born a poet, it is Whittier. He is less indebted to art, to scholastic
culture, to the influences of literary companionship, than any of his
brethren. He is a fiery apostle of human brotherhood, and has chanted
anathemas against war, and every form of cruelty and superstition. He
is eminently a national poet. His mind is in full sympathy with the
progressive ideas of the New World.—FRANCES H. UNDERWOOD.
* * * * *
Much of Whittier’s work has been in the form of contributions to journals
which he has edited, and the two volumes which now constitute his
collected prose writings have been gathered from these occasional papers.
Himself of Quaker descent and belief, he has touched kindly but firmly
the changing life of the day which culminated in the witchcraft delusion
and displayed itself in the persecution of the Quakers. The carelessness
of literary fame which Whittier has shown may be referred to the
sincerity of his devotion to that which literature affects, and he has
written and sung out of a heart very much in earnest to offer some help,
or out of the pleasure of his work. The careful student of his writings
will always value most the integrity of his life.—HORACE E. SCUDDER.
* * * * *
Whittier’s genius is Hebrew—more so than that of any other poet now
using the English language. He is a flower of the moral sentiment in
its masculine rigor, climbing like a forest pine. In this respect he
affiliates with Wordsworth, and, going farther back, with Milton, whose
tap-root was Hebrew. The man and the poet are one and the same.—REV.
DAVID A. WASSON.
* * * * *
Whittier is in some respects the most American of all the American poets.
It is safe to say that he has been less influenced by other literatures
than any of our poets, with the exception, perhaps, of Bryant. The
affectionate simplicity of Whittier’s nature is seen in the poems which
he addressed to his personal friends and to those whose life-pursuits ran
in the same channels as his own moral sympathies.—RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.
* * * * *
I have not seen John Greenleaf Whittier, but I have had correspondence
with him and have great affection for him. During the American war an
eminent citizen of Massachusetts told me he thought there was no man in
the United States whose writings at that time, and for some years before
then, had had such great influence on public opinion as the writings of
Whittier. If God gives a real poet to the people at a time like that,
does He not verily speak to the people and ask them to return to the ways
of mercy and righteousness?—JOHN BRIGHT.
A WHITTIER ALPHABET.
A cottage hidden in the wood,
Red through its seams a light is glowing,
On rock and bough and tree-trunk rude
A narrow luster throwing.
_Mogg Megone._
But welcome, be it old or new,
The gift which makes the day more bright,
And paints upon the ground of cold
And darkness warmth and light.
_Flowers in Winter._
Cheerily then, my little man,
Live and laugh as boyhood can!
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy
Ere it passes, barefoot boy!
_The Barefoot Boy._
Down on my native hills of June
And home’s green quiet, hiding all,
Fell sudden darkness like the fall
Of midnight upon noon!
_The Rendition._
Early hath the spoiler found thee,
Brother of our love,
Autumn’s faded earth around thee,
And its storms above!
_On the Death of S. O. Torrey._
Father, to Thy suffering poor
Strength and grace and faith impart,
And with Thy own love restore
Comfort to the broken heart.
_The Familists’ Hymn._
God’s stars and silence taught thee
As His angels only can,
That the one sole sacred thing beneath
The cope of heaven is Man.
_The Branded Hand._
How hushed the hiss of party hate,
The clamor of the throng!
How old, harsh voices of debate
Flow into rhythmic song!
_My Birthday._
I walk, with noiseless feet, the round
Of uneventful years;
Still o’er and o’er I sow the spring
And reap the autumn ears.
_My Playmate._
Just then I felt the deacon’s hand
In wrath my coat-tail seize on;
I heard the priest cry, “Infidel!”
The lawyer mutter, “Treason!”
_A Sabbath Scene._
Know we not our dead are looking
Downward with a sad surprise,
All our strife of words rebuking
With their mild and loving eyes?
_A Visit to Washington._
Lift again the stately emblem
On the Bay State’s rusted shield;
Give to Northern winds the Pine Tree
On our banner’s tattered field.
_The Pine Tree._
More than clouds of purple trail
In the gold of setting day;
More than gleams of wing or sail
Beckon from the sea-mist gray.
_The Vanishers._
No perfect whole can our nature make,
Here or there the circle will break;
The orb of life as it takes the light
On one side, leaves the other in night.
_The Preacher._
O friends whose hearts still keep their prime,
Whose bright example warms and cheers,
Ye teach us how to smile at Time,
And set to music all his years.
_The Laurels._
Proffering the riddles of the dread unknown
Like the calm Sphinxes, with their eyes of stone
Questioning the centuries from their veils of sand.
