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 curlOf unconfined and flowing hair;A seeming child in everything, Save thoughtful brow and ripening charms, As Nature wears the smile of SpringWhen sinking into Summer's arms. A mind rejoicing in the lightWhich melted through its graceful bower, Leaf after leaf, dew-moist and bright, And stainless in its holy white, Unfolding like a morning flowerA 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 chainOf memory, at the thought of thee!Old hopes which long in dust have lainOld 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 upriseThe 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 smiledMy 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 hourThe lights of memory backward stream, Yet feel the while that manhood's powerIs 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 faceOf manhood, and to thee the graceOf 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 waysOf unobtrusive goodness known. And wider yet in thought and deedDiverge our pathways, one in youth;Thine the Genevan's sternest creed, While answers to my spirit's needThe Derby dalesman's simple truth. For thee, the priestly rite and prayer, And holy day, and solemn psalm;For me, the silent reverence whereMy brethren gather, slow and calm. Yet hath thy spirit left on meAn 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 unlearnThat lesson of its better hours, Not yet has Time's dull footstep wornTo common dust that path of flowers. Thus, while at times before our eyesThe shadows melt, and fall apart, And, smiling through them, round us liesThe warm light of our morning skies, --The Indian Summer of the heart!In secret sympathies of mind, In founts of feeling which retainTheir pure, fresh flow, we yet may findOur early dreams not wholly vain1841. RAPHAEL. Suggested by the portrait of Raphael, at the age of fifteen. I shall not soon forget that sightThe 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 aweSeemed blending with my joy. A simple print, --the graceful flowOf boyhood's soft and wavy hair, And fresh young lip and cheek, and browUnmarked and clear, were there. Yet through its sweet and calm reposeI saw the inward spirit shine;It was as if before me roseThe 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 graceAnd beauty looked or shone. Around the mighty master cameThe marvels which his pencil wrought, Those miracles of power whose fameIs wide as human thought. There drooped thy more than mortal face, O Mother, beautiful and mildEnfolding in one dear embraceThy Saviour and thy Child! The rapt brow of the Desert John;The awful glory of that dayWhen all the Father's brightness shoneThrough manhood's veil of clay. And, midst gray prophet forms, and wildDark visions of the days of old, How sweetly woman's beauty smiledThrough locks of brown and gold! There Fornarina's fair young faceOnce more upon her lover shone, Whose model of an angel's graceHe borrowed from her own. Slow passed that vision from my view, But not the lesson which it taught;The soft, calm shadows which it threwStill rested on my thought: The truth, that painter, bard, and sage, Even in Earth's cold and changeful clime, Plant for their deathless heritageThe fruits and flowers of time. We shape ourselves the joy or fearOf which the coming life is made, And fill our Future's atmosphereWith sunshine or with shade. The tissue of the Life to beWe weave with colors all our own, And in the field of DestinyWe reap as we have sown. Still shall the soul around it callThe shadows which it gathered here, And, painted on the eternal wall, The Past shall reappear. Think ye the notes of holy songOn Milton's tuneful ear have died?Think ye that Raphael's angel throngHas 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 traceThe 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 blendThat of some loved and common friend, Who in life's desert track has madeHis pilgrim tent with mine, or strayedBeneath the same remembered shade. And hence my pen unfettered movesIn freedom which the heart approves, The negligence which friendship loves. And wilt thou prize my poor gift lessFor simple air and rustic dress, And sign of haste and carelessness? Oh, more than specious counterfeitOf sentiment or studied wit, A heart like thine should value it. Yet half I fear my gift will beUnto 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 vainCame the sad captive's clanking chain, The groaning from his bed of pain. And sadder still, I saw the woeWhich only wounded spirits knowWhen Pride's strong footsteps o'er them go. Spurned not alone in walks abroad, But from the temples of the LordThrust 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 speakOf 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 stormThrough 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 retainTheir picture on the heart and brain, Smiled, beckoning from that path of pain. In vain! nor dream, nor rest, nor pauseRemain for him who round him drawsThe battered mail of Freedom's cause. From youthful hopes, from each green spotOf young Romance, and gentle Thought, Where storm and tumult enter not; From each fair altar, where belongThe offerings Love requires of SongIn 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 turnHer 