Mr. Whittier, the Quaker Poet, has lived in Amesbury since 1840. As editor of "The New-England Weekly Review," "Pennsylvania Review," and contributor to "The National Era" and "The Atlantic Monthly," he has everywhere devoted himself to the cause of truth and justice. No poet has spoken with more tenderness for humanity, or waged war more constantly and more defiantly with error and oppression. His intense hatred of wrong, and inexhaustible sympathy for struggling manhood, are always expressed with remarkable force and beauty in his prose and poetry. PRINCIPAL PRODUCTIONS. "Mogg Megom," 1836; "Tent on the Beach; ""Voices of Freedom; ""Barefoot Boy;"Old Portraits and Modern Sketches: ""Songs of Labor, and Other Poems;" "Snowbound." Poems in three volumes, or complete in one. THE ETERNAL GOODNESS. O FRIENDS with whom my feet have trod I trace your lines of argument: But still my human hands are weak Who fathoms the Eternal Thought? I walk, with bare, hushed feet, the ground I dare not fix with mete and bound Ye praise his justice: even such Ye seek a king: I fain would touch Ye see the curse which overbroods More than your schoolmen teach, within Myself, alas! I know: Too dark ye can not paint the sin, Too small the merit show. I bow my forehead to the dust; And urge, in trembling self-distrust, I see the wrong that round me lies; I hear, with groan and travail-cries, Yet, in the maddening maze of things, Not mine to look where cherubim The wrong that pains my soul below I know not of his hate: I know I dimly guess, from blessings known, I long for household voices gone; I know not what the future hath And, if my heart and flesh are weak No offering of my own I have, And so beside the silent sea I wait the muffled oar: No harm from him can come to me I know not where his islands lift I only know I can not drift O brothers! if my faith is vain, Pray for me that my feet may gain And thou, O Lord! by whom are seen THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. "SPEAK and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far away O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican array, Who is losing? who is winning? Are they far? or come they near? Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the storm we hear.” "Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle rolls. Blood is flowing; men are dying: God have mercy on their souls!" "Who is losing? who is winning?" -"Over hill and over plain I see but smoke of cannon clouding through the mountain-rain.” "Holy Mother, keep our brothers! Look, Ximena! look once more! " Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly as before, 66 Bearing on in strange confusion friend and foeman, foot and horse, Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down its mountaincourse." "Look forth once more, Ximena!"-"Ah! the smoke has rolled away; "Jesu, pity! how it thickens! now retreat, and now advance! Nearer came the storm, and nearer, rolling fast and frightful on. "Lo! the wind the smoke is lifting. Blessed Mother, save my brain! "O my heart's love! O my dear one! lay thy poor head on my knee: Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee? Canst thou hear me? canst thou see? O my husband, brave and gentle! O my Bernal! look once more "Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena; lay thy dear one down to rest; Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a soldier lay, She saw the Northern eagle shining on his pistol-belt. With a stifled cry of horror straight she turned away her head; With a sad and bitter feeling looked she back upon her dead: But she heard the youth's low moaning, and his struggling breath of pain; And she raised the cooling water to his parching lips again. Whispered low the dying soldier, pressed her hand, and faintly smiled: A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led thee forth "Look forth once more, Ximena!" Like a cloud before the wind Sink, O Night! among thy mountains; let the cool gray shadows fall; But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pursued: Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn and faint, and lacking food, Over weak and suffering brothers with a tender care they hung; And the dying foeman blessed them in a strange and Northern tongue. Not wholly lost, O Father! is this evil world of ours; |