Who, that reads poetry at all, has not read and admired
“Snow-Bound?” “That exquisite poem has no prototype in English
literature unless Burns’ ‘Cotter’s Saturday Night’ be one, and
it will be long, I fear, before it will have a companion piece.
Out of materials of the slightest order, really common-place,
Mr. Whittier had made a poem that will live, and can no more be
rivaled by any winter poetry that may be written hereafter, than
‘Thanatopsis’ can be rivaled as a meditation on the universality
of death. The characters of this little idyl are carefully
drawn.… Everything is naturally introduced, and the reflections,
which are manly and pathetic, are among the finest that Mr.
Whittier has ever written. ‘Snow-Bound’ at once authenticated
itself as an idyl of New England life and manners.”—(Abridged)
_R. H. Stoddard._
The Vaudois Teacher.
“Oh lady fair, these silks of mine are beautiful and rare,
The richest web of the Indian loom, which beauty’s queen might wear;
And my pearls are pure as thy own fair neck, with whose radiant light
they vie;
I have brought them with me a weary way,—will my gentle lady buy?”
And the lady smiled on the worn old man through the dark and clustering
curls
Which veiled her brow as she bent to view his silks and glittering
pearls;
And she placed their price in the old man’s hand, and lightly turned
away;
But she paused at the wanderer’s earnest call,—“My gentle lady, stay!”
“Oh lady fair, I have yet a gem which a purer luster flings,
Than the diamond flash of the jeweled crown on the lofty brow of kings;
A wonderful pearl of exceeding price, whose virtue shall not decay,
Whose light shall be as a spell to thee and a blessing on thy way.”
The lady glanced at the mirroring steel where her form of grace
was seen,
Where her eyes shone clear, and her dark locks waved their clasping
pearls between.
“Bring forth thy pearl of exceeding worth, thou traveler gray and old,—
And name the price of thy precious gem, and my page shall count thy
gold.”
The cloud went off from the pilgrim’s brow, as a small and meager book,
Unchased with gold or gem of cost, from his folded robe he took.
“Here, lady fair, is the pearl of price, may it prove as such to thee!
Nay, keep thy gold, I ask it not, for the Word of God is free.”
The hoary traveler went his way, but the gift he left behind
Hath had its pure and perfect work on that high-born maiden’s mind;
And she hath turned from the pride of sin to the lowliness of truth,
And given her human heart to God in its beautiful hour of youth.
Providence.
I know not what the future hath
Of marvel or surprise,
Assured alone that life and death
His mercy underlies.
And if my heart and flesh are weak
To bear an untried pain,
The bruised reed He will not break,
But strengthen and sustain.
No offering of my own I have,
No works my faith to prove;
I can but give the gifts He gave,
And plead His love for love.
And so beside the silent sea
I wait the muffled oar;
No harm from Him can come to me
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.
And thou, O Lord, by whom are seen
Thy creatures as they be,
Forgive me if too close I lean
My human heart on Thee.