NEW ENGLANDLand of the forest and the rock—Of dark blue lake and mighty river—Of mountains reared aloft to mockThe storm's career—the lightning's shock,—My own green land forever!—Land of the beautiful and brave—The freeman's home—the martyr's grave—The nursery of giant men,Whose deeds have linked with every glen,And every hill and every stream,The romance of some warrior dream!—Oh never may a son of thine,Where'er his wandering steps incline,Forget the sky which bent aboveHis childhood like a dream of love—The stream beneath the green hill flowing—The broad-armed trees above it growing—The clear breeze through the foliage blowing;—Or hear unmoved the taunt of scornBreathed o'er the brave New England born;—Or mark the stranger's Jaguar handDisturb the ashes of thy dead—The buried glory of a landWhose soil with noble blood is red,And sanctified in every part,Nor feel resentment like a brandUnsheathing from his fiery heart!Oh—greener hills may catch the sunBeneath the glorious heaven of France;And streams rejoicing as they runLike life beneath the day-beam's glance,May wander where the orange boughWith golden fruit is bending low;—And there may bend a brighter skyO'er green and classic Italy—And pillared fane and ancient graveBear record of another time,And over shaft and architraveThe green luxuriant ivy climb;—And far towards the rising sunThe palm may shake its leaves on high,Where flowers are opening one by one,Like stars upon the twilight sky,And breezes soft as sighs of loveAbove the rich mimosa stray,And through the Brahmin's sacred groveA thousand bright-hued pinions play!—Yet, unto thee, New England, stillThy wandering sons shall stretch their arms,And thy rude chart of rock and hillSeem dearer than the land of palms!Thy massy oak and mountain pineMore welcome than the banyan's shade,And every free, blue stream of thineSeem richer than the golden bedOf Oriental waves, which glowAnd sparkle with the wealth below!Land of my fathers!—if my name,Now humble, and unwed to fame,Hereafter burn upon the lip,As one of those which may not die,Linked in eternal fellowshipWith visions pure and strong and high—If the wild dreams which quicken nowThe throbbing pulse of heart and brow,Hereafter take a real formLike spectres changed to beings warm;And over temples worn and grayThe star-like crown of glory shine,—Thine be the bard's undying lay,The murmur of his praise be thine!
NEW ENGLAND
Land of the forest and the rock—Of dark blue lake and mighty river—Of mountains reared aloft to mockThe storm's career—the lightning's shock,—My own green land forever!—Land of the beautiful and brave—The freeman's home—the martyr's grave—The nursery of giant men,Whose deeds have linked with every glen,And every hill and every stream,The romance of some warrior dream!—Oh never may a son of thine,Where'er his wandering steps incline,Forget the sky which bent aboveHis childhood like a dream of love—The stream beneath the green hill flowing—The broad-armed trees above it growing—The clear breeze through the foliage blowing;—Or hear unmoved the taunt of scornBreathed o'er the brave New England born;—Or mark the stranger's Jaguar handDisturb the ashes of thy dead—The buried glory of a landWhose soil with noble blood is red,And sanctified in every part,Nor feel resentment like a brandUnsheathing from his fiery heart!
Oh—greener hills may catch the sunBeneath the glorious heaven of France;And streams rejoicing as they runLike life beneath the day-beam's glance,May wander where the orange boughWith golden fruit is bending low;—And there may bend a brighter skyO'er green and classic Italy—And pillared fane and ancient graveBear record of another time,And over shaft and architraveThe green luxuriant ivy climb;—And far towards the rising sunThe palm may shake its leaves on high,Where flowers are opening one by one,Like stars upon the twilight sky,And breezes soft as sighs of loveAbove the rich mimosa stray,And through the Brahmin's sacred groveA thousand bright-hued pinions play!—
Yet, unto thee, New England, stillThy wandering sons shall stretch their arms,And thy rude chart of rock and hillSeem dearer than the land of palms!Thy massy oak and mountain pineMore welcome than the banyan's shade,And every free, blue stream of thineSeem richer than the golden bedOf Oriental waves, which glowAnd sparkle with the wealth below!
Land of my fathers!—if my name,Now humble, and unwed to fame,Hereafter burn upon the lip,As one of those which may not die,Linked in eternal fellowshipWith visions pure and strong and high—If the wild dreams which quicken nowThe throbbing pulse of heart and brow,Hereafter take a real formLike spectres changed to beings warm;And over temples worn and grayThe star-like crown of glory shine,—Thine be the bard's undying lay,The murmur of his praise be thine!
One of the poems in the same number which contained this spirited tribute to New England was the song given below, which was signed with the initials of the editor, else there might be some hesitation in assigning it to him, for there is scarcely anything like it to be found in his writings. It was evidently written for music, and some composer should undertake it.
SONGThat vow of thine was full and deepAs man has ever spoken—A vow within the heart to keep,Unchangeable, unbroken.'T was by the glory of the Sun,And by the light of Even,And by the Stars, that, one by one,Are lighted up in Heaven!That Even might forget its gold—And Sunlight fade forever—The constant Stars grow dim and cold,—But thy affection—never!And Earth might wear a changeful sign,And fickleness the Sky—Yet, even then, that love of thineMight never change nor die.The golden Sun is shining yet—And at the fall of EvenThere 's beauty in the warm Sunset,And Stars are bright in Heaven.No change is on the blessed Sky—The quiet Earth has none—Nature has still her constancy,AndThouart changed alone!
SONG
That vow of thine was full and deepAs man has ever spoken—A vow within the heart to keep,Unchangeable, unbroken.
'T was by the glory of the Sun,And by the light of Even,And by the Stars, that, one by one,Are lighted up in Heaven!
That Even might forget its gold—And Sunlight fade forever—The constant Stars grow dim and cold,—But thy affection—never!
And Earth might wear a changeful sign,And fickleness the Sky—Yet, even then, that love of thineMight never change nor die.
The golden Sun is shining yet—And at the fall of EvenThere 's beauty in the warm Sunset,And Stars are bright in Heaven.
No change is on the blessed Sky—The quiet Earth has none—Nature has still her constancy,AndThouart changed alone!
The "Review" for September 13, 1830, has a poem of Whittier's prefaced by a curious story about Lord Byron:—
The Spectre.—There is a story going the rounds of our periodicals that a Miss G., of respectable family, young and very beautiful, attended Lord Byron for nearly a year in the habit of a page. Love, desperate and all-engrossing, seems to have been the cause of her singular conduct. Neglected at last by the man for whom she had forsaken all that woman holds dear, she resolved upon self-destruction, and provided herself with poison. Her designs were discovered by Lord Byron, who changed the poison for a sleeping potion. Miss G., with that delicate feeling of affection which had ever distinguished her intercourse with Byron, stole privately away to the funeral vault of the Byrons, and fastened the entrance, resolving to spareher lover the dreadful knowledge of her fate. She there swallowed the supposed poison—and probably died of starvation! She was found dead soon after. Lord Byron never adverted to this subject without a thrill of horror. The following from his private journal may, perhaps, have some connection with it:—
"I awoke from a dream—well! and have not others dreamed?—such a dream! I wish the dead would rest forever. Ugh! how my blood chilled—and I could not wake—and—and—
"Shadows to-nightHave struck more terror to the soul of RichardThan could the substance of ten thousand—Armed all in proof—
"Shadows to-nightHave struck more terror to the soul of RichardThan could the substance of ten thousand—Armed all in proof—
"I do not like this dream—I hate its foregone conclusion. And am I to be shaken by shadows? Ay, when they remind us of—no matter—but if I dream again I will try whether all sleep has the like visions."—Moore's "Byron," page 324.
She came to me last night—The floor gave back no tread,She stood by me in the wan moonlight—In the white robes of the dead—Pale—pale, and very mournfullyShe bent her light form over me—I heard no sound—I felt no breathBreathe o'er me from that face of death;Its dark eyes rested on my own,Rayless and cold as eyes of stone;Yet in their fixed, unchanging gaze,Something which told of other days—A sadness in their quiet glare,As if Love's smile were frozen there,Came o'er me with an icy thrill—O God! I feel its presence still!And fearfully and dimlyThe pale cold vision passed,Yet those dark eyes were fixed on meIn sadness to the last.I struggled—and my breath came back,As to the victim on the rack,Amid the pause of mortal painLife steals to suffer once again!Was it a dream? I looked around,The moonlight through the lattice shone;The same pale glow that dimly crownedThe forehead of the spectral one!And then I knew she had been there—Not in her breathing loveliness,But as the grave's lone sleepers are,Silent and cold and passionless!A weary thought—a fearful thought—Within the secret heart to keep:Would that the past might be forgot—Would that the dead might sleep!
She came to me last night—The floor gave back no tread,She stood by me in the wan moonlight—In the white robes of the dead—Pale—pale, and very mournfullyShe bent her light form over me—I heard no sound—I felt no breathBreathe o'er me from that face of death;Its dark eyes rested on my own,Rayless and cold as eyes of stone;Yet in their fixed, unchanging gaze,Something which told of other days—A sadness in their quiet glare,As if Love's smile were frozen there,Came o'er me with an icy thrill—O God! I feel its presence still!And fearfully and dimlyThe pale cold vision passed,Yet those dark eyes were fixed on meIn sadness to the last.I struggled—and my breath came back,As to the victim on the rack,Amid the pause of mortal painLife steals to suffer once again!Was it a dream? I looked around,The moonlight through the lattice shone;The same pale glow that dimly crownedThe forehead of the spectral one!And then I knew she had been there—Not in her breathing loveliness,But as the grave's lone sleepers are,Silent and cold and passionless!A weary thought—a fearful thought—Within the secret heart to keep:Would that the past might be forgot—Would that the dead might sleep!
These are the concluding lines of a long poem written in 1829, while he was editing the "American Manufacturer." The poem as a whole was never in print; but these lines of it I find in the "Essex Gazette" of August 22, 1829, from which paper they were copied, as were most of his productions of that period, by the newspapers of the country. They were never in any collection of his works:—
A FRAGMENTLady, farewell! I know thy heartHas angel strength to soar aboveThe cold reserve—the studied artThat mock the glowing wings of love.Its thoughts are purer than the pearlThat slumbers where the wave is driven,Yet freer than the winds that furlThe banners of the clouded heaven.And thou hast been the brightest starThat shone along my weary way—Brighter than rainbow visions are,A changeless and enduring ray.Nor will my memory lightly fadeFrom thy pure dreams, high-thoughted girl;—The ocean may forget what madeIts blue expanse of waters curl,When the strong winds have passed the sky;Earth in its beauty may forgetThe recent cloud that floated by;The glories of the last sunset—But not from thy unchanging mindWill fade the dreams of other years,And love will linger far behind,In memory's resting place of tears!
A FRAGMENT
Lady, farewell! I know thy heartHas angel strength to soar aboveThe cold reserve—the studied artThat mock the glowing wings of love.Its thoughts are purer than the pearlThat slumbers where the wave is driven,Yet freer than the winds that furlThe banners of the clouded heaven.And thou hast been the brightest starThat shone along my weary way—Brighter than rainbow visions are,A changeless and enduring ray.Nor will my memory lightly fadeFrom thy pure dreams, high-thoughted girl;—The ocean may forget what madeIts blue expanse of waters curl,When the strong winds have passed the sky;Earth in its beauty may forgetThe recent cloud that floated by;The glories of the last sunset—But not from thy unchanging mindWill fade the dreams of other years,And love will linger far behind,In memory's resting place of tears!
