 | [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet |  |
THE SPIRIT OF THE WINDS
“Thou actor perfect in all tragic sound!
Thou mighty poet e'en to phrenzy bold!”
Coleridge
Thou mighty poet e'en to phrenzy bold!”
Coleridge
Oh viewless spirit! well may'st thou
Thy harp of power sweep lightly now,
Since not a cloud thy breath has driven
Along the calm and starry heaven;—
And quiet moonshine, pale and chill
Is slumbering now on heath and hill.
Thy harp of power sweep lightly now,
Since not a cloud thy breath has driven
Along the calm and starry heaven;—
And quiet moonshine, pale and chill
Is slumbering now on heath and hill.
Wild spirit of the chainless breeze!
Thy course is on the trackless seas;
Thou startest from their treacherous sleep
The surges of the mighty deep;
And bendest from thy clouded throne
To smile on ruins all thine own.
Thy course is on the trackless seas;
Thou startest from their treacherous sleep
The surges of the mighty deep;
And bendest from thy clouded throne
To smile on ruins all thine own.
In peace or wrath thou visitest
The desert's dark and sterile breast;—
The mountain eagle's cold abode
Where mortal foot hath never trod;
And e'en the forest owns thy sway
Whose oaks with age alone decay.
The desert's dark and sterile breast;—
The mountain eagle's cold abode
Where mortal foot hath never trod;
And e'en the forest owns thy sway
Whose oaks with age alone decay.
Unrivalled minstrel! soft and low
On Nature's harp thou breathest now;
Faint steals thy music on the ear
A sound which love itself might hear—
A melody, in mercy given
To lift the lowly thought to Heaven.
On Nature's harp thou breathest now;
Faint steals thy music on the ear
A sound which love itself might hear—
A melody, in mercy given
To lift the lowly thought to Heaven.
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I love thy music—harper wild!
I've loved it from a very child
Whether as now, its cadence stole
Like angel whisperings on my soul;
Or roused to murmurs wild and strong,
The tempest bore its tones along.
I've loved it from a very child
Whether as now, its cadence stole
Like angel whisperings on my soul;
Or roused to murmurs wild and strong,
The tempest bore its tones along.
Thou'rt mighty—but that might was lent
Which wakes to sound thy element,
The over-ruling power that rides
The strong-winged hurricane, and guides
The tempests on the chainless sea;
That power, alone, commissioned thee.
Which wakes to sound thy element,
The over-ruling power that rides
The strong-winged hurricane, and guides
The tempests on the chainless sea;
That power, alone, commissioned thee.
Boston Statesman, February 9, 1828
| [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet | |