{"1": {"fulltext": "", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0001.jp2"}, "2": {"fulltext": "LIBRARY OF CONGRESS.\\nChap. Copyright No..\\nShelf_;*_C?._^\\nUNITED STATES OF AMERICA.", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0002.jp2"}, "3": {"fulltext": "", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0003.jp2"}, "4": {"fulltext": "", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0004.jp2"}, "5": {"fulltext": "", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0005.jp2"}, "6": {"fulltext": "", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0006.jp2"}, "7": {"fulltext": "Digitized by tine Internet Archive\\nin 2010 with funding from\\nThe Library of Congress\\nhttp://www.archive.org/details/poems03whit", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0007.jp2"}, "8": {"fulltext": "", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0008.jp2"}, "9": {"fulltext": "", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0009.jp2"}, "10": {"fulltext": "36054\\nn\\njl-itarary of Gongrese\\nTwo Copies Received\\nAUG 18 1900\\nCopyright entry\\nSECOND COPY.\\nOeiwerod to\\nOftOER DIVISION,\\nM lfi 27 190U\\nCopyright, 1900, by W. B. Conkey Company.\\n68770", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0010.jp2"}, "11": {"fulltext": "CONTENTS.\\nPAGE,\\nStanzas 7\\nToussaint L Ouverture 13\\nThe Yankee Girl 24\\nTo William Lloyd Garrison 28\\nTo the Memory of Charles B. Storrs, late President\\nof Western Reserve College 30\\nSong of the Free 34\\nThe Hunters of Men 37\\nTo Governor M Duffie 41\\nLines, written on reading Right and Wrong in\\nBoston 45\\nTo G. B. Esq. author of the Worcester Democratic\\nAddress 48\\nTo the Memory of Thomas Shipley 51\\nThe Slave Ships 54\\nStanzas for the Times 61\\nLines, written on reading the spirited and manly\\nRemarks of Governor Ritner, of Pennsylvania, in\\nhis Message of 1836, on the subject of Slavery 65\\nHymn, written for the Meeting of the Anti-Slavery\\nSociety, at Chatham Street Chapel, N. Y., held on\\ntlje 4th of the Seventh month, 1834 7\\n3", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0011.jp2"}, "12": {"fulltext": "4 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nPAGE.\\nHymn, written for the Celebration of the Third Anni-\\nversary of British Emancipation, at the Broadway\\nTabernacle, N. Y., First of August, 1837 72\\nClerical Oppressors 74\\nLines, written on the Adoption of Pinckney s Resolu-\\ntions, in the House of Representatives, and the pas-\\nsage of Calhoun s Bill of Abominations to a Sec-\\nond Reading, in the Senate of the United States. 77\\nLines, on the Death of S. Oliver Torrey, Secretary\\nof the Boston Young Men s Anti-Slavery Society. 81\\nLines, written on reading the famous Pastoral Let-\\nter of the Massachusetts General Association,\\n1837 84\\nThe Moral Warfare 90\\nMassachusetts 92\\nThe Farewell of a Virginia Slave-mother to her\\nDaughters, sold into Southern Bondage 96\\nAddress, written for the Opening of Pennsylvania\\nHall, dedicated to Free Discussion, Virtue, Lib-\\nerty, and Independence, on the 15th of the Fifth\\nmonth, 1838 99\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS.\\nPalestine 109\\nChrist in the Tempest 114\\nThe Female Martyr 117\\nKnowest thou the Ordinances of Heaven? Job\\nxxxviii, 33 121\\nHymn (from the French of Lamartine) 123\\nFrom the French of Lamartine 127", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0012.jp2"}, "13": {"fulltext": "CONTENTS. 5\\nPAGE.\\nThe Familist s Hymn 130\\nThe Call of the Christian 135\\nThe Frost Spirit 138\\nThe Worship of Nature 140\\nLines, written in the Commonplace Book of a Young\\nLady 142\\nThe Watcher 146\\nThe Cities of the Plain 152\\nThe Crucifixion 155\\nThe City of Refuge 153\\nIsabella of Austria 160\\nLines, written on visiting a singular Cave in Chester,\\nN. H 166\\nThe Fratricide 169\\nSuicide Pond 173\\nThe Fountain 177\\nPentucket 183\\nThe Missionary 187\\nStanzas, suggested by the Letter of a Friend. 198\\nLines on a Portrait 201\\nStanzas 203\\nTo the Memory of J. O. Rockwell 206\\nThe Unquiet Sleeper 209\\nMetacom 212\\nThe Murdered Lady 219\\nThe Weird Gathering 223\\nThe Black Fox 233\\nThe White Mountains 241\\nThe Indian s Tale 244\\nThe Spectre Ship 248\\nThe Spectre Warriors 254\\nThe Last Norridgewock 257", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0013.jp2"}, "14": {"fulltext": "6 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nPAGE.\\nThe Aerial Omens 263\\nMogg Megone 269\\nThe Vaudois Teacher 321\\nThe Prisoner for Debt 324", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0014.jp2"}, "15": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nSTANZAS.\\nThe despotism which our fathers could not bear in\\ntheir native country is expiring, and the sword of jus-\\ntice in her reformed hands has applied its exterminating\\nedge to slavery. Shall the United States the free\\nUnited States, which could not bear the bonds of a king,\\ncradle the bondage which a king is abolishing? Shall a\\nRepublic be less free than a Monarchy? Shall we, in\\nthe vigor and buoyancy of our manhood, be less ener-\\ngetic in righteousness than a kingdom in its age? Dr.\\nPollen s Address.\\nGenius of America Spirit of our free institutions\\nwhere art thou? How art thou fallen, O Lucifer! son of\\nthe morning\u00e2\u0080\u0094 how art thou fallen from Heaven Hell\\nfrom beneath is moved for thee, to meet thee at thy\\ncoming The kings of the earth cry out to thee. Aha\\nAha! art thou become like unto us! Speech of\\nSamuel J. May.\\nOur fellow-countrymen in chains!\\nSlaves in a land, of light and law\\nSlaves crouching on the very plains\\nWhere roU d the storm of Freedom s war!\\n7", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0015.jp2"}, "16": {"fulltext": "8 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nA groan from Eutaw s haunted wood\\nA wail where Camden s martyrs fell\\nBy every shrine of patriot blood,\\nFrom Moultrie s wall and Jasper s well!\\nBy storied hill and hallow d grot,\\nBy mossy wood and marshy glen,\\nWhence rang of old the rifle-shot,\\nAnd hurrying shout of Marion s men!\\nThe groan of breaking hearts is there\\nThe falling lash the fetter s clank\\nSlaves slaves are breathing in that air.\\nWhich old De Kalb and Sumter drank\\nWhat, ho our countrymen in chains\\nThe whip on woman s shrinking flesh!\\nOur soil reddening with the stains,\\nCaught from her scourging, warm and fresh\\nWhat! mothers from their children riven!\\nWhat! God s own image bought and sold!\\nAmericans to market driven,\\nAnd barter d as the brute for gold!\\nSpeak! shall their agony of prayer\\nCome thrilling to our hearts in vain\\nTo us, whose fathers scorn d to bear\\nThe paltry menace of a chain\\nTo us, whose boast is loud and long\\nOf holy Liberty and Light", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0016.jp2"}, "17": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 9\\nSay, shall these writhing slaves of wrong,\\nPlead vainly for their plunder d Right?\\nWhat! shall we send, with lavish breath.\\nOur sympathies across the wave,\\nWhen Manhood, on the field of death.\\nStrikes for his freedom, or a grave?\\nShall prayers go up, and hymns be sung\\nFor Greece, the Moslem fetter spurning.\\nAnd millions hail with pen and tongue\\nOur light on all her altars burning?\\nShall Belgium feel, and gallant France,\\nBy Vendome spile and vSchoenbrun s wall,\\nAnd Poland, gasping on her lance\\nThe impulse of our cheering call?\\nAnd shall the slave, beneath our eye,\\nClank o er our fields his hateful chain?\\nAnd toss his fetter d arms on high.\\nAnd groan for Freedom s gift, in vain?\\nOh, say, shall Prussia s banner be\\nA refuge for the stricken slave?\\nAnd shall the Russian serf go free\\nBy Baikal s lake and Neva s wave?\\nAnd shall the wintry-bosom d Dane\\nRelax the iron hand of pride,\\nAnd bid his bondmen cast the chain,\\nFrom fetter d soul and limb, aside?", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0017.jp2"}, "18": {"fulltext": "10 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nShall every flap of England s flag\\nProclaim that all around are free,\\nFrom farthest Ind to each blue crag\\nThat beetles o er the Western Sea?\\nAnd shall we scoff at Europe s kings,\\nWhen Freedom s fire is dim with us,\\nAnd round our country s altar clings\\nThe damning shade of Slavery s curse?\\nGo let us ask of Constantine\\nTo loose his grasp on Poland s throat;\\nAnd beg the lord of Mahmoud s line\\nTo spare the struggling Suliote\\nWill not the scorching answer come\\nFrom turban *d Turk, and fiery Russ:\\nGo, loose your fetter d slaves at home.\\nThen turn, and ask the like of us!\\nJust God and shall we calmly rest.\\nThe Christian s scorn the Heathen s\\nmirth\\nContent to live the lingering jest\\nAnd by-word of a mocking Earth?\\nShall our own glorious land retain\\nThat curse which Europe scorns to bear?\\nShall our own brethren drag the chain\\nWhich not even Russia s menials wear?\\nUp, then, in Freedom s manly part.\\nFrom gray-beard eld to fiery youth,", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0018.jp2"}, "19": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 11\\nAnd on the nation s naked heart\\nScatter the living coals of Truth!\\nUp while ye slumber, deeper yet\\nThe shadow of our fame is growing\\nUp\u00e2\u0080\u0094 while ye pause, our sun may set\\nIn blood, around our altars flowing\\nOh! rouse ye, ere the storm comes forth\\nThe gather d wrath of God and man\\nLike that which wasted Egypt s earth,\\nWhen hail and fire above it ran.\\nHear ye no warnings in the air?\\nFeel ye no earthquake underneath?\\nUp up why will ye slumber where\\nThe sleeper only wakes in death?\\nUp now for freedom not in strife\\nLike that your sterner fathers saw\\nThe awful waste of human life\\nThe glory and the guilt of war:\\nBut break the chain the yoke remove,\\nAnd smite to earth Oppression s rod.\\nWith those mild arms of Truth and Love,\\nMade mighty through the living God!\\nDown let the shrine of Moloch sink,\\nAnd leave no traces where it stood\\nNor longer let its idol drink\\nHis daily cup of human blood:", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0019.jp2"}, "20": {"fulltext": "12 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nBut rear another altar there,\\nTo Truth and Love and Mercy given,\\nAnd Freedom s gift, and Freedom s prayer,\\nShall call an answer down from Heaven", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0020.jp2"}, "21": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 13\\nTOUSSAINT L OUVERTURE.\\nToussaint L Ouverture, the black chieftain of Hayti,\\nwas a slave on the plantation de Libertas, belong-\\ning to M. Bayou. When the rising of the negroes took\\nplace, in 1791, Toussaint refused to join them, until he\\nhad aided M. Bayou and his family to escape to Balti-\\nmore. The white man had discovered in Toussaint\\nmany noble qualities, and had instructed him in some\\nof the first branches of education and the preservation\\nof his life was owing to the negro s gratitude for this\\nkindness.\\nIn 1797, Toussaint I Ouverture was appointed, by the\\nFrench government, General-in-Chief of the armies of\\nSt. Domingo, and, as such, signed the convention with\\nGeneral Maitland, for the evacuation of the island by\\nthe British. From this period until 1801, the island,\\nunder the government of Toussaint, was happy, tran-\\nquil, and prosperous. The miserable attempt of Napo-\\nleon to re-establish slavery in St. Domingo, although it\\nfailed of its intended object, proved fatal to the negro\\nchieftain. Treacherously seized by Le Clerc, he was\\nhurried on board a vessel by night, and conveyed to\\nFrance, where he was confined in a cold subter-\\nranean dungeon, at Besancon, where, in April, 1803, he\\ndied. The treatment of Toussaint finds a parallel only\\nin the murder of the Duke d Enghien. It was the re-\\nmark of Godwin, in his Lectures, that the West India\\nislands, since their first discovery by Columbus, could", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0021.jp2"}, "22": {"fulltext": "n WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nnot boast of a single name which deserves comparison\\nwith that of Toussaint I Ouverture.\\nThe moon was up. One general smile\\nWas resting on the Indian isle\\nMild, pure, ethereal rock and wood,\\nIn searching sunshine, wild and rude,\\nRose, mellow d through the silver gleam,\\nSoft as the landscape of a dream.\\nAll motionless and dewy wet.\\nTree, vine, and flower in shadow met\\nThe myrtle with its snowy bloom,\\nCrossing the nightshade s solemn gloom\\nThe white crecopia s silver rind\\nRelieved by deeper green behind,\\nThe orange with its fruit of gold,\\nThe lithe paullinia s verdant fold,\\nThe passion flower, with symbol holy,\\nTv/ining its tendrils long and lowly,\\nThe rhexias dark,, and cassia tall,\\nAnd, proudly rising over all,\\nThe kingly palm s imperial stem,\\nCrown d with its leafy diadem,\\nStar-like, beneath whose somber shade\\nThe fiery- winged cucullo play d!\\nYes lovely was thine aspect then,\\nFair island of the Western Sea\\nLavish of beauty, even when", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0022.jp2"}, "23": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 15\\nThy brutes were happier than thy men,\\nFor they, at least, were free\\nRegardless of thy glorious clime.\\nUnmindful of thy soil of flowers,\\nThe toiling negro sigh d, that Time\\nNo faster sped his hours.\\nFor, by the dewy moonlight still,\\nHe fed the weary-turning mill,\\nOr bent him in the chill morass,\\nTo pluck the long and tangled grass,\\nAnd hear above his scar-worn back\\nThe heavy slave-whip s frequent crack;\\nWhile in his heart one evil thought\\nIn solitary madness wrought,\\nOne baleful fire surviving still\\nThe quenching of th immortal mind-\\nOne sterner passion of his kind.\\nWhich even fetters could not kill,\\nThe savage hope, to deal, ere long,\\nA vengeance bitterer than his wrong!\\nHark to that cry long, loud and shrill,\\nFrom field and forest, rock and hill.\\nThrilling and horrible it rang.\\nAround, beneath, above;\\nThe wild beast from his cavern sprang\\nThe wild bird from her grove\\nNor fear, nor joy, nor agony", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0023.jp2"}, "24": {"fulltext": "16 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nWere mingled in that midnight cry\\nBut, like the lion s growl of wrath,\\nWhen falls that hunter in his path,\\nWhose barbed arrow, deeply set,\\nIs rankling in his bosom yet.\\nIt told of haite, full, deep and strong,\\nOf vengeance kindling out of wrong;\\nIt was as if the crimes of years\\nThe unrequited toil the tears\\nThe shame and hate, which liken well\\nEarth s garden to the nether Hell,\\nHad found in Nature s self a tongue,\\nOn which the gather d horror hung;\\nAs if from cliff, and stream, and glen.\\nBurst, on the startled ears of men,\\nThat voice which rises unto God,\\nSolemn and stern the cry of blood!\\nIt ceased and all was still once more,\\nSave ocean chafing on his shore,\\nThe sighing of the wind between\\nThe broad banana s leaves of green.\\nOr bough by restless plumage shook,\\nOr murmuring voice of mountain brook.\\nBrief was the silence. Once again\\nPeal d to the skies that frantic yell\\nGlow d on the heavens a fiery stain.\\nAnd flashes rose and fell", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0024.jp2"}, "25": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 17\\nAnd, painted on the blood-red sky,\\nDark, naked arms were toss d on high\\nAnd, round the white man s lordly halls,\\nTrode, fierce and free, the brute he made;\\nAnd those who crept along the wall,\\nAnd answer d to his lightest call\\nWith more than spaniel dread\\nThe creatures of his lawless beck\\nWere trampling on his very neck\\nAnd, on the night-air, wild and clear,\\nRose woman s shriek of more than fear;\\nFor bloodied arms were round her thrown,\\nAnd dark cheeks press d against her own!\\nThen, injured Af ric for the shame\\nOf thy own daughters, vengeance came\\nFull on the scornful hearts of those,\\nWho mock d thee in thy nameless woes,\\nAnd to thy hapless children gave\\nOne choice pollution, or the grave\\nDark-brow d Toussaint! The storm had\\nrisen\\nObedient to his master-call\\nThe Negro s mind had burst its prison\\nHis hand its iron thrall\\nYet where was he, whose fiery zeal\\nFirst taught the trampled heart to feel,\\nUntil Despair itself grew strong,", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0025.jp2"}, "26": {"fulltext": "18 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nAnd Vengeance fed its torch from wrong?\\nNow when the thunder-bolt is speeding\\nNow when oppression s heart is bleeding;\\nNow when the latent curse of time\\nIs raining down, in fire and blood\\nThat curse which, through long years of\\ncrime\\nHas gather d, drop by drop, its flood\\nWhy strikes he not, the foremost one,\\nWhere Murder s sternest deeds are done?\\nHe stood the aged palms beneath,\\nThat shadow d o er his humble door,\\nListening, with half-suspended breath,\\nTo the wild sounds of fear and death\\nToussaint I Ouverture\\nWhat marvel that his heart beat high\\nThe blow for freedom had been given;\\nAnd blood had answer d to the cry\\nWhich earth sent up to Heaven\\nWhat marvel, that a fierce delight\\nSmiled grimly o er his brow of night,\\nAs groan, and shout, and bursting flame,\\nTold where the midnight tempest came,\\nWith blood and fire along its van.\\nAnd death behind! he was a MAN!\\nYes, dark-soul d chieftain! if the light\\nOf mild Religion s heavenly ray", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0026.jp2"}, "27": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 19\\nUnveiled not to thy mental sight\\nThe lowlier and the purer way,\\nIn which the Holy Sufferer trod,\\nMeekly amidst the sons of crime,\\nThat calm reliance upon God\\nFor Justice, in His own good time,\\nThat gentleness, to which belongs\\nForgiveness for its many wrongs\\nEven as the primal martyr, kneeling\\nFor mercy on the evil-dealing,\\nLet not the favor d white man name\\nThy stern appeal, with words of blame.\\nHas he not, with the light of Heaven\\nBroadly around him, made the same?\\nYea, on a thousand war-fields striven,\\nAnd gloried in his open shame?\\nKneeling amidst his brothers blood.\\nTo offer mocker}?* unto God,\\nAs if the High and Holy One\\nCould smile on deeds of murder done!\\nAs if a human sacrifice\\nWere purer in His holy eyes,\\nThough offer d up by Christian hands,\\nThan the foul rites of Pagan lands\\nSternl}^, amidst his household band,\\nHis carbine grasp d within his hand,\\nThe white man stood, prepared and stilly", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0027.jp2"}, "28": {"fulltext": "20 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nWaiting the shock of madden d men,\\nUnchain d, and fierce as tigers, when\\nThe horn winds through their cavern d\\nhill.\\nAnd one was weeping in his sight,\\nThe fairest flower of all the isle,\\nThe bride who seem d but yesternight\\nThe image of a smile.\\nAnd, clinging to her trembling knee,\\nLook d up the form of infancy,\\nWith tearful glance in either face,\\nThe secret of its fear to trace.\\nHa stand, or die! The white man s eye\\nHis steady musket gleam d along,\\n.i^s a tall Negro hasten d nigh.\\nWith fearless step and strong.\\nWhat, ho, Toussaint! A moment more,\\nHis shadow cross d the lighted floor.\\nAway, he shouted; fl)^ with me,\\nThe white man s bark is on the sea;\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nHer sails must catch the seaward wind,\\nW QT sudden vengeance sweeps behind.\\n\u00e2\u0080\u00a2Our brethren from their graves have spoken,\\nThe yoke is spurn d the chain is broken\\n\u00e2\u0082\u00ac)n all the hills our fires are glowing\\nThrough all the vales red blood is flowing I\\nNo more the mocking White shall rest", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0028.jp2"}, "29": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 21\\nHis foot upon the Negro s breast;\\nNo more, at morn or eve, shall drip\\nThe warm blood from the driver s whip:\\nYet, though Toussaint has vengeance sworn\\nFor all the wrongs his race have borne,\\nThough for each drop of Negro blood,\\nThe white man s veins shall pour a flood;\\nNot all alone the sense of ill\\nAround his heart is lingering still,\\nNor deeper can the white man feel\\nThe generous warmth of grateful zeal.\\nFriends of the Negro fly with me\\nThe path is open to the sea:\\nAway for life! He spoke, and press d\\nThe young child to his manly breast,\\nAs, headlong, through the cracking cane\\nDown swept the dark insurgent train\\nDrunken and grim with shout and yell\\nHowl d through the dark, like sounds from\\nhell!\\nFar out, in peace, the white man s sail\\nSway d free before the sunrise gale.\\nCloud-like that island hung afar.\\nAlong the bright horizon s verge,\\nO er which the curse of servile war\\nRoll d its red torrent, surge on surge.\\nAnd he the Negro champion where,\\nIn the fierce tumult, struggled he?", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0029.jp2"}, "30": {"fulltext": "22 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nGo trace him by the fiery glare\\nOf dwellings in the midnight air\\nThe yells of triumph and despair\\nThe streams that crimson to the sea!\\nSleep calmly in thy dungeon- tomb,\\nBeneath Besan^on s alien sky,\\nDark Haytien! for the time shall come,-\\nYea, even now is nigh\\nWhen, everywhere, thy name shall be\\nRedeem d from color s infamy;\\nAnd men shall learn to speak of thee,\\nAs one of earth s great spirits, born\\nIn servitude, and nursed in scorn,\\nCasting aside the weary weight\\nAnd fetters of its low estate.\\nIn that strong majesty of soul,\\nWhich knows no color, tongue, or clime-\\nWhich still hath spurn d the base control\\nOr tyrants through all time\\nFar other hands than mine may wreath\\nThe laurel round thy brow of death.\\nAnd speak thy praise, as one whose word\\nA thousand fiery spirits stirr d,\\nWho crush d his foeman as a worm", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0030.jp2"}, "31": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nWhose step on human hearts fell firm\\nBe mine the better task to find\\nA tribute for thy lofty mind,\\nAmidst whose gloomy vengeance shone\\nSome milder virtues all thine own,\\nSome gleams of feeling pure and warm,\\nLike sunshine on a sky of storm,\\nProofs that the Negro s heart retains\\nSome nobleness amidst its chains,\\nThat kindness to the wrong d is never\\nWithout its excellent reward,\\nHoly to human-kind, and ever\\nAcceptable to God.\\n*The reader may, perhaps, call to mind the beautiful sonnet of\\nWilliam Wordsworth, addressed to Toussaint TOuverture, dur*\\ning his confinement in France.\\nToussaint! thou most unhappy man of men!\\nWhether the whistling rustic tends his plow\\nWithin thy hearing, or thou liest now\\nBuried in some deep dungeon s earless den;\\nOh, miserable chieftain!\u00e2\u0080\u0094 where and when\\nWilt thou find patience?\u00e2\u0080\u0094 Yet, die not; do thou\\nWear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow;\\nThough fallen thyself, never to rise again,\\nLive and take comfort. Thou hast left behind\\nPowers that will work for thee; air, earth, and skies\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nThere s not a breathing of the common wind\\nThat will forget thee: thou has great allies.\\nThy friends are exultations, agonies,\\nAnd love, and man s unconquerable mind.", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0031.jp2"}, "32": {"fulltext": "24 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nTHE YANKEE GIRL.\\nShe sings by her wheel, at that low cottage-\\ndoor,\\nWhich the long evening shadow is stretching\\nbefore,\\nWith a music as sweet as the music which\\nseems\\nBreathed softly and faint in the ear of our\\ndreams\\nHow brilliant and mirthful the light of her eye,\\nLike a star glancing out from the blue of the\\nsky\\nAnd lightly and freely her dark tresses play\\nO er a brow and a bosom as lovely as they!\\nWho comes in his pride to that low cottage-\\ndoor\\nThe haughty and rich to the humble and poor?\\n*Tis the great Southern planter\u00e2\u0080\u0094 the master\\nwho waves\\nHis whip of dominion o er hundreds of slaves.", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0032.jp2"}, "33": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 25\\n**Nay, Ellen for shame! Let those Yankee\\nfools spin,\\nWho would pass for our slaves with a change\\nof their skin\\nLet them toil as they will at the loom or the\\nwheel,\\nToo stupid for shame, and too vulgar to feel\\nBut thou art too lovely and precious a gem\\nTo be bound to their burdens and sullied by\\nthem\\nFor shame, Ellen, shame! cast thy bondage\\naside,\\nAnd away to the South, as my blessing and\\npride.\\n0h, come where no winter thy footsteps can\\nwrong.\\nBut where flowers are blossoming all the year\\nlong.\\nWhere the shade of the palm tree is over my\\nhome.\\nAnd the lemon and orange are white in their\\nbloom\\n**Oh, come to my home, where my servants\\nshall all\\nDepart at thy bidding and come at thy call", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0033.jp2"}, "34": {"fulltext": "26 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nThey shall heed thee as mistress with tremb-\\nling and awe,\\nAnd each wish of thy heart shall be felt as a\\nlaw.\\nOh, could ye have seen her that pride of our\\ngirls-\\nArise and cast back the dark wealth of her curls.\\nWith a scorn in her eye which the gazer could\\nfeel.\\nAnd a glance like the sunshine that flashes on\\nsteel\\nGo back, haughty Southron! thy treasures\\nof gold\\nAre dim with the blood of the hearts thou hast\\nsold;\\nThy home may be lovely, but round it I hear\\nThe crack of the whip and the footsteps of fear!\\nAnd the sky of thy South may be brighter\\nthan ours,\\nAnd greener thy landscapes, and fairer thy\\nflowers\\nBut, dearer the blast round our mountains\\nwhich raves,\\nThan the sweet summer zephyr which breathes\\nover slaves!", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0034.jp2"}, "35": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 27\\nFull low at thy bidding thy negroes may kneel.\\nWith the iron of bondage on spirit and heel,\\nYet know that the Yankee girl sooner would\\nbe\\nIn fetters with them, than in freedom with\\nthee!", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0035.jp2"}, "36": {"fulltext": "28 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nTO WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON.\\nChampion of those who groan beneath\\nOppression s iron hand:\\nIn view of penury, hate and death,\\nI see thee fearless stand.\\nStill bearing up thy lofty brow,\\nIn the steadfast strength of truth,\\nIn manhood sealing well the vow\\nAnd promise of thy youth.\\nGo on! for thou hast chosen well;\\nOn, in the strength of God!\\nLong as one human heart shall swell\\nBeneath the tyrant s rod.\\nSpeak in the slumbering nation s ear.\\nAs thou hast ever spoken.\\nUntil the dead in sin shall hear\\nThe fetter s link be broken!\\nI love thee with a brother s love,\\nI feel my pulses thrill,\\nTo mark thy spirit soar above\\nThe cloud of human ill.", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0036.jp2"}, "37": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 29\\nMy heart hath leap d to answer thine,\\nAnd echo back thy words,\\nAs leaps the warrior s at the shine\\nAnd flash of kindred swords\\nThey tell me thou art rash and vain\\nA searcher after fame\\nThat thou art striving but to gain\\nA long enduring name\\nThat thou hast nerved the Afric s hand.\\nAnd steel d the Afric s heart,\\nTo shake aloft his vengeful brand,\\nAnd rend his chain apart.\\nHave I not known thee well, and read\\nThy mighty purpose long\\nAnd watch d the trials which have made\\nThy human spirit strong?\\nAnd shall the slanderer s demon breath\\nAvail with one like me,\\nTo dim the sunshine of my faith\\nAnd earnest trust in thee?\\nGo on the dagger s point may glare\\nAmid thy pathway s gloom\\nThe fate which sternly threatens there\\nIs glorious martyrdom\\nThen onward with a martyr s zeal\\nPress on to thy reward\\nThe hour when man shall only kneel\\nBefore his Father God.", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0037.jp2"}, "38": {"fulltext": "30 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nTO THE MEMORY OF CHARLES B.\\nSTORRS.\\nLATE PRESIDENT OF WESTERN RESERVE COLLEGE.\\nHe fell a martyr to the interests of his colored\\nbrethren. For many months did that mighty man of\\nGod apply his discriminating and gigantic mind to the\\nsubject of slavery and its remedy and, when his soul\\ncould no longer contain his holy indignation against the\\nupholders and apologists of this unrighteous system, he\\ngave vent to his aching heart, and poured forth his clear\\nthoughts and holy feelings in such deed and soul-\\nentrancing eloquence, that other men, whom he would\\nfain in his humble modesty acknowledge his superiors,\\nsat at his feet and looked up as children to a parent.\\nCorrespondent of the Liberator, i6th of nth mo. 1833.\\nThou hast fallen in thine armor,\\nThou martyr of the Lord\\nWith thy last breath crying Onward!\\nAnd thy hand upon the sword.\\nThe haughty heart deride th,\\nAnd the sinful lip reviles,\\nBut the blessing of the perishing\\nAround thy pillow smiles", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0038.jp2"}, "39": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 31\\nWhen to our cup of trembling\\nThe added drop is given,\\nAnd the long suspended thunder\\nFalls terribly from Heaven,\\nWhen a new and fearful freedom\\nIs proffer d of the Lord\\nTo the slow consuming Famine\\nThe Pestilence and Sword!\\nWhen the refugees of Falsehood\\nShall be swept away in wrath,\\nAnd the temple shall be shaken,\\nWith its idol, to the earth,\\nShall not thy words of warning\\nBe all remember d then?\\nAnd thy now unheeded message\\nBurn in the hearts of men?\\nOppression s hand may scatter\\nIts nettles on thy tomb.\\nAnd even Christian bosoms\\nDeny thy memory room\\nFor lying lips shall torture\\nThy mercy into crime,\\nAnd the slanderer shall flourish\\nAs the bay- tree for a time.\\nBut, where the South-wind lingers\\nOn Carolina s pines,", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0039.jp2"}, "40": {"fulltext": "32 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nOr, falls the careless sunbeam\\nDown Georgia s golden mines,\\nWhere now beneath his burthen\\nThe toiling slave is driven,\\nWhere now a tyrant s mockery-\\nIs offer d unto Heaven,\\nWhere Mammon hath its altars\\nWet o er with human blood,\\nAnd Pride and Lust debases\\nThe workmanship of God\\nThere shall thy praise be spoken,\\nRedeem d from Falsehood s ban,\\nWhen the fetters shall be broken.\\nAnd the slave shall be a man\\nJoy to thy spirit, brother!\\nA thousand hearts are warm\\nA thousand kindred bosoms\\nAre baring to the storm.\\nWhat though red-handed Violence\\nWith secret Fraud combine,\\nThe wall of fire is round us\\nOur Present Help was thine!\\nLo the waking up of nations,\\nFrom Slavery s fatal sleep\\nThe murmur of a Universe\\nDeep calling unto Deep", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0040.jp2"}, "41": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 33\\nJoy to thy spirit, brother\\nOn every wind of Heaven\\nThe onward cheer and summons\\nOf Freedom s soul is given!\\nGlory to God forever\\nBeyond the despot s will\\nThe soul of Freedom liveth\\nImperishable still.\\nThe words which thou hast uttered\\nAre of that soul a part,\\nAnd the good seed thou hast scatter d\\nIs springing from the heart.\\nIn the evil days before us,\\nAnd the trials yet to come\\nIn the shadow of the prison,\\nOr the cruel martyrdom\\nWe will think of thee, O brother!\\nAnd thy sainted name shall be\\nIn the blessing of the captive\\nAnd the anthem of the free.", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0041.jp2"}, "42": {"fulltext": "34 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nSONG OF THE FREE.\\nLiving, I shall assert the right of Free Discussion:\\ndying, I shall assert it; and, should I leave no other in-\\nheritance to my children, by the blessing of God I will\\nleave them the inheritance of free principles, and the\\nexample of a manly and independent defence of them.\\n\u00e2\u0080\u0094Daniel Webster.\\nPride of New England!\\nSoul of our fathers!\\nShrink we all craven-like,\\nWhen the storm gathers?\\nWhat though the tempest be\\nOver us lowering,\\nWhere s the New Englander\\nShamefully cowering?\\nGraves green and holy\\nAround us are lying,\\nFree were the sleepers all,\\nLiving and dying!\\nBack with the Southerner s\\nPadlocks and scourges!\\nGo let him fetter down\\nOcean s free surges!\\nGo let him silence\\nWinds, clouds, and waters", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0042.jp2"}, "43": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. ^85\\nNever New England s own\\nFree sons and daughters!\\nFree as our rivers are\\nOcean-ward going\\nFree as the breezes are\\nOver us blowing.\\nUp to our altars, then,\\nHaste we, and summon\\nCourage and loveliness,\\nManhood and woman\\nDeep let our pledges be!\\nFreedom forever!\\nTruce with Oppression,\\nNever, oh! never!\\nBy our own birthright-gift\\nGranted of Heaven\\nFreedom for heart and lip,\\nBe the pledge given\\nIf we have whispered truth,\\nWhisper no longer\\nSpeak as the tempest does,\\nSterner and stronger\\nStill be the tones of truth\\nLouder and firmer,\\nStartling the haughty South\\nWith the deep murmur", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0043.jp2"}, "44": {"fulltext": "36 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nGod and our Charter s right\\nFreedom forever!\\nTruce with Oppression,\\nNever, oh! never!", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0044.jp2"}, "45": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 37\\nTHE HUNTERS OF MEN.*\\nHave ye heard of our hunting, o er mountain\\nand glen,\\nThrough canebrake and forest the hunting of\\nmen?\\nThe lords of our land to this hunting have\\ngone,\\nAs the fox-hunter follows the sound of the\\nhorn:\\nHark! the cheer and the hallo! the crack of\\nthe whip.\\nAnd the yell of the hound as he fastens his\\ngrip!\\nAll blithe are our hunters, and noble their\\nmatch\\nThough hundreds are caught, there are mil-\\nlions to catch\\nSo speed to their hunting, o er mountain and\\nglen,\\nThrough canebrake and forest the hunting\\nof men\\n\u00e2\u0099\u00a6Written on reading the report of the proceedings of the\\nAmerican Colonization Society, at its annual meeting in 1834.", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0045.jp2"}, "46": {"fulltext": "38 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nGay luck to our hunters how nobly they ride\\nIn the glow of their zeal and the strength of\\ntheir pride\\nThe Priest with his cassock flung back on the\\nwind,\\nJust screening the politic Statesman behind\\nThe saint and the sinner, with cursing and\\nprayer\\nThe drunk and the sober, ride merrily there.\\nAnd woman kind woman wife, widow, and\\nmaid\\nFor the good of the hunted, is lending her aid:\\nHer foot s in the stirrup her hand on the\\nrein\\nHow blithely she rides to the hunting of men\\nOh goodly and grand is our hunting to see,\\nIn this land of the brave and this home of the\\nfree.\\nPriest, warrior, and statesman, from Georgia\\nto Maine,\\nAll mounting the saddle all grasping the\\nrein\\nRight merrily hunting the black man, whose sin\\nIs the curl of his hair and the hue of his skin\\nWoe, now, to the hunted who turns him at bay!\\nWill our hunters be turn d from their purpose\\nand prey?", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0046.jp2"}, "47": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 39\\nWill their hearts fail within them? their\\nnerves tremble, when\\nAll roughly they ride to the hunting of men?\\nHo alms for our hunters all weary and faint\\nWax the curse of the sinner and prayer of the\\nsaint.\\nThe horn is wound faintly the echoes are still\\nOver canebrake and river, and forest and hill.\\nHaste alms for our hunters! the hunted once\\nmore\\nHave turn d from their flight with their backs\\nto the shore\\nWhat right have they here in the home of the\\nwhite.\\nShadow d o er by our banner of Freedom and\\nRight?\\nHo? alms for the hunters! or never again\\nWill they ride in their pomp to the hunting of\\nmen!\\nAlms alms for our hunters why will ye de-\\nlay.\\nWhen their pride and their glory are melting\\naway?\\nThe parson has turn d; for, on charge of his\\nown.\\nWho goeth a warfare, or hunting, alone?", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0047.jp2"}, "48": {"fulltext": "40 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nThe politic statesman looks back with a sigh,\\nThere is doubt in his heart there is fear in his\\neye.\\nOh! haste, lest that doubting and fear shall\\nprevail,\\nAnd the head of his steed take the place of the\\ntail.\\nOh haste, ere he leave us for who v/ill ride\\nthen.\\nFor pleasure or gain, to the hunting of men?", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0048.jp2"}, "49": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 41\\nTO GOV. M DUFFIK\\nThe patriarchal institution of slavery, the corner-\\nstone of our republican edifice. Gov. M Duffie,\\nKing of Carolina hail\\nLast champion of Oppression s battle!\\nLord of rice-tierce and cotton-bale\\nOf sugar-box and human cattle!\\nAround thy temples, green and dark,\\nThy own tobacco- wreath reposes\\nThyself, a brother Patriarch\\nOf Isaac, Abraham and Moses!\\nWhy not? Their household rule is thine;\\nLike theirs, thy bondmen feel its rigor;\\nAnd thine, perchance, as concubine,\\nSome swarthy counterpart of Hagar.\\nWhy not? Like Patriarchs of old,\\nThe priesthood is thy chosen station\\nLike them thou payest thy rites to gold\\nAn Aaron s calf of Nullification.\\nAll fair and softly Must we, then,\\nFrom Ruin s open jaws to save us,\\nUpon our own free working men", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0049.jp2"}, "50": {"fulltext": "42 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nConfer a master s special favors?\\nWhips for the back chains for the heels\\nHooks for the nostrils of Democracy,\\nBefore it spurns as well as feels\\nThe riding of the Aristocracy\\nHo fishermen of Marblehead\\nHo Lynn cordwainers, leave your leather,\\nAnd wear the yoke in kindness made,\\nAnd clank your needful chains together!\\nLet Lowell mills their thousands yield,\\nDown let the rough Vermonter hasten,\\nDown from the workshop and the field,\\nAnd thank us for each chain we fasten.\\nSlaves in the rugged Yankee land!\\nI tell thee, Carolinian, never!\\nOur rocky hills and iron strand\\nArt free, and shall be free forever.\\nThe surf shall wear that strand away.\\nOur granite hills in dust shall moulder,\\nEre Slavery s hateful yoke shall lay.\\nUnbroken, on a Yankee s shoulder!\\nNo, George M Duffie! keep thy words\\nFor the mail plunderers of thy city.\\nWhose robber- right is in their swords;\\nFor recreant Priest and Lynch-Committee", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0050.jp2"}, "51": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 43\\nGo, point thee to thy cannon s mouth,\\nAnd swear its brazen lips are better,\\nTo guard the interests of the South,\\nThan parchment scroll, or Charter s letter.*\\nWe fear not. Streams which brawl most loud\\nAlong- their course, are oftenest shallow\\nAnd loudest to a doubting crowd\\nThe coward publishes his valor.\\nThy courage has at least been shown\\nIn many a bloodless Southern quarrel.\\nFacing, with hartshorn and cologne.\\nThe Georgian s harmless pistol- barrel. f\\nNo, Southron, not in Yankee land\\nWill threats, like thine, a fear awaken\\nThe men, who on their charter stand\\nFor truth and right, may not be shaken.\\nStill shall that truth assail thine ear;\\nEach breeze, from Northern mountains\\nblowing.\\nThe tones of Liberty shall bear\\nGod s free incendiaries sfoinof!\\nSee Speech of Gov. M D. to an artillery company in Charles-\\nton, S. C.\\nt Most of our readers will recollect the chivalrous affair be-\\ntween M Duffie and Col. Cummings, of Georgia, some years ago,\\nin which the parties fortified themselves with spirits of harts-\\nhorn and eau de Cologne.", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0051.jp2"}, "52": {"fulltext": "44 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nWe give thee joy! thy name is heard\\nWith reverence on the Neva s borders;\\nAnd turban d Turk, and Poland s load,\\nAnd Metternich are thy applauders.\\nGo if thou lov st such fame, and share\\nThe mad Ephesian s base example\\nThe holy bonds of Union tear,\\nAnd clap the torch to Freedom s temple!\\nDo this Heaven s frown thy country s curse.\\nGuilt s fiery torture ever burning-\\nThe quenchless thirst of Tantalus,\\nAnd Ixion s wheel forever turning\\nA name, of which the pain dest fiend\\nBelow his own would barter never,\\nThese shall be thine unto the end\\nThy damning heritage forever.", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0052.jp2"}, "53": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 4-5\\nLINES,\\nWritten on reading Right and Wrong in Boston;\\ncontaining an account of the meeting of the Boston\\nFemale Anti-Slavery Society, and the mob which fol-\\nlowed, on the 2ist of the loth month, 1835.\\nUnshrinking from the storm,\\nWell have ye borne yotir part,\\nWith woman s fragile form,\\nBut more than manhood s heart!\\nFaithful to Freedom, when\\nIts name was held accursed\\nFaithful, midst ruffian men.\\nUnto your holy trust.\\nOh\u00e2\u0080\u0094 steadfast in the Truth!\\nNot for yourselves alone,\\nMatron and gentle youth.\\nYour lofty zeal was shown\\nFor the bondman of all climes\\nFor Freedom s last abode\\nFor the hope of future times\\nFor the birthright gift of God", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0053.jp2"}, "54": {"fulltext": "46 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nFor scorn d and broken laws\\nFor honor and the right\\nFor the staked and peril d cause\\nOf liberty and light\\nFor the holy eyes above\\nOn a world of evil cast\\nFor the children of your love\\nFor the mothers of the past!\\nWorthy of them are ye\\nThe Pilgrim wives who dared\\nThe waste and unknown sea,\\nAnd the hunter s perils shared.\\nWorthy of her* whose mind,\\nTriumphant over all,\\nRuler nor priest could bind,\\nNor banishment appal.\\nWorthy of her f who died\\nMartyr of Freedom, where\\nYour Commons verdant pride.\\nOpens to sun and air:\\nUpheld at that dread hour\\nBy strength which could not fail\\nMrs, Hutchinson, who was banished from the Massachusetts\\nColony, as the easiest method of confuting her doctrines.\\nt Mary Dyer, the Quaker Martyr, who was hanged in Boston,\\nin 1659, for worshipping God according to the dictates of her\\nconscience.", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0054.jp2"}, "55": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 47\\nBefore whose holy power\\nBigot and priest turn d pale.\\nOod give ye strength to run,\\nUnawed by Earth or Hell,\\nThe race ye have begun\\nSo gloriously and well.\\nUntil the trumpet-call\\nOf Freedom has gone forth,\\nIVith joy and life to all\\nThe bondmen of the earth!\\nTJntil immortal mind\\nUnshackled walks abroad,\\nAnd chains no longer bind\\nThe image of our God.\\nUntil no captive one\\nMurmurs on land or wave\\nAnd, in his course, the sun\\nLooks down upon no slave", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0055.jp2"}, "56": {"fulltext": "48 WHITTIER S FOEMS.\\nTO G. B., Esq.\\nVUTHOR OF THE WORCESTER DEMOCRATIC\\nADDRESS.\\nFriend of the poor go on\\nSpeak for the Truth and Right!\\nOnward though hate and scorn\\nGloom round thee as the night.\\nSpeak at each word of thine,\\nSome ancient Fraud is riven,\\nAnd through its rents of ruin shine\\nThe sunbeams and the heaven!\\nSpeak for thy voice will be\\nWelcome in each abode\\nWhere manhood s heart and knee\\nAre bended but to God\\nWhere honest bosoms hold\\nTheir holy birthright well\\nWhere Freedom spurns at Mammon s gold;\\nWhere Man is not to sell\\nSpeak for the poor man s cause\\nFor Labor s just reward", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0056.jp2"}, "57": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 49\\nFor violated law\\nOf nature and of God\\nSpeak\u00e2\u0080\u0094 let the Debtor hear\\nWithin his living grave\\nSpeak thunder in Oppression s ear,\\nDeliverance to the slave\\nAy, speak while there is time,\\nFor all a freeman s claim,\\nEre thought becomes a crime,\\nAnd Freedom but a name\\nWhile yet the Tongue and Pen\\nAnd Press are unforbid,\\nAnd we dare to feel and act as men\\nSpeak as our fathers did\\nThe land we love ere long\\nShall kindle at thy call\\nFalsehood and charter d Wrong,\\nAnd legal Robbery, fall\\nThe proud shall not combine\\nThe secret council cease\\nAnd underneath his sheltering vine\\nShall Labor dwell in peace\\nOld Massachusetts yet\\nRetains her earliest fires,\\nStill on her hills are set\\nThe altars of her sires", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0057.jp2"}, "58": {"fulltext": "50 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nHer fierce Democracie\\nHas yet its strength unshorn,\\nAnd pamper d Power ere long shall see\\nIts Gaza-gates uptorn.\\nPerish shall all which takes\\nFrom Labor s board and can!\\nPerish shall all which makes\\nA Spaniel of the Man\\nWith freshen d courage, then,\\nOn to the glorious end\\nEver the same as thou hast been\\nThe poor man s fastest friend!", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0058.jp2"}, "59": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 61\\nTO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS\\nSHIPLEY,\\nPresident of the Pennsylvania Abolition Society, who\\ndied on the 17th of the 9th month, 1836, a devoted\\nChristian and Philanthropist.\\nGone to thy Heavenly Father s rest!\\nThe flowers of Eden round thee blowing!\\nAnd on thine ear the murmurs blest\\nOf Shiloah s waters softly flowing!