Chapter I: Part 1

This eBook was produced by David Widger

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 steel by J. A. J. WILCOX in 1888, after a photograph taken by Miss ISA E. GRAY in 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 thrill With joy in our gladness, or grief in our ill.

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

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

For, oh! if one glance the freed spirit can throw On 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 whole Played the hues of the heart and the sunshine of soul; And the tones of her voice, like the music which seems Murmured low in our ears by the Angel of dreams!

But holier and dearer our memories hold Those treasures of feeling, more precious than gold, The love and the kindness and pity which gave Fresh 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 ear Fell the scorn of the heartless, the jesting and jeer.

How true to our hearts was that beautiful sleeper With 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 them Who 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 Lord With 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 perishing Around thy pillow smiles!

When to our cup of trembling The added drop is given, And the long-suspended thunder Falls terribly from Heaven,-- When a new and fearful freedom Is proffered of the Lord To the slow-consuming Famine, The Pestilence and Sword!

When the refuges of Falsehood Shall be swept away in wrath, And the temple shall be shaken, With its idol, to the earth, Shall not thy words of warning Be all remembered then? And thy now unheeded message Burn in the hearts of men?

Oppression's hand may scatter Its nettles on thy tomb, And even Christian bosoms Deny thy memory room; For lying lips shall torture Thy mercy into crime, And the slanderer shall flourish As the bay-tree for a time.

But where the south-wind lingers On Carolina's pines, Or falls the careless sunbeam Down Georgia's golden mines; Where now beneath his burthen The toiling slave is driven; Where now a tyrant's mockery Is offered unto Heaven;

Where Mammon hath its altars Wet o'er with human blood, And pride and lust debases The 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 bosoms Are baring to the storm. What though red-handed Violence With 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 heaven The onward cheer and summons Of Freedom's voice is given!

Glory to God forever! Beyond the despot's will The soul of Freedom liveth Imperishable still. The words which thou hast uttered Are of that soul a part, And the good seed thou hast scattered Is 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 be In 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 another In thy place to stand. Who shall offer youth and beauty On the wasting shrine Of a stern and lofty duty, With a faith like thine?

Oh, thy gentle smile of greeting Who again shall see? Who amidst the solemn meeting Gaze 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 brightly Blow the summer flowers

In the locks thy forehead gracing, Not a silvery streak; Nor a line of sorrow's tracing On 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 keeping Round that grave of thine, Mournfully, like Jazer weeping Over Sibmah's vine; Will the pleasant memories, swelling Gentle hearts, of thee, In the spirit's distant dwelling All unheeded be?

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

Peace be with thee, O our brother, In the spirit-land Vainly look we for another In thy place to stand. Unto Truth and Freedom giving All 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 tresses Shading o'er thy dreamy eye, Floating on thy thoughtful forehead Cloud 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 sadness Wearing even a welcome guise, As, when some bright lake lies open To the sunny skies,

Every wing of bird above it, Every light cloud floating on, Glitters like that flashing mirror In the self-same sun.

But upon thy youthful forehead Something like a shadow lies; And a serious soul is looking From 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 surface Hath thy wakeful vision seen, Farther than the narrow present Have thy journeyings been.

Thou hast midst Life's empty noises Heard the solemn steps of Time, And the low mysterious voices Of another clime.

All the mystery of Being Hath 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 Zoroaster In his night-watch saw.

From the doubt and darkness springing Of the dim, uncertain Past, Moving to the dark still shadows O'er the Future cast,

Early hath Life's mighty question Thrilled within thy heart of youth, With a deep and strong beseeching What 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 meanings Only wake a quiet scorn,-- Not from these thy seeking spirit Hath its answer drawn.

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

O'er that mother's rugged features Thou 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 cometh From the earth and from the sky, And to thee the hills and waters And the stars reply.

But a soul-sufficing answer Hath no outward origin; More than Nature's many voices May be heard within.

Even as the great Augustine Questioned earth and sea and sky, And the dusty tomes of learning And old poesy.

But his earnest spirit needed More than outward Nature taught; More than blest the poet's vision Or the sage's thought.

