AT SUNDOWN BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 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 BIRTHDAY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL HAVERHILL. 1640-1890 TO G. G. PRESTON POWERS, INSCRIPTION FOR BASS-RELIEF LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY, INSCRIPTION ON TABLET MILTON, ON MEMORIAL WINDOW THE BIRTHDAY WREATH THE WIND OF MARCH BETWEEN THE GATES THE LAST EVE OF SUMMER TO OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, 8TH Mo. 29TH, 1892 AT SUNDOWN TO E. C. S. Poet and friend of poets, if thy glassDetects no flower in winter's tuft of grass, Let this slight token of the debt I oweOutlive for thee December's frozen day, And, like the arbutus budding under snow, Take bloom and fragrance from some morn of MayWhen he who gives it shall have gone the wayWhere faith shall see and reverent trust shall know. THE CHRISTMAS OF 1888. Low in the east, against a white, cold dawn, The black-lined silhouette of the woods was drawn, And on a wintry wasteOf frosted streams and hillsides bare and brown, Through thin cloud-films, a pallid ghost looked down, The waning moon half-faced! In that pale sky and sere, snow-waiting earth, What sign was there of the immortal birth?What herald of the One?Lo! swift as thought the heavenly radiance came, A rose-red splendor swept the sky like flame, Up rolled the round, bright sun! And all was changed. From a transfigured worldThe moon's ghost fled, the smoke of home-hearths curledUp the still air unblown. In Orient warmth and brightness, did that mornO'er Nain and Nazareth, when the Christ was born, Break fairer than our own? The morning's promise noon and eve fulfilledIn warm, soft sky and landscape hazy-hilledAnd sunset fair as they;A sweet reminder of His holiest time, A summer-miracle in our winter clime, God gave a perfect day. The near was blended with the old and far, And Bethlehem's hillside and the Magi's starSeemed here, as there and then, --Our homestead pine-tree was the Syrian palm, Our heart's desire the angels' midnight psalm, Peace, and good-will to men! THE VOW OF WASHINGTON. Read in New York, April 30, 1889, at the Centennial Celebration of the Inauguration of George Washington as the first President of the United States. The sword was sheathed: in April's sunLay green the fields by Freedom won;And severed sections, weary of debates, Joined hands at last and were United States. O City sitting by the SeaHow proud the day that dawned on thee, When the new era, long desired, began, And, in its need, the hour had found the man! One thought the cannon salvos spoke, The resonant bell-tower's vibrant stroke, The voiceful streets, the plaudit-echoing halls, And prayer and hymn borne heavenward from St. Paul's! How felt the land in every partThe strong throb of a nation's heart, As its great leader gave, with reverent awe, His pledge to Union, Liberty, and Law. That pledge the heavens above him heard, That vow the sleep of centuries stirred;In world-wide wonder listening peoples bentTheir gaze on Freedom's great experiment. Could it succeed? Of honor soldAnd hopes deceived all history told. Above the wrecks that strewed the mournful past, Was the long dream of ages true at last? Thank God! the people's choice was just, The one man equal to his trust, Wise beyond lore, and without weakness good, Calm in the strength of flawless rectitude. His rule of justice, order, peace, Made possible the world's release;Taught prince and serf that power is but a trust, And rule, alone, which serves the ruled, is just; That Freedom generous is, but strongIn hate of fraud and selfish wrong, Pretence that turns her holy truths to lies, And lawless license masking in her guise. Land of his love! with one glad voiceLet thy great sisterhood rejoice;A century's suns o'er thee have risen and set, And, God be praised, we are one nation yet. And still we trust the years to beShall prove his hope was destiny, Leaving our flag, with all its added stars, Unrent by faction and unstained by wars. Lo! where with patient toil he nursedAnd trained the new-set plant at first, The widening branches of a stately treeStretch from the sunrise to the sunset sea. And in its broad and sheltering shade, Sitting with none to make afraid, Were we now silent, through each mighty limb, The winds of heaven would sing the praise of him. Our first and best!