Would the Vision there remain?
Would the Vision come again?
Then a voice within his breast Whispered, audible and clear As if to the outward ear "Do thy duty; that is best; Leave unto thy Lord the rest!"
Straightway to his feet he started, And with longing look intent On the Blessed Vision bent, Slowly from his cell departed, Slowly on his errand went.
At the gate the poor were waiting, Looking through the iron grating, With that terror in the eye That is only seen in those Who amid their wants and woes Hear the sound of doors that close, And of feet that pa.s.s them by; Grown familiar with disfavor, Grown familiar with the savor Of the bread by which men die!
But to-day, they know not why, Like the gate of Paradise Seemed the convent gate to rise, Like a sacrament divine Seemed to them the bread and wine.
In his heart the Monk was praying, Thinking of the homeless poor, What they suffer and endure; What we see not, what we see; And the inward voice was saying "Whatsoever thing thou doest To the least of mine and lowest, That thou doest unto me!"
Unto me! but had the Vision Come to him in beggar"s clothing, Come a mendicant imploring.
Would he then have knelt adoring, Or have listened with derision, And have turned away with loathing?
Thus his conscience put the question, Full of troublesome suggestion, As at length, with hurried pace, Towards his cell he turned his face, And beheld the convent bright With a supernatural light, Like a luminous cloud expanding Over floor and wall and ceiling.
But he paused with awe-struck feeling At the threshold of his door, For the Vision still was standing As he left it there before, When the convent bell appalling, From its belfry calling, calling, Summoned him to feed the poor.
Through the long hour intervening It had waited his return, And he felt his bosom burn, Comprehending all the meaning, When the Blessed Vision said, "Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!"
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER
PROEM To EDITION of 1847
I love the old melodious lays Which softly melt the ages through, The songs of Spenser"s golden days, Arcadian Sidney"s silvery phrase, Sprinkling our noon of time with freshest morning dew.
Yet, vainly in my quiet hours To breathe their marvellous notes I try; I feel them, as the leaves and flowers In silence feel the dewy showers, And drink with glad, still lips the blessing of the sky.
The rigor of a frozen clime, The harshness of an untaught ear, The jarring words of one whose rhyme Beat often Labor"s hurried time, Or Duty"s rugged march through storm and strife, are here.
Of mystic beauty, dreamy grace, No rounded art the lack supplies; Unskilled the subtle lines to trace, Or softer shades of Nature"s face, I view her common forms with unanointed eyes.
Nor mine the seer-like power to show The secrets of the hear and mind; To drop the plummet-line below Our common world of joy and woe, A more intense despair or brighter hope to find.
Yet here at least an earnest sense Of human right and weal is shown; A hate of tyranny intense, And hearty in its vehemence, As if my brother"s pain and sorrow were my own.
O Freedom! if to me belong Nor mighty Milton"s gift divine, Nor Marvell"s wit and graceful song, Still with a love as deep and strong As theirs, I lay, like them, my best gifts on thy shrine!
THE FROST SPIRIT
He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes! You may trace his footsteps now On the naked woods and the blasted fields and the brown hill"s withered brow.
He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees where their pleasant green came forth, And the winds, which follow wherever he goes, have shaken them down to earth.
He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes!--from the frozen Labrador,-- From the icy bridge of the Northern seas, which the white bear wanders o"er,-- Where the fisherman"s sail is stiff with ice, and the luckless forms below In the sunless cold of the lingering night into marble statues grow!
He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes!--on the rushing Northern blast, And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed as his fearful breath went past.
With an unscorched wing he has hurried on, where the fires of Hecla glow On the darkly beautiful sky above and the ancient ice below.
He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes!--and the quiet lake shall feel The torpid touch of his glazing breath, and ring to the skater"s heel; And the streams which danced on the broken rocks, or sang to the leaning gra.s.s, Shall bow again to their winter chain, and in mournful silence pa.s.s.
He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes!--let us meet him as we may, And turn with the light of the parlor-fire his evil power away; And gather closer the circle round, when that fire-light dances high, And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as his sounding wing goes by!
SONGS OF LABOR
DEDICATION
I would the gift I offer here Might graces from thy favor take, And, seen through Friendship"s atmosphere, On softened lines and coloring, wear The unaccustomed light of beauty, for thy sake.
Few leaves of Fancy"s spring remain But what I have I give to thee,-- The o"er-sunned bloom of summer"s plain, And paler flowers, the latter rain Calls from the weltering slope of life"s autumnal
Above the fallen groves of green, Where youth"s enchanted forest stood, Dry root and mossed trunk between, A sober after-growth is seen, As springs the pine where falls the gay-leafed maple wood!
Yet birds will sing, and breezes play Their leaf-harps in the sombre tree, And through the bleak and wintry day It keeps its steady green alway,-- So, even my after-thoughts may have a charm for thee.
Art"s perfect forms no moral need, And beauty is its own excuse; But for the dull and flowerless weed Some healing virtue still must plead, And the rough ore must find its honors in its use.
So haply these, my simple lays Of homely toil, may serve to show The orchard bloom and ta.s.seled maize That skirt and gladden duty"s ways, The unsung beauty hid life"s common things below.
Haply from them the toiler, bent Above his forge or plough, may gain A manlier spirit of content, And feel that life is wisest spent Where the strong working hand makes strong the working brain.
The doom which to the guilty pair Without the walls of Eden came, Transforming sinless ease to care And rugged toil, no more shall bear The burden of old crime, or mark of primal shame.
A blessing now,--a curse no more; Since He whose name we breathe with awe.
The coa.r.s.e mechanic vesture wore, A poor man toiling with the poor, In labor, as in prayer, fulfilling the same law.
THE LUMBERMEN
Wildly round our woodland quarters, Sad-voiced Autumn grieves; Thickly down these swelling waters Float his fallen leaves.
Through the tall and naked timber, Column-like and old, Gleam the sunsets of November, From their skies of gold.
O"er us, to the southland heading, Screams the gray wild-goose; On the night-frost sounds the treading Of the brindled moose.
Noiseless creeping, while we"re sleeping, Frost his task-work plies; Soon, his icy bridges heaping, Shall our log-piles rise.
When, with sounds of smothered thunder, On some night of rain, Lake and river break asunder Winter"s weakened chain, Down the wild March flood shall bear them To the saw-mill"s wheel, Or where Steam, the slave, shall tear them With his teeth of steel.
Be it starlight, be it moonlight, In these vales below, When the earliest beams of sunlight Streak the mountain"s snow, Crisps the h.o.a.r-frost, keen and early, To our hurrying feet, And the forest echoes clearly All our blows repeat.