Project Gutenberg EBook, Reminiscent Poems by John Greenleaf Whittier Volume II.

,
The Works of Whittier: Poems of Nature, Poems Subjective and Reminiscent, Religious
Poems?#15 in our series by John Greenleaf Whittier
Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws
for your country before downloading or redistributing this or any other Project
Gutenberg eBook.
This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project Gutenberg
file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the header without written
permission.
Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the eBook and
Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is important information
about your specific rights and restrictions in how the file may be used. You can
also find out about how to make a donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get
involved.
**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**
**EBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**
*****These EBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers*****
Title: Reminiscent Poems , From Poems of Nature,
Poems Subjective and Reminiscent and Religious Poems Volume II., The Works of
Whittier
Author: John Greenleaf Whittier
Release Date: Dec, 2005 [EBook #9570]?[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of
schedule]?[This file was first posted on October 2, 2003]
Edition: 10
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
? START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, REMINISCENT POEMS ***
This eBook was produced by David Widger [[email protected]
<mailto:[email protected]>]
POEMS OF NATURE
POEMS SUBJECTIVE AND REMINISCENT
RELIGIOUS POEMS
BY
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER
CONTENTS:
POEMS SUBJECTIVE AND REMINISCENT:
MEMORIES?RAPHAEL?EGO?THE PUMPKIN?FORGIVENESS?TO MY SISTER?MY THANKS?REMEMBRANCE?MY
NAMESAKE?A MEMORY?MY DREAM?THE BAREFOOT BOY?MY PSALM?THE WAITING
POEMS SUBJECTIVE AND REMINISCENT MEMORIES
A beautiful and happy girl,?With step as light as summer air,?Eyes glad with
smiles, and brow of pearl,?Shadowed by many a careless curl?Of unconfined and
flowing hair;?A seeming child in everything,?Save thoughtful brow and ripening
charms,?As Nature wears the smile of Spring?When sinking into Summer's arms.
A mind rejoicing in the light?Which melted through its graceful bower,?Leaf after
leaf, dew-moist and bright,?And stainless in its holy white,?Unfolding like a
morning flower?A heart, which, like a fine-toned lute,?With every breath of feeling
woke,?And, even when the tongue was mute,?From eye and lip in music spoke.
How thrills once more the lengthening chain?Of memory, at the thought of thee!?Old
hopes which long in dust have lain?Old dreams, come thronging back again,?And
boyhood lives again in me;?I feel its glow upon my cheek,?Its fulness of the heart
is mine,?As when I leaned to hear thee speak,?Or raised my doubtful eye to thine.
I hear again thy low replies,?I feel thy arm within my own,?And timidly again
uprise?The fringed lids of hazel eyes,?With soft brown tresses overblown.?Ah!
memories of sweet summer eves,?Of moonlit wave and willowy way,?Of stars and
flowers, and dewy leaves,?And smiles and tones more dear than they!
Ere this, thy quiet eye hath smiled?My picture of thy youth to see,?When, half a
woman, half a child,?Thy very artlessness beguiled,?And folly's self seemed wise in
thee;?I too can smile, when o'er that hour?The lights of memory backward stream,?
Yet feel the while that manhood's power?Is vainer than my boyhood's dream.
Years have passed on, and left their trace,?Of graver care and deeper thought;?And
unto me the calm, cold face?Of manhood, and to thee the grace?Of woman's pensive
beauty brought.?More wide, perchance, for blame than praise,?The school-boy's
humble name has flown;?Thine, in the green and quiet ways?Of unobtrusive goodness
known.
And wider yet in thought and deed?Diverge our pathways, one in youth;?Thine the
Genevan's sternest creed,?While answers to my spirit's need?The Derby dalesman's
simple truth.?For thee, the priestly rite and prayer,?And holy day, and solemn
psalm;?For me, the silent reverence where?My brethren gather, slow and calm.
Yet hath thy spirit left on me?An impress Time has worn not out,?And something of
myself in thee,?A shadow from the past, I see,?Lingering, even yet, thy way about;?
Not wholly can the heart unlearn?That lesson of its better hours,?Not yet has
Time's dull footstep worn?To common dust that path of flowers.
Thus, while at times before our eyes?The shadows melt, and fall apart,?And, smiling
through them, round us lies?The warm light of our morning skies,--?The Indian
Summer of the heart!?In secret sympathies of mind,?In founts of feeling which
retain?Their pure, fresh flow, we yet may find?Our early dreams not wholly vain?
1841.
RAPHAEL.
Suggested by the portrait of Raphael, at the age of fifteen.
I shall not soon forget that sight?The glow of Autumn's westering day,?A hazy
warmth, a dreamy light,?On Raphael's picture lay.
It was a simple print I saw,?The fair face of a musing boy;?Yet, while I gazed, a
sense of awe?Seemed blending with my joy.
A simple print,--the graceful flow?Of boyhood's soft and wavy hair,?And fresh young
lip and cheek, and brow?Unmarked and clear, were there.
Yet through its sweet and calm repose?I saw the inward spirit shine;?It was as if
before me rose?The white veil of a shrine.
As if, as Gothland's sage has told,?The hidden life, the man within,?Dissevered
from its frame and mould,?By mortal eye were seen.
Was it the lifting of that eye,?The waving of that pictured hand??Loose as a cloud-
wreath on the sky,?I saw the walls expand.
The narrow room had vanished,--space,?Broad, luminous, remained alone,?Through
which all hues and shapes of grace?And beauty looked or shone.
Around the mighty master came?The marvels which his pencil wrought,?Those miracles
of power whose fame?Is wide as human thought.