Many of Whittier's early discarded verses are of a rather gruesome sort, but more are inspired by contemplation of sublime themes, like this apostrophe to "Eternity," which was published in the "New England Review" in 1831:—
ETERNITYBoundless eternity! the wingéd sandsThat mark the silent lapse of flitting timeAre not for thee; thine awful empire standsFrom age to age, unchangeable, sublime;Thy domes are spread where thought can never climb,In clouds and darkness where vast pillars rest.I may not fathom thee: 't would seem a crimeThy being of its mystery to divestOr boldly lift thine awful veil with hands unblest.Thy ruins are the wrecks of systems; sunsBlaze a brief space of age, and are not;Worlds crumble and decay, creation runsTo waste—then perishes and is forgot;Yet thou, all changeless, heedest not the blot.Heaven speaks once more in thunder; empty spaceTrembles and wakes; new worlds in ether float,Teeming with new creative life, and traceTheir mighty circles, which others shall displace.Thine age is youth, thy youth is hoary age,Ever beginning, never ending, thouBearest inscribed upon thy ample page,Yesterday, forever, but as nowThou art, thou hast been, shall be: thoughI feel myself immortal, when on theeI muse, I shrink to nothingness, and bowMyself before thee, dread Eternity,With God coeval, coexisting, still to be.I go with thee till time shall be no more,I stand with thee on Time's remotest age,Ten thousand years, ten thousand times told o'er;Still, still with thee my onward course I urge;And now no longer hear the surgeOf Time's light billows breaking on the shoreOf distant earth; no more the solemn dirge—Requiem of worlds, when such are numbered o'er—Steals by: still thou art on forever more.From that dim distance I turn to gazeWith fondly searching glance, upon the spotOf brief existence, when I met the blazeOf morning, bursting on my humble cot,And gladness whispered of my happy lot;And now 't is dwindled to a point—a speck—And now 't is nothing, and my eye may notLonger distinguish it amid the wreckOf worlds in ruins, crushed at the Almighty's beck.Time—what is time to thee? a passing thoughtTo twice ten thousand ages—a faint sparkTo twice ten thousand suns; a fibre wroughtInto the web of infinite—a corkBalanced against a world: we hardly markIts being—even its name hath ceased to be;Thy wave hath swept it from us, thy darkMantle of years, in dim obscurityHath shrouded it around: Time—what is Time to thee!
ETERNITY
Boundless eternity! the wingéd sandsThat mark the silent lapse of flitting timeAre not for thee; thine awful empire standsFrom age to age, unchangeable, sublime;Thy domes are spread where thought can never climb,In clouds and darkness where vast pillars rest.I may not fathom thee: 't would seem a crimeThy being of its mystery to divestOr boldly lift thine awful veil with hands unblest.
Thy ruins are the wrecks of systems; sunsBlaze a brief space of age, and are not;Worlds crumble and decay, creation runsTo waste—then perishes and is forgot;Yet thou, all changeless, heedest not the blot.Heaven speaks once more in thunder; empty spaceTrembles and wakes; new worlds in ether float,Teeming with new creative life, and traceTheir mighty circles, which others shall displace.
Thine age is youth, thy youth is hoary age,Ever beginning, never ending, thouBearest inscribed upon thy ample page,Yesterday, forever, but as nowThou art, thou hast been, shall be: thoughI feel myself immortal, when on theeI muse, I shrink to nothingness, and bowMyself before thee, dread Eternity,With God coeval, coexisting, still to be.
I go with thee till time shall be no more,I stand with thee on Time's remotest age,Ten thousand years, ten thousand times told o'er;Still, still with thee my onward course I urge;And now no longer hear the surgeOf Time's light billows breaking on the shoreOf distant earth; no more the solemn dirge—Requiem of worlds, when such are numbered o'er—Steals by: still thou art on forever more.
From that dim distance I turn to gazeWith fondly searching glance, upon the spotOf brief existence, when I met the blazeOf morning, bursting on my humble cot,And gladness whispered of my happy lot;And now 't is dwindled to a point—a speck—And now 't is nothing, and my eye may notLonger distinguish it amid the wreckOf worlds in ruins, crushed at the Almighty's beck.
Time—what is time to thee? a passing thoughtTo twice ten thousand ages—a faint sparkTo twice ten thousand suns; a fibre wroughtInto the web of infinite—a corkBalanced against a world: we hardly markIts being—even its name hath ceased to be;Thy wave hath swept it from us, thy darkMantle of years, in dim obscurityHath shrouded it around: Time—what is Time to thee!
