I cannot censure what was nobly meant.

Champion of those who groan beneath Oppression's iron hand: In view of penury, hate, and death,

'T was night. The tranquil moonlight smile With which Heaven dreams of Earth, shed down Its beauty on the Indian isle,

At morn I prayed, "I fain would see How Three are One, and One is Three; Read the dark riddle unto me."

The same old baffling questions! O my friend, I cannot answer them. In vain I send My soul into the dark, where never burn

But what avail inadequate words to reach The innermost of Truth? Who shall essay, Blinded and weak, to point and lead the way,

The old Squire said, as he stood by his gate, And his neighbor, the Deacon, went by, "In spite of my bank stock and real estate,

O Christ of God! whose life and death Our own have reconciled, Most quietly, most tenderly

Up the hillside, down the glen, Rouse the sleeping citizen; Summon out the might of men!

A shallow stream, from fountains Deep in the Sandwich mountains, Ran lake ward Bearcamp River;

We may not climb the heavenly steeps To bring the Lord Christ down; In vain we search the lowest deeps

A sound of tumult troubles all the air, Like the low thunders of a sultry sky Far-rolling ere the downright lightnings glare;

The birds against the April wind Flew northward, singing as they flew; They sang, "The land we leave behind

The shadows grow and deepen round me, I feel the deffall in the air; The muezzin of the darkening thicket,

Maddened by Earth's wrong and evil, "Lord!" I cried in sudden ire, "From Thy right hand, clothed with thunder,

The years are many since his hand Was laid upon my head, Too weak and young to understand

Oh, well may Essex sit forlorn Beside her sea-blown shore; Her well beloved, her noblest born,

The lowliest born of all the land, He wrung from Fate's reluctant hand The gifts which happier boyhood claims;

My garden roses long ago Have perished from the leaf-strewn walks; Their pale, fair sisters smile no more

L. M. C. We sat together, last May-day, and talked Of the dear friends who walked

Written on a blank leaf of his memoirs. Dear friends, who read the world aright, And in its common forms discern

The Pagan's myths through marble lips are spoken, And ghosts of old Beliefs still flit and moan Round fane and altar overthrown and broken,

Yorktown From Yorktown's ruins, ranked and still, Two lines stretch far o'er vale and hill: