Whittiers Complete Poems, vol 4 | Page 8

CHANNING.
The last time I saw Dr. Channing was in the summer of 1841, when, in
company with my English friend, Joseph Sturge, so well known for his
philanthropic labors and liberal political opinions, I visited him in his
summer residence in Rhode Island. In recalling the impressions of that
visit, it can scarcely be necessary to say, that I have no reference to the
peculiar religious opinions of a man whose life, beautifully and truly
manifested above the atmosphere of sect, is now the world's common
legacy.
Not vainly did old poets tell,
Nor vainly did old genius paint
God's
great and crowning miracle,
The hero and the saint!
For even in a faithless day
Can we our sainted ones discern;
And
feel, while with them on the way,
Our hearts within us burn.
And thus the common tongue and pen
Which, world-wide, echo
Channing's fame,
As one of Heaven's anointed men,
Have
sanctified his name.
In vain shall Rome her portals bar,
And shut from him her saintly
prize,
Whom, in the world's great calendar,
All men shall canonize.
By Narragansett's sunny bay,
Beneath his green embowering wood,

To me it seems but yesterday
Since at his side I stood.
The slopes lay green with summer rains,
The western wind blew fresh
and free,
And glimmered down the orchard lanes
The white surf of
the sea.
With us was one, who, calm and true,
Life's highest purpose

understood,
And, like his blessed Master, knew
The joy of doing
good.
Unlearned, unknown to lettered fame,
Yet on the lips of England's
poor
And toiling millions dwelt his name,
With blessings evermore.
Unknown to power or place, yet where
The sun looks o'er the Carib
sea,
It blended with the freeman's prayer
And song of jubilee.
He told of England's sin and wrong,
The ills her suffering children
know,
The squalor of the city's throng,
The green field's want and
woe.
O'er Channing's face the tenderness
Of sympathetic sorrow stole,

Like a still shadow, passionless,
The sorrow of the soul.
But when the generous Briton told
How hearts were answering to his
own,
And Freedom's rising murmur rolled
Up to the dull-eared
throne,
I saw, methought, a glad surprise
Thrill through that frail and
pain-worn frame,
And, kindling in those deep, calm eyes,
A still
and earnest flame.
His few, brief words were such as move
The human heart,--the
Faith-sown seeds
Which ripen in the soil of love
To high heroic
deeds.
No bars of sect or clime were felt,
The Babel strife of tongues had
ceased,
And at one common altar knelt
The Quaker and the priest.
And not in vain: with strength renewed,
And zeal refreshed, and hope
less dim,
For that brief meeting, each pursued
The path allotted
him.
How echoes yet each Western hill
And vale with Channing's dying

word!
How are the hearts of freemen still
By that great warning
stirred.
The stranger treads his native soil,
And pleads, with zeal unfelt before,

The honest right of British toil,
The claim of England's poor.
Before him time-wrought barriers fall,
Old fears subside, old hatreds
melt,
And, stretching o'er the sea's blue wall,
The Saxon greets the
Celt.
The yeoman on the Scottish lines,
The Sheffield grinder, worn and
grim,
The delver in the Cornwall mines,
Look up with hope to him.
Swart smiters of the glowing steel,
Dark feeders of the forge's flame,

Pale watchers at the loom and wheel,
Repeat his honored name.
And thus the influence of that hour
Of converse on Rhode Island's
strand
Lives in the calm, resistless power
Which moves our
fatherland.
God blesses still the generous thought,
And still the fitting word He
speeds
And Truth, at His requiring taught,
He quickens into deeds.
Where is the victory of the grave?
What dust upon the spirit lies?

God keeps the sacred life he gave,--
The prophet never dies!
1844.
TO MY FRIEND ON THE DEATH OF HIS SISTER.
Sophia Sturge, sister of Joseph Sturge, of Birmingham, the President of
the British Complete Suffrage Association, died in the 6th month, 1845.
She was the colleague, counsellor, and ever-ready helpmate of her
brother in all his vast designs of beneficence. The Birmingham Pilot
says of her: "Never, perhaps, were the active and passive virtues of the
human character more harmoniously and beautifully blended than in
this excellent woman."

Thine is a grief, the depth of which another
May never know;
Yet,
o'er the waters, O my stricken brother!
To thee I go.
I lean my heart unto thee, sadly folding
Thy hand in mine;
With
even the weakness of my soul upholding
The strength of thine.
I never knew, like thee, the dear departed;
I stood not by
When, in
calm trust, the pure and tranquil-hearted
Lay down to die.
And on thy ears my words of weak condoling
Must vainly fall
The
funeral bell which in thy heart is tolling,
Sounds over all!
I will not mock thee with the poor world's common
And heartless
phrase,
Nor wrong the memory of a sainted woman
With idle
praise.
With silence only as their benediction,
God's angels come
Where,
in the shadow of a great affliction,
The soul sits dumb!
Yet, would I say what thy own heart approveth
Our Father's will,

Calling to Him the dear one whom He loveth,
Is mercy still.
Not upon thee or thine