In 1832 a living ichneumon was brought to Haverhill, and was on exhibition at Frinksborough, a section of Haverhill now known as "the borough," on the bank of the river above the railroad bridge. Three young ladies of Haverhill went to see it, escorted by Mr. Whittier. They found that the animal had succumbed to the New England climate, and had just been buried. One of the ladies, Harriet Minot, afterward Mrs. Pitman, a life-longfriend of the poet, suggested that he should write an elegy, and these are the lines he produced:—
THE DEAD ICHNEUMONStranger! they have made thy graveBy the darkly flowing river;But the washing of its waveShall disturb thee never!Nor its autumn tides which runTurbid to the rising sun,Nor the harsh and hollow thunder,When its fetters burst asunder,And its winter ice is sweeping,Downward to the ocean's keeping.Sleeper! thou canst rest as calmAs beside thine own dark stream,In the shadow of the palm,Or the white sand gleam!Though thy grave be never hidBy the o'ershadowing pyramid,Frowning o'er the desert sand,Like no work of mortal hand,Telling aye the same proud storyOf the old Egyptian glory!Wand'rer! would that we might knowSomething of thy early time—Something of thy weal or woeIn thine own far clime!If thy step hath fallen whereThose of Cleopatra were,When the Roman cast his crownAt a woman's footstool down,Deeming glory's sunshine dimTo the smile which welcomed him.If beside the reedy NileThou hast ever held thy way,Where the embryo crocodileIn the damp sedge lay;When the river monster's eyeKindled at thy passing by,And the pliant reeds were bendingWhere his blackened form was wending,And the basking serpent startedWildly when thy light form darted.Thou hast seen the desert steedMounted by his Arab chief,Passing like some dream of speed,Wonderful and brief!Where the palm-tree's shadows lurk,Thou hast seen the turbaned Turk,Resting in voluptuous prideWith his harem at his side,Veiléd victims of his will,Scorned and lost, yet lovely still.And the samiel hath goneO'er thee like a demon's breath,Marking victims one by oneFor its master—Death.And the mirage thou hast seenGlittering in the sunny sheen,Like some lake in sunlight sleeping,Where the desert wind was sweeping,And the sandy column gliding,Like some giant onward striding.Once the dwellers of thy homeBlessed the path thy race had trod,Kneeling in the temple domeTo a reptile god;Where the shrine of Isis shoneThrough the veil before its throne,And the priest with fixéd eyesWatched his human sacrifice;And the priestess knelt in prayer,Like some dream of beauty there.Thou, unhonored and unknown,Wand'rer o'er the mighty sea!None for thee have reverence shown—None have worshipped thee!Here in vulgar Yankee land,Thou hast passed from hand to hand,And in Frinksborough found a home,Where no change can ever come!What thy closing hours befellNone may ask, and none may tell.Who hath mourned above thy grave?None—except thy ancient nurse.Well she may—thy being gaveCoppers to her purse!Who hath questioned her of thee?None, alas! save maidens three,Here to view thee while in being,Yankee curious, paid for seeing,And would gratis view once moreThat for which they paid before.Yet thy quiet rest may beEnvied by the human kind,Who are showing off like thee,To the careless mind,Gifts which torture while they flow,Thoughts which madden while they glow,Pouring out the heart's deep wealth,Proffering quiet, ease, and health,For the fame which comes to themBlended with their requiem!
THE DEAD ICHNEUMON
Stranger! they have made thy graveBy the darkly flowing river;But the washing of its waveShall disturb thee never!Nor its autumn tides which runTurbid to the rising sun,Nor the harsh and hollow thunder,When its fetters burst asunder,And its winter ice is sweeping,Downward to the ocean's keeping.
Sleeper! thou canst rest as calmAs beside thine own dark stream,In the shadow of the palm,Or the white sand gleam!Though thy grave be never hidBy the o'ershadowing pyramid,Frowning o'er the desert sand,Like no work of mortal hand,Telling aye the same proud storyOf the old Egyptian glory!
Wand'rer! would that we might knowSomething of thy early time—Something of thy weal or woeIn thine own far clime!If thy step hath fallen whereThose of Cleopatra were,When the Roman cast his crownAt a woman's footstool down,Deeming glory's sunshine dimTo the smile which welcomed him.
If beside the reedy NileThou hast ever held thy way,Where the embryo crocodileIn the damp sedge lay;When the river monster's eyeKindled at thy passing by,And the pliant reeds were bendingWhere his blackened form was wending,And the basking serpent startedWildly when thy light form darted.
Thou hast seen the desert steedMounted by his Arab chief,Passing like some dream of speed,Wonderful and brief!Where the palm-tree's shadows lurk,Thou hast seen the turbaned Turk,Resting in voluptuous prideWith his harem at his side,Veiléd victims of his will,Scorned and lost, yet lovely still.
And the samiel hath goneO'er thee like a demon's breath,Marking victims one by oneFor its master—Death.And the mirage thou hast seenGlittering in the sunny sheen,Like some lake in sunlight sleeping,Where the desert wind was sweeping,And the sandy column gliding,Like some giant onward striding.
Once the dwellers of thy homeBlessed the path thy race had trod,Kneeling in the temple domeTo a reptile god;Where the shrine of Isis shoneThrough the veil before its throne,And the priest with fixéd eyesWatched his human sacrifice;And the priestess knelt in prayer,Like some dream of beauty there.
Thou, unhonored and unknown,Wand'rer o'er the mighty sea!None for thee have reverence shown—None have worshipped thee!Here in vulgar Yankee land,Thou hast passed from hand to hand,And in Frinksborough found a home,Where no change can ever come!What thy closing hours befellNone may ask, and none may tell.
Who hath mourned above thy grave?None—except thy ancient nurse.Well she may—thy being gaveCoppers to her purse!Who hath questioned her of thee?None, alas! save maidens three,Here to view thee while in being,Yankee curious, paid for seeing,And would gratis view once moreThat for which they paid before.
Yet thy quiet rest may beEnvied by the human kind,Who are showing off like thee,To the careless mind,Gifts which torture while they flow,Thoughts which madden while they glow,Pouring out the heart's deep wealth,Proffering quiet, ease, and health,For the fame which comes to themBlended with their requiem!
