Part 10
Is true Freedom but to break Fetters for our own dear sake, And, with leathern hearts, forget That we owe mankind a debt? No!—true freedom is to share All the chains our brothers wear, And with heart and hand to be Earnest to make others free!
They are slaves who fear to speak For the fallen and the weak; They are slaves who will not choose Hatred, scoffing, and abuse, Rather than in silence shrink From the truth they needs must think. They are slaves who dare not be In the right with two or three.
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
Born Dec. 17, 1807.
TO JOHN G. WHITTIER.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
New England’s poet, rich in love as years, Her hills and valleys praise thee, and her brooks Dance to thy song; to her grave sylvan nooks Thy feet allure us, which the wood-thrush hears As maids their lovers, and no treason fears. Through thee her Merrimacks and Angloochooks, And many a name uncouth, win loving looks, Sweetly familiar to both England’s years. Peaceful by birthright as a virgin lake The lily’s anchorage which no eyes behold Save those of stars, yet for thy brother’s sake That lay in bonds, thou blew’st a blast as bold, As that wherewith the heart of Roland brake Far heard through Pyrennean valleys cold.
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If there is any one in our age whom all men will admit to have been born a poet, it is Whittier. He is less indebted to art, to scholastic culture, to the influences of literary companionship, than any of his brethren. He is a fiery apostle of human brotherhood, and has chanted anathemas against war, and every form of cruelty and superstition. He is eminently a national poet. His mind is in full sympathy with the progressive ideas of the New World.—FRANCES H. UNDERWOOD.
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Much of Whittier’s work has been in the form of contributions to journals which he has edited, and the two volumes which now constitute his collected prose writings have been gathered from these occasional papers. Himself of Quaker descent and belief, he has touched kindly but firmly the changing life of the day which culminated in the witchcraft delusion and displayed itself in the persecution of the Quakers. The carelessness of literary fame which Whittier has shown may be referred to the sincerity of his devotion to that which literature affects, and he has written and sung out of a heart very much in earnest to offer some help, or out of the pleasure of his work. The careful student of his writings will always value most the integrity of his life.—HORACE E. SCUDDER.
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Whittier’s genius is Hebrew—more so than that of any other poet now using the English language. He is a flower of the moral sentiment in its masculine rigor, climbing like a forest pine. In this respect he affiliates with Wordsworth, and, going farther back, with Milton, whose tap-root was Hebrew. The man and the poet are one and the same.—REV. DAVID A. WASSON.
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Whittier is in some respects the most American of all the American poets. It is safe to say that he has been less influenced by other literatures than any of our poets, with the exception, perhaps, of Bryant. The affectionate simplicity of Whittier’s nature is seen in the poems which he addressed to his personal friends and to those whose life-pursuits ran in the same channels as his own moral sympathies.—RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.
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I have not seen John Greenleaf Whittier, but I have had correspondence with him and have great affection for him. During the American war an eminent citizen of Massachusetts told me he thought there was no man in the United States whose writings at that time, and for some years before then, had had such great influence on public opinion as the writings of Whittier. If God gives a real poet to the people at a time like that, does He not verily speak to the people and ask them to return to the ways of mercy and righteousness?—JOHN BRIGHT.
A WHITTIER ALPHABET.
A cottage hidden in the wood, Red through its seams a light is glowing, On rock and bough and tree-trunk rude A narrow luster throwing.
_Mogg Megone._
But welcome, be it old or new, The gift which makes the day more bright, And paints upon the ground of cold And darkness warmth and light.
_Flowers in Winter._
Cheerily then, my little man, Live and laugh as boyhood can! Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy Ere it passes, barefoot boy!
_The Barefoot Boy._
Down on my native hills of June And home’s green quiet, hiding all, Fell sudden darkness like the fall Of midnight upon noon!
_The Rendition._
Early hath the spoiler found thee, Brother of our love, Autumn’s faded earth around thee, And its storms above!
_On the Death of S. O. Torrey._
Father, to Thy suffering poor Strength and grace and faith impart, And with Thy own love restore Comfort to the broken heart.