There drooped thy more than mortal face,?O Mother, beautiful and mild?Enfolding in
one dear embrace?Thy Saviour and thy Child!
The rapt brow of the Desert John;?The awful glory of that day?When all the Father's
brightness shone?Through manhood's veil of clay.
And, midst gray prophet forms, and wild?Dark visions of the days of old,?How
sweetly woman's beauty smiled?Through locks of brown and gold!
There Fornarina's fair young face?Once more upon her lover shone,?Whose model of an
angel's grace?He borrowed from her own.
Slow passed that vision from my view,?But not the lesson which it taught;?The soft,
calm shadows which it threw?Still rested on my thought:
The truth, that painter, bard, and sage,?Even in Earth's cold and changeful clime,?
Plant for their deathless heritage?The fruits and flowers of time.
We shape ourselves the joy or fear?Of which the coming life is made,?And fill our
Future's atmosphere?With sunshine or with shade.
The tissue of the Life to be?We weave with colors all our own,?And in the field of
Destiny?We reap as we have sown.
Still shall the soul around it call?The shadows which it gathered here,?And,
painted on the eternal wall,?The Past shall reappear.
Think ye the notes of holy song?On Milton's tuneful ear have died??Think ye that
Raphael's angel throng?Has vanished from his side?
Oh no!--We live our life again;?Or warmly touched, or coldly dim,?The pictures of
the Past remain,---?Man's works shall follow him!?1842.
EGO.
WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF A FRIEND.
On page of thine I cannot trace?The cold and heartless commonplace,?A statue's
fixed and marble grace.
For ever as these lines I penned,?Still with the thought of thee will blend?That of
some loved and common friend,
Who in life's desert track has made?His pilgrim tent with mine, or strayed?Beneath
the same remembered shade.
And hence my pen unfettered moves?In freedom which the heart approves,?The
negligence which friendship loves.
And wilt thou prize my poor gift less?For simple air and rustic dress,?And sign of
haste and carelessness?
Oh, more than specious counterfeit?Of sentiment or studied wit,?A heart like thine
should value it.
Yet half I fear my gift will be?Unto thy book, if not to thee,?Of more than
doubtful courtesy.
A banished name from Fashion's sphere,?A lay unheard of Beauty's ear,?Forbid,
disowned,--what do they here?
Upon my ear not all in vain?Came the sad captive's clanking chain,?The groaning
from his bed of pain.
And sadder still, I saw the woe?Which only wounded spirits know?When Pride's strong
footsteps o'er them go.
Spurned not alone in walks abroad,?But from the temples of the Lord?Thrust out
apart, like things abhorred.
Deep as I felt, and stern and strong,?In words which Prudence smothered long,?My
soul spoke out against the wrong;
Not mine alone the task to speak?Of comfort to the poor and weak,?And dry the tear
on Sorrow's cheek;
But, mingled in the conflict warm,?To pour the fiery breath of storm?Through the
harsh trumpet of Reform;
To brave Opinion's settled frown,?From ermined robe and saintly gown,?While
wrestling reverenced Error down.
Founts gushed beside my pilgrim way,?Cool shadows on the greensward lay,?Flowers
swung upon the bending spray.
And, broad and bright, on either hand,?Stretched the green slopes of Fairy-land,?
With Hope's eternal sunbow spanned;
Whence voices called me like the flow,?Which on the listener's ear will grow,?Of
forest streamlets soft and low.
And gentle eyes, which still retain?Their picture on the heart and brain,?Smiled,
beckoning from that path of pain.
In vain! nor dream, nor rest, nor pause?Remain for him who round him draws?The
battered mail of Freedom's cause.
From youthful hopes, from each green spot?Of young Romance, and gentle Thought,?
Where storm and tumult enter not;
From each fair altar, where belong?The offerings Love requires of Song?In homage to
her bright-eyed throng;
With soul and strength, with heart and hand,?I turned to Freedom's struggling
band,?To the sad Helots of our land.
What marvel then that Fame should turn?Her notes of praise to those of scorn;?Her
gifts reclaimed, her smiles withdrawn?
What matters it? a few years more,?Life's surge so restless heretofore?Shall break
upon the unknown shore!
In that far land shall disappear?The shadows which we follow here,?The mist-wreaths
of our atmosphere!
Before no work of mortal hand,?Of human will or strength expand?The pearl gates of
the Better Land;
Alone in that great love which gave?Life to the sleeper of the grave,?Resteth the
power to seek and save.
Yet, if the spirit gazing through?The vista of the past can view?One deed to Heaven
and virtue true;
If through the wreck of wasted powers,?Of garlands wreathed from Folly's bowers,?Of
idle aims and misspent hours,
The eye can note one sacred spot?By Pride and Self profaned not,?A green place in
the waste of thought,
Where deed or word hath rendered less?The sum of human wretchedness,?And Gratitude
looks forth to bless;
The simple burst of tenderest feeling?From sad hearts worn by evil-dealing,?For
blessing on the hand of healing;
Better than Glory's pomp will be?That green and blessed spot to me,?A palm-shade in
Eternity!
Something of Time which may invite?The purified and spiritual sight?To rest on with
a calm delight.
And when the summer winds shall sweep?With their light wings my place of sleep,?And
mosses round my headstone creep;
If still, as Freedom's rallying sign,?Upon the young heart's altars shine?The very
fires they caught from mine;
If words my lips once uttered still,?In the calm faith and steadfast will?Of other
hearts, their work fulfil;
Perchance with joy the soul may learn?These tokens, and its eye discern?The fires
which on those altars burn;
A marvellous joy that even then,?The spirit hath its life again,?In the strong
hearts of mortal men.
