The volume has not been kept in print, but most of its contents are distributed in my Literary Recreations and Miscellanies.
Dear Sister! while the wise and sage Turn coldly from my playful page, And count it strange that ripened age Should stoop to boyhood's folly; I know that thou wilt judge aright Of all which makes the heart more light, Or lends one star-gleam to the night Of clouded Melancholy.
Away with weary cares and themes! Swing wide the moonlit gate of dreams! Leave free once more the land which teems With wonders and romances Where thou, with clear discerning eyes, Shalt rightly read the truth which lies Beneath the quaintly masking guise Of wild and wizard fancies.
Lo! once again our feet we set On still green wood-paths, twilight wet, By lonely brooks, whose waters fret The roots of spectral beeches; Again the hearth-fire glimmers o'er Home's whitewashed wall and painted floor, And young eyes widening to the lore Of faery-folks and witches.
Dear heart! the legend is not vain Which lights that holy hearth again, And calling back from care and pain, And death's funereal sadness, Draws round its old familiar blaze The clustering groups of happier days, And lends to sober manhood's gaze A glimpse of childish gladness.
And, knowing how my life hath been A weary work of tongue and pen, A long, harsh strife with strong-willed men, Thou wilt not chide my turning To con, at times, an idle rhyme, To pluck a flower from childhood's clime, Or listen, at Life's noonday chime, For the sweet bells of Morning! 1847.
MY THANKS, ACCOMPANYING MANUSCRIPTS PRESENTED TO A FRIEND.
'T is said that in the Holy Land The angels of the place have blessed The pilgrim's bed of desert sand, Like Jacob's stone of rest.
That down the hush of Syrian skies Some sweet-voiced saint at twilight sings The song whose holy symphonies Are beat by unseen wings; Till starting from his sandy bed, The wayworn wanderer looks to see The halo of an angel's head Shine through the tamarisk-tree.
So through the shadows of my way Thy smile hath fallen soft and clear, So at the weary close of day Hath seemed thy voice of cheer.
That pilgrim pressing to his goal May pause not for the vision's sake, Yet all fair things within his soul The thought of it shall wake: The graceful palm-tree by the well, Seen on the far horizon's rim; The dark eyes of the fleet gazelle, Bent timidly on him; Each pictured saint, whose golden hair Streams sunlike through the convent's gloom; Pale shrines of martyrs young and fair, And loving Mary's tomb; And thus each tint or shade which falls, From sunset cloud or waving tree, Along my pilgrim path, recalls The pleasant thought of thee.
Of one in sun and shade the same, In weal and woe my steady friend, Whatever by that holy name The angels comprehend.
Not blind to faults and follies, thou Hast never failed the good to see, Nor judged by one unseemly bough The upward-struggling tree.
These light leaves at thy feet I lay,-- Poor common thoughts on common things, Which time is shaking, day by day, Like feathers from his wings; Chance shootings from a frail life-tree, To nurturing care but little known, Their good was partly learned of thee, Their folly is my own.
That tree still clasps the kindly mould, Its leaves still drink the twilight dew, And weaving its pale green with gold, Still shines the sunlight through.
There still the morning zephyrs play, And there at times the spring bird sings, And mossy trunk and fading spray Are flowered with glossy wings.
Yet, even in genial sun and rain, Root, branch, and leaflet fail and fade; The wanderer on its lonely plain Erelong shall miss its shade.
O friend beloved, whose curious skill Keeps bright the last year's leaves and flowers, With warm, glad, summer thoughts to fill The cold, dark, winter hours Pressed on thy heart, the leaves I bring May well defy the wintry cold, Until, in Heaven's eternal spring, Life's fairer ones unfold.
1847.
REMEMBRANCE WITH COPIES OF THE AUTHOR'S WRITINGS.