_The Familists’ Hymn._
God’s stars and silence taught thee As His angels only can, That the one sole sacred thing beneath The cope of heaven is Man.
_The Branded Hand._
How hushed the hiss of party hate, The clamor of the throng! How old, harsh voices of debate Flow into rhythmic song!
_My Birthday._
I walk, with noiseless feet, the round Of uneventful years; Still o’er and o’er I sow the spring And reap the autumn ears.
_My Playmate._
Just then I felt the deacon’s hand In wrath my coat-tail seize on; I heard the priest cry, “Infidel!” The lawyer mutter, “Treason!”
_A Sabbath Scene._
Know we not our dead are looking Downward with a sad surprise, All our strife of words rebuking With their mild and loving eyes?
_A Visit to Washington._
Lift again the stately emblem On the Bay State’s rusted shield; Give to Northern winds the Pine Tree On our banner’s tattered field.
_The Pine Tree._
More than clouds of purple trail In the gold of setting day; More than gleams of wing or sail Beckon from the sea-mist gray.
_The Vanishers._
No perfect whole can our nature make, Here or there the circle will break; The orb of life as it takes the light On one side, leaves the other in night.
_The Preacher._
O friends whose hearts still keep their prime, Whose bright example warms and cheers, Ye teach us how to smile at Time, And set to music all his years.
_The Laurels._
Proffering the riddles of the dread unknown Like the calm Sphinxes, with their eyes of stone Questioning the centuries from their veils of sand.
_Trust._
Quiet and calm, without a fear Of danger darkly lurking near, The weary laborer left his plow, The milkmaid caroled by her cow.
_Pentucket._
Rivermouth Rocks are fair to see, By dawn or sunset shone across, When the ebb of the sea has left them free To dry their fringes of gold-green moss.
_The Wreck of Rivermouth._
So shall the Northern Pioneer go joyful on his way To wed Penobscot’s waters to San Francisco’s bay.
_The Crisis._
Thank God that I have lived to see the time When the great truth begins at last to find An utterance from the deep heart of mankind, Earnest and clear, that all Revenge is Crime!
_Abolition of the Gallows._
Unchanged by our changes of spirit and frame Past, now, and henceforward the Lord is the same; Though we sink in the darkness, His arms break our fall, And in death as in life He is Father of all!
_The Quaker Alumni._
Vain pride of star-lent genius!—vain Quick fancy and creative brain, Unblest by prayerful sacrifice, Absurdly great or weakly wise!
_The Chapel of the Hermits._
Wherever Freedom shivered a chain God speed, quoth I; To Error amidst her shouting train I gave the lie.
_My Soul and I._
Ximena, speak and tell us Who has lost, and who has won? Nearer came the storm and nearer, Rolling fast and frightful on.
_The Angels of Buena Vista._
Yon mountain’s side is black with night, While, broad-orbed, o’er its gleaming crown, The moon, slow rounding into sight, On the hushed, inland sea looks down.
_Summer by the Lakeside._
Zephyr-like o’er all things going When the breath divine is flowing, All my yearnings to be free Are as echoes answering Thee.
_Hymn from the French._
THE MORAL WARFARE.
JOHN G. WHITTIER.
When Freedom on her natal day Within her war-rocked cradle lay, An iron race around her stood, Baptized her infant brow in blood; And through the storm which round her swept Their constant ward and watching kept.
Then, where our quiet herds repose The roar of baleful battle rose, And brethren of a common tongue To mortal strife as tigers sprung; And every gift on Freedom’s shrine Was man for beast, and blood for wine!
Our fathers to their graves have gone: Their strife is past—their triumph won; But sterner trials wait the race Which rises in their honored place— A moral warfare with the crime And folly of an evil time.
So let it be. In God’s own might We gird us for the coming fight, And, strong in Him whose cause is ours, In conflict with unholy powers, We grasp the weapon He has given— The light, and truth, and love of heaven.
