PERSONAL POEMS

 BY

 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

CONTENTS

PERSONAL POEMS A LAMENT TO THE MEMORY OF CHARLES B. STORRS LINES ON THE DEATH OF S. OLIVER TORREY TO ----, WITH A COPY OF WOOLMAN'S JOURNAL LEGGETT'S MONUMENT TO A FRIEND, ON HER RETURN FROM EUROPE LUCY HOOPER FOLLEN TO J. P. CHALKLEY HALL GONE TO RONGE CHANNING TO MY FRIEND ON THE DEATH OF HIS SISTER DANIEL WHEELER TO FREDRIKA BREMER TO AVIS KEENE THE HILL-TOP ELLIOTT ICHABOD THE LOST OCCASION WORDSWORTH TO ---- LINES WRITTEN AFTER A SUMMER DAY'S EXCURSION IN PEACE BENEDICITE KOSSUTH TO MY OLD SCHOOLMASTER

 THE CROSS THE HERO RANTOUL WILLIAM FORSTER TO CHARLES SUMNER BURNS TO GEORGE B. CHEEVER TO JAMES T. FIELDS THE MEMORY OF BURNS IN REMEMBRANCE OF JOSEPH STURGER BROWN OF OSSAWATOMIE NAPLES A MEMORIAL BRYANT ON HIS BIRTHDAY THOMAS STARR KING LINES ON A FLY-LEAF GEORGE L. STEARNS GARIBALDI TO LYDIA MARIA CHILD THE SINGER HOW MARY GREW SUMNER THIERS FITZ-GREENE HALLECK WILLIAM FRANCIS BARTLETT BAYARD TAYLOR OUR AUTOCRAT WITHIN THE GATE IN MEMORY: JAMES T. FIELDS WILSON THE POET AND THE CHILDREN A WELCOME TO LOWELL AN ARTIST OF THE BEAUTIFUL MULFORD TO A CAPE ANN SCHOONER SAMUEL J. TILDEN

OCCASIONAL POEMS. EVA A LAY OF OLD TIME A SONG OF HARVEST KENOZA LAKE FOR AN AUTUMN FESTIVAL THE QUAKER ALUMNI OUR RIVER REVISITED "THE LAURELS" JUNE ON THE MERRIMAC HYMN FOR THE OPENING OF THOMAS STARR KING'S HOUSE OF WORSHIP HYMN FOR THE HOUSE OF WORSHIP AT GEORGETOWN, ERECTED IN MEMORY OF A MOTHER A SPIRITUAL MANIFESTATION CHICAGO KINSMAN THE GOLDEN WEDDING OF LONGWOOD HYMN FOR THE OPENING OF PLYMOUTH CHURCH, ST. PAUL, MINNESOTA LEXINGTON THE LIBRARY "I WAS A STRANGER, AND YE TOOK ME IN" CENTENNIAL HYMN AT SCHOOL-CLOSE HYMN OF THE CHILDREN THE LANDMARKS GARDEN A GREETING GODSPEED WINTER ROSES THE REUNION NORUMBEGA HALL THE BARTHOLDI STATUE ONE OF THE SIGNERS

THE TENT ON THE BEACH. PRELUDE THE TENT ON THE BEACH THE WRECK OF RIVERMOUTH THE GRAVE BY THE LAKE THE BROTHER OF MERCY THE CHANGELING THE MAIDS OF ATTITASH KALLUNDBORG CHURCH THE CABLE HYMN THE DEAD SHIP OF HARPSWELL THE PALATINE ABRAHAM DAVENPORT THE WORSHIP OF NATURE

AT SUNDOWN. TO E. C. S. THE CHRISTMAS OF 1888. THE Vow OF WASHINGTON THE CAPTAIN'S WELL AN OUTDOOR RECEPTION R. S. S. , AT DEER ISLAND ON THE MERRIMAC BURNING DRIFT-WOOD. O. W. HOLMES ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL HAVERHILL. 1640-1890 To G. G. PRESTON POWERS, INSCRIPTION FOR BASS-RELIEF LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY, INSCRIPTION ON TABLET MILTON, ON MEMORIAL WINDOW THE BIRTHDAY WREATH THE WIND OF MARCH BETWEEN THE GATES THE LAST EVE OF SUMMER TO OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, 8TH Mo. 29TH, 1892

NOTE. The portrait prefacing this volume is from an engraving on steelby J. A. J. WILCOX in 1888, after a photograph taken by Miss ISA E. GRAYin July, 1885. 

 PERSONAL POEMS

A LAMENT

 "The parted spirit, Knoweth it not our sorrow? Answereth not Its blessing to our tears?"

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 thrillWith joy in our gladness, or grief in our ill. 

Weep! lonely and lowly are slumbering nowThe light of her glances, the pride of her brow;Weep! sadly and long shall we listen in vainTo hear the soft tones of her welcome again. 

Give our tears to the dead! For humanity's claimFrom its silence and darkness is ever the same;The hope of that world whose existence is blissMay not stifle the tears of the mourners of this. 

For, oh! if one glance the freed spirit can throwOn the scene of its troubled probation below, Than the pride of the marble, the pomp of the dead, To that glance will be dearer the tears which we shed. 

Oh, who can forget the mild light of her smile, Over lips moved with music and feeling the while, The eye's deep enchantment, dark, dream-like, and clear, In the glow of its gladness, the shade of its tear. 

And the charm of her features, while over the wholePlayed the hues of the heart and the sunshine of soul;And the tones of her voice, like the music which seemsMurmured low in our ears by the Angel of dreams!

But holier and dearer our memories holdThose treasures of feeling, more precious than gold, The love and the kindness and pity which gaveFresh flowers for the bridal, green wreaths for the grave!

The heart ever open to Charity's claim, Unmoved from its purpose by censure and blame, While vainly alike on her eye and her earFell the scorn of the heartless, the jesting and jeer. 

How true to our hearts was that beautiful sleeperWith smiles for the joyful, with tears for the weeper, Yet, evermore prompt, whether mournful or gay, With warnings in love to the passing astray. 

For, though spotless herself, she could sorrow for themWho sullied with evil the spirit's pure gem;And a sigh or a tear could the erring reprove, And the sting of reproof was still tempered by love. 

As a cloud of the sunset, slow melting in heaven, As a star that is lost when the daylight is given, As a glad dream of slumber, which wakens in bliss, She hath passed to the world of the holy from this. 1834. 

TO THE MEMORY OF CHARLES B. STORRS, Late President of Western Reserve College, who died at his post of duty, overworn by his strenuous labors with tongue and pen in the cause of Human Freedom. 

Thou hast fallen in thine armor, Thou martyr of the LordWith thy last breath crying "Onward!"And thy hand upon the sword. The haughty heart derideth, And the sinful lip reviles, But the blessing of the perishingAround thy pillow smiles!

When to our cup of tremblingThe added drop is given, And the long-suspended thunderFalls terribly from Heaven, --When a new and fearful freedomIs proffered of the LordTo the slow-consuming Famine, The Pestilence and Sword!

When the refuges of FalsehoodShall be swept away in wrath, And the temple shall be shaken, With its idol, to the earth, Shall not thy words of warningBe all remembered then?And thy now unheeded messageBurn in the hearts of men?

Oppression's hand may scatterIts nettles on thy tomb, And even Christian bosomsDeny thy memory room;For lying lips shall tortureThy mercy into crime, And the slanderer shall flourishAs the bay-tree for a time. 

But where the south-wind lingersOn Carolina's pines, Or falls the careless sunbeamDown Georgia's golden mines;Where now beneath his burthenThe toiling slave is driven;Where now a tyrant's mockeryIs offered unto Heaven;

Where Mammon hath its altarsWet o'er with human blood, And pride and lust debasesThe workmanship of God, --There shall thy praise be spoken, Redeemed from Falsehood's ban, When the fetters shall be broken, And the slave shall be a man!

Joy to thy spirit, brother!A thousand hearts are warm, A thousand kindred bosomsAre baring to the storm. What though red-handed ViolenceWith secret Fraud combine?The wall of fire is round us, Our Present Help was thine. 

Lo, the waking up of nations, From Slavery's fatal sleep;The murmur of a Universe, Deep calling unto Deep!Joy to thy spirit, brother!On every wind of heavenThe onward cheer and summonsOf Freedom's voice is given!

Glory to God forever!Beyond the despot's willThe soul of Freedom livethImperishable still. The words which thou hast utteredAre of that soul a part, And the good seed thou hast scatteredIs springing from the heart. 

In the evil days before us, And the trials yet to come, In the shadow of the prison, Or the cruel martyrdom, --We will think of thee, O brother!And thy sainted name shall beIn the blessing of the captive, And the anthem of the free. 1834

LINES

 ON THE DEATH OF S. OLIVER TORREY, SECRETARY OF THE BOSTON YOUNG MEN'S ANTI-SLAVERY SOCIETY. 