\\nBeneath that Tree of Life which gives\\nTo all the earth its healing leaves\\nIn the white robe of angels clad\\nAnd wandering by that sacred river,\\nWhose streams of holiness make glad\\nThe city of our God forever\\nGentlest of spirits not for thee\\nOur tears are shed our sighs are given:\\nWhy mourn to know thou art a free\\nPartaker of the joys of Heaven?\\nFinish d thy work, and kept thy faith\\nIn Christian firmness unto death\\nAnd beautiful as sky and earth,", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0059.jp2"}, "60": {"fulltext": "52 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nWhen Autnmn s is sun downward going,\\nThe blessed memory of thy worth\\nAround thy place of slumber glowing\\nBut woe for us who lingers still\\nWith feebler strength and hearts less lowly\\nAnd minds less steadfast to the will\\nOf Him whose every work is holy.\\nFor not like thine, is crucified\\nThe spirit of our human pride\\nAnd at the bondman s tale of woe,\\nAnd for the outcast and forsaken,\\nNot warm like thine, but cold and slow.\\nOur weaker sympathies awaken.\\nDarkly upon our struggling way\\nThe storm of human hate is sweeping\\nHunted and branded, and a prey,\\nOur watch amidst the darkness keeping!\\nOh for that hidden strength which can\\nNerve unto death the inner man\\nOh for thy spirit, tried and true,\\nAnd constant in the hour of trial.\\nPrepared to suffer, or to do.\\nIn meekness and in self-denial.\\nOh for that spirit, meek and mild,\\nDerided, spurn d, yet uncomplaining\\nBy man deserted and reviled,\\nYet faithful to its trust remaining.", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0060.jp2"}, "61": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 53\\nStill prompt and resolute to save\\nFrom scourge and chain the hunted slave\\nUnwavering in the Truth s defence,\\nEven where the fires of Hate are burning,\\nTh* unquailing eye of innocence\\nAlone upon th oppressor turning!\\nO loved of thousands, to thy grave,\\nSorrowing of heart, thy brethren bore thee\\nThe poor man and the rescued slave\\nWept as the broken earth closed o er thee\\nAnd grateful tears, like summer rain,\\nQuicken d its dying grass again!\\nAnd there, as to some pilgrim-shrine,\\nShall come the outcast and the lowly,\\nOf gentle deeds and words of thine\\nRecalling memories sweet and holy!\\nOh for the death the righteous die\\nAn end, like Autumn s day declining.\\nOn human hearts, as on the sk}^\\nWith holier, tenderer beauty shining\\nAs to the parting soul were given\\nThe radiance of an opening Heaven!\\nAs if that pure and blessed light,\\nFrom off th Eternal altar flowing,\\nWere bathing, in its upward flight,\\nThe spirit to its worship going!", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0061.jp2"}, "62": {"fulltext": "54 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nTHE SLAVE SHIPS.\\nThat fatal, that perfidious bark,\\nBuiit i* the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark.\\nMilton s Lycidas.\\nThe French ship Le Rodeur, with a crew of twenty-\\ntwo men and with one hundred and sixty negro slaves\\nsailed from Bonny in Africa, April, 1819. On approach-\\ning the line, a terrible malady broke out an obstinate\\ndisease of the eyes contagious, and altogether beyond\\nthe resources of medicine. It was aggravated by the\\nscarcity of water among the slaves (only half a wine-\\nglass per day being allowed to an individual), and by\\nthe extreme impurity of the air in which they breathed.\\nBy the advice of the physician, they were brought upon\\ndeck occasionally but some of the poor wretches, lock-\\ning themselves in each other s arms leaped overboard,\\nin the hope, which so universally prevails among them,\\nof being swiftly transported to their own homes in Africa.\\nTo check this, the captain ordered several, who were\\nstopped in the attempt, to be shot, or hanged, before\\ntheir companions. The disease extended to the crew;\\nand one after another were smitten with it, until only\\none remained unaffected. Yet even this dreadful con-\\ndition did not preclude calculation to save the expense\\nof supporting slaves rendered unsalable, and to obtain\\ngrounds for a claim against the underwriters, thirty-six\\nof the negroes, having become blind were thrown into\\nthe sea and drowned", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0062.jp2"}, "63": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 55\\nIn the midst of their dreadful fears lest the solitary-\\nindividual, whose sight remained unaffected, should\\nalso be seized with the malady, a sail was discovered.\\nIt was the Spanish slaver Leon. The same disease had\\nbeen there and horrible to tell, all the crew had become\\nblind. Unable to assist each other, the vessels parted.\\nThe Spanish ship has never since been heard of. The\\nRodeur reached Guadaloupe on the 21st of June; the\\nonly man who had escaped the disease, and had thus\\nbeen enabled to steer the slaver into port, caught it m\\nthree days after its arrival.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 Speech of M. Benjamin\\nConstant, in the French Chamber of Deputies, June 17,\\n1820.\\nAll ready? cried the captain;\\nAy, ay! the seamen said;\\nHeave up the worthless lubbers\\nThe dying and the dead.\\nUp from the slave-ship s prison\\nFierce, bearded heads were thrust\\nNow let the sharks look to it\\nToss up the dead ones first!\\nCorpse after corpse came up,\\nDeath had been busy there\\nWhere every blow is mercy.\\nWhy should the Spoiler spare?\\nCorpse after corpse they cast\\nSullenly from the ship,\\nYet bloody with the traces\\nOf fetter-link and whip.", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0063.jp2"}, "64": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nGloomily stood the captain,\\nWith his arms -Qpon his breast,\\nWith his cold brow sternly knotted,\\nAnd his iron lip compress d.\\nAre all the dead dog-s over?\\nGrowl d through that matted lip\\nThe blind ones are no better,\\nLet s lighten the good ship.\\nHark! from the ship s dark bosom,\\nThe very sounds of Hell\\nThe ringing clank of iron\\nThe maniac s short, sharp yell!\\nThe hoarse, low curse, throat-stifled\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nThe starving infant s moan\\nThe horror of a breaking heart\\nPour d through a mother s groan!\\nUp from that loathsome prison\\nThe stricken blind ones came:\\nBelow, had all been darkness\\nAbove, was still the same.\\nYet the holy breath of Heaven\\nWas sweetly breathing there,\\nAnd the heated brow of fever\\nCool d in the soft sea air.\\nOverboard with them, shipmates!\\nCutlass and dirk were plied;", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0064.jp2"}, "65": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 57\\nFetter d and blind, one after one,\\nPlunged down the vessel s side.\\nThe sabre smote above\\nBeneath, the lean shark lay,\\nWaiting with wide and bloody jaw\\nHis quick and human prey.\\nGod of the Earth! what cries\\nRang upward unto Thee?\\nVoices of agony and blood,\\nFrom ship-deck and from sea.\\nThe last dull plung was heard\\nThe last wave caught its stain\\nAnd the unsated shark look d up\\nFor human hearts in vain.\\nRed glow d the Western waters\\nThe setting sun was there,\\nScattering alike on wave and cloud\\nHis fiery mesh of hair.\\nAmidst a group in blindness,\\nA solitary eye\\nGazed, from the burden d slaver s deck,\\nInto that burning sky.\\nA storm, spoke out the gazer,\\nIs gathering and at hand\\nCurse on t I d give my other eye\\nFor one firm rood of land.", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0065.jp2"}, "66": {"fulltext": "58 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nAnd then he laugh d but only\\nHis echo d laugh replied\\nFor the blinded and the suffering\\nAlone were at his side.\\nNight settled on the water\\nAnd on a stormy heaven,\\nWhile fiercely on that lone ship s track\\nThe thunder-gust was driven.\\nA sail! thank God, a sail!\\nAnd, as the helmsman spoke,\\nUp through the stormy murmur,\\nA shout of gladness broke.\\nDown came the stranger vessci\\nUnheeding on her way,\\nSo near, that on the slaver s deck\\nFell off her driven spray.\\nHo! for the love of mercy\\nWe re perishing and blind!\\nA wail of utter agony\\nCame back upon the wind:\\nHelp us! for we are stricken\\nWith blindness every one;\\nTen days we ve floated fearfully,\\nUnnoting star or sun.\\nOur ship s the slaver Leon\\nWe ve but a score on board", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0066.jp2"}, "67": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 69\\nOur slaves are all gone over\\nHelp\u00e2\u0080\u0094 for the love of God!\\nOn livid brows of agony\\nThe broad red lightning shone\\nBut the roar of wind and thunder\\nStifled the answering groan.\\nWail d from the broken waters\\nA last despairing cry,\\nAs, kindling in the stormy light,\\nThe stranger ship went by.\\nIn the sunny Guadaloupe\\nA dark hull d vessel lay\\nWith a crew who noted never\\nThe night-fall or the day.\\nThe blossom of the orange\\nWas white by every stream,\\nAnd tropic leaf, and flower, and bird\\nWere in the warm sunbeam.\\nAnd the sky was bright as ever,\\nAnd the moonlight slept as well,\\nOn the palm-trees by the hillside,\\nAnd the streamlet of the dell\\nAnd the glances of the Creole\\nWere still as archly deep.\\nAnd her smiles as full as ever\\nOf passion and of sleep.", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0067.jp2"}, "68": {"fulltext": "60 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nBut vain were bird and blossom,\\nThe green earth and the sky,\\nAnd the smile of human faces,\\nTo the ever darken d eye;\\nFor, amidst a vv^orld of beauty,\\nThe slaver went abroad,\\nWith his ghastly visage written\\nBy the awful curse of God!", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0068.jp2"}, "69": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 61\\nSTANZAS FOR THE TIMES.*\\nIs this the land our fathers loved,\\nThe freedom which they toil d to win?\\nIs this the soil whereon they moved?\\nAre these the graves they slumber in?\\nAre we the sons by whom are borne\\nThe mantles which the dead have worn?\\nAnd shall we crouch above these graves.\\nWith craven soul and fetter d lip?\\nYoke in with mark d and branded slaves,\\nAnd tremble at the driver s whip?\\nBend to the earth our pliant knees,\\nAnd speak but as our masters please?\\n*The Times alluded to, were those evil times of the pro-slav-\\nery meeting in Faneuil Hall for the suppression of Freedom of\\nSpeech, lest it should endanger the foundations of commercial\\nsociety. In view of the outrages which a careful observation of\\nthe times had enabled him to foresee must spring from the false\\nwitness borne against the abolitionists by the speakers at that\\nmeeting, well might Garrison say of them, Sir, I consider the\\nman who fires a city, guiltless in comparison.", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0069.jp2"}, "70": {"fulltext": "62 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nShall outraged Nature cease to feel?\\nShall Mercy s tears no longer flow?\\nShall ruffian threats of cord and steel\\nThe dungeon s gloom th assassin s blow,\\nTurn back the spirit roused to save\\nThe Truth our Country and the Slave?\\nOf human skulls that shrine was made,\\nRound which the priests of Mexico\\nBefore their loathsome idol pray d\\nIs Freedom s altar fashion d so?\\nAnd must we yield to Freedom s God,\\nAs offering meet, the negro s blood?\\nShall tongues be mute, when deeds are wrought\\nWhich well might shame extremest Hell?\\nShall freemen lock th indignant thought?\\nShall Mercy s bosom cease to swell?\\nShall Honor bleed?\u00e2\u0080\u0094 Shall Truth succumb?\\nShall pen, and press, and soul be dumb?\\nNo by each spot of haunted ground.\\nWhere Freedom weeps her children s fall\\nBy Plymouth s rock and Bunker s mound\\nBy Griswold s stain d and shatter d wall\\nBy Warren s ghost ^by Langdon s shade\\nBy all the memories of our dead!", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0070.jp2"}, "71": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 63\\nBy their enlarging souls, which burst\\nThe bands and fetters round them set\\nBy the free Pilgrim spirit nursed\\nWithin our inmost bosoms, yet,\\nBy all above around below\\nBe ours th indignant answer NO!\\nNo^guided by our country s laws,\\nFor truth, and right, and suffering man,\\nBe ours to strive in Freedom s cause,\\nAs Christians may as freemen can\\nStill pouring on unwilling ears\\nThat truth oppression only fears.\\nWhat shall we guard our neighbor still,\\nWhile woman shrieks beneath his rod,\\nAnd while he tramples down at will\\nThe image of a common God?\\nShall watch and ward be round him set.\\nOf Northern nerve and bayonet?\\nAnd shall we know and share with him\\nThe danger and the open shame?\\nAnd see our Freedom s light grow dim.\\nWhich should have fill d the world with\\nflame?\\nAnd, writhing, feel where er we turn,\\nA world s reproach around us burn?", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0071.jp2"}, "72": {"fulltext": "64 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nIs t not enough that this is borne?\\nAnd asks our haughty neighbor more?\\nMust fetters which his slaves have worn\\nClank round the Yankee farmer s door?\\nMust he be told, beside his plough,\\nWhat he must speak, and when, and how?\\nMust he be told his freedom stands\\nOn Slavery s dark foundations strong,\\nOn breaking hearts and fettered hands,\\nOn robbery, and crime, and wrong?\\nThat all his fathers taught is vain,\\nThat Freedom s emblem is the chain?\\nIts life, its soul, from slavery drawn?\\nFalse, foul, profane! Go, teach a well\\nOf holy Truth from Falsehood born!\\nOf Heaven refreshed by airs from Hell!\\nOf Virtue in the arms of Vice\\nOf Demons planting Paradise\\nRail on, then, brethren of the South,\\nYe shall not hear the truth the less;\\nNo seal is on the Yankee s mouth,\\nNo fetter on the Yankee s press!\\nFrom our Green Mountains to the sea,\\nOne voice shall thunder, We are free!", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0072.jp2"}, "73": {"fulltext": "Forgers of fetters and wielders of whips. Page 66.\\nWhittier s Poems.", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0073.jp2"}, "74": {"fulltext": "", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0074.jp2"}, "75": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. G5\\nLINES\\nWritten on reading the message of Governor Ritner, of\\nPennsylvania, 1836.\\nThank God for the token! one lip is still\\nfree,\\nOne spirit untrammeled, unbending one\\nkneel\\nLike the oak of the mountain, deep rooted and\\nfirm,\\nErect, when the multitude bends to the storm\\nWhen traitors to Freedom, and Honor, and\\nGod,\\nAre bowed at an idol polluted with blood\\nWhen the recreant North has forgotten her\\ntrust.\\nAnd the lips of her honor is low in the dust,", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0075.jp2"}, "76": {"fulltext": "66 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nThank God, that one arm from the shackle has\\nbroken\\nThank God, that one man, as a freeman, has\\nspoken\\nO er thy crags, Alleghany, a blast has been\\nblown\\nDown thy tide, Susquehanna, the murmur has\\ngone!\\nTo the land of the South of the Charter and\\nChain\\nOf Liberty sweeten d with Slavery s pain;\\nWhere the cant of Democracy dwells on the\\nlips\\nOf the forgers of fetters, and wielders of whips\\nWhere chivalric honor means really no more\\nThan scourging of women, and robbing the\\npoor!\\nWhere the Moloch of Slavery sitteth on high.\\nAnd the words which he utters are Worship,\\nor die!\\nRight onward, oh, speed it! Wherever the\\nblood\\nOf the wrong d and the guiltless is crying to\\nGod;\\nWherever a slave in his fetters is pining;\\nWherever the lash of the driver is twining", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0076.jp2"}, "77": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 67\\nWherever from kindred, torn rudely apart,\\nComes the sorrowful wail of the broken of\\nheart\\nWherever the shackles of tyranny bind,\\nIn silence and darkness, the God-given mind\\nThere, God speed it onward its truth will be\\nfelt\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nThe bonds shall be loosen d the iron shall\\nmelt!\\nAnd oh, will the land where the free soul of\\nPenn\\nStill lingers and breathes over mountain and\\nglen-\\nWill the land where a Benezet s spirit went\\nforth\\nTo the peel d, and the meted, and outcast of\\nearth\\nWhere the words of the Charter of Liberty first\\nFrom the soul of the sage and the patriot\\nburst\\nWhere first, for the wrong d and the weak of\\ntheir kind,\\nThe Christian and Statesman their efforts com-\\nbin d\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nWill that land of the free and the good wear a\\nchain?\\nWill the call to the rescue of Freedom be vain?", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0077.jp2"}, "78": {"fulltext": "68 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nNo, Ritner! her Friends at thy warning\\nshall stand\\nErect for the truth, like their ancestral band\\nForgetting the fends and the strife of past time.\\nCounting coldness injustice, and silence a\\ncrime\\nTurning back from the cavil of creeds, to unite\\nOnce again for the poor in defence of the\\nRight;\\nBreasting calmly, but firmly, the full tide of\\nWrong,\\nOverwhelm d, but not borne on its surges\\nalong;\\nUnappal d by the danger, the shame, and the\\npain,\\nAnd counting each trial for Truth as their\\ngain!\\nAnd that bold-hearted yeomanry, honest and\\ntrue,\\nWho, haters of fraud, give to labor its due\\nWhose fathers, of old, sang in concert with\\nthine.\\nOn the banks of Swetara, the songs of the\\nRhine\\nThe pure German pilgrims, who first dared to\\nbrave", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0078.jp2"}, "79": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 69\\nThe scorn of the proud in the cause of the\\nslave\\nWill the sons of such men yield the lords of\\nthe South\\nOne brow for the brand for the padlock one\\nmouth?\\nThey cater to tyrants? They rivet the chain,\\nWhich their fathers smote off, on the negro\\nagain?\\nNo, NEVER! one voice, like the sound in the\\ncloud,\\nWhen the roar of the storm waxes loud and\\nmore loud.\\nWherever the foot of the freeman hath press d\\nFrom the Delaware s marge to the Lake of the\\nWest,\\nOn the South-going breezes shall deepen and\\ngrow,\\nTill the land it sweeps over shall tremble be-\\nlow!\\nThe voice of a people\u00e2\u0080\u0094 uprisen awake\\nPennsylvania s watchword, with Freedom at\\nstake,\\nThrilling up from each valley, flung down from\\neach height,\\nOur Country and Liberty! God for the\\nRight!\\n*It is a remarkable fact, that the first testimony of a religious\\nbody against negro slavery was that of a Society of German\\nFriends in Pennsylvania.", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0079.jp2"}, "80": {"fulltext": "70 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nHYMN,\\nWritten for the meeting of the Anti-Slavery Society, at\\nChatham Street Chapel, N. Y., held on the 4th of the\\n7th month, 1834.\\nO Thou, whose presence went before\\nOur fathers in their weary way,\\nAs with Thy chosen moved of yore\\nThe fire by night the cloud by day;\\nWhen from each temple of the free\\nA nation s song ascends to Heaven,\\nMost Holy Father unto Thee\\nMay not our humble prayer be given?\\nThy children all though hue and form\\nAre varied in Thine own good will\\nWith Thy own holy breathings warm.\\nAnd fashion d in Thine image still.\\nWe thank Thee, Father! hill and plain\\nAround us wave their fruits once more\\nAnd cluster d vine, and blossom d grain.\\nAre bending round each cottage door.", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0080.jp2"}, "81": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 71\\nAnd peace is here and hope and love\\nAre round us as a mantle thrown,\\nAnd unto Thee, supreme above,\\nThe knee of prayer is bow d alone.\\nBut oh, for those this day can bring,\\nAs unto us, no joyful thrill\\nFor those who, under freedom s wing.\\nAre bound in slavery s fetters still:\\nFor those to whom Thy living word\\nOf light and love is never given\\nFor those whose ears have never heard\\nThe promise and the hope of Heaven!\\nFor broken heart, and clouded mind,\\nWhereon no human mercies fall\\nOh, be Thy gracious love inclined,\\nWho, as a father, pitiest all\\nAnd grant, O Father that the time\\nOf Earth s deliverance may be near,\\nWhen every land, and tongue, and clime.\\nThe message of Thy love shall hear\\nWhen, smitten as with fire from Heaven,\\nThe captive s chain shall sink in dust,\\nAnd to his fetter d soul be given\\nThe glorious freedom of the just!", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0081.jp2"}, "82": {"fulltext": "72 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nHYMN\\nWritten for the celebration of the Third Anniversary of\\nBritish Emancipation, at the Broadway Tabernacle,\\nN. Y., First of August, 1837.\\nO holy Father! just and true\\nAre all Thy works and words and ways,\\nAnd unto Thee alone are due\\nThanksgiving and eternal praise\\nAs children of Thy gracious care,\\nWe veil the eye we bend the knee,\\nWith broken words of praise and prayer,\\nFather and God, we come to Thee.\\nFor Thou has heard, O God of right,\\nThe sighing of the Island slave\\nAnd stretched for him the arm of might,\\nNot shortened that it could not save.\\nThe laborer sits beneath his vine.\\nThe shackled soul and hand are free\\nThanksgiving! for the work is Thine!\\nPraise! for the blessing is of Thee!\\nAnd oh, we feel Thy presence here\\nThy awful arm in judgment bare!", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0082.jp2"}, "83": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 73\\nThine eye hath seen the bondman s tear\\nThine ear hath heard the bondman s\\nprayer\\nPraise for the pride of man is low,\\nThe counsels of the wise are nought,\\nThe fountains of repentance flow\\nWhat hath our God in mercy wrought?\\nSpeed on Thy work. Lord God of Hosts,\\nAnd when the bondman s chain is riven,\\nAnd swells from all our guilty coasts\\nThe anthem of the free to Heaven,\\nOh, not to those whom Thou hast led.\\nAs with Thy cloud and fire before,\\nBut unto Thee, in fear and dread.\\nBe praise and glory evermore", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0083.jp2"}, "84": {"fulltext": "74 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nCLERICAL OPPRESSORS.\\nIn the Report of the celebrated pro-slavery meeting\\nin Charleston, S. C, on the 4th of the 9th month, 1835,\\npublished in the Courier of that city, it is stated:\\nThe clergy of all denominations attended in a body,\\nlending their sanction to the proceedings, and adding\\nby their presence to the impressive character of the\\nscene!\\nJust God and these are they\\nWho minister at Thine altar, God of Right\\nMen who their hands with prayer and blessing\\nlay\\nOn Israel s Ark of light!\\nWhat! preach and kidnap men?\\nGive thanks and rob Thy own afflicted poor?\\nTalk of Thy glorious liberty, and then\\nBolt hard the captive s door?