Friend of mine! whose lot was cast With me in the distant past; Where, like shadows flitting fast, Fact and fancy, thought and theme, Word and work, begin to seem Like a half-remembered dream! Touched by change have all things been, Yet I think of thee as when We had speech of lip and pen.
For the calm thy kindness lent To a path of discontent, Rough with trial and dissent; Gentle words where such were few, Softening blame where blame was true, Praising where small praise was due; For a waking dream made good, For an ideal understood, For thy Christian womanhood; For thy marvellous gift to cull From our common life and dull Whatsoe'er is beautiful; Thoughts and fancies, Hybla's bees Dropping sweetness; true heart's-ease Of congenial sympathies;-- Still for these I own my debt; Memory, with her eyelids wet, Fain would thank thee even yet! And as one who scatters flowers Where the Queen of May's sweet hours Sits, o'ertwined with blossomed bowers, In superfluous zeal bestowing Gifts where gifts are overflowing, So I pay the debt I'm owing.
To thy full thoughts, gay or sad, Sunny-hued or sober clad, Something of my own I add; Well assured that thou wilt take Even the offering which I make Kindly for the giver's sake.
1851.
MY NAMESAKE.
Addressed to Francis Greenleaf Allison of Burlington, New Jersey.
You scarcely need my tardy thanks, Who, self-rewarded, nurse and tend-- A green leaf on your own Green Banks-- The memory of your friend.
For me, no wreath, bloom-woven, hides The sobered brow and lessening hair For aught I know, the myrtled sides Of Helicon are bare.
Their scallop-shells so many bring The fabled founts of song to try, They've drained, for aught I know, the spring Of Aganippe dry.
Ah well!--The wreath the Muses braid Proves often Folly's cap and bell; Methinks, my ample beaver's shade May serve my turn as well.
Let Love's and Friendship's tender debt Be paid by those I love in life.
Why should the unborn critic whet For me his scalping-knife?
Why should the stranger peer and pry One's vacant house of life about, And drag for curious ear and eye His faults and follies out ?-- Why stuff, for fools to gaze upon, With chaff of words, the garb he wore, As corn-husks when the ear is gone Are rustled all the more?
Let kindly Silence close again, The picture vanish from the eye, And on the dim and misty main Let the small ripple die.
Yet not the less I own your claim To grateful thanks, dear friends of mine.
Hang, if it please you so, my name Upon your household line.
Let Fame from brazen lips blow wide Her chosen names, I envy none A mother's love, a father's pride, Shall keep alive my own! Still shall that name as now recall The young leaf wet with morning dew, The glory where the sunbeams fall The breezy woodlands through.
That name shall be a household word, A spell to waken smile or sigh; In many an evening prayer be heard And cradle lullaby.
And thou, dear child, in riper days When asked the reason of thy name, Shalt answer: One 't were vain to praise Or censure bore the same.
"Some blamed him, some believed him good, The truth lay doubtless 'twixt the two; He reconciled as best he could Old faith and fancies new.
"In him the grave and playful mixed, And wisdom held with folly truce, And Nature compromised betwixt Good fellow and recluse.
"He loved his friends, forgave his foes; And, if his words were harsh at times, He spared his fellow-men,--his blows Fell only on their crimes.
"He loved the good and wise, but found His human heart to all akin Who met him on the common ground Of suffering and of sin.
"Whate'er his neighbors might endure Of pain or grief his own became; For all the ills he could not cure He held himself to blame.
"His good was mainly an intent, His evil not of forethought done; The work he wrought was rarely meant Or finished as begun.
"Ill served his tides of feeling strong To turn the common mills of use; And, over restless wings of song, His birthright garb hung loose! "His eye was beauty's powerless slave, And his the ear which discord pains; Few guessed beneath his aspect grave What passions strove in chains.
"He had his share of care and pain, No holiday was life to him; Still in the heirloom cup we drain The bitter drop will swim.
"Yet Heaven was kind, and here a bird And there a flower beguiled his way; And, cool, in summer noons, he heard The fountains plash and play.
