The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPersonal Poems, CompleteThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Personal Poems, CompleteAuthor: John Greenleaf WhittierRelease date: December 1, 2005 [eBook #9586]Most recently updated: November 12, 2012Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by David Widger*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PERSONAL POEMS, COMPLETE ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Personal Poems, CompleteAuthor: John Greenleaf WhittierRelease date: December 1, 2005 [eBook #9586]Most recently updated: November 12, 2012Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by David Widger
Title: Personal Poems, Complete
Author: John Greenleaf Whittier
Author: John Greenleaf Whittier
Release date: December 1, 2005 [eBook #9586]Most recently updated: November 12, 2012
Language: English
Credits: Produced by David Widger
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PERSONAL POEMS, COMPLETE ***
CONTENTSA LAMENTTO THE MEMORY OF CHARLES B. STORRS,LINES ON THE DEATH OF S. OLIVER TORREY,TO ———,LEGGETT'S MONUMENT.TO A FRIEND, ON HER RETURN FROM EUROPE.LUCY HOOPER.FOLLEN. ON READING HIS ESSAY ON THE "FUTURE STATE."TO J. P.CHALKLEY HALL.GONETO RONGE.CHANNING.TO MY FRIEND ON THE DEATH OF HIS SISTER.DANIEL WHEELERTO FREDRIKA BREMER.TO AVIS KEENE ON RECEIVING A BASKET OF SEA-MOSSES.THE HILL-TOPICHABODTHE LOST OCCASION.WORDSWORTH, WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF HIS MEMOIRS.TO ———, LINES WRITTEN AFTER A SUMMER DAY'S EXCURSION.BENEDICITE.KOSSUTHTO MY OLD SCHOOLMASTER.THE HERO.RANTOUL.WILLIAM FORSTER.TO CHARLES SUMNER.BURNS, ON RECEIVING A SPRIG OF HEATHER IN BLOSSOM.TO GEORGE B. CHEEVERTO JAMES T. FIELDSTHE MEMORY OF BURNS.IN REMEMBRANCE OF JOSEPH STURGE.BROWN OF OSSAWATOMIENAPLESA MEMORIALBRYANT ON HIS BIRTHDAYTHOMAS STARR KINGLINES ON A FLY-LEAF.GEORGE L. STEARNSGARIBALDITO LYDIA MARIA CHILD,THE SINGER.HOW MARY GREW.SUMNERTHEIRSFITZ-GREENE HALLECK. AT THE UNVEILING OF HIS STATUE.WILLIAM FRANCIS BARTLETT.BAYARD TAYLOR.WITHIN THE GATE. L. M. C.IN MEMORY. JAMES T. FIELDS.WILSONTHE POET AND THE CHILDREN. LONGFELLOW.A WELCOME TO LOWELLAN ARTIST OF THE BEAUTIFUL. GEORGE FULLERMULFORD.TO A CAPE ANN SCHOONERSAMUEL J. TILDEN.OCCASIONAL POEMSEVAA LAY OF OLD TIME.A SONG OF HARVESTKENOZA LAKE.FOR AN AUTUMN FESTIVALTHE QUAKER ALUMNI.OUR RIVER.REVISITED."THE LAURELS"JUNE ON THE MERRIMAC.HYMNHYMNA SPIRITUAL MANIFESTATION.CHICAGOKINSMAN.THE GOLDEN WEDDING OF LONGWOOD.HYMN FOR THE OPENING OF PLYMOUTH CHURCH, ST. PAUL, MINNESOTA.LEXINGTON 1775.THE LIBRARY."I WAS A STRANGER, AND YE TOOK ME IN."CENTENNIAL HYMN.AT SCHOOL-CLOSE. BOWDOIN STREET, BOSTON, 1877.HYMN OF THE CHILDREN.THE LANDMARKS.GARDENA GREETINGGODSPEEDWINTER ROSES.THE REUNIONNORUMBEGA HALL.THE BARTHOLDI STATUE 1886ONE OF THE SIGNERS.THE TENT ON THE BEACHTHE WRECK OF RIVERMOUTHTHE GRAVE BY THE LAKETHE BROTHER OF MERCY.THE CHANGELING.THE MAIDS OF ATTITASH.KALLUNDBORG CHURCHTHE CABLE HYMN.THE DEAD SHIP OF HARPSWELL.THE PALATINE.ABRAHAM DAVENPORTTHE WORSHIP OF NATURE.AT SUNDOWNTO E. C. S.THE CHRISTMAS OF 1888.THE VOW OF WASHINGTON.THE CAPTAIN'S WELL.AN OUTDOOR RECEPTION.R. S. S., AT DEER ISLAND ON THE MERRIMAC.BURNING DRIFT-WOODO. W. HOLMES ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTH-DAY.JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.HAVERHILL. 1640-1890.TO G. G. AN AUTOGRAPH.INSCRIPTIONLYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.MILTONTHE BIRTHDAY WREATHTHE WIND OF MARCH.BETWEEN THE GATES.THE LAST EVE OF SUMMER.TO OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
CONTENTS
A LAMENT
TO THE MEMORY OF CHARLES B. STORRS,
LINES ON THE DEATH OF S. OLIVER TORREY,
TO ———,
LEGGETT'S MONUMENT.
