 | Poems of house and home |  |
110
OTHER POEMS.
HOME-LONGING.
I long for thee, O native Western Land!I long for thy full rivers, moving slow
In their old dream, that changes not, but takes
The ever-changing vision of the air;
I long for these, the kinsmen of my youth,
And thy vast woodlands, murmuring weirdly still
Lost Indian legends, and thy prairies where
The bison's thunder, sinking far and vague,
Grows loud and near, and is the hurrying train.
Washington, D. C.
111
A VOICE IN OHIO.
DECEMBER 17, 1877.
By my quick firelight rapt and still,
High on this black Ohio hill,
I think of him who crossed to-day
The snow-roofed boundary of our way
(His book upon my table lies,
Look from my wall his grave, sweet eyes),
The poet, who, in many a song,
Quickening unnumbered hearts so long,
Has breathed New England's spirit forth
From East to West, through South and North—
Not the witch-burning bigot's rage,
That soiled her first heroic page,
But that, sweet, tender, warm and good,
Confirming human brotherhood;
Religious with diviner scope;
Wide-armed with charity and hope;
Lighter of household fires that bless
The fast-withdrawing wilderness
(Keeping old home-stars burning clear
In Memory's holy atmosphere);
Sowing the waste with seeds of light;
Righteous with wrath at wrongful might:
Such is thy better spirit, known
Wherever Whittier's songs have flown;—
Thy greater, larger, nobler air,
New England, thus is everywhere!
What though no kith or kin of mine
Came with the Mayflower o'er the brine,
(I know not—the dear Lord only knows:
No wide-branched family record shows!)
Grudge me not local pride—aye much—
In him, New England! French and Dutch
(We also fled for conscience' sake,
From zealot sword, revival stake),
Was I not taught by thy wise rule
In the great Western Yankee school?
Was I not shaped by thine and thee
In almost all that now makes me?
So, while my pulses warm and stir,
I truly am a New Englander!
High on this black Ohio hill,
I think of him who crossed to-day
The snow-roofed boundary of our way
(His book upon my table lies,
Look from my wall his grave, sweet eyes),
The poet, who, in many a song,
Quickening unnumbered hearts so long,
Has breathed New England's spirit forth
From East to West, through South and North—
112
That soiled her first heroic page,
But that, sweet, tender, warm and good,
Confirming human brotherhood;
Religious with diviner scope;
Wide-armed with charity and hope;
Lighter of household fires that bless
The fast-withdrawing wilderness
(Keeping old home-stars burning clear
In Memory's holy atmosphere);
Sowing the waste with seeds of light;
Righteous with wrath at wrongful might:
Such is thy better spirit, known
Wherever Whittier's songs have flown;—
Thy greater, larger, nobler air,
New England, thus is everywhere!
113
Came with the Mayflower o'er the brine,
(I know not—the dear Lord only knows:
No wide-branched family record shows!)
Grudge me not local pride—aye much—
In him, New England! French and Dutch
(We also fled for conscience' sake,
From zealot sword, revival stake),
Was I not taught by thy wise rule
In the great Western Yankee school?
Was I not shaped by thine and thee
In almost all that now makes me?
So, while my pulses warm and stir,
I truly am a New Englander!
Blessings be with him—praise, less worth;
Why ask long-added hours of earth?
Grateful, if given, these shall come.
Birds, sing to the reaper going home,
Singing himself—his work well-done.
Shine on him, slow, soft-setting sun!
Why ask long-added hours of earth?
114
Birds, sing to the reaper going home,
Singing himself—his work well-done.
Shine on him, slow, soft-setting sun!
North Bend, Ohio.
Read at the “Atlantic Dinner” in Boston in honor of the seventieth anniversary of John G. Whittier's birthday.
115
BREVIA.
I.
A CERTAIN CONSERVATIVE.
He holds a chrysalis aloft, infirm,Forgetting wings have borne away the worm.
116
III.
A STATUE OF JUPITER, BY PHIDIAS.
Either Jove came to earth from heaven to showHis very self to thee,
Or, Phidias, thou from earth to heaven didst go,
The god himself to see.
118
VII.
A MOTH.
Poor moth, that fluttering through my candle-flame,Die of your sudden passion for the light,
From the great outer gulf of night you came,
Then pass into utter night!
VIII.
INFLUENCE OF BOOKS.
Within the book-world rests the noiseless leverThat moves the noisy throngéd world forever.
119
IX.
WITH A GIFT.
Accept, I beg, this little shining stone,Not for its worth—a friend's good-will alone.
Worn on your breast, I pray that it may show
Long where that friend rests safe and warm below.
X.
HOLY WORD.
God has unrolled His Bible in thy heart;—To all the Holy Word of God impart.
129
THE POET'S BIRD.
“Many a little song there flutters
From my breast on sunlit wings:
In the world's wide sky it singeth—
From my heart its echo sings.”
From my breast on sunlit wings:
In the world's wide sky it singeth—
From my heart its echo sings.”
Far away it flieth, singing
Through the Mays of many Springs
(He was laid in lost Decembers):—
From all hearts its echo sings!
Through the Mays of many Springs
(He was laid in lost Decembers):—
From all hearts its echo sings!
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