"On all his sad or restless moods The patient peace of Nature stole; The quiet of the fields and woods Sank deep into his soul.
"He worshipped as his fathers did, And kept the faith of childish days, And, howsoe'er he strayed or slid, He loved the good old ways.
"The simple tastes, the kindly traits, The tranquil air, and gentle speech, The silence of the soul that waits For more than man to teach.
"The cant of party, school, and sect, Provoked at times his honest scorn, And Folly, in its gray respect, He tossed on satire's horn.
"But still his heart was full of awe And reverence for all sacred things; And, brooding over form and law,' He saw the Spirit's wings! "Life's mystery wrapt him like a cloud; He heard far voices mock his own, The sweep of wings unseen, the loud, Long roll of waves unknown.
"The arrows of his straining sight Fell quenched in darkness; priest and sage, Like lost guides calling left and right, Perplexed his doubtful age.
"Like childhood, listening for the sound Of its dropped pebbles in the well, All vainly down the dark profound His brief-lined plummet fell.
"So, scattering flowers with pious pains On old beliefs, of later creeds, Which claimed a place in Truth's domains, He asked the title-deeds.
"He saw the old-time's groves and shrines In the long distance fair and dim; And heard, like sound of far-off pines, The century-mellowed hymn! "He dared not mock the Dervish whirl, The Brahmin's rite, the Lama's spell; God knew the heart; Devotion's pearl Might sanctify the shell.
"While others trod the altar stairs He faltered like the publican; And, while they praised as saints, his prayers Were those of sinful man.
"For, awed by Sinai's Mount of Law, The trembling faith alone sufficed, That, through its cloud and flame, he saw The sweet, sad face of Christ! "And listening, with his forehead bowed, Heard the Divine compassion fill The pauses of the trump and cloud With whispers small and still.
"The words he spake, the thoughts he penned, Are mortal as his hand and brain, But, if they served the Master's end, He has not lived in vain!" Heaven make thee better than thy name, Child of my friends!--For thee I crave What riches never bought, nor fame To mortal longing gave.
I pray the prayer of Plato old: God make thee beautiful within, And let thine eyes the good behold In everything save sin! Imagination held in check To serve, not rule, thy poised mind; Thy Reason, at the frown or beck Of Conscience, loose or bind.
No dreamer thou, but real all,-- Strong manhood crowning vigorous youth; Life made by duty epical And rhythmic with the truth.
So shall that life the fruitage yield Which trees of healing only give, And green-leafed in the Eternal field Of God, forever live! 1853.
A MEMORY Here, while the loom of Winter weaves The shroud of flowers and fountains, I think of thee and summer eves Among the Northern mountains.
When thunder tolled the twilight's close, And winds the lake were rude on, And thou wert singing, _Ca' the Yowes_, The bonny yowes of Cluden! When, close and closer, hushing breath, Our circle narrowed round thee, And smiles and tears made up the wreath Wherewith our silence crowned thee; And, strangers all, we felt the ties Of sisters and of brothers; Ah! whose of all those kindly eyes Now smile upon another's?
The sport of Time, who still apart The waifs of life is flinging; Oh, nevermore shall heart to heart Draw nearer for that singing! Yet when the panes are frosty-starred, And twilight's fire is gleaming, I hear the songs of Scotland's bard Sound softly through my dreaming! A song that lends to winter snows The glow of summer weather,-- Again I hear thee ca' the yowes To Cluden's hills of heather 1854.
MY DREAM.
In my dream, methought I trod, Yesternight, a mountain road; Narrow as Al Sirat's span, High as eagle's flight, it ran.
Overhead, a roof of cloud With its weight of thunder bowed; Underneath, to left and right, Blankness and abysmal night.
Here and there a wild-flower blushed, Now and then a bird-song gushed; Now and then, through rifts of shade, Stars shone out, and sunbeams played.