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Recently a number of school-children of Girard, Pa., wrote a letter to John G. Whittier, the Quaker poet, telling him that they had learned to recite “The Barefoot Boy,” “The Huskers,” and “Maud Muller,” and closing thus: “If it would not be too much trouble, please write a verse for us—something that we could learn and always remember as having been written by you especially for us.” In response he sent the following:
“Faint not and falter not, nor plead Your weakness. Truth itself is strong; The lion’s strength, the eagle’s speed, Are not alone vouchsafed to wrong.
“Your nature, which, through fire and blood, To place or gain can find its way, Has power to seek the highest good, And duty’s holiest call obey.”
MY COUNTRY.
Land of the forest and the rock, Of dark-blue lake and mighty river, Of mountains reared aloft to mock The storm’s career, the lightning’s shock; My own green land forever! O never may a son of thine, Where’er his wandering steps incline, Forget the skies which bent above His childhood like a dream of love.
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John G. Whittier attended a reunion of his schoolmates at Haverhill, Mass., on the 10th of September, 1885. He was of the Class of ’27. He wrote a poem for the occasion, which was read by a cousin of his. It is entitled “1827-1885,” and is as follows:
The gulf of seven and fifty years We stretch our welcoming hand across; The distance but a pebble’s toss Between us and our youth appears.
For in life’s school we linger on, The remnant of a once full list; Conning our lessons, undismissed, With faces to the setting sun.
And some have gone the unknown way, And some await the call to rest; Who knoweth whether it is best For those who went or us who stay?
And yet, despite of loss and ill, If faith and love and hope remain, Our length of days is not in vain, And life is well worth living still.
Still to a gracious Providence The thanks of grateful hearts are due For blessings when our lives were new— For all the good vouchsafed us since.
The pain that spared us sorer hurt; The wish denied, the purpose crossed; And pleasure, fond occasions lost, These mercies to our small desert.
’Tis something that we wander back, Gray pilgrims, to the ancient ways, And tender memories of old days Walk with us by the Merrimac.
That even in life’s afternoon A sense of youth comes back again, As though this cool September rain The still green woodlands dream of spring.
The eyes, grown dim to present things, Have keener sight for by-gone years, And sweet and clear in deafening ears The bird that sang at morning sings.
Dear comrades, scattered wide and far Send from their homes their kindly word; And dearer ones, unseen, unheard, Smile on us from some heavenly star.
For life and death with God are one; Unchanged by seeming change, His care And love are round us here and there; He breaks no thread His hands have spun.
Soul touches soul; the muster-roll Of life eternal has no gaps; And after half a century’s lapse Our school-day ranks are closed and whole.
Hail and farewell! We go our way Where shadows end, we trust, in light; The star that ushers in the night Is herald also of the day.
THE LIGHT THAT IS FELT.
A tender child of summers three, Seeking her little bed at night, Paused on the dark stair timidly. “O mother; take my hand,” said she, “And then the dark will all be light.”
We older children grope our way From dark behind to dark before; And only when our hands we lay, Dear Lord, in Thine, the night is day, And there is darkness nevermore.
Reach downward to the sunless days Wherein our guides are blind as we, And faith is small and hope delays; Take Thou the hands of prayer we raise, And let us feel the light of Thee.
DECORATION DAY.
DECORATION DAY.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
Sleep, comrades, sleep and rest On this Field of the Grounded Arms, Where foes no more molest, Nor sentry’s shot alarms!
Ye have slept on the ground before, And started to your feet At the cannon’s sudden roar, Or the drum’s redoubling beat.
But in this camp of Death No sound your slumber breaks; Here is no fevered breath— No wound that bleeds and aches.
All is repose and peace; Untrampled lies the sod; The shouts of battle cease: It is the Truce of God!
Rest, comrades, rest and sleep! The thoughts of men shall be As sentinels to keep Your rest from danger free.
Your silent tents of green We deck with fragrant flowers; Yours has the suffering been, The memory shall be ours.
BETWEEN THE GRAVES.
HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.