Take, lady, then, the gift I bring,?No gay and graceful offering,?No flower-smile
of the laughing spring.
Midst the green buds of Youth's fresh May,?With Fancy's leaf-enwoven bay,?My sad
and sombre gift I lay.
And if it deepens in thy mind?A sense of suffering human-kind,--?The outcast and
the spirit-blind;
Oppressed and spoiled on every side,?By Prejudice, and Scorn, and Pride,?Life's
common courtesies denied;
Sad mothers mourning o'er their trust,?Children by want and misery nursed,?Tasting
life's bitter cup at first;
If to their strong appeals which come?From fireless hearth, and crowded room,?And
the close alley's noisome gloom,--
Though dark the hands upraised to thee?In mute beseeching agony,?Thou lend'st thy
woman's sympathy;
Not vainly on thy gentle shrine,?Where Love, and Mirth, and Friendship twine?Their
varied gifts, I offer mine.?1843.
THE PUMPKIN.
Oh, greenly and fair in the lands of the sun,?The vines of the gourd and the rich
melon run,?And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold,?With broad leaves all
greenness and blossoms all gold,?Like that which o'er Nineveh's prophet once grew,?
While he waited to know that his warning was true,?And longed for the storm-cloud,
and listened in vain?For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain.
On the banks of the Xenil the dark Spanish maiden?Comes up with the fruit of the
tangled vine laden;?And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold?Through orange-
leaves shining the broad spheres of gold;?Yet with dearer delight from his home in
the North,?On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth,?Where crook-necks
are coiling and yellow fruit shines,?And the sun of September melts down on his
vines.
Ah! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West,?From North and from South
come the pilgrim and guest,?When the gray-haired New-Englander sees round his
board?The old broken links of affection restored,?When the care-wearied man seeks
his mother once more,?And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before,?What
moistens the lip and what brightens the eye??What calls back the past, like the
rich Pumpkin pie?
Oh, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling,?When wood-grapes were purpling
and brown nuts were falling! When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin,?Glaring
out through the dark with a candle within!?When we laughed round the corn-heap,
with hearts all in tune, Our chair a broad pumpkin,--our lantern the moon,?Telling
tales of the fairy who travelled like steam,?In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two
rats for her team?Then thanks for thy present! none sweeter or better?E'er smoked
from an oven or circled a platter!?Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more
fine,?Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking, than thine!?And the prayer,
which my mouth is too full to express,?Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be
less,?That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below,?And the fame of thy worth
like a pumpkin-vine grow,?And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky?Golden-
tinted and fair as thy own Pumpkin pie!?1844.
FORGIVENESS.
My heart was heavy, for its trust had been?Abused, its kindness answered with foul
wrong;?So, turning gloomily from my fellow-men,?One summer Sabbath day I strolled
among?The green mounds of the village burial-place;?Where, pondering how all human
love and hate?Find one sad level; and how, soon or late,?Wronged and wrongdoer,
each with meekened face,?And cold hands folded over a still heart,?Pass the green
threshold of our common grave,?Whither all footsteps tend, whence none depart,?Awed
for myself, and pitying my race,?Our common sorrow, like a nighty wave,?Swept all
my pride away, and trembling I forgave!?1846.
TO MY SISTER,
WITH A COPY OF "THE SUPERNATURALISM OF NEW ENGLAND."
The work referred to was a series of papers under this title, contributed to the
Democratic Review and afterward collected into a volume, in which I noted some of
the superstitions and folklore prevalent in New England. The volume has not been
kept in print, but most of its contents are distributed in my Literary Recreations
and Miscellanies.
Dear Sister! while the wise and sage?Turn coldly from my playful page,?And count it
strange that ripened age?Should stoop to boyhood's folly;?I know that thou wilt
judge aright?Of all which makes the heart more light,?Or lends one star-gleam to
the night?Of clouded Melancholy.
Away with weary cares and themes!?Swing wide the moonlit gate of dreams!?Leave free
once more the land which teems?With wonders and romances?Where thou, with clear
discerning eyes,?Shalt rightly read the truth which lies?Beneath the quaintly
masking guise?Of wild and wizard fancies.
Lo! once again our feet we set?On still green wood-paths, twilight wet,?By lonely
brooks, whose waters fret?The roots of spectral beeches;?Again the hearth-fire
glimmers o'er?Home's whitewashed wall and painted floor,?And young eyes widening to
the lore?Of faery-folks and witches.
Dear heart! the legend is not vain?Which lights that holy hearth again,?And calling
back from care and pain,?And death's funereal sadness,?Draws round its old familiar
blaze?The clustering groups of happier days,?And lends to sober manhood's gaze?A
glimpse of childish gladness.
And, knowing how my life hath been?A weary work of tongue and pen,?A long, harsh
strife with strong-willed men,?Thou wilt not chide my turning?To con, at times, an
idle rhyme,?To pluck a flower from childhood's clime,?Or listen, at Life's noonday
chime,?For the sweet bells of Morning!?1847.
MY THANKS,
ACCOMPANYING MANUSCRIPTS PRESENTED TO A FRIEND.
'T is said that in the Holy Land?The angels of the place have blessed?The pilgrim's
bed of desert sand,?Like Jacob's stone of rest.
That down the hush of Syrian skies?Some sweet-voiced saint at twilight sings?The
song whose holy symphonies?Are beat by unseen wings;
Till starting from his sandy bed,?The wayworn wanderer looks to see?The halo of an
angel's head?Shine through the tamarisk-tree.
