Chapter C: B. a (2)

Hark!—’tis the south-wind moans,—
Who are the martyrs down?
Ah, the marrow was true in your children’s bones
That sprinkled with blood the cursèd stones
Of the murder-haunted town!

What if the storm-clouds blow?
What if the green leaves fall?
Better the crashing tempest’s throe
Than the army of worms that gnawed below;
Trample them one and all!

Then, when the battle is won,
And the land from traitors free,
Our children shall tell of the strife begun
When Liberty’s second April sun
Was bright on our brave old tree!

THE TWO STREAMS.

Behold the rocky wall
That down its sloping sides
Pours the swift rain-drops, blending, as they fall
In rushing river-tides!

Yon stream, whose sources run
Turned by a pebbled edge,
Is Athabasca, rolling toward the sun
Through the cleft mountain-ledge.

The slender rill had strayed,
But for the slanting stone,
To evening’s ocean, with the tangled braid
Of foam-flecked Oregon.

So from the heights of Will
Life’s parting stream descends,
And, as a moment turns its slender rill,
Each widening torrent bends,—

From the same cradle’s side,
From the same mother’s knee,—
One to long darkness and the frozen tide,
One to the Peaceful Sea.

INTERNATIONAL ODE.

OUR FATHERS’ LAND.

Sung in unison by twelve hundred children of the public schools, at the visit of the Prince of Wales to Boston, October 18, 1860. Air, “God save the Queen.”

God bless our Fathers’ Land!
Keep her in heart and hand
One with our own!
From all her foes defend,
Be her brave People’s Friend,
On all her realms descend,
Protect her Throne!

Father, with loving care
Guard Thou her kingdom’s Heir,
Guide all his ways:
Thine arm his shelter be,
From him by land and sea
Bid storm and danger flee,
Prolong his days!

Lord, let War’s tempest cease,
Fold the whole Earth in peace
Under thy wings!
Make all Thy nations one,
All hearts beneath the sun,
Till thou shalt reign alone,
Great King of kings!

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL’S BIRTHDAY FESTIVAL.

We will not speak of years to-night,
For what have years to bring
But larger floods of love and light,
And sweeter songs to sing.

Enough for him the silent grasp
That knits us hand in hand,
And he the bracelet’s radiant clasp
That locks our circling band.

Strength to his hours of manly toil,
Peace to his starlit dreams!
Who loves alike the furrowed soil,
The music-haunted streams!

Sweet smiles to keep forever bright
The sunshine on his lips,
And faith that sees the ring of light
Round nature’s last eclipse.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

Born Feb. 27, 1807. Died March 24, 1882.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

WILLIAM W. STORY.

A pure sweet spirit, generous and large
Was thine, dear poet. Calm, unturbulent,
Its course along Life’s varying ways it went,
Like some broad river on whose happy marge
Are noble groves, lawns, towns—which takes the charge
Of peaceful freights from inward regions sent
For human use and help and heart’s content,
And bears Love’s sunlit sails and Beauty’s barge.
So brimming, deepening ever to the sea
Through gloom and sun, reflecting inwardly
The ever-changing heavens of day and night,
Thy life flowed on, from all low passions free,
Filled with high thoughts, charmed into Poesy
To all the world a solace and delight.

* * * * *

Yes, we were warm friends. He was a delightful man and a great poet. Hawthorne, Emerson, Longfellow, and myself were always friends. There were no jealousies between us, and each took a pride in the work and successes of the other. We would exchange notes upon our productions, and if one saw a kindly notice of the other it was always cut out and sent him.—JOHN G. WHITTIER.

* * * * *

The magnetism of Longfellow’s touch lies in the broad humanity of his sympathy which commends his poetry to the universal heart. His artistic sense is so exquisite that each of his poems is a valuable literary study. Longfellow’s mind takes a simple, childlike hold of life. His delightful familiarity with the pure literature of all languages and times must rank him among the learned poets.—GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS.

* * * * *

It is a singular fact that Longfellow is more popular in England than Tennyson, the laureate. Yet perhaps it is not so very singular. He sings like one whose heart has been warmed at the hearth-stone. There is hardly a line of his but would rhyme with the chirp of the cricket; hearts are hearts whatever blood quickens them, and he has touched the heart as no other poet of his day has. Is there any one whose life is likely to remind us more forcibly of the sublimity of patience, truth, purity, and all the virtues than that of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow?—RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.

* * * * *

A poetical atmosphere, an aroma, hung about Longfellow as about no other of our poets. He was associated with memories of the early years of the republic; with the picturesque epoch of our national existence; with the dawn of democratic institutions, with the flushing hope which reddened the sky when the young nation committed itself so cordially to faith in man. His name was seldom spoken except in connection with charity and good-will. And when he died, the sorrow of the greatest and of the least was equally sincere.—REV. OCTAVIUS B. FROTHINGHAM.

* * * * *

Can it be that a man like this is dead? I cannot believe it. Like a lark that sings and soars, and still sings fading out of sight in the blue heavens. I cannot believe that he has gone because he has disappeared from our view. A rounded life was his; his work was done. Where has he gone? We may not know as yet. So far as we are concerned, he has gone, to quote his own words, “into the silent land.” We will rejoice that he has left behind him words that will sing their song of trust and hope for many a year to come.—REV. MINOT J. SAVAGE.

A LONGFELLOW ALPHABET.

Awake! arise! the hour is late!
Angels are knocking at thy door!
They are in haste and cannot wait,
And once departed come no more.

_A Fragment._

Bear a lily in thy hand;
Gates of brass cannot withstand
One touch of that magic wand.

_Maidenhood._

Closed was the teacher’s task, and with heaven in their hearts and
their faces
Up rose the children all, and each bowed him, weeping full sorely,
Downward to kiss that reverend hand.

_Children of the Lord’s Supper._

Day after day we think what she is doing
In those bright realms of air;
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,
Behold her grown more fair.

