FROM THE LIBRARY OF REV. LOUIS FITZGERALD BENSON. D. D, BEQUEATHED BY HIM TO THE LIBRARY OF PRINCETON THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY 5Co /V74o AMONG THE OTHER POEMS JOHN GREENLEA1 WHITTIER B( IS rON : FIELDS, OSGOOD, & CO nacNoi an:, i 869. Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1868, by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts m«i A \ \ I I FIELDS, vT I) i s 11 1 1 1 1 f Fo I it m r , GRATEFULLY OPFEI AMONG THE II I U.S. PRELUDE. A LO\(i the roadside, like the flowers of eold That tawny [ncas for their gardens wrought, Heavy with Bunshinc droops the golden-i And the red pennons of the cardinal-fiovi Hang motionless upon their upright sta> The sky is hot and hazy, and the wind. Wing-weary with its Long flight from the south, Unfelt ; yet, closely scanned, yon maple leaf With faintest motion, as one Stirs in dreams, 12 AMONG THE HILLS. Confesses it. The locust by the wall Stabs the noon-silence with his sharp alarm. A single hay-cart down the dusty road Creaks slowly, with its driver fast asleep On the load's top. Against the neighboring hill, Huddled along the stone wall's shady side, The sheep show white, as if a snow-drift still Defied the dog-star. Through the open door A drowsy smell of flowers — gray heliotrope, And white sweet-clover, and shy mignonette — Comes faintly in, and silent chorus lends To the pervading symphony of peace. No time is this for hands long overworn To task their strength ; and (unto Him be praise Who giveth quietness ! ) the stress and strain Of years that did the work of centuries Have ceased, and we can draw our breath once more PRELUDE. 13 I ly and full yon harvesters Make glad their nooning underneath the elms With tale and riddle and old snatch of SOI J lay rave themes, and idly turn The leaves of Memory's sketch-hook, dreaming Old summer pictures of the quiet hills. And human life, as quiet, at their t I And yet not idly all. A Burner's son, Proud of field-lore and harvest craft, and feeling All their hue possibilities, how rich And restful even poverty and toil B Ome when beauty, harmony, and love Sit at their humble hearth as angels At evening in the patriarch's tent, when man Makes labor noble, and his farmer's frock The symbol of a Christian chivalry Tender and just and generous to her 14 AMONG THE HILLS. Who clothes with grace all duty ; still, I know Too well the picture has another side, — How wearily the grind of toil goes on Where love is wanting, how the eye and ear And heart are starved amidst the plenitude Of nature, and how hard and colorless Is life without an atmosphere. I look Across the lapse of half a century, And call to mind old homesteads, where no flower Told that the spring had come, but evil weeds, Nightshade and rough-leaved burdock in the place Of the sweet doorway greeting of the rose And honeysuckle, where the house walls seemed Blistering in sun, without a tree or vine To cast the tremulous shadow of its leaves Across the curtainless windows from whose panes Fluttered the signal rags of shiftlessness ; Within, the cluttered kitchen-floor, unwashed PRELU1 15 (Broom-clean I think they called it) ; the best room Stifling with cellar damp, shut from the air In hot midsummer, bookless, picture) Save the inevitable sampler hung Over the fireplace, or a mourning-pi A green-haired woman, peony-cheeked, beneath Impossible willows ; the wide-throated hearth. Bristling with faded pine-boughs half concealing The piled-up rubbish at the chimney's back ; And, in sad keeping with all things about them. Shrill, querulous women, SOUT and sullen men. Untidy, loveless, old before their time, With scarce a human inter. I their own Monotonous round of small economi Or the poor scandal of the neighborhood ; Blind to the beauty everywhere revealed. Treading the May-flowers with regardless feet ; 1 6 AMONG THE HILLS. For them the song-sparrow and the bobolink Sang not, nor winds made music in the leaves ; For them in vain October's holocaust Burned, gold and crimson, over all the hills, The sacramental mystery of the woods. Church-goers, fearful of the unseen Powers, But grumbling over pulpit-tax and pew-rent, Saving, as shrewd economists, their souls And winter pork with the least possible outlay Of salt and sanctity ; in daily life Showing as little actual comprehension Of Christian charity and love and duty, As if the Sermon on the Mount had been Outdated like a last year's almanac : Rich in broad woodlands and in half-tilled fields, And yet so pinched and bare and comfortless, The veriest straggler limping on his rounds, The sun and air his sole inheritance, Laughed at a poverty that paid its tax And hugged his rags in self-complacen such should be the hoc i of a land Where whoso wisely wills and acts may dwell :ing and lawgiver, in hi With beauty, an. His hour of leisure richer than a life ( m fourscore to the I old time, ( )ii!