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 heretoforeShall break upon the unknown shore! In that far land shall disappearThe shadows which we follow here, The mist-wreaths of our atmosphere! Before no work of mortal hand, Of human will or strength expandThe pearl gates of the Better Land; Alone in that great love which gaveLife to the sleeper of the grave, Resteth the power to seek and save. Yet, if the spirit gazing throughThe vista of the past can viewOne 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 spotBy Pride and Self profaned not, A green place in the waste of thought, Where deed or word hath rendered lessThe sum of human wretchedness, And Gratitude looks forth to bless; The simple burst of tenderest feelingFrom sad hearts worn by evil-dealing, For blessing on the hand of healing; Better than Glory's pomp will beThat green and blessed spot to me, A palm-shade in Eternity! Something of Time which may inviteThe purified and spiritual sightTo rest on with a calm delight. And when the summer winds shall sweepWith 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 shineThe very fires they caught from mine; If words my lips once uttered still, In the calm faith and steadfast willOf other hearts, their work fulfil; Perchance with joy the soul may learnThese tokens, and its eye discernThe 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 mindA 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 comeFrom fireless hearth, and crowded room, And the close alley's noisome gloom, -- Though dark the hands upraised to theeIn mute beseeching agony, Thou lend'st thy woman's sympathy; Not vainly on thy gentle shrine, Where Love, and Mirth, and Friendship twineTheir 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 vainFor the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain. On the banks of the Xenil the dark Spanish maidenComes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden;And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to beholdThrough 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 boardThe 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 teamThen thanks for thy present! none sweeter or betterE'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 skyGolden-tinted and fair as thy own Pumpkin pie!1844. FORGIVENESS. My heart was heavy, for its trust had beenAbused, its kindness answered with foul wrong;So, turning gloomily from my fellow-men, One summer Sabbath day I strolled amongThe green mounds of the village burial-place;Where, pondering how all human love and hateFind 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 sageTurn coldly from my playful page, And count it strange that ripened ageShould stoop to boyhood's folly;I know that thou wilt judge arightOf all which makes the heart more light, Or lends one star-gleam to the nightOf clouded Melancholy. Away with weary cares and themes!Swing wide the moonlit gate of dreams!Leave free once more the land which teemsWith wonders and romancesWhere thou, with clear discerning eyes, Shalt rightly read the truth which liesBeneath the quaintly masking guiseOf wild and wizard fancies. Lo! once again our feet we setOn still green wood-paths, twilight wet, By lonely brooks, whose waters fretThe roots of spectral beeches;Again the hearth-fire glimmers o'erHome's whitewashed wall and painted floor, And young eyes widening to the loreOf faery-folks and witches. Dear heart! the legend is not vainWhich lights that holy hearth again, And calling back from care and pain, And death's funereal sadness, Draws round its old familiar blazeThe clustering groups of happier days, And lends to sober manhood's gazeA glimpse of childish gladness. And, knowing how my life hath beenA weary work of tongue and pen, A long, harsh strife with strong-willed men, Thou wilt not chide my turningTo 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 LandThe angels of the place have blessedThe pilgrim's bed of desert sand, Like Jacob's stone of rest. That down the hush of Syrian skiesSome sweet-voiced saint at twilight singsThe song whose holy symphoniesAre beat by unseen wings; Till starting from his sandy bed, The wayworn wanderer looks to seeThe halo of an angel's headShine through the tamarisk-tree. So through the shadows of my wayThy smile hath fallen soft and clear, So at the weary close of dayHath seemed thy voice of cheer. That pilgrim pressing to his goalMay pause not for the vision's sake, Yet all fair things within his soulThe 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 hairStreams 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, recallsThe pleasant thought of thee. Of one in sun and shade the same, In weal and woe my steady friend, Whatever by that holy nameThe angels comprehend. Not blind to faults and follies, thouHast never failed the good to see, Nor judged by one unseemly boughThe 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 sprayAre flowered with glossy wings. Yet, even in genial sun and rain, Root, branch, and leaflet fail and fade;The wanderer on its lonely plainErelong shall miss its shade. O friend beloved, whose curious skillKeeps bright the last year's leaves and flowers, With warm, glad, summer thoughts to fillThe cold, dark, winter hours Pressed on thy heart, the leaves I bringMay 