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

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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]]

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.
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