--his ashes lieBeneath his own Virginian sky. Forgive, forget, O true and just and brave, The storm that swept above thy sacred grave. For, ever in the awful strifeAnd dark hours of the nation's life, Through the fierce tumult pierced his warning word, Their father's voice his erring children heard. The change for which he prayed and soughtIn that sharp agony was wrought;No partial interest draws its alien line'Twixt North and South, the cypress and the pine! One people now, all doubt beyond, His name shall be our Union-bond;We lift our hands to Heaven, and here and now. Take on our lips the old Centennial vow. For rule and trust must needs be ours;Chooser and chosen both are powersEqual in service as in rights; the claimOf Duty rests on each and all the same. Then let the sovereign millions, whereOur banner floats in sun and air, From the warm palm-lands to Alaska's cold, Repeat with us the pledge a century old? THE CAPTAIN'S WELL. The story of the shipwreck of Captain Valentine Bagley, on the coast of Arabia, and his sufferings in the desert, has been familiar from my childhood. It has been partially told in the singularly beautiful lines of my friend, Harriet Prescott Spofford, an the occasion of a public celebration at the Newburyport Library. To the charm and felicity of her verse, as far as it goes, nothing can be added; but in the following ballad I have endeavored to give a fuller detail of the touching incident upon which it is founded. From pain and peril, by land and main, The shipwrecked sailor came back again; And like one from the dead, the threshold cross'dOf his wondering home, that had mourned him lost. Where he sat once more with his kith and kin, And welcomed his neighbors thronging in. But when morning came he called for his spade. "I must pay my debt to the Lord, " he said. "Why dig you here?" asked the passer-by;"Is there gold or silver the road so nigh?" "No, friend, " he answered: "but under this sodIs the blessed water, the wine of God. " "Water! the Powow is at your back, And right before you the Merrimac, "And look you up, or look you down, There 's a well-sweep at every door in town. " "True, " he said, "we have wells of our own;But this I dig for the Lord alone. " Said the other: "This soil is dry, you know. I doubt if a spring can be found below; "You had better consult, before you dig, Some water-witch, with a hazel twig. " "No, wet or dry, I will dig it here, Shallow or deep, if it takes a year. "In the Arab desert, where shade is none, The waterless land of sand and sun, "Under the pitiless, brazen skyMy burning throat as the sand was dry; "My crazed brain listened in fever dreamsFor plash of buckets and ripple of streams; "And opening my eyes to the blinding glare, And my lips to the breath of the blistering air, "Tortured alike by the heavens and earth, I cursed, like Job, the day of my birth. "Then something tender, and sad, and mildAs a mother's voice to her wandering child, "Rebuked my frenzy; and bowing my head, I prayed as I never before had prayed: "Pity me, God! for I die of thirst;Take me out of this land accurst; "And if ever I reach my home again, Where earth has springs, and the sky has rain, "I will dig a well for the passers-by, And none shall suffer from thirst as I. "I saw, as I prayed, my home once more, The house, the barn, the elms by the door, "The grass-lined road, that riverward wound, The tall slate stones of the burying-ground, "The belfry and steeple on meeting-house hill, The brook with its dam, and gray grist mill, "And I knew in that vision beyond the sea, The very place where my well must be. "God heard my prayer in that evil day;He led my feet in their homeward way, "From false mirage and dried-up well, And the hot sand storms of a land of hell, "Till I saw at last through the coast-hill's gap, A city held in its stony lap, "The mosques and the domes of scorched Muscat, And my heart leaped up with joy thereat; "For there was a ship at anchor lying, A Christian flag at its mast-head flying, "And sweetest of sounds to my homesick earWas my native tongue in the sailor's cheer. "Now the Lord be thanked, I am back again, Where earth has springs, and the skies have rain, "And the well I promised by Oman's Sea, I am digging for him in Amesbury. " His kindred wept, and his neighbors said"The poor old captain is out of his head. " But from morn to noon, and from noon to night, He toiled at his task with main and might; And when at last, from the loosened earth, Under his spade the stream gushed forth, And fast as he climbed to his deep well's brim, The water he dug for followed him, He shouted for joy: "I have kept my word, And here is the well I promised the Lord!" The