Where blood once quenched the camp-fire’s brand, On every sod throughout the land The silver showers slip softly down; On every sod some growing stem Lifts to the light a shining crown.
For underneath her bending blue, With leaf and sunshine, moon and dew, Glad Nature gilds the graveside gloom, Nor asks what passions stirred the dust Through which her pulses spring to bloom.
While from the gardens of the South, Like blessings blown from some warm mouth, The wooing wind steals all day long— Steals lingeringly from grave to grave, With breath of blossom, breath of song.
A common flag, breeze, showers and flowers, Are weaving all these sunny hours, Where broken hearts and hopes are hid, And the great mother on each bed Lays it, a fragrant coverlid.
You, who with garlands go about, As the tree-tilting bird pours out O’er either mound his singing bliss, Oh, kind as birds and breezes, leave A flower on that grave, and on this!
For, lo, the eternal truce of death Was called upon the passing breath, And all the phantom hates, that shed Their shadows round us as they stalked, Have no remembrance with the dead!
RED, WHITE, AND BLUE.
HARRIET MCEWEN KIMBALL.
Red Cypress! unto him who grieves, Reading sad legends in thy leaves, And finding in thy flower An emblem of the heart that bleeds, Say: The red blossom which I bear Doth symbolize The sacrifice Of that sublimest hour When Love fulfilled all human needs; Bound Death, the Victor, as a slave; Flung wide the sealed gates of the grave, And set His angels, warders, there.
White Rose! to him who gathers thee The Flower of Consolation be— Unfolding peace, and not despair. With sharpest thorns set round, Teach him how Life may wear Sharp griefs, and yet be crowned!
Blue Harebell! that dost tremble To the weird breath of Sorrow, Be to the mourning one Faith’s symbol;— Since thou dost borrow The same soft hue Her eyes have won with constant looking up; God filleth thine inverted cup With heaven’s own blue; So shall His sweet assurance fill The heart bowed meekly to His will.
THE HEROES’ DAY.
Through the long bending grass The white-robed maidens pass, With tender faces, and with footsteps soft and slow, Upon each lowly grave, Where sleeps the true and brave, Dropping red roses and wan lilies as they go.
Flowers for the patriot band Who loved their native land: Sweet rosemary, and purple pansies, and pale pinks; Green leaves from budding trees Make sweet the passing breeze— Sweet as the elegy the grateful nation thinks.
For who would not prolong With flowers and scent and song The memory of those who fell in freedom’s fight? From the sweet month of May, Then choose the fairest day, And crown it for the honored dead with all things bright.
Then say: “O singing birds, Echo these tender words: While bosoms nobly throb, and women’s eyes are wet, While roses bud and blow, While stars at evening glow, While daylight breaks for us, we never will forget.
“As long as men shall stand For home and native land, And while our starry flag flies o’er the true and free, Honor and love and truth Shall give immortal youth, And we’ll remember you upon the land and sea.”
_Harper’s Weekly._
DECORATION HYMN.
WILLIAM H. RANDALL.
Soldiers! who freely for our country’s glory Upheld our flag on Southern hill and plain, Long may your deeds be told in grateful story, Ye have not lived in vain!
Brothers! who fought for more than empty honor That all our land united might be free, May shine for evermore upon our banner Each star for liberty.
Heroes! who toiled through all the dusty marches, And life surrendered on those shot-plowed fields, To ye who fled where the blue sky o’erarches, Tribute a nation yields.
Your spirits, watching from out heaven’s dominions, Shall not see lost what ye so dearly bought; The shackles that once clogged the eagle’s pinions Shall not again be wrought.
And now with garlands decorate each dwelling Where all that earth could claim serenely sleeps; While love, like perfume from the flower upwelling Grateful remembrance keeps.
FLOWERS FOR THE BRAVE.
CELIA THAXTER.
Here bring your purple and gold, Glory of color and scent! Scarlet of tulips bold, Buds blue as the firmament.
Hushed is the sound of the fife And the bugle piping clear: The vivid and delicate life In the soul of the youthful year.