TO A FRIEND, ON HER RETURN FROM EUROPE.
LUCY HOOPER.
FOLLEN. ON READING HIS ESSAY ON THE "FUTURE STATE."
TO J. P.
CHALKLEY HALL.
GONE
TO RONGE.
CHANNING.
TO MY FRIEND ON THE DEATH OF HIS SISTER.
DANIEL WHEELER
TO FREDRIKA BREMER.
TO AVIS KEENE ON RECEIVING A BASKET OF SEA-MOSSES.
THE HILL-TOP
ICHABOD
THE LOST OCCASION.
WORDSWORTH, WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF HIS MEMOIRS.
TO ———, LINES WRITTEN AFTER A SUMMER DAY'S EXCURSION.
BENEDICITE.
KOSSUTH
TO MY OLD SCHOOLMASTER.
THE HERO.
RANTOUL.
WILLIAM FORSTER.
TO CHARLES SUMNER.
BURNS, ON RECEIVING A SPRIG OF HEATHER IN BLOSSOM.
TO GEORGE B. CHEEVER
TO JAMES T. FIELDS
THE MEMORY OF BURNS.
IN REMEMBRANCE OF JOSEPH STURGE.
BROWN OF OSSAWATOMIE
NAPLES
A MEMORIAL
BRYANT ON HIS BIRTHDAY
THOMAS STARR KING
LINES ON A FLY-LEAF.
GEORGE L. STEARNS
GARIBALDI
TO LYDIA MARIA CHILD,
THE SINGER.
HOW MARY GREW.
SUMNER
THEIRS
FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. AT THE UNVEILING OF HIS STATUE.
WILLIAM FRANCIS BARTLETT.
BAYARD TAYLOR.
WITHIN THE GATE. L. M. C.
IN MEMORY. JAMES T. FIELDS.
WILSON
THE POET AND THE CHILDREN. LONGFELLOW.
A WELCOME TO LOWELL
AN ARTIST OF THE BEAUTIFUL. GEORGE FULLER
MULFORD.
TO A CAPE ANN SCHOONER
SAMUEL J. TILDEN.
OCCASIONAL POEMS
EVA
A LAY OF OLD TIME.
A SONG OF HARVEST
KENOZA LAKE.
FOR AN AUTUMN FESTIVAL
THE QUAKER ALUMNI.
OUR RIVER.
REVISITED.
"THE LAURELS"
JUNE ON THE MERRIMAC.
HYMN
HYMN
A SPIRITUAL MANIFESTATION.
CHICAGO
KINSMAN.
THE GOLDEN WEDDING OF LONGWOOD.
HYMN FOR THE OPENING OF PLYMOUTH CHURCH, ST. PAUL, MINNESOTA.
LEXINGTON 1775.
THE LIBRARY.
"I WAS A STRANGER, AND YE TOOK ME IN."
CENTENNIAL HYMN.
AT SCHOOL-CLOSE. BOWDOIN STREET, BOSTON, 1877.
HYMN OF THE CHILDREN.
THE LANDMARKS.
GARDEN
A GREETING
GODSPEED
WINTER ROSES.
THE REUNION
NORUMBEGA HALL.
THE BARTHOLDI STATUE 1886
ONE OF THE SIGNERS.
THE TENT ON THE BEACH
THE WRECK OF RIVERMOUTH
THE GRAVE BY THE LAKE
THE BROTHER OF MERCY.
THE CHANGELING.
THE MAIDS OF ATTITASH.
KALLUNDBORG CHURCH
THE CABLE HYMN.
THE DEAD SHIP OF HARPSWELL.
THE PALATINE.