Only in the gathered silence Of a calm and waiting frame, Light and wisdom as from Heaven To the seeker came.

Not to ease and aimless quiet Doth that inward answer tend, But to works of love and duty As our being's end;

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

Earnest toil and strong endeavor Of a spirit which within Wrestles with familiar evil And besetting sin;

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

Guided thus, how passing lovely Is the track of Woolman's feet! And his brief and simple record How serenely sweet!

O'er life's humblest duties throwing Light the earthling never knew, Freshening all its dark waste places As with Hermon's dew.

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

Beauty, such as Goethe pictured, Such as Shelley dreamed of, shed Living warmth and starry brightness Round 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 slaughter Moulders with the steel it swung, When the name of seer and poet Dies on Memory's tongue,

All bright thoughts and pure shall gather Round that meek and suffering one,-- Glorious, like the seer-seen angel Standing in the sun!

Take the good man's book and ponder What its pages say to thee; Blessed as the hand of healing May its lesson be.

If it only serves to strengthen Yearnings for a higher good, For the fount of living waters And diviner food;

If the pride of human reason Feels its meek and still rebuke, Quailing like the eye of Peter From the Just One's look!

If with readier ear thou heedest What the Inward Teacher saith, Listening with a willing spirit And a childlike faith,--

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

And his gift, though poor and lowly It may seem to other eyes, Yet may prove an angel holy In 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 well That ye who mocked him in his long stern strife, And planted in the pathway of his life The ploughshares of your hatred hot from hell, Who clamored down the bold reformer when He pleaded for his captive fellow-men, Who spurned him in the market-place, and sought Within thy walls, St. Tammany, to bind In party chains the free and honest thought, The angel utterance of an upright mind, Well is it now that o'er his grave ye raise The stony tribute of your tardy praise, For not alone that pile shall tell to Fame Of the brave heart beneath, but of the builders' shame! 1841.

TO A FRIEND,

ON HER RETURN FROM EUROPE.

How smiled the land of France Under thy blue eye's glance, Light-hearted rover Old walls of chateaux gray, Towers of an early day, Which the Three Colors play Flauntingly over.

Now midst the brilliant train Thronging the banks of Seine Now midst the splendor Of the wild Alpine range, Waking with change on change Thoughts in thy young heart strange, Lovely, and tender.

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

Cliffs wrapped in snows of years, Splintering with icy spears Autumn's blue heaven Loose rock and frozen slide, Hung on the mountain-side, Waiting their hour to glide Downward, storm-driven!

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

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

Oh, as from each and all Will there not voices call Evermore back again? In the mind's gallery Wilt thou not always see Dim phantoms beckon thee O'er that old track again?

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

And when such visions come Unto thy olden home, Will they not waken Deep thoughts of Him whose hand Led thee o'er sea and land Back to the household band Whence thou wast taken?

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

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

So, when the call shall be Soon or late unto thee, As to all given, Still may that picture live, All its fair forms survive, And to thy spirit give Gladness 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 cherished Has with thy summer roses perished; And left, as its young beauty fled, An ashen memory in its stead, The twilight of a parted day Whose fading light is cold and vain, The heart's faint echo of a strain Of low, sweet music passed away. That true and loving heart, that gift Of a mind, earnest, clear, profound, Bestowing, with a glad unthrift, Its sunny light on all around, Affinities which only could Cleave 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 naught But sorrow in the mourner's breast? A shadow in the land of thought? No! Even my weak and trembling faith Can lift for thee the veil which doubt And human fear have drawn about The all-awaiting scene of death.

Even as thou wast I see thee still; And, save the absence of all ill And pain and weariness, which here Summoned 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'er Stream, sunny upland, rocky shore, And heard thy low, soft voice alone Midst lapse of waters, and the tone Of 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 dream Of 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 pain Their 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 same As when the Master's summons came; Their change,--the holy morn-light breaking Upon 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 read Her solemn ritual o'er thy head, And blessed and hallowed with her prayer The 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 feel The beauty of thy trust and zeal; And, owning not thy creed, could see How deep a truth it seemed to thee, And how thy fervent heart had thrown O'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 we Who knew thee well, and loved thee here, One after one shall follow thee As pilgrims through the gate of fear, Which opens on eternity. Yet shall we cherish not the less All that is left our hearts meanwhile; The memory of thy loveliness Shall 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 beauty Which 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 eves Reflecting on the deep, still floods, Cloud, crimson sky, and trembling leaves Of rainbow-tinted woods, These, in our view, shall henceforth take A 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 eye I 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 below Descends 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 care With the bland beauty of their smile.