\\nWhat servants of Thy own\\nMerciful Son, who came to seek and save\\nThe homeless and the outcast, fettering down\\nThe task d and plunder d slave!", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0084.jp2"}, "85": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 75\\nPilate and Herod, friends!\\nChief priests and rulers, as of old, combine\\nJust God and holy! is that church which lends\\nStrength to the spoiler Thine?\\nPaid hypocrites, who turn\\nJudgment aside, and rob the Holy Book\\nOf those high words of truth which search and\\nburn\\nIn warning and rebuke.\\nFeed fat, ye locusts, feed\\nAnd, in your tassel d pulpits, thank the Lord\\nThat, from the toiling bondman s utter need.\\nYe pile your own full board.\\nHow long, O Lord how long\\nShall such a Priesthood barter truth away,\\nAnd, in Thy name, for robbery and wrong\\nAt Thy own altars pray?\\nIs not Thy hand stretch d forth\\nVisibly in the heavens, to awe and smite?\\nShall not the living God of all the earth,\\nAnd Heaven above, do right?\\nWoe, then, to all who grind\\nTheir brethren of a Common Father down\\nTo all who plunder from th immortal mind\\nIts bright and glorious crown", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0085.jp2"}, "86": {"fulltext": "76 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nWoe to the Priesthood! woe\\nTo those whose hire is with the price of blood\\nPerverting, darkening changing as they go,\\nThe searching truths of God!\\nTheir glory and their might\\nShall perish and their very names shall be\\nVile before all the people, in the light\\nOf a world s liberty.\\nOh speed the moment on\\nWhen Wrong shall cease and Liberty, and\\nLove,\\nAnd Truth, and Right, throughout the earth\\nbe known\\nAs in their home above.", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0086.jp2"}, "87": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nLINES,\\nWritten on the adoption of Pickney s Resolutions, in\\nthe House of Representatives, and the passage of Cal-\\nhoun s Bill of Abominations to a second reading,\\nin the Senate of the United States.\\nNow, by our father s ashes! where s the spirit\\nOf the true-hearted and the unshackled gone?\\nSons of old freemen, do we but inherit\\nTheir names alone?\\nIs the old Pilgrim spirit quench d within us?\\nStoops the proud manhood of our souls so\\nlow,\\nThat Mammon s lure or Party s wile c^n win\\nus\\nTo silence now?\\nNo. When our land to ruin s brink is verging.\\nIn God s name, let us speak while there is\\ntime\\nNow, when the padlocks for our lips are forg-\\ning.\\nSilence is crime", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0087.jp2"}, "88": {"fulltext": "78 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nWhat! shall we henceforth humbly ask as\\nfavors\\nRights all our own? In madness shall we\\nbarter,\\nFor treacherous peace, the freedom Nature\\ngave us,\\nGod and our charter?\\nHere shall the statesman seek the free to fet-\\nter?\\nHere Lynch law light its horrid fires on high?\\nAnd, in the church, their proud and skill d abet-\\ntor,\\nMake truth a lie?\\nTorture the pages of the hallow d Bible,\\nTo sanction crime, and robbery, and blood?\\nAnd, in Oppression s hateful service, libel\\nBoth man and God?\\nShall our New England stand erect no longer,\\nBut stoop in chains upon her downward way,\\nThicker to gather on her limbs and stronger\\nDa} after day?\\nOh, no; methinks from all her wild, green\\nmountains\\nFrom valleys where her slumbering fathers\\nlie\u00e2\u0080\u0094", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0088.jp2"}, "89": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 79\\nFrom her blue rivers and her welling- fountains,\\nAnd clear, cold sky\\nFrom her rough coast, and isles, which hungry\\nOcean\\nGnaws with his surges from the fisher s\\nskiff,\\nWith white sail swaying to the billows motion\\nRound rock and cliff\\nFrom the free fireside of her unbought far-\\nmer\\nFrom her free laborer at his loom and wheel\\nFrom the brown smith-shop, where, beneath\\nthe hammer,\\nRings the red steel\\nFrom each and all, if God hath not forsaken\\nOur land, and left us to an evil choice,\\nLoud as the summer thunderbolt shall waken\\nA people s voice!\\nStartling and stern! the Northern winds shall\\nbear it\\nOver Potomac s to St. Mary s wave;\\nAnd buried Freedom shall awake to hear it\\nWithin her grave.", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0089.jp2"}, "90": {"fulltext": "80 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nOh, let that voice go forth The bondman sigh-\\ning\\nBy Santee s wave, in Mississippi s cane,\\nShall feel the hope, within his bosom dying,\\nRevive again.\\nLet it go forth! The millions who are gazing\\nSadly upon ns from afar, shall smile,\\nAnd unto God devout thanksgiving raising,\\nBless us the while.\\nOh, for your ancient freedom, pure and hoi)\\nFor the deliverance of a groaning earth.\\nFor the wrong d captive, bleeding, crush d and\\nlowly.\\nLet it go forth\\nSons of the best of fathers! will ye falter\\nWith all they left ye peril d and at stake\\nHo! once again on freedom s holy altar\\nThe fire awake\\nPrayer-strengthen d for the trial, come to-\\ngether,\\nPut on the harness for the moral fight.\\nAnd, with the blessing of your heavenly Fa-\\nther,\\nMaintain the risfht!", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0090.jp2"}, "91": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 81\\nLINES,\\nOn the death of S. Oliver Torrey, Secretary of the Bos-\\nton Young Men s Anti-Slavery Society.\\nGone before us, O our brother,\\nTo the spirit-land\\nVainly look we for another\\nIn thy place to stand.\\nWho shall offer youth and beauty\\nOn the wasting shrine\\nOf a stern and lofty duty,\\nWith a faith like thine?\\nOh thy gentle smile of greeting\\nWho again shall see?\\nWho, amidst the solemn meeting.\\nGaze again on thee?\\nWho, when peril gathers o er us,\\nWear so calm a brow?\\nWho, with evil men before us,\\nSo serene as thou?\\nEarly hath the spoiler found thee.\\nBrother of our love\\nAutumn s faded earth around thee\\nAnd its storms above\\n6", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0091.jp2"}, "92": {"fulltext": "82 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nEvermore that turf lie lightly,\\nAnd, with future showers,\\nO er thy slumbers fresh and brightly\\nBlow the summer flowers\\nIn the locks thy forehead gracing,\\nNot a silvery streak\\nNor a line of sorrow s tracing\\nOn thy fair young cheek\\nEyes of light and lips of roses,\\nSuch as Hylas wore\\nOver all that curtain closes.\\nWhich shall rise no more\\nWill the vigil Love is keeping\\nRound that grave of thine.\\nMournfully, like Jazer weeping\\nOver Sibmah s vine*\\nWill the pleasant memories, swelling\\nGentle hearts, of thee.\\nIn the spirit s distant dwelling\\nAll unheeded be?\\nIf the spirit ever gazes.\\nFrom its journeyings, back;\\nIf the immortal ever traces\\nO er its mortal track;\\nO vine of Sibmah! I will weep for thee with the weeping of\\nJazer! Jeremiah xlviii, 32.", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0092.jp2"}, "93": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 83\\nWilt thou not, O brother, meet us\\nSometimes on our way,\\nAnd, in hours of sadness, greet us\\nAs a spirit may?\\nPeace be with thee, O our brother^\\nIn the spirit-land\\nVainly look we for another\\nIn thy place to stand.\\nUnto Truth and Freedom giving\\nAll thy earthly powers,\\nBe thy virtues with the living.\\nAnd thy spirit ours", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0093.jp2"}, "94": {"fulltext": "84 WHITTIER S POEM^\\nLINES,\\nWritten on reading the famous Pastoral Letter of the\\nMassachusetts General Association, 1837.\\nSo this is all the utmost reach\\nOf priestly power the mind to fetter\\nWhen laymen think when women preach\\nA war of words a Pastoral Letter!\\nNow, shame upon ye, parish Popes!\\nWas t thus with those, your predecessors,\\nWho seal d with racks and fire and ropes\\nTheir loving-kindness to transgressors?\\nA Pastoral Letter, grave and dull\\nAlas, in hoofs and horns and features,\\nHow different is your Brookfield bull.\\nFrom him who thunders from St. Peter s!\\nYour pastoral rights and powers from harm,\\nThink ye, can words alone preserve them?\\nYour wiser father taught the arm\\nAnd sword of temporal power to serve them.\\nOh, glorious days when Church and State\\nWere wedded by your spiritual fathers\\nAnd on submissive shoulders sat\\nYour Wilsons and your Cotton Mathers.", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0094.jp2"}, "95": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 85\\nNo vile itinerant then could mar\\nThe beauty of your tranquil Zion,\\nBut at his peril of the scar\\nOf hangman s whip and branching-iron.\\nThen, wholesome laws relieved the Church\\nOf heretic and mischief-maker,\\nAnd priest and bailiff joined in search.\\nBy turns, of Papist, Witch, and Quaker!\\nThe stocks were at each church s door.\\nThe gallows stood on Boston Common,\\nA Papist s ears the pillory bore,\\nThe gallows- rope, a Quaker woman\\nYour fathers dealt not as ye deal\\nWith non-professing frantic teachers;\\nThey bored the tongue with red-hot steel\\nAnd flayed the backs of female preachers.\\nOld Newbury, had her fields a tongue.\\nAnd Salem s streets could tell their story,\\nOf fainting woman dragged along.\\nGashed by the whip, accursed and gory\\nAnd will ye ask me, why this taunt\\nOf memories sacred from the scorner?\\nAnd why with reckless hand I plant\\nA nettle on the graves ye honor?\\nNot to reproach New England s dead\\nThis record from the past I summon.", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0095.jp2"}, "96": {"fulltext": "86 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nOf manhood to the scaffold led,\\nAnd suffering and heroic woman.\\nNo for yourselves alone, I turn\\nThe pages of intolerance over.\\nThat, in their spirit, dark and stem.\\nYe haply may your own discover\\nFor, if ye claim the pastoral right\\nTo silence Freedom s voice of warning,\\nAnd from your precincts shut the light\\nOf Freedom s day around ye dawning;\\nIf when an earthquake voice of power,\\nAnd signs in earth and heaven are showing\\nThat forth, in its appointed hour.\\nThe Spirit of the Lord is going\\nAnd with that Spirit, Freedom s light\\nOn kindred, tongue, and people breaking,\\nWhose slumbering millions, at the sight.\\nIn glory and in strength are waking\\nWhen, for the sighing of the poor.\\nAnd for the needy, God hath risen.\\nAnd chains are breaking, and a door\\nIs opening for the souls in prison\\nIf then ye would, with puny hands,\\nArrest the very work of Heaven,\\nAnd bind anew the evil bands\\nWhich God s right arm of power hath riven,", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0096.jp2"}, "97": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 87\\nWhat marvel that, in many a mind,\\nThose darker deeds of bigot madness\\nAre closely with your own combined,\\nYet less in anger than in sadness?\\nWhat marvel, if the people learn\\nTo claim the right of free opinion?\\nWhat marvel, if at times they spurn\\nThe ancient yoke of your dominion?\\nOh, how contrast with such as they\\nA Leavitt s free and generous bearing,\\nA Perry s calm integrity,\\nA Phelp s zeal and Christian daring!\\nA Pollen s soul of sacrifice,\\nAnd May s with kindness overflowing!\\nHow green and lovely in the eyes\\nOf freemen are their graces growing!\\nAy, there s a glorious remnant yet.\\nWhose lips are wet at Freedom s fountains,\\nThe coming of whose welcome feet\\nIs beautiful upon our mountains!\\nMen, who the gospel tidings bring\\nOf Liberty and Love forever.\\nWhose joy is one abiding spring,\\nWhose peace is as a gentle river.\\nBut ye, who scorn the thrilling tale\\nOf Carolina s high-soul d daughters,", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0097.jp2"}, "98": {"fulltext": "88 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nWhich echoes here the motimf-iil wail\\nOf sorrow from Edisto s waters,\\nClose while ye may the public ear\\nWith malice vex, with slander wound them\\nThe pure and good shall throng to hear,\\nAnd tried and manly hearts surround them.\\nOh, ever may the Power which led\\nTheir way to such a fiery trial.\\nAnd strengthen d womanhood to tread\\nThe wine-press of such self-denial,\\nBe round them in an evil land,\\nWith wisdom and with strength from Heaven,\\nWith Miriam s voice, and Judith s hand.\\nAnd Deborah s song for triumph given!\\nAnd what are ye who strive with God,\\nAgainst the ark of His salvation.\\nMoved by the breath of prayer abroad,\\nWith blessings for a dying nation?\\nWhat, but the stubble and the hay\\nTo perish, even as flax consuming,\\nWith all that bars His glorious way.\\nBefore the brightness of His coming?\\nAnd thou, sad Angel, who so long\\nHast waited for the glorious token.\\nThat Earth from all her bonds of wrong\\nTo liberty and light has broken", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0098.jp2"}, "99": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 89\\nAngel of Freedom soon to thee\\nThe sounding trumpet shall be given,\\nAnd over Earth s full Jubilee\\nShall deeper joy be felt in Heaven!", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0099.jp2"}, "100": {"fulltext": "90 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nTHE MORAL WARFARE.\\nWhen Freedom, on her natal day,\\nWithin her war- rock d cradle lay,\\nAn iron race around her stood,\\nBaptized her infant brow in blood.\\nAnd, through the storm which round her swept,\\nTheir constant ward and watching kept.\\nThen, where quiet herds repose.\\nThe roar of baleful battle rose.\\nAnd brethren of a common tongue\\nTo mortal strife as tigers sprung,\\nAnd every gift on Freedom s shrine\\nWas man for beast, and blood for wine\\nOur fathers to their graves have gone;\\nTheir strife is past their triumph won\\nBut sterner trials wait the race\\nWhich rises in their honor d place\\nA moral warfare with the crime\\nAnd folly of an evil time.\\nSo let it be. In God s own might\\nWe gird us for the coming fight,", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0100.jp2"}, "101": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 91\\nAnd, strong in Him whose cause is ours\\nIn conflict with unholy powers,\\nWe grasp the weapons He has given,\\nThe Light, and Truth, and Love of Heaven!", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0101.jp2"}, "102": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nMASSACHUSETTS.\\nWritten on hearing that the Resolutions of the Legis-\\nlature of Massachusetts on the subject of Slavery, pre-\\nsented by Hon. C. Gushing to the House of Representa-\\ntives of the United States, have been laid on the table\\nunread and unreferred, under the infamous rule of\\nPatton s Resolution.\\nAnd have they spurned thy word,\\nThou of the old Thirteen!\\nWhose soil, where Freedom s blood first pour d,\\nHath yet a darker green?\\nTread the weak Southron s pride and lust\\nThy name and councils in the dust?\\nAnd have they closed thy mouth,\\nAnd fix d the padlock fast?\\nSlave of the mean and tyrant South\\nIs this thy fate at last?\\nOld Massachusetts! can it be\\nThat thus thy sons m.ust speak of thee?\\nCall from the Capitol\\nThy chosen ones again\\nUnmeet for them the base control\\nOf Slavery s curbing reign!", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0102.jp2"}, "103": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. -93\\nUnmeet for necks like theirs to feel\\nThe chafing of the despot s heel\\nCall back to Qnincy s shade\\nThat steadfast son of thine\\nGo if thy homage must be paid\\nTo Slavery s pagod- shrine,\\nSeek out some meaner offering than\\nThe free-born soul of that old man.\\nCall that true spirit back,\\nSo eloquent and young;\\nIn his own vale of Merrimack\\nNo chains are on his tongue\\nBetter to breathe its cold, keen air.\\nThan wear the Southron s shackle there.\\nAy, let them hasten home.\\nAnd render up their trust\\nThrough them the Pilgrim state is dumb.\\nHer proud lip in the dust t\\nHer counsels and her gentlest word\\nOf warning spurn d aside, unheard!\\nLet them come back, and shake\\nThe base dust from their feet\\nAnd with their tale of outrage wake\\nThe free hearts whom they meet\\nAnd show before indignant men\\nThe scars where Slavery s chain has been.", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0103.jp2"}, "104": {"fulltext": "94 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nBack from the Capitol\\nIt is no place for thee\\nBeneath the arch of Heaven s blue wall\\nThy voice may still be free\\nWhat power shall chain thy spirit there,\\nIn God s free sun and freer air?\\nA voice is calling thee,\\nFrom all the martyr-graves\\nOf those stern men, in death made free,\\nWho could not live as slaves.\\nThe slumberings of thy honor d dead\\nAre for thy sake disquieted!\\nThe curse of Slavery comes\\nStill nearer, day by day\\nShall thy pure altars and thy homes\\nBecome the Spoiler s prey.\\nShall the dull tread of fetter d slaves\\nSound o er thy old and holy graves?\\nPride of the old Thirteen\\nThat curse may yet be stay d\\nStand thou, in Freedom s strength, between\\nThe living and the dead;\\nStand forth, for God and Liberty\\nIn one strong effort worthy thee", "height": "2791", "width": "1700", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0104.jp2"}, "105": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 95\\nOnce more let Faneuil Hall\\nBy freemen s feet be trod,\\nAnd give the echoes of its wall\\nOnce more to Freedom s God!\\nAnd in the midst, unseen, shall stand\\nThe mighty fathers of thy land.\\nThy gather d sons shall feel\\nThe soul of Adams near,\\nAnd Otis with his fiery zeal.\\nAnd Warren s onward cheer;\\nAnd heart to heart shall thrill as when\\nThey moved and spake as living men.\\nFling, from thy Capitol,\\nThy banner to the light.\\nAnd o er thy Charter s sacred scroll,\\nFor Freedom and the Right,\\nBreathe once again thy vows, unbroken\\nSpeak once again as thou hast spoken.\\nOn thy bleak hills, speaks out\\nA world thy words shall hear;\\nAnd they who listen round about\\nIn friendship, or in fear,\\nShall know thee still, when sorest tried,\\nUnshaken and unterrified?\\nMassachusetts has held her way right onward, unshaken,\\ntinseduced, unterrified. Speech of C. Gushing, in the House of\\nRepresentatives of the U. S., 1836.", "height": "2791", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0105.jp2"}, "106": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nTHE FAREWELL\\nOF A VIRGINIAN SLAVE MOTHER TO HER DAUGH-\\nTERS SOLD INTO SOUTHERN BONDAGE.\\nGone, gone sold and gone,\\nTo the rice-swamp dank and lone,\\nWhere the slave-whip ceaseless swings,\\nWhere the noisome insect stings.\\nWhere the Fever Demon strews\\nPoison with the falling dews,\\nWhere the sickly sunbeams glare\\nThrough the hot and misty air,\\nGone, gone sold and gone.\\nTo the rice-swamp dank and lone.\\nFrom Virginia s hills and waters,\\nWoe is me, my stolen daughters\\nGone, gone sold and gone.\\nTo the rice-swamp dark and lone,\\nThere no mother s eye is near them,\\nThere no mother s ear can hear them,\\nNever, when the torturing lash\\nSeams their back with many a gash.\\nShall a mother s kindness bless them\\nOr a mother s arms caress them.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0106.jp2"}, "107": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 97\\nGone, gone sold and gone,\\nTo the rice-swamp dank and lone,\\nFrom Virginia s hills and waters,\\nWoe is me, my stolen daughters\\nGone, gone sold and gone,\\nTo the rice-swamp dank and lone.\\nOh, when wear}^, sad, and slow,\\nFrom the field at night they go,\\nFaint with toil, and rack d with pain,\\nTo their cheerless homes again\\nThere no brother s voice shall greet them\\nThere no father s welcome meet them.\\nGone, gone sold and gone.\\nTo the rice-swamp dank and lone.\\nFrom Virginia s hills and waters,\\nWoe is me, my stolen daughters\\nGone, gone sold and gone.\\nTo the rice-swamp dank and lone,\\nFrom the tree whose shadow lay\\nOn their childhood s place of play\\nFrom the cool spring where they drank\\nRock, and hill, and rivulet bank\\nFrom the solemn house of prayer,\\nAnd the holy counsels there\\nGone, gone sold and gone.\\nTo the rice-swamp dank and lone,\\n3", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0107.jp2"}, "108": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nFrom Virginia s hills and waters,\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nWoe is me, my stolen daughters\\nGone, gone sold and gone,\\nTo the rice-swamp dank and lone-\\nToiling through the weary day.\\nAnd at night the Spoiler s prey.\\nOh, that they had earlier died.\\nSleeping calmly, side by side.\\nWhere the tyrant s power is o er\\nAnd the fetter galls no more\\nGone, gone sold and gone.\\nTo the rice-swamp dank and lone,\\nFrom Virginia s hills and waters,\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nWoe is me, my stolen datighters\\nGone, gone sold and gone.\\nTo the rice-swamp dank and lone.\\nBy the holy love He beareth\\nBy the bruised reed He spareth\\nOh, may He, to whom alone\\nAll their cruel wrongs are known,\\nStill their hope and refuge prove,\\nWith a more than mother s love.\\nGone, gone sold and gone,\\nTo the rice-swamp dank and lone,\\nFrom Virginia s hills and waters,-\\nWoe is me, my stolen daughters", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0108.jp2"}, "109": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 99\\nADDRESS,\\nWritten for the opening of Pennsylvania Hall dedi-\\ncated to Free Discussion, Virtue, Liberty, and Inde-\\npendence, on the 15th of the 5th month, 1838.\\nNot with the splendors of the days of old,\\nThe spoil of nations, and barbaric gold\\nNo weapons wrested from the fields of blood,\\nWhere dark and stern th unyielding Roman\\nstood,\\nAnd the proud Eagles of his cohorts saw\\nA world, war- wasted, crouching to his law\\nNor blazon d car nor banners floating gay,\\nLike those which swept along the Appian way,\\nWhen, to the welcome of imperial Rome,\\nThe victor warrior came in triumph home,\\nAnd trumpet-peal, and shoutings wild and high\\nStirr d the blue quiet of th Italian sky;\\nBut calm, and grateful, prayerful and sincere\\nAs Christian freeman, only, gathering here,\\nWe dedicate our fair and lofty Hall,\\nPillar and arch, entablature and wall.\\nAs Virtue s shrine as Liberty s abode\\nSacred to Freedom, and to Freedom s God", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0109.jp2"}, "110": {"fulltext": "ICO WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nOh! loftier Halls, neath brighter skies than\\nthese,\\nStood darkly mirror d in the ^gean seas,\\nPillar and shrine and life-like statues seen,\\nGraceful and pure the marble shafts between,\\nWhere glorious Athens from her rocky hill\\nSaw Art and Beauty subject to her will\\nAnd the chaste temple, and the classic grove\\nThe hall of sages and the bowers of love.\\nArch, fane, and column, graced the shores, and\\ngave\\nTheir shadows to the blue Saronic wave\\nAnd statelier rose, on Tiber s winding side,\\nThe Pantheon s dome the Coliseum s pride\\nThe Capitol, whose arches backward flung\\nThe deep, clear cadence of the Roman tongue.\\nWhence stern decrees, like words of fate, went\\nforth\\nTo the awed nations of a conquer d earth.\\nWhere the proud Caesars in their glory came,\\nAnd Brutus lighten d from his lips of flame!\\nYet in the porches of Athena s halls.\\nAnd in the shadows of her stately walls,\\nLurk d the sad bondman, and his tears of woe\\nWet the cold marble with unheeded flow\\nAnd fetters clank d beneath the silver dome\\nOf the proud Pantheon of imperious Rome.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0110.jp2"}, "111": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 101\\nOh! not for him the chain d and stricken\\nslave\\nBy Tiber s shore, or blue ^gina s wave,\\nIn the throng d forum, or the sages seat,\\nThe bold lip pleaded, and the warm heart beat\\nNo soul of sorrow melted at his pain,\\nNo tear of pity rusted on his chain\\nBut this fair Hall, to Truth and Freedom given,\\nPledged to the Right before all earth and\\nHeaven,\\nA free arena for the strife of mind,\\nTo caste, or sect, or color unconfined.\\nShall thrill with echoes, such as ne er of old\\nFrom Roman Hall or Grecian Temple roH d;\\nThoughts shall find utterance, such as never\\nyet\\nThe Propylea or the Forum met.\\nBeneath its roof no gladiator s strife\\nShall win applauses with the waste of life\\nNo lordly lictor urge the barbarous game\\nNo Avanton Lais glory in her shame.\\nBut here the tear of sympathy shall flow.\\nAs the ear listens to the tale of woe\\nHere, in stern judgment of the oppressor s\\nwrong,\\nShall strong rebukings thrill on Freedom s", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0111.jp2"}, "112": {"fulltext": "102 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nNo partial justice hold th unequal scale\\nNo pride of caste a brother s rights assail\\nNo tyrant s mandates echo from this wall,\\nHoly to Freedom and the Rights of All!\\nBut a fair field, where mind may close with\\nmind,\\nFree as the sunshine and the chainless wind\\nWhere the high trust is fix d on Truth alone,\\nAnd bonds and fetters from the soul are thrown\\nWhere wealth, and rank, and worldly pomp,\\nand might,\\nYield to the presence of the True and Right.\\nAnd fitting is it that this Hall should stand\\nWhere Pennsylvania s Founder led his band,\\nFrom thy blue waters, Delaware to press\\nThe virgin verdure of the wilderness.\\nHere, where all Europe with amazement saw\\nThe soul s high freedom trammel d by no law;\\nHere, where the fierce and war-like forest men\\nGather d in peace, around the home of Penn,\\nAwed by the weapons Love alone had given.\\nDrawn from the holy armory of Heaven\\nWhere Nature s voice against the bondman s\\nwrong\\nFirst found an earnest and indignant tongue\\nWhere Lay s bold massage to the proud was\\nborne,", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0112.jp2"}, "113": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 103\\nAnd Keith s rebuke, and Franklin s manly\\nscorn\\nFitting it is that here, where Freedom first\\nFrom her fair feet shook off the old world s\\ndust,\\nSpread her white pinions to our Western blast,\\nAnd her free tresses to our sunshine cast,\\nOne Hall should rise redeem d from Slavery s\\nban\\nOne Temple sacred to the Rights of Man\\nOh if the spirits of the parted come,\\nVisiting angels, to their olden home\\nIf the dead fathers of the land look forth\\nFrom their far dwellings, to the things of\\nearth\\nIs it a dream, that with their eyes of love,\\nThey gaze now on us from the bowers above?\\nLay s ardent soul and Benezet the mild.\\nMeek-hearted Woolman, and that brother-\\nband.\\nThe sorrowing exiles from their Fatherland,\\nLeaving their homes in Krieshiem s bowers of\\nvine,\\nAnd the blue beauty of their glorious Rhine,\\nTo seek amidst our solemn depths of wood,\\nFreedom from man and holy peace with God,\\nWho first of all their testimonial gave\\nAgainst th oppressor, for the outcast slave,", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0113.jp2"}, "114": {"fulltext": "104 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nIs it a dream that such as these look down,\\nAnd with their blessing our rejoicings crown?\\nLet us rejoice, that, while the Pulpit s door\\nIs barr d against the pleaders for the poor;\\nWhile the Church, wrangling upon points of\\nfaith,\\nForgets her bondmen suffering unto death\\nWhile crafty Traffic and the lust of Gain\\nUnite to forge Oppression s triple chain,\\nOne door is open, and one temple free\\nA resting-place for hunted Liberty!\\nWhere men may speak, unshackled and unawed,\\nHigh words of Truth, for Freedom and for\\nGod.\\nAnd when that Truth its perfect work hath\\ndone,\\nAnd rich with blessings o er our land hath\\ngone;\\nWhen not a slave beneath his yoke shall pine,\\nFrom broad Potomac to the far Sabine\\nWhen unto angel-lips at last is given\\nThe silver trump of Jubilee in Heaven\\nAnd from Virginia s plains Kentucky s\\nshades.\\nAnd through the dim Floridian everglades,\\nRises^ to meet that angel-trumpet s sound,\\nThe voice of millions from their chains\\nunbound", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0114.jp2"}, "115": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 105\\nThen, though this Hall be crumbling in decay,\\nIts strong walls blending with the common\\nclay,\\nYet, round the ruins of its strength shall stand\\nThe best and noblest of aransom d land\\nPilgrims, like those who throng around the\\nshrine\\nOf Mecca, or of holy Palestine\\nA prouder glory shall that ruin own\\nThan that which lingers round the Parthenon,\\nHere shall the child of after years be taught\\nThe work of Freedom which his fathers\\nwrought\\nTold of the trials of the present hour,\\nOur weary strife with prejudice and power,\\nHow the high errand quicken d woman s soul,\\nAnd touch d her lip as with the living coal\\nHow Freedom s martyrs kept their lofty faith,\\nTrue and unwavering, unto bonds and death.\\nThe pencil s art shall sketch the ruin d Hall,\\nThe Muses garland crown its aged wall.\\nAnd History s pen for after times record\\nIts consecration unto Freedom s God!", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0115.jp2"}, "116": {"fulltext": "", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0116.jp2"}, "117": {"fulltext": "MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.\\n107", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0117.jp2"}, "118": {"fulltext": "", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0118.jp2"}, "119": {"fulltext": "MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.\\nThe Poems which follow are not devoted to the cause\\nof Emancipation, but have been included in this collec-\\ntion at the request of some of the author s friends. Many\\nof them, in their passage from one newspaper or scrap-\\nbook to another, had become mutilated and im.perfect\\nand, in some instances, changed from their original\\nrhythm and sentiment, as entirely as the Palmer of\\nMarmion\\nThe very mother that him bare\\nWould not have known her child,\\nand their publication in this form seemed necessary as\\na matter of self-defence.\\nPALESTINE.\\nBlest land of Judea! thrice hallowed of song\\nWhere the holiest of memories pilgrim-like\\nthrong\\nIn the shade of thy palms, by the shores of thy\\nsea,\\nOn the hills of thy beauty, my heart is with\\nthee.\\nWith the eye of a spirit I look on that shore,\\nWhere pilgrim and prophet have linger d\\nbefore\\n109", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0119.jp2"}, "120": {"fulltext": "110 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nWith the glide of a spirit I traverse the sod\\nMade bright by the steps of the angels of God.\\nBlue sea of the hills in my spirit I hear\\nThy waters, Genesaret, chime on my ear\\nWhere the Lowly and Just with the people sat\\ndown,\\nAnd thy spray on the dust of His sandals was\\nthrown.\\nBeyond are Bethulia s mountains of green,\\nAnd the desolate hills of the wild Gadarene\\nAnd I pause on the goat-crags of Tabor to see\\nThe gleam of thy waters, O dark Galilee\\nHark, a sound in the valley where, swollen and\\nstrong,\\nThy river, O Kishon, is sweeping along;\\nWhere the Canaanite strove with Jehovah in\\nvain,\\nAnd thy torrent grew dark with the blood of\\nthe slain.\\nThere, down from his mountains stern Zebulon\\ncame.\\nAnd Naphtali s stag, with his eyeballs of flame,\\nAnd the chariots of Jabin roll d harmlessly on,\\nFor the arm of the Lord was Abinoam s son!", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0120.jp2"}, "121": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. Ill\\nThere sleep the still rocks and the caverns\\nwhich rang\\nTo the song which the beautiful prophetess\\nsang,\\nWhen the princes of Issachar stood by her side,\\nAnd the shout of a host in its triumph, replied.\\nLo, Bethlehem s hill-site before me is seen,\\nWith the mountains around, and the valleys\\nbetween\\nThere rested the shepherds of Judah, and there\\nThe song of the angels rose sweet on the air.\\nAnd Bethany s palm trees in beauty still throw\\nTheir shadows at noon on the ruins below;\\nBut where are the sisters who hasten *d to\\ngreet\\nThe lowly Redeemer, and sit at His feet?\\nI tread where the twelve in their wayfaring\\ntrod;\\nI stand where they stood with the chosen of\\nGod;\\nWhere His blessing was heard and His lessons\\nwere taught,\\nWhere the blind were restored and the healing\\nwas wrought.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0121.jp2"}, "122": {"fulltext": "112 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nOh, he-re with His flock the sad Wanderer\\ncame\\nThese hills He toiled over in grief, are the\\nsame\\nThe founts where He drank by the w^ayside\\nstill flow,\\nAnd the same airs are blowing which breathed\\non his brow!\\nAnd throned on her hills sits Jerusalem yet,\\nBut the dust on her forehead, and chains on\\nher feet;\\nFor the crown of her pride to the mocker hath\\ngone.\\nAnd the holy Shechinah is dark where it shone.\\nBut wherefore this dream of the earthly abode\\nOf Humanity clothed in the brightness of God?\\nWere my spirit but turned from the outward\\nand dim,\\nIt could gaze, even now, on the presence of\\nHim!\\nNot in clouds and in terrors, but gentle as\\nwhen.\\nIn love and in meekness, He moved among\\nmen;\\nAnd the voice which breathed peace to the,\\nwaves of the sea.\\nIn the hush of my spirit would whisper to me!", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0122.jp2"}, "123": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 113\\nAnd what if my feet may not tread where He\\nstood,\\nNor my ears hear the dashing of Galilee s flood,\\nNor my eyes see the cross which He bow d\\nhim to bear,\\nNor my knees press Gethsemane s garden of\\nprayer.\\nYet, Loved of the Father, Thy Spirit is near\\nTo the meek, and the lowly, and penitent\\nhere;\\nAnd the voice of Thy love is the same, even\\nnow,\\nAs at Bethany s tomb, or on Olivet s brow.\\nOh, the outward hath gone but, in glor3^ and\\npower,\\nThe Spirit surviveth the things of an hour\\nUnchanged, undecaying, its Pentecost flame\\nOn the heart s secret altar is burning the same.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0123.jp2"}, "124": {"fulltext": "114 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nCHRIST IN THE TEMPEST.\\nStorm on the heaving- waters! The vast sky\\nIs stooping with its thunder. Cloud on cloud\\nRolls heavily in the darkness, like a shroud\\nShaken by midnight s Angel from on high,\\nThrough the thick sea-mist, faintly and afar,\\nGhorazin s watch-light glimmers like a star,\\nAnd, momently, the ghastly cloud-fires play\\nOn the dark sea-wall of Capernaum s bay,\\nAnd tower and turret into light spring forth\\nLike spectres starting from the storm-swept\\nearth\\nAnd, vast and awful, Tabor s mountain form,\\nIts Titan forehead naked to the storm,\\nTowers for one instant, full and clear, and then\\nBlends with the blackness and the cloud again.\\nAnd it is very terrible The roar\\nAscendeth unto Heaven, and thunders back.\\nLike the response of demons, from the black\\nRifts of the hanging tempest yawning o er\\nThe wild waves in their torment. Hark!\\nthe cry", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0124.jp2"}, "125": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 115\\nOf Strong man in peril, piercing through\\nThe uproar of the waters and the sky,\\nAs the rent bark one moment rides to view,\\nOn the tall billows, with the thunder cloud\\nClosing around, above her, like a shroud\\nHe stood upon the reeling deck His form\\nMade visible by the lightning, and His brow.\\nPale, and uncover d to the rushing storm.\\nTold of a triumph man may never know\\nPower underived and mighty Peace be\\nstill!\\nThe great waves heard Him, and the storm s\\nloud tone\\nWent moaning into silence at His will\\nAnd the thick clouds, where yet the light-\\nning shone.\\nAnd slept the latent thunder, roll d away,\\nUntil no trace of tempest lurk d behind,\\nChanging upon the pinions of the wind.\\nTo stormless wanderers, beautiful and gay.\\nDread Ruler of the tempest! Thou before\\nWhose presence boweth the uprisen storm\\nTo whom the waves do homage round the shore\\nOf many an Island empire if the form\\nOf the frail dust beneath Thine eye may claim\\nThy infinite regard oh, breathe upon", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0125.jp2"}, "126": {"fulltext": "116 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nThe storm and darkness of man s soul the same\\nQuiet, and peace, and humbleness which came\\nO er the roused waters, where Thy voice had\\ngone\\nA minister of power to conquer in Thy name!", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0126.jp2"}, "127": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 117\\nTHE FEMALE MARTYR.\\nMary G aged i8, a Sister of Charity, died in\\none of our Atlantic cities, during the prevalence of the\\nIndian cholera, while in voluntary attendance upon the\\nsick.\\nBring out your dead! the midnight street\\nHeard and gave back the hoarse, low call;\\nHarsh fell the tread of hasty feet\\nGlanced through the dark the coarse white\\nsheet\\nHer coffin and her pall.\\nWhat only one! the brutal hackman said,\\nAs, with an oath, he spurn d away the dead.\\nHow sunk the inmost hearts of all,\\nAs roird that dead-cart slowly by,\\nWith creaking wheel and harsh foot-fall\\nThe dying turn d him to the wall.\\nTo hear it and to die\\nOnward it roll d; while oft its driver stay d,\\nAnd hoarsely clamor d, Ho! bring out your\\ndead.\\nIt paused beside the burial-place\\nToss in your load! and it was done.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0127.jp2"}, "128": {"fulltext": "118 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nWith quick hand and averted face,\\nHastily to the grave s embrace\\nThey cast them, one by one\\nStranger and friend the evil and the just,\\nTogether trodden in the church-yard dust!\\nAnd thou, young martyr! thou wast here\\nNo white-robed sisters round thee trod\\nNor holy hymn, nor funeral prayer\\nRose through the damp and noisome air,\\nGiving thee to thy God\\nNor flower, nor cross, nor hallow d taper gave\\nGrace to the dead, and beauty to the grave\\nYet, gentle sufferer! there shall be,\\nIn every heart of kindly feeling,\\nA rite as holy paid to thee\\nAs if beneath the convent-tree\\nThy sisterhood were kneeling,\\nAt vesper hours, like sorrowing angels keeping\\nTheir tearful watch around thy place of sleep-\\ning.\\nFor thou wast one in whom the light\\nOf Heaven s own love was kindled well,\\nEnduring with a martyr s might,\\nThrough weary day and wakeful night,\\nFar more than words may tell\\nGentle, and meek, and lowly, and unknown^\\nThy mercies measured by thy God alone", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0128.jp2"}, "129": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 119\\nWhere manly hearts were failing, where\\nThe throngful street grew foul with death,\\nO high-souled martyr! thou wast there.\\nInhaling from the loathsome air\\nPoison with every breath.\\nYet shrinking not from offices of dread\\nFor the wrung dying, and the unconscious dead.\\nAnd, where the sickly taper shed\\nIts light through vapers, damp, confined,\\nHush d as a seraph s fell thy tread\\nA new Electra by the bed\\nOf suffering human-kind\\nPointing the spirit, in its dark dismay.\\nTo that pure hope which fadeth not away.\\nInnocent teacher of the high\\nAnd holy mysteries of Heaven!\\nHow turned to thee each glazing eye,\\nIn mute and awful sympathy,\\nAs thy prayers were given\\nAnd the o er-hovering Spoiler wore, the while\\nAn angel s features a deliverer s smile!\\nA blessed task and worthy one\\nWho, turning from the world, as thou.\\nEre being s pathway had begun\\nTo leave its spring-time flower and sun,", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0129.jp2"}, "130": {"fulltext": "120 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nHad seal d her early vow\\nGiving to God her beauty and her youth,\\nHer pure affections and her guileless truth.\\nEarth may not claim thee. Nothing here\\nCould be for thee a meet reward;\\nThine is a treasure far more dear\\nEye hath not seen it, nor the ear\\nOf living mortal heard,\\nThe joys prepared the promised bliss above\\nThe holy presence of Eternal Love!\\nSleep on in peace. The earth has not\\nA nobler name than thine shall be.\\nThe deeds by martial manhood wrought,\\nThe lofty energies of thought.\\nThe fire of poesy\\nThese have but frail and fading honors, thine\\nShall time unto Eternity consign.\\nYea and, when thrones shall crumble down^\\nAnd human pride and grandeur fall,\\nThe herald s line of long renown\\nThe m.itre and the kingly crown\\nPerishing glories all\\nThe pure devotion of thy generous heart\\nShall live in Heaven, of which it was a part.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0130.jp2"}, "131": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 121\\nknowest thou the ordinances of heaven?\\nJob xxxviii. ^s-\\nLook unto heaven I\\nThe still and solemn stars are burning there,\\nLike altars lighted in the upper air,\\nAnd to the worship of the great God given,\\nWhere the pure spirits of the unsinning dead,\\nRedeemed and sanctified from Earth, might\\nshed\\nThe holiness of prayer.\\nLook ye above\\nThe earth is glorious with its summer wreath\\nThe tall trees bend with verdure; and, beneath\\nYoung flowers are blushing like unwhisper d\\nlove.\\nYet these will change earth s glories be no\\nmore,\\nAnd all her bloom and greenness fade before\\nThe ministry of Death.\\nThen gaze not there.\\nGod s constant miracle the star- wrought sky\\nBends o er ye, lifting silently on high,\\nAs with an Angel s hand, the soul of prayer;", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0131.jp2"}, "132": {"fulltext": "122 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nAnd Heaven s own language to the pure of\\nEarth,\\nWritten in stars at Nature s might birth,\\nBurns on the gazing eye.\\nOh, turn ye, then,\\nAnd bend the knee of worship and the eyes\\nOf the pure stars shall smile, with glad sur-\\nprise,\\nAt the deep reverence of the sons of men.\\nOh! bend in worship, till those stars grow dim,\\nAnd the skies vanish, at the thought of Him\\nWhose light beyond them lies!", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0132.jp2"}, "133": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER-^ POEMS. 123\\nHYMN.\\nFROM THE FRENCH OF LAMARTINE.\\nA hymn more, O my lyre\\nPraise to the God above,\\nOf joy and life and love.\\nSweeping its strings of fire\\nOh, who the speed of bird and wind\\nAnd sunbeam s glance will lend to me\\nThat, soaring upward, I may find\\nMy resting-place and home in Thee?\\nThou, whom my soul, midst doubt and gloom,\\nAdoreth with a fervent flame\\nMysterious Spirit unto whom\\nPertain nor sign nor name\\nSwiftly my lyre s soft murmurs go.\\nUp from the cold and joyless earth.\\nBack to the God who bade them flow\\nWhose moving Spirit sent them forth.\\nBut as for me, O God for me,\\nThe lowly creature of Thy will,\\nLingering and sad, I sigh to Thee,\\nAn earth-bound pilgrim still", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0133.jp2"}, "134": {"fulltext": "124 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nWas not my spirit born to shine\\nWhere yonder stars and suns are glowing?\\nTo breathe with them the light divine,\\nFrom God s own holy altar flowing?\\nTo be, indeed, where er the soul\\nIn dreams hath thirsted for so long\\nA portion of Heaven s glorious whole\\nOf loveliness and song?\\nOh! watchers of the stars at night,\\nWho breathe their fire, as we the air\\nSuns, thunders, stars, and rays of light,\\nOh! say, is He the Eternal, there?\\nBend there around His awful throne\\nThe seraph s glance, the angel s knee?\\nOr are thy inmost depths His own,\\nO wild and mighty sea?\\nThoughts of my soul, how swift ye go\\nSwift as the eagle s glance of fire,\\nOr arrows from the archer s bow,\\nTo the far aim of your desire\\nThought after thought, ye thronging rise.\\nLike spring-doves from the startled wood,\\nBearing like them your sacrifice\\nOf music unto God!\\nAnd shall these thoughts of joy and love\\nCome back again no more to me?", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0134.jp2"}, "135": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 125\\nReturning like the Patriarch s dove,\\nWing- weary from the eternal sea,\\nTo bear within my longing arms\\nThe promise-bough of kindlier skies\\nPluck d from the green, immortal palms\\nWhich shadow Paradise?\\nAll-moving Spirit I freely forth\\nAt Thy command the strong wind goes;\\nIts errand to the passive earth,\\nNor art can stay, nor strength oppose.\\nUntil it folds its weary wing\\nOnce more within the hand divine\\nSo, weary from its wandering,\\nMy spirit turns to Thine\\nChild of the sea, the mountain stream,\\nFrom its dark caverns, hurries on,\\nCeaseless, by night and morning s beam,\\nBy evening s star and noontide s sun,\\nUntil at last it sinks to rest,\\nO erwearied, in the waiting sea.\\nAnd moans upon its mother s breast\\nSo turns my soul to Thee\\nO Thou who bid St the torrent flow,\\nWho lendest wings unto the wind\\nMover of all things! where art Thou?\\nOh, whither shall I go to find", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0135.jp2"}, "136": {"fulltext": "126 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nThe secret of Thy resting-place?\\nIs there no holy wing for me,\\nThat, soaring, I may search the space\\nOf highest Heaven for Thee?\\nOh, would I were as free to rise\\nAs leaves on Autumn s whirlwind borne\\nThe arrowy light of sunset skies.\\nOr sound, or ray, or star of morn\\nWhich melts in heaven at twilight s close,\\nOr aught which soars uncheck d and free\\nThrough Earth and Heaven; that I might\\nlose\\nMyself in finding Thee", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0136.jp2"}, "137": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 127\\nFROM THE FRENCH OF LAMARTINE.