We bring to the quiet dead, With a gentle and tempered grief; O’er the mounds so mute we shed The beauty of blossoms and leaf.
The flashing swords that were drawn No rust shall their fame destroy! Boughs rosy as rifts of dawn, Like the blush on the cheek of joy.
Rich fires of the gardens and meads, We kindle these hearts above. What splendor shall match their deeds; What sweetness can match our love?
MEMORIAL DAY.
MARGARET SIDNEY.
A little window-garden plot, Blooming in dusty street, Adown which poured the travel Of many weary feet; A cheery spot of brightness Blooming for all to see. Oh, that was Blossom’s garden-bed, Who loved it tenderly.
At morn, at noon, at even, She dealt out faithful care; And many buds and flowerets sweet Came out with fragrance rare. And now, this May-day morning, She stood in wealth of bloom That beautified and perfumed all The quaint, old-fashioned room.
When suddenly the door was thrown Ajar, and there stood Ray. “Give us your flowers, do, Blossom, do, For Decoration Day.” She looked around with pretty flush Of hurt surprise: “Ah, no; You know not what you ask, if you Would wish to rob me so.”
“To _rob_ you?” Master Ray in scorn Flashed out, then turned away; “The soldiers gave their all for _you_: You _owe_ them flowers to-day.” “I ‘_owe_ them flowers.’ Ah, true, indeed! Dear brother, please forgive. Those brave men died on battle-fields That we at home might live;
And I not lay a flower upon Their graves in memory sweet! Oh, selfish heart! I have to mourn Ingratitude complete. Forgive me, Lord. They shall have all; Yes, glad I am to make My buds and blossoms into wreaths For those dear patriots’ sake.”
The May-day sun shone brilliantly; All Nature smiled to see The honors given to those who died In the cause of Liberty; But the sweetest gift from loving hands Was the bud, and flower, and spray, From the little child who gave her all On that Memorial Day.
THANKSGIVING.
THANKSGIVING DAY.
It was not until the late civil war that this day became in any sense a National one. Until that time its observance was confined almost exclusively to New England. But the proclamation of President Johnson, Nov. 2, 1865, appointing a day for national thanksgiving, was indorsed by similar proclamations from the governors of all the States not of the late Confederacy, and since then the festival has steadily increased in popular favor, though many Southern States have been slow in its observance. Now that its appointment comes from a Democratic President,—the first one ever issued from such a source,—it is probable that it will be more generally regarded than ever before in our history. And this is one of the good signs of the times. It is well that one day of the year be given to the reunion of families, to the gathering together of scattered friends, and to rejoicing over the bounties of Providence.—_The Advance._
THANKSGIVING AMONG THE GREEKS.
The Greeks held the grandest feast of all the year in honor of Demeter, the goddess of the harvest; and the Romans, who borrowed most of their customs from the Grecians, also held a grand celebration in honor of the same goddess, whose name they changed to Ceres. They went in long processions to the fields, where they engaged in rustic sports, and crowned all of their household gods with flowers. Both of these feasts were held in September.
THANKSGIVING AMONG THE JEWS.
Three thousand years ago witnessed the Jewish Feast of Tabernacles, with its magnificent rituals, melodious choirs, and picturesque festivities. For eight days the people ceased their work, to “eat, drink, and be merry.” During the time millions gathered in and around Jerusalem, for several days, living in booths formed of the branches of the olive, pine, myrtle, and palm, and decorated with fruits and flowers. Grand public pageants were held, and in addition to these every household had its worship, its sacrifice, and its banquet.
THE FIRST ENGLISH THANKSGIVING IN NEW YORK.
But the Dutch went, and the English came—and they came to stay. On the possession of New Netherland by the English, Edmund Andros being Governor, the Council sitting on June 7, 1675, ordered:
“That Wednesday ye 23d of this Instant month, be appointed throughout ye government a day of Thanksgiving and Prayers to Almighty God for all His Past Deliverances and Blessings and Present Mercies to us, and to Pray ye continuance and Encrease thereof.”
HOW THE PILGRIMS GAVE THANKS.