_Resignation._

Each heart has its haunted chamber,
Where the silent moonlight falls!
On the floor are mysterious footsteps,
There are whispers along the walls!

_The Haunted Chamber._

“Farewell!” the portly landlord cried;
“Farewell!” the parting guests replied,
But little thought that never more
Their feet would pass that threshold o’er.

_Tales of a Wayside Inn._

Gone are all the barons bold,
Gone are all the knights and squires;
Gone the abbot, stern and cold,
And the brotherhood of friars.

_Oliver Basselin._

How many centuries has it been
About those deserts blown!
How many strange vicissitudes has seen,
How many histories known!

_Sand of the Desert._

It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp
The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace,
It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp,
And hold it up and shake it like a fleece.

_The Lighthouse._

Just above yon sandy bar,
As the day grows faint and dimmer,
Lonely and lovely, a single star
Lights the air with a dusky glimmer.

_Chrysaor._

Knelt the Black Robe chief with his children, a crucifix fastened
High on the trunk of the tree. This was their rural chapel.

_Evangeline._

Left to myself, I wander as I will,
And as my fancy leads me, through this house;
Nor could I ask a dwelling more complete,
Were I indeed the goddess that he deems me.

_The Masque of Pandora._

Month after month passed away, and in autumn the ships of the merchants
Came with kindred and friends, with cattle and corn for the Pilgrims.

_The Courtship of Miles Standish._

Nine sisters, beautiful in form and face,
Came from their convent on the shining heights
Of Pierus, the mountain of delights,
To dwell among the people at its base.

_The Nine Muses._

“O Cæsar, we who are about to die
Salute you!” was the gladiators’ cry
In the arena, standing face to face
With death and with the Roman populace.

_Morituri Salutamus._

Peradventure of old, some bard in Ionian Islands,
Walking alone by the sea, hearing the wash of the waves,
Learned the secret from them of the beautiful verse elegiac.

_Elegiac Verse._

Quiet, close, and warm,
Sheltered from all molestation,
And recalling by their voices
Youth and travel.

_To an Old Danish Song-book._

River! that in silence windest
Through the meadows, bright and free,
Till at length thy rest thou findest
In the bosom of the sea!

_To the River Charles._

Sudden and swift, a whistling ball
Came out of a wood, and the voice was still;
Something I heard in the darkness fall,
And for a moment my blood grew chill.

_Killed at the Ford._

Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne,
Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal hand
Outstretched with benedictions o’er the land,
Blessing the farms through all thy vast domains.

_Autumn._

Up soared the lark into the air,—
A shaft of song, a winged prayer,
As if a soul, released from pain,
Were flying back to heaven again.

_The Sermon of St. Francis._

Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms filled my brain;
They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again.

_The Belfry of Bruges._

Whereunto is money good?
Who has it not wants hardihood;
Who has it has much trouble and care;
Who once has had it has despair.

_Poetic Aphorisms._

“Excelsior!”

_Excelsior._

Youth is lovely, age is lonely,
Youth is fiery, age is frosty;
You bring back the days departed,
And the beautiful Wenonah.

_Hiawatha._

Zeal was stronger than fear or love.

_Tales of a Wayside Inn._

MUSINGS.

[An early poem, not usually published.]

I sat by my window one night,
And watched how the stars grew high,
And the earth and skies were a splendid sight
To a sober and musing eye.

From heaven the silver moon shone down,
With a gentle and mellow ray,
And beneath, the crowded roofs of the town
In broad light and shadow lay.

A glory was on the silent sea,
And mainland and island too,
Till a haze came over the lowland lea,
And shrouded the beautiful blue.

Bright in the moon the autumn wood
Its crimson scarf unrolled,
And the trees like a splendid army stood,
In a panoply of gold!

I saw them waving their banners high,
As their crests to the night wind bowed;
And a distant sound on the air went by,
Like the whispering of a crowd.

Then I watched from my windows how fast
The lights around me fled,
As the wearied man to his slumber passed,
And the sick one to his bed.

All faded save one; that burned
With a distant and steady light;
But that, too, went out, and I turned
When my own lamp within shone bright!

Thus, thought I, our joys must die;
Yes, the brightest from earth we win;
Till each turns away, with a sigh,
To the lamp that burns brightly within.

THE CITY AND THE SEA.

The panting City cried to the Sea,
“I am faint with heat,—O breathe on me!”

And the Sea said, “Lo, I breathe! but my breath
To some will be life, to others death!”

As to Prometheus, bringing ease
In pain, come the Oceanides,

So to the City, hot with flame
Of the pitiless sun, the east wind came.

It came from the heaving breast of the deep,
Silent as dreams are, and sudden as sleep.

Life-giving, death-giving, which will it be,
O breath of the merciful, merciless Sea?

LOSS AND GAIN.

When I compare
What I have lost with what I have gained,
What I have missed with what attained,
Little room do I find for pride.

I am aware
How many days have been idly spent;
How like an arrow the good intent
Has fallen short or been turned aside.

But who shall dare
To measure loss and gain in this wise?
Defeat may be victory in disguise;
The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide.

CHARLES SUMNER.

Garlands upon his grave,
And flowers upon his hearse,
And to the tender heart and brave
The tribute of this verse.

His was the troubled life,
The conflict and the pain,
The grief, the bitterness of strife,
The honor without stain.

Death takes us by surprise,
And stays our hurrying feet;
The great design unfinished lies,
Our lives are incomplete.

But in the dark unknown
Perfect their circles seem,
Even as a bridge’s arch of stone
Is rounded in the stream.

Were a star quenched on high,
For ages would its light,
Still traveling downward from the sky,
Shine on our mortal sight.

So when a great man dies,
For years beyond our ken
The light he leaves behind him lies
Upon the paths of men.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Born Feb. 22, 1819.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

[HARVARD COMMENCEMENT POEM.]