Gone before us, O our brother, To the spirit-land!Vainly look we for anotherIn thy place to stand. Who shall offer youth and beautyOn the wasting shrineOf a stern and lofty duty, With a faith like thine?

Oh, thy gentle smile of greetingWho again shall see?Who amidst the solemn meetingGaze again on thee?Who when peril gathers o'er us, Wear so calm a brow?Who, with evil men before us, So serene as thou?

Early hath the spoiler found thee, Brother of our love!Autumn's faded earth around thee, And its storms above!Evermore that turf lie lightly, And, with future showers, O'er thy slumbers fresh and brightlyBlow the summer flowers

In the locks thy forehead gracing, Not a silvery streak;Nor a line of sorrow's tracingOn thy fair young cheek;Eyes of light and lips of roses, Such as Hylas wore, --Over all that curtain closes, Which shall rise no more!

Will the vigil Love is keepingRound that grave of thine, Mournfully, like Jazer weepingOver Sibmah's vine;Will the pleasant memories, swellingGentle hearts, of thee, In the spirit's distant dwellingAll unheeded be?

If the spirit ever gazes, From its journeyings, back;If the immortal ever tracesO'er its mortal track;Wilt thou not, O brother, meet usSometimes on our way, And, in hours of sadness, greet usAs a spirit may?

Peace be with thee, O our brother, In the spirit-landVainly look we for anotherIn thy place to stand. Unto Truth and Freedom givingAll thy early powers, Be thy virtues with the living, And thy spirit ours!1837. 

TO ------, WITH A COPY OF WOOLMAN'S JOURNAL. 

 "Get the writings of John Woolman by heart. "--Essays of Elia. 

Maiden! with the fair brown tressesShading o'er thy dreamy eye, Floating on thy thoughtful foreheadCloud wreaths of its sky. 

Youthful years and maiden beauty, Joy with them should still abide, --Instinct take the place of Duty, Love, not Reason, guide. 

Ever in the New rejoicing, Kindly beckoning back the Old, Turning, with the gift of Midas, All things into gold. 

And the passing shades of sadnessWearing even a welcome guise, As, when some bright lake lies openTo the sunny skies, Every wing of bird above it, Every light cloud floating on, Glitters like that flashing mirrorIn the self-same sun. 

But upon thy youthful foreheadSomething like a shadow lies;And a serious soul is lookingFrom thy earnest eyes. 

With an early introversion, Through the forms of outward things, Seeking for the subtle essence, And the bidden springs. 

Deeper than the gilded surfaceHath thy wakeful vision seen, Farther than the narrow presentHave thy journeyings been. 

Thou hast midst Life's empty noisesHeard the solemn steps of Time, And the low mysterious voicesOf another clime. 

All the mystery of BeingHath upon thy spirit pressed, --Thoughts which, like the Deluge wanderer, Find no place of rest:

That which mystic Plato pondered, That which Zeno heard with awe, And the star-rapt ZoroasterIn his night-watch saw. 

From the doubt and darkness springingOf the dim, uncertain Past, Moving to the dark still shadowsO'er the Future cast, Early hath Life's mighty questionThrilled within thy heart of youth, With a deep and strong beseechingWhat and where is Truth?

Hollow creed and ceremonial, Whence the ancient life hath fled, Idle faith unknown to action, Dull and cold and dead. 

Oracles, whose wire-worked meaningsOnly wake a quiet scorn, --Not from these thy seeking spiritHath its answer drawn. 

But, like some tired child at even, On thy mother Nature's breast, Thou, methinks, art vainly seekingTruth, and peace, and rest. 

O'er that mother's rugged featuresThou art throwing Fancy's veil, Light and soft as woven moonbeams, Beautiful and frail

O'er the rough chart of Existence, Rocks of sin and wastes of woe, Soft airs breathe, and green leaves tremble, And cool fountains flow. 

And to thee an answer comethFrom the earth and from the sky, And to thee the hills and watersAnd the stars reply. 

But a soul-sufficing answerHath no outward origin;More than Nature's many voicesMay be heard within. 

Even as the great AugustineQuestioned earth and sea and sky, And the dusty tomes of learningAnd old poesy. 

But his earnest spirit neededMore than outward Nature taught;More than blest the poet's visionOr the sage's thought. 

Only in the gathered silenceOf a calm and waiting frame, Light and wisdom as from HeavenTo the seeker came. 

Not to ease and aimless quietDoth that inward answer tend, But to works of love and dutyAs our being's end;

Not to idle dreams and trances, Length of face, and solemn tone, But to Faith, in daily strivingAnd performance shown. 

Earnest toil and strong endeavorOf a spirit which withinWrestles with familiar evilAnd besetting sin;

And without, with tireless vigor, Steady heart, and weapon strong, In the power of truth assailingEvery form of wrong. 

Guided thus, how passing lovelyIs the track of Woolman's feet!And his brief and simple recordHow serenely sweet!

O'er life's humblest duties throwingLight the earthling never knew, Freshening all its dark waste placesAs with Hermon's dew. 

All which glows in Pascal's pages, All which sainted Guion sought, Or the blue-eyed German RahelHalf-unconscious taught

Beauty, such as Goethe pictured, Such as Shelley dreamed of, shedLiving warmth and starry brightnessRound that poor man's head. 

Not a vain and cold ideal, Not a poet's dream alone, But a presence warm and real, Seen and felt and known. 

When the red right-hand of slaughterMoulders with the steel it swung, When the name of seer and poetDies on Memory's tongue, All bright thoughts and pure shall gatherRound that meek and suffering one, --Glorious, like the seer-seen angelStanding in the sun!

Take the good man's book and ponderWhat its pages say to thee;Blessed as the hand of healingMay its lesson be. 

If it only serves to strengthenYearnings for a higher good, For the fount of living watersAnd diviner food;

If the pride of human reasonFeels its meek and still rebuke, Quailing like the eye of PeterFrom the Just One's look!

If with readier ear thou heedestWhat the Inward Teacher saith, Listening with a willing spiritAnd a childlike faith, --

Thou mayst live to bless the giver, Who, himself but frail and weak, Would at least the highest welfareOf another seek;

And his gift, though poor and lowlyIt may seem to other eyes, Yet may prove an angel holyIn a pilgrim's guise. 1840. 

LEGGETT'S MONUMENT. 

 William Leggett, who died in 1839 at the age of thirty-seven, was the intrepid editor of the New York Evening Post and afterward of The Plain Dealer. His vigorous assault upon the system of slavery brought down upon him the enmity of political defenders of the system. 

"Ye build the tombs of the prophets. "--Holy Writ. 

Yes, pile the marble o'er him! It is wellThat ye who mocked him in his long stern strife, And planted in the pathway of his lifeThe ploughshares of your hatred hot from hell, Who clamored down the bold reformer whenHe pleaded for his captive fellow-men, Who spurned him in the market-place, and soughtWithin thy walls, St. Tammany, to bindIn party chains the free and honest thought, The angel utterance of an upright mind, Well is it now that o'er his grave ye raiseThe stony tribute of your tardy praise, For not alone that pile shall tell to FameOf the brave heart beneath, but of the builders' shame!1841. 

TO A FRIEND, ON HER RETURN FROM EUROPE. 

How smiled the land of FranceUnder thy blue eye's glance, Light-hearted roverOld walls of chateaux gray, Towers of an early day, Which the Three Colors playFlauntingly over. 

Now midst the brilliant trainThronging the banks of SeineNow midst the splendorOf the wild Alpine range, Waking with change on changeThoughts in thy young heart strange, Lovely, and tender. 

Vales, soft Elysian, Like those in the visionOf Mirza, when, dreaming, He saw the long hollow dell, Touched by the prophet's spell, Into an ocean swellWith its isles teeming. 

Cliffs wrapped in snows of years, Splintering with icy spearsAutumn's blue heavenLoose rock and frozen slide, Hung on the mountain-side, Waiting their hour to glideDownward, storm-driven!

Rhine-stream, by castle old, Baron's and robber's hold, Peacefully flowing;Sweeping through vineyards green, Or where the cliffs are seenO'er the broad wave betweenGrim shadows throwing. 

Or, where St. Peter's domeSwells o'er eternal Rome, Vast, dim, and solemn;Hymns ever chanting low, Censers swung to and fro, Sable stoles sweeping slowCornice and column!

Oh, as from each and allWill there not voices callEvermore back again?In the mind's galleryWilt thou not always seeDim phantoms beckon theeO'er that old track again?

New forms thy presence haunt, New voices softly chant, New faces greet thee!Pilgrims from many a shrineHallowed by poet's line, At memory's magic sign, Rising to meet thee. 