- yeoman should J to his home Set in the fair, gr :en \ all j -. ; A man to mat< li his mountain Dwarfed and aba iw them. I would fain In this light way (of which I needs must own With the knife-grinder of whom Canning sin -li ' I have none to tell Invite the eye to The beauty and the joy within their reach. — 1 8 AMONG THE HILLS. Home, and home loves, and the beatitudes Of nature free to all. Haply in years That wait to take the places of our own, Heard where some breezy balcony looks down On happy homes, or where the lake in the moon Sleeps dreaming of the mountains, fair as Ruth, In the old Hebrew pastoral, at the feet Of Boaz, even this simple lay of mine May seem the burden of a prophecy, Finding its late fulfilment in a change Slow as the oak's growth, lifting manhood up Through broader culture, finer manners, love, And reverence, to the level of the hills. O Golden Age, whose light is of the dawn, And not of sunset, forward, not behind, Flood the new heavens and earth, and with thee bring PRELU1 19 All the old virtues, whatsoever things Are pure and honest and of good repute, But add thereto whatever bard has sung has told of when in trance and dream They saw the Happy [sles of proph Lei J hold h( and Truth divide . the right and • the heart The freedom of its fair inheritar the poor 1 1 i oner, cramped and starved At Nature' table : With joy and wond r ; let all harmoni< - Of sound, form, color, motion, wait upon The princely guest, whether in soft attire ( )f leisure dad, or the 1 i of toil. And, lending life to the dead form of faith, Give human nature reverence for the sake ( )t One who bore it, making it divine With the Ineffable tenderness of God ; 20 AMONG THE HILLS. Let common need, the brotherhood of prayer, The heirship of an unknown destiny, The unsolved mystery round about us, make A man more precious than the gold of Ophir. Sacred, inviolate, unto whom all things Should minister, as outward types and signs Of the eternal beauty which fulfils The one great purpose of creation, Love, The sole necessity of Earth and Heaven ! AMONG THE HII.. 2 1 A M i HILLS. T70R he clouds had raked the hills And the val And all the And all tl implainin At last, a m I len i The mountain veils asund And swept the \ 'can bei The besom of the thunder. igh Sandwich notch the »od morrow to the C0tt< . And 'torn shadow pierced the water. 22 AMONG THE HILLS. Above his broad lake Ossipee, Once more the sunshine wearing, Stooped, tracing on that silver shield His grim armorial bearing. Clear drawn against the hard blue sky The peaks had winter's keenness ; And, close on autumn's frost, the vales Had more than June's fresh greenness. Again the sodden forest floors With golden lights were checkered, Once more rejoicing leaves in wind And sunshine danced and flickered. It was as if the summer's late Atoning for its sadness Had borrowed every season's charm To end its days in gladness. AMONG THE HILLS. 23 I call to mind those banded vales Of shadow and of shin: Through which, my hostess at my side, I drove in clining. We held our way a: old, with wi Swept through ami through by swallows, — By maple orchards, belts of pine And larches climbing darkly The mountain si I, over all, The great peaks rising starkly. You should have seen thai long hill-ran With gaps of brightness riven, — v through each pass and hollow streamed The purpling lights of heaven, — 24 AMONG THE HILLS. Rivers of gold-mist flowing down From far celestial fountains, — The great sun flaming through the rifts Beyond the wall of mountains ! We paused at last where home-bound cows Brought down the pasture's treasure, And in the barn the rhythmic flails Beat out a harvest measure. We heard the night-hawk's sullen plunge, The crow his tree-mates calling : The shadows lengthening down the slopes About our feet were falling. And through them smote the level sun In broken lines of splendor, Touched the gray rocks and made the green Of the shorn grass more tender. AMONG THE HILLS. The maples bending o'er the gate, Their arch of leaves just ti With yellow warmth, the golden glow Of coming autumn hinted. white betw farm-h< And smiled on por< h and trellis, The fair democracy of flowers Thai And weaving garlands for 1 'Twixt chidings and A human flo >ok The sunshine from her I On either hand ns Of fancy and of shrewdm Where taste had wound its arms of vines Round thrift's uncomely rudeness. 2 26 AMONG THE HILLS. The sun-brown farmer in his frock Shook hands, and called to Mary : Bare-armed, as Juno might, she came, White-aproned from her dairy. Her air, her smile, her motions, told Of womanly completeness ; A music as of household songs Was in her voice of sweetness. Not beautiful in curve and line, But something more and better, The secret charm eluding art, Its spirit, not its letter ; — An inborn grace that nothing lacked Of culture or appliance, — The warmth of genial courtesy, The calm of self-reliance. II IK HI! Before her queenly womanhood How dared our hostess utter The paltry errand of her n< buy her burned butter ? She led the way with housewife pride, 1 1 Full tenderly t! ills With ; Then, while along the western hills We watched the changeful glory Of sunset, on our homeward way, I heard her simple story. The early crickets sang ; the stream Plashed through mv friend's narration 1 [er rustic patois of the hills Lost in my free translation. 28 AMONG THE HILLS. "More wise," she said, "than those who swarm Our hills in middle summer, She came, when June's first roses blow, To greet the early comer. " From school and ball and rout she came, The city's fair, pale daughter, To drink the wine of mountain air Beside the Bearcamp Water. " Her step grew firmer on the hills That watch our homesteads over ; On cheek and lip, from summer fields, She caught the bloom of clover. "For health comes sparkling in the streams From cool Chocorua stealing : There 's iron in our Northern winds ; Our pines are trees of healing. ANION., THE HI] 29 "She sat beneath the broad-armed elms That skirt the mowing-meadow, And watched the gentle west-wind weave The with shine and shadow. ide her, from the summer i I share her grateful screenii With n his pitchfork leani Lmed in its damp, dark locks, his ! 