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 castWith me in the distant past;Where, like shadows flitting fast, Fact and fancy, thought and theme, Word and work, begin to seemLike a half-remembered dream! Touched by change have all things been, Yet I think of thee as whenWe had speech of lip and pen. For the calm thy kindness lentTo 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 cullFrom our common life and dullWhatsoe'er is beautiful; Thoughts and fancies, Hybla's beesDropping sweetness; true heart's-easeOf 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 flowersWhere the Queen of May's sweet hoursSits, o'ertwined with blossomed bowers, In superfluous zeal bestowingGifts 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 takeEven the offering which I makeKindly 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, hidesThe sobered brow and lessening hairFor aught I know, the myrtled sidesOf Helicon are bare. Their scallop-shells so many bringThe fabled founts of song to try, They've drained, for aught I know, the springOf Aganippe dry. Ah well!--The wreath the Muses braidProves often Folly's cap and bell;Methinks, my ample beaver's shadeMay serve my turn as well. Let Love's and Friendship's tender debtBe paid by those I love in life. Why should the unborn critic whetFor me his scalping-knife? Why should the stranger peer and pryOne's vacant house of life about, And drag for curious ear and eyeHis 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 goneAre rustled all the more? Let kindly Silence close again, The picture vanish from the eye, And on the dim and misty mainLet the small ripple die. Yet not the less I own your claimTo grateful thanks, dear friends of mine. Hang, if it please you so, my nameUpon your household line. Let Fame from brazen lips blow wideHer chosen names, I envy noneA mother's love, a father's pride, Shall keep alive my own! Still shall that name as now recallThe young leaf wet with morning dew, The glory where the sunbeams fallThe breezy woodlands through. That name shall be a household word, A spell to waken smile or sigh;In many an evening prayer be heardAnd cradle lullaby. And thou, dear child, in riper daysWhen asked the reason of thy name, Shalt answer: One 't were vain to praiseOr censure bore the same. "Some blamed him, some believed him good, The truth lay doubtless 'twixt the two;He reconciled as best he couldOld faith and fancies new. "In him the grave and playful mixed, And wisdom held with folly truce, And Nature compromised betwixtGood fellow and recluse. "He loved his friends, forgave his foes;And, if his words were harsh at times, He spared his fellow-men, --his blowsFell only on their crimes. "He loved the good and wise, but foundHis human heart to all akinWho met him on the common groundOf suffering and of sin. "Whate'er his neighbors might endureOf pain or grief his own became;For all the ills he could not cureHe held himself to blame. "His good was mainly an intent, His evil not of forethought done;The work he wrought was rarely meantOr finished as begun. "Ill served his tides of feeling strongTo 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 graveWhat passions strove in chains. "He had his share of care and pain, No holiday was life to him;Still in the heirloom cup we drainThe bitter drop will swim. "Yet Heaven was kind, and here a birdAnd there a flower beguiled his way;And, cool, in summer noons, he heardThe fountains plash and play. "On all his sad or restless moodsThe patient peace of Nature stole;The quiet of the fields and woodsSank 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 waitsFor 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 aweAnd 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 sightFell quenched in darkness; priest and sage, Like lost guides calling left and right, Perplexed his doubtful age. "Like childhood, listening for the soundOf its dropped pebbles in the well, All vainly down the dark profoundHis brief-lined plummet fell. "So, scattering flowers with pious painsOn 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 shrinesIn 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 pearlMight sanctify the shell. "While others trod the altar stairsHe faltered like the publican;And, while they praised as saints, his prayersWere those of sinful man. "For, awed by Sinai's Mount of Law, The trembling faith alone sufficed, That, through its cloud and flame, he sawThe sweet, sad face of Christ! "And listening, with his forehead bowed, Heard the Divine compassion fillThe pauses of the trump and cloudWith 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 craveWhat riches never bought, nor fameTo mortal longing gave. I pray the prayer of Plato old:God make thee beautiful within, And let thine eyes the good beholdIn everything save sin! Imagination held in checkTo serve, not rule, thy poised mind;Thy Reason, at the frown or beckOf Conscience, loose or bind. No dreamer thou, but real all, --Strong manhood crowning vigorous youth;Life made by duty epicalAnd rhythmic with the truth. So shall that life the fruitage yieldWhich trees of healing only give, And green-leafed in the Eternal fieldOf God, forever live!1853. A MEMORY Here, while the loom of Winter weavesThe shroud of flowers and fountains, I think of thee and summer evesAmong 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 wreathWherewith our silence crowned thee; And, strangers all, we felt the tiesOf sisters and of brothers;Ah! whose of all those kindly eyesNow smile upon another's? The sport of Time, who still apartThe waifs of life is flinging;Oh, nevermore shall heart to heartDraw nearer for that singing! Yet when the panes are frosty-starred, And twilight's fire is gleaming, I hear the songs of Scotland's bardSound softly through my dreaming! A song that lends to winter snowsThe glow of summer weather, --Again I hear thee ca' the yowesTo Cluden's hills of heather1854. 