ABRAHAM DAVENPORT
THE WORSHIP OF NATURE.
AT SUNDOWN
TO E. C. S.
THE CHRISTMAS OF 1888.
THE VOW OF WASHINGTON.
THE CAPTAIN'S WELL.
AN OUTDOOR RECEPTION.
R. S. S., AT DEER ISLAND ON THE MERRIMAC.
BURNING DRIFT-WOOD
O. W. HOLMES ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTH-DAY.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
HAVERHILL. 1640-1890.
TO G. G. AN AUTOGRAPH.
INSCRIPTION
LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.
MILTON
THE BIRTHDAY WREATH
THE WIND OF MARCH.
BETWEEN THE GATES.
THE LAST EVE OF SUMMER.
TO OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
"The parted spirit,Knoweth it not our sorrow? Answereth notIts blessing to our tears?"The circle is broken, one seat is forsaken,One bud from the tree of our friendship is shaken;One heart from among us no longer shall thrillWith joy in our gladness, or grief in our ill.Weep! lonely and lowly are slumbering nowThe light of her glances, the pride of her brow;Weep! sadly and long shall we listen in vainTo hear the soft tones of her welcome again.Give our tears to the dead! For humanity's claimFrom its silence and darkness is ever the same;The hope of that world whose existence is blissMay not stifle the tears of the mourners of this.For, oh! if one glance the freed spirit can throwOn the scene of its troubled probation below,Than the pride of the marble, the pomp of the dead,To that glance will be dearer the tears which we shed.Oh, who can forget the mild light of her smile,Over lips moved with music and feeling the while,The eye's deep enchantment, dark, dream-like, and clear,In the glow of its gladness, the shade of its tear.And the charm of her features, while over the wholePlayed the hues of the heart and the sunshine of soul;And the tones of her voice, like the music which seemsMurmured low in our ears by the Angel of dreams!But holier and dearer our memories holdThose treasures of feeling, more precious than gold,The love and the kindness and pity which gaveFresh flowers for the bridal, green wreaths for the grave!The heart ever open to Charity's claim,Unmoved from its purpose by censure and blame,While vainly alike on her eye and her earFell the scorn of the heartless, the jesting and jeer.How true to our hearts was that beautiful sleeperWith smiles for the joyful, with tears for the weeper,Yet, evermore prompt, whether mournful or gay,With warnings in love to the passing astray.For, though spotless herself, she could sorrow for themWho sullied with evil the spirit's pure gem;And a sigh or a tear could the erring reprove,And the sting of reproof was still tempered by love.As a cloud of the sunset, slow melting in heaven,As a star that is lost when the daylight is given,As a glad dream of slumber, which wakens in bliss,She hath passed to the world of the holy from this.1834.
Late President of Western Reserve College, who died at his post of duty, overworn by his strenuous labors with tongue and pen in the cause of Human Freedom.
Thou hast fallen in thine armor,Thou martyr of the LordWith thy last breath crying "Onward!"And thy hand upon the sword.The haughty heart derideth,And the sinful lip reviles,But the blessing of the perishingAround thy pillow smiles!When to our cup of tremblingThe added drop is given,And the long-suspended thunderFalls terribly from Heaven,—When a new and fearful freedomIs proffered of the LordTo the slow-consuming Famine,The Pestilence and Sword!When the refuges of FalsehoodShall be swept away in wrath,And the temple shall be shaken,With its idol, to the earth,Shall not thy words of warningBe all remembered then?And thy now unheeded messageBurn in the hearts of men?Oppression's hand may scatterIts nettles on thy tomb,And even Christian bosomsDeny thy memory room;For lying lips shall tortureThy mercy into crime,And the slanderer shall flourishAs the bay-tree for a time.But where the south-wind lingersOn Carolina's pines,Or falls the careless sunbeamDown Georgia's golden mines;Where now beneath his burthenThe toiling slave is driven;Where now a tyrant's mockeryIs offered unto Heaven;Where Mammon hath its altarsWet o'er with human blood,And pride and lust debasesThe workmanship of God,—There shall thy praise be spoken,Redeemed from Falsehood's ban,When the fetters shall be broken,And the slave shall be a man!Joy to thy spirit, brother!A thousand hearts are warm,A thousand kindred bosomsAre baring to the storm.What though red-handed ViolenceWith secret Fraud combine?The wall of fire is round us,Our Present Help was thine.Lo, the waking up of nations,From Slavery's fatal sleep;The murmur of a Universe,Deep calling unto Deep!Joy to thy spirit, brother!On every wind of heavenThe onward cheer and summonsOf Freedom's voice is given!Glory to God forever!Beyond the despot's willThe soul of Freedom livethImperishable still.The words which thou hast utteredAre of that soul a part,And the good seed thou hast scatteredIs springing from the heart.In the evil days before us,And the trials yet to come,In the shadow of the prison,Or the cruel martyrdom,—We will think of thee, O brother!And thy sainted name shall beIn the blessing of the captive,And the anthem of the free.1834