long years came and the long years went, And he sat by his roadside well content; He watched the travellers, heat-oppressed, Pause by the way to drink and rest, And the sweltering horses dip, as they drank, Their nostrils deep in the cool, sweet tank, And grateful at heart, his memory wentBack to that waterless Orient, And the blessed answer of prayer, which cameTo the earth of iron and sky of flame. And when a wayfarer weary and hot, Kept to the mid road, pausing not For the well's refreshing, he shook his head;"He don't know the value of water, " he said; "Had he prayed for a drop, as I have done, In the desert circle of sand and sun, "He would drink and rest, and go home to tellThat God's best gift is the wayside well!" AN OUTDOOR RECEPTION. The substance of these lines, hastily pencilled several years ago, I find among such of my unprinted scraps as have escaped the waste-basket and the fire. In transcribing it I have made some changes, additions, and omissions. On these green banks, where falls too soonThe shade of Autumn's afternoon, The south wind blowing soft and sweet, The water gliding at nay feet, The distant northern range uplitBy the slant sunshine over it, With changes of the mountain mistFrom tender blush to amethyst, The valley's stretch of shade and gleamFair as in Mirza's Bagdad dream, With glad young faces smiling nearAnd merry voices in my ear, I sit, methinks, as Hafiz mightIn Iran's Garden of Delight. For Persian roses blushing red, Aster and gentian bloom instead;For Shiraz wine, this mountain air;For feast, the blueberries which I shareWith one who proffers with stained handsHer gleanings from yon pasture lands, Wild fruit that art and culture spoil, The harvest of an untilled soil;And with her one whose tender eyesReflect the change of April skies, Midway 'twixt child and maiden yet, Fresh as Spring's earliest violet;And one whose look and voice and waysMake where she goes idyllic days;And one whose sweet, still countenanceSeems dreamful of a child's romance;And others, welcome as are these, Like and unlike, varietiesOf pearls on nature's chaplet strung, And all are fair, for all are young. Gathered from seaside cities old, From midland prairie, lake, and wold, From the great wheat-fields, which might feedThe hunger of a world at need, In healthful change of rest and playTheir school-vacations glide away. No critics these: they only seeAn old and kindly friend in me, In whose amused, indulgent lookTheir innocent mirth has no rebuke. They scarce can know my rugged rhymes, The harsher songs of evil times, Nor graver themes in minor keysOf life's and death's solemnities;But haply, as they bear in mindSome verse of lighter, happier kind, --Hints of the boyhood of the man, Youth viewed from life's meridian, Half seriously and half in playMy pleasant interviewers payTheir visit, with no fell intentOf taking notes and punishment. As yonder solitary pineIs ringed below with flower and vine, More favored than that lonely tree, The bloom of girlhood circles me. In such an atmosphere of youthI half forget my age's truth;The shadow of my life's long dateRuns backward on the dial-plate, Until it seems a step might spanThe gulf between the boy and man. My young friends smile, as if some jayOn bleak December's leafless sprayEssayed to sing the songs of May. Well, let them smile, and live to know, When their brown locks are flecked with snow, 'T is tedious to be always sageAnd pose the dignity of age, While so much of our early livesOn memory's playground still survives, And owns, as at the present hour, The spell of youth's magnetic power. But though I feel, with Solomon, 'T is pleasant to behold the sun, I would not if I could repeatA life which still is good and sweet;I keep in age, as in my prime, A not uncheerful step with time, And, grateful for all blessings sent, I go the common way, contentTo make no new experiment. On easy terms with law and fate, For what must be I calmly wait, And trust the path I cannot see, --That God is good sufficeth me. And when at last on life's strange playThe curtain falls, I only prayThat hope may lose itself in truth, And age in Heaven's immortal youth, And all our loves and longing proveThe foretaste of diviner love. The day is done. Its afterglowAlong the west is burning low. My visitors, like birds, have flown;I hear their voices, fainter grown, And dimly through the dusk I seeTheir 'kerchiefs wave good-night to me, --Light hearts of girlhood, knowing noughtOf all the cheer their coming brought;And, in their going, unawareOf silent-following feet of prayerHeaven make their budding promise goodWith flowers of gracious womanhood! R. S. S. , AT DEER ISLAND ON THE MERRIMAC. Make, for he loved thee well, our Merrimac, From wave and shore a low and long lamentFor him, whose last look sought thee, as he wentThe unknown way from which no step comes back. And ye, O ancient pine-trees, at whose feetHe watched in life the sunset's reddening glow, Let the soft south wind through your needles blowA fitting requiem tenderly and sweet!No fonder lover of all lovely thingsShall walk where once he walked, no smile more gladGreet friends than his who friends in all men had, Whose pleasant memory, to that Island clings, Where a dear mourner in the home he leftOf love's sweet solace cannot be bereft. BURNING DRIFT-WOOD Before my drift-wood fire I sit, And see, with every waif I burn, Old dreams and fancies coloring it, And folly's unlaid ghosts return. O ships of mine, whose swift keels cleftThe enchanted sea on which they sailed, Are these poor fragments only leftOf vain desires and hopes that failed? Did I not watch from them the lightOf sunset on my towers in Spain, And see, far off, uploom in sightThe Fortunate Isles I might not gain? Did sudden lift of fog revealArcadia's vales of song and spring, And did I pass, with grazing keel, The rocks whereon the sirens sing? Have I not drifted hard uponThe unmapped regions lost to man, The cloud-pitched tents of Prester John, The palace domes of Kubla Khan? Did land winds blow from jasmine flowers, Where Youth the ageless Fountain fills?Did Love make sign from rose blown bowers, And gold from Eldorado's hills? Alas! the gallant ships, that sailedOn blind Adventure's errand sent, Howe'er they laid their courses, failedTo reach the haven of Content. And of my ventures, those aloneWhich Love had freighted, safely sped, Seeking a good beyond my own, By clear-eyed Duty piloted. O mariners, hoping still to meetThe luck Arabian voyagers met, And find in Bagdad's moonlit street, Haroun al Raschid walking yet, Take with you, on your Sea of Dreams, The fair, fond fancies dear to youth. I turn from all that only seems, And seek the sober grounds of truth. What matter that it is not May, That birds have flown, and trees are bare, That darker grows the shortening day, And colder blows the wintry air! The wrecks of passion and desire, The castles I no more rebuild, May fitly feed my drift-wood fire, And warm the hands that age has chilled. Whatever perished with my ships, I only know the best remains;A song of praise is on my lipsFor losses which are now my gains. Heap high my hearth! No worth is lost;No wisdom with the folly dies. Burn on, poor shreds, your holocaustShall be my evening sacrifice. Far more than all I dared to dream, Unsought before my door I see;On wings of fire and steeds of steamThe world's great wonders come to me, And holier signs, unmarked before, Of Love to seek and Power to save, --The righting of the wronged and poor, The man evolving from the slave; And life, no longer chance or fate, Safe in the gracious Fatherhood. I fold o'er-wearied hands and wait, In full assurance of the good. And well the waiting time must be, Though brief or long its granted days, If Faith and Hope and CharitySit by my evening hearth-fire's blaze. And with them, friends whom Heaven has spared, Whose love my heart has comforted, And, sharing all my joys, has sharedMy tender memories of the dead, -- Dear souls who left us lonely here, Bound on their last, long voyage, to whomWe, day by day, are drawing near, Where every bark has sailing room! I know the solemn monotoneOf waters calling unto meI know from whence the airs have blownThat whisper of the Eternal Sea. As low my fires of drift-wood burn, I hear that sea's deep sounds increase, And, fair in sunset light, discernIts mirage-lifted Isles of Peace. O. W. HOLMES ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTH-DAY. Climbing a path which leads back never moreWe heard behind his footsteps and his cheer;Now, face to face, we greet him standing hereUpon the lonely summit of FourscoreWelcome to us, o'er whom the lengthened dayIs closing and the shadows colder grow, His genial presence, like an afterglow, Following the one just vanishing away. Long be it ere the table shall be setFor the last breakfast of the Autocrat, And love repeat with smiles and tears thereatHis own sweet songs that time shall not forget. Waiting with us the call to come up higher, Life is not less, the heavens are only higher! JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. From purest wells of English undefiledNone deeper drank than he, the New World's child, Who in the language of their farm-fields spokeThe wit and wisdom of New England folk, Shaming a monstrous wrong. The world-wide laughProvoked thereby might well have shaken halfThe walls of Slavery down, ere yet the ballAnd mine of battle overthrew them all. HAVERHILL. 1640-1890. Read at the Celebration of the Two Hundred and Fiftieth Anniversary of the City, July 2, 1890. O river winding to the sea!We call the old time back to thee;From forest paths and water-waysThe century-woven veil we raise. The voices of to-day are dumb, Unheard its sounds that go and come;We listen, through long-lapsing years, To footsteps of the pioneers. Gone steepled town and cultured plain, The wilderness returns again, The drear, untrodden solitude, The gloom and mystery of the wood! Once more the bear and panther prowl, The wolf repeats his hungry howl, And, peering through his leafy screen, The Indian's copper face is seen. We see, their rude-built huts beside, Grave men and women anxious-eyed, And wistful youth remembering stillDear homes in England's Haverhill. We summon forth to mortal viewDark Passaquo and Saggahew, --Wild chiefs, who owned the mighty swayOf wizard Passaconaway. Weird memories of the border town, By old tradition handed down, In chance and change before us passLike pictures in a magic glass, -- The terrors of the midnight raid, The-death-concealing ambuscade, The winter march, through deserts wild, Of captive mother, wife, and child. Ah! bleeding hands alone subduedAnd tamed the savage habitudeOf forests hiding beasts of prey, And human shapes as fierce as they. Slow from the plough the woods withdrew, Slowly each year the corn-lands grew;Nor fire, nor frost, nor foe could killThe Saxon energy of will. And never in the hamlet's boundWas lack of sturdy manhood found, And never failed the kindred goodOf brave and helpful womanhood. That hamlet now a city is, Its log-built huts are palaces;The wood-path of the settler's cowIs Traffic's crowded highway now. And far and wide it stretches still, Along its southward sloping hill, And overlooks on either handA rich and many-watered land. And, gladdening all the landscape, fairAs Pison was to Eden's pair, Our river to its valley bringsThe blessing of its mountain springs. And Nature holds with narrowing space, From mart and crowd, her old-time grace, And guards with fondly jealous armsThe wild growths of outlying farms. Her sunsets on Kenoza fall, Her autumn leaves by Saltonstall;No lavished gold can richer makeHer opulence of hill and lake. Wise was the choice which led out siresTo kindle here their household fires, And share the large content of allWhose lines in pleasant places fall. More dear, as years on years advance, We prize the old inheritance, And feel, as far and wide we roam, That all we seek we leave at home. Our palms are pines, our orangesAre apples on our orchard trees;Our thrushes are our nightingales, Our larks the blackbirds of our vales. No incense which the Orient burnsIs sweeter than our hillside ferns;What tropic splendor can outvieOur autumn woods, our sunset sky? If, where the slow years came and went, And left not affluence, but content, Now flashes in our dazzled eyesThe electric light of enterprise; And if the old idyllic easeSeems lost in keen activities, And crowded workshops now replaceThe hearth's and farm-field's rustic grace; No dull, mechanic round of toilLife's morning charm can quite despoil;And youth and beauty, hand in hand, Will always find enchanted land. No task is ill where hand and brainAnd skill and strength have equal gain, And each shall each in honor hold, And simple manhood outweigh gold. Earth shall be near to Heaven when allThat severs man from man shall fall, For, here or there, salvation's planAlone is love of God and man. O dwellers by the Merrimac, The heirs of centuries at your back, Still reaping where you have not sown, A broader field is now your own. Hold fast your Puritan heritage, But let the free thought of the ageIts light and hope and sweetness addTo the stern faith the fathers had. Adrift on Time's returnless tide, As waves that follow waves, we glide. God grant we leave upon the shoreSome waif of good it lacked before; Some seed, or flower, or plant of worth, Some added beauty to the earth;Some larger hope, some thought to makeThe sad world happier for its sake. As tenants of uncertain stay, So may we live our little dayThat