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

This is your month, the month of perfect days,
Birds in full song and blossoms all ablaze;
Nature herself your earliest welcome breathes,
Spreads every leaflet, every bower in wreaths;
Carpets her paths for your returning feet,
Puts forth her best your coming steps to greet;
And Heaven must surely find the earth in tune
When Home, sweet Home, exhales the breath of June.
These blessed days are waning all too fast,
And June’s bright visions mingling with the past;
Lilacs have bloomed and faded, and the rose
Has dropped its petals, but the clover blows
And fills its slender tubes with honeyed sweets;
The fields are pearled with milk-white margarites;
The dandelion, which you sang of old,
Has lost its pride of place, its crown of gold,
But still displays its feathery-mantled globe,
Which children’s breath or wandering winds unrobe.
These were your humble friends; your opened eyes
Nature had trained her common gifts to prize;
Not Cam or Isis taught you to despise
Charles, with his muddy margin, and the harsh,
Plebeian grasses of the reeking marsh.
New England’s home-bred scholar, well you knew
Her soil, her speech, her people, through and through,
And loved them ever with the love that holds
All sweet, fond memories in its fragrant folds.
Though far and wide your winged words had flown,
Your daily presence kept you all our own,
Till with a sorrowing sigh, a thrill of pride,
We heard your summons, and you left our side
For larger duties and for tasks untried.

_Atlantic Monthly._

* * * * *

We have been under the necessity of telling some unpleasant truths about American literature from time to time; and it is with hearty pleasure that we are now able to own that the Britishers have been, for the present, utterly and apparently hopelessly beaten by a Yankee in one important department of poetry. The tyranny of a vulgar public opinion and the charlatanism which is the price of political power, are butts for the shafts of the satirist which European poets may well envy Mr. Lowell.—_North British Review._

* * * * *

Though eminent and able in many ways, Lowell remains absolutely a poet in feeling. His native genius was fostered by the associations of a singularly beautiful home; nourished by the works of the dramatists, by the ideal pictures of poets and novelists, by the tender solemnity of the discourses of his father, and of Channing and others of his father’s friends. Though he was not a rhyming prodigy like Pope, lisping in numbers, his first effusions as he came to manhood were in poetic form.—FRANCES H. UNDERWOOD.

* * * * *

Lowell is a remarkable man and poet. That he is one of the first poets of this age, no man will deny. He is sincerely a reformer; his sympathies are entirely with the oppressed and down-trodden. Some of his poems are exceedingly beautiful, while others are full of grand thoughts which strike upon the ear and heart like the booming cannon-shot, which tells that an ardently desired conflict has commenced.—DAVID W. BARTLETT.

* * * * *

The most characteristic and most essential happens to be the most salient quality of Mr. Lowell’s style. It is a wit that is as omnipresent and as tireless as electricity itself. The effect is quite indescribable. We are sure that no other equal amount of literature could be produced that would yield to a competent assay a larger net result of pure wit. Generally the spirit of the wit is humane and gracious.—W. C. WILKINSON.

* * * * *

Mr. Lowell says somewhere that the art of writing consists largely in knowing what to leave in the ink-pot. How many volumes of Lowell’s prose works if not in the waste-basket are almost as effectually buried in papers and magazines? What his working life has given to the world will give the reader some notion of what the world has not got, and will serve to call attention to the condensed wealth contained in “Among my Books” and “My Study Windows.”—REV. H. R. HAWEIS.

A LOWELL ALPHABET.

Another star ’neath Time’s horizon dropped
To gleam o’er unknown lands and seas;
Another heart that beat for freedom stopped,—
What mournful words are these!

_To the Memory of Hood._

Bowing then his head, he listened
For an answer to his prayer;
No loud burst of thunder followed,
Not a murmur stirred the air.

_A Parable._

Care, not of self, but of the common weal,
Had robbed their eyes of youth, and left instead
A look of patient power and iron will.

_A Glance behind the Curtain._

Dear, common flower, that grow’st beside the way
Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold,
First pledge of blithesome May.

_To the Dandelion._

Each man is some man’s servant; every soul
Is by some other’s presence quite discrowned;
Each owes the next through all the imperfect round.

_The Pioneer._

For mankind are one in spirit,
And an instinct bears along,
Round the earth’s electric circle,
The swift flash of right or wrong.

_The Present Crisis._

Glorious fountain!
Let my heart be
Fresh, changeful, constant,
Upward, like thee!

_The Fountain._

He could believe the promise of to-morrow
And feel the wondrous meaning of to-day;
He had a deeper faith in holy sorrow
Than the world’s seeming loss could take away.

_Ode._

It is God’s day. It is Columbus’s,
A lavish day! One day, with life and heart,
Is more than time enough to find a world.

_Columbus._

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how;
Everything is happy now,
Everything is upward striving.

_The Vision of Sir Launfal._

Knew you what silence was before?
Here is no startle of dreaming bird
That sings in his sleep, or strives to sing.

_Pictures from Appledore._

Life may be given in many ways,
And loyalty to Truth be sealed
As bravely in the closet as the field.

_Commemoration Ode._

My soul went forth, and, mingling with the tree,
Danced in the leaves; or, floating in the cloud,
Saw its white double in the stream below.

_Under the Willows._

Not always unimpeded can I pray,
Nor, pitying saint, thine intercession claim.

_Sea-weed._

O realm of silence and of swart eclipse,
The shapes that haunt thy gloom
Make signs to us, and move thy withered lips
Across the gulf of doom.

_To the Past._

Pan leaps and pipes all summer long,
The fairies dance each full-mooned night,
Would we but doff our lenses strong,
And trust our wiser eyes’ delight.

_The Foot-path._

Quite spent and out of breath he reached the tree,
And, listening fearfully, he heard once more
The low voice murmur “Rhoecus,” close at hand.

_Rhoecus._

Roots, wood, bark, and leaves singly perfect may be,
But, clapt hodge-podge together, they don’t make a tree.

_A Fable for Critics._

Since first I heard our North wind blow,
Since first I saw Atlantic throw
On our fierce rocks his thunderous snow,
I loved thee, Freedom!