And when such visions comeUnto thy olden home, Will they not wakenDeep thoughts of Him whose handLed thee o'er sea and landBack to the household bandWhence thou wast taken?

While, at the sunset time, Swells the cathedral's chime, Yet, in thy dreaming, While to thy spirit's eyeYet the vast mountains liePiled in the Switzer's sky, Icy and gleaming:

Prompter of silent prayer, Be the wild picture thereIn the mind's chamber, And, through each coming dayHim who, as staff and stay, Watched o'er thy wandering way, Freshly remember. 

So, when the call shall beSoon or late unto thee, As to all given, Still may that picture live, All its fair forms survive, And to thy spirit giveGladness in Heaven!1841

LUCY HOOPER. 

 Lucy Hooper died at Brooklyn, L. I. , on the 1st of 8th mo. , 1841, aged twenty-four years. 

They tell me, Lucy, thou art dead, That all of thee we loved and cherishedHas with thy summer roses perished;And left, as its young beauty fled, An ashen memory in its stead, The twilight of a parted dayWhose fading light is cold and vain, The heart's faint echo of a strainOf low, sweet music passed away. That true and loving heart, that giftOf a mind, earnest, clear, profound, Bestowing, with a glad unthrift, Its sunny light on all around, Affinities which only couldCleave to the pure, the true, and good;And sympathies which found no rest, Save with the loveliest and best. Of them--of thee--remains there naughtBut sorrow in the mourner's breast?A shadow in the land of thought?No! Even my weak and trembling faithCan lift for thee the veil which doubtAnd human fear have drawn aboutThe all-awaiting scene of death. 

Even as thou wast I see thee still;And, save the absence of all illAnd pain and weariness, which hereSummoned the sigh or wrung the tear, The same as when, two summers back, Beside our childhood's Merrimac, I saw thy dark eye wander o'erStream, sunny upland, rocky shore, And heard thy low, soft voice aloneMidst lapse of waters, and the toneOf pine-leaves by the west-wind blown, There's not a charm of soul or brow, Of all we knew and loved in thee, But lives in holier beauty now, Baptized in immortality!Not mine the sad and freezing dreamOf souls that, with their earthly mould, Cast off the loves and joys of old, Unbodied, like a pale moonbeam, As pure, as passionless, and cold;Nor mine the hope of Indra's son, Of slumbering in oblivion's rest, Life's myriads blending into one, In blank annihilation blest;Dust-atoms of the infinite, Sparks scattered from the central light, And winning back through mortal painTheir old unconsciousness again. No! I have friends in Spirit Land, Not shadows in a shadowy band, Not others, but themselves are they. And still I think of them the sameAs when the Master's summons came;Their change, --the holy morn-light breakingUpon the dream-worn sleeper, waking, --A change from twilight into day. 

They 've laid thee midst the household graves, Where father, brother, sister lie;Below thee sweep the dark blue waves, Above thee bends the summer sky. Thy own loved church in sadness readHer solemn ritual o'er thy head, And blessed and hallowed with her prayerThe turf laid lightly o'er thee there. That church, whose rites and liturgy, Sublime and old, were truth to thee, Undoubted to thy bosom taken, As symbols of a faith unshaken. Even I, of simpler views, could feelThe beauty of thy trust and zeal;And, owning not thy creed, could seeHow deep a truth it seemed to thee, And how thy fervent heart had thrownO'er all, a coloring of its own, And kindled up, intense and warm, A life in every rite and form, As. When on Chebar's banks of old, The Hebrew's gorgeous vision rolled, A spirit filled the vast machine, A life, "within the wheels" was seen. 

Farewell! A little time, and weWho knew thee well, and loved thee here, One after one shall follow theeAs pilgrims through the gate of fear, Which opens on eternity. Yet shall we cherish not the lessAll that is left our hearts meanwhile;The memory of thy lovelinessShall round our weary pathway smile, Like moonlight when the sun has set, A sweet and tender radiance yet. Thoughts of thy clear-eyed sense of duty, Thy generous scorn of all things wrong, The truth, the strength, the graceful beautyWhich blended in thy song. All lovely things, by thee beloved, Shall whisper to our hearts of thee;These green hills, where thy childhood roved, Yon river winding to the sea, The sunset light of autumn evesReflecting on the deep, still floods, Cloud, crimson sky, and trembling leavesOf rainbow-tinted woods, These, in our view, shall henceforth takeA tenderer meaning for thy sake;And all thou lovedst of earth and sky, Seem sacred to thy memory. 1841. 

FOLLEN. 

ON READING HIS ESSAY ON THE "FUTURE STATE. "

 Charles Follen, one of the noblest contributions of Germany to American citizenship, was at an early age driven from his professorship in the University of Jena, and compelled to seek shelter from official prosecution in Switzerland, on account of his liberal political opinions. He became Professor of Civil Law in the University of Basle. The governments of Prussia, Austria, and Russia united in demanding his delivery as a political offender; and, in consequence, he left Switzerland, and came to the United States. At the time of the formation of the American Anti-Slavery Society he was a Professor in Harvard University, honored for his genius, learning, and estimable character. His love of liberty and hatred of oppression led him to seek an interview with Garrison and express his sympathy with him. Soon after, he attended a meeting of the New England Anti-Slavery Society. An able speech was made by Rev. A. A. Phelps, and a letter of mine addressed to the Secretary of the Society was read. Whereupon he rose and stated that his views were in unison with those of the Society, and that after hearing the speech and the letter, he was ready to join it, and abide the probable consequences of such an unpopular act. He lost by so doing his professorship. He was an able member of the Executive Committee of the American Anti-Slavery Society. He perished in the ill-fated steamer Lexington, which was burned on its passage from New York, January 13, 1840. The few writings left behind him show him to have been a profound thinker of rare spiritual insight. 

Friend of my soul! as with moist eyeI look up from this page of thine, Is it a dream that thou art nigh, Thy mild face gazing into mine?

That presence seems before me now, A placid heaven of sweet moonrise, When, dew-like, on the earth belowDescends the quiet of the skies. 

The calm brow through the parted hair, The gentle lips which knew no guile, Softening the blue eye's thoughtful careWith the bland beauty of their smile. 

Ah me! at times that last dread sceneOf Frost and Fire and moaning SeaWill cast its shade of doubt betweenThe failing eyes of Faith and thee. 

Yet, lingering o'er thy charmed page, Where through the twilight air of earth, Alike enthusiast and sage, Prophet and bard, thou gazest forth, Lifting the Future's solemn veil;The reaching of a mortal handTo put aside the cold and paleCloud-curtains of the Unseen Land;

Shall these poor elements outliveThe mind whose kingly will, they wrought?Their gross unconsciousness surviveThy godlike energy of thought?

In thoughts which answer to my own, In words which reach my inward ear, Like whispers from the void Unknown, I feel thy living presence here. 

The waves which lull thy body's rest, The dust thy pilgrim footsteps trod, Unwasted, through each change, attestThe fixed economy of God. 

Thou livest, Follen! not in vainHath thy fine spirit meekly borneThe burthen of Life's cross of pain, And the thorned crown of suffering worn. 

Oh, while Life's solemn mystery gloomsAround us like a dungeon's wall, Silent earth's pale and crowded tombs, Silent the heaven which bends o'er all!

While day by day our loved ones glideIn spectral silence, hushed and lone, To the cold shadows which divideThe living from the dread Unknown;

While even on the closing eye, And on the lip which moves in vain, The seals of that stern mysteryTheir undiscovered trust retain;

And only midst the gloom of death, Its mournful doubts and haunting fears, Two pale, sweet angels, Hope and Faith, Smile dimly on us through their tears;

'T is something to a heart like mineTo think of thee as living yet;To feel that such a light as thineCould not in utter darkness set. 

Less dreary seems the untried waySince thou hast left thy footprints there, And beams of mournful beauty playRound the sad Angel's sable hair. 

Oh! at this hour when half the skyIs glorious with its evening light, And fair broad fields of summer lieHung o'er with greenness in my sight;

While through these elm-boughs wet with rainThe sunset's golden walls are seen, With clover-bloom and yellow grainAnd wood-draped hill and stream between;

I long to know if scenes like thisAre hidden from an angel's eyes;If earth's familiar lovelinessHaunts not thy heaven's serener skies. 

For sweetly here upon thee grewThe lesson which that beauty gave, The ideal of the pure and trueIn earth and sky and gliding wave. 

And it may be that all which lendsThe soul an upward impulse here, With a diviner beauty blends, And greets us in a holier sphere. 

Through groves where blighting never fellThe humbler flowers of earth may twine;And simple draughts-from childhood's wellBlend with the angel-tasted wine. 