1 1. id nothing m imon, — Strong, manly, true, the tendem And pride beloved of woman. "She looked up, glowii \ with the health The country air had brought 1 And, laughing, said : ' You lack a wile, Your mother lacks a daughter, 30 AMONG THE HILLS. " ' To mend your frock and bake your bread You do not need a lady : Be sure among these brown old homes Is some one waiting ready, — " ' Some fair, sweet girl with skilful hand And cheerful heart for treasure, Who never played with ivory keys, Or danced the polka's measure.' " He bent his black brows to a frown, He set his white teeth tightly. ' 'T is well,' he said, ' for one like you To choose for me so lightly. " ' You think, because my life is rude, I take no note of sweetness : I tell you love has naught to do With meetness or unmeetness. AMONG THE HILLS. " ■ Itself its best excuse, it asks No leave of pride or fashion When silken zone or homespun frock It stirs with throbs of passion. " ' You think me deaf and blind : you bring Your winning graces hither As free as if from cradle-time We two had played together. " ' You tempt me with your laughing eyes, Your cheek of sundown's blushes, A motion as of waving grain, A music as of thrushes. " ' The plaything of your summer sport, The spells you weave around me You cannot at your will undo, Nor leave me as you found me. 32 AMONG THE HILLS. " ' You go as lightly as you came, Your life is well without me ; What care you that these hills will close Like prison-walls about me ? " ' No mood is mine to seek a wife, Or daughter for my mother : Who loves you loses in that love All power to love another ! " ' I dare your pity or your scorn, With pride your own exceeding ; I fling my heart into your lap Without a word of pleading.' " She looked up in his face of pain So archly, yet so tender : 'And if I lend you mine/ she said, ' Will you forgive the lender ? rni: hills. $3 r frock nor tan can hide the man ; And see you not, my farmer, weak and fond a woman waits ind this silken armor? "'I !• . you: on that love alone, I not my worth, presuming, Will you not trust for summer fruit The tree in May-day bloom in ne the hangbird ov J [is hair-su u Looked down to see love's miracle, — The giving that ling. "And so the farmer found a wife, His mother found a daughter: There looks no happier home than hers On pleasant Beareamp Water. 34 AMONG THE HILLS. " Flowers spring to blossom where she walks The careful ways of duty ; Our hard, stiff lines of life with her Are flowing curves of beauty. " Our homes are cheerier for her sake, Our door-yards brighter blooming, And all about the social air Is sweeter for her' coming. " Unspoken homilies of peace Her daily life is preaching ; The still refreshment of the dew Is her unconscious teaching. " And never tenderer hand than hers Unknits the brow of ailing ; Her garments to the sick man's ear Have music in their trailing. AMONG THE Hi: I when, in pleasant harvest moons, The youthful huskers gatl. Or sleigh-drives on the mountain w the winter weather, — " In sugar-camps, when south and warm The winds of March are blow.: And sweetly from its thawin. The maple's blood — " In summer, where some lilied pond virgin zone is baring, Or where the ruddy autumn fire hts up the apple-paring, — " The coarseness of a ruder time 1 Ier finer mirth disj lse of pleasure fills ch rustic sport she gra^ $6 AMONG THE HILLS. " Her presence lends its warmth and health To all who come before it. If woman lost us Eden, such As she alone restore it. " For larger life and wiser aims The farmer is her debtor ; Who holds to his another's heart Must needs be worse or better. " Through her his civic service shows A purer-toned ambition ; No double consciousness divides The man and politician. " In party's doubtful ways he trusts Her instincts to determine ; At the loud polls, the thought of her Recalls Christ's Mountain Sermon. ►NG THE HILLS. "He owns her logic of the heart, And wisdom of unreason, Supplying, while he doubts and weighs, The needed word in season. "lie sees with pride her richer thought, Her fan y's G And love thus deepened ect proof against all ch " And if ihe w i. His feet are slow to travel, And if she reads with cultur I What his may unravel, " Still clearer, for her k Of beauty and of wonder, He learns the meaning of the hills He dwelt from childhood und 38 AMONG THE HILLS. i "And higher, warmed with summer lights, Or winter-crowned and hoary, The ridged horizon lifts for him Its inner veils of glory. " He has his own free, bookless lore, The lessons nature taught him, The wisdom which the woods and hills And toiling men have brought him : " The steady force of will whereby Her flexile grace seems sweeter ; The sturdy counterpoise which makes Her woman's life completer: "A latent fire of soul which lacks *No breath of love to fan it ; And wit, that, like his native brooks, Plays over solid granite. AMONG lUl, HILLS. " How dwarfed against his manliness She sees the poor pretension, The want-, the aims, the follies, born Of fashion and convention ! " I [ow life behind ii nts The human fact bran g all The I tnd the gaining. " And so, in grateful Lnt< her and of I Their lives their true distin \\ hile daily drawing near "And if the husband or the wife In home's light dis Such slight defaults a- failed to meet The blinded eves of \o\ 40 AMONG THE HILLS. " Why need we care to ask ? — who dreams Without their thorns of roses, Or wonders that the truest steel The readiest spark discloses ? " For still in mutual sufferance lies The secret of true living : Love scarce is love that never knows / The sweetness of forgiving. "We send the Squire to General Court, He takes his young wife thither ; No prouder man election day Rides through the sweet June weather. " He sees with eyes of manly trust All hearts to her inclining ; Not less for him his household light That others share its shining." AMONG THE HILLS. 