Gone before us, O our brother,To the spirit-land!Vainly look we for anotherIn thy place to stand.Who shall offer youth and beautyOn the wasting shrineOf a stern and lofty duty,With a faith like thine?Oh, thy gentle smile of greetingWho again shall see?Who amidst the solemn meetingGaze again on thee?Who when peril gathers o'er us,Wear so calm a brow?Who, with evil men before us,So serene as thou?Early hath the spoiler found thee,Brother of our love!Autumn's faded earth around thee,And its storms above!Evermore that turf lie lightly,And, with future showers,O'er thy slumbers fresh and brightlyBlow the summer flowersIn the locks thy forehead gracing,Not a silvery streak;Nor a line of sorrow's tracingOn thy fair young cheek;Eyes of light and lips of roses,Such as Hylas wore,—Over all that curtain closes,Which shall rise no more!Will the vigil Love is keepingRound that grave of thine,Mournfully, like Jazer weepingOver Sibmah's vine;Will the pleasant memories, swellingGentle hearts, of thee,In the spirit's distant dwellingAll unheeded be?If the spirit ever gazes,From its journeyings, back;If the immortal ever tracesO'er its mortal track;Wilt thou not, O brother, meet usSometimes on our way,And, in hours of sadness, greet usAs a spirit may?Peace be with thee, O our brother,In the spirit-landVainly look we for anotherIn thy place to stand.Unto Truth and Freedom givingAll thy early powers,Be thy virtues with the living,And thy spirit ours!1837.
"Get the writings of John Woolman by heart."—Essays of Elia.
Maiden! with the fair brown tressesShading o'er thy dreamy eye,Floating on thy thoughtful foreheadCloud wreaths of its sky.Youthful years and maiden beauty,Joy with them should still abide,—Instinct take the place of Duty,Love, not Reason, guide.Ever in the New rejoicing,Kindly beckoning back the Old,Turning, with the gift of Midas,All things into gold.And the passing shades of sadnessWearing even a welcome guise,As, when some bright lake lies openTo the sunny skies,Every wing of bird above it,Every light cloud floating on,Glitters like that flashing mirrorIn the self-same sun.But upon thy youthful foreheadSomething like a shadow lies;And a serious soul is lookingFrom thy earnest eyes.With an early introversion,Through the forms of outward things,Seeking for the subtle essence,And the bidden springs.Deeper than the gilded surfaceHath thy wakeful vision seen,Farther than the narrow presentHave thy journeyings been.Thou hast midst Life's empty noisesHeard the solemn steps of Time,And the low mysterious voicesOf another clime.All the mystery of BeingHath upon thy spirit pressed,—Thoughts which, like the Deluge wanderer,Find no place of rest:That which mystic Plato pondered,That which Zeno heard with awe,And the star-rapt ZoroasterIn his night-watch saw.From the doubt and darkness springingOf the dim, uncertain Past,Moving to the dark still shadowsO'er the Future cast,Early hath Life's mighty questionThrilled within thy heart of youth,With a deep and strong beseechingWhat and where is Truth?Hollow creed and ceremonial,Whence the ancient life hath fled,Idle faith unknown to action,Dull and cold and dead.Oracles, whose wire-worked meaningsOnly wake a quiet scorn,—Not from these thy seeking spiritHath its answer drawn.But, like some tired child at even,On thy mother Nature's breast,Thou, methinks, art vainly seekingTruth, and peace, and rest.O'er that mother's rugged featuresThou art throwing Fancy's veil,Light and soft as woven moonbeams,Beautiful and frailO'er the rough chart of Existence,Rocks of sin and wastes of woe,Soft airs breathe, and green leaves tremble,And cool fountains flow.And to thee an answer comethFrom the earth and from the sky,And to thee the hills and watersAnd the stars reply.But a soul-sufficing answerHath no outward origin;More than Nature's many voicesMay be heard within.Even as the great AugustineQuestioned earth and sea and sky,And the dusty tomes of learningAnd old poesy.But his earnest spirit neededMore than outward Nature taught;More than blest the poet's visionOr the sage's thought.Only in the gathered silenceOf a calm and waiting frame,Light and wisdom as from HeavenTo the seeker came.Not to ease and aimless quietDoth that inward answer tend,But to works of love and dutyAs our being's end;Not to idle dreams and trances,Length of face, and solemn tone,But to Faith, in daily strivingAnd performance shown.Earnest toil and strong