only grateful hearts shall fillThe homes we leave in Haverhill. The singer of a farewell rhyme, Upon whose outmost verge of timeThe shades of night are falling down, I pray, God bless the good old town! TO G. G. AN AUTOGRAPH. The daughter of Daniel Gurteen, Esq. , delegate from Haverhill, England, to the two hundred and fiftieth anniversary celebration of Haverhill, Massachusetts. The Rev. John Ward of the former place and many of his old parishioners were the pioneer settlers of the new town on the Merrimac. Graceful in name and in thyself, our riverNone fairer saw in John Ward's pilgrim flock, Proof that upon their century-rooted stockThe English roses bloom as fresh as ever. Take the warm welcome of new friends with thee, And listening to thy home's familiar chimeDream that thou hearest, with it keeping time, The bells on Merrimac sound across the sea. Think of our thrushes, when the lark sings clear, Of our sweet Mayflowers when the daisies bloom;And bear to our and thy ancestral homeThe kindly greeting of its children here. Say that our love survives the severing strain;That the New England, with the Old, holds fastThe proud, fond memories of a common past;Unbroken still the ties of blood remain! INSCRIPTION For the bass-relief by Preston Powers, carved upon the huge boulder in Denver Park, Col. , and representing the Last Indian and the Last Bison. The eagle, stooping from yon snow-blown peaks, For the wild hunter and the bison seeks, In the changed world below; and finds aloneTheir graven semblance in the eternal stone. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. Inscription on her Memorial Tablet in Christ Church at Hartford, Conn. She sang alone, ere womanhood had knownThe gift of song which fills the air to-dayTender and sweet, a music all her ownMay fitly linger where she knelt to pray. MILTON Inscription on the Memorial Window in St. Margaret's Church, Westminster, the gift of George W. Childs, of America. The new world honors him whose lofty pleaFor England's freedom made her own more sure, Whose song, immortal as its theme, shall beTheir common freehold while both worlds endure. THE BIRTHDAY WREATH December 17, 1891. Blossom and greenness, making allThe winter birthday tropical, And the plain Quaker parlors gay, Have gone from bracket, stand, and wall;We saw them fade, and droop, and fall, And laid them tenderly away. White virgin lilies, mignonette, Blown rose, and pink, and violet, A breath of fragrance passing by;Visions of beauty and decay, Colors and shapes that could not stay, The fairest, sweetest, first to die. But still this rustic wreath of mine, Of acorned oak and needled pine, And lighter growths of forest lands, Woven and wound with careful pains, And tender thoughts, and prayers, remains, As when it dropped from love's dear hands. And not unfitly garlanded, Is he, who, country-born and bred, Welcomes the sylvan ring which givesA feeling of old summer days, The wild delight of woodland ways, The glory of the autumn leaves. And, if the flowery meed of songTo other bards may well belong, Be his, who from the farm-field spokeA word for Freedom when her needWas not of dulcimer and reed. This Isthmian wreath of pine and oak. THE WIND OF MARCH. Up from the sea, the wild north wind is blowingUnder the sky's gray arch;Smiling, I watch the shaken elm-boughs, knowingIt is the wind of March. Between the passing and the coming season, This stormy interludeGives to our winter-wearied hearts a reasonFor trustful gratitude. Welcome to waiting ears its harsh forewarningOf light and warmth to come, The longed-for joy of Nature's Easter morning, The earth arisen in bloom. In the loud tumult winter's strength is breaking;I listen to the sound, As to a voice of resurrection, wakingTo life the dead, cold ground. Between these gusts, to the soft lapse I hearkenOf rivulets on their way;I see these tossed and naked tree-tops darkenWith the fresh leaves of May. This roar of storm, this sky so gray and loweringInvite the airs of Spring, A warmer sunshine over fields of flowering, The bluebird's song and wing. Closely behind, the Gulf's warm breezes followThis northern hurricane, And, borne thereon, the bobolink and swallowShall visit us again. And, in green wood-paths, in the kine-fed pastureAnd by the whispering rills, Shall flowers repeat the lesson of the Master, Taught on his Syrian hills. Blow, then, wild wind! thy roar shall end in singing, Thy chill in blossoming;Come, like Bethesda's troubling angel, bringingThe healing of the Spring. BETWEEN THE