\\nWhen the breath divine is flowing\\nZephyr-like o er all things going,\\nAnd as the touch of viewless fingers,\\nSoftly on my soul it lingers,\\nOpen to a breath the lightest,\\nConscious of a touch the slightest\\nAs some calm still lake, whereon\\nSinks the snowy-bosom d swan,\\nAnd the glistening water-rings\\nCircle round her itioving wings\\nWhen my upward gaze is turning\\nWhere the stars of heaven are burning\\nThrough the deep and dark abyss\\nFlowers of midnight s wilderness,\\nBlowing with the evening s breath\\nSweetly in their Maker s path\\nWhen the breaking day is flushing\\nAll the East, and light is gushing\\nUpward through the horizon s haze,\\nSheaf -like, with its thousand rays\\nSpreading, until all above", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0137.jp2"}, "138": {"fulltext": "128 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nOverflows with joy and love,\\nAnd below, on earth s green bosom,\\nAll is changed to light and blossom\\nWhen my waking fancies over\\nForms of brightness flit and hover,\\nHoly as the seraphs are,\\nWho by Zion s fountains wear\\nOn their foreheads, white and broad,\\nHoliness unto the Lord!\\nWhen, inspired with rapture high.\\nIt would seem a single sigh\\nCould a world of love create\\nThat my life could know no date,\\nAnd my eager thoughts could fill\\nHeaven and Earth, o erflowing still.\\nThen, O Father!\u00e2\u0080\u0094 Thou alone,\\nFrom the shadow of Thy throne.\\nTo the sighing of my breast\\nAnd its rapture answerest.\\nAll my thoughts, which, upward winging,\\nBathe where Thy own light is springing\\nAll my yearnings to be free\\nAre as echoes answering Thee\\nSeldom upon lips of mine\\nFather! rests that name of Thine\\nDeep within my inmost breast,", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0138.jp2"}, "139": {"fulltext": "On Nantucket s sea-worn isle. \u00e2\u0080\u0094Page 133.\\nWliittier s Poems.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0139.jp2"}, "140": {"fulltext": "", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0140.jp2"}, "141": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 129\\nIn the secret place of mind,\\nLike an awful Presence shrined,\\nDoth its dread Idea rest\\nHnsh d and holy dwells it there\\nPrompter of the silent prayer,\\nLifting np my spirit s eye\\nAnd its faint but earnest cry,\\nFrom its dark and cold abode.\\nUnto Thee, my Guide and God!", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0141.jp2"}, "142": {"fulltext": "130 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nTHE FAMILIST S HYMN.\\nThe Pilgrims of New England, even in their wil-\\nderness home, were not exempted from the sectarian\\ncontentions which agfitated the mother country after\\nthe downfall of Charles the First, and of the Established\\nEpiscopacy. The Quakers, Baptists, and Catholics were\\nbanished, on pain of death, from the Massachusetts\\nColony. One Samuel Gordon, a bold and eloquent de-\\nclaimer, after preaching for a time in Boston, against the\\ndoctrines of the Puritans, and declaring that their\\nchurches were mere human devices, and their sacra-\\nment and baptism an abomination, was driven out of\\nthe State s jurisdiction, and compelled to seek a resi-\\ndence among the savages. He gathered round him a\\nconsiderable number of converts, who, like the primi-\\ntive Christians, shared all things in common. His opin-\\nions, however, were so troublesome to the leading clergy\\nof the Colony, that they instigated an attack upon his\\nFamily by an armed force, which seized upon the\\nprincipal men in it, and brought them into Massachu-\\nsetts, where they were sentenced to be kept at hard\\nlabor in several towns (one only in each town), during\\nthe pleasure of the General Court, they being forbidden\\nunder severe penalties to utter any of their religious\\nsentiments, except to such ministers as might labor for\\ntheir conversion. They were unquestionably sincere in\\ntheir opinions, and whatever may have been their errors,\\ndeserve to be ranked among those who have in all ages\\nsuffered for the freedom of conscience.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0142.jp2"}, "143": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 131\\nFather! to thy suffering poor\\nStrength and grace and faith impart.\\nAnd with Thy own love restore\\nComfort to the broken heart\\nOh, the failing ones confirm\\nWith a holier strength of zeal\\nGive Thon not the feeble worm\\nHelpless to the Spoiler s heel!\\nFather! for Thy hol}^ sake\\nWe are spoil d and hunted thus;\\nJoyful, for Thy truth we take\\nBonds and burthens unto us:\\nPoor, and weak, and robb d of all,\\nWeary with our daily task,\\nThat Thy truth may never fall\\nThrough our weakness. Lord, we ask.\\nRound our fired and wasted homes\\nFlits the forest-bird unscared,\\nAnd, at noon, the wild beast comes\\nWhere our frugal meal was shared.\\nFor the song of praises there\\nShrieks the crow the livelong day.\\nFor the sound of evening prayer\\nHowls the evil beast of prey\\nSweet the songs we loved to sing\\nUnderneath Thy holy sky", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0143.jp2"}, "144": {"fulltext": "132 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nWords and tones that used to bring\\nTears of joy in every eye,\\nDear the wrestling hours of prayer,\\nWhen we gather d knee to knee,\\nBlameless youth and hoary hair,\\nBow d, O God, alone to Thee.\\nAs Thine early children, Lord,\\nShared their wealth and daily bread,\\nEven so, with one accord,\\nWe, in love, each other fed.\\nNot with us the miser s hoard.\\nNot with us his grasping hand\\nEqual, round a common board.\\nDrew our meek and brother band!\\nSafe our quiet Eden lay\\nWhen the war-whoop stirr d the land,\\nAnd the Indian turn d away\\nFrom our home his bloody hand.\\nWell that forest-ranger saw.\\nThat the burthen and the curse\\nOf the white man s cruel law\\nRested also upon us.\\nTorn apart, and driven forth\\nTo our toiling hard and long.\\nFather from the dust of earth\\nLift we still our grateful song!", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0144.jp2"}, "145": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 133\\nGrateful that in bonds we share\\nIn Thy love which maketh free\\nJoyful that the wrong^s we bear,\\nDraw us nearer, Lord, to Thee\\nGrateful! that, where er we toil\\nBy Wachuset s wooded side,\\nOn Nantucket s sea-worn isle.\\nOr by wild Nepon set s tide\\nStill, in spirit, we are near.\\nAnd our evening hymns, which rise\\nSeparate and discordant here.\\nMeet and mingle in the skies!\\nLet the scoffer scorn and mock,\\nLet the proud and evil priest\\nRob the needy of his flock,\\nFor his wine-cup and his feast,\\nRedden not Thy bolts in store\\nThrough the blackness of Thy skies!\\nFor the sighing of the poor\\nWilt Thou not, at length, arise?\\nWorn and wasted, oh, how long\\nShall Thy trodden poor complain\\nIn Thy name they bear the wrong.\\nIn Thy cause the bonds of pain", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0145.jp2"}, "146": {"fulltext": "134 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nMelt Oppression s heart of steel,\\nLet the haughty priesthood see,\\nAnd their blinded followers feel.\\nThat in us they mock at Thee\\nIn Thy time, O Lord of hosts,\\nStretch abroad that hand to save\\nWhich of old, on Egypt s coasts.\\nSmote apart the Red Sea s wave!\\nLead us from this evil land.\\nFrom the Spoiler set us free,\\nAnd once more our gather d band.\\nHeart to heart, shall worship Thee.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0146.jp2"}, "147": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 135\\nTHE CALL OF THE CHRISTIAN.\\nNot always as the whirlwind s rush\\nOn Horeb s mount of fear,\\nNot always as the burning bush\\nTo Midian s shepherd seer,\\nNor as the awful voice which came\\nTo Israel s prophet bards,\\nNor as the tongues of cloven flame,\\nNor gift of fearful words\\nNot always thus, with outward sign\\nOf fire or voice from Heaven,\\nThe message of a truth divine\\nThe call of God is given\\nAwakening in the human heart\\nLove for the true and right\\nZeal for the Christian s better part,\\nStrength for the Christian s fight.\\nNor unto manhood s heart alone\\nThe holy influence steals:\\nWarm with a rapture not its own,\\nThe heart of woman feels", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0147.jp2"}, "148": {"fulltext": "136 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nAs she who by Samaria s wall\\nThe Saviour s errand sought\\nAs those who with the fervent Paul\\nAnd meek Aquila wrought.\\nOr those meek ones whose martyrdom\\nRome s gather d grandeur saw:\\nOr those who in their Alpine home\\nBraved the Crusader s war,\\nWhen the green Yaudois, trembling, heard,\\nThrough all its vales of death,\\nThe martyr s song of triumph pour d\\nFrom woman s failing breath.\\nOh, gently, by a thousand things,\\nWhich o er our spirits pass.\\nLike breezes o er the harp s fine strings,\\nOr vapors o er a glass,\\nLeaving their token strange and new\\nOf music or of shade.\\nThe summons to the right and true\\nAnd merciful is made.\\nOh, then, if gleams of Truth and Light\\nFlash o er the waiting wind,\\nUnfolding to our mental sight\\nThe wants of human kind\\nIf, brooding over human grief,\\nThe earnest wish is known", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0148.jp2"}, "149": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 137\\nTo soothe and gladden with relief\\nAn anguish not oui own.\\nThough heralded with naught of fear,\\nOr outward sigh, or show\\nThough only to the inward ear\\nIt whispers soft and low\\nThough dropping, as the manna fell,\\nUnseen yet from above\\nHoly and gentle heed it well!\\nThe call to truth and love.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0149.jp2"}, "150": {"fulltext": "138 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nTHE FROST SPIRIT.\\nHe comes he comes the Frost Spirit comes!\\nYou many trace his footsteps now\\nOn the naked woods and the blasted fields\\nand the brown hill s wither d brow.\\nHe has smitten the leaves of the g ray old trees\\nwhere their pleasant green came forth,\\nAnd the winds, which follow wherever he goes,\\nhave shaken them down to earth.\\nHe comes he comes the Frost Spirit comes\\nfrom the frozen Labrador\\nFrom the icy bridge of the Northern seas,\\nwhich the white bear wanders o er\\nV/here the fisherman s sail is stiff with ice,\\nand the luckless forms below\\nIn the sunless cold of the atmosphere into\\nmarble statues grow\\nHe comes he comes the Frost Spirit comes\\non the rushing Northern blast,\\nAnd the dark Norwegian pines have bow d as\\nhis fearful breath went past.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0150.jp2"}, "151": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 139\\nWith an unscorch d wing he has hurried on,\\nwhere the fires of Hecla glow\\nOn the darkly beautiful sky above and the\\nancient ice below.\\nHe comes he comes the Frost Spirit comes!\\nand the quiet lake shall feel\\nThe torpid touch of his glazing breath, and\\nring to the skater s heel;\\nAnd the streams which danced on the broken\\nrocks, or sang to the leaning grass,\\nShall bow again to their winter chain, and in\\nmournful silence pass.\\nHe comes he comes the Frost Spirit comes!\\nlet us meet him as we may.\\nAnd turn with the light of the parlor- fire his\\nevil power away\\nAnd gather closer the circle round, when that\\nfirelight dances high,\\nAnd laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend\\nas his sounding wing goes by", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0151.jp2"}, "152": {"fulltext": "140 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nTHE WORSHIP OF NATURE.\\nIt hath beene as it were especially rendered unto\\nmee and made plaine and legible to my understandynge\\nthat a great worshipp is going on among the thyngs of\\nGod. Grait.\\nThe Ocean looketh tip to Heaven,\\nAs t were a living thing,\\nThe homage of its waves is given\\nIn ceaseless worshipping.\\nThey kneel upon the sloping sand,\\nAs bends the human knee,\\nA beautiful and tireless band,\\nThe Priesthood of the Sea!\\nThey pour the glittering treasures out\\nWhich in the deep have birth.\\nAnd chant their awful hymns about\\nThe advancing hills of earth.\\nThe green earth sends its incense up\\nFrom every mountain shrine,\\nFrom every flower and dewy cup\\nThat greeteth the sunshine.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0152.jp2"}, "153": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 141\\nThe mists are lifted from the rills\\nLike the white wings of prayer.\\nThey lean above the ancient hills\\nAs doing homage there.\\nThe forest tops are lowly cast\\nO er breezy hill and glen,\\nAs if a prayerful spirit pass d\\nOn Nature as on men.\\nThe clouds weep o er the fallen world\\nE en as repentant love;\\nEre to the blessed breeze unfurl d\\nThey fade in light above.\\nThe sky is as a temple s arch,\\nThe blue and wavy air\\nIs glorious with the spirit-march\\nOf messengers of prayer.\\nThe gentle moon the kindling sun\\nThe many stars are given.\\nAs shrines to burn earth s incense on\\nThe altar-fires of Heaven", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0153.jp2"}, "154": {"fulltext": "142 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nLINES,\\nWritten in the Common place Book of a young lady.\\nWrite, write! Dear Cousin, since thy word,\\nLike that my ancient namesake heard\\nOn Patmos, may not be denied,\\nI offer for thy^ page a lay\\nBreathing of Beauty pass d away\\nOf Grace and Genius, Love and Truth,\\nAll which can add a charm to youth,\\nTo Virtue and to Heaven allied.\\nForgive me, if the lay be such\\nAs may not suit thy hours of gladness;\\nForgive me, if it breathe too much\\nOf mourning and of sadness.\\nIt may be well that tears, at whiles.\\nShould take the place of Folly s smiles.\\nWhen neath some Heaven-directed blow.\\nLike those of Horeb s rock, they flow;\\nFor sorrows are in mercy given\\nTo fit the chasten d soul for Heaven;\\nPrompting, with woe and weariness,\\nOur yearning for that better sky,\\nWhich, as the shadows close on this.\\nGrows brighter to the longing eye.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0154.jp2"}, "155": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 143\\nFor each unwelcome blow may break,\\nPerchance, some chain which binds us here\\nAnd clouds around the heart may make\\nThe vision of our Faith more clear\\nAs through the shadowy veil of even\\nThe eye looks farthest into Heaven,\\nOn gleams of star and depths of blue\\nThe fervid sunshine never knew\\nThe parted spirit,\\nKnoweth it not our sorrow? Answereth not\\nIts blessing to our tears?\\nThe circle is broken one seat is forsaken,\\nOne bud from the tree of our friendship is\\nshaken\\nOne heart from among us no longer shall thrill\\nWith the spirit of gladness, or darken with ill.\\nWeep Lonely and lowly, are slumbering now\\nThe light of her glances, the pride of her brow.\\nWeep! Sadly and long shall we listen in vain\\nTo hear the soft tones of her welcome again.\\nGive our tears to the dead! For humanity s\\nclaim\\nFrom its silence and darkness is ever the same:\\nThe hope of that World whose existence is\\nbliss\\nMay not stifle the tears of the mourners of this.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0155.jp2"}, "156": {"fulltext": "144 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nFor, oh! if one glance the freed spirit can\\nthrow\\nOn the scene of its troubled probation below,\\nThan the pride of the marble the pomp of\\nthe dead\\nTo that glance will be dearer the tears which\\nwe shed.\\nOh, who can forget the rich light of her smile,\\nOver lips moved with music and feeling the\\nwhile\\nThe eye s deep enchantment, dark, dream-like,\\nand clear,\\nIn the glow of its gladness the shade of its\\ntear.\\nAnd the charm of her features, while over the\\nwhole\\nPlay d the hues of the heart and the sunshine\\nof soul,\\nAnd the tones of her voice, like the music which\\nseems\\nMurmur d low in our ears by the Angel of\\ndreams\\nBut holier and dearer our memories hold\\nThose treasures of feeling, more precious than\\ngold\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nThe love and the kindness, the pity which\\ngave", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0156.jp2"}, "157": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 145\\nFresh hopes to the living and wreaths for the\\ngrave\\nThe heart ever open to Charity s claim,\\nUnmoved from its purpose by censure and\\nblame,\\nWhile vainly alike on her eye and her ear\\nFell the scorn of the heartless, the jesting and\\njeer.\\nFor, though spotless herself, she could sorrow\\nfor them\\nWho sullied with evil the spirit s pure gem;\\nAnd a sigh or a tear could the erring reprove,\\nAnd the sting of reproof was still temper d by\\nlove.\\nAs a cloud of the sunset, slow melting in heaven,\\nAs a star that is lost when the daylight is given,\\nAs a glad dream of slumber, which weakens in\\nbliss.\\nShe hath pass d to the world of the holy\\nfrom this.\\nShe hath pass d but, oh sweet as the flowrets,\\nthat bloom\\nFrom her last lonely dwelling the dust of her\\ntomb\\nThe charm of her virtues, as heaven s own.\\nbreath.\\nShall rise like an incense from darkness and\\ndeath.\\n10", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0157.jp2"}, "158": {"fulltext": "146 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nTHE WATCHER.\\nAnd Rizpah, the daughter of Aiah, took sackcloth,\\nand spread it for her upon the rock, from the beginning\\nof harvest until water dropped upon them out of Heaven,\\nand suffered neither the birds of the air to rest on them\\nby day, nor the beasts of the field by night. 2 Sam.\\nTall men and kingly-brow d! they led them\\nforth\\nBound for the sacrifice. It was high noon\\nAnd ancient Gibeah, emptied of her life,\\nRose silently before the harvest sun.\\nHer dwellers had gone out before the walls,\\nWith a stern purpose; and her maidens lean d\\nBreathless for its fulfillment, from the hills,\\nUncheer d by reaper s song. The harvest lay\\nStinted and sere upon their parched tops.\\nThe streams had perish d in their goings on;\\nAnd the deep fountains fail d. The fervent\\nsun,\\nUnchasten d by a cloud, for months had shone\\nA lidless eye in heaven and all the sky\\nGlow d as a furnace, and the prodigal dew\\nSVith the scorch d earth held no companionship.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0158.jp2"}, "159": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 147\\nA curse was over Israel. Unjudged crime\\nHad wrought it in the elements. Her soil\\nWas unbless d as the heathen s; and the\\nplagues\\nOf those who know not God, and bow them\\ndown\\nTo a strange worship, had been meted her.\\nThe sacrifice was finish d. Gibeon roll d\\nBack like a torrent througli the city gates\\nHer gather d thousands and her victimi lay\\nNaked beneath the brazen arch of heavt n,\\nOn the stain d Rock of Sacrifice. The sun\\nWent down his heated pathway with a slow\\nAnd weary progress, as he loved to gaze\\nOn the dark horror of his burning noon\\nThe sacrifice of Innocence for Guilt,\\nWhose blood had sent its sleepless murmur up\\nTo the Avenger s ear, until fierce wrath\\nBurn d over earth and heaven, and Vengeance\\nheld\\nThe awful master of the elements.\\nWho stealeth from the city, in the garb\\nWhich tokens the heart s sorrow, and which\\nseems\\nAround her wasted form to shadow forth\\nThe visitation of dark grief within?", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0159.jp2"}, "160": {"fulltext": "148 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nLo she hath pass d the valley, and her foot\\nIs on the Rock of Sacrifice and now\\nShe stoopeth over the unburied dead,\\nAnd moves her lip, but speaks not. It is\\nstrange\\nAnd very fearful I The descending sun\\nIs pausing like a fire-wing d Angel on\\nThe bare hills of the West, and, fierce and red.\\nHis last rays fall aslant the place of blood.\\nColoring its dark stains deeper. Lo she\\nkneels\\nTo cover, with a trembling hand, the cold\\nAnd ghastly work of death those desecrate\\nAnd darken d temples of the living soul!\\nHer task was finish d; and she went away\\nA little distance, and, as night stole on\\nWith dim starlight and shadow, she sat down\\nUpon a jutting fragment of the rock\\nA solitary watcher. The red glow\\nThat wrestled with the darkness, and sent up\\nIts spear-like lines of light until they waned\\nInto the dark blue zenith, pass d away,\\n-And, from the broad and shadow d West, the\\nstars\\nvShone through substantial blackness. Mid-\\nniofht came", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0160.jp2"}, "161": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 149\\nThe wind was groaning on the hills and\\nthrough\\nThe naked branches of their perishing trees,\\nAnd strange sounds blended with it. The\\ngaunt wolf,\\nScenting the place of slaughter, with his long\\nAnd most offensive howl did ask for blood\\nAnd the hyena sat upon the cliff,\\nHis red eye glowing terribly and low,\\nBut frequent and most fearfully, his growl\\nCame to the watcher s ear. Alone she sat,\\nUnmoving as her resting-place of rock.\\nFear for herself she felt not every tie\\nThat once took hold on life with aught of love\\nWas broken utterly. Her eye was fix d.\\nStony and motionless, upon the pall\\nWhich veil d her princely dead. And this\\nwas love\\nIn its surpassing power yea, love as strong\\nAs that which binds the peopled Universe,\\nAnd pure as Angel- worship, when the just\\nAnd beautiful of Heaven are bow d in prayer 1\\nThe night stole into morning, and the sun,\\nRed and unwelcome, rode without a cloud,\\nAnd there was Rizpah still, woe-worn and pale\\nAnd yet in her dark eye and darker hair,\\nAnd in the marble and uplifted brow,", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0161.jp2"}, "162": {"fulltext": "150 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nAnd the much wasted figure, might be seen\\nA wreck of perfect beauty, such as bow d\\nThe throned one of Israel at her feet,\\nLow as the trampled Philistine had knelt\\nBefore his mailed presence. Not a tear\\nGlisten d on eye or cheek, but still she gazed\\nOn the dark veil of sackcloth with a strange\\nAnd fixed earnestness. The sky again\\nRedden d with heat, and the unmoisten d earth\\nWas like the ashen surface of the hush d\\nBut perilous volcano. Rizpah bore\\nThe fever of noon-time, with a stern\\nAnd awful sense of duty nerving her.\\nIn her devotedness. She might not leave\\nThe high place of her watching for the shade\\nOf cluster d palm-trees; and the lofty rocks,\\nCasting their grim and giant shadows down.\\nMight not afford her shelter; for the sweep\\nOf heavy wings went over her like clouds\\nCrossing the sunshine, and most evil birds.\\nDark and obscene, the jaguars of the air!\\nFrom all the hills had gather d. Far and shy\\nThe somber raven sat upon his rock.\\nAnd his vile mate did mock him. The vast\\nwing\\nOf the great eagle, stooping from the sun,\\nWinnow d the cliffs above her!