But be the prying vision veiled, And let the seeking lips be dumb, Where even seraph eyes have failedShall mortal blindness seek to come?

We only know that thou hast gone, And that the same returnless tideWhich bore thee from us still glides on, And we who mourn thee with it glide. 

On all thou lookest we shall look, And to our gaze erelong shall turnThat page of God's mysterious bookWe so much wish yet dread to learn. 

With Him, before whose awful powerThy spirit bent its trembling knee;Who, in the silent greeting flower, And forest leaf, looked out on thee, We leave thee, with a trust serene, Which Time, nor Change, nor Death can move, While with thy childlike faith we leanOn Him whose dearest name is Love!1842. 

TO J. P. 

 John Pierpont, the eloquent preacher and poet of Boston. 

Not as a poor requital of the joyWith which my childhood heard that lay of thine, Which, like an echo of the song divineAt Bethlehem breathed above the Holy Boy, Bore to my ear the Airs of Palestine, --Not to the poet, but the man I bringIn friendship's fearless trust my offeringHow much it lacks I feel, and thou wilt see, Yet well I know that thou Last deemed with meLife all too earnest, and its time too shortFor dreamy ease and Fancy's graceful sport;And girded for thy constant strife with wrong, Like Nehemiah fighting while he wroughtThe broken walls of Zion, even thy songHath a rude martial tone, a blow in every thought!1843. 

CHALKLEY HALL. 

 Chalkley Hall, near Frankford, Pa. , was the residence of Thomas Chalkley, an eminent minister of the Friends' denomination. He was one of the early settlers of the Colony, and his Journal, which was published in 1749, presents a quaint but beautiful picture of a life of unostentatious and simple goodness. He was the master of a merchant vessel, and, in his visits to the west Indies and Great Britain, omitted no opportunity to labor for the highest interests of his fellow-men. During a temporary residence in Philadelphia, in the summer of 1838, the quiet and beautiful scenery around the ancient village of Frankford frequently attracted me from the heat and bustle of the city. I have referred to my youthful acquaintance with his writings in Snow-Bound. 

How bland and sweet the greeting of this breezeTo him who fliesFrom crowded street and red wall's weary gleam, Till far behind him like a hideous dreamThe close dark city liesHere, while the market murmurs, while men throngThe marble floorOf Mammon's altar, from the crush and dinOf the world's madness let me gather inMy better thoughts once more. 

Oh, once again revive, while on my earThe cry of GainAnd low hoarse hum of Traffic die away, Ye blessed memories of my early dayLike sere grass wet with rain!

Once more let God's green earth and sunset airOld feelings waken;Through weary years of toil and strife and ill, Oh, let me feel that my good angel stillHath not his trust forsaken. 

And well do time and place befit my moodBeneath the armsOf this embracing wood, a good man madeHis home, like Abraham resting in the shadeOf Mamre's lonely palms. 

Here, rich with autumn gifts of countless years, The virgin soilTurned from the share he guided, and in rainAnd summer sunshine throve the fruits and grainWhich blessed his honest toil. 

Here, from his voyages on the stormy seas, Weary and worn, He came to meet his children and to blessThe Giver of all good in thankfulnessAnd praise for his return. 

And here his neighbors gathered in to greetTheir friend again, Safe from the wave and the destroying gales, Which reap untimely green Bermuda's vales, And vex the Carib main. 

To hear the good man tell of simple truth, Sown in an hourOf weakness in some far-off Indian isle, From the parched bosom of a barren soil, Raised up in life and power. 

How at those gatherings in Barbadian vales, A tendering loveCame o'er him, like the gentle rain from heaven, And words of fitness to his lips were given, And strength as from above. 

How the sad captive listened to the Word, Until his chainGrew lighter, and his wounded spirit feltThe healing balm of consolation meltUpon its life-long pain

How the armed warrior sat him down to hearOf Peace and Truth, And the proud ruler and his Creole dame, Jewelled and gorgeous in her beauty came, And fair and bright-eyed youth. 

Oh, far away beneath New England's sky, Even when a boy, Following my plough by Merrimac's green shore, His simple record I have pondered o'erWith deep and quiet joy. 

And hence this scene, in sunset glory warm, --Its woods around, Its still stream winding on in light and shade, Its soft, green meadows and its upland glade, --To me is holy ground. 

And dearer far than haunts where Genius keepsHis vigils still;Than that where Avon's son of song is laid, Or Vaucluse hallowed by its Petrarch's shade, Or Virgil's laurelled hill. 

To the gray walls of fallen Paraclete, To Juliet's urn, Fair Arno and Sorrento's orange-grove, Where Tasso sang, let young Romance and LoveLike brother pilgrims turn. 

But here a deeper and serener charmTo all is given;And blessed memories of the faithful deadO'er wood and vale and meadow-stream have shedThe holy hues of Heaven!1843. 

GONE

Another hand is beckoning us, Another call is given;And glows once more with Angel-stepsThe path which reaches Heaven. 

Our young and gentle friend, whose smileMade brighter summer hours, Amid the frosts of autumn timeHas left us with the flowers. 

No paling of the cheek of bloomForewarned us of decay;No shadow from the Silent LandFell round our sister's way. 

The light of her young life went down, As sinks behind the hillThe glory of a setting star, Clear, suddenly, and still. 

As pure and sweet, her fair brow seemedEternal as the sky;And like the brook's low song, her voice, --A sound which could not die. 

And half we deemed she needed notThe changing of her sphere, To give to Heaven a Shining One, Who walked an Angel here. 

The blessing of her quiet lifeFell on us like the dew;And good thoughts where her footsteps pressedLike fairy blossoms grew. 

Sweet promptings unto kindest deedsWere in her very look;We read her face, as one who readsA true and holy book, The measure of a blessed hymn, To which our hearts could move;The breathing of an inward psalm, A canticle of love. 

We miss her in the place of prayer, And by the hearth-fire's light;We pause beside her door to hearOnce more her sweet "Good-night!"

There seems a shadow on the day, Her smile no longer cheers;A dimness on the stars of night, Like eyes that look through tears. 

Alone unto our Father's willOne thought hath reconciled;That He whose love exceedeth oursHath taken home His child. 

Fold her, O Father! in Thine arms, And let her henceforth beA messenger of love betweenOur human hearts and Thee. 

Still let her mild rebuking standBetween us and the wrong, And her dear memory serve to makeOur faith in Goodness strong. 

And grant that she who, trembling, hereDistrusted all her powers, May welcome to her holier homeThe well-beloved of ours. 1845. 

TO RONGE. 

 This was written after reading the powerful and manly protest of Johannes Ronge against the "pious fraud" of the Bishop of Treves. The bold movement of the young Catholic priest of Prussian Silesia seemed to me full of promise to the cause of political as well as religious liberty in Europe. That it failed was due partly to the faults of the reformer, but mainly to the disagreement of the Liberals of Germany upon a matter of dogma, which prevented them from unity of action. Rouge was born in Silesia in 1813 and died in October, 1887. His autobiography was translated into English and published in London in 1846. 

Strike home, strong-hearted man! Down to the rootOf old oppression sink the Saxon steel. Thy work is to hew down. In God's name thenPut nerve into thy task. Let other menPlant, as they may, that better tree whose fruitThe wounded bosom of the Church shall heal. Be thou the image-breaker. Let thy blowsFall heavy as the Suabian's iron hand, On crown or crosier, which shall interposeBetween thee and the weal of Fatherland. Leave creeds to closet idlers. First of all, Shake thou all German dream-land with the fallOf that accursed tree, whose evil trunkWas spared of old by Erfurt's stalwart monk. Fight not with ghosts and shadows. Let us hearThe snap of chain-links. Let our gladdened earCatch the pale prisoner's welcome, as the lightFollows thy axe-stroke, through his cell of night. Be faithful to both worlds; nor think to feedEarth's starving millions with the husks of creed. Servant of Him whose mission high and holyWas to the wronged, the sorrowing, and the lowly, Thrust not his Eden promise from our sphere, Distant and dim beyond the blue sky's span;Like him of Patmos, see it, now and here, The New Jerusalem comes down to manBe warned by Luther's error. Nor like him, When the roused Teuton dashes from his limbThe rusted chain of ages, help to bindHis hands for whom thou claim'st the freedom ofthe mind1846. 

CHANNING. 

 The last time I saw Dr. Channing was in the summer of 1841, when, in company with my English friend, Joseph Sturge, so well known for his philanthropic labors and liberal political opinions, I visited him in his summer residence in Rhode Island. In recalling the impressions of that visit, it can scarcely be necessary to say, that I have no reference to the peculiar religious opinions of a man whose life, beautifully and truly manifested above the atmosphere of sect, is now the world's common legacy. 

Not vainly did old poets tell, Nor vainly did old genius paintGod's great and crowning miracle, The hero and the saint!