The following poem, which I have never seen in print, I find in a manuscript collection of Whittier's early poems, in the possession of his cousin, Ann Wendell, of Philadelphia. It is a political curiosity, being a reminiscence of the excitement caused by the mystery of the disappearance of William Morgan, in the vicinity of Niagara Falls, in 1826. It was written in 1830, three years before Whittier became especially active in the anti-slavery cause. He was then working in the interest of Henry Clay as against Jackson, and the Whigs had adopted some of the watchwords of the Anti-Masonic party:—
THE GRAVE OF MORGANWild torrent of the lakes! fling outThy mighty wave to breeze and sun,And let the rainbow curve aboveThe foldings of thy clouds of dun.Uplift thy earthquake voice, and pourIts thunder to the reeling shore,Till caverned cliff and hanging woodRoll back the echo of thy flood,For there is one who slumbers nowBeneath thy bow-encircled brow,Whose spirit hath a voice and signMore strong, more terrible than thine.A million hearts have heard that cryRing upward to the very sky;It thunders still—it cannot sleep,But louder than the troubled deep,When the fierce spirit of the airHath made his arm of vengeance bare,And wave to wave is calling loudBeneath the veiling thunder-cloud;That potent voice is sounding still—The voice of unrequited ill.Dark cataract of the lakes! thy nameUnholy deeds have linked to fame.High soars to heaven thy giant head,Even as a monument to himWhose cold unheeded form is laidDown, down amid thy caverns dim.His requiem the fearful toneOf waters falling from their throneIn the mid air, his burial shroudThe wreathings of thy torrent cloud,His blazonry the rainbow thrownSuperbly round thy brow of stone.Aye, raise thy voice—the sterner oneWhich tells of crime in darkness done,Groans upward from thy prison gloomLike voices from the thunder's home.And men have heard it, and the mightOf freemen rising from their thrallShall drag their fetters into light,And spurn and trample on them all.And vengeance long—too long delayed—Shall rouse to wrath the souls of men,And freedom raise her holy headAbove the fallen tyrant then.
THE GRAVE OF MORGAN
Wild torrent of the lakes! fling outThy mighty wave to breeze and sun,And let the rainbow curve aboveThe foldings of thy clouds of dun.Uplift thy earthquake voice, and pourIts thunder to the reeling shore,Till caverned cliff and hanging woodRoll back the echo of thy flood,For there is one who slumbers nowBeneath thy bow-encircled brow,Whose spirit hath a voice and signMore strong, more terrible than thine.
A million hearts have heard that cryRing upward to the very sky;It thunders still—it cannot sleep,But louder than the troubled deep,When the fierce spirit of the airHath made his arm of vengeance bare,And wave to wave is calling loudBeneath the veiling thunder-cloud;That potent voice is sounding still—The voice of unrequited ill.
Dark cataract of the lakes! thy nameUnholy deeds have linked to fame.High soars to heaven thy giant head,Even as a monument to himWhose cold unheeded form is laidDown, down amid thy caverns dim.His requiem the fearful toneOf waters falling from their throneIn the mid air, his burial shroudThe wreathings of thy torrent cloud,His blazonry the rainbow thrownSuperbly round thy brow of stone.
Aye, raise thy voice—the sterner oneWhich tells of crime in darkness done,Groans upward from thy prison gloomLike voices from the thunder's home.And men have heard it, and the mightOf freemen rising from their thrallShall drag their fetters into light,And spurn and trample on them all.And vengeance long—too long delayed—Shall rouse to wrath the souls of men,And freedom raise her holy headAbove the fallen tyrant then.
This poem, which was published in "The Haverhill Gazette" in 1829, was copied in many papers of that time, but was never in any collection of its author's works:—
THE THUNDER SPIRITDweller of the unpillared air,Marshalling the storm to war,Heralding its presence whereRolls along thy cloudy car!Thou that speakest from on high,Like an earthquake's bursting forth,Sounding through the veiléd skyAs an angel's trumpet doth.Bending from thy dark dominionLike a fierce, revengeful king,Blasting with thy fiery pinionEvery high and holy thing;Smitten from their mountain prisonThou hast bid the streams go free,And the ruin's smoke has risen,Like a sacrifice to thee!. . . . .Monarch of each cloudy form,Gathered on the blue of heaven,When the trumpet of the stormTo thy lip of flame is given!In the wave and in the breeze,In the shadow and the sun,God hath many languages,And thy mighty voice is one!
THE THUNDER SPIRIT
Dweller of the unpillared air,Marshalling the storm to war,Heralding its presence whereRolls along thy cloudy car!Thou that speakest from on high,Like an earthquake's bursting forth,Sounding through the veiléd skyAs an angel's trumpet doth.
Bending from thy dark dominionLike a fierce, revengeful king,Blasting with thy fiery pinionEvery high and holy thing;Smitten from their mountain prisonThou hast bid the streams go free,And the ruin's smoke has risen,Like a sacrifice to thee!
. . . . .
Monarch of each cloudy form,Gathered on the blue of heaven,When the trumpet of the stormTo thy lip of flame is given!In the wave and in the breeze,In the shadow and the sun,God hath many languages,And thy mighty voice is one!
Here is a poem of Whittier's that will remind every reader of the hymn "The Worship of Nature," which first appeared without a title in the "Tent on the Beach." And yet there is no line in it, and scarcely a phrase, which was used in this last named poem. I find it in the "New England Review," of Hartford, under date of January 24, 1831. It would seem that "The Worship of Nature" was a favorite theme of his, for a still earlier treatment of it I have found in the "Haverhill Gazette" of October 5, 1827, written before the poet was twenty years of age. It is a curious fact that while in the version of 1827 there are a few lines and phrases which were adopted forty years afterward, the lines given here are none of them copied in the final revision of the poem.