\\nDay by day.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0162.jp2"}, "163": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 151\\nBeneath the scorching of the unveird sun,\\nAnd the unweeping solitude of night,\\nPale Rizpah kept her vigils and her prayer\\nWent up at morn and eventide, that Earth\\nMight know the gentle visitings of rain\\nAnd be accurs d no more. And when at last\\nGod thunder d in the heavens, and clouds\\ncame up\\nFrom the long slumber, and the great rain fell\\nAnd the parch d earth drank deeply, Rizpah\\nknew\\nHer prayers were answer d, and she knelt again\\nIn earnest gratitude; and when the storm\\nRoll d off before the sunshine, kindly hands\\nConvey d away her wasted charge, and gave\\nThe sons of Saul a sepulchre with him.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0163.jp2"}, "164": {"fulltext": "152 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nTHE CITIES OF THE PLAIN.\\nAway from the ruin! Oh, hurry ye on,\\nWhile the sword of the Angel yet slumbers\\nundrawn\\nAway from the doom d and deserted of God-^\\nAway, for the Spoiler is rushing abroad!\\nThe warning was spoken the righteous had\\ngone,\\nApd the proud ones of Sodom were feasting\\nalone\\nAll gay was the banquet the revel was long\\nWith the pouring of wine and the breathing of\\nsong.\\nTwas an evening of beauty. The air was per-\\nfume,\\nThe earth was all greenness, the trees were\\nall bloom;\\nAnd softly the delicate viol was heard,\\nLike the murmur of love or the notes of a bird.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0164.jp2"}, "165": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 153\\nAnd beautiful creatures moved down in the\\ndance,\\nWith the magic of motion and sunshine of\\nglance\\nAnd white arms wreath d lightly, and tresses\\nfell free,\\nAs the plumage of birds in some tropical tree.\\nAnd the shrine of the idol was lighted on high,\\nFor the bending of knee and the homage of\\neye;\\nAnd the worship was blended with blasphemy s\\nword,\\nAnd the wine-bibber scoff d at the name of the\\nLord!\\nHark the growl of the thunder the quaking\\nof earth\\nWoe woe to the worship, and woe to the\\nmirth\\nThe black sky has open d there s flame in the\\nair\\nThe red arm of vengeance is lifted and bare\\nAnd the shriek of the dying rose wild where\\nthe song\\nAnd the low tone of love had been whispered\\nalong;", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0165.jp2"}, "166": {"fulltext": "154 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nFor the fierce flames went lightly o er palace\\nand bower,\\nLike the red tongues of demons, to blast and\\ndevour\\nDown down, on the fallen, the red ruin rain*d\\nAnd the reveler sank with his wine-cup un-\\ndrain d;\\nThe foot of the dancer, the music s lov d thrill.\\nAnd the shout and the laughter grew suddenly\\nstill.\\nThe last throb of anguish was fearfully given\\nThe last eye glared forth in its madness on\\nHeaven\\nThe last groan of horror rose wildly and vain.\\nAnd death brooded over the pride of the Plain", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0166.jp2"}, "167": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 155\\nTHE CRUCIFIXION.\\nSunlight upon Judea s hills!\\nAnd on the waves of Galilee\\nOn Jordan s stream and on the rills\\nThat gathered to the sleeping sea\\nMost freshly from the green wood springs\\nThe light breeze on its scented wings\\nAnd gayly quiver in the sun\\nThe cedar tops of Lebanon\\nA few more hours a change hath come\\nDark as a brooding thunder-cloud\\nThe shouts of wrath and joy are dumb,\\nAnd proud knees unto earth are bow d:\\nA change is on the hill of Death,\\nThe helmed watchers pant for breath,\\nAnd turn with wild and maniac eyes\\nFrom the dark scene of sacrifice\\nThat Sacrifice the death of Him\\nThe High and ever Holy One\\nWell may the conscious Heaven grow dim,.\\nAnd blacken the beholding Sun", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0167.jp2"}, "168": {"fulltext": "156 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nThe wonted light had fled away,\\nNight settles on the middle day,\\nAnd Earthquake from his cavern d bed\\nIs v/aking with a thrill of dread\\nThe dead are waking underneath\\nTheir prison door is rent away!\\nAnd, ghastly with the seal of death.\\nThey wander in the eye of day!\\nThe temple of the Cherubim\\nThe House of God is cold and dim;\\nA curse is on its trembling walls,\\nIts mighty veil asunder falls\\nWell may the cavern-depths of Earth\\nBe shaken, and her mountains nod\\nWell may the sheeted dead come forth\\nTo gaze upon a suffering God!\\nWell may the temple-shrine grow dim.\\nAnd shadows veil the Cherubim,\\nWhen He, the chosen One of Heaven,\\nA sacrifice for guilt is given\\nAnd shall the sinful heart, alone.\\nBehold unmov d th atoning hour.\\nWhen Nature trembles on her throne.\\nAnd death resigns his iron power?\\nJ", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0168.jp2"}, "169": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 157\\nOh, shall the heart whose sinfulness\\nGave keenness to His sore distress,\\nAnd added to Plis tears of blood-\\nRefuse its trembling gratitude", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0169.jp2"}, "170": {"fulltext": "158 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nTHE CITY OF REFUGE.\\nJoshua, chapter sx.\\nAway from thy people, thou shedder of\\nblood\\nAway to the refuge appointed of God\\nXay, pause not to look for thy household or kin,\\nFor Death is behind thee, thou worker of sin.\\nAway! look not back, though that sorrow-\\nful one,\\nThe mother who bore thee, shall wail for her\\nson\\nNor stay when thy wife, as a beautiful blos-\\nsom,\\nShall clasp thy fair child to her desolate bosom.\\nAway with thy face to the refuge afar\\nIn the glow of the sun in the eye of the star;\\nThough the Simoom breathe o er thee, oppres-\\nsive and warm,\\nRest not by the fountain nor under the palm.\\nAway! for the kinsman of him thou hast\\nslain\\nI", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0170.jp2"}, "171": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 159\\nHas breathed on thy head the dark curses of\\nCain;\\nThe cry of his vengeance shall follow thy\\npath\\nThe tramp of his footstep, the shout of his\\nwrath.\\nAnd the slayer sprang up as the warning was\\nsaid,\\nAnd the stones of the altar rang out to his\\ntread\\nThe wail of his household was lost on his ear\\nHe spoke not, he paused not, he turn d not to\\nhear,\\nHe fled to the desert he turn d him not back\\nWhen the rush of the sand-storm grew loud in\\nhis track.\\nNor paused till his vision fell, grateful and\\nglad.\\nOn the green hills of Gilead the white tents\\nof Gad.\\nOh, thiis, when the crimes and the errors of\\nEarth\\nHave driven her children as wanderers forth,\\nTo the bow d and the broken of spirit is given\\nThe hope of a refuge the refuge of Heaven", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0171.jp2"}, "172": {"fulltext": "160 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nISABELLA OF AUSTRIA.\\nIsabella, Infanta of Parma, and consort of Joseph of\\nAustria, predicted her own death, immediately after\\nher marriage with the Emperor. Amidst the gayety\\nand splendor of Vienna and Presburg, she was reserved\\nand melancholy she believed that Heaven had given\\nher a view of the future, and that her child, the name-\\nsake of the great Marie Theresa, would perish with her.\\nHer prediction was fulfilled.\\nMidst the palace-bowers of Hungary, imperial\\nPresburg s pride,\\nWith the noble-born and beautiful assembled\\nat her side,\\nShe stood, beneath the summer heaven, the\\nsoft winds sighing on,\\nStirring the green and arching boughs, like\\ndancers in the sun.\\nThe beautiful pomegranate s gold, the snowy\\norange- bloom.\\nThe lotus and the creeping vine, the rose s\\nmeek perfume.\\nThe willow crossing with its green some statue s\\nmarble hair,\\nAll that might charm th exquisite sense, or\\nlight the soul, was there.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0172.jp2"}, "173": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 161\\nBut she a monarch s treasured one iean d\\ngloomily apart,\\nWith her dark eye tearfully cast down and a\\nshadow on her heart.\\nYoung, beautiful, and dearly loved, what sor-\\nrow hath she known?\\nAre not the hearts and swords of all held\\nsacred as her own?\\nIs not her lord the kingliest in battle-field or\\nbower?\\nThe foremost in the coimcil-hall, or at the ban-\\nquet-hour?\\nIs not his love as pure and deep as his own\\nDanube s tide?\\nAnd wherefore in her princely home weeps\\nIsabel, his bride?\\nShe raised her jewel d hand and flung her veil-\\ning tresses back.\\nBathing its snowy tapering within their glossy\\nblack.\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nA tear fell on the orange leaves; rich gem\\nand mimic blossom.\\nAnd fringed robe shook fearfully upon her\\nsighing bosom;\\nSmile on, smile on, she murmur d low,\\nfor all is joy around.\\nShadow and sunshine, stainless sky, soft airs\\nand blossom d ground;", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0173.jp2"}, "174": {"fulltext": "162 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\n*Tis meet the light of heart should smile when\\nnature s brow is fair,\\nAnd melody and fragrance meet, twin sisters\\nof the air\\nBut ask not me to share with you the beauty\\nof the scene\\nThe fountain-fall, mosaic walk, and tessellated\\ngreen\\nAnd point not to the mild blue sky, or glorious\\nsummer sun\\nI know how very fair is all the hand of God\\nhath done\\nThe hills, the sky, the sun-lit cloud, the foun-\\ntain leaping forth,\\nThe swaying trees, the scented flowers, the\\ndark green robes of earth\\nI love them still; yet I have learn d to turn\\naside from all.\\nAnd never more my heart must own their\\nsweet but fatal thrall!\\nAnd I could love the noble one whose mighty\\nname I bear.\\nAnd closer to my bursting heart his hallow d\\nimage wear;\\nAnd I could watch our sweet young flower un-\\nfolding day by day,", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0174.jp2"}, "175": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 163\\nAnd taste of that unearthly bliss which mothers\\nonly may\\nBut no, I may not cling to earth that voice is\\nin my ear,\\nThat shadow lingers by my side the death-\\nwail and the bier,\\nThe cold and starless night of death where\\nday may never beam,\\nThe silence and the loathsomeness, the sleep\\nwhich hath no dream\\nO God! to leave this fair bright world, and,\\nmore than all, to know\\nThe moment when the Spectral One shall deal\\nhis fearful blow;\\nTo know the day, the very hour; to feel the\\ntide roll on\\nTo shudder at the gloom before, and weep the\\nsunshine gone\\nTo count the days, the few short days, of light\\nand life and breath,\\nBetween me and the noisome grave the voice-\\nless home of death,\\nAlas if, knowing, feeling this, I murmur at\\nmy doom,\\nLet not thy frowning, O my God lend darkness\\nto the tomb.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0175.jp2"}, "176": {"fulltext": "164 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nOh, I have borne my spirit up, and smiled\\namid the chill\\nRemembrance of my certain doom, which\\nlingers with me still\\nI would not cloud our fair child s brow, nor let\\na tear-drop dim\\nThe eye that met my wedded lord s, lest it\\nshould sadden him.\\nBut there are moments when the gush of feel-\\ning hath its way;\\nThat hidden tide of unnamed woe nor fear nor\\nlove may stay.\\nSmile on, smile on, light-hearted ones, your\\nsun of joy is high\\nSmile on, and leave the doom d of Heaven\\nalone to weep and die.\\nA funeral chant was wailing through Vienna s\\nholy pile;\\nA coffin with its gorgeous pall was borne along\\nthe aisle;\\nThe banners of a kingly race waved high above\\nthe dead;\\nA mighty band of mourners came a king was\\nat its head,\\nA youthful king, with mournful tread and dim\\nand tearful eye", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0176.jp2"}, "177": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 165\\nHe had not dream d that one so pure as his\\nfair bride could die\\nAnd sad and wild above the throng the funeral\\nanthem rung:\\nMourn for the hope of Austria, mourn for the\\nloved and young!\\nThe wail went up from other lands the val-\\nleys of the Hun,\\nFair Parma with its orange bowers and hills of\\nvine and sun\\nThe lilies of imperial France droop d as the\\nsound went by.\\nThe long lament of cloister d Spain was\\nmingled with the cry;\\nThe dwellers in Colorno s halls, the Slowak at\\nhis cave,\\nThey bow d at the Escurial, the Magyar sternly\\nbrave\\nAll wept the early-stricken flower, and burst\\nfrom every tongue:\\nMourn for the dark-eyed Isabel mourn for\\nthe loved and young!", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0177.jp2"}, "178": {"fulltext": "166 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nLINES,\\nWritten on visiting a singular cave in Chester, N. H.,\\nknown in the vicinity by the name of The Devil s\\nDen.\\nThe moon is bright on the rocky hill\\nBut its dwarfish pines rise gloomily still,\\nFix d, motionless forms in the silent air,\\nThe moonlight is on them, but darkness is\\nthere.\\nThe drowsy flap of the owlet s wing,\\nAnd the stream s low gush from its hidden\\nspring.,\\nAnd the passing breeze, in its flight betray d\\nBy the timid shiver of leaf and blade,\\nHalf like a sigh and half a moan.\\nThe ear of the listener catches alone.\\nA dim cave yawns in the rude hill-side,\\nLike the jaws of a monster open d wide,\\nWhere a few wild bushes of thorn and fern\\nTheir leaves from the breadth of the night-air\\nturn;\\nAnd half with twining foliage cover\\nThe mouth of that shadowy cavern over", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0178.jp2"}, "179": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 167\\nAbove it, the rock rests orloomy and high\\nIts rugged outline against the sky,\\nWhich seems, as it opens on either hand,\\nLike some bright sea leaving a desolate land.\\nBelow it, a stream on its bed of stone\\nFrom a rift in the rock comes hurrying down,\\nTelling forever the same wild tale\\nOf its loftier home to the lowly vale\\nAnd over its waters an oak is bending,\\nIts boughs like a skeleton s arms extending\\nA naked tree, by the lightning shorn,\\nWith its trunk all bare and its branches torn;\\nAnd the rocks beneath it, blacken d and rent.\\nTell where the bolt of the thunder went.\\nTis said that this cave is an evil place\\nThe chosen haunt of the fallen race\\nThat the midnight traveler oft hath seen\\nA red flame tremble its jaws between.\\nAnd lighten and quiver the boughs among.\\nLike the fiery play of a serpent s tongue;\\nThat sounds of fear from its chambers swell\\nThe ghostly gibber, the fiendish yell\\nThat bodiless hands at its entrance wave,\\nAnd hence they have named it The Demon s\\nCave!", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0179.jp2"}, "180": {"fulltext": "168 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nThe fears of man to this place have lent\\nA terror which Nature never meant;\\nFor who hath wander d, with curious eye,\\nThis dim and shadowy cavern by,\\nAnd known, in the sun or starlight, aught\\nWhich might not beseem so lonely a spot,\\nThe stealthy fox, and the shy raccoon,\\nThe night-bird s wing in the shining moon,\\nThe frogs low croak, and, upon the hill,\\nThe steady chant of the whip-poor-will?\\nYet is there something to fancy dear\\nIn this silent cave and its lingering fear,\\nSomething which tells of another age.\\nOf the wizard s wand, and the Sibyl s page.\\nOf the fairy ring and the haunted glen,\\nAnd the restless phantoms of m^urder d men,\\nThe grandame s tale and the nurse s song.\\nThe dreams of childhood remember d long;\\nAnd I love even now to list the tale\\nOf the Demon s Cave, and its haunted vale.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0180.jp2"}, "181": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 169\\nTHE FRATRICIDE.\\nIn the recently published History of Wyoming a\\nvalley rendered classic ground by the poetry of Camp-\\nbell in an account of the attack of Brandt and Butler\\non the settlements in 1778, a fearful circumstance is\\nmentioned. A tory, who had joined the Indians and\\nBritish, discovered his own brother, while pursuing the\\nAmericans, and, deaf to his entreaties, deliberately pre-\\nsented his rifle and shot him dead on the spot The\\nmurderer fled to Canada.\\nHe stood on the brow of the well-known hill,\\nIts few gray oaks moan d over him still\\nThe last of that forest which cast the gloom\\nOf its shadow at eve o er his childhood s home;\\nAnd the beautiful valley beneath him lay\\nWith its quivering leaves, and its stream at\\nplay.\\nAnd the sunshine over it all the while\\nLike the golden shower of the Eastern isle.\\nHe knew the rock with its fingering vine,\\nAnd its gray top touch d by the slant sunshine,\\nAnd the delicate stream which crept beneath\\nSoft as the flow of an infant s breath", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0181.jp2"}, "182": {"fulltext": "170 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nAnd the flowers which lean d to the V7est\\nwind s sigh,\\nKissing each ripple which glided by\\nAnd he knew every valley and wooded swell,\\nFor the visions of childhood are treasured well.\\nWhy shook the old man as his eyes glanced\\ndown\\nThat narrow ravine where the rude cliffs frown,\\nWith their shaggy brows and their teeth of\\nstone,\\nAnd their grim shade back from the sunlight\\nthrown?\\nWhat saw he there save the dreary glen,\\nWhere the shy fox crept from the eye of men,\\nAnd the great owl sat in the leafy limb\\nThat the hateful sun might not look on him?\\nFix d, glassy, and strange was that old man s\\neye,\\nAs if a spectre were stealing by,\\nAnd glared it still on that narrow dell\\nWhere thicker and browner the twilight fell\\nYet at every sign of the fitful wind,\\nOr stirring of leaves in the wood behind,\\nHis wild glance wander d the landscape o er,\\nThen fixed on that desolate dell once more.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0182.jp2"}, "183": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 171\\nOh, who shall tell of the thought which ran\\nThrough the dizzied brain of that gray old man?\\nHis childhood s home and his father s toil\\nAnd his sister s kiss and his mother s smile\\nAnd his brother s laughter and gamesome\\nmirth,\\nAt the village school and the winter hearth\\nThe beautiful thoughts of his early time,\\nEre his heart grew dark with its later crime.\\nAnd darker and wilder his visions came\\nOf the deadly feud and the midnight flame,\\nOf the Indian s knife with its slaughter red,\\nOf the ghastly forms of the scalpless dead.\\nOf his own fierce deeds in that fearful hour\\nWhen the terrible Brandt was forth in power.\\nAnd he clasp d his hands o er his burning eye\\nTo shadow the vision which glided by.\\nIt came with the rush of the battle-storm\\nWith a brother s shaken and kneeling form,\\nAnd his prayer for life when a brother s arm\\nWas lifted above him for mortal harm,\\nAnd the fiendish curse, and the groan of death.\\nAnd the welling of blood, and the gurgling\\nbreath,\\nAnd the scalp torn off while each nerve could\\nfeel\\nThe wrenching hand and the jagged steel", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0183.jp2"}, "184": {"fulltext": "172 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nAnd the old man groan d for he saw, again.\\nThe mangled corse of his kinsman slain,\\nAs it lay where his hand had hnrl d it then,\\nAt the shadow d foot of that fearful glen!\\nAnd it rose erect, with the death-pang grim,\\nAnd pointed its bloodied finger at him!\\nAnd his heart grew cold and the curse of Cain\\nBurn d like a fire in the old man s brain.\\nOh, had he not seen that spectre rise\\nOn the blue of the cold Canadian skies?\\nFrom the lakes which sleep in the ancient wood.\\nIt had risen to whisper its tale of blood,\\nAnd follow d his bark to the sombre shore.\\nAnd glared by night through the wigwam door\\nAnd here on his own familiar hill\\nIt rose on his haunted vision still\\nWhose corse was that which the morrow s sun.\\nThrough the opening boughs, look d calmly on?\\nThere were those who bent o er that rigid face\\nWho well in its darken d lines might trace\\nThe features of him who, a traitor, fled\\nFrom a brother whose blood himself had shed.\\nAnd there on the spot where he strangely\\ndied\\nThey made the grave of the Fratricide", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0184.jp2"}, "185": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 173\\nSUICIDE POND.\\n*Tis a dark and dismal little pool, and fed by\\ntiny rills,\\nAnd bosom d m waveless quietude between\\ntwo barren hills\\nThere is no tree on its rugged marge, save a\\nwillow old and lone,\\nLike a solitary mourner for its sylvan sisters\\nThe plough of the farmer turneth not the\\nsward of its gloomy shore,\\nWhich bears even now the same gray moss\\nwhich in other times it bore\\nAnd seldom or never the tread of man is heard\\nin that lonely spot,\\nFor with all the dwellers around that pool its\\nstory is unforgot.\\nAnd why does the traveler turn aside from that\\ndark and silent pool,\\nThough the sun be burning above his head and\\nthe willow s shade be cool?", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0185.jp2"}, "186": {"fulltext": "174 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nOr glance with fear to its shadowy brink, when\\nnight rests darkly there,\\nAnd down, through its sullen and evil depths\\nthe stars of the midnight glare?\\nMerrily whistles the cow-boy on but he hushes\\nhis music when\\nHe hurries his cows, with a sidelong glance\\nfrom that cold, forsaken glen!\\nLaughing and mirthful the young girl comes,\\nwith her gamesome mates, from school.\\nBut her laugh is lost and her lip is white as she\\npasses the haunted pool\\nTis said that a young, a beautiful girl, with a\\nbrow and with an eye,\\nOne like a cloud in the moonlight robed, and\\none like a star on high!\\nOne who was loved by the villagers all, and\\nwhose smile was a gift to them,\\nWas found one morn in that pool as cold as the\\nwater-lily s stem!\\nAy, cold as the rank and wasting weeds, which\\nlie in the pool s dark bed,\\nThe villagers found that beautiful one, in the\\nslumber of the dead.\\nShe had strangely whisper d her dark design in\\na young companion s ear,", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0186.jp2"}, "187": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 175\\nBut so wild and vague that the listener smiled,\\nand knew not what to fear.\\nAnd she went to die in that loathsome pool\\nwhen the summer day was done,\\nWith her dark hair curl d on her pure white\\nform and her fairest garments on\\nWith the ring on her taper finger still, and her\\nnecklace of ocean pearl,\\nTwined as in mockery round the neck of that\\nsuicidal girl.