Ah me! at times that last dread scene Of Frost and Fire and moaning Sea Will cast its shade of doubt between The 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 hand To put aside the cold and pale Cloud-curtains of the Unseen Land;

Shall these poor elements outlive The mind whose kingly will, they wrought? Their gross unconsciousness survive Thy 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, attest The fixed economy of God.

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

Oh, while Life's solemn mystery glooms Around 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 glide In spectral silence, hushed and lone, To the cold shadows which divide The living from the dread Unknown;

While even on the closing eye, And on the lip which moves in vain, The seals of that stern mystery Their 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 mine To think of thee as living yet; To feel that such a light as thine Could not in utter darkness set.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We only know that thou hast gone, And that the same returnless tide Which 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 turn That page of God's mysterious book We so much wish yet dread to learn.

With Him, before whose awful power Thy 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 lean On 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 joy With which my childhood heard that lay of thine, Which, like an echo of the song divine At Bethlehem breathed above the Holy Boy, Bore to my ear the Airs of Palestine,-- Not to the poet, but the man I bring In friendship's fearless trust my offering How much it lacks I feel, and thou wilt see, Yet well I know that thou Last deemed with me Life all too earnest, and its time too short For dreamy ease and Fancy's graceful sport; And girded for thy constant strife with wrong, Like Nehemiah fighting while he wrought The broken walls of Zion, even thy song Hath 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 breeze To him who flies From crowded street and red wall's weary gleam, Till far behind him like a hideous dream The close dark city lies Here, while the market murmurs, while men throng The marble floor Of Mammon's altar, from the crush and din Of the world's madness let me gather in My better thoughts once more.

Oh, once again revive, while on my ear The cry of Gain And low hoarse hum of Traffic die away, Ye blessed memories of my early day Like sere grass wet with rain!

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

And well do time and place befit my mood Beneath the arms Of this embracing wood, a good man made His home, like Abraham resting in the shade Of Mamre's lonely palms.

Here, rich with autumn gifts of countless years, The virgin soil Turned from the share he guided, and in rain And summer sunshine throve the fruits and grain Which blessed his honest toil.

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

And here his neighbors gathered in to greet Their 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 hour Of 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 love Came 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 chain Grew lighter, and his wounded spirit felt The healing balm of consolation melt Upon its life-long pain

How the armed warrior sat him down to hear Of 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'er With 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 keeps His 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 Love Like brother pilgrims turn.

But here a deeper and serener charm To all is given; And blessed memories of the faithful dead O'er wood and vale and meadow-stream have shed The holy hues of Heaven! 1843.

GONE

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

Our young and gentle friend, whose smile Made brighter summer hours, Amid the frosts of autumn time Has left us with the flowers.

No paling of the cheek of bloom Forewarned us of decay; No shadow from the Silent Land Fell round our sister's way.

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

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

And half we deemed she needed not The changing of her sphere, To give to Heaven a Shining One, Who walked an Angel here.

The blessing of her quiet life Fell on us like the dew; And good thoughts where her footsteps pressed Like fairy blossoms grew.

Sweet promptings unto kindest deeds Were in her very look; We read her face, as one who reads A 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 hear Once 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 will One thought hath reconciled; That He whose love exceedeth ours Hath taken home His child.

Fold her, O Father! in Thine arms, And let her henceforth be A messenger of love between Our human hearts and Thee.

Still let her mild rebuking stand Between us and the wrong, And her dear memory serve to make Our faith in Goodness strong.