THE WORSHIP OF NATURE"The airIs glorious with the spirit-marchOf messengers of prayer."There is a solemn hymn goes upFrom Nature to the Lord above,And offerings from her incense-cupAre poured in gratitude and love;And from each flower that lifts its eyeIn modest silence in the shadeTo the strong woods that kiss the skyA thankful song of praise is made.There is no solitude on earth—"In every leaf there is a tongue"—In every glen a voice of mirth—From every hill a hymn is sung;And every wild and hidden dell,Where human footsteps never trod,Is wafting songs of joy, which tellThe praises of their maker—God.Each mountain gives an altar birth,And has a shrine to worship given;Each breeze which rises from the earthIs loaded with a song of Heaven;Each wave that leaps along the mainSends solemn music on the air,And winds which sweep o'er ocean's plainBear off their voice of grateful prayer.When Night's dark wings are slowly furledAnd clouds roll off the orient sky,And sunlight bursts upon the world,Like angels' pinions flashing by,A matin hymn unheard will riseFrom every flower and hill and tree,And songs of joy float up the skies,Like holy anthems from the sea.When sunlight dies, and shadows fall,And twilight plumes her rosy wing,Devotion's breath lifts Music's pall,And silvery voices seem to sing.And when the earth falls soft to rest,And young wind's pinions seem to tire,Then the pure streams upon its breastJoin their glad sounds with Nature's lyre.And when the sky that bends aboveIs lighted up with spirit fires,A gladdening song of praise and loveIs pealing from the sky-tuned lyres;And every star that throws its lightFrom off Creation's bending brow,Is offering on the shrine of NightThe same unchanging subject-vow.Thus Earth 's a temple vast and fair,Filled with the glorious works of loveWhen earth and sky and sea and airJoin in the praise of God above;And still through countless coming yearsUnwearied songs of praise shall rollOn plumes of love to Him who hearsThe softest strain in Music's soul.
THE WORSHIP OF NATURE
"The airIs glorious with the spirit-marchOf messengers of prayer."
There is a solemn hymn goes upFrom Nature to the Lord above,And offerings from her incense-cupAre poured in gratitude and love;And from each flower that lifts its eyeIn modest silence in the shadeTo the strong woods that kiss the skyA thankful song of praise is made.
There is no solitude on earth—"In every leaf there is a tongue"—In every glen a voice of mirth—From every hill a hymn is sung;And every wild and hidden dell,Where human footsteps never trod,Is wafting songs of joy, which tellThe praises of their maker—God.
Each mountain gives an altar birth,And has a shrine to worship given;Each breeze which rises from the earthIs loaded with a song of Heaven;Each wave that leaps along the mainSends solemn music on the air,And winds which sweep o'er ocean's plainBear off their voice of grateful prayer.
When Night's dark wings are slowly furledAnd clouds roll off the orient sky,And sunlight bursts upon the world,Like angels' pinions flashing by,A matin hymn unheard will riseFrom every flower and hill and tree,And songs of joy float up the skies,Like holy anthems from the sea.
When sunlight dies, and shadows fall,And twilight plumes her rosy wing,Devotion's breath lifts Music's pall,And silvery voices seem to sing.And when the earth falls soft to rest,And young wind's pinions seem to tire,Then the pure streams upon its breastJoin their glad sounds with Nature's lyre.
And when the sky that bends aboveIs lighted up with spirit fires,A gladdening song of praise and loveIs pealing from the sky-tuned lyres;And every star that throws its lightFrom off Creation's bending brow,Is offering on the shrine of NightThe same unchanging subject-vow.
Thus Earth 's a temple vast and fair,Filled with the glorious works of loveWhen earth and sky and sea and airJoin in the praise of God above;And still through countless coming yearsUnwearied songs of praise shall rollOn plumes of love to Him who hearsThe softest strain in Music's soul.
There was a remarkable display of the aurora borealis in January, 1837, and this poem commemorates the phenomenon:—
THE NORTHERN LIGHTSA light is troubling heaven! A strange dull glowHangs like a half-quenched veil of fire betweenThe blue sky and the earth; and the shorn starsGleam faint and sickly through it. Day hath leftNo token of its parting, and the blushWith which it welcomed the embrace of NightHas faded from the blue cheek of the West;Yet from the solemn darkness of the North,Stretched o'er the "empty place" by God's own hand,Trembles and waves that curtain of pale fire,—Tingeing with baleful and unnatural huesThe winter snows beneath. It is as ifNature's last curse—the fearful plague of fire—Were working in the elements, and the skiesEven as a scroll consuming.Lo, a change!The fiery wonder sinks, and all alongA dark deep crimson rests—a sea of blood,Untroubled by a wave. And over allBendeth a luminous arch of pale, pure white,Clearly contrasted with the blue above,And the dark red beneath it. Glorious!How like a pathway for the Shining Ones,The pure and beautiful intelligencesWho minister in Heaven, and offer upTheir praise as incense, or like that which roseBefore the Pilgrim prophet, when the treadOf the most holy angels brightened it,And in his dream the haunted sleeper sawThe ascending and descending of the blest!And yet another change! O'er half the skyA long bright flame is trembling, like the swordOf the great angel of the guarded gateOf Paradise, when all the holy streamsAnd beautiful bowers of Eden-land blushed redBeneath its awful wavering, and the eyesOf the outcasts quailed before its glare,As from the immediate questioning of God.And men are gazing at these "signs in heaven,"With most unwonted earnestness, and fairAnd beautiful brows are reddening in the lightOf this strange vision of the upper air:Even as the dwellers of JerusalemBeleaguered by the Romans—when the skiesOf Palestine were thronged with fiery shapes,And from Antonia's tower the mailed JewSaw his own image pictured in the air,Contending with the heathen; and the priestBeside the temple's altar veiled his faceFrom that fire-written language of the sky.Oh God of mystery! these fires are thine!Thy breath hath kindled them, and there they burnAmid the permanent glory of Thy heavens,That earliest revelation written outIn starry language, visible to all,Lifting unto Thyself the heavy eyesOf the down-looking spirits of the earth!The Indian, leaning on his hunting-bow,Where the ice-mountains hem the frozen pole,And the hoar architect of winter pilesWith tireless hand his snowy pyramids,Looks upward in deep awe,—while all aroundThe eternal ices kindle with the huesWhich tremble on their gleaming pinnaclesAnd sharp cold ridges of enduring frost,—And points his child to the Great Spirit's fire.Alas for us who boast of deeper lore,If in the maze of our vague theories,Our speculations, and our restless aimTo search the secret, and familiarizeThe awful things of nature, we forgetTo own Thy presence in Thy mysteries!