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 cloudWith 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 feltFrom 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 sankOn a green and flowery bank, -- Soft as fall of thistle-down, Lightly as a cloud is blown, Soothingly as childhood pressedTo the bosom of its rest. Of the sharp-horned rocks instead, Green the grassy meadows spread, Bright with waters singing byTrees that propped a golden sky. Painless, trustful, sorrow-free, Old lost faces welcomed me, With whose sweetness of contentStill expectant hope was blent. Waking while the dawning graySlowly brightened into day, Pondering that vision fled, Thus unto myself I said:-- "Steep and hung with clouds of strifeIs our narrow path of life;And our death the dreaded fallThrough the dark, awaiting all. "So, with painful steps we climbUp the dizzy ways of time, Ever in the shadow shedBy the forecast of our dread. "Dread of mystery solved alone, Of the untried and unknown;Yet the end thereof may seemLike 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 thenceLarger 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 tanWith thy turned-up pantaloons, And thy merry whistled tunes;With thy red lip, redder stillKissed 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 manOnly is republican. Let the million-dollared ride!Barefoot, trudging at his side, Thou hast more than he can buyIn the reach of ear and eye, --Outward sunshine, inward joyBlessings 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 habitudeOf 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 plansOf 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 conePurpled over hedge and stone;Laughed the brook for my delightThrough 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 knewSeemed 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 playOf the pied frogs' orchestra;And, to light the noisy choir, Lit the fly his lamp of fire. I was monarch: pomp and joyWaited on the barefoot boy! Cheerily, then, my little man, Live and laugh, as boyhood canThough the flinty slopes be hard, Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, Every morn shall lead thee throughFresh baptisms of the dew;Every evening from thy feetShall the cool wind kiss the heatAll too soon these feet must hideIn 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 moilHappy if their track be foundNever on forbidden ground;Happy if they sink not inQuick 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 yearsBeneath 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 throwWide open to the sun. No longer forward nor behindI 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 handRebukes my painful care. I break my pilgrim staff, I layAside the toiling oar;The angel sought so far awayI welcome at my door. The airs of spring may never playAmong the ripening corn, Nor freshness of the flowers of MayBlow through the autumn morn. Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian lookThrough fringed lids to heaven, And the pale aster in the brookShall see its image given;-- The woods shall wear their robes of praise, The south-wind softly sigh, And sweet, calm days in golden hazeMelt down the amber sky. Not less shall manly deed and wordRebuke an age of wrong;The graven flowers that wreathe the swordMake not the blade less strong. But smiting hands shall learn to heal, --To build as to destroy;Nor less my heart for others feelThat I the more enjoy. All as God wills, who wisely heedsTo give or to withhold, And knoweth more of all my needsThan all my prayers have told. Enough that blessings undeservedHave marked my erring track;That wheresoe'er my feet have swerved, His chastening turned me back; That more and more a ProvidenceOf love is understood, Making the springs of time and senseSweet with eternal good;-- That death seems but a covered wayWhich opens into light, Wherein no blinded child can strayBeyond 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 lifeSeem blending in a psalm, And all the angles of its strifeSlow rounding into calm. And so the shadows fall apart, And so the west-winds play;And all the windows of my heartI open to the day. 1859. THE WAITING. I wait and watch: before my eyesMethinks the night grows thin and gray;I wait and watch the eastern skiesTo see the golden spears upriseBeneath the oriflamme of day! Like one whose limbs are bound in tranceI 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 despairThe steps of progress wait for meThe puny leverage of a hairThe 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 fulfilThe harder task of standing still, And good but wished with God is done!1862.