Chapter 2

Take the warm welcome of new friends with thee, And listening to thy home's familiar chime Dream 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 home The kindly greeting of its children here.

Say that our love survives the severing strain; That the New England, with the Old, holds fast The 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 alone Their 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 known The gift of song which fills the air to-day Tender and sweet, a music all her own May 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 plea For England's freedom made her own more sure, Whose song, immortal as its theme, shall be Their common freehold while both worlds endure.

THE BIRTHDAY WREATH

December 17, 1891.

Blossom and greenness, making all The 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 gives A feeling of old summer days, The wild delight of woodland ways, The glory of the autumn leaves.

And, if the flowery meed of song To other bards may well belong, Be his, who from the farm-field spoke A word for Freedom when her need Was 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 blowing Under the sky's gray arch; Smiling, I watch the shaken elm-boughs, knowing It is the wind of March.

Between the passing and the coming season, This stormy interlude Gives to our winter-wearied hearts a reason For trustful gratitude.

Welcome to waiting ears its harsh forewarning Of 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, waking To life the dead, cold ground.

Between these gusts, to the soft lapse I hearken Of rivulets on their way; I see these tossed and naked tree-tops darken With the fresh leaves of May.

This roar of storm, this sky so gray and lowering Invite the airs of Spring, A warmer sunshine over fields of flowering, The bluebird's song and wing.

Closely behind, the Gulf's warm breezes follow This northern hurricane, And, borne thereon, the bobolink and swallow Shall visit us again.

And, in green wood-paths, in the kine-fed pasture And 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, bringing The healing of the Spring.

BETWEEN THE GATES.

Between the gates of birth and death An old and saintly pilgrim passed, With look of one who witnesseth The long-sought goal at last.

O thou whose reverent feet have found The 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 saintliness To hide the stains of mine.

"The grace and favor else denied May 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 lift Or stain of sin to hide.

"Howe'er the outward life may seem, For pardoning grace we all must pray; No man his brother can redeem Or a soul's ransom pay.

"Not always age is growth of good; Its years have losses with their gain; Against some evil youth withstood Weak hands may strive in vain.

"With deeper voice than any speech Of mortal lips from man to man, What earth's unwisdom may not teach The Spirit only can.

"Make thou that holy guide thine own, And following where it leads the way, The known shall lapse in the unknown As twilight into day.

"The best of earth shall still remain, And heaven's eternal years shall prove That life and death, and joy and pain, Are ministers of Love."

THE LAST EVE OF SUMMER.

Summer's last sun nigh unto setting shines Through yon columnar pines, And on the deepening shadows of the lawn Its 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 sight Have still their old delight,

I sit alone, and watch the warm, sweet day Lapse tenderly away; And, wistful, with a feeling of forecast, I ask, "Is this the last?

"Will nevermore for me the seasons run Their round, and will the sun Of ardent summers yet to come forget For me to rise and set?"

Thou shouldst be here, or I should be with thee Wherever thou mayst be, Lips mute, hands clasped, in silences of speech Each answering unto each.

For this still hour, this sense of mystery far Beyond the evening star, No words outworn suffice on lip or scroll: The soul would fain with soul

Wait, while these few swift-passing days fulfil The wise-disposing Will, And, in the evening as at morning, trust The All-Merciful and Just.

The solemn joy that soul-communion feels Immortal 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 thee Thy calm assurance of transcendent Spheres And 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 weeks before his death.

Among the thousands who with hail and cheer Will 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-day We with the third hold way,

Loving and loved. If thought must backward run To those who, one by one, In the great silence and the dark beyond Vanished with farewells fond,

Unseen, not lost; our grateful memories still Their vacant places fill, And with the full-voiced greeting of new friends A tenderer whisper blends.

Linked close in a pathetic brotherhood Of 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 make More cheerful for thy sake, Soothing the ears its Miserere pains, With the old Hellenic strains,

Lighting the sullen face of discontent With smiles for blessings sent. Enough of selfish wailing has been had, Thank God! for notes more glad.

Life is indeed no holiday; therein Are want, and woe, and sin, Death and its nameless fears, and over all Our pitying tears must fall.

Sorrow is real; but the counterfeit Which 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 train Not 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 Gate We leave the words and works we call our own, And lift void hands alone

For love to fill. Our nakedness of soul Brings to that Gate no toll; Giftless we come to Him, who all things gives, And live because He lives.