For even in a faithless dayCan we our sainted ones discern;And feel, while with them on the way, Our hearts within us burn. 

And thus the common tongue and penWhich, world-wide, echo Channing's fame, As one of Heaven's anointed men, Have sanctified his name. 

In vain shall Rome her portals bar, And shut from him her saintly prize, Whom, in the world's great calendar, All men shall canonize. 

By Narragansett's sunny bay, Beneath his green embowering wood, To me it seems but yesterdaySince at his side I stood. 

The slopes lay green with summer rains, The western wind blew fresh and free, And glimmered down the orchard lanesThe white surf of the sea. 

With us was one, who, calm and true, Life's highest purpose understood, And, like his blessed Master, knewThe joy of doing good. 

Unlearned, unknown to lettered fame, Yet on the lips of England's poorAnd toiling millions dwelt his name, With blessings evermore. 

Unknown to power or place, yet whereThe sun looks o'er the Carib sea, It blended with the freeman's prayerAnd song of jubilee. 

He told of England's sin and wrong, The ills her suffering children know, The squalor of the city's throng, The green field's want and woe. 

O'er Channing's face the tendernessOf sympathetic sorrow stole, Like a still shadow, passionless, The sorrow of the soul. 

But when the generous Briton toldHow hearts were answering to his own, And Freedom's rising murmur rolledUp to the dull-eared throne, I saw, methought, a glad surpriseThrill through that frail and pain-worn frame, And, kindling in those deep, calm eyes, A still and earnest flame. 

His few, brief words were such as moveThe human heart, --the Faith-sown seedsWhich ripen in the soil of loveTo high heroic deeds. 

No bars of sect or clime were felt, The Babel strife of tongues had ceased, And at one common altar kneltThe Quaker and the priest. 

And not in vain: with strength renewed, And zeal refreshed, and hope less dim, For that brief meeting, each pursuedThe path allotted him. 

How echoes yet each Western hillAnd vale with Channing's dying word!How are the hearts of freemen stillBy that great warning stirred. 

The stranger treads his native soil, And pleads, with zeal unfelt before, The honest right of British toil, The claim of England's poor. 

Before him time-wrought barriers fall, Old fears subside, old hatreds melt, And, stretching o'er the sea's blue wall, The Saxon greets the Celt. 

The yeoman on the Scottish lines, The Sheffield grinder, worn and grim, The delver in the Cornwall mines, Look up with hope to him. 

Swart smiters of the glowing steel, Dark feeders of the forge's flame, Pale watchers at the loom and wheel, Repeat his honored name. 

And thus the influence of that hourOf converse on Rhode Island's strandLives in the calm, resistless powerWhich moves our fatherland. 

God blesses still the generous thought, And still the fitting word He speedsAnd Truth, at His requiring taught, He quickens into deeds. 

Where is the victory of the grave?What dust upon the spirit lies?God keeps the sacred life he gave, --The prophet never dies!1844. 

TO MY FRIEND ON THE DEATH OF HIS SISTER. 

 Sophia Sturge, sister of Joseph Sturge, of Birmingham, the President of the British Complete Suffrage Association, died in the 6th month, 1845. She was the colleague, counsellor, and ever-ready helpmate of her brother in all his vast designs of beneficence. The Birmingham Pilot says of her: "Never, perhaps, were the active and passive virtues of the human character more harmoniously and beautifully blended than in this excellent woman. "

Thine is a grief, the depth of which anotherMay never know;Yet, o'er the waters, O my stricken brother!To thee I go. 

I lean my heart unto thee, sadly foldingThy hand in mine;With even the weakness of my soul upholdingThe strength of thine. 

I never knew, like thee, the dear departed;I stood not byWhen, in calm trust, the pure and tranquil-heartedLay down to die. 

And on thy ears my words of weak condolingMust vainly fallThe funeral bell which in thy heart is tolling, Sounds over all!

I will not mock thee with the poor world's commonAnd heartless phrase, Nor wrong the memory of a sainted womanWith idle praise. 

With silence only as their benediction, God's angels comeWhere, in the shadow of a great affliction, The soul sits dumb!

Yet, would I say what thy own heart approvethOur Father's will, Calling to Him the dear one whom He loveth, Is mercy still. 

Not upon thee or thine the solemn angelHath evil wroughtHer funeral anthem is a glad evangel, --The good die not!

God calls our loved ones, but we lose not whollyWhat He hath given;They live on earth, in thought and deed, as trulyAs in His heaven. 

And she is with thee; in thy path of trialShe walketh yet;Still with the baptism of thy self-denialHer locks are wet. 

Up, then, my brother! Lo, the fields of harvestLie white in viewShe lives and loves thee, and the God thou servestTo both is true. 

Thrust in thy sickle! England's toilworn peasantsThy call abide;And she thou mourn'st, a pure and holy presence, Shall glean beside!1845. 

DANIEL WHEELER

 Daniel Wheeler, a minister of the Society of Friends, who had labored in the cause of his Divine Master in Great Britain, Russia, and the islands of the Pacific, died in New York in the spring of 1840, while on a religious visit to this country. 

O Dearly loved!And worthy of our love! No moreThy aged form shall rise beforeThe bushed and waiting worshiper, In meek obedience utterance givingTo words of truth, so fresh and living, That, even to the inward sense, They bore unquestioned evidenceOf an anointed Messenger!Or, bowing down thy silver hairIn reverent awfulness of prayer, The world, its time and sense, shut outThe brightness of Faith's holy tranceGathered upon thy countenance, As if each lingering cloud of doubt, The cold, dark shadows resting hereIn Time's unluminous atmosphere, Were lifted by an angel's hand, And through them on thy spiritual eyeShone down the blessedness on high, The glory of the Better Land!

The oak has fallen!While, meet for no good work, the vineMay yet its worthless branches twine, Who knoweth not that with thee fellA great man in our Israel?Fallen, while thy loins were girded still, Thy feet with Zion's dews still wet, And in thy hand retaining yetThe pilgrim's staff and scallop-shellUnharmed and safe, where, wild and free, Across the Neva's cold morassThe breezes from the Frozen SeaWith winter's arrowy keenness pass;Or where the unwarning tropic galeSmote to the waves thy tattered sail, Or where the noon-hour's fervid heatAgainst Tahiti's mountains beat;The same mysterious Hand which gaveDeliverance upon land and wave, Tempered for thee the blasts which blewLadaga's frozen surface o'er, And blessed for thee the baleful dewOf evening upon Eimeo's shore, Beneath this sunny heaven of ours, Midst our soft airs and opening flowersHath given thee a grave!

His will be done, Who seeth not as man, whose wayIs not as ours! 'T is well with thee!Nor anxious doubt nor dark dismayDisquieted thy closing day, But, evermore, thy soul could say, "My Father careth still for me!"Called from thy hearth and home, --from her, The last bud on thy household tree, The last dear one to ministerIn duty and in love to thee, From all which nature holdeth dear, Feeble with years and worn with pain, To seek our distant land again, Bound in the spirit, yet unknowingThe things which should befall thee here, Whether for labor or for death, In childlike trust serenely goingTo that last trial of thy faith!Oh, far away, Where never shines our Northern starOn that dark waste which Balboa sawFrom Darien's mountains stretching far, So strange, heaven-broad, and lone, that there, With forehead to its damp wind bare, He bent his mailed knee in awe;In many an isle whose coral feetThe surges of that ocean beat, In thy palm shadows, Oahu, And Honolulu's silver bay, Amidst Owyhee's hills of blue, And taro-plains of Tooboonai, Are gentle hearts, which long shall beSad as our own at thought of thee, Worn sowers of Truth's holy seed, Whose souls in weariness and needWere strengthened and refreshed by thine. For blessed by our Father's handWas thy deep love and tender care, Thy ministry and fervent prayer, --Grateful as Eshcol's clustered vineTo Israel in a weary land. 

And they who drewBy thousands round thee, in the hourOf prayerful waiting, hushed and deep, That He who bade the islands keepSilence before Him, might renewTheir strength with His unslumbering power, They too shall mourn that thou art gone, That nevermore thy aged lipShall soothe the weak, the erring warn, Of those who first, rejoicing, heardThrough thee the Gospel's glorious word, --Seals of thy true apostleship. And, if the brightest diadem, Whose gems of glory purely burnAround the ransomed ones in bliss, Be evermore reserved for themWho here, through toil and sorrow, turnMany to righteousness, May we not think of thee as wearingThat star-like crown of light, and bearing, Amidst Heaven's white and blissful band, Th' unfading palm-branch in thy hand;And joining with a seraph's tongueIn that new song the elders sung, Ascribing to its blessed GiverThanksgiving, love, and praise forever!