So through the shadows of my way?Thy smile hath fallen soft and clear,?So at the
weary close of day?Hath seemed thy voice of cheer.
That pilgrim pressing to his goal?May pause not for the vision's sake,?Yet all fair
things within his soul?The thought of it shall wake:
The graceful palm-tree by the well,?Seen on the far horizon's rim;?The dark eyes of
the fleet gazelle,?Bent timidly on him;
Each pictured saint, whose golden hair?Streams sunlike through the convent's
gloom;?Pale shrines of martyrs young and fair,?And loving Mary's tomb;
And thus each tint or shade which falls,?From sunset cloud or waving tree,?Along my
pilgrim path, recalls?The pleasant thought of thee.
Of one in sun and shade the same,?In weal and woe my steady friend,?Whatever by
that holy name?The angels comprehend.
Not blind to faults and follies, thou?Hast never failed the good to see,?Nor judged
by one unseemly bough?The upward-struggling tree.
These light leaves at thy feet I lay,--?Poor common thoughts on common things,?
Which time is shaking, day by day,?Like feathers from his wings;
Chance shootings from a frail life-tree,?To nurturing care but little known,?Their
good was partly learned of thee,?Their folly is my own.
That tree still clasps the kindly mould,?Its leaves still drink the twilight dew,?
And weaving its pale green with gold,?Still shines the sunlight through.
There still the morning zephyrs play,?And there at times the spring bird sings,?And
mossy trunk and fading spray?Are flowered with glossy wings.
Yet, even in genial sun and rain,?Root, branch, and leaflet fail and fade;?The
wanderer on its lonely plain?Erelong shall miss its shade.
O friend beloved, whose curious skill?Keeps bright the last year's leaves and
flowers,?With warm, glad, summer thoughts to fill?The cold, dark, winter hours
Pressed on thy heart, the leaves I bring?May well defy the wintry cold,?Until, in
Heaven's eternal spring,?Life's fairer ones unfold.?1847.
REMEMBRANCE
WITH COPIES OF THE AUTHOR'S WRITINGS.
Friend of mine! whose lot was cast?With me in the distant past;?Where, like shadows
flitting fast,
Fact and fancy, thought and theme,?Word and work, begin to seem?Like a half-
remembered dream!
Touched by change have all things been,?Yet I think of thee as when?We had speech
of lip and pen.
For the calm thy kindness lent?To a path of discontent,?Rough with trial and
dissent;
Gentle words where such were few,?Softening blame where blame was true,?Praising
where small praise was due;
For a waking dream made good,?For an ideal understood,?For thy Christian womanhood;
For thy marvellous gift to cull?From our common life and dull?Whatsoe'er is
beautiful;
Thoughts and fancies, Hybla's bees?Dropping sweetness; true heart's-ease?Of
congenial sympathies;--
Still for these I own my debt;?Memory, with her eyelids wet,?Fain would thank thee
even yet!
And as one who scatters flowers?Where the Queen of May's sweet hours?Sits,
o'ertwined with blossomed bowers,
In superfluous zeal bestowing?Gifts where gifts are overflowing,?So I pay the debt
I'm owing.
To thy full thoughts, gay or sad,?Sunny-hued or sober clad,?Something of my own I
add;
Well assured that thou wilt take?Even the offering which I make?Kindly for the
giver's sake.?1851.
MY NAMESAKE.
Addressed to Francis Greenleaf Allison of Burlington, New Jersey.
You scarcely need my tardy thanks,?Who, self-rewarded, nurse and tend--?A green
leaf on your own Green Banks--?The memory of your friend.
For me, no wreath, bloom-woven, hides?The sobered brow and lessening hair?For aught
I know, the myrtled sides?Of Helicon are bare.
Their scallop-shells so many bring?The fabled founts of song to try,?They've
drained, for aught I know, the spring?Of Aganippe dry.
Ah well!--The wreath the Muses braid?Proves often Folly's cap and bell;?Methinks,
my ample beaver's shade?May serve my turn as well.
Let Love's and Friendship's tender debt?Be paid by those I love in life.?Why should
the unborn critic whet?For me his scalping-knife?
Why should the stranger peer and pry?One's vacant house of life about,?And drag for
curious ear and eye?His faults and follies out?--
Why stuff, for fools to gaze upon,?With chaff of words, the garb he wore,?As corn-
husks when the ear is gone?Are rustled all the more?
Let kindly Silence close again,?The picture vanish from the eye,?And on the dim and
misty main?Let the small ripple die.
Yet not the less I own your claim?To grateful thanks, dear friends of mine.?Hang,
if it please you so, my name?Upon your household line.
Let Fame from brazen lips blow wide?Her chosen names, I envy none?A mother's love,
a father's pride,?Shall keep alive my own!
Still shall that name as now recall?The young leaf wet with morning dew,?The glory
where the sunbeams fall?The breezy woodlands through.
That name shall be a household word,?A spell to waken smile or sigh;?In many an
evening prayer be heard?And cradle lullaby.
And thou, dear child, in riper days?When asked the reason of thy name,?Shalt
answer: One 't were vain to praise?Or censure bore the same.
"Some blamed him, some believed him good,?The truth lay doubtless 'twixt the two;?
He reconciled as best he could?Old faith and fancies new.
"In him the grave and playful mixed,?And wisdom held with folly truce,?And Nature
compromised betwixt?Good fellow and recluse.