41 Thus, while my hostess spake, there grew fore me, warmer tint And outlined with a tenderer grace, The picture that she hint The sunset smouldei ath the deep hill-shado B >w us wreaths of white fog walk Lik the haunted m Sounding the summer night, tl, pped down their golden plumm The pale arc of the Northern li. K r the mountain summit Until, at last, beneath its brid( We heard the Bearcamp flowing, And ipled lawn The welcome home-lights glowing; — 42 AMONG THE HILLS. And, musing on the tale I heard, 'T were well, thought I, if often To rugged farm-life came the gift To harmonize and soften ; — If more and more we found the troth Of fact and fancy plighted, And culture's charm and labor's strength In rural homes united, — The simple life, the homely hearth, With beauty's sphere surrounding, And blessing toil where toil abounds With graces more abounding. M ISC E I. CAN EOUS POE M S THE CLEAR VISION. 1)1 1) but dream. I never kn What charms our never yet the sky so blue, Was nevi r i irth so white before. Till now I : low I on yon hills of snow, And never learned the bough's desij Of beauty in it I )id ( wr such a morning bi that my eastern window Did ever such a moonlight take \\ efrd photographs of shrub and tree ? 46 THE CLEAR VISION. Rang ever bells so wild and fleet The music of the winter street ? Was ever yet a sound by half So merry as yon school-boy's laugh ? O Earth ! with gladness overfraught, No added charm thy face hath found ; Within my heart the change is wrought, My footsteps make enchanted ground. From couch of pain and curtained room Forth to thy light and air I come, To find in all that meets my eyes The freshness of a glad surprise. Fair seem these winter days, and soon Shall blow the warm west winds of spring To set the unbound rills in tune, And hither urge the bluebird's wing. THE CLEAR VIS! The vales shall iaugb in Grow mi n with leafing buds, And violets and wind-fl vay linst the throbbing heart of May. Break forth, my lips, in praise, and The wiser 1< . kind ; her for its vn, I sec, wh< i I blind The world, ( ) F ither ! hath not « i Wit h loss the life by tfa But still, with every add • beautiful thy works appear ! made thy world without, : thou more fair my world within ; Shine through its lingerii :' doubt ; Rebuke its haunting shapes of sin ; 48 THE CLEAR VISION. Fill, brief or long, my granted span Of life with love to thee and man ; Strike when thou wilt the hour of rest, But let my last days be my best ! 2d Month, 1868. F JARL THORKELL. 49 THE DOLE I >F JARL THORKELL ^ ¥ "III. hind was pale with famine And ra< ked with I in ; The froz n I The earth withheld her grain. Men saw the boding F) ' me and And, through their dreams, the I'nlar-moon Jar] Thorkell of Thevera At Yule-time made his vow ; On Rykdal's holy Doom-stone He .slew to Frey his cow. 3 n 50 THE DOLE OF JARL THORKELL. To bounteous Frey he slew her ; To Skuld, the younger Norn, Who watches over birth and death, He gave her calf unborn. And his little gold-haired daughter Took up the sprinkling-rod, And smeared with blood the temple And the wide lips of the god. Hoarse below, the winter water Ground its ice-blocks o'er and o'er ; Jets of foam, like ghosts of dead waves, Rose and fell along the shore. The red torch of the Jokul, Aloft in icy space, Shone down on the bloody Horg-stones And the statue's carven face. THE DOLE OF JAKL THORKELL. And closer round and grimmer neatb its baleful light The Jotun shapes of mountains Came crowding through the night. -haired Hersir trembled a flame by wind is blown ; Moved his white lips, And their \ xn ! " Th thirst ! " he mutter • ] must have more bl Before the tun shall I I >r fish hall fill the tlood. " The JEsit thirst and hunger, And hence our blight and ban ; The mouths of the Stron water r the flesh and blood oi man ! 52 THE DOLE OF JARL THORKELL. " Whom shall we give the strong ones ? Not warriors, sword on thigh ; But let the nursling infant And bedrid old man die." " So be it ! " cried the young men, " There needs nor doubt nor parle " ; But, knitting hard his red brows, In silence stood the Jarl. A sound of woman's weeping At the temple door was heard ; But the old men bowed their white heads, And answered not a word. Then the Dream-wife of Thingvalla, A Vala young and fair, Sang softly, stirring with her breath The veil of her loose hair. THE D 'I.I. OF JARL THORKELL. She sang : u The winds from Alfheim r sound of strife ; The gifts fur Frcy the I Are not of death, but life. '•III. ■ The grazing ki h ; lie loathes y >ur " No wrong 1 j tin ; The blood that smoki - fi m I >oom-i in redder rain. ire what you r do, earth shall Asgard And hate will come of hating. And love will come of love. 54 THE DOLE OF JARL THORKELL. " Make dole of skyr and black bread That old and young may live ; And look to Frey for favor When first like Frey you give. " Even now o'er Njord's sea-meadows The summer dawn begins ; The tun shall have its harvest, The fiord its glancing fins." Then up and swore Jarl Thorkell : "By Gimli and by Hel, O Vala of Thingvalla, Thou singest wise and well ! " Too dear the ^Esir's favors Bought with our children's lives ; Better die than shame in living Our mothers and our wives. THE DOLE 01 JARL THORKELL. 