THE NORTHERN LIGHTS
A light is troubling heaven! A strange dull glowHangs like a half-quenched veil of fire betweenThe blue sky and the earth; and the shorn starsGleam faint and sickly through it. Day hath leftNo token of its parting, and the blushWith which it welcomed the embrace of NightHas faded from the blue cheek of the West;Yet from the solemn darkness of the North,Stretched o'er the "empty place" by God's own hand,Trembles and waves that curtain of pale fire,—Tingeing with baleful and unnatural huesThe winter snows beneath. It is as ifNature's last curse—the fearful plague of fire—Were working in the elements, and the skiesEven as a scroll consuming.
Lo, a change!The fiery wonder sinks, and all alongA dark deep crimson rests—a sea of blood,Untroubled by a wave. And over allBendeth a luminous arch of pale, pure white,Clearly contrasted with the blue above,And the dark red beneath it. Glorious!How like a pathway for the Shining Ones,The pure and beautiful intelligencesWho minister in Heaven, and offer upTheir praise as incense, or like that which roseBefore the Pilgrim prophet, when the treadOf the most holy angels brightened it,And in his dream the haunted sleeper sawThe ascending and descending of the blest!
And yet another change! O'er half the skyA long bright flame is trembling, like the swordOf the great angel of the guarded gateOf Paradise, when all the holy streamsAnd beautiful bowers of Eden-land blushed redBeneath its awful wavering, and the eyesOf the outcasts quailed before its glare,As from the immediate questioning of God.
And men are gazing at these "signs in heaven,"With most unwonted earnestness, and fairAnd beautiful brows are reddening in the lightOf this strange vision of the upper air:Even as the dwellers of JerusalemBeleaguered by the Romans—when the skiesOf Palestine were thronged with fiery shapes,And from Antonia's tower the mailed JewSaw his own image pictured in the air,Contending with the heathen; and the priestBeside the temple's altar veiled his faceFrom that fire-written language of the sky.
Oh God of mystery! these fires are thine!Thy breath hath kindled them, and there they burnAmid the permanent glory of Thy heavens,That earliest revelation written outIn starry language, visible to all,Lifting unto Thyself the heavy eyesOf the down-looking spirits of the earth!The Indian, leaning on his hunting-bow,Where the ice-mountains hem the frozen pole,And the hoar architect of winter pilesWith tireless hand his snowy pyramids,Looks upward in deep awe,—while all aroundThe eternal ices kindle with the huesWhich tremble on their gleaming pinnaclesAnd sharp cold ridges of enduring frost,—And points his child to the Great Spirit's fire.
Alas for us who boast of deeper lore,If in the maze of our vague theories,Our speculations, and our restless aimTo search the secret, and familiarizeThe awful things of nature, we forgetTo own Thy presence in Thy mysteries!
This imitation of "The Old Oaken Bucket" was written in 1826, when Whittier was in his nineteenth year, and except a single stanza, no part of it was ever beforein print. The willow the young poet had in mind was on the bank of Country Brook, near Country Bridge, and also near the site of Thomas Whittier's log house. Mr. Whittier once pointed out this spot to me as one in which he delighted in his youth. On a grassy bank, almost encircled by a bend in the stream, stood, and perhaps still stands, just such a "storm-battered, water-washed willow" as is here described:—
THE WILLOWOh, dear to my heart are the scenes which delightedMy fancy in moments I ne'er can recall,When each happy hour new pleasures invited,And hope pictured visions more lovely than all.When I gazed with a light heart transported and glowingOn the forest-crowned hill, and the rivulet's tide,O'ershaded with tall grass, and rapidly flowingAround the lone willow that stood by its side—The storm-battered willow, the ivy-bound willow, the water-washed willow, that grew by its side.Dear scenes of past years, when the objects around meSeemed forms to awaken the transports of joy;Ere yet the dull cares of experience had found me,The dearly-loved visions of youth to destroy,—Ye seem to awaken, whene'er I discoverThe grass-shadowed rivulet rapidly glide,The green verdant meads of the vale wandering overAnd laving the willows that stand by its side—The storm-battered willow, the ivy-bound willow, the water-washed willow, that stands by its side;—How oft 'neath the shade of that wide-spreading willowI have laid myself down from anxiety free,Reclining my head on the green grassy pillow,That waved round the roots of that dearly-loved tree;Where swift from the far distant uplands descending,In the bright sunbeam sparkling, the rivulet's tideWith murmuring echoes came gracefully wendingIts course round the willow that stood by its side—The storm-battered willow, the ivy-bound willow, the water-washed willow that stood by its side.Haunts of my childhood, that used to awakenEmotions of joy in my infantile breast,Ere yet the fond pleasures of youth had forsakenMy bosom, and all the bright dreams you impressedOn my memory had faded, ye give not the feelingOf joy that ye did, when I gazed on the tide,As gracefully winding, its currents came stealingAround the lone willow that stood by its side—The storm-battered willow, the ivy-bound willow, the water-washed willow, that stood by its side.
THE WILLOW
Oh, dear to my heart are the scenes which delightedMy fancy in moments I ne'er can recall,When each happy hour new pleasures invited,And hope pictured visions more lovely than all.When I gazed with a light heart transported and glowingOn the forest-crowned hill, and the rivulet's tide,O'ershaded with tall grass, and rapidly flowingAround the lone willow that stood by its side—The storm-battered willow, the ivy-bound willow, the water-washed willow, that grew by its side.