_Ode to France._

Thine is music such as yields
Feelings of old brooks and fields,
And, around this pent-up room,
Sheds a woodland, free perfume.

_To Perdita, Singing._

Untremulous in the river clear,
Towards the sky’s image, hangs the imaged bridge;
So still the air that I can hear
The slender clarion of the unseen midge.

_Summer Storm._

Violet! sweet violet!
Thine eyes are full of tears;
Are they wet
Even yet
With the thought of other years?

_Song._

Wrong ever builds on quicksands, but the Right
To the firm center lays its moveless base.

_Prometheus._

Extemp’ry mammoth turkey-chick fer a Fejee Thanksgivin’.

_The Biglow Papers._

Yet sets she not her soul so steadily
Above that she forgets her ties to earth.

_Irene._

Zekle crep’ up quite unbeknown
An’ peeked in thru’ the winder,
An’ there sot Huldy all alone
’Ith no one nigh to hender.

_The Courtin’._

THE FIRST SNOW-FALL.

The snow had begun in the gloaming,
And busily all the night
Had been heaping field and highway
With a silence deep and white.

Every pine and fir and hemlock
Wore ermine too dear for an earl,
And the poorest twig on the elm-tree
Was ridged inch deep with pearl.

From sheds new roof’d with Carrara
Came Chanticleer’s muffled crow;
The stiff sails were softened to swan’s down,
And still flutter’d down the snow.

I stood and watch’d by the window
The noiseless work of the sky,
And the sudden flurries of snow-birds
Like brown leaves whirling by.

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn
Where a little head-stone stood;
How the flakes were folding it gently,
As did robins the babes in the wood.

Up spoke our own little Mabel,
Saying, “Father, who makes it snow?”
And I told of the good All-father
Who cares for us here below.

Again I look’d at the snow-fall,
And thought of the leaden sky
That arch’d o’er our first great sorrow,
When that mound was heap’d so high.

I remember’d the gradual patience
That fell from that cloud like snow,
Flake by flake, healing and hiding
The scar of our deep-plung’d woe.

And again to the child I whisper’d,
“The snow that husheth all,
Darling, the merciful Father
Alone can make it fall!”

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kiss’d her;
And she, kissing back, could not know
That my kiss was given to her sister,
Folded close under deepening snow.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

Nature, they say, doth dote,
And cannot make a man
Save on some worn-out plan,
Repeating us by rote.
For him her Old World molds aside she threw,
And, choosing sweet clay from the breast
Of the unexhausted West,
With stuff untainted shaped a hero new,
Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true.
How beautiful to see
Once more a shepherd of mankind indeed,
Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead;
One whose meek flock the people joyed to be,
Not lured by any cheat of birth,
But by his clear-grained human worth,
And brave old wisdom of sincerity!
They knew that outward grace is dust;
They could not choose but trust
In that sure-footed mind’s unfaltering skill,
And supple-tempered will,
That bent like perfect steel to spring again and thrust.
His was no lonely mountain-peak of mind—
Broad prairie, rather, genial, level-lined,
Fruitful and friendly for all human kind.
Here was a type of the true elder race,
And one of Plutarch’s men talked with us face to face.

WENDELL PHILLIPS.

He stood upon the world’s broad threshold; wide
The din of battle and of slaughter rolled;
He saw God stand upon the weaker side,
That sank in seeming loss before its foes;
Many there were who made great haste and sold
Unto the cunning enemy their swords.

He scorned their gifts of fame, and flower, and gold,
And underneath their soft and flowery words
Heard the cold serpent hiss; therefore he went
And humbly joined him to the weaker part.
Fanatic named, and fool, yet well content
So he could be the nearer to God’s heart,
And feel its solemn pulses sending blood
Through all the wide-spread veins of endless good.

FREEDOM.

Men!—whose boast it is that ye
Come of fathers brave and free,
If there breathe on earth a slave,
Are ye truly free and brave?
If ye do not feel the chain
When it works a brother’s pain,
Are ye not base slaves indeed—
Slaves unworthy to be freed?

Is true Freedom but to break
Fetters for our own dear sake,
And, with leathern hearts, forget
That we owe mankind a debt?
No!—true freedom is to share
All the chains our brothers wear,
And with heart and hand to be
Earnest to make others free!

They are slaves who fear to speak
For the fallen and the weak;
They are slaves who will not choose
Hatred, scoffing, and abuse,
Rather than in silence shrink
From the truth they needs must think.
They are slaves who dare not be
In the right with two or three.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

Born Dec. 17, 1807.

TO JOHN G. WHITTIER.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

New England’s poet, rich in love as years,
Her hills and valleys praise thee, and her brooks
Dance to thy song; to her grave sylvan nooks
Thy feet allure us, which the wood-thrush hears
As maids their lovers, and no treason fears.
Through thee her Merrimacks and Angloochooks,
And many a name uncouth, win loving looks,
Sweetly familiar to both England’s years.
Peaceful by birthright as a virgin lake
The lily’s anchorage which no eyes behold
Save those of stars, yet for thy brother’s sake
That lay in bonds, thou blew’st a blast as bold,
As that wherewith the heart of Roland brake
Far heard through Pyrennean valleys cold.

* * * * *

If there is any one in our age whom all men will admit to have been born a poet, it is Whittier. He is less indebted to art, to scholastic culture, to the influences of literary companionship, than any of his brethren. He is a fiery apostle of human brotherhood, and has chanted anathemas against war, and every form of cruelty and superstition. He is eminently a national poet. His mind is in full sympathy with the progressive ideas of the New World.—FRANCES H. UNDERWOOD.