_Trust._
Quiet and calm, without a fear
Of danger darkly lurking near,
The weary laborer left his plow,
The milkmaid caroled by her cow.
_Pentucket._
Rivermouth Rocks are fair to see,
By dawn or sunset shone across,
When the ebb of the sea has left them free
To dry their fringes of gold-green moss.
_The Wreck of Rivermouth._
So shall the Northern Pioneer go joyful on his way
To wed Penobscot’s waters to San Francisco’s bay.
_The Crisis._
Thank God that I have lived to see the time
When the great truth begins at last to find
An utterance from the deep heart of mankind,
Earnest and clear, that all Revenge is Crime!
_Abolition of the Gallows._
Unchanged by our changes of spirit and frame
Past, now, and henceforward the Lord is the same;
Though we sink in the darkness, His arms break our fall,
And in death as in life He is Father of all!
_The Quaker Alumni._
Vain pride of star-lent genius!—vain
Quick fancy and creative brain,
Unblest by prayerful sacrifice,
Absurdly great or weakly wise!
_The Chapel of the Hermits._
Wherever Freedom shivered a chain God speed, quoth I;
To Error amidst her shouting train I gave the lie.
_My Soul and I._
Ximena, speak and tell us
Who has lost, and who has won?
Nearer came the storm and nearer,
Rolling fast and frightful on.
_The Angels of Buena Vista._
Yon mountain’s side is black with night,
While, broad-orbed, o’er its gleaming crown,
The moon, slow rounding into sight,
On the hushed, inland sea looks down.
_Summer by the Lakeside._
Zephyr-like o’er all things going
When the breath divine is flowing,
All my yearnings to be free
Are as echoes answering Thee.
_Hymn from the French._
THE MORAL WARFARE.
JOHN G. WHITTIER.
When Freedom on her natal day
Within her war-rocked cradle lay,
An iron race around her stood,
Baptized her infant brow in blood;
And through the storm which round her swept
Their constant ward and watching kept.
Then, where our quiet herds repose
The roar of baleful battle rose,
And brethren of a common tongue
To mortal strife as tigers sprung;
And every gift on Freedom’s shrine
Was man for beast, and blood for wine!
Our fathers to their graves have gone:
Their strife is past—their triumph won;
But sterner trials wait the race
Which rises in their honored place—
A moral warfare with the crime
And folly of an evil time.
So let it be. In God’s own might
We gird us for the coming fight,
And, strong in Him whose cause is ours,
In conflict with unholy powers,
We grasp the weapon He has given—
The light, and truth, and love of heaven.
* * * * *
Recently a number of school-children of Girard, Pa., wrote a letter to
John G. Whittier, the Quaker poet, telling him that they had learned to
recite “The Barefoot Boy,” “The Huskers,” and “Maud Muller,” and closing
thus: “If it would not be too much trouble, please write a verse for
us—something that we could learn and always remember as having been
written by you especially for us.” In response he sent the following:
“Faint not and falter not, nor plead
Your weakness. Truth itself is strong;
The lion’s strength, the eagle’s speed,
Are not alone vouchsafed to wrong.
“Your nature, which, through fire and blood,
To place or gain can find its way,
Has power to seek the highest good,
And duty’s holiest call obey.”
MY COUNTRY.
Land of the forest and the rock,
Of dark-blue lake and mighty river,
Of mountains reared aloft to mock
The storm’s career, the lightning’s shock;
My own green land forever!
O never may a son of thine,
Where’er his wandering steps incline,
Forget the skies which bent above
His childhood like a dream of love.
* * * * *
John G. Whittier attended a reunion of his schoolmates at Haverhill,
Mass., on the 10th of September, 1885. He was of the Class of ’27. He
wrote a poem for the occasion, which was read by a cousin of his. It is
entitled “1827-1885,” and is as follows:
The gulf of seven and fifty years
We stretch our welcoming hand across;
The distance but a pebble’s toss
Between us and our youth appears.
For in life’s school we linger on,
The remnant of a once full list;
Conning our lessons, undismissed,
With faces to the setting sun.
And some have gone the unknown way,
And some await the call to rest;
Who knoweth whether it is best
For those who went or us who stay?
And yet, despite of loss and ill,
If faith and love and hope remain,
Our length of days is not in vain,
And life is well worth living still.
Still to a gracious Providence
The thanks of grateful hearts are due
For blessings when our lives were new—
For all the good vouchsafed us since.
The pain that spared us sorer hurt;
The wish denied, the purpose crossed;
And pleasure, fond occasions lost,
These mercies to our small desert.