Farewell!And though the ways of Zion mournWhen her strong ones are called away, Who like thyself have calmly borneThe heat and burden of the day, Yet He who slumbereth not nor sleepethHis ancient watch around us keepeth;Still, sent from His creating hand, New witnesses for Truth shall stand, New instruments to sound abroadThe Gospel of a risen Lord;To gather to the fold once moreThe desolate and gone astray, The scattered of a cloudy day, And Zion's broken walls restore;And, through the travail and the toilOf true obedience, ministerBeauty for ashes, and the oilOf joy for mourning, unto her!So shall her holy bounds increaseWith walls of praise and gates of peaceSo shall the Vine, which martyr tearsAnd blood sustained in other years, With fresher life be clothed upon;And to the world in beauty showLike the rose-plant of Jericho, And glorious as Lebanon!1847

TO FREDRIKA BREMER. 

 It is proper to say that these lines are the joint impromptus of my sister and myself. They are inserted here as an expression of our admiration of the gifted stranger whom we have since learned to love as a friend. 

Seeress of the misty Norland, Daughter of the Vikings bold, Welcome to the sunny Vineland, Which thy fathers sought of old!

Soft as flow of Siija's waters, When the moon of summer shines, Strong as Winter from his mountainsRoaring through the sleeted pines. 

Heart and ear, we long have listenedTo thy saga, rune, and song;As a household joy and presenceWe have known and loved thee long. 

By the mansion's marble mantel, Round the log-walled cabin's hearth, Thy sweet thoughts and northern fanciesMeet and mingle with our mirth. 

And o'er weary spirits keepingSorrow's night-watch, long and chill, Shine they like thy sun of summerOver midnight vale and hill. 

We alone to thee are strangers, Thou our friend and teacher art;Come, and know us as we know thee;Let us meet thee heart to heart!

To our homes and household altarsWe, in turn, thy steps would lead, As thy loving hand has led usO'er the threshold of the Swede. 1849. 

TO AVIS KEENE

ON RECEIVING A BASKET OF SEA-MOSSES. 

Thanks for thy giftOf ocean flowers, Born where the golden driftOf the slant sunshine fallsDown the green, tremulous wallsOf water, to the cool, still coral bowers, Where, under rainbows of perpetual showers, God's gardens of the deepHis patient angels keep;Gladdening the dim, strange solitudeWith fairest forms and hues, and thusForever teaching usThe lesson which the many-colored skies, The flowers, and leaves, and painted butterflies, The deer's branched antlers, the gay bird that flingsThe tropic sunshine from its golden wings, The brightness of the human countenance, Its play of smiles, the magic of a glance, Forevermore repeat, In varied tones and sweet, That beauty, in and of itself, is good. 

O kind and generous friend, o'er whomThe sunset hues of Time are cast, Painting, upon the overpastAnd scattered clouds of noonday sorrowThe promise of a fairer morrow, An earnest of the better life to come;The binding of the spirit broken, The warning to the erring spoken, The comfort of the sad, The eye to see, the hand to cullOf common things the beautiful, The absent heart made gladBy simple gift or graceful tokenOf love it needs as daily food, All own one Source, and all are goodHence, tracking sunny cove and reach, Where spent waves glimmer up the beach, And toss their gifts of weed and shellFrom foamy curve and combing swell, No unbefitting task was thineTo weave these flowers so soft and fairIn unison with His designWho loveth beauty everywhere;And makes in every zone and clime, In ocean and in upper air, All things beautiful in their time. 

For not alone in tones of awe and powerHe speaks to Inan;The cloudy horror of the thunder-showerHis rainbows span;And where the caravanWinds o'er the desert, leaving, as in airThe crane-flock leaves, no trace of passage there, He gives the weary eyeThe palm-leaf shadow for the hot noon hours, And on its branches dryCalls out the acacia's flowers;And where the dark shaft pierces downBeneath the mountain roots, Seen by the miner's lamp alone, The star-like crystal shoots;So, where, the winds and waves below, The coral-branched gardens grow, His climbing weeds and mosses show, Like foliage, on each stony bough, Of varied hues more strangely gayThan forest leaves in autumn's day;--Thus evermore, On sky, and wave, and shore, An all-pervading beauty seems to sayGod's love and power are one; and they, Who, like the thunder of a sultry day, Smite to restore, And they, who, like the gentle wind, upliftThe petals of the dew-wet flowers, and driftTheir perfume on the air, Alike may serve Him, each, with their own gift, Making their lives a prayer!1850

THE HILL-TOP

The burly driver at my side, We slowly climbed the hill, Whose summit, in the hot noontide, Seemed rising, rising still. At last, our short noon-shadows bidThe top-stone, bare and brown, From whence, like Gizeh's pyramid, The rough mass slanted down. 

I felt the cool breath of the North;Between me and the sun, O'er deep, still lake, and ridgy earth, I saw the cloud-shades run. Before me, stretched for glistening miles, Lay mountain-girdled Squam;Like green-winged birds, the leafy islesUpon its bosom swam. 

And, glimmering through the sun-haze warm, Far as the eye could roam, Dark billows of an earthquake stormBeflecked with clouds like foam, Their vales in misty shadow deep, Their rugged peaks in shine, I saw the mountain ranges sweepThe horizon's northern line. 

There towered Chocorua's peak; and west, Moosehillock's woods were seem, With many a nameless slide-scarred crestAnd pine-dark gorge between. Beyond them, like a sun-rimmed cloud, The great Notch mountains shone, Watched over by the solemn-browedAnd awful face of stone!

"A good look-off!" the driver spake;"About this time, last year, I drove a party to the Lake, And stopped, at evening, here. 'T was duskish down below; but allThese hills stood in the sun, Till, dipped behind yon purple wall, He left them, one by one. 

"A lady, who, from Thornton hill, Had held her place outside, And, as a pleasant woman will, Had cheered the long, dull ride, Besought me, with so sweet a smile, That--though I hate delays--I could not choose but rest awhile, --(These women have such ways!)

"On yonder mossy ledge she sat, Her sketch upon her knees, A stray brown lock beneath her hatUnrolling in the breeze;Her sweet face, in the sunset lightUpraised and glorified, --I never saw a prettier sightIn all my mountain ride. 

"As good as fair; it seemed her joyTo comfort and to give;My poor, sick wife, and cripple boy, Will bless her while they live!"The tremor in the driver's toneHis manhood did not shame"I dare say, sir, you may have known"--He named a well-known name. 

Then sank the pyramidal mounds, The blue lake fled away;For mountain-scope a parlor's bounds, A lighted hearth for day!From lonely years and weary milesThe shadows fell apart;Kind voices cheered, sweet human smilesShone warm into my heart. 

We journeyed on; but earth and skyHad power to charm no more;Still dreamed my inward-turning eyeThe dream of memory o'er. Ah! human kindness, human love, --To few who seek denied;Too late we learn to prize aboveThe whole round world beside!1850

ELLIOTT. 

 Ebenezer Elliott was to the artisans of England what Burns was to the peasantry of Scotland. His Corn-law Rhymes contributed not a little to that overwhelming tide of popular opinion and feeling which resulted in the repeal of the tax on bread. Well has the eloquent author of The Reforms and Reformers of Great Britain said of him, "Not corn-law repealers alone, but all Britons who moisten their scanty bread with the sweat of the brow, are largely indebted to his inspiring lay, for the mighty bound which the laboring mind of England has taken in our day. "

Hands off! thou tithe-fat plunderer! playNo trick of priestcraft here!Back, puny lordling! darest thou layA hand on Elliott's bier?Alive, your rank and pomp, as dust, Beneath his feet he trod. 

He knew the locust swarm that cursedThe harvest-fields of God. On these pale lips, the smothered thoughtWhich England's millions feel, A fierce and fearful splendor caught, As from his forge the steel. Strong-armed as Thor, a shower of fireHis smitten anvil flung;God's curse, Earth's wrong, dumb Hunger's ire, He gave them all a tongue!

Then let the poor man's horny handsBear up the mighty dead, And labor's swart and stalwart bandsBehind as mourners tread. Leave cant and craft their baptized bounds, Leave rank its minster floor;Give England's green and daisied groundsThe poet of the poor!

Lay down upon his Sheaf's green vergeThat brave old heart of oak, With fitting dirge from sounding forge, And pall of furnace smoke!Where whirls the stone its dizzy rounds, And axe and sledge are swung, And, timing to their stormy sounds, His stormy lays are sung. 

There let the peasant's step be heard, The grinder chant his rhyme, Nor patron's praise nor dainty wordBefits the man or time. No soft lament nor dreamer's sighFor him whose words were bread;The Runic rhyme and spell wherebyThe foodless poor were fed!