5 5 " The full shall give his portion To him who hath most need , Of curdled skyr and black bread, Be daily dole decr< 1 [e broke from off his n<« k-chain old ; And i a< h man, at his bidding, illght gifts for young and old. Then mothers nursed their children, And daughl their sii And Health sal down with Plenty Befon the nexl \ il fires. The lie: R) kdal ; The Doom-ring still remail But the snows of a thousand winter, Have washed away the stains. THE DOLE OF JARL THORKELL. Christ ruleth now ; the ^Esir Have found their twilight dim ; And, wiser than she dreamed, of old The Vala sang of Him ! Tin: TWO RABBIS. Till: TWo RABBI HT^HE Nathan, t . and ten, I the evil worl then, Just as the M • And mi : he left his seat tit out From the greal With sackcloth, and with re him still the old temptation came, And mocked him with the motion and the shame I >f ill h that, shuddering, he abhon Himself; and, crying mightily to the Lord To fl hi 1st the demon out, Smote with his staff the blank ness round about. At length, in the low light of a Spent day, The towers of 1 ly R ^n tlie desert's rim; and Nathan, faint .\\x\ footsore, pausing whoi [nt The faith of Islam reared a dome 1 tomb, Saw some one kneeling in the shadow, whom I [< kindly : " May the I [ >lj I ) nc Answer thy prayers, O strai- Whereupon The shape stood up with a loud cry, and then, 60 THE TWO RABBIS. Clasped in each other's arms, the two gray men Wept, praising Him whose gracious providence Made their paths one. But straightway, as the sense Of his transgression smote him, Nathan tore Himself away : " O friend beloved, no more Worthy am I to touch thee, for I came, Foul from my sins, to tell thee all my shame. Haply thy prayers, since naught availeth mine, May purge my soul, and make it white like thine. Pity me, O Ben Isaac, I have sinned ! " Awestruck Ben Isaac stood. The desert wind Blew his long mantle backward, laying bare The mournful secret of his shirt of hair. " I too, O friend, if not in act," he said, " In thought have verily sinned. Hast thou not read, * Better the eye should see than that desire Should wander ? ' Burning with a hidden fire Til 6 1 That tears and prayers quench not, I come to thee For pity and for help, as thou to me. for me, my friend!" Rut Nathan cried, y thou for me, I ic! " Side by side In the low sunshine by the turban knelt ; each made hi br< >th< i his own, I tting, In the agon) Of pitying love, his i I l . for his friend me ; His pra) name ; And. when at last they rose up to embi pard.»n in his brother" Long aft< r, when his head-* Trai -1 on the targum-m In Rabbi Nathan's hand these words were read: 62 THE TWO RABBIS. " Hope not the cure of sin till Self is dead ; Forget it in loves service, and the debt Thou canst not pay the angels shall forget ; Heavens gate is shut to him who comes alone ; Save thou a soul and it shall save thy own ! " THE MEETLN 63 Til E M EET ING. npHE elder folk shook bands at ' ] 1 To I [alf solemnizi d and half amus With l"i- _.-,-■ iiM\v:. His de the hills lay warm i The cattle in the meadow-run 1 half-leg d le bird The ; re n i " What part or lot have you," he said, " In these dull rites of drowsy-head ? Is silence worship ? — Seek it where Othes with dreams the summer air, 64 THE MEETING. Not in this close and rude-benched hall, But where soft lights and shadows fall, And all the slow, sleep-walking hours - Glide soundless over grass and flowers ! From time and place and form apart, Its holy ground the human heart, Nor ritual-bound nor templeward Walks the .free spirit of the Lord ! Our common Master did not pen His followers up from other men ; His service liberty indeed, He built no church, he framed no creed ; But while the saintly Pharisee Made broader his phylactery, As from the synagogue was seen The dusty-sandalled Nazarene Through ripening cornfields lead the way Upon the awful Sabbath day, THE u: 65 sermons were the healthful talk That shorter made the mountain-walk, Hi wayside texts were flowers and bii Where mingled with His gracious wu: rustle of the tamari>k-trec And ripple-wash of Galilee." "Thy words are well, friend," I ued and unlimited, With noi lide of ston I >ne, 1 I 'hureh xn. Invisible and silent >tand> The temple never made with hands, Unheard th still and small 01 1;- mi >< en iaL He needs no special place of pr; Whose hearing ear i where ; He brings not back the childish davs 66 THE MEETING. That ringed the earth with stones of praise, Roofed Karnak's hall of gods, and laid The plinths of Philae's colonnade. Still less He owns the selfish good And sickly growth of solitude, — The worthless grace that, out of sight, Flowers in the desert anchorite ; Dissevered from the suffering whole, Love hath no power to save a soul. Not out of Self, the origin And native air and soil of sin, The living waters spring and flow, The trees with leaves of healing grow. " Dream not, O friend, because I seek This quiet shelter twice a week, I better deem its pine-laid floor Than breezy hill or sea-sung shore ; Tin: m; But nature is not solitude ; She crowds us with her thronging wood ; Ilcr many hands reach out to Her many t Perpetual rid She offers to our She will not till, But drags th ive at her will ; And, making earth too great for 1 She hi I r in the I find it well to come For deep r this still room, For h ire the habit of the soul. world's control ; The strength of mutual puq More earnestly our common And from the silence multiplied 68 THE MEETING. By these still forms on either side, The world that time and sense have known Falls off and leaves us God alone. " Yet rarely through the charmed repose Unmixed the stream of motive flows, A flavor of its many springs, The tints of earth and sky it brings ; In the still waters needs must be Some shade of human sympathy ; And here, in its accustomed place, I look on memory's dearest face ; The blind by-sitter guesseth not What shadow haunts that vacant spot ; No eye save mine alone can see The love wherewith it welcomes me ! And still, with those alone my kin, In doubt and weakness, want and sin, the m: 