"He loved his friends, forgave his foes;?And, if his words were harsh at times,?He
spared his fellow-men,--his blows?Fell only on their crimes.
"He loved the good and wise, but found?His human heart to all akin?Who met him on
the common ground?Of suffering and of sin.
"Whate'er his neighbors might endure?Of pain or grief his own became;?For all the
ills he could not cure?He held himself to blame.
"His good was mainly an intent,?His evil not of forethought done;?The work he
wrought was rarely meant?Or finished as begun.
"Ill served his tides of feeling strong?To turn the common mills of use;?And, over
restless wings of song,?His birthright garb hung loose!
"His eye was beauty's powerless slave,?And his the ear which discord pains;?Few
guessed beneath his aspect grave?What passions strove in chains.
"He had his share of care and pain,?No holiday was life to him;?Still in the
heirloom cup we drain?The bitter drop will swim.
"Yet Heaven was kind, and here a bird?And there a flower beguiled his way;?And,
cool, in summer noons, he heard?The fountains plash and play.
"On all his sad or restless moods?The patient peace of Nature stole;?The quiet of
the fields and woods?Sank deep into his soul.
"He worshipped as his fathers did,?And kept the faith of childish days,?And,
howsoe'er he strayed or slid,?He loved the good old ways.
"The simple tastes, the kindly traits,?The tranquil air, and gentle speech,?The
silence of the soul that waits?For more than man to teach.
"The cant of party, school, and sect,?Provoked at times his honest scorn,?And
Folly, in its gray respect,?He tossed on satire's horn.
"But still his heart was full of awe?And reverence for all sacred things;?And,
brooding over form and law,'?He saw the Spirit's wings!
"Life's mystery wrapt him like a cloud;?He heard far voices mock his own,?The sweep
of wings unseen, the loud,?Long roll of waves unknown.
"The arrows of his straining sight?Fell quenched in darkness; priest and sage,?Like
lost guides calling left and right,?Perplexed his doubtful age.
"Like childhood, listening for the sound?Of its dropped pebbles in the well,?All
vainly down the dark profound?His brief-lined plummet fell.
"So, scattering flowers with pious pains?On old beliefs, of later creeds,?Which
claimed a place in Truth's domains,?He asked the title-deeds.
"He saw the old-time's groves and shrines?In the long distance fair and dim;?And
heard, like sound of far-off pines,?The century-mellowed hymn!
"He dared not mock the Dervish whirl,?The Brahmin's rite, the Lama's spell;?God
knew the heart; Devotion's pearl?Might sanctify the shell.
"While others trod the altar stairs?He faltered like the publican;?And, while they
praised as saints, his prayers?Were those of sinful man.
"For, awed by Sinai's Mount of Law,?The trembling faith alone sufficed,?That,
through its cloud and flame, he saw?The sweet, sad face of Christ!
"And listening, with his forehead bowed,?Heard the Divine compassion fill?The
pauses of the trump and cloud?With whispers small and still.
"The words he spake, the thoughts he penned,?Are mortal as his hand and brain,?But,
if they served the Master's end,?He has not lived in vain!"
Heaven make thee better than thy name,?Child of my friends!--For thee I crave?What
riches never bought, nor fame?To mortal longing gave.
I pray the prayer of Plato old:?God make thee beautiful within,?And let thine eyes
the good behold?In everything save sin!
Imagination held in check?To serve, not rule, thy poised mind;?Thy Reason, at the
frown or beck?Of Conscience, loose or bind.
No dreamer thou, but real all,--?Strong manhood crowning vigorous youth;?Life made
by duty epical?And rhythmic with the truth.
So shall that life the fruitage yield?Which trees of healing only give,?And green-
leafed in the Eternal field?Of God, forever live!?1853.
A MEMORY
Here, while the loom of Winter weaves?The shroud of flowers and fountains,?I think
of thee and summer eves?Among the Northern mountains.
When thunder tolled the twilight's close,?And winds the lake were rude on,?And thou
wert singing, Ca' the Yowes,?The bonny yowes of Cluden!
When, close and closer, hushing breath,?Our circle narrowed round thee,?And smiles
and tears made up the wreath?Wherewith our silence crowned thee;
And, strangers all, we felt the ties?Of sisters and of brothers;?Ah! whose of all
those kindly eyes?Now smile upon another's?
The sport of Time, who still apart?The waifs of life is flinging;?Oh, nevermore
shall heart to heart?Draw nearer for that singing!
Yet when the panes are frosty-starred,?And twilight's fire is gleaming,?I hear the
songs of Scotland's bard?Sound softly through my dreaming!
A song that lends to winter snows?The glow of summer weather,--?Again I hear thee
ca' the yowes?To Cluden's hills of heather?1854.
MY DREAM.
In my dream, methought I trod,?Yesternight, a mountain road;?Narrow as Al Sirat's
span,?High as eagle's flight, it ran.
Overhead, a roof of cloud?With its weight of thunder bowed;?Underneath, to left and
right,?Blankness and abysmal night.
Here and there a wild-flower blushed,?Now and then a bird-song gushed;?Now and
then, through rifts of shade,?Stars shone out, and sunbeams played.
But the goodly company,?Walking in that path with me,?One by one the brink
o'erslid,?One by one the darkness hid.
Some with wailing and lament,?Some with cheerful courage went;?But, of all who
smiled or mourned,?Never one to us returned.
Anxiously, with eye and ear,?Questioning that shadow drear,?Never hand in token
stirred,?Never answering voice I heard!
Steeper, darker!--lo! I felt?From my feet the pathway melt.?Swallowed by the black
despair,?And the hungry jaws of air,
Past the stony-throated caves,?Strangled by the wash of waves,?Past the splintered
crags, I sank?On a green and flowery bank,--
Soft as fall of thistle-down,?Lightly as a cloud is blown,?Soothingly as childhood
pressed?To the bosom of its rest.
Of the sharp-horned rocks instead,?Green the grassy meadows spread,?Bright with
waters singing by?Trees that propped a golden sky.
Painless, trustful, sorrow-free,?Old lost faces welcomed me,?With whose sweetness
of content?Still expectant hope was blent.
Waking while the dawning gray?Slowly brightened into day,?Pondering that vision
fled,?Thus unto myself I said:--
"Steep and hung with clouds of strife?Is our narrow path of life;?And our death the
dreaded fall?Through the dark, awaiting all.
"So, with painful steps we climb?Up the dizzy ways of time,?Ever in the shadow
shed?By the forecast of our dread.
"Dread of mystery solved alone,?Of the untried and unknown;?Yet the end thereof may
seem?Like the falling of my dream.
"And this heart-consuming care,?All our fears of here or there,?Change and absence,
loss and death,?Prove but simple lack of faith."
Thou, O Most Compassionate!?Who didst stoop to our estate,?Drinking of the cup we
drain,?Treading in our path of pain,--
Through the doubt and mystery,?Grant to us thy steps to see,?And the grace to draw
from thence?Larger hope and confidence.
Show thy vacant tomb, and let,?As of old, the angels sit,?Whispering, by its open
door?"Fear not! He hath gone before!"?1855.
THE BAREFOOT BOY.
Blessings on thee, little man,?Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan?With thy turned-up
pantaloons,?And thy merry whistled tunes;?With thy red lip, redder still?Kissed by
strawberries on the hill;?With the sunshine on thy face,?Through thy torn brim's
jaunty grace;?From my heart I give thee joy,--?I was once a barefoot boy!
Prince thou art,--the grown-up man?Only is republican.?Let the million-dollared
ride!?Barefoot, trudging at his side,?Thou hast more than he can buy?In the reach
of ear and eye,--?Outward sunshine, inward joy?Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!
Oh for boyhood's painless play,?Sleep that wakes in laughing day,?Health that mocks
the doctor's rules,?Knowledge never learned of schools,?Of the wild bee's morning
chase,?Of the wild-flower's time and place,?Flight of fowl and habitude?Of the
tenants of the wood;?How the tortoise bears his shell,?How the woodchuck digs his
cell,?And the ground-mole sinks his well;?How the robin feeds her young,?How the
oriole's nest is hung;?Where the whitest lilies blow,?Where the freshest berries
grow,?Where the ground-nut trails its vine,?Where the wood-grape's clusters shine;?
Of the black wasp's cunning way,?Mason of his walls of clay,?And the architectural
plans?Of gray hornet artisans!?For, eschewing books and tasks,?Nature answers all
he asks,?Hand in hand with her he walks,?Face to face with her he talks,?Part and
parcel of her joy,--?Blessings on the barefoot boy!
Oh for boyhood's time of June,?Crowding years in one brief moon,?When all things I
heard or saw,?Me, their master, waited for.?I was rich in flowers and trees,?
Humming-birds and honey-bees;?For my sport the squirrel played,?Plied the snouted
mole his spade;?For my taste the blackberry cone?Purpled over hedge and stone;?
Laughed the brook for my delight?Through the day and through the night,?Whispering
at the garden wall,?Talked with me from fall to fall;?Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel
pond,?Mine the walnut slopes beyond,?Mine, on bending orchard trees,?Apples of
Hesperides!?Still as my horizon grew,?Larger grew my riches too;?All the world I
saw or knew?Seemed a complex Chinese toy,?Fashioned for a barefoot boy!
Oh for festal dainties spread,?Like my bowl of milk and bread;?Pewter spoon and
bowl of wood,?On the door-stone, gray and rude!?O'er me, like a regal tent,?Cloudy-
ribbed, the sunset bent,?Purple-curtained, fringed with gold,?Looped in many a
wind-swung fold;?While for music came the play?Of the pied frogs' orchestra;?And,
to light the noisy choir,?Lit the fly his lamp of fire.?I was monarch: pomp and
joy?Waited on the barefoot boy!
Cheerily, then, my little man,?Live and laugh, as boyhood can?Though the flinty
slopes be hard,?Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,?Every morn shall lead thee
through?Fresh baptisms of the dew;?Every evening from thy feet?Shall the cool wind
kiss the heat?All too soon these feet must hide?In the prison cells of pride,?Lose
the freedom of the sod,?Like a colt's for work be shod,?Made to tread the mills of
toil,?Up and down in ceaseless moil?Happy if their track be found?Never on
forbidden ground;?Happy if they sink not in?Quick and treacherous sands of sin.?Ah!
that thou couldst know thy joy,?Ere it passes, barefoot boy!?1855.
MY PSALM.
I mourn no more my vanished years?Beneath a tender rain,?An April rain of smiles
and tears,?My heart is young again.
The west-winds blow, and, singing low,?I hear the glad streams run;?The windows of
my soul I throw?Wide open to the sun.
No longer forward nor behind?I look in hope or fear;?But, grateful, take the good I
find,?The best of now and here.
I plough no more a desert land,?To harvest weed and tare;?The manna dropping from
God's hand?Rebukes my painful care.
I break my pilgrim staff, I lay?Aside the toiling oar;?The angel sought so far
away?I welcome at my door.
The airs of spring may never play?Among the ripening corn,?Nor freshness of the
flowers of May?Blow through the autumn morn.
Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look?Through fringed lids to heaven,?And the pale
aster in the brook?Shall see its image given;--
The woods shall wear their robes of praise,?The south-wind softly sigh,?And sweet,
calm days in golden haze?Melt down the amber sky.
Not less shall manly deed and word?Rebuke an age of wrong;?The graven flowers that
wreathe the sword?Make not the blade less strong.
But smiting hands shall learn to heal,--?To build as to destroy;?Nor less my heart
for others feel?That I the more enjoy.
All as God wills, who wisely heeds?To give or to withhold,?And knoweth more of all
my needs?Than all my prayers have told.
Enough that blessings undeserved?Have marked my erring track;?That wheresoe'er my
feet have swerved,?His chastening turned me back;
That more and more a Providence?Of love is understood,?Making the springs of time
and sense?Sweet with eternal good;--
That death seems but a covered way?Which opens into light,?Wherein no blinded child
can stray?Beyond the Father's sight;
That care and trial seem at last,?Through Memory's sunset air,?Like mountain-ranges
overpast,?In purple distance fair;
That all the jarring notes of life?Seem blending in a psalm,?And all the angles of
its strife?Slow rounding into calm.
And so the shadows fall apart,?And so the west-winds play;?And all the windows of
my heart?I open to the day.?1859.
THE WAITING.
I wait and watch: before my eyes?Methinks the night grows thin and gray;?I wait and
watch the eastern skies?To see the golden spears uprise?Beneath the oriflamme of
day!
Like one whose limbs are bound in trance?I hear the day-sounds swell and grow,?And
see across the twilight glance,?Troop after troop, in swift advance,?The shining
ones with plumes of snow!
I know the errand of their feet,?I know what mighty work is theirs;?I can but lift
up hands unmeet,?The threshing-floors of God to beat,?And speed them with unworthy
prayers.
I will not dream in vain despair?The steps of progress wait for me?The puny
leverage of a hair?The planet's impulse well may spare,?A drop of dew the tided
sea.
The loss, if loss there be, is mine,?And yet not mine if understood;?For one shall
grasp and one resign,?One drink life's rue, and one its wine,?And God shall make
the balance good.
Oh power to do! Oh baffled will!?Oh prayer and action! ye are one.?Who may not
strive, may yet fulfil?The harder task of standing still,?And good but wished with
God is done!?1862.
? END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, REMINISCENT POEMS *** By John
Greenleaf Whittier
? This file should be named wit1110.txt or wit1110.zip ***
Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, wit1111.txt VERSIONS based on
separate sources get new LETTER, wit1110a.txt
This eBook was produced by David Widger [[email protected]
<mailto:[email protected]>]
Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of
which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US unless a copyright notice is
included. Thus, we usually do not keep eBooks in compliance with any particular
paper edition.
We are now trying to release all our eBooks one year in advance of the official
release dates, leaving time for better editing. Please be encouraged to tell us
about any error or corrections, even years after the official publication date.
Please note neither this listing nor its contents are final til midnight of the
last day of the month of any such announcement. The official release date of all
Project Gutenberg eBooks is at Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the
stated month. A preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment and
editing by those who wish to do so.
Most people start at our Web sites at:?<http://gutenberg.net/>
or?<http://promo.net/pg>
These Web sites include award-winning information about Project Gutenberg,
including how to donate, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe
to our email newsletter (free!).
Those of you who want to download any eBook before announcement can get to them as
follows, and just download by date. This is also a good way to get them instantly
upon announcement, as the indexes our cataloguers produce obviously take a while
after an announcement goes out in the Project Gutenberg Newsletter.
<http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext03>
or?<ftp://ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext03>
Or /etext02, 01, 00, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90
Just search by the first five letters of the filename you want, as it appears in
our Newsletters.
Information about Project Gutenberg (one page)
We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The time it takes us, a
rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours to get any eBook selected, entered,
proofread, edited, copyright searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written,
etc. Our projected audience is one hundred million readers. If the value per text
is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2 million dollars per hour in
2002 as we release over 100 new text files per month: 1240 more eBooks in 2001 for
a total of 4000+ We are already on our way to trying for 2000 more eBooks in 2002
If they reach just 1-2% of the world's population then the total will reach over
half a trillion eBooks given away by year's end.
The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away 1 Trillion eBooks! This is ten
thousand titles each to one hundred million readers, which is only about 4% of the
present number of computer users.
Here is the briefest record of our progress (* means estimated):
eBooks Year Month
1 1971 July?10 1991 January?100 1994 January?1000 1997 August?1500 1998 October?
2000 1999 December?2500 2000 December?3000 2001 November?4000 2001
October/November?6000 2002 December*?9000 2003 November*?10000 2004 January*
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been created to secure a
future for Project Gutenberg into the next millennium.
We need your donations more than ever!
As of February, 2002, contributions are being solicited from people and
organizations in: Alabama, Alaska, Arkansas, Connecticut, Delaware, District of
Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky,
Louisiana, Maine, Massachusetts, Michigan, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana,
Nebraska, Nevada, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina,
Ohio, Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South Dakota,
Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West Virginia, Wisconsin,
and Wyoming.
We have filed in all 50 states now, but these are the only ones that have
responded.
As the requirements for other states are met, additions to this list will be made
and fund raising will begin in the additional states. Please feel free to ask to
check the status of your state.
In answer to various questions we have received on this:
We are constantly working on finishing the paperwork to legally request donations
in all 50 states. If your state is not listed and you would like to know if we have
added it since the list you have, just ask.
While we cannot solicit donations from people in states where we are not yet
registered, we know of no prohibition against accepting donations from donors in
these states who approach us with an offer to donate.
International donations are accepted, but we don't know ANYTHING about how to make
them tax-deductible, or even if they CAN be made deductible, and don't have the
staff to handle it even if there are ways.
Donations by check or money order may be sent to:
Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation?PMB 113?1739 University Ave.?Oxford,
MS 38655-4109
Contact us if you want to arrange for a wire transfer or payment method other than
by check or money order.
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been approved by the US
Internal Revenue Service as a 501(c)(3) organization with EIN [Employee
Identification Number] 64-622154. Donations are?tax-deductible to the maximum
extent permitted by law. As fund-raising requirements for other states are met,
additions to this list will be made and fund-raising will begin in the additional
states.
We need your donations more than ever!
You can get up to date donation information online at:
<http://www.gutenberg.net/donation.html>
***
If you can't reach Project Gutenberg,?you can always email directly to:
Michael S. Hart <[email protected] <mailto:[email protected]>>
Prof. Hart will answer or forward your message.
We would prefer to send you information by email.
**The Legal Small Print**
(Three Pages)
***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS**START*** Why is this "Small
Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers. They tell us you might sue us if there
is something wrong with your copy of this eBook, even if you got it for free from?
someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our?fault. So, among other
things, this "Small Print!" statement disclaims most of our liability to you. It
also tells you how you may distribute copies of this eBook if you want to.
*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS EBOOK?By using or reading any part of this PROJECT
GUTENBERG-tm?eBook, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept this
"Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive a refund of the money (if
any) you paid for this eBook by?sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to
the person you got it from. If you received this eBook on a physical?medium (such
as a disk), you must return it with your request.
ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM EBOOKS?This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook, like most
PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBooks, is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor
Michael S. Hart through the Project Gutenberg Association (the "Project").?Among
other things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright on or for this
work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States
without permission and?without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth
below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this eBook?under the "PROJECT
GUTENBERG" trademark.
Please do not use the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark to market any commercial
products without permission.
To create these eBooks, the Project expends considerable?efforts to identify,
transcribe and proofread public domain works. Despite these efforts, the Project's
eBooks and any?medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other?things,
Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription
errors, a copyright or other?intellectual property infringement, a defective or
damaged?disk or other eBook medium, a computer virus, or computer?codes that damage
or cannot be read by your equipment.
LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES?But for the "Right of Replacement or
Refund" described below, [1] Michael Hart and the Foundation (and any other party
you may receive this eBook from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook) disclaims all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees, and [2] YOU
HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR?UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF
WARRANTY OR CONTRACT, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL,
PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE?POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGES.
If you discover a Defect in this eBook within 90 days of?receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending an explanatory
note within that?time to the person you received it from. If you received it on a
physical medium, you must return it with your note, and such person may choose to
alternatively give you a replacement copy. If you received it electronically, such
person may?choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to?receive it
electronically.
THIS EBOOK IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER?WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND,
EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS TO THE EBOOK OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON,
INCLUDING BUT NOT?LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A?
PARTICULAR PURPOSE.
Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or the exclusion or
limitation of consequential damages, so the above disclaimers and exclusions may
not apply to you, and you may have other legal rights.
INDEMNITY?You will indemnify and hold Michael Hart, the Foundation,?and its
trustees and agents, and any volunteers associated?with the production and
distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm texts harmless, from all liability, cost and
expense, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the
following that you do or cause: [1] distribution of this eBook, [2] alteration,
modification, or addition to the eBook,?or [3] any Defect.
DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm"?You may distribute copies of this eBook
electronically, or by disk, book or any other medium if you either delete
this?"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg, or:
[1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this
requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the?eBook or this "small print!"
statement. You may however, if you wish, distribute this eBook in machine readable
binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form,?including any form resulting from
conversion by word?processing or hypertext software, but only so long as?*EITHER*:
[*] The eBook, when displayed, is clearly readable, and
does *not* contain characters other than those?intended by the author of the work,
although tilde (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may be used to convey
punctuation intended by the?author, and additional characters may be used to?
indicate hypertext links; OR
[*] The eBook may be readily converted by the reader at
no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent form by the program that displays
the eBook (as is the case, for instance, with most word processors); OR
[*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at
no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the eBook in its original plain ASCII
form (or in EBCDIC or other equivalent proprietary form).
[2] Honor the eBook refund and replacement provisions of this
"Small Print!" statement.
[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Foundation of 20% of the
gross profits you derive calculated using the method you already use to calculate
your applicable taxes. If you don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties
are payable to "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation" the 60 days
following each date you prepare (or were?legally required to prepare) your annual
(or equivalent periodic) tax return. Please contact us beforehand to let us know
your plans and to work out the details.
WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? Project Gutenberg is
dedicated to increasing the number of?public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine readable form.
The Project gratefully accepts contributions of money, time, public domain
materials, or royalty free copyright licenses. Money should be paid to
the:?"Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."
If you are interested in contributing scanning equipment or software or other
items, please contact Michael Hart at:[email protected] <mailto:[email protected]>
[Portions of this eBook's header and trailer may be reprinted only when distributed
free of all fees. Copyright (C) 2001, 2002 by Michael S. Hart. Project Gutenberg is
a TradeMark and may not be used in any sales of Project Gutenberg eBooks or other
materials be they hardware or software or any other related product without express
permission.]
*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS*Ver.02/11/02*END*
from http://www.dertz.in/