endeavorOf a spirit which withinWrestles with familiar evilAnd besetting sin;And without, with tireless vigor,Steady heart, and weapon strong,In the power of truth assailingEvery form of wrong.Guided thus, how passing lovelyIs the track of Woolman's feet!And his brief and simple recordHow serenely sweet!O'er life's humblest duties throwingLight the earthling never knew,Freshening all its dark waste placesAs with Hermon's dew.All which glows in Pascal's pages,All which sainted Guion sought,Or the blue-eyed German RahelHalf-unconscious taughtBeauty, such as Goethe pictured,Such as Shelley dreamed of, shedLiving warmth and starry brightnessRound that poor man's head.Not a vain and cold ideal,Not a poet's dream alone,But a presence warm and real,Seen and felt and known.When the red right-hand of slaughterMoulders with the steel it swung,When the name of seer and poetDies on Memory's tongue,All bright thoughts and pure shall gatherRound that meek and suffering one,—Glorious, like the seer-seen angelStanding in the sun!Take the good man's book and ponderWhat its pages say to thee;Blessed as the hand of healingMay its lesson be.If it only serves to strengthenYearnings for a higher good,For the fount of living watersAnd diviner food;If the pride of human reasonFeels its meek and still rebuke,Quailing like the eye of PeterFrom the Just One's look!If with readier ear thou heedestWhat the Inward Teacher saith,Listening with a willing spiritAnd a childlike faith,—Thou mayst live to bless the giver,Who, himself but frail and weak,Would at least the highest welfareOf another seek;And his gift, though poor and lowlyIt may seem to other eyes,Yet may prove an angel holyIn a pilgrim's guise.1840.
William Leggett, who died in 1839 at the age of thirty-seven, was the intrepid editor of the New York Evening Post and afterward of The Plain Dealer. His vigorous assault upon the system of slavery brought down upon him the enmity of political defenders of the system.
"Ye build the tombs of the prophets."—Holy Writ.
Yes, pile the marble o'er him! It is wellThat ye who mocked him in his long stern strife,And planted in the pathway of his lifeThe ploughshares of your hatred hot from hell,Who clamored down the bold reformer whenHe pleaded for his captive fellow-men,Who spurned him in the market-place, and soughtWithin thy walls, St. Tammany, to bindIn party chains the free and honest thought,The angel utterance of an upright mind,Well is it now that o'er his grave ye raiseThe stony tribute of your tardy praise,For not alone that pile shall tell to FameOf the brave heart beneath, but of the builders' shame!1841.
How smiled the land of FranceUnder thy blue eye's glance,Light-hearted roverOld walls of chateaux gray,Towers of an early day,Which the Three Colors playFlauntingly over.Now midst the brilliant trainThronging the banks of SeineNow midst the splendorOf the wild Alpine range,Waking with change on changeThoughts in thy young heart strange,Lovely, and tender.Vales, soft Elysian,Like those in the visionOf Mirza, when, dreaming,He saw the long hollow dell,Touched by the prophet's spell,Into an ocean swellWith its isles teeming.Cliffs wrapped in snows of years,Splintering with icy spearsAutumn's blue heavenLoose rock and frozen slide,Hung on the mountain-side,Waiting their hour to glideDownward, storm-driven!Rhine-stream, by castle old,Baron's and robber's hold,Peacefully flowing;Sweeping through vineyards green,Or where the cliffs are seenO'er the broad wave betweenGrim shadows throwing.Or, where St. Peter's domeSwells o'er eternal Rome,Vast, dim, and solemn;Hymns ever chanting low,Censers swung to and fro,Sable stoles sweeping slowCornice and column!Oh, as from each and allWill there not voices callEvermore back again?In the mind's galleryWilt thou not always seeDim phantoms beckon theeO'er that old track again?New forms thy presence haunt,New voices softly chant,New faces greet thee!Pilgrims from many a shrineHallowed by poet's line,At memory's magic sign,Rising to meet thee.And when such visions comeUnto thy olden home,Will they not wakenDeep thoughts of Him whose handLed thee o'er sea and landBack to the household bandWhence thou wast taken?While, at the sunset time,Swells the cathedral's chime,Yet, in thy dreaming,While to thy spirit's eyeYet the vast mountains liePiled in the Switzer's sky,Icy and gleaming:Prompter of silent prayer,Be the wild picture thereIn the mind's chamber,And, through each coming dayHim who, as staff and stay,Watched o'er thy wandering way,Freshly remember.So, when the call shall beSoon or late unto thee,As to all given,Still may that picture live,All its fair forms survive,And to thy spirit giveGladness in Heaven!1841
Lucy Hooper died at Brooklyn, L. I., on the 1st of 8th mo., 1841, aged twenty-four years.