69 I bow my head, my heart I bare As when that face was living there, And strive (too oft, alas ! in vain) The peace of simple tru^t to gain, Fold fan The i my heart a. " \Y li »m th ill unbrok h goldei >m Our autumn flowers have just m m;« Wh< ful utterance thr The freshness of the morning bl Who loved not less the earth that 1 Fell on it from the heavens in sight, •aw in all fair forms more fair The Eternal beauty mirrored th UTS but added grace JO THE MEETING. And saintlier meaning to her face, — The look of one who bore away Glad tidings from the hills of day, While all our hearts went forth to meet The coming of her beautiful feet ! Or haply hers, whose pilgrim tread Is in the paths where Jesus led ; Who dreams her childhood's sabbath dream By Jordan's willow-shaded stream, And, of the hymns of hope and faith, Sung by the monks of Nazareth, Hears pious echoes, in the call To prayer, from Moslem minarets fall, Repeating where His works were wrought The lesson that her Master taught, Of whom an elder Sibyl gave, The prophecies of Cumae's cave ! THE M: " I ask no breath rone the themes of life and death, ..idle-lit I mate w ■ Its 1 Then ilpit hamra Of 1 I tking t'n I What work the 1 I But God is near us no* n ; His i - still unspent, His hate of sin as imminent; /2 THE MEETING. And still the measure of our needs Outgrows the cramping bounds of creeds ; The manna gathered yesterday Already savors of decay ; Doubts to the world's child-heart unknown Question us now from star and stone ; Too little or too much we know, And sight is swift and faith is slow ; The power is lost to self-deceive With shallow forms of make-believe. We walk at high noon, and the bells Call to a thousand oracles, But the sound deafens, and the light Is stronger than our dazzled sight ; The letters of the sacred Book Glimmer and. swim beneath our look; Still struggles in the Age's breast With deepening agony of quest J ill Id The old entreaty: 'Art thou lie, Or look we for the Christ to b hould be most where man i neither And : J lothe thi : — Where farm* r f Ik i — I turn my bell-unsumm I lay the cril I trend upon nn 1 pride, And, lov tify To the on< i humanity ; Confess the universal want. And share whatever int. lie findeth not who seeks his own, The soul is lest that I alone. Not on one favored forehead fell 4 74 THE MEETING. Of old the fire-tongued miracle, But flamed o'er all the thronging host The baptism of the Holy Ghost ; Heart answers heart ; in one desire The blending lines of prayer aspire ; ' Where, in my name, meet two or three, Our Lord hath said, ' I there will be ! ' " So sometimes comes to soul and sense The feeling which is evidence That very near about us lies The realm of spiritual mysteries. The sphere of the supernal powers Impinges on this world of ours. The low and dark horizon lifts, To light the scenic terror shifts ; The breath of a diviner air Blows down the answer of a prayer : — THK Ml.I.li' That all our pain, and doubt A great compas about, and force, Arc v. Then duty I The The pas i . to the calml) ,ht The innermost of truth is taught, . dimly und That 1m I, chiefly, its divinesl In Him of Nazareth's holy face ; That tu be saved is only this, — / D /6 THE MEETING. Salvation from our selfishness, From more than elemental fire, The soul's unsanctified desire, From sin itself, and not the pain That' warns us of its chafing chain ; That worship's deeper meaning lies In mercy, and not sacrifice, Not proud humilities of sense And posturing of penitence, But love's unforced obedience ; That Book and Church and Day are given For man, not God, — for earth, not heaven, The blessed means to holiest ends, Not masters, but benignant friends ; That the dear Christ dwells not afar The king of some remoter star, Listening, at times, with flattered ear To homage wrung from selfish fear, THE MEETING. Hut here, amidst the poor and blind, The bound and suffering of our kind, In works we do, in prayer .v, Life of our life, he lives ton ?8 THE ANSWER. THE ANSWER. QPARE me, dread angel of reproof, And let the sunshine weave to-day Its gold-threads in the warp and woof Of life so poor and gray. Spare me awhile ; the flesh is weak. These lingering feet, that fain would stray Among the flowers, shall some day seek The strait and narrow way. Take of! thy ever-watchful eye, The awe of thy rebuking frown ; The dullest slave at times must sigh To fling his burdens down ; THE A NSW! 79 To drop hi I straining oar, And press, in summer warmth and calm, The lap of some enchanted shore I and of balm. not my Life >m, My hi Hi i This da) be mine : tie As dut) | ire. •• n, Smiting my selfish • I morrow is with I And man hath hi:" " Say not, thy fond, vail within, The Father's arras shall still be wide. When from these pleasant ways of sin Thou turn'st at eventide. 80 THE ANSWER. " ' Cast thyself down,' the tempter saith, 'And angels shall thy feet upbear.' He bids thee make a lie of faith, And blasphemy of prayer. "Though God be good and free be Heaven, No force divine can love compel ; And, though the song of sins forgiven May sound through lowest hell, "The sweet persuasion of His voice Respects thy sanctity of will. He giveth day : thou hast thy choice To walk in darkness still ; "As one who, turning from the light, Watches his own gray shadow fall, Doubting upon his path of night, If there be day at all ! Tin: \- 8 1 word of doom may shut thee out, No wind of wrath may downward whirl, words of fin watch al The open pearl ; "A tenderer light than moon or sun, Than song of earth a sweeter hymn, May shine and sound I n, And thmi be deaf and dim. " For< v r round the The guiding lights of Love shall burn ; But what if, habit-bound, thy feet' Shall laek the will to turn ? " What if thine eye ref Thine ear of Heaven's free welcome fail, And thou a willing captive Thyself thy own dark jail ? 