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“ After many years of warfare,
And the ancient arrow-maker
And the lovely Laughing Water
This was Hiawatha's wooing :
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
BORN 1808, NEAR HAVERHILL, MASS.
Mr. Whittier, the Quaker Poet, has lived in Amesbury since 1840. As editor of * The New-England Weekly Review," " Pennsylvania Review," and contributor to 6 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 w
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
The quiet aisles of prayer ! Glad witness to your zeal for God
And love of man I bear.
I trace your lines of argument:
Your logic, linked and strong,
And fears a doubt as wrong.
But still my human hands are weak
To hold your iron creeds : Against the words ye bid me speak
My heart within me pleads.
Who fathoms the Eternal Thought ?
Who talks of scheme and plan ? The Lord is God: he needeth not
The poor device of man.
I walk, with bare, hushed feet, the ground
Ye tread with boldness shod :
The love and power of God.
Ye praise his justice: even such
His pitying love I deem.
The robe that hath no seam.
Ye see the curse which overbroods
A world of pain and loss : I hear our Lord's beatitudes,
And prayer upon the cross.
More than your schoolmen teach, within
Myself, alas! I know :
Too small the merit show.
I bow my forehead to the dust;
I vail mine eyes for shame;
A prayer without a claim.
I see the wrong that round me lies ;
I feel the guilt within ;
The world confess its sin.
Yet, in the maddening maze of things,
And tossed by storm and flood,
I know that God is good.
And seraphs may not see;
Which evil is in me.
The wrong that pains my soul below
I dare not throne above.
His goodness and his love.
Of greater out of sight;
His judgments, too, are right.
For vanished smiles I long :
And he can do no wrong.
Of marvel or surprise,
His mercy underlies.
To bear an untried pain,
But strengthen and sustain.
Nor works my faith to prove :
And plead his love for love.
On ocean or on shore.
I know not where his islands lift
Their fronded palms in air : I only know I can not drift
Beyond his love and care.
O brothers ! if my faith is vain,
If hopes like these betray,
The sure and safer way.
And thou, O Lord ! by whom are seen
Thy creatures as they be,
My human heart on thee.
THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA.
“SPEAK and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far away
“Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle rolls.
“ Holy Mother, keep our brothers! Look, Ximena! look once more !" “ Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly as before, Bearing on in strange confusion friend and foeman, foot and horse, Like some wild ani troubled torrent sweeping down its mountain
“ 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 On the blessed cross before thee! Mercy, mercy! all is o'er!”
“Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena; lay thy dear one down to rest;
Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a soldier lay,
“ A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led thee forth
“ Look forth once more, Ximena !” — “Like a cloud before the wind Rolls the battle down the mountains, leaving blood and death behind. Ah! they plead in vain for mercy; in the dust the wounded strive: Hide your faces, holy angels! O thou Christ of God, forgive !"
Sink, 0 Night ! among thy mountains ; let the cool gray shadows fall;
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;