* * * * *

Much of Whittier’s work has been in the form of contributions to journals which he has edited, and the two volumes which now constitute his collected prose writings have been gathered from these occasional papers. Himself of Quaker descent and belief, he has touched kindly but firmly the changing life of the day which culminated in the witchcraft delusion and displayed itself in the persecution of the Quakers. The carelessness of literary fame which Whittier has shown may be referred to the sincerity of his devotion to that which literature affects, and he has written and sung out of a heart very much in earnest to offer some help, or out of the pleasure of his work. The careful student of his writings will always value most the integrity of his life.—HORACE E. SCUDDER.

* * * * *

Whittier’s genius is Hebrew—more so than that of any other poet now using the English language. He is a flower of the moral sentiment in its masculine rigor, climbing like a forest pine. In this respect he affiliates with Wordsworth, and, going farther back, with Milton, whose tap-root was Hebrew. The man and the poet are one and the same.—REV. DAVID A. WASSON.

* * * * *

Whittier is in some respects the most American of all the American poets. It is safe to say that he has been less influenced by other literatures than any of our poets, with the exception, perhaps, of Bryant. The affectionate simplicity of Whittier’s nature is seen in the poems which he addressed to his personal friends and to those whose life-pursuits ran in the same channels as his own moral sympathies.—RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.

* * * * *

I have not seen John Greenleaf Whittier, but I have had correspondence with him and have great affection for him. During the American war an eminent citizen of Massachusetts told me he thought there was no man in the United States whose writings at that time, and for some years before then, had had such great influence on public opinion as the writings of Whittier. If God gives a real poet to the people at a time like that, does He not verily speak to the people and ask them to return to the ways of mercy and righteousness?—JOHN BRIGHT.

A WHITTIER ALPHABET.

A cottage hidden in the wood,
Red through its seams a light is glowing,
On rock and bough and tree-trunk rude
A narrow luster throwing.

_Mogg Megone._

But welcome, be it old or new,
The gift which makes the day more bright,
And paints upon the ground of cold
And darkness warmth and light.

_Flowers in Winter._

Cheerily then, my little man,
Live and laugh as boyhood can!
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy
Ere it passes, barefoot boy!

_The Barefoot Boy._

Down on my native hills of June
And home’s green quiet, hiding all,
Fell sudden darkness like the fall
Of midnight upon noon!

_The Rendition._

Early hath the spoiler found thee,
Brother of our love,
Autumn’s faded earth around thee,
And its storms above!

_On the Death of S. O. Torrey._

Father, to Thy suffering poor
Strength and grace and faith impart,
And with Thy own love restore
Comfort to the broken heart.

_The Familists’ Hymn._

God’s stars and silence taught thee
As His angels only can,
That the one sole sacred thing beneath
The cope of heaven is Man.

_The Branded Hand._

How hushed the hiss of party hate,
The clamor of the throng!
How old, harsh voices of debate
Flow into rhythmic song!

_My Birthday._

I walk, with noiseless feet, the round
Of uneventful years;
Still o’er and o’er I sow the spring
And reap the autumn ears.

_My Playmate._

Just then I felt the deacon’s hand
In wrath my coat-tail seize on;
I heard the priest cry, “Infidel!”
The lawyer mutter, “Treason!”

_A Sabbath Scene._

Know we not our dead are looking
Downward with a sad surprise,
All our strife of words rebuking
With their mild and loving eyes?

_A Visit to Washington._

Lift again the stately emblem
On the Bay State’s rusted shield;
Give to Northern winds the Pine Tree
On our banner’s tattered field.

_The Pine Tree._

More than clouds of purple trail
In the gold of setting day;
More than gleams of wing or sail
Beckon from the sea-mist gray.

_The Vanishers._

No perfect whole can our nature make,
Here or there the circle will break;
The orb of life as it takes the light
On one side, leaves the other in night.

_The Preacher._

O friends whose hearts still keep their prime,
Whose bright example warms and cheers,
Ye teach us how to smile at Time,
And set to music all his years.

_The Laurels._

Proffering the riddles of the dread unknown
Like the calm Sphinxes, with their eyes of stone
Questioning the centuries from their veils of sand.

_Trust._

Quiet and calm, without a fear
Of danger darkly lurking near,
The weary laborer left his plow,
The milkmaid caroled by her cow.

_Pentucket._

Rivermouth Rocks are fair to see,
By dawn or sunset shone across,
When the ebb of the sea has left them free
To dry their fringes of gold-green moss.

_The Wreck of Rivermouth._

So shall the Northern Pioneer go joyful on his way
To wed Penobscot’s waters to San Francisco’s bay.

_The Crisis._

Thank God that I have lived to see the time
When the great truth begins at last to find
An utterance from the deep heart of mankind,
Earnest and clear, that all Revenge is Crime!

_Abolition of the Gallows._

Unchanged by our changes of spirit and frame
Past, now, and henceforward the Lord is the same;
Though we sink in the darkness, His arms break our fall,
And in death as in life He is Father of all!

_The Quaker Alumni._

Vain pride of star-lent genius!—vain
Quick fancy and creative brain,
Unblest by prayerful sacrifice,
Absurdly great or weakly wise!

_The Chapel of the Hermits._

Wherever Freedom shivered a chain God speed, quoth I;
To Error amidst her shouting train I gave the lie.

_My Soul and I._

Ximena, speak and tell us
Who has lost, and who has won?
Nearer came the storm and nearer,
Rolling fast and frightful on.

_The Angels of Buena Vista._

Yon mountain’s side is black with night,
While, broad-orbed, o’er its gleaming crown,
The moon, slow rounding into sight,
On the hushed, inland sea looks down.

_Summer by the Lakeside._

Zephyr-like o’er all things going
When the breath divine is flowing,
All my yearnings to be free
Are as echoes answering Thee.

_Hymn from the French._

THE MORAL WARFARE.

JOHN G. WHITTIER.

When Freedom on her natal day
Within her war-rocked cradle lay,
An iron race around her stood,
Baptized her infant brow in blood;
And through the storm which round her swept
Their constant ward and watching kept.