82 THE ANSWER. " O doom beyond the saddest guess, As the long years of God unroll To make thy dreary selfishness The prison of a soul ! "To doubt the love that fain would break The fetters from thy self-bound limb ; And dream that God can thee forsake As thou forsakest him ! " G. L. S. 83 T T E • the work of a true man, — iwn him, honor him, love him. r him, I nan, op manliest brows above him! O dusky mothers and daughl >f mourning keep for him ! Up in the mountains, and down by th Lift up your him ! For the wannest of hearts is frozen, The freest ^( hands is still ; And the gap in our picked and chosen The long years may not fill. 84 G. L. s. No duty could overtask him, No need his will outrun ; Or ever our lips could ask him, His hands the work had done. He forgot his own soul for others, Himself to his neighbor lending ; He found the Lord in his suffering brothers, And not in the clouds descending. So the bed was sweet to die on, Whence he saw the doors wide swung Against whose bolted iron The strength of his life was flung. And he saw ere his eye was darkened The sheaves of the harvest-bringing, And knew while his ear yet hearkened The voice of the reapers singing. '.. L. S. 85 Ah, well! — The world is discreet; There are plenl tuse and wait ; Hut her man \\\ bis feet , — Plui ' hark when the in;. new it, And put to the I work the sinner W'hm saint 3 fail d to do it. to tin: wrong's redressing A worthier paladin. Shall he not hear the blessii od and faithful, enter in ! " 86 FREEDOM IN BRAZIL. W FREEDOM IN BRAZIL. ITH clearer light, Cross of the South, shine / . forth In blue Brazilian skies ; And thou, O river, cleaving half the earth From sunset to sunrise, From the great mountains to the Atlantic waves Thy joy's long anthem pour. Yet a few days (God make them less !) and slaves Shall shame thy pride no more. No fettered feet thy shaded margins press ; But all men shall walk free Where thou, the high-priest of the wilderness, Hast wedded sea to sea. FR] IN BRAZIL. 8? And thou, great-hearted ruler, through whose mouth The word of God is said, Once more, " Let there be light!* 1 — Son of the South, Lift up thy honored h unashamed a crown by thj More than by birth -thy own, if watch and ward ; thou art b iteful hearts alon The moated wall and battle-ship may fail, Bui ball justice pro\ Stronger than gl r iron mail Tin: panoply of love. a ned doubly by man's blessing and I I ace, Thy future .re ; Who frees a people makes his statue's place In Time's Valhalla sure. 88 FREEDOM IN BRAZIL. Lo ! from his Neva's banks the Scythian Czar Stretches to thee his hand Who, with the pencil of the Northern star, Wrote freedom on his land. And he whose grave is holy by our calm And prairied Sangamon, From his gaunt hand shall drop the martyr's palm To greet thee with " Well done ! " And thou, O Earth, with smiles thy face make sweet, And let thy wail be stilled, To hear the Muse of prophecy repeat Her promise half fulfilled. The Voice that spake at Nazareth speaks still, No sound thereof hath died ; Alike thy hope and heaven's eternal will Shall yet be satisfied. BEDOM IN" BRAZIL. 89 The years are slow, the vision tarrieth long, And far the end may I But, one by one, the fiends of ancient wrong Go out and leave thee free. 90 DIVINE COMPASSION. DIVINE COMPASSION. T ONG since, a dream of heaven I had, And still the vision haunts me oft ; I see the saints in white robes clad, The martyrs with their palms aloft ; But hearing still, in middle song, The ceaseless dissonance of wrong ; And shrinking, with hid faces, from the strain Of sad, beseeching eyes, full of remorse and pain. The glad song falters to a wail, The harping sinks to low lament ; Before the still unlifted veil I see the crowned foreheads bent, DIVINE COM 91 Making more sweet the heavenly air, With breathings of unselfish pra\ And a V h: "O Pity which is pain, I. • fill up my sufferings which remain ! "Shall soul< ; 1 by me refuse To share my sorrow in their turn? Or, sin-forgiven, my gifi n ? If: : no pit] Has faith no work, and love I r ? While sin remains, and souls in d.uku Can heav n itself be heaven, and look unmoved on hell 3 " Then through the Gates of Pain, I dream, A wind of heaven blows coolly in ; 92 DIVINE COMPASSION. Fainter the awful discords seem, The smoke of torment grows more thin, Tears quench the burning soil, and thence Spring sweet, pale flowers of penitence ; And through the dreary realm of man's despair, Star-crowned an angel walks, and lo ! God's hope is there ! Is it a dream ? Is heaven so high That pity cannot breathe its air ? Its happy eyes forever dry, Its holy lips without a prayer ! My God ! my God ! if thither led By thy free grace unmerited, No crown nor palm be mine, but let me keep A heart that still can feel, and eyes that still can weep. LINKS ON A FLY-LEAP. 93 LIN ES ON A F LY - L EAF. NEED not ask thee, for my sake, To read a book whi< h well may make Its way by native t wit Without my manual sign to it. I- piquant writer 1. >ra me ravely masculin nty, And wdl might laugh her m At broken spears in her beh Yet, spite "Tall the critics tell, I frankly own I like her well. It may be that she wields a pen Too sharply nibbed lor thin-skinned men, That her keen arm h and try The armor joints of dignity, 94 LINES ON A FLY-LEAF. And, though alone for error meant, Sing through the air irreverent. I blame her not, the young athlete Who plants her woman's tiny feet, And dares the chances of debate Where bearded men