Whittiers Complete Poems, vol 2 | Page 8

needles of this
goading air,
Than, in the lap of sensual ease, forego
The godlike
power to do, the godlike aim to know.
XXI.
Home of my heart! to me more fair
Than gay Versailles or
Windsor's halls,
The painted, shingly town-house where
The
freeman's vote for Freedom falls!
The simple roof where prayer is
made,
Than Gothic groin and colonnade;

The living temple of the
heart of man,
Than Rome's sky-mocking vault, or many-spired
Milan!
XXII.
More dear thy equal village schools,
Where rich and poor the
Bible read,
Than classic halls where Priestcraft rules,
And Learning

wears the chains of Creed;
Thy glad Thanksgiving, gathering in

The scattered sheaves of home and kin,
Than the mad license
ushering Lenten pains,
Or holidays of slaves who laugh and dance in
chains.
XXIII.
And sweet homes nestle in these dales,
And perch along
these wooded swells;
And, blest beyond Arcadian vales,
They hear
the sound of Sabbath bells!
Here dwells no perfect man sublime,

Nor woman winged before her time,
But with the faults and follies of
the race,
Old home-bred virtues hold their not unhonored place.
XXIV.
Here manhood struggles for the sake
Of mother, sister,
daughter, wife,
The graces and the loves which make
The music of
the march of life;
And woman, in her daily round
Of duty, walks on
holy ground.
No unpaid menial tills the soil, nor here
Is the bad
lesson learned at human rights to sneer.
XXV.
Then let the icy north-wind blow
The trumpets of the coming
storm,
To arrowy sleet and blinding snow
Yon slanting lines of rain
transform.
Young hearts shall hail the drifted cold,
As gayly as I did
of old;
And I, who watch them through the frosty pane,
Unenvious,
live in them my boyhood o'er again.
XXVI.
And I will trust that He who heeds
The life that hides in
mead and wold,
Who hangs yon alder's crimson beads,
And stains
these mosses green and gold,
Will still, as He hath done, incline
His
gracious care to me and mine;
Grant what we ask aright, from wrong
debar,
And, as the earth grows dark, make brighter every star!
XXVII.
I have not seen, I may not see,
My hopes for man take form
in fact,

But God will give the victory
In due time; in that faith I act.

And lie who sees the future sure,
The baffling present may endure,

And bless, meanwhile, the unseen Hand that leads
The heart's
desires beyond the halting step of deeds.

XXVIII.
And thou, my song, I send thee forth,
Where harsher
songs of mine have flown;
Go, find a place at home and hearth

Where'er thy singer's name is known;
Revive for him the kindly
thought
Of friends; and they who love him not,
Touched by some
strain of thine, perchance may take
The hand he proffers all, and
thank him for thy sake.
1857.
THE FIRST FLOWERS
For ages on our river borders,
These tassels in their tawny bloom,

And willowy studs of downy silver,
Have prophesied of Spring to
come.
For ages have the unbound waters
Smiled on them from their pebbly
hem,
And the clear carol of the robin
And song of bluebird
welcomed them.
But never yet from smiling river,
Or song of early bird, have they

Been greeted with a gladder welcome
Than whispers from my heart
to-day.
They break the spell of cold and darkness,
The weary watch of
sleepless pain;
And from my heart, as from the river,
The ice of
winter melts again.
Thanks, Mary! for this wild-wood token
Of Freya's footsteps drawing
near;
Almost, as in the rune of Asgard,
The growing of the grass I
hear.
It is as if the pine-trees called me
From ceiled room and silent books,

To see the dance of woodland shadows,
And hear the song of April
brooks!
As in the old Teutonic ballad
Of Odenwald live bird and tree,

Together live in bloom and music,
I blend in song thy flowers and
thee.

Earth's rocky tablets bear forever
The dint of rain and small bird's
track
Who knows but that my idle verses
May leave some trace by
Merrimac!
The bird that trod the mellow layers
Of the young earth is sought in
vain;
The cloud is gone that wove the sandstone,
From God's design,
with threads of rain!
So, when this fluid age we live in
Shall stiffen round my careless
rhyme,
Who made the vagrant tracks may puzzle
The savants of the
coming time;
And, following out their dim suggestions,
Some idly-curious hand
may draw
My doubtful portraiture, as Cuvier
Drew fish and bird
from fin and claw.
And maidens in the far-off twilights,
Singing my words to breeze and
stream,
Shall wonder if the old-time Mary
Were real, or the
rhymer's dream!
1st 3d mo., 1857.
THE OLD BURYING-GROUND.
Our vales are sweet with fern and rose,
Our hills are maple-crowned;

But not from them our fathers chose
The village burying-ground.
The dreariest spot in all the land
To Death they set apart;
With
scanty grace from Nature's hand,
And none from that of Art.
A winding wall of mossy stone,
Frost-flung and broken, lines
A
lonesome acre thinly grown
With grass and wandering vines.
Without the wall a birch-tree shows
Its drooped and tasselled head;

Within, a stag-horned sumach grows,
Fern-leafed, with spikes of red.
There, sheep that graze the neighboring plain
Like white ghosts come
and go,
The farm-horse drags his fetlock chain,
The cow-bell

tinkles slow.
Low moans the