 | [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet |  |
THE DECLARATION
We are not strangers—we have met
As carelessly as others do—
Thou, to smile on me and forget
The form that passed before thy view;
When others claimed thy smile and caught
The music of thy silver tone—
And I—to cherish in my thought
Each look and motion of thine own—
Each kindly word—each smile that lent
New beauty to the playful lip—
Each blush that o'er thy fair cheek went—
A pearl and coral fellowship,—
Each movement of thy form of grace,
Each tossing of thy waving hair,—
All came before me like the trace
Of half-forgotten dreams that were.
As carelessly as others do—
Thou, to smile on me and forget
The form that passed before thy view;
When others claimed thy smile and caught
The music of thy silver tone—
And I—to cherish in my thought
Each look and motion of thine own—
Each kindly word—each smile that lent
New beauty to the playful lip—
Each blush that o'er thy fair cheek went—
A pearl and coral fellowship,—
Each movement of thy form of grace,
Each tossing of thy waving hair,—
All came before me like the trace
Of half-forgotten dreams that were.
With every hope—with every dream
Of fame and power—amidst the might
Of conscious strength—thy presence seems
Around me like some holy light!
And then I feel that all which earth
Of power or glory might bestow
Were vain and cold, and little worth
As sunshine streaming over snow,—
If thou were not the shrine whereon
The garlands of my fame might blossom—
If that which lighted up my own,
Woke not a thrill within my bosom!
It may be that thou hast not given
One gentle thought of thine to me—
That like some pure, bright star of even,
Thou movest onward, “fancy free”—
Unmindful as that holy star
Of ardent eyes to thee upturning
Still in thy radiant sphere afar—
A blest and lonely radiance burning!
Or it may be that in thy heart
There lies some fond, remembered token
Some sacred feeling held apart,
Some cherished dream of love unspoken—
Perchance some form to fancy dear,
Glideth before thy memory's eye—
That still in slumber thou canst hear
His whispered and his fond reply.
Of fame and power—amidst the might
Of conscious strength—thy presence seems
Around me like some holy light!
And then I feel that all which earth
Of power or glory might bestow
Were vain and cold, and little worth
As sunshine streaming over snow,—
If thou were not the shrine whereon
The garlands of my fame might blossom—
If that which lighted up my own,
Woke not a thrill within my bosom!
233
One gentle thought of thine to me—
That like some pure, bright star of even,
Thou movest onward, “fancy free”—
Unmindful as that holy star
Of ardent eyes to thee upturning
Still in thy radiant sphere afar—
A blest and lonely radiance burning!
Or it may be that in thy heart
There lies some fond, remembered token
Some sacred feeling held apart,
Some cherished dream of love unspoken—
Perchance some form to fancy dear,
Glideth before thy memory's eye—
That still in slumber thou canst hear
His whispered and his fond reply.
And oh—if it be so, I ask
Nor thought nor sacrifice from thee;
And mine shall be the ungentle task
To love—when love can only be
Like one who bows him down in prayer
Before some veiled and mystic shrine,
Even when the idol-glories there,
May never on his worship shine!
Nor thought nor sacrifice from thee;
And mine shall be the ungentle task
To love—when love can only be
Like one who bows him down in prayer
Before some veiled and mystic shrine,
Even when the idol-glories there,
May never on his worship shine!
New England Weekly Review, August 8, 1831
| [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet | |