JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
Reading edition
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.