But the goodly company, Walking in that path with me, One by one the brink o'erslid, One by one the darkness hid.
Some with wailing and lament, Some with cheerful courage went; But, of all who smiled or mourned, Never one to us returned.
Anxiously, with eye and ear, Questioning that shadow drear, Never hand in token stirred, Never answering voice I heard! Steeper, darker!--lo! I felt From my feet the pathway melt.
Swallowed by the black despair, And the hungry jaws of air, Past the stony-throated caves, Strangled by the wash of waves, Past the splintered crags, I sank On a green and flowery bank,-- Soft as fall of thistle-down, Lightly as a cloud is blown, Soothingly as childhood pressed To the bosom of its rest.
Of the sharp-horned rocks instead, Green the grassy meadows spread, Bright with waters singing by Trees that propped a golden sky.
Painless, trustful, sorrow-free, Old lost faces welcomed me, With whose sweetness of content Still expectant hope was blent.
Waking while the dawning gray Slowly brightened into day, Pondering that vision fled, Thus unto myself I said:-- "Steep and hung with clouds of strife Is our narrow path of life; And our death the dreaded fall Through the dark, awaiting all.
"So, with painful steps we climb Up the dizzy ways of time, Ever in the shadow shed By the forecast of our dread.
"Dread of mystery solved alone, Of the untried and unknown; Yet the end thereof may seem Like the falling of my dream.
"And this heart-consuming care, All our fears of here or there, Change and absence, loss and death, Prove but simple lack of faith." Thou, O Most Compassionate! Who didst stoop to our estate, Drinking of the cup we drain, Treading in our path of pain,-- Through the doubt and mystery, Grant to us thy steps to see, And the grace to draw from thence Larger hope and confidence.
Show thy vacant tomb, and let, As of old, the angels sit, Whispering, by its open door "Fear not! He hath gone before!" 1855.
THE BAREFOOT BOY.
Blessings on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan With thy turned-up pantaloons, And thy merry whistled tunes; With thy red lip, redder still Kissed by strawberries on the hill; With the sunshine on thy face, Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace; From my heart I give thee joy,-- I was once a barefoot boy! Prince thou art,--the grown-up man Only is republican.
Let the million-dollared ride! Barefoot, trudging at his side, Thou hast more than he can buy In the reach of ear and eye,-- Outward sunshine, inward joy Blessings on thee, barefoot boy! Oh for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor's rules, Knowledge never learned of schools, Of the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild-flower's time and place, Flight of fowl and habitude Of the tenants of the wood; How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodchuck digs his cell, And the ground-mole sinks his well; How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung; Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries grow, Where the ground-nut trails its vine, Where the wood-grape's clusters shine; Of the black wasp's cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay, And the architectural plans Of gray hornet artisans! For, eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks, Hand in hand with her he walks, Face to face with her he talks, Part and parcel of her joy,-- Blessings on the barefoot boy! Oh for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw, Me, their master, waited for.
I was rich in flowers and trees, Humming-birds and honey-bees; For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade; For my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone; Laughed the brook for my delight Through the day and through the night, Whispering at the garden wall, Talked with me from fall to fall; Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, Mine the walnut slopes beyond, Mine, on bending orchard trees, Apples of Hesperides! Still as my horizon grew, Larger grew my riches too; All the world I saw or knew Seemed a complex Chinese toy, Fashioned for a barefoot boy! Oh for festal dainties spread, Like my bowl of milk and bread; Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the door-stone, gray and rude! O'er me, like a regal tent, Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, Looped in many a wind-swung fold; While for music came the play Of the pied frogs' orchestra; And, to light the noisy choir, Lit the fly his lamp of fire.
I was monarch: pomp and joy Waited on the barefoot boy! Cheerily, then, my little man, Live and laugh, as boyhood can Though the flinty slopes be hard, Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, Every morn shall lead thee through Fresh baptisms of the dew; Every evening from thy feet Shall the cool wind kiss the heat All too soon these feet must hide In the prison cells of pride, Lose the freedom of the sod, Like a colt's for work be shod, Made to tread the mills of toil, Up and down in ceaseless moil Happy if their track be found Never on forbidden ground; Happy if they sink not in Quick and treacherous sands of sin.
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy, Ere it passes, barefoot boy! 1855.
MY PSALM.
I mourn no more my vanished years Beneath a tender rain, An April rain of smiles and tears, My heart is young again.
The west-winds blow, and, singing low, I hear the glad streams run; The windows of my soul I throw Wide open to the sun.
No longer forward nor behind I look in hope or fear; But, grateful, take the good I find, The best of now and here.
I plough no more a desert land, To harvest weed and tare; The manna dropping from God's hand Rebukes my painful care.
I break my pilgrim staff, I lay Aside the toiling oar; The angel sought so far away I welcome at my door.
The airs of spring may never play Among the ripening corn, Nor freshness of the flowers of May Blow through the autumn morn.
Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look Through fringed lids to heaven, And the pale aster in the brook Shall see its image given;-- The woods shall wear their robes of praise, The south-wind softly sigh, And sweet, calm days in golden haze Melt down the amber sky.
Not less shall manly deed and word Rebuke an age of wrong; The graven flowers that wreathe the sword Make not the blade less strong.
But smiting hands shall learn to heal,-- To build as to destroy; Nor less my heart for others feel That I the more enjoy.
All as God wills, who wisely heeds To give or to withhold, And knoweth more of all my needs Than all my prayers have told.
Enough that blessings undeserved Have marked my erring track; That wheresoe'er my feet have swerved, His chastening turned me back; That more and more a Providence Of love is understood, Making the springs of time and sense Sweet with eternal good;-- That death seems but a covered way Which opens into light, Wherein no blinded child can stray Beyond the Father's sight; That care and trial seem at last, Through Memory's sunset air, Like mountain-ranges overpast, In purple distance fair; That all the jarring notes of life Seem blending in a psalm, And all the angles of its strife Slow rounding into calm.
And so the shadows fall apart, And so the west-winds play; And all the windows of my heart I open to the day.
1859.
THE WAITING.
I wait and watch: before my eyes Methinks the night grows thin and gray; I wait and watch the eastern skies To see the golden spears uprise Beneath the oriflamme of day! Like one whose limbs are bound in trance I hear the day-sounds swell and grow, And see across the twilight glance, Troop after troop, in swift advance, The shining ones with plumes of snow! I know the errand of their feet, I know what mighty work is theirs; I can but lift up hands unmeet, The threshing-floors of God to beat, And speed them with unworthy prayers.
I will not dream in vain despair The steps of progress wait for me The puny leverage of a hair The planet's impulse well may spare, A drop of dew the tided sea.
The loss, if loss there be, is mine, And yet not mine if understood; For one shall grasp and one resign, One drink life's rue, and one its wine, And God shall make the balance good.
Oh power to do! Oh baffled will! Oh prayer and action! ye are one.
Who may not strive, may yet fulfil The harder task of standing still, And good but wished with God is done! 1862.
SNOW-BOUND.

A WINTER IDYL.
TO THE MEMORY OF THE HOUSEHOLD IT DESCRIBES, THIS POEM IS DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR.
The inmates of the family at the Whittier homestead who are referred to in the poem were my father, mother, my brother and two sisters, and my uncle and aunt both unmarried.

In addition, there was the district school-master who boarded with us.

The "not unfeared, half-welcome guest" was Harriet Livermore, daughter of Judge Livermore, of New Hampshire, a young woman of fine natural ability, enthusiastic, eccentric, with slight control over her violent temper, which sometimes made her religious profession doubtful.

She was equally ready to exhort in school-house prayer-meetings and dance in a Washington ball-room, while her father was a member of Congress.