And grant that she who, trembling, here Distrusted all her powers, May welcome to her holier home The 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 root Of old oppression sink the Saxon steel. Thy work is to hew down. In God's name then Put nerve into thy task. Let other men Plant, as they may, that better tree whose fruit The wounded bosom of the Church shall heal. Be thou the image-breaker. Let thy blows Fall heavy as the Suabian's iron hand, On crown or crosier, which shall interpose Between thee and the weal of Fatherland. Leave creeds to closet idlers. First of all, Shake thou all German dream-land with the fall Of that accursed tree, whose evil trunk Was spared of old by Erfurt's stalwart monk. Fight not with ghosts and shadows. Let us hear The snap of chain-links. Let our gladdened ear Catch the pale prisoner's welcome, as the light Follows thy axe-stroke, through his cell of night. Be faithful to both worlds; nor think to feed Earth's starving millions with the husks of creed. Servant of Him whose mission high and holy Was 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 man Be warned by Luther's error. Nor like him, When the roused Teuton dashes from his limb The rusted chain of ages, help to bind His hands for whom thou claim'st the freedom of the mind 1846.

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 paint God's great and crowning miracle, The hero and the saint!

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

And thus the common tongue and pen Which, 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 yesterday Since at his side I stood.

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

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

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

Unknown to power or place, yet where The sun looks o'er the Carib sea, It blended with the freeman's prayer And 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 tenderness Of sympathetic sorrow stole, Like a still shadow, passionless, The sorrow of the soul.

But when the generous Briton told How hearts were answering to his own, And Freedom's rising murmur rolled Up to the dull-eared throne,

I saw, methought, a glad surprise Thrill 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 move The human heart,--the Faith-sown seeds Which ripen in the soil of love To high heroic deeds.

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

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

How echoes yet each Western hill And vale with Channing's dying word! How are the hearts of freemen still By 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 hour Of converse on Rhode Island's strand Lives in the calm, resistless power Which moves our fatherland.

God blesses still the generous thought, And still the fitting word He speeds And 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 another May never know; Yet, o'er the waters, O my stricken brother! To thee I go.

I lean my heart unto thee, sadly folding Thy hand in mine; With even the weakness of my soul upholding The strength of thine.

I never knew, like thee, the dear departed; I stood not by When, in calm trust, the pure and tranquil-hearted Lay down to die.

And on thy ears my words of weak condoling Must vainly fall The funeral bell which in thy heart is tolling, Sounds over all!

I will not mock thee with the poor world's common And heartless phrase, Nor wrong the memory of a sainted woman With idle praise.

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

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

Not upon thee or thine the solemn angel Hath evil wrought Her funeral anthem is a glad evangel,-- The good die not!

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

And she is with thee; in thy path of trial She walketh yet; Still with the baptism of thy self-denial Her locks are wet.

Up, then, my brother! Lo, the fields of harvest Lie white in view She lives and loves thee, and the God thou servest To both is true.

Thrust in thy sickle! England's toilworn peasants Thy 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 more Thy aged form shall rise before The bushed and waiting worshiper, In meek obedience utterance giving To words of truth, so fresh and living, That, even to the inward sense, They bore unquestioned evidence Of an anointed Messenger! Or, bowing down thy silver hair In reverent awfulness of prayer, The world, its time and sense, shut out The brightness of Faith's holy trance Gathered upon thy countenance, As if each lingering cloud of doubt, The cold, dark shadows resting here In Time's unluminous atmosphere, Were lifted by an angel's hand, And through them on thy spiritual eye Shone down the blessedness on high, The glory of the Better Land!

The oak has fallen! While, meet for no good work, the vine May yet its worthless branches twine, Who knoweth not that with thee fell A 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 yet The pilgrim's staff and scallop-shell Unharmed and safe, where, wild and free, Across the Neva's cold morass The breezes from the Frozen Sea With winter's arrowy keenness pass; Or where the unwarning tropic gale Smote to the waves thy tattered sail, Or where the noon-hour's fervid heat Against Tahiti's mountains beat; The same mysterious Hand which gave Deliverance upon land and wave, Tempered for thee the blasts which blew Ladaga's frozen surface o'er, And blessed for thee the baleful dew Of evening upon Eimeo's shore, Beneath this sunny heaven of ours, Midst our soft airs and opening flowers Hath given thee a grave!