’Tis something that we wander back,
Gray pilgrims, to the ancient ways,
And tender memories of old days
Walk with us by the Merrimac.
That even in life’s afternoon
A sense of youth comes back again,
As though this cool September rain
The still green woodlands dream of spring.
The eyes, grown dim to present things,
Have keener sight for by-gone years,
And sweet and clear in deafening ears
The bird that sang at morning sings.
Dear comrades, scattered wide and far
Send from their homes their kindly word;
And dearer ones, unseen, unheard,
Smile on us from some heavenly star.
For life and death with God are one;
Unchanged by seeming change, His care
And love are round us here and there;
He breaks no thread His hands have spun.
Soul touches soul; the muster-roll
Of life eternal has no gaps;
And after half a century’s lapse
Our school-day ranks are closed and whole.
Hail and farewell! We go our way
Where shadows end, we trust, in light;
The star that ushers in the night
Is herald also of the day.
THE LIGHT THAT IS FELT.
A tender child of summers three,
Seeking her little bed at night,
Paused on the dark stair timidly.
“O mother; take my hand,” said she,
“And then the dark will all be light.”
We older children grope our way
From dark behind to dark before;
And only when our hands we lay,
Dear Lord, in Thine, the night is day,
And there is darkness nevermore.
Reach downward to the sunless days
Wherein our guides are blind as we,
And faith is small and hope delays;
Take Thou the hands of prayer we raise,
And let us feel the light of Thee.
DECORATION DAY.
DECORATION DAY.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
Sleep, comrades, sleep and rest
On this Field of the Grounded Arms,
Where foes no more molest,
Nor sentry’s shot alarms!
Ye have slept on the ground before,
And started to your feet
At the cannon’s sudden roar,
Or the drum’s redoubling beat.
But in this camp of Death
No sound your slumber breaks;
Here is no fevered breath—
No wound that bleeds and aches.
All is repose and peace;
Untrampled lies the sod;
The shouts of battle cease:
It is the Truce of God!
Rest, comrades, rest and sleep!
The thoughts of men shall be
As sentinels to keep
Your rest from danger free.
Your silent tents of green
We deck with fragrant flowers;
Yours has the suffering been,
The memory shall be ours.
BETWEEN THE GRAVES.
HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.
Where blood once quenched the camp-fire’s brand,
On every sod throughout the land
The silver showers slip softly down;
On every sod some growing stem
Lifts to the light a shining crown.
For underneath her bending blue,
With leaf and sunshine, moon and dew,
Glad Nature gilds the graveside gloom,
Nor asks what passions stirred the dust
Through which her pulses spring to bloom.
While from the gardens of the South,
Like blessings blown from some warm mouth,
The wooing wind steals all day long—
Steals lingeringly from grave to grave,
With breath of blossom, breath of song.
A common flag, breeze, showers and flowers,
Are weaving all these sunny hours,
Where broken hearts and hopes are hid,
And the great mother on each bed
Lays it, a fragrant coverlid.
You, who with garlands go about,
As the tree-tilting bird pours out
O’er either mound his singing bliss,
Oh, kind as birds and breezes, leave
A flower on that grave, and on this!
For, lo, the eternal truce of death
Was called upon the passing breath,
And all the phantom hates, that shed
Their shadows round us as they stalked,
Have no remembrance with the dead!
RED, WHITE, AND BLUE.
HARRIET MCEWEN KIMBALL.
Red Cypress! unto him who grieves,
Reading sad legends in thy leaves,
And finding in thy flower
An emblem of the heart that bleeds,
Say: The red blossom which I bear
Doth symbolize
The sacrifice
Of that sublimest hour
When Love fulfilled all human needs;
Bound Death, the Victor, as a slave;
Flung wide the sealed gates of the grave,
And set His angels, warders, there.
White Rose! to him who gathers thee
The Flower of Consolation be—
Unfolding peace, and not despair.
With sharpest thorns set round,
Teach him how Life may wear
Sharp griefs, and yet be crowned!
Blue Harebell! that dost tremble
To the weird breath of Sorrow,
Be to the mourning one Faith’s symbol;—
Since thou dost borrow
The same soft hue
Her eyes have won with constant looking up;
God filleth thine inverted cup
With heaven’s own blue;
So shall His sweet assurance fill
The heart bowed meekly to His will.
THE HEROES’ DAY.
Through the long bending grass
The white-robed maidens pass,
With tender faces, and with footsteps soft and slow,
Upon each lowly grave,
Where sleeps the true and brave,
Dropping red roses and wan lilies as they go.
Flowers for the patriot band
Who loved their native land:
Sweet rosemary, and purple pansies, and pale pinks;
Green leaves from budding trees
Make sweet the passing breeze—
Sweet as the elegy the grateful nation thinks.