Then, where our quiet herds repose
The roar of baleful battle rose,
And brethren of a common tongue
To mortal strife as tigers sprung;
And every gift on Freedom’s shrine
Was man for beast, and blood for wine!

Our fathers to their graves have gone:
Their strife is past—their triumph won;
But sterner trials wait the race
Which rises in their honored place—
A moral warfare with the crime
And folly of an evil time.

So let it be. In God’s own might
We gird us for the coming fight,
And, strong in Him whose cause is ours,
In conflict with unholy powers,
We grasp the weapon He has given—
The light, and truth, and love of heaven.

* * * * *

Recently a number of school-children of Girard, Pa., wrote a letter to John G. Whittier, the Quaker poet, telling him that they had learned to recite “The Barefoot Boy,” “The Huskers,” and “Maud Muller,” and closing thus: “If it would not be too much trouble, please write a verse for us—something that we could learn and always remember as having been written by you especially for us.” In response he sent the following:

“Faint not and falter not, nor plead
Your weakness. Truth itself is strong;
The lion’s strength, the eagle’s speed,
Are not alone vouchsafed to wrong.

“Your nature, which, through fire and blood,
To place or gain can find its way,
Has power to seek the highest good,
And duty’s holiest call obey.”

MY COUNTRY.

Land of the forest and the rock,
Of dark-blue lake and mighty river,
Of mountains reared aloft to mock
The storm’s career, the lightning’s shock;
My own green land forever!
O never may a son of thine,
Where’er his wandering steps incline,
Forget the skies which bent above
His childhood like a dream of love.

* * * * *

John G. Whittier attended a reunion of his schoolmates at Haverhill, Mass., on the 10th of September, 1885. He was of the Class of ’27. He wrote a poem for the occasion, which was read by a cousin of his. It is entitled “1827-1885,” and is as follows:

The gulf of seven and fifty years
We stretch our welcoming hand across;
The distance but a pebble’s toss
Between us and our youth appears.

For in life’s school we linger on,
The remnant of a once full list;
Conning our lessons, undismissed,
With faces to the setting sun.

And some have gone the unknown way,
And some await the call to rest;
Who knoweth whether it is best
For those who went or us who stay?

And yet, despite of loss and ill,
If faith and love and hope remain,
Our length of days is not in vain,
And life is well worth living still.

Still to a gracious Providence
The thanks of grateful hearts are due
For blessings when our lives were new—
For all the good vouchsafed us since.

The pain that spared us sorer hurt;
The wish denied, the purpose crossed;
And pleasure, fond occasions lost,
These mercies to our small desert.

’Tis something that we wander back,
Gray pilgrims, to the ancient ways,
And tender memories of old days
Walk with us by the Merrimac.

That even in life’s afternoon
A sense of youth comes back again,
As though this cool September rain
The still green woodlands dream of spring.

The eyes, grown dim to present things,
Have keener sight for by-gone years,
And sweet and clear in deafening ears
The bird that sang at morning sings.

Dear comrades, scattered wide and far
Send from their homes their kindly word;
And dearer ones, unseen, unheard,
Smile on us from some heavenly star.

For life and death with God are one;
Unchanged by seeming change, His care
And love are round us here and there;
He breaks no thread His hands have spun.

Soul touches soul; the muster-roll
Of life eternal has no gaps;
And after half a century’s lapse
Our school-day ranks are closed and whole.

Hail and farewell! We go our way
Where shadows end, we trust, in light;
The star that ushers in the night
Is herald also of the day.

THE LIGHT THAT IS FELT.

A tender child of summers three,
Seeking her little bed at night,
Paused on the dark stair timidly.
“O mother; take my hand,” said she,
“And then the dark will all be light.”

We older children grope our way
From dark behind to dark before;
And only when our hands we lay,
Dear Lord, in Thine, the night is day,
And there is darkness nevermore.

Reach downward to the sunless days
Wherein our guides are blind as we,
And faith is small and hope delays;
Take Thou the hands of prayer we raise,
And let us feel the light of Thee.

DECORATION DAY.

DECORATION DAY.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

Sleep, comrades, sleep and rest
On this Field of the Grounded Arms,
Where foes no more molest,
Nor sentry’s shot alarms!

Ye have slept on the ground before,
And started to your feet
At the cannon’s sudden roar,
Or the drum’s redoubling beat.

But in this camp of Death
No sound your slumber breaks;
Here is no fevered breath—
No wound that bleeds and aches.

All is repose and peace;
Untrampled lies the sod;
The shouts of battle cease:
It is the Truce of God!

Rest, comrades, rest and sleep!
The thoughts of men shall be
As sentinels to keep
Your rest from danger free.

Your silent tents of green
We deck with fragrant flowers;
Yours has the suffering been,
The memory shall be ours.

BETWEEN THE GRAVES.

HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.

Where blood once quenched the camp-fire’s brand,
On every sod throughout the land
The silver showers slip softly down;
On every sod some growing stem
Lifts to the light a shining crown.

For underneath her bending blue,
With leaf and sunshine, moon and dew,
Glad Nature gilds the graveside gloom,
Nor asks what passions stirred the dust
Through which her pulses spring to bloom.

While from the gardens of the South,
Like blessings blown from some warm mouth,
The wooing wind steals all day long—
Steals lingeringly from grave to grave,
With breath of blossom, breath of song.

A common flag, breeze, showers and flowers,
Are weaving all these sunny hours,
Where broken hearts and hopes are hid,
And the great mother on each bed
Lays it, a fragrant coverlid.

You, who with garlands go about,
As the tree-tilting bird pours out
O’er either mound his singing bliss,
Oh, kind as birds and breezes, leave
A flower on that grave, and on this!

For, lo, the eternal truce of death
Was called upon the passing breath,
And all the phantom hates, that shed
Their shadows round us as they stalked,
Have no remembrance with the dead!

RED, WHITE, AND BLUE.

HARRIET MCEWEN KIMBALL.

