 | [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet |  |
TO “ROY” (N. P. Willis)
On reading “Misanthropic Hours, No. 2”
Yes! I have dwelt upon thy lays
With glowing heart—my humble praise
Unsparingly to thee was given;
For I believed that thou wast one,
The muse's pure and sunlit heaven,
With cloudless splendor shone upon.
And little did I deem the lyre
Which could so feelingly portray
The anguish of the royal sire,
And conquering Jephthah's deep dismay—
The lyre that brought that bitter hour,
When Jesus in the garden knelt,
Before me with a strength and power
To make my stubborn feelings melt,
So soon would leave its lofty tone—
The spell of power—the winning lay,
And voice of charity disown—
Feelings, which I am proud to say
Are mine—In truth I ne'er have known
That “hollow painted pageantry”
Such as thy scornful lays have shown
Creation's fairest work to be,
The “glowing lip,” the “icy heart,”
The “heaven and earth together flung,”
The levity which hath no part
With nobler feelings, and the tongue
Of trifling converse. These may be
Perhaps with truth to some applied.
But, should one form of vanity
Give thee occasion to deride
That sex, without whose softening charms,
Man's gloomy soul were desolate—
That sex, whose tenderness disarms
The woes that on life's journey wait.
With glowing heart—my humble praise
Unsparingly to thee was given;
For I believed that thou wast one,
The muse's pure and sunlit heaven,
With cloudless splendor shone upon.
And little did I deem the lyre
Which could so feelingly portray
The anguish of the royal sire,
And conquering Jephthah's deep dismay—
The lyre that brought that bitter hour,
When Jesus in the garden knelt,
Before me with a strength and power
To make my stubborn feelings melt,
So soon would leave its lofty tone—
The spell of power—the winning lay,
And voice of charity disown—
Feelings, which I am proud to say
149
That “hollow painted pageantry”
Such as thy scornful lays have shown
Creation's fairest work to be,
The “glowing lip,” the “icy heart,”
The “heaven and earth together flung,”
The levity which hath no part
With nobler feelings, and the tongue
Of trifling converse. These may be
Perhaps with truth to some applied.
But, should one form of vanity
Give thee occasion to deride
That sex, without whose softening charms,
Man's gloomy soul were desolate—
That sex, whose tenderness disarms
The woes that on life's journey wait.
I've seen the form of woman bend
When man's would not. I've seen her eye
Uplifted as she knelt to send
Her pure and stainless thoughts on high.
I've seen her bending o'er the bed,
With troubled brow and glistening eye
Where sickness bowed the sufferer's head,
And quenched the strong man's energy.
I've seen her hand of kindness deal
Raiment and food to mourners, whom
Man's scorn and pride had made to feel
The anguish of the wanderer's doom,
I've seen her to the starry sky—
The wooded cliff and torrent fall,
In rapture raise her kindling eye,
And grateful bless the God of all.
When man's would not. I've seen her eye
Uplifted as she knelt to send
Her pure and stainless thoughts on high.
I've seen her bending o'er the bed,
With troubled brow and glistening eye
Where sickness bowed the sufferer's head,
And quenched the strong man's energy.
I've seen her hand of kindness deal
Raiment and food to mourners, whom
Man's scorn and pride had made to feel
The anguish of the wanderer's doom,
I've seen her to the starry sky—
The wooded cliff and torrent fall,
In rapture raise her kindling eye,
And grateful bless the God of all.
Hast thou forgotten her who smoothed
The pillow of thy infancy?
The voice that erst thy slumbers soothed—
Is not that shrined in memory?
Was not a mother's holy love
Around thee in thy childish mirth?
And did it not appear above
The low and sensual things of earth?
And canst thou then despise and spurn
The sympathies of woman's heart,
And, with a scornful spirit, turn
From visions, that may well impart
A rapture to life's hours of care,
And prove the balm of many a woe?
If such thy purpose, go, and wear
Contempt and hatred on thy brow—
Pass on, a stern and lonely one,
And for their “earthliness of thought”
The tempting forms of beauty shun,
And burst their spell, ere fully wrought.
The pillow of thy infancy?
The voice that erst thy slumbers soothed—
Is not that shrined in memory?
Was not a mother's holy love
Around thee in thy childish mirth?
And did it not appear above
The low and sensual things of earth?
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The sympathies of woman's heart,
And, with a scornful spirit, turn
From visions, that may well impart
A rapture to life's hours of care,
And prove the balm of many a woe?
If such thy purpose, go, and wear
Contempt and hatred on thy brow—
Pass on, a stern and lonely one,
And for their “earthliness of thought”
The tempting forms of beauty shun,
And burst their spell, ere fully wrought.
But fare thee well!—the time may come,
When, that thou scornest now, may be
The only ray amid the gloom
That shades thy wayward destiny.
Yes, woman's love may be the stay
When every other tie has parted—
The cheerer of thy lonely way,
When man hath proved but faithless hearted.
When, that thou scornest now, may be
The only ray amid the gloom
That shades thy wayward destiny.
Yes, woman's love may be the stay
When every other tie has parted—
The cheerer of thy lonely way,
When man hath proved but faithless hearted.
Haverhill Gazette, August 11, 1827
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