might hesitate, Who, deeply earnest, seeing well The ludicrous and laughable, Mingling in eloquent excess Her anger and her tenderness, And, chiding with a half-caress, Strives, less for her own sex than ours, With principalities and powers, And points us upward to the clear Sunned heights of her new atmosphere. Heaven mend her faults ! — I will not pause To weigh and doubt and peck at flaws, LINKS I V-LI1AK. 95 Or waste my pity when sonic fool Provokes her measureless ridicule. Strong-minded is she? Better Than dulness set for sale or sfa A household folly capped and belled In fashion's dance of puppets held, Or poor pretence of womanh Wh . il, flavorless platitude I warranted from all otlci- leaning's violent Give me tfa whose bead Sparkles along the pag 1 i Electric words in which I find The tonic of the northwest wind, — The wisdom which itself allies I and pure human i: Where scorn of meanness, hate of wroi Are underlaid by love as strong ; 96 LINES ON A FLY-LEAF. The genial play of mirth that lights Grave themes of thought, as, when on nights Of summer-time, the harmless blaze Of thunderless heat-lightning plays, And tree and hill-top resting dim And doubtful on the sky's vague rim, Touched by that soft and lambent gleam, Start sharply outlined from their dream. Talk not to me of woman's sphere, Nor point with scripture texts a sneer, Nor wrong the manliest saint of all By doubt, if he were here, that Paul Would own the heroines who have lent Grace to truth's stern arbitrament, Foregone *the praise to woman sweet, And cast their crowns at Duty's feet ; Like her, who by her strong Appeal LINES ON \ i ; 97 and Mammon feci, Who, earliest summoned to withstand The color-madness of the land, Counted her life-long I< tin, And made her own In r pain ; ( >r her, who in her greenwood shad I [( iid the sharp call th I lom ma And, answering, struck from Sappl ( )f love the I i men's fii Or that young girl, — Domre'my's maid ived a nobler cause to aid, — Shaking from warning finger-ti] The doom of her ap tcalyp ( )r her, who world-wide entrain 1 1 1 • . • abin of the sla . Made all his want and SOITOW known. And all earth's languages his own. g8 HYMN. HYMN FOR THE HOUSE OF WORSHIP AT GEORGETOWN, ERECTED IN MEMORY OF A MOTHER. HPHOU dwellest not, O Lord of all ! In temples which thy children raise ; Our work to thine is mean and small, And brief to thy eternal days. Forgive the weakness and the pride, If marred thereby our gift may be, For love, at least, has sanctified The altar that we rear to thee. The heart and not the hand has wrought From sunken base to tower above HYMN. 99 The i Icr thought, The memory of a deathless love ! And though should >und of speech Or organ echo from its wall, I .shade in D< 1 I re should th And bl n ; rofane, nor hati id, The mingled loves of earth and heaven. Thou, who didsl with dying breath Th< hing by thy en ■tful of the pains of death In sorrow tor her mighty 1 IOO HYMN. In memory of that tender claim, O Mother-born, the offering take, And make it worthy of thy name, And bless it for a mother's sake ! THE END. Cambridge : Electrotyped and Printed by Wei rh, Bigelow, & Co. JOHN G. WHITTIERS WRITINGS PUBLISHED BY FIELDS, OSG< ><)D, & CO. B STON, And for sale by all 1 ../, by the Publi>her> on r \L WORKS. With Portrait % 4.00. \L WORKS. With Portrait. iition. s. 53.00. TICAL WORK ■■ With 12 lull •; :c.u. WORKS % 1.50. AMONG THE H/LLS, and other tions. 1. $ 1.50. TENT ON THE BEACH, and oil l > 1.50. nter Idyl : trait, and 3 I With 40 Illustration Harky I ed by A. V. S. A th, full gilt, $ 5.00. /.\* WAR-TIME, and nth . : .25. NATIONAL LYRICS Illustrated 1 vol. Paper, 50 cts; Mo- do cloth, wit! 00. HOME HM. I. ADS AND AoEMS l 00. PROSE WORKS Nam .//;./ < r. 2 rob. Bevelled boards, gilt tup. $5.00. MAUD MC/LLER. IUustrxU With 13 Pictures bj W. J. H Cloth, full gilt. J 3. 50. For a fuller descriptioa of the Illustrated Volum lowin 1 THE ILL USTRA TED SNO IV-BO UND. WHITTIEFS SNOW-BOUND. With 40 Pictures by Harry Fenn, engraved by Anthony and Linton, i vol. 8vo. Tinted paper, gilt edges, and bevelled boards, with ornamental cover. Price, in Morocco Cloth, $5.00; Turkey Morocco, $9.00. The well-curb had a Chinese roof; And even the long sweep high aloof In its slant splendor seemed to tell Of Pisa's leaning miracle." Of the illustrations to this exquisite Winter Idyl Mr. Whittier says : " It gives me pleasure to commend the illustrations which accompany this edition of Snow-Bound,' for the faithfulness with which they present the spirit and the details of the passages and places that the artist has designed them to accompany." " The illustrations and the poem fit together so perfectly, forming a beautiful and harmonious whole, that one can hardly be said to have read 'Snow-Bound' unless he has read it in this edition." — New York Tunes. 2 MAUD MULLER ILLUSTRATED. WHITTIEKS MA CD MULLER. With 13 Illustrations drawn by W. J and engraved by A ...d others. beautifully ii > printed on tl ;«r, and bound iu hand- some m Price, ^ue, 5 7.0a WHITTIERS NATIONAL LYRICS. With Illustrations l>y various Artist-. A charming 'ition ;nd in Morocco Cloth, with THE RED-LINE WHITTIER. Illustrated with 12 full-page Pictures by various Artists. feG KATHLEEN. This first and only complete Illustrated Edition of Whittier ever published contains all of Mr. Whittier's hitherto published Poems, is handsomely printed on fine tinted paper, each page bordered with a red-ruled line, and is Illustrated with 12 engravings by the best artists. It is a small quarto, uniform with the " Red-Line Tennyson." Price, in Cloth, $4. 50'; Half Calf; $6.00; Morocco, $8.00. 4 -> l*H%s!|i| mm Mm J I fi 3 *i