For who would not prolong
With flowers and scent and song
The memory of those who fell in freedom’s fight?
From the sweet month of May,
Then choose the fairest day,
And crown it for the honored dead with all things bright.
Then say: “O singing birds,
Echo these tender words:
While bosoms nobly throb, and women’s eyes are wet,
While roses bud and blow,
While stars at evening glow,
While daylight breaks for us, we never will forget.
“As long as men shall stand
For home and native land,
And while our starry flag flies o’er the true and free,
Honor and love and truth
Shall give immortal youth,
And we’ll remember you upon the land and sea.”
_Harper’s Weekly._
DECORATION HYMN.
WILLIAM H. RANDALL.
Soldiers! who freely for our country’s glory
Upheld our flag on Southern hill and plain,
Long may your deeds be told in grateful story,
Ye have not lived in vain!
Brothers! who fought for more than empty honor
That all our land united might be free,
May shine for evermore upon our banner
Each star for liberty.
Heroes! who toiled through all the dusty marches,
And life surrendered on those shot-plowed fields,
To ye who fled where the blue sky o’erarches,
Tribute a nation yields.
Your spirits, watching from out heaven’s dominions,
Shall not see lost what ye so dearly bought;
The shackles that once clogged the eagle’s pinions
Shall not again be wrought.
And now with garlands decorate each dwelling
Where all that earth could claim serenely sleeps;
While love, like perfume from the flower upwelling
Grateful remembrance keeps.
FLOWERS FOR THE BRAVE.
CELIA THAXTER.
Here bring your purple and gold,
Glory of color and scent!
Scarlet of tulips bold,
Buds blue as the firmament.
Hushed is the sound of the fife
And the bugle piping clear:
The vivid and delicate life
In the soul of the youthful year.
We bring to the quiet dead,
With a gentle and tempered grief;
O’er the mounds so mute we shed
The beauty of blossoms and leaf.
The flashing swords that were drawn
No rust shall their fame destroy!
Boughs rosy as rifts of dawn,
Like the blush on the cheek of joy.
Rich fires of the gardens and meads,
We kindle these hearts above.
What splendor shall match their deeds;
What sweetness can match our love?
MEMORIAL DAY.
MARGARET SIDNEY.
A little window-garden plot,
Blooming in dusty street,
Adown which poured the travel
Of many weary feet;
A cheery spot of brightness
Blooming for all to see.
Oh, that was Blossom’s garden-bed,
Who loved it tenderly.
At morn, at noon, at even,
She dealt out faithful care;
And many buds and flowerets sweet
Came out with fragrance rare.
And now, this May-day morning,
She stood in wealth of bloom
That beautified and perfumed all
The quaint, old-fashioned room.
When suddenly the door was thrown
Ajar, and there stood Ray.
“Give us your flowers, do, Blossom, do,
For Decoration Day.”
She looked around with pretty flush
Of hurt surprise: “Ah, no;
You know not what you ask, if you
Would wish to rob me so.”
“To _rob_ you?” Master Ray in scorn
Flashed out, then turned away;
“The soldiers gave their all for _you_:
You _owe_ them flowers to-day.”
“I ‘_owe_ them flowers.’ Ah, true, indeed!
Dear brother, please forgive.
Those brave men died on battle-fields
That we at home might live;
And I not lay a flower upon
Their graves in memory sweet!
Oh, selfish heart! I have to mourn
Ingratitude complete.
Forgive me, Lord. They shall have all;
Yes, glad I am to make
My buds and blossoms into wreaths
For those dear patriots’ sake.”
The May-day sun shone brilliantly;
All Nature smiled to see
The honors given to those who died
In the cause of Liberty;
But the sweetest gift from loving hands
Was the bud, and flower, and spray,
From the little child who gave her all
On that Memorial Day.
THANKSGIVING.
THANKSGIVING DAY.
It was not until the late civil war that this day became in any sense
a National one. Until that time its observance was confined almost
exclusively to New England. But the proclamation of President Johnson,
Nov. 2, 1865, appointing a day for national thanksgiving, was indorsed
by similar proclamations from the governors of all the States not
of the late Confederacy, and since then the festival has steadily
increased in popular favor, though many Southern States have been slow
in its observance. Now that its appointment comes from a Democratic
President,—the first one ever issued from such a source,—it is probable
that it will be more generally regarded than ever before in our history.
And this is one of the good signs of the times. It is well that one
day of the year be given to the reunion of families, to the gathering
together of scattered friends, and to rejoicing over the bounties of
Providence.—_The Advance._
THANKSGIVING AMONG THE GREEKS.