Pile up the tombs of rank and pride, O England, as thou wilt!With pomp to nameless worth denied, Emblazon titled guilt!No part or lot in these we claim;But, o'er the sounding wave, A common right to Elliott's name, A freehold in his grave!1850

ICHABOD

 This poem was the outcome of the surprise and grief and forecast of evil consequences which I felt on reading the seventh of March speech of Daniel Webster in support of the "compromise, " and the Fugitive Slave Law. No partisan or personal enmity dictated it. On the contrary my admiration of the splendid personality and intellectual power of the great Senator was never stronger than when I laid down his speech, and, in one of the saddest moments of my life, penned my protest. I saw, as I wrote, with painful clearness its sure results, --the Slave Power arrogant and defiant, strengthened and encouraged to carry out its scheme for the extension of its baleful system, or the dissolution of the Union, the guaranties of personal liberty in the free States broken down, and the whole country made the hunting-ground of slave-catchers. In the horror of such a vision, so soon fearfully fulfilled, if one spoke at all, he could only speak in tones of stern and sorrowful rebuke. But death softens all resentments, and the consciousness of a common inheritance of frailty and weakness modifies the severity of judgment. Years after, in _The Lost Occasion_ I gave utterance to an almost universal regret that the great statesman did not live to see the flag which he loved trampled under the feet of Slavery, and, in view of this desecration, make his last days glorious in defence of "Liberty and Union, one and inseparable. "

So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawnWhich once he wore!The glory from his gray hairs goneForevermore!

Revile him not, the Tempter hathA snare for all;And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, Befit his fall!

Oh, dumb be passion's stormy rage, When he who mightHave lighted up and led his age, Falls back in night. 

Scorn! would the angels laugh, to markA bright soul driven, Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark, From hope and heaven!

Let not the land once proud of himInsult him now, Nor brand with deeper shame his dim, Dishonored brow. 

But let its humbled sons, instead, From sea to lake, A long lament, as for the dead, In sadness make. 

Of all we loved and honored, naughtSave power remains;A fallen angel's pride of thought, Still strong in chains. 

All else is gone; from those great eyesThe soul has fledWhen faith is lost, when honor dies, The man is dead!

Then, pay the reverence of old daysTo his dead fame;Walk backward, with averted gaze, And hide the shame!1850

THE LOST OCCASION. 

Some die too late and some too soon, At early morning, heat of noon, Or the chill evening twilight. Thou, Whom the rich heavens did so endowWith eyes of power and Jove's own brow, With all the massive strength that fillsThy home-horizon's granite hills, With rarest gifts of heart and headFrom manliest stock inherited, New England's stateliest type of man, In port and speech Olympian;

Whom no one met, at first, but tookA second awed and wondering look(As turned, perchance, the eyes of GreeceOn Phidias' unveiled masterpiece);Whose words in simplest homespun clad, The Saxon strength of Caedmon's had, With power reserved at need to reachThe Roman forum's loftiest speech, Sweet with persuasion, eloquentIn passion, cool in argument, Or, ponderous, falling on thy foesAs fell the Norse god's hammer blows, Crushing as if with Talus' flailThrough Error's logic-woven mail, And failing only when they triedThe adamant of the righteous side, --Thou, foiled in aim and hope, bereavedOf old friends, by the new deceived, Too soon for us, too soon for thee, Beside thy lonely Northern sea, Where long and low the marsh-lands spread, Laid wearily down thy August head. 

Thou shouldst have lived to feel belowThy feet Disunion's fierce upthrow;The late-sprung mine that underlaidThy sad concessions vainly made. Thou shouldst have seen from Sumter's wallThe star-flag of the Union fall, And armed rebellion pressing onThe broken lines of Washington!No stronger voice than thine had thenCalled out the utmost might of men, To make the Union's charter freeAnd strengthen law by liberty. How had that stern arbitramentTo thy gray age youth's vigor lent, Shaming ambition's paltry prizeBefore thy disillusioned eyes;Breaking the spell about thee woundLike the green withes that Samson bound;Redeeming in one effort grand, Thyself and thy imperilled land!Ah, cruel fate, that closed to thee, O sleeper by the Northern sea, The gates of opportunity!God fills the gaps of human need, Each crisis brings its word and deed. Wise men and strong we did not lack;But still, with memory turning back, In the dark hours we thought of thee, And thy lone grave beside the sea. 

Above that grave the east winds blow, And from the marsh-lands drifting slowThe sea-fog comes, with evermoreThe wave-wash of a lonely shore, And sea-bird's melancholy cry, As Nature fain would typifyThe sadness of a closing scene, The loss of that which should have been. But, where thy native mountains bareTheir foreheads to diviner air, Fit emblem of enduring fame, One lofty summit keeps thy name. For thee the cosmic forces didThe rearing of that pyramid, The prescient ages shaping withFire, flood, and frost thy monolith. Sunrise and sunset lay thereonWith hands of light their benison, The stars of midnight pause to setTheir jewels in its coronet. And evermore that mountain massSeems climbing from the shadowy passTo light, as if to manifestThy nobler self, thy life at best!1880

WORDSWORTH

WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF HIS MEMOIRS. 

Dear friends, who read the world aright, And in its common forms discernA beauty and a harmonyThe many never learn!

Kindred in soul of him who foundIn simple flower and leaf and stoneThe impulse of the sweetest laysOur Saxon tongue has known, --

Accept this record of a lifeAs sweet and pure, as calm and good, As a long day of blandest JuneIn green field and in wood. 

How welcome to our ears, long painedBy strife of sect and party noise, The brook-like murmur of his songOf nature's simple joys!

The violet' by its mossy stone, The primrose by the river's brim, And chance-sown daffodil, have foundImmortal life through him. 

The sunrise on his breezy lake, The rosy tints his sunset brought, World-seen, are gladdening all the valesAnd mountain-peaks of thought. 

Art builds on sand; the works of prideAnd human passion change and fall;But that which shares the life of GodWith Him surviveth all. 1851. 

TO ------

LINES WRITTEN AFTER A SUMMER DAY'S EXCURSION. 

Fair Nature's priestesses! to whom, In hieroglyph of bud and bloom, Her mysteries are told;Who, wise in lore of wood and mead, The seasons' pictured scrolls can read, In lessons manifold!

Thanks for the courtesy, and gayGood-humor, which on Washing DayOur ill-timed visit bore;Thanks for your graceful oars, which brokeThe morning dreams of Artichoke, Along his wooded shore!

Varied as varying Nature's ways, Sprites of the river, woodland fays, Or mountain nymphs, ye seem;Free-limbed Dianas on the green, Loch Katrine's Ellen, or Undine, Upon your favorite stream. 

The forms of which the poets told, The fair benignities of old, Were doubtless such as you;What more than Artichoke the rillOf Helicon? Than Pipe-stave hillArcadia's mountain-view?

No sweeter bowers the bee delayed, In wild Hymettus' scented shade, Than those you dwell among;Snow-flowered azaleas, intertwinedWith roses, over banks inclinedWith trembling harebells hung!

A charmed life unknown to death, Immortal freshness Nature hath;Her fabled fount and glenAre now and here: Dodona's shrineStill murmurs in the wind-swept pine, --All is that e'er hath been. 

The Beauty which old Greece or RomeSung, painted, wrought, lies close at home;We need but eye and earIn all our daily walks to traceThe outlines of incarnate grace, The hymns of gods to hear!1851

IN PEACE. 

A track of moonlight on a quiet lake, Whose small waves on a silver-sanded shoreWhisper of peace, and with the low winds makeSuch harmonies as keep the woods awake, And listening all night long for their sweet sakeA green-waved slope of meadow, hovered o'erBy angel-troops of lilies, swaying lightOn viewless stems, with folded wings of white;A slumberous stretch of mountain-land, far seenWhere the low westering day, with gold and green, Purple and amber, softly blended, fillsThe wooded vales, and melts among the hills;A vine-fringed river, winding to its restOn the calm bosom of a stormless sea, Bearing alike upon its placid breast, With earthly flowers and heavenly' stars impressed, The hues of time and of eternitySuch are the pictures which the thought of thee, O friend, awakeneth, --charming the keen painOf thy departure, and our sense of lossRequiting with the fullness of thy gain. Lo! on the quiet grave thy life-borne cross, Dropped only at its side, methinks doth shine, Of thy beatitude the radiant sign!No sob of grief, no wild lament be there, To break the Sabbath of the holy air;But, in their stead, the silent-breathing prayerOf hearts still waiting for a rest like thine. O spirit redeemed! Forgive us, if henceforth, With sweet and pure similitudes of earth, We keep thy pleasant memory freshly green, Of love's inheritance a priceless part, Which Fancy's self, in reverent awe, is seenTo paint, forgetful of the tricks of art, With pencil dipped alone in colors of the heart. 1851. 

BENEDICITE. 