Dear scenes of past years, when the objects around meSeemed forms to awaken the transports of joy;Ere yet the dull cares of experience had found me,The dearly-loved visions of youth to destroy,—Ye seem to awaken, whene'er I discoverThe grass-shadowed rivulet rapidly glide,The green verdant meads of the vale wandering overAnd laving the willows that stand by its side—The storm-battered willow, the ivy-bound willow, the water-washed willow, that stands by its side;—
How oft 'neath the shade of that wide-spreading willowI have laid myself down from anxiety free,Reclining my head on the green grassy pillow,That waved round the roots of that dearly-loved tree;Where swift from the far distant uplands descending,In the bright sunbeam sparkling, the rivulet's tideWith murmuring echoes came gracefully wendingIts course round the willow that stood by its side—The storm-battered willow, the ivy-bound willow, the water-washed willow that stood by its side.
Haunts of my childhood, that used to awakenEmotions of joy in my infantile breast,Ere yet the fond pleasures of youth had forsakenMy bosom, and all the bright dreams you impressedOn my memory had faded, ye give not the feelingOf joy that ye did, when I gazed on the tide,As gracefully winding, its currents came stealingAround the lone willow that stood by its side—The storm-battered willow, the ivy-bound willow, the water-washed willow, that stood by its side.
This is a fragment of a poem written in the album of a cousin in Philadelphia, in 1838. It was never before in print:—
THE USES OF SORROWIt may be that tears at whilesShould take the place of folly's smiles,When 'neath some Heaven-directed blow,Like those of Horeb's rock, they flow;For sorrows are in mercy givenTo fit the chastened soul for Heaven;Prompting with woe and wearinessOur yearning for that better sky,Which, as the shadows close on this,Grows brighter to the longing eye.For each unwelcome blow may break,Perchance, some chain which binds us here;And clouds around the heart may makeThe vision of our faith more clear;As through the shadowy veil of evenThe eye looks farthest into Heaven,On gleams of star, and depths of blue,The fervid sunshine never knew!
THE USES OF SORROW
It may be that tears at whilesShould take the place of folly's smiles,When 'neath some Heaven-directed blow,Like those of Horeb's rock, they flow;For sorrows are in mercy givenTo fit the chastened soul for Heaven;Prompting with woe and wearinessOur yearning for that better sky,Which, as the shadows close on this,Grows brighter to the longing eye.For each unwelcome blow may break,Perchance, some chain which binds us here;And clouds around the heart may makeThe vision of our faith more clear;As through the shadowy veil of evenThe eye looks farthest into Heaven,On gleams of star, and depths of blue,The fervid sunshine never knew!
In the summer of 1856, Charles A. Dana, then one of the editors of the New York "Tribune," wrote to Whittier, calling upon him for campaign songs for Fremont. He said: "A powerful means of exciting and maintaining the spirit of freedom in the coming decisive contest must be songs. If we are to conquer, as I trust in God we are, agreat deal must be done by that genial and inspiring stimulant." Whittier responded with several songs sung during the campaign for free Kansas, but the following lines for some reason he desired should appear without his name, either in the "National Era," in which they first appeared, August 14, 1856, or with the music to which they were set. A recently discovered letter, written by him to a friend in Philadelphia who was intrusted to set the song to music, avows its authorship, and also credits to his sister Elizabeth another song, "Fremont's Ride," published in the same number of the "Era." As the brother probably had some hand in the composition of this last-mentioned piece, it is given here. This is Whittier's song:—
WE 'RE FREEThe robber o'er the prairie stalksAnd calls the land his own,And he who talks as Slavery talksIs free to talk alone.But tell the knaves we are not slaves,And tell them slaves we ne'er will be;Come weal or woe, the world shall know.We 're free, we 're free, we 're free.Oh, watcher on the outer wall,How wears the night away?I hear the birds of morning call,I see the break of day!Rise, tell the knaves, etc.The hands that hold the sword and purseEre long shall lose their prey;And they who blindly wrought the curse,The curse shall sweep away!Then tell the knaves, etc.The land again in peace shall rest,With blood no longer stained;The virgin beauty of the WestShall be no more profaned.We 'll teach the knaves, etc.The snake about her cradle twined,Shall infant Kansas tear;And freely on the Western windShall float her golden hair!So tell the knaves, etc.Then let the idlers stand apart,And cowards shun the fight;We'll band together, heart to heart,Forget, forgive, unite!And tell the knaves we are not slaves,And tell them slaves we ne'er will be;Come weal or woe, the world shall knowWe 're free, we 're free, we 're free!
WE 'RE FREE
The robber o'er the prairie stalksAnd calls the land his own,And he who talks as Slavery talksIs free to talk alone.But tell the knaves we are not slaves,And tell them slaves we ne'er will be;Come weal or woe, the world shall know.We 're free, we 're free, we 're free.
Oh, watcher on the outer wall,How wears the night away?I hear the birds of morning call,I see the break of day!Rise, tell the knaves, etc.
The hands that hold the sword and purseEre long shall lose their prey;And they who blindly wrought the curse,The curse shall sweep away!Then tell the knaves, etc.
The land again in peace shall rest,With blood no longer stained;The virgin beauty of the WestShall be no more profaned.We 'll teach the knaves, etc.
The snake about her cradle twined,Shall infant Kansas tear;And freely on the Western windShall float her golden hair!So tell the knaves, etc.
Then let the idlers stand apart,And cowards shun the fight;We'll band together, heart to heart,Forget, forgive, unite!And tell the knaves we are not slaves,And tell them slaves we ne'er will be;Come weal or woe, the world shall knowWe 're free, we 're free, we 're free!
It was Whittier's habit to freely suggest lines and even whole stanzas for poems submitted to him for criticism, and it may be readily believed that his hand is shown in this campaign song of his sister's:—