His will be done, Who seeth not as man, whose way Is not as ours! 'T is well with thee! Nor anxious doubt nor dark dismay Disquieted 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 minister In 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 unknowing The things which should befall thee here, Whether for labor or for death, In childlike trust serenely going To that last trial of thy faith! Oh, far away, Where never shines our Northern star On that dark waste which Balboa saw From 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 feet The 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 be Sad as our own at thought of thee, Worn sowers of Truth's holy seed, Whose souls in weariness and need Were strengthened and refreshed by thine. For blessed by our Father's hand Was thy deep love and tender care, Thy ministry and fervent prayer,-- Grateful as Eshcol's clustered vine To Israel in a weary land.

And they who drew By thousands round thee, in the hour Of prayerful waiting, hushed and deep, That He who bade the islands keep Silence before Him, might renew Their strength with His unslumbering power, They too shall mourn that thou art gone, That nevermore thy aged lip Shall soothe the weak, the erring warn, Of those who first, rejoicing, heard Through thee the Gospel's glorious word,-- Seals of thy true apostleship. And, if the brightest diadem, Whose gems of glory purely burn Around the ransomed ones in bliss, Be evermore reserved for them Who here, through toil and sorrow, turn Many to righteousness, May we not think of thee as wearing That 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 tongue In that new song the elders sung, Ascribing to its blessed Giver Thanksgiving, love, and praise forever!

Farewell! And though the ways of Zion mourn When her strong ones are called away, Who like thyself have calmly borne The heat and burden of the day, Yet He who slumbereth not nor sleepeth His ancient watch around us keepeth; Still, sent from His creating hand, New witnesses for Truth shall stand, New instruments to sound abroad The Gospel of a risen Lord; To gather to the fold once more The desolate and gone astray, The scattered of a cloudy day, And Zion's broken walls restore; And, through the travail and the toil Of true obedience, minister Beauty for ashes, and the oil Of joy for mourning, unto her! So shall her holy bounds increase With walls of praise and gates of peace So shall the Vine, which martyr tears And blood sustained in other years, With fresher life be clothed upon; And to the world in beauty show Like 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 mountains Roaring through the sleeted pines.

Heart and ear, we long have listened To thy saga, rune, and song; As a household joy and presence We have known and loved thee long.

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

And o'er weary spirits keeping Sorrow's night-watch, long and chill, Shine they like thy sun of summer Over 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 altars We, in turn, thy steps would lead, As thy loving hand has led us O'er the threshold of the Swede. 1849.

TO AVIS KEENE

ON RECEIVING A BASKET OF SEA-MOSSES.

Thanks for thy gift Of ocean flowers, Born where the golden drift Of the slant sunshine falls Down the green, tremulous walls Of water, to the cool, still coral bowers, Where, under rainbows of perpetual showers, God's gardens of the deep His patient angels keep; Gladdening the dim, strange solitude With fairest forms and hues, and thus Forever teaching us The lesson which the many-colored skies, The flowers, and leaves, and painted butterflies, The deer's branched antlers, the gay bird that flings The 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 whom The sunset hues of Time are cast, Painting, upon the overpast And scattered clouds of noonday sorrow The 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 cull Of common things the beautiful, The absent heart made glad By simple gift or graceful token Of love it needs as daily food, All own one Source, and all are good Hence, tracking sunny cove and reach, Where spent waves glimmer up the beach, And toss their gifts of weed and shell From foamy curve and combing swell, No unbefitting task was thine To weave these flowers so soft and fair In unison with His design Who 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 power He speaks to Inan; The cloudy horror of the thunder-shower His rainbows span; And where the caravan Winds o'er the desert, leaving, as in air The crane-flock leaves, no trace of passage there, He gives the weary eye The palm-leaf shadow for the hot noon hours, And on its branches dry Calls out the acacia's flowers; And where the dark shaft pierces down Beneath 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 gay Than forest leaves in autumn's day;-- Thus evermore, On sky, and wave, and shore, An all-pervading beauty seems to say God'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, uplift The petals of the dew-wet flowers, and drift Their 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 bid The 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 isles Upon its bosom swam.

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