And, though I sometimes sigh to think

Of earth and heaven, and wind and sea, And know that the cup which others drink Shall never be brimm'd by me; That many a joy must be untasted, And many a glorious breeze be wasted, Yet would not, if I dared, repine,

That toil, and study, and care are mine.

SEA-SONG.

OVER the far blue ocean-wave,

On the wild winds I flee,

Yet every thought of my constant heart
Is winging, love, to thee;

For each foaming leap of our gallant ship
Had barb'd a pang for me,

Had not thy form, through sun and storm,
Been my only memory.

O, the sea-mew's wings are fleet and fast,
As he dips in the dancing spray;
But fleeter and faster the thoughts, I ween,
Of dear ones far away!

And lovelier, too, than yon rainbow's hue,
As it lights the tinted sea,

Are the daylight dreams and sunny gleams
Of the heart that throbs for thee.

And when moon and stars are asleep on the waves,
Their dancing tops among,

And the sailor is guiling the long watch-hour
By the music of his song;

When our sail is white in the dark midnight,
And its shadow is on the sea,
O, never knew hall such festival
As my fond heart holds with thee!

LOOK ALOFT.

In the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale Are around and above, if thy footing should fail, If thine eye should grow dim, and thy caution depart, "Look aloft," and be firm, and be fearless of heart.

If the friend, who embraced in prosperity's glow, With a smile for each joy and a tear for each wo, Should betray thee when sorrows like clouds are array'd,

"Look aloft" to the friendship which never shall fade.

Should the visions which hope spreads in light to

Yet, lovely May!

Teach her whose eyes shall rest upon this rhyme To spurn the gilded mockeries of time,

The heartless pomp that beckons to betray, And keep, as thou wilt find, that heart each year, Pure as thy dawn, and as thy sunset clear.

And let me too, sweet May! Let thy fond votary see,

As fade thy beauties, all the vanity

Of this world's pomp; then teach, that though decay

In his short winter bury beauty's frame,

In fairer worlds the soul shall break his sway, Another spring shall bloom, eternal and the same.

THE ancestors of MR. WHITTIER Settled at an early period in the town of Haverhill, on the banks of the Merrimack River, in Massachusetts. They were Quakers, and some of them suffered from the "sharp laws" which the fierce Independents enacted against those "devil-driven heretics," as they are styled in the "Magnalia" of COTTON MATHER. The poet was born in the year 1808, on a spot inhabited by his family during four or five generations; and until he was eighteen years of age, his time was chiefly passed in the district schools, and in aiding his father on the farm. His nineteenth year was spent in a Latin school, and in 1828 he went to Boston to conduct "The American Manufacturer," a gazette established to advocate a protective tariff. He had previously won some reputation as a writer by various contributions, in prose and verse, to the newspapers printed in his native town and in Newburyport, and the ability with which he managed the "Manufacturer," now made his name familiar throughout the country. In 1830 he went to Hartford, in Connecticut, to take charge of the "New England Weekly Review." He remained here about two years, during which he was an ardent politician, of what was then called the National Republican party, and devoted but little attention to literature. He published, however, in this period his "Legends of New England," a collection of poems and prose sketches, founded on events in the early history of the country; wrote the memoir of his friend BRAINARD, prefixed to the collection of that author's works printed in 1830; and several poems which appeared in the « Weekly Review."

In 1831 Mr. WHITTIER returned to Haverhill, where he was five or six years engaged in agricultural pursuits. He represented that town in the legislature, in its sessions for 1835 and 1836, and declined a reelection in 1837. His longest poem, "Mogg Megone," was first published in 1836. He regarded the story of the hero only as a framework for sketches of the scenery and of the primitive settlers of Massachusetts and the adjacent states. In portraying the Indian character, he followed as closely as was practicable the rough but natural delineations of CHURCH, MAYHEW, CHARLEVOIX, and ROGER WILLIAMS, discarding much of the romance which more modern writers have thrown around the red-man's life. In this, as in the fine ballad of "Cassandra Southwick," and in some of his prose writings, he has exhibited in a very striking manner the intolerant spirit of the Puritans. It can excite no surprise that a New England Quaker refuses to join in the applause which it is the custom to bestow upon the persecutors of his ancestors. But our poet, by a very natural

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exaggeration, may have done them even less than justice.

Impelled by that hatred of every species of oppression which perhaps is the most marked of his characteristics, Mr. WHITTIER entered at an early period upon the discussion of the abolition question, and since the year 1836, when he was elected one of the secretaries of the American Anti-Slavery Society, he has been among the most prominent and influential advocates of immediate emancipation. His poems on this subject are full of indignant and nervous remonstrance, invective and denunciation. Very few in this country express themselves with uniform freedom and sincerity. Nowhere else is there so common and degrading a servility. We have therefore comparatively little individuality, and of course less than we otherwise should have that is original. Mr. WHITTIER rates this tyranny of public opinion at its true value. Whatever may be its power he despises it. He gives to his mind and heart their true voice. His simple, direct and earnest appeals have produced deep and lasting impressions. Their reception has happily shown that plain and unprejudiced speech is not less likely to be heard than the vapid self-praise and wearisome iteration of inoffensive commonplaces with which the great mass of those who address the public ply the drowsy cars of the hydra.