They tell me, Lucy, thou art dead,That all of thee we loved and cherishedHas with thy summer roses perished;And left, as its young beauty fled,An ashen memory in its stead,The twilight of a parted dayWhose fading light is cold and vain,The heart's faint echo of a strainOf low, sweet music passed away.That true and loving heart, that giftOf a mind, earnest, clear, profound,Bestowing, with a glad unthrift,Its sunny light on all around,Affinities which only couldCleave to the pure, the true, and good;And sympathies which found no rest,Save with the loveliest and best.Of them—of thee—remains there naughtBut sorrow in the mourner's breast?A shadow in the land of thought?No! Even my weak and trembling faithCan lift for thee the veil which doubtAnd human fear have drawn aboutThe all-awaiting scene of death.Even as thou wast I see thee still;And, save the absence of all illAnd pain and weariness, which hereSummoned the sigh or wrung the tear,The same as when, two summers back,Beside our childhood's Merrimac,I saw thy dark eye wander o'erStream, sunny upland, rocky shore,And heard thy low, soft voice aloneMidst lapse of waters, and the toneOf pine-leaves by the west-wind blown,There's not a charm of soul or brow,Of all we knew and loved in thee,But lives in holier beauty now,Baptized in immortality!Not mine the sad and freezing dreamOf souls that, with their earthly mould,Cast off the loves and joys of old,Unbodied, like a pale moonbeam,As pure, as passionless, and cold;Nor mine the hope of Indra's son,Of slumbering in oblivion's rest,Life's myriads blending into one,In blank annihilation blest;Dust-atoms of the infinite,Sparks scattered from the central light,And winning back through mortal painTheir old unconsciousness again.No! I have friends in Spirit Land,Not shadows in a shadowy band,Not others, but themselves are they.And still I think of them the sameAs when the Master's summons came;Their change,—the holy morn-light breakingUpon the dream-worn sleeper, waking,—A change from twilight into day.They 've laid thee midst the household graves,Where father, brother, sister lie;Below thee sweep the dark blue waves,Above thee bends the summer sky.Thy own loved church in sadness readHer solemn ritual o'er thy head,And blessed and hallowed with her prayerThe turf laid lightly o'er thee there.That church, whose rites and liturgy,Sublime and old, were truth to thee,Undoubted to thy bosom taken,As symbols of a faith unshaken.Even I, of simpler views, could feelThe beauty of thy trust and zeal;And, owning not thy creed, could seeHow deep a truth it seemed to thee,And how thy fervent heart had thrownO'er all, a coloring of its own,And kindled up, intense and warm,A life in every rite and form,As. when on Chebar's banks of old,The Hebrew's gorgeous vision rolled,A spirit filled the vast machine,A life, "within the wheels" was seen.Farewell! A little time, and weWho knew thee well, and loved thee here,One after one shall follow theeAs pilgrims through the gate of fear,Which opens on eternity.Yet shall we cherish not the lessAll that is left our hearts meanwhile;The memory of thy lovelinessShall round our weary pathway smile,Like moonlight when the sun has set,A sweet and tender radiance yet.Thoughts of thy clear-eyed sense of duty,Thy generous scorn of all things wrong,The truth, the strength, the graceful beautyWhich blended in thy song.All lovely things, by thee beloved,Shall whisper to our hearts of thee;These green hills, where thy childhood roved,Yon river winding to the sea,The sunset light of autumn evesReflecting on the deep, still floods,Cloud, crimson sky, and trembling leavesOf rainbow-tinted woods,These, in our view, shall henceforth takeA tenderer meaning for thy sake;And all thou lovedst of earth and sky,Seem sacred to thy memory.1841.