God's love and peace be with thee, whereSoe'er this soft autumnal airLifts the dark tresses of thy hair. 

Whether through city casements comesIts kiss to thee, in crowded rooms, Or, out among the woodland blooms, It freshens o'er thy thoughtful face, Imparting, in its glad embrace, Beauty to beauty, grace to grace!

Fair Nature's book together read, The old wood-paths that knew our tread, The maple shadows overhead, --

The hills we climbed, the river seenBy gleams along its deep ravine, --All keep thy memory fresh and green. 

Where'er I look, where'er I stray, Thy thought goes with me on my way, And hence the prayer I breathe to-day;

O'er lapse of time and change of scene, The weary waste which lies betweenThyself and me, my heart I lean. 

Thou lack'st not Friendship's spell-word, norThe half-unconscious power to drawAll hearts to thine by Love's sweet law. 

With these good gifts of God is castThy lot, and many a charm thou hastTo hold the blessed angels fast. 

If, then, a fervent wish for theeThe gracious heavens will heed from me, What should, dear heart, its burden be?

The sighing of a shaken reed, --What can I more than meekly pleadThe greatness of our common need?

God's love, --unchanging, pure, and true, --The Paraclete white-shining throughHis peace, --the fall of Hermon's dew!

With such a prayer, on this sweet day, As thou mayst hear and I may say, I greet thee, dearest, far away!1851. 

KOSSUTH

 It can scarcely be necessary to say that there are elements in the character and passages in the history of the great Hungarian statesman and orator, which necessarily command the admiration of those, even, who believe that no political revolution was ever worth the price of human blood. 

Type of two mighty continents!--combiningThe strength of Europe with the warmth and glowOf Asian song and prophecy, --the shiningOf Orient splendors over Northern snow!Who shall receive him? Who, unblushing, speakWelcome to him, who, while he strove to breakThe Austrian yoke from Magyar necks, smote offAt the same blow the fetters of the serf, Rearing the altar of his FatherlandOn the firm base of freedom, and therebyLifting to Heaven a patriot's stainless hand, Mocked not the God of Justice with a lie!Who shall be Freedom's mouthpiece? Who shall giveHer welcoming cheer to the great fugitive?Not he who, all her sacred trusts betraying, Is scourging back to slavery's hell of painThe swarthy Kossuths of our land again!Not he whose utterance now from lips designedThe bugle-march of Liberty to wind, And call her hosts beneath the breaking light, The keen reveille of her morn of fight, Is but the hoarse note of the blood-hound's baying, The wolf's long howl behind the bondman's flight!Oh for the tongue of him who lies at restIn Quincy's shade of patrimonial trees, Last of the Puritan tribunes and the best, To lend a voice to Freedom's sympathies, And hail the coming of the noblest guestThe Old World's wrong has given the New World of the West!1851. 

TO MY OLD SCHOOLMASTER. 

AN EPISTLE NOT AFTER THE MANNER OF HORACE

 These lines were addressed to my worthy friend Joshua Coffin, teacher, historian, and antiquarian. He was one of the twelve persons who with William Lloyd Garrison formed the first anti-slavery society in New England. 

Old friend, kind friend! lightly downDrop time's snow-flakes on thy crown!Never be thy shadow less, Never fail thy cheerfulness;Care, that kills the cat, may, ploughWrinkles in the miser's brow, Deepen envy's spiteful frown, Draw the mouths of bigots down, Plague ambition's dream, and sitHeavy on the hypocrite, Haunt the rich man's door, and rideIn the gilded coach of pride;--Let the fiend pass!--what can heFind to do with such as thee?Seldom comes that evil guestWhere the conscience lies at rest, And brown health and quiet witSmiling on the threshold sit. 

I, the urchin unto whom, In that smoked and dingy room, Where the district gave thee ruleO'er its ragged winter school, Thou didst teach the mysteriesOf those weary A B C's, --Where, to fill the every pauseOf thy wise and learned saws, Through the cracked and crazy wallCame the cradle-rock and squall, And the goodman's voice, at strifeWith his shrill and tipsy wife, Luring us by stories old, With a comic unction told, More than by the eloquenceOf terse birchen arguments(Doubtful gain, I fear), to lookWith complacence on a book!--Where the genial pedagogueHalf forgot his rogues to flog, Citing tale or apologue, Wise and merry in its driftAs was Phaedrus' twofold gift, Had the little rebels known it, Risum et prudentiam monet!I, --the man of middle years, In whose sable locks appearsMany a warning fleck of gray, --Looking back to that far day, And thy primal lessons, feelGrateful smiles my lips unseal, As, remembering thee, I blendOlden teacher, present friend, Wise with antiquarian search, In the scrolls of State and ChurchNamed on history's title-page, Parish-clerk and justice sage;For the ferule's wholesome aweWielding now the sword of law. 

Threshing Time's neglected sheaves, Gathering up the scattered leavesWhich the wrinkled sibyl castCareless from her as she passed, --Twofold citizen art thou, Freeman of the past and now. He who bore thy name of oldMidway in the heavens did holdOver Gibeon moon and sun;Thou hast bidden them backward run;Of to-day the present rayFlinging over yesterday!

Let the busy ones derideWhat I deem of right thy prideLet the fools their treadmills grind, Look not forward nor behind, Shuffle in and wriggle out, Veer with every breeze about, Turning like a windmill sail, Or a dog that seeks his tail;Let them laugh to see thee fastTabernacled in the Past, Working out with eye and lip, Riddles of old penmanship, Patient as Belzoni thereSorting out, with loving care, Mummies of dead questions strippedFrom their sevenfold manuscript. 

Dabbling, in their noisy way, In the puddles of to-day, Little know they of that vastSolemn ocean of the past, On whose margin, wreck-bespread, Thou art walking with the dead, Questioning the stranded years, Waking smiles, by turns, and tears, As thou callest up againShapes the dust has long o'erlain, --Fair-haired woman, bearded man, Cavalier and Puritan;In an age whose eager viewSeeks but present things, and new, Mad for party, sect and gold, Teaching reverence for the old. 

On that shore, with fowler's tact, Coolly bagging fact on fact, Naught amiss to thee can float, Tale, or song, or anecdote;Village gossip, centuries old, Scandals by our grandams told, What the pilgrim's table spread, Where he lived, and whom he wed, Long-drawn bill of wine and beerFor his ordination cheer, Or the flip that wellnigh madeGlad his funeral cavalcade;Weary prose, and poet's lines, Flavored by their age, like wines, Eulogistic of some quaint, Doubtful, puritanic saint;Lays that quickened husking jigs, Jests that shook grave periwigs, When the parson had his jokesAnd his glass, like other folks;Sermons that, for mortal hours, Taxed our fathers' vital powers, As the long nineteenthlies pouredDownward from the sounding-board, And, for fire of Pentecost, Touched their beards December's frost. 

Time is hastening on, and weWhat our fathers are shall be, --Shadow-shapes of memory!Joined to that vast multitudeWhere the great are but the good, And the mind of strength shall proveWeaker than the heart of love;Pride of graybeard wisdom lessThan the infant's guilelessness, And his song of sorrow moreThan the crown the Psalmist woreWho shall then, with pious zeal, At our moss-grown thresholds kneel, From a stained and stony pageReading to a careless age, With a patient eye like thine, Prosing tale and limping line, Names and words the hoary rimeOf the Past has made sublime?Who shall work for us as wellThe antiquarian's miracle?Who to seeming life recallTeacher grave and pupil small?Who shall give to thee and meFreeholds in futurity?

Well, whatever lot be mine, Long and happy days be thine, Ere thy full and honored ageDates of time its latest page!Squire for master, State for school, Wisely lenient, live and rule;Over grown-up knave and roguePlay the watchful pedagogue;Or, while pleasure smiles on duty, At the call of youth and beauty, Speak for them the spell of lawWhich shall bar and bolt withdraw, And the flaming sword removeFrom the Paradise of Love. Still, with undimmed eyesight, poreAncient tome and record o'er;Still thy week-day lyrics croon, Pitch in church the Sunday tune, Showing something, in thy part, Of the old Puritanic art, Singer after Sternhold's heartIn thy pew, for many a year, Homilies from Oldbug hear, Who to wit like that of South, And the Syrian's golden mouth, Doth the homely pathos addWhich the pilgrim preachers had;Breaking, like a child at play, Gilded idols of the day, Cant of knave and pomp of foolTossing with his ridicule, Yet, in earnest or in jest, Ever keeping truth abreast. And, when thou art called, at last, To thy townsmen of the past, Not as stranger shalt thou come;Thou shalt find thyself at homeWith the little and the big, Woollen cap and periwig, Madam in her high-laced ruff, Goody in her home-made stuff, --Wise and simple, rich and poor, Thou hast known them all before!

1851