GATES. Between the gates of birth and deathAn old and saintly pilgrim passed, With look of one who witnessethThe long-sought goal at last. O thou whose reverent feet have foundThe Master's footprints in thy way, And walked thereon as holy ground, A boon of thee I pray. "My lack would borrow thy excess, My feeble faith the strength of thine;I need thy soul's white saintlinessTo hide the stains of mine. "The grace and favor else deniedMay well be granted for thy sake. "So, tempted, doubting, sorely tried, A younger pilgrim spake. "Thy prayer, my son, transcends my gift;No power is mine, " the sage replied, "The burden of a soul to liftOr stain of sin to hide. "Howe'er the outward life may seem, For pardoning grace we all must pray;No man his brother can redeemOr a soul's ransom pay. "Not always age is growth of good;Its years have losses with their gain;Against some evil youth withstoodWeak hands may strive in vain. "With deeper voice than any speechOf mortal lips from man to man, What earth's unwisdom may not teachThe Spirit only can. "Make thou that holy guide thine own, And following where it leads the way, The known shall lapse in the unknownAs twilight into day. "The best of earth shall still remain, And heaven's eternal years shall proveThat life and death, and joy and pain, Are ministers of Love. " THE LAST EVE OF SUMMER. Summer's last sun nigh unto setting shinesThrough yon columnar pines, And on the deepening shadows of the lawnIts golden lines are drawn. Dreaming of long gone summer days like this, Feeling the wind's soft kiss, Grateful and glad that failing ear and sightHave still their old delight, I sit alone, and watch the warm, sweet dayLapse tenderly away;And, wistful, with a feeling of forecast, I ask, "Is this the last? "Will nevermore for me the seasons runTheir round, and will the sunOf ardent summers yet to come forgetFor me to rise and set?" Thou shouldst be here, or I should be with theeWherever thou mayst be, Lips mute, hands clasped, in silences of speechEach answering unto each. For this still hour, this sense of mystery farBeyond the evening star, No words outworn suffice on lip or scroll:The soul would fain with soul Wait, while these few swift-passing days fulfilThe wise-disposing Will, And, in the evening as at morning, trustThe All-Merciful and Just. The solemn joy that soul-communion feelsImmortal life reveals;And human love, its prophecy and sign, Interprets love divine. Come then, in thought, if that alone may be, O friend! and bring with theeThy calm assurance of transcendent SpheresAnd the Eternal Years!August 31, 1890. TO OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 8TH Mo. 29TH, 1892. This, the last of Mr. Whittier's poems, was written but a few weeksbefore his death. Among the thousands who with hail and cheerWill welcome thy new year, How few of all have passed, as thou and I, So many milestones by! We have grown old together; we have seen, Our youth and age between, Two generations leave us, and to-dayWe with the third hold way, Loving and loved. If thought must backward runTo those who, one by one, In the great silence and the dark beyondVanished with farewells fond, Unseen, not lost; our grateful memories stillTheir vacant places fill, And with the full-voiced greeting of new friendsA tenderer whisper blends. Linked close in a pathetic brotherhoodOf mingled ill and good, Of joy and grief, of grandeur and of shame, For pity more than blame, -- The gift is thine the weary world to makeMore cheerful for thy sake, Soothing the ears its Miserere pains, With the old Hellenic strains, Lighting the sullen face of discontentWith smiles for blessings sent. Enough of selfish wailing has been had, Thank God! for notes more glad. Life is indeed no holiday; thereinAre want, and woe, and sin, Death and its nameless fears, and over allOur pitying tears must fall. Sorrow is real; but the counterfeitWhich folly brings to it, We need thy wit and wisdom to resist, O rarest Optimist! Thy hand, old friend! the service of our days, In differing moods and ways, May prove to those who follow in our trainNot valueless nor vain. Far off, and faint as echoes of a dream, The songs of boyhood seem, Yet on our autumn boughs, unflown with spring, The evening thrushes sing. The hour draws near, howe'er delayed and late, When at the Eternal GateWe leave the words and works we call our own, And lift void hands alone For love to fill. Our nakedness of soulBrings to that Gate no toll;Giftless we come to Him, who all things gives, And live because He lives.