Although boldness and energy are WHITTIER'S leading characteristics, his works are not without passages scarcely less distinguished for tenderness and grace. In his later poems his style is more subdued and correct, though it is divested of none of his peculiar freshness.

Besides his "Mogg Megone," "Ballads," "Lays of Home," "Bridal of Pennacook," and other poems, he has written the Legends of New England," before mentioned, "The Stranger in Lowell," and much more in prose, all in the same honest and fearless spirit which marks his verse.

WHITTIER may reasonably be styled a national poet. His works breathe affection for and faith in our republican polity and unshackled religion, but an affection and a faith that do not blind him to our weakness or wickedness. He dares to "tell the world it lies." He is of that class of authors whom we most need in America to build up a literature that shall elevate with itself the national feeling and character.

The last volume of his poems was published by Ticknor & Company, of Boston, in 1844. An edition of his select works has since appeared in London, with an introduction by Mr. WRIGHT, the accomplished translator of the Fables of LA FONTAINE

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to me came:

Why sit'st thou thus forlornly?" the wicked

murmur said,

Damp walls thy bower of beauty, cold earth thy maiden bed?

"Where be the smiling faces, and voices soft and sweet,

Seen in thy father's dwelling, heard in the pleasant street?

Where be the youths, whose glances the summer Sabbath through

Turn'd tenderly and timidly unto thy father's pew?

*This ballad has its foundation upon a somewhat remarkable event in the history of Puritan intolerance. Two young persons, son and daughter of Lawrence Southwick, of Salem, who had himself been imprisoned and deprived of all his property for having entertained two Quakers at his house, were fined ten pounds each for non-attendance at church, which they were unable to pay. The case being represented to the General Court, at Boston, that body issued an order which may still be seen on the court records, bearing the signature of Edward Rawson, Secretary, by which the treasurer of the County was "fully empowered to sell the said persons to any of the English nation at Virginia or Barbadoes, to answer said fines." An attempt was made to carry this barbarous order into execution, but no shipmaster was found willing to convey them to the West Indies. Vide SEWALL's History, pp. 225-6, G. BISHOP.

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Why sit'st thou here, Cassandra?-Bethink thee with what mirth

Thy happy schoolmates gather around the warm bright hearth;

How the crimson shadows tremble, on foreheads white and fair,

On eyes of merry girlhood, half hid in golden hair. "Not for thee the hearth-fire brightens, not for thee kind words are spoken,

Not for thee the nuts of Wenham woods by laughing boys are broken;

No first-fruits of the orchard within thy lap are laid,

For thee no flowers of Autumn the youthful hunt

ers braid.

ture's fears

Wrung drop by drop the scalding flow of unavailing tears,

I wrestled down the evil thoughts, and strove in silent prayer

To feel, oh, Helper of the weak!—that Thou indeed wert there!

I thought of Paul and Silas, within Philippi's cell, And how from Peter's sleeping limbs the prisonshackles fell,

Till I seem'd to hear the trailing of an angel's robe of white,

And to feel a blessed presence invisible to sight. Bless the Lord for all His mercies!—for the peace and love I felt,

Like dew of Hermon's holy hill, upon my spirit melt;

When,

66

Get behind me, Satan!" was the language of my heart,

And I felt the Evil Tempter with all his doubts depart.

Slow broke the gray cold morning; again the sun

shine fell,

Fleck'd with the shade of bar and grate within my lonely cell;

The hoarfrost melted on the wall, and upward from the street

Came careless laugh and idle word, and tread of passing feet.

At length the heavy bolts fell back, my door was open cast,

And slowly at the sheriff's side, up the long street I pass'd;

I heard the murmur round me, and felt, but dared not see,

"Good people," quoth the white-lipp'd priest, "heed not her words so wild,

Her master speaks within her-the Devil owns his child!"

But gray heads shook, and young brows knit, the while the sheriff read

That law the wicked rulers against the poor have made,

Who to their house of Rimmon and idol priesthood bring

gazed on me.

And doubt and fear fell on me, shame burn'd upon my cheek,

Swam earth and sky around me, my trembling limbs grew weak;

"O Lord! support thy handmaid; and from her soul cast out

The fear of man, which brings a snare-the weakness and the doubt."

Then the dreary shadows scatter'd like a cloud in morning's breeze,

And a low deep voice within me seem'd whispering words like these:

"Though thy earth be as the iron, and thy heaven a brazen wall,

Trust still His loving-kindness whose power is over all."