Red Cypress! unto him who grieves,
Reading sad legends in thy leaves,
And finding in thy flower
An emblem of the heart that bleeds,
Say: The red blossom which I bear
Doth symbolize
The sacrifice
Of that sublimest hour
When Love fulfilled all human needs;
Bound Death, the Victor, as a slave;
Flung wide the sealed gates of the grave,
And set His angels, warders, there.

White Rose! to him who gathers thee
The Flower of Consolation be—
Unfolding peace, and not despair.
With sharpest thorns set round,
Teach him how Life may wear
Sharp griefs, and yet be crowned!

Blue Harebell! that dost tremble
To the weird breath of Sorrow,
Be to the mourning one Faith’s symbol;—
Since thou dost borrow
The same soft hue
Her eyes have won with constant looking up;
God filleth thine inverted cup
With heaven’s own blue;
So shall His sweet assurance fill
The heart bowed meekly to His will.

THE HEROES’ DAY.

Through the long bending grass
The white-robed maidens pass,
With tender faces, and with footsteps soft and slow,
Upon each lowly grave,
Where sleeps the true and brave,
Dropping red roses and wan lilies as they go.

Flowers for the patriot band
Who loved their native land:
Sweet rosemary, and purple pansies, and pale pinks;
Green leaves from budding trees
Make sweet the passing breeze—
Sweet as the elegy the grateful nation thinks.

For who would not prolong
With flowers and scent and song
The memory of those who fell in freedom’s fight?
From the sweet month of May,
Then choose the fairest day,
And crown it for the honored dead with all things bright.

Then say: “O singing birds,
Echo these tender words:
While bosoms nobly throb, and women’s eyes are wet,
While roses bud and blow,
While stars at evening glow,
While daylight breaks for us, we never will forget.

“As long as men shall stand
For home and native land,
And while our starry flag flies o’er the true and free,
Honor and love and truth
Shall give immortal youth,
And we’ll remember you upon the land and sea.”

_Harper’s Weekly._

DECORATION HYMN.

WILLIAM H. RANDALL.

Soldiers! who freely for our country’s glory
Upheld our flag on Southern hill and plain,
Long may your deeds be told in grateful story,
Ye have not lived in vain!

Brothers! who fought for more than empty honor
That all our land united might be free,
May shine for evermore upon our banner
Each star for liberty.

Heroes! who toiled through all the dusty marches,
And life surrendered on those shot-plowed fields,
To ye who fled where the blue sky o’erarches,
Tribute a nation yields.

Your spirits, watching from out heaven’s dominions,
Shall not see lost what ye so dearly bought;
The shackles that once clogged the eagle’s pinions
Shall not again be wrought.

And now with garlands decorate each dwelling
Where all that earth could claim serenely sleeps;
While love, like perfume from the flower upwelling
Grateful remembrance keeps.

FLOWERS FOR THE BRAVE.

CELIA THAXTER.

Here bring your purple and gold,
Glory of color and scent!
Scarlet of tulips bold,
Buds blue as the firmament.

Hushed is the sound of the fife
And the bugle piping clear:
The vivid and delicate life
In the soul of the youthful year.

We bring to the quiet dead,
With a gentle and tempered grief;
O’er the mounds so mute we shed
The beauty of blossoms and leaf.

The flashing swords that were drawn
No rust shall their fame destroy!
Boughs rosy as rifts of dawn,
Like the blush on the cheek of joy.

Rich fires of the gardens and meads,
We kindle these hearts above.
What splendor shall match their deeds;
What sweetness can match our love?

MEMORIAL DAY.

MARGARET SIDNEY.

A little window-garden plot,
Blooming in dusty street,
Adown which poured the travel
Of many weary feet;
A cheery spot of brightness
Blooming for all to see.
Oh, that was Blossom’s garden-bed,
Who loved it tenderly.

At morn, at noon, at even,
She dealt out faithful care;
And many buds and flowerets sweet
Came out with fragrance rare.
And now, this May-day morning,
She stood in wealth of bloom
That beautified and perfumed all
The quaint, old-fashioned room.

When suddenly the door was thrown
Ajar, and there stood Ray.
“Give us your flowers, do, Blossom, do,
For Decoration Day.”
She looked around with pretty flush
Of hurt surprise: “Ah, no;
You know not what you ask, if you
Would wish to rob me so.”

“To _rob_ you?” Master Ray in scorn
Flashed out, then turned away;
“The soldiers gave their all for _you_:
You _owe_ them flowers to-day.”
“I ‘_owe_ them flowers.’ Ah, true, indeed!
Dear brother, please forgive.
Those brave men died on battle-fields
That we at home might live;

And I not lay a flower upon
Their graves in memory sweet!
Oh, selfish heart! I have to mourn
Ingratitude complete.
Forgive me, Lord. They shall have all;
Yes, glad I am to make
My buds and blossoms into wreaths
For those dear patriots’ sake.”

The May-day sun shone brilliantly;
All Nature smiled to see
The honors given to those who died
In the cause of Liberty;
But the sweetest gift from loving hands
Was the bud, and flower, and spray,
From the little child who gave her all
On that Memorial Day.

THANKSGIVING.

THANKSGIVING DAY.

It was not until the late civil war that this day became in any sense a National one. Until that time its observance was confined almost exclusively to New England. But the proclamation of President Johnson, Nov. 2, 1865, appointing a day for national thanksgiving, was indorsed by similar proclamations from the governors of all the States not of the late Confederacy, and since then the festival has steadily increased in popular favor, though many Southern States have been slow in its observance. Now that its appointment comes from a Democratic President,—the first one ever issued from such a source,—it is probable that it will be more generally regarded than ever before in our history. And this is one of the good signs of the times. It is well that one day of the year be given to the reunion of families, to the gathering together of scattered friends, and to rejoicing over the bounties of Providence.—_The Advance._

THANKSGIVING AMONG THE GREEKS.

The Greeks held the grandest feast of all the year in honor of Demeter, the goddess of the harvest; and the Romans, who borrowed most of their customs from the Grecians, also held a grand celebration in honor of the same goddess, whose name they changed to Ceres. They went in long processions to the fields, where they engaged in rustic sports, and crowned all of their household gods with flowers. Both of these feasts were held in September.

THANKSGIVING AMONG THE JEWS.

Three thousand years ago witnessed the Jewish Feast of Tabernacles, with its magnificent rituals, melodious choirs, and picturesque festivities. For eight days the people ceased their work, to “eat, drink, and be merry.” During the time millions gathered in and around Jerusalem, for several days, living in booths formed of the branches of the olive, pine, myrtle, and palm, and decorated with fruits and flowers. Grand public pageants were held, and in addition to these every household had its worship, its sacrifice, and its banquet.

THE FIRST ENGLISH THANKSGIVING IN NEW YORK.

But the Dutch went, and the English came—and they came to stay. On the possession of New Netherland by the English, Edmund Andros being Governor, the Council sitting on June 7, 1675, ordered:

“That Wednesday ye 23d of this Instant month, be appointed throughout ye government a day of Thanksgiving and Prayers to Almighty God for all His Past Deliverances and Blessings and Present Mercies to us, and to Pray ye continuance and Encrease thereof.”

HOW THE PILGRIMS GAVE THANKS.

The Pilgrim Fathers, after ten months of sickness and suffering, gathered in their first harvest, which consisted of twenty acres of corn, and six of barley and peas—enough to keep them supplied with food for the coming year. For this they devoutly thanked God, and made preparations for a feast. Hunters were sent out to procure the thanksgiving dinner, and returned with waterfowl, wild turkey, and venison. Then the feast was prepared, and Massasoit and ninety of his warriors were present. On the following year there was such a long drought that the corn and barley were stunted, and famine seemed to stare them in the face. A day of fasting and prayer was appointed, and for nine hours the people prayed unceasingly. At evening the sun set in clouds, a breeze sprang up, and in the morning the rain was pouring down. The crops revived, and there was a bounteous harvest. For this a day of thanksgiving was ordered by Governor Bradford.

The history of this first thanksgiving is recorded as follows:

“Our harvest being gotten in, our governor sent four men out a-fowling that we might, after a special manner, rejoice together after we had the fruit of our labor. They four, in one day, killed as much fowl as, with a little help beside, served the company almost a week. At that time, among other recreations, we exercised our arms, many of the Indians coming among us, and among the rest, their greatest king, Massasoit, with some ninety men, whom for three days we entertained and feasted, and they went out and killed five deer, which they brought to the plantation and bestowed on our governor and upon the captain and others. And although it be not always so plentiful as it was at this time with us, yet by the goodness of God we are so far from want that we often wish you partakers of our plenty.”

THE FIRST NATIONAL THANKSGIVING.

The immediate occasion of the first thanksgiving was the surrender of General Burgoyne to General Gates, in the fall of 1777. Thursday, the 18th of December, was designated, and, in compliance with the order of Congress, the army at Valley Forge duly observed the day—the army that had tracked its way in blood. It was ordered by the Continental Congress.

WASHINGTON’S PROCLAMATION.

Washington, as President of the United States, issued his first proclamation for the observance of a day of thanksgiving at the city of New York on the 3d of October, 1789, setting apart Thursday, the 26th day of November of that year, “to be devoted by the people of these States to the service of that great and glorious Being who is the beneficent Author of all the good that was, that is, or that will be,” etc. His second proclamation, dated at the city of Philadelphia, January 1, 1795, designated Thursday, November 26, as a day to be observed for a general thanksgiving by the people of the United States.

Governor John Jay, of New York, thought so well of Thanksgiving Day, that he determined to have one of his own, and accordingly designated Thursday, November 26, 1795.

THE FIRST BOSTON THANKSGIVING—July, 1630.

[_For Concert and Solo Recitation._]

HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.

_Solo._ “Praise ye the Lord!” The psalm to-day
That rises on our ears
Rolls from the hills of Boston Bay
Through five times fifty years—
When Winthrop’s fleet from Yarmouth crept
Out to the open main,
And through the widening waters swept
In April sun and rain,
_Concert._ “Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,”
The leader shouted, “pray;”
And prayer arose from all the ships,
As fadeth Yarmouth Bay.

_Solo._ They passed the Scilly Isles that day,
And May days came, and June,
And thrice upon the ocean lay
The full orb of the moon.
And as that day, on Yarmouth Bay,
Ere England sunk from view,
While yet the rippling Solent lay
In April skies of blue,
_Concert._ “Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,”
Each morn was shouted, “pray;”
And prayer arose from all the ships,
As first in Yarmouth Bay.

_Solo._ Blew warm the breeze o’er Western seas,
Through Maytime morns and June,
Till hailed these souls the Isles of Shoals,
Low, ’neath the summer moon;
And as Cape Ann arose to view,
And Norman’s Woe they passed,
The wood-doves came the white mist through
And circled round each mast.
_Concert._ “Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,”
Then called the leader, “pray;”
And prayer arose from all the ships,
As first in Yarmouth Bay.

_Solo._ The white wings folded, anchors down,
The sea-worn fleet in line;
Fair rose the hills where Boston town
Should rise from clouds of pine;
Fair was the harbor, summit-walled,
And placid lay the sea.
“Praise ye the Lord,” the leader called;
“Praise ye the Lord,” spake he.
_Concert._ “Give thanks to God with fervent lips,
Give thanks to God to-day.”
The anthem rose from all the ships,
Safe moored in Boston Bay.

_Solo._ That psalm our fathers sung we sing,
That psalm of peace and wars,
While o’er our heads unfolds its wing,
The flag of forty stars;
And while the nation finds a tongue
For nobler gifts to pray,
’Twill ever sing the song they sung
That first Thanksgiving Day:
_Concert._ “Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips,
Praise ye the Lord to-day.”
So rose the song from all the ships,
Safe moored in Boston Bay.