The Greeks held the grandest feast of all the year in honor of Demeter,
the goddess of the harvest; and the Romans, who borrowed most of their
customs from the Grecians, also held a grand celebration in honor of
the same goddess, whose name they changed to Ceres. They went in long
processions to the fields, where they engaged in rustic sports, and
crowned all of their household gods with flowers. Both of these feasts
were held in September.
THANKSGIVING AMONG THE JEWS.
Three thousand years ago witnessed the Jewish Feast of Tabernacles, with
its magnificent rituals, melodious choirs, and picturesque festivities.
For eight days the people ceased their work, to “eat, drink, and be
merry.” During the time millions gathered in and around Jerusalem, for
several days, living in booths formed of the branches of the olive, pine,
myrtle, and palm, and decorated with fruits and flowers. Grand public
pageants were held, and in addition to these every household had its
worship, its sacrifice, and its banquet.
THE FIRST ENGLISH THANKSGIVING IN NEW YORK.
But the Dutch went, and the English came—and they came to stay. On
the possession of New Netherland by the English, Edmund Andros being
Governor, the Council sitting on June 7, 1675, ordered:
“That Wednesday ye 23d of this Instant month, be appointed throughout ye
government a day of Thanksgiving and Prayers to Almighty God for all His
Past Deliverances and Blessings and Present Mercies to us, and to Pray ye
continuance and Encrease thereof.”
HOW THE PILGRIMS GAVE THANKS.
The Pilgrim Fathers, after ten months of sickness and suffering, gathered
in their first harvest, which consisted of twenty acres of corn, and
six of barley and peas—enough to keep them supplied with food for the
coming year. For this they devoutly thanked God, and made preparations
for a feast. Hunters were sent out to procure the thanksgiving dinner,
and returned with waterfowl, wild turkey, and venison. Then the feast
was prepared, and Massasoit and ninety of his warriors were present.
On the following year there was such a long drought that the corn and
barley were stunted, and famine seemed to stare them in the face. A day
of fasting and prayer was appointed, and for nine hours the people prayed
unceasingly. At evening the sun set in clouds, a breeze sprang up, and in
the morning the rain was pouring down. The crops revived, and there was a
bounteous harvest. For this a day of thanksgiving was ordered by Governor
Bradford.
The history of this first thanksgiving is recorded as follows:
“Our harvest being gotten in, our governor sent four men out a-fowling
that we might, after a special manner, rejoice together after we had the
fruit of our labor. They four, in one day, killed as much fowl as, with a
little help beside, served the company almost a week. At that time, among
other recreations, we exercised our arms, many of the Indians coming
among us, and among the rest, their greatest king, Massasoit, with some
ninety men, whom for three days we entertained and feasted, and they
went out and killed five deer, which they brought to the plantation and
bestowed on our governor and upon the captain and others. And although it
be not always so plentiful as it was at this time with us, yet by the
goodness of God we are so far from want that we often wish you partakers
of our plenty.”
THE FIRST NATIONAL THANKSGIVING.
The immediate occasion of the first thanksgiving was the surrender of
General Burgoyne to General Gates, in the fall of 1777. Thursday, the
18th of December, was designated, and, in compliance with the order of
Congress, the army at Valley Forge duly observed the day—the army that
had tracked its way in blood. It was ordered by the Continental Congress.
WASHINGTON’S PROCLAMATION.
Washington, as President of the United States, issued his first
proclamation for the observance of a day of thanksgiving at the city of
New York on the 3d of October, 1789, setting apart Thursday, the 26th day
of November of that year, “to be devoted by the people of these States
to the service of that great and glorious Being who is the beneficent
Author of all the good that was, that is, or that will be,” etc. His
second proclamation, dated at the city of Philadelphia, January 1, 1795,
designated Thursday, November 26, as a day to be observed for a general
thanksgiving by the people of the United States.
Governor John Jay, of New York, thought so well of Thanksgiving Day,
that he determined to have one of his own, and accordingly designated
Thursday, November 26, 1795.
THE FIRST BOSTON THANKSGIVING—July, 1630.
[_For Concert and Solo Recitation._]
HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.
_Solo._ “Praise ye the Lord!” The psalm to-day
That rises on our ears
Rolls from the hills of Boston Bay
Through five times fifty years—
When Winthrop’s fleet from Yarmouth crept
Out to the open main,
And through the widening waters swept
In April sun and rain,
_Concert._ “Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,”
The leader shouted, “pray;”
And prayer arose from all the ships,
As fadeth Yarmouth Bay.