We paused at length, where at my feet the sunlit waters broke

On glaring reach of shining beach, and shingly wall of rock;

The merchants-ships lay idly there, in hard clear lines on high,

Tracing with rope and slender spar their net-work

The priest lean'd o'er his saddle, with laugh and scoff and jeer;

It stirr'd my soul, and from my lips the seal of silence broke,

As if through woman's weakness a warning spirit spoke.

cried, "The Lord rebuke thee, thou smiter of the meek,

Thou robber of the righteous, thou trampler of the weak!

Go light the dark, cold hearth-stones-go turn the prison lock

Of the poor hearts thou hast hunted, thou wolf amid the flock!"

Dark lower'd the brows of Endicott, and with a deeper red

O'er Rawson's wine-empurpled cheek the flush of anger spread;

Then to the stout sea-captains the sheriff turning said:

"Which of ye, worthy seamen, will take this Quaker maid?

In the Isle of fair Barbadoes, or on Virginia's shore, You may hold her at a higher price than Indian girl or Moor."

Grim and silent stood the captains; and when again he cried,

"Speak out, my worthy seamen !"- -no voice or sign replied;

But I felt a hard hand press my own, and kind words met my ear:

"God bless thee, and preserve thee, my gentle girl

"Good friends," he said, "since both have fled, the ruler and the priest,

Judge ye, if from their further work I be not well released."

Loud was the cheer which, full and clear, swept round the silent bay,

As, with kind words and kinder looks, he bade me go my way;

For He who turns the courses of the streamlet of the glen,

And the river of great waters, had turn'd the hearts of men.

Oh, at that hour the very earth seem'd changed beneath my eye,

A holier wonder round me rose the blue walls of the sky,

A lovelier light on rock and hill, and stream and woodland lay,

And softer lapsed on sunnier sands the waters of

Sing, oh, my soul, rejoicingly; on evening's twilight calm

Uplift the loud thanksgiving-pour forth the grateful psalm;

Let all dear hearts with me rejoice, as did the saints of old,

When of the Lord's good angel the rescued Peter told.

And weep and howl, ye evil priests and mighty men of wrong,

The Lord shall smite the proud and lay His hand upon the strong.

Wo to the wicked rulers in His avenging hour! Wo to the wolves who seek the flocks to raven and devour:

But let the humble ones arise,-the poor in heart be glad,

And let the mourning ones again with robes of praise be clad,

For He who cool'd the furnace, and smoothed the

stormy wave,

And tamed the Chaldean lions, is mighty still to save!

NEW ENGLAND.

LAND of the forest and the rock

Of dark-blue lake and mighty riverOf mountains rear'd aloft to mock The storm's career, the lightning's shockMy own green land for ever! Land of the beautiful and brave

The freeman's home-the martyr's grave

The nursery of giant men,
Whose deeds have link'd with every glen,
And every hill, and every stream,
The romance of some warrior-dream!
Oh! never may a son of thine,
Where'er his wandering steps incline,
Forget the sky which bent above
His childhood like a dream of love,
The stream beneath the green hill flowing,
The broad-arm'd trees above it growing,
The clear breeze through the foliage blowing;
Or hear, unmoved, the taunt of scorn
Breathed o'er the brave New England born;
Or mark the stranger's jaguar-hand
Disturb the ashes of thy dead,

The buried glory of a land

Whose soil with noble blood is red, And sanctified in every part,

Nor feel resentment, like a brand,
Unsheathing from his fiery heart!

Oh! greener hills may catch the sun
Beneath the glorious heaven of France;
And streams, rejoicing as they run

Like life beneath the day-beam's glance,
May wander where the orange-bough
With golden fruit is bending low;
And there may bend a brighter sky
O'er green and classic Italy-
And pillar'd fane and ancient grave
Bear record of another time,
And over shaft and architrave

The green, luxuriant ivy climb;
And far toward the rising sun

The palm may shake its leaves on high,
Where flowers are opening, one by one,
Like stars upon the twilight sky;
And breezes soft as sighs of love

Above the broad banana stray,
And through the Brahmin's sacred grove
A thousand bright-hued pinions play!
Yet unto thee, New England, still
Thy wandering sons shall stretch their arms,
And thy rude chart of rock and hill

Seem dearer than the land of palms;
Thy massy oak and mountain-pine
More welcome than the banyan's shade
And every free, blue stream of thine

Seem richer than the golden bed
Of oriental waves, which glow
And sparkle with the wealth below!

TO JOHN PIERPONT.

Nor to the poet, but the man, I bring
In friendship's fearless trust my offering:
How much it lacks I feel, and thou wilt see,
Yet well I know that thou hast deem'ed with me
Life all too earnest, and its time too short,
For dreamy ease and Fancy's graceful sport;

And girded for thy constant strife with wrong, Like Nehemiah, fighting while he wrought

The broken walls of Zion, even thy song Hath a rude martial tone, a blow in every thought!