\\nAnd why she perish d so strangely there no\\nmortal tongue can tell\\nShe told her story to none, and Death retains\\nher secret well\\nAnd the willow, whose mossy and aged boughs\\no^er the silent water lean,\\nI^ike a sad and sorrowful mourner of the beauti-\\nful dead, is seen\\nBut oft, our village maidens say, when the\\nsummer evenings fall,\\nWhen the frog is calling from his pool to the\\ncricket in the wall\\nWhen the night-hawk s wing dips lightly down\\nto that dull and sleeping lake,\\nAnd slow through its green and stagnant mass\\nthe shoreward circles break", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0187.jp2"}, "188": {"fulltext": "176 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nAt a time like this, a misty form as long\\nbeneath the moon\\nLike a meteor glides to the startled view, and\\nvanishes as soon;\\nYet weareth it ever a human shape, and ever\\na human cry\\nComes faintly and low on the still night-air, as\\nwhen the despairing die", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0188.jp2"}, "189": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 177\\nTHE FOUNTAIN.\\nOn the declivity of a hill, in Salisbury, Essex County,\\nis a beautiful fountain of clear water, gushing out from\\nthe very roots of a majestic and venerable oak. It is\\nabout two miles from the junction of the Powwow River\\nwith the Merrimac.\\nTraveler! on thy journey toiling\\nBy the swift Powwow,\\nWith the summer sunshine falling\\nOn thy heated brow,\\nListen, while all else is still,\\nTo the brooklet from the hill.\\nWild and sweet the flowers are blowing\\nBy that streamlet s side,\\nAnd a greener verdure showing\\nWhere its waters glide\\nDown the hill-slope murmuring on,\\nOver root and mossy stone.\\nWhere yon oak his broad arms fiingetli\\nO er the sloping hill.\\nBeautiful and freshly springeth\\nThat soft-flowing rill,\\n12", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0189.jp2"}, "190": {"fulltext": "178 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nThrough its dark roots wreath d and bare,\\nGushing up to sun and air.\\nBrighter waters sparkled never\\nIn that magic well,\\nOf whose gift of life forever\\nAncient legends tell,\\nIn the lonely desert wasted,\\nAnd by mortal lip untasted.\\nWaters which the proud Castilian*\\nSought with longing eyes.\\nUnderneath the bright pavilion\\nOf the Indian skies\\nWhere upon his forest way\\nBloomed the flowers of Florida.\\nYears ago a lonely stranger,\\nWith the dusky brow\\nOf the outcast forest-ranger,\\nCross d the swift Powwow;\\nAnd betook him to the rill.\\nAnd the oak upon the hill.\\nO er his face of moody sadness\\nFor an instant shone\\nSomething like a gleam of gladness,\\nDe Soto, in the sixteenth century, penetrated into the wilds\\nof the new world in search of gold and the fountain of perpetual\\nyouth.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0190.jp2"}, "191": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 179\\nAs he stoop d him down\\nTo the fountain s grassy side\\nAnd his eager thirst supplied.\\nWith the oak its shadow throwing\\nO er its mossy seat,\\nAnd the cool, sweet waters flowing\\nSoftly at his feet,\\nClosely by the fountain s rim\\nThat lone Indian seated him.\\nAutumn s earliest frost had given\\nTo the woods below\\nHues of beauty, such as Heaven\\nLendeth to its bow\\nAnd the soft breeze from the West\\nScarcely broke their dreamy rest.\\nFar behind was Ocean striving\\nWith his chains of sand\\nSouthward sunny glimpses giving,\\nTwixt the swells of land.\\nOf its calm and silvery track.\\nRoU d the tranquil Merrimack.\\nOver village, wood and meadow,\\nGazed that stranger man\\nSadly, till the twilight shadow", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0191.jp2"}, "192": {"fulltext": "180 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nOver all things ran,\\nSave where spire and Westward pane\\nFlashed the sunset back again.\\nGazing thus upon the dwelling\\nOf his warrior sires,\\nWhere no lingering trace was telling\\nOf their wigwam fires,\\nWho the gloomy thoughts might know\\nOf that wandering child of woe?\\nNaked lay, in sunshine glowing,\\nHills that once had stood\\nDown their sides the shadows throwing\\nOf a mighty wood,\\nWhere the deer his covert kept,\\nAnd the eagle s pinion swept!\\nWhere the birch canoe had glided\\nDown the sv/ift Powwow,\\nDark and gloomy bridges strided\\nThose clear waters now\\nAnd where once the beaver swam,\\nJar d the wheel and frowned the dam.\\nFor the wood-birds merry singing,\\nAnd the hunter s cheer.\\nIron clang and hammer s ringing", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0192.jp2"}, "193": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 181\\nSmote upon his ear;\\nAnd the thick and sullen smoke\\nFrom the blackened forges broke.\\nCould it be, his fathers ever\\nLoved to linger here?\\nThese bare hills this conquer d river\\nCould they hold them dear,\\nWith their native loveliness\\nTamed and tortured into this?\\nSadly, as the shades of even\\nGather d o er the hill.\\nWhile the western half of Heaven\\nBlushed with sunset still,\\nProm the fountain s mossy seat\\nTurned the Indian s weary feet.\\nYear on year hath flown for ever,\\nBut he came no more\\nTo the hill-side of the liver\\nWhere he came before.\\nBut the villager can tell\\nOf that strange man s visit well.\\nAnd the merry children, laden\\nWith their fruits or flowers", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0193.jp2"}, "194": {"fulltext": "182 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nRoving boy and laughing maiden,\\nIn their school-day hours,\\nLove the simple tale to tell\\nOf the Indian and his well.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0194.jp2"}, "195": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 183\\nPENTUCKET.\\nThe village of Haverhill, on the Merrimac, called by\\nthe Indians Pentucket, was for nearly seventy years a\\nfrontier town, and during thirty years endured all the\\nhorrors of savage warfare. In the year 1708, a com-\\nbined body of French and Indians, under the command\\nof De Challions, and Hertel de Rouville, the infamous\\nand bloody sacker of Deerfield, made an attack upon the\\nvillage, which at that time contained only thirty houses.\\nSixteen of the villagers were massacred, and a still\\nlarger number made prisoners. About thirty of the\\nenemy also fell, and among them Hertel de Rouville.\\nThe minister of the place, Benjamin Rolfe, was killed\\nby a shot through his own door.\\nHow sweetly on the wood-girt town\\nThe mellow light of sunset shone\\nEach small, bright lake, whose waters still\\nMirror the forest and the hill,\\nReflected from its waveless breast\\nThe beauty of a cloudless West,\\nGlorious as if a glimpse were given\\nWithin the western gates of Heaven,\\nLeft, by the spirit of the star\\nOf sunset s holy hour, ajar!\\nBeside the river s tranquil flood", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0195.jp2"}, "196": {"fulltext": "184 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nThe dark and low- wall d dwellings stood,\\nWhere many a rood of open land\\nStretch d up and down on either hand,\\nWith corn-leaves waving freshly green\\nThe thick and blacken d stumps between;\\nThe wild, untravel d forest spread,\\nBehind, unbroken, deep and dread,\\nBack to those mountains, white and cold,\\nOf which the Indian trapper told,\\nUpon whose summits never yet\\nWas mortal foot in safety set.\\nQuiet and calm, without a fear\\nOf danger darkly lurking near,\\nThe weary laborer left his plough\\nThe milk-maid carol d by her cow\\nFrom cottage door and household hearth\\nRose songs of praise, or tones of mirth.\\nAt length the murmur died away.\\nAnd silence on that village lay\\nSo slept Pompeii, tower and hall.\\nEre the quick earthquake swallow d all,\\nUndreaming of the fiery fate\\nWhich made its dwellings desolate\\nHours pass d away. By moonlight sped\\nThe Merrimac along his bed.\\nBathed in the pallid lustre, stood\\nDark cottage- wall and rock and wood.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0196.jp2"}, "197": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 185\\nSilent, beneath that tranquil beam,\\nAs the hnsh d grouping of a dream.\\nYet on the still air crept a sound\\nNo bark of fox no rabbit s bound\\nNo stir of wings nor waters flowing\\nNor leaves in midnight breezes blowing.\\nWas that the tread of many feet,\\nWhich downward from the hill-side beat?\\nWhat forms were those which darkly stood\\nJust on the margin of the wood?\\nCharr d tree-stumps in the moonlight dim,\\nOr paling rude, or leafless limb?\\nNo through the trees fierce eyeballs glow d\\nDark human forms in moonshine show d.\\nWild from their native wilderness,\\nWith painted limbs and battle-dress!\\nA yell, the dead might wake to hear,\\nSwell d on the night air, far and clear\\nThen smote the Indian tomahawk\\nOn crashing door and shattering lock\\nThen rang the rifle-shot and then\\nThe shrill death-scream of stricken men-\\nSunk the red axe in woman s brain.\\nAnd childhood s cry arose in vain\\nBursting through roof and window came,\\nRed, fast and fierce, the kindled flame", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0197.jp2"}, "198": {"fulltext": "186 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nAnd blended fire and moonlight glared\\nOver dead corse and weapons bared.\\nThe morning sun look d brightly througl.\\nThe river willows, wet with dew.\\nNo sound of combat fill d the air,\\nNo shout was heard, nor gunshot there:\\nYet still the thick and sullen smoke\\nFrom smouldering ruins slowly broke\\nAnd on the greensward many a stain.\\nAnd, here and there, the mangled slain,\\nTold how that midnight bold had sped,\\nPentucket, on thy fated head\\nEven now, the villager can tell\\nWhere Rolfe beside his hearth-stone fell,\\nStill show the door of wasting oak\\nThrough which the fatal death- shot broke,\\nAnd point the curious stranger where\\nDe Rouville s corse lay grim and bare\\nWhose hideous head, in death still fear d,\\nBore not a trace of hair or beard\\nAnd still, within the churchyard ground,\\nHeaves darkly up the ancient mound.\\nBeneath whose grass-grown surface lies\\nVictims of that sacrifice.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0198.jp2"}, "199": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 187\\nTHE MISSIONARY.\\nIt is an awful, an arduous thing to root out every\\naffection for earthly things, so as to live only for another\\nworld. lam now far, very far, from you all; and as\\noften as I look around and see the Indian scenery, I sigh\\nto think of the distance which separates us. Letters\\nof Henry Martyn, from India.\\nSay, whose is this fair picture, which the light\\nFrom the unshutter d window rests upon\\nEven as a lingering halo? Beautiful!\\nThe keen, fine eye of manhood, and a lip\\nLovely as that of Hylas, and impress d\\nWith the bright signet of some brilliant\\nthought\\nThat broad expanse of forehead, clear and\\nhigh,\\nMark d visibly with the characters of mind.\\nAnd the free locks around it, raven black.\\nLuxuriant and unsilver d who was he?\\nA friend, a more than brother. In the spring\\nAnd glory of his being he went forth\\nFrom the embraces of devoted friends,\\nFrom ease and quiet happiness, from more\u00e2\u0080\u0094--", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0199.jp2"}, "200": {"fulltext": "188 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nFrom the warm heart that loved him with a\\nlove\\nHolier than earthly passion, and to whom\\nThe beauty of his spirit shone above\\nThe charms of perishing nature. He went forth\\nStrengthen d to suffer gifted to subdue\\nThe night of human passion to pass on\\nQuietly to the sacrifice of all\\nThe lofty hopes of boyhood, and to turn\\nThe high ambition written on that brow,\\nFrom its first dream of power and human\\nframe,\\nUnto a task of seeming lowliness\\nYet God-like in its purpose. He went forth\\nTo bind the broken-spirit to pluck back\\nThe heathen from the wheel of Juggernaut\\nTo place the spiritual image of a God\\nHoly and just and true, before the eye\\nOf the dark-minded Brahmin and unseal\\nThe holy pages of the Book of Life,\\nFraught with sublimer mysteries than all\\nThe sacred tomes of Vedas to unbind\\nThe widow from her sacrifice and save\\nThe perishing infant from the worship d river!\\nAnd, lady, where is he? He slumbers well\\nBeneath the shadow of an Indian palm,\\nThere is no stone above his grave. The wind,\\nHot from the desert, as it stirs the. leaves", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0200.jp2"}, "201": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 189\\nOf neighboring bananas, sighs alone\\nOver his place of slumber.\\nGod forbid\\nThat he should die alone! Nay, not alone.\\nHis God was with him in that last dread hour\\nHis great arm underneath him, and His smile\\nMelting into a spirit full of peace.\\nAnd one kind friend, a human friend, was\\nnear\\nOne whom his teachings, and his earnest\\nprayers\\nHad snatch d as from the burning. He alone\\nFelt the last pressure of his failing hand,\\nCaught the last glimpses of his closing eye.\\nAnd laid the green turf over him with tears,\\nAnd left him with his God.\\nAnd was it well,\\nDear lady, that this noble mind should cast\\nIts rich gifts on the waters? That a heart\\nFull of all gentleness and truth and love\\nShould wither on the suicidal shrine\\nOf a mistaken duty? If I read\\nAright the fine intelligence which fills\\nThat amplitude of brow, and gazes out\\nLike an indwelling spirit from that eye,\\nHe might have borne him loftily among\\nThe proudest of his land, and with a step", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0201.jp2"}, "202": {"fulltext": "190 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nUnfaltering ever, steadfast and secure,\\nGone up the paths of greatness, bearing still\\nA sister spirit with him, as some star,\\nPre-eminent in Heaven, leads steadily up\\nA kindred watcher, with its fainter beams\\nBaptized in its great glory. Was it well\\nThat all this promise of the heart and mind\\nShould perish from the earth, and leave no\\ntrace,\\nUnfolding like the Cereus of the clime\\nWhich hath its sepulchre, but in the night\\nOf pagan desolation was it well?\\nThy will be done, O Father it was well.\\nWhat are the honors of a perishing world\\nGrasp d by a palsied finger? the applause\\nOf the unthoughtful multitude which greets\\nThe dull ear of decay? the wealth that loads\\nThe bier with costly drapery, and shines\\nIn tinsel on the coffin, and builds up\\nThe cold substantial monument? Can these\\nBear up the sinking spirit in that hour\\nWhen heart and flesh are failing, and the grave\\nIs opening under us? Oh, dearer then\\nThe memory of a kind deed done to him\\nWho was our enemy, one grateful tear\\nIn the meek eye of virtuous suffering,\\nOne smile call d up by unseen charity", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0202.jp2"}, "203": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 191\\nOn the wan cheek of hunger, or one prayer\\nBreathed from the bosom of the penitent\\nThe stain d with crime and outcast, unto whom\\nOur mild rebuke and tenderness of love.\\nA merciful God hath bless d.\\nBut, lady, say\\nDid he not sometimes almost sink beneath\\nThe burden of his toil, and turn aside\\nTo weep above his sacrifice, and cast\\nA sorrowing glance upon his childhood s\\nhome\\nStill green in memory? Clung not to his heart\\nSomething of early hope uncrucified.\\nOf earthly thought unchasten d? Did he bring\\nLife s warm affections to the sacrifice\\nIts loves, hopes, sorrows and become as one\\nKnowing no kindred but a perishing world,\\nNo love but of the sin-endangered soul.\\nNo hope but of the winning back to life\\nOf the dead nations, and no passing thought\\nSave of the errand wherewith he was sent\\nAs to a martyrdom?\\nNay, though the heart\\nBe consecrated to the holiest work\\nVouchsafed to mortal effort, there will be\\nTies of the earth around it, and through all", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0203.jp2"}, "204": {"fulltext": "192 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nIts perilous devotion, it must keep\\nIts own humanity. And it is well.\\nElse why wept He, who with our nature veil d\\nThe spirit of a God, o er lost Jerusalem,\\nAnd the cold grave of Lazarus? And why\\nIn the dim garden rose His earnest prayer,\\nThat from His lips the cup of suffering\\nMight pass, if it were possible?\\nMy friend\\nWas of a gentle nature, and his heart\\nGush d like a river-fountain of the hills,\\nCeaseless and lavish, at a kindly smile,\\nA word of welcome, or a tone of love.\\nFreely his letters to his friends disclosed\\nHis yearnings for the quiet haunts of home\\nFor love and its companionship, and all\\nThe blessings left behind him yet above\\nIts sorrows and its clouds his spirit rose.\\nTearful and yet triumphant, taking hold\\nOf the eternal promises of God,\\nAnd steadfast in its faith. Here are some\\nlines\\nPenned in his lonely mission-house, and sent\\nTo a dear friend of his who even now\\nLingers above them with a mournful joy.\\nHolding them well-nigh sacred \u00e2\u0080\u0094as a leaf\\nPlucked from the record of a breaking heart.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0204.jp2"}, "205": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 193\\nAN EVENING IN BURMAH.\\nA night of wonder piled afar\\nWith ebon feet and crests of snow,\\nLike Himalayah s peaks, which bar\\nThe sunset and the sunset s star\\nFrom half the shadow d vale below,\\nVolumed and vast the dense clouds lie,\\nAnd over them, and down the sky.\\nBroadly and pale the lightnings go.\\nAbove, the pleasant moon is seen.\\nPale journeyer to her own loved West\\nLike some bright spirits sent between\\nThe earth and heaven, she seems to lean\\nWearily on the cloud and rest\\nAnd light from her unsullied brow\\nThat gloomy cloud is gathering now\\nAlong each wreath d and whitening crest.\\nAnd what a strength of light and shade\\nIs chequering all the earth below\\nAnd, through the jungle s verdant braid\\nOf tangled vine and wild reed made,\\nWhat blossoms in the moonlight glow\\nThe Indian rose s loveliness.\\nThe ceiba with its crimson dress,\\nThe myrtle with its bloom of snow.\\n13", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0205.jp2"}, "206": {"fulltext": "194 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nAnd flitting in the fragrant air,\\nOr nestling in the shadowy trees,\\nA thousand bright-hned birds are there\\nStrange plumage quivering, wild and rare,\\nWith every faintly-breathing breeze\\nAnd, wet with dew from roses shed,\\nThe Bulbul droops her weary head,\\nForgetful of her melodies.\\nUprising from the orange leaves\\nThe tall pagoda s turrets glow;\\nO er graceful shaft and fretted eaves\\nIts verdant web the myrtle weaves,\\nAnd hangs in flowering wreaths below\\nAnd where the cluster d palms eclipse\\nThe moonbeams, from its marble lips\\nThe fountain s silver waters flow.\\nYes, all is lovely earth and air\\nAs aught beneath the sky may be;\\nAnd yet my thoughts are wandering where\\nMy native rocks lie bleak and bare\\nA weary way beyond the sea.\\nThe yearning spirit is not here\\nIt lingers on a spot more dear\\nThan India s brightest bowers to me.\\nMethinks I tread the well-known street\\nThe tree my childhood loved is there.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0206.jp2"}, "207": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 195\\nIts bare- worn roots are at my feet,\\nAnd through its open boughs I meet\\nWhite glimpses of the place of prayer\\nAnd unforgotten eyes again\\nAre glancing through the cottage pane,\\nThan Asia s lustrous eyes more fair.\\nWhat though, with every fitful gush\\nOf night- wind, spicy odors come\\nAnd hues of beauty glow and flush\\nFrom matted vine and wild rose-bush;\\nAnd music s sweetest, faintest hum\\nSteals through the moonlight, as in dreams,\u00e2\u0080\u0094-\\nAfar from all my spirit seems\\nAmid the dearer scenes of home\\nA holy name the name of home\\nYet where, O wandering heart, is thine?\\nHere where the dusky heathen come\\nTo bow before the deaf and dumb\\nDead idols of their own design,\\nWhere deep in Ganges worship d tide\\nThe infant sinks and on its side\\nThe widow s funeral altars shine\\nHere, where mid light and song and flowers\\nThe priceless soul in ruin lies\\nLost dead to all those better powers\\nWhich link a fallen world like ours", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0207.jp2"}, "208": {"fulltext": "196 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nTo God s own holy Paradise;\\nWhere open sin and hideous crime\\nAre like the foliage of their clime\\nThe unshorn growth of centuries\\nTurn, then, my heart thy home is here\\nNo other now remains for thee\\nThe smile of love, and friendship s tear,\\nThe tones that melted on thine ear,\\nThe mutual thrill of sympathy,\\nThe welcome of the household band,\\nThe pressure of the lip and hand,\\nThou may St not hear, nor feel, nor see.\\nGod of my Spirit Thou alone,\\nWho watchest o er my pillowed head,\\nWhose ear is open to the moan\\nAnd sorrowing of Thy child, hast known\\nThe grief which at my heart has fed,\\nThe struggle of my soul to rise\\nAbove its earth-born sympathies,\\nThe tears of many a sleepless bed!\\nOh, be Thine arm, as it hath been,\\nIn every test of heart and faith,\\nThe Tempter s doubt the wiles of men\\nThe heathen s scoff the bosom sin", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0208.jp2"}, "209": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 197\\nA helper and a stay beneath,\\nA strength in weakness mid the strife\\nAnd anguish of my wasting life\\nMy solace and my hope in death", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0209.jp2"}, "210": {"fulltext": "19i WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nSTANZAS,\\nSuggcE.cl by ::ie letter o; a friend-\\nI see thee still before \u00e2\u0080\u0094e. even\\nAs when we parted.\\nWhen o er my blue eyes brilliant heaven\\nA tear had started\\nAnd a slight tremor in thy tone.\\nLike that of some frail hatp-string blown\\nBy fitful breezes, faint and low,\\nTold, in that brief and sad farewell,\\nAll that affection s heart may tell.\\nAnd more than words can show!\\nYet, thou art with the dreamless dead\\nQnietly sleeping,\\nAround the marble at thy head\\nThe wild grass creeping\\nHow many thoughts, which but belong\\nUnto the living and the young,\\nHave whisper d from my heart of thee.\\nWhen thou wast resting calmly there,\\nShut from the blessed sun and air\\nFrom life and love and me I\\ni", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0210.jp2"}, "211": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 190\\nWhy did I leave thee? Well, I knew\\nA flower so frail\\nMight sink beneath the Summer dew,\\nOr soft vSpring gale\\nI knew how delicately wrought,\\nWith feeling and intensest thought.\\nWas each sweet lineament of thine\\nAnd that thy heavenward soul would gain\\nAn early freedom from its chain,\\nWas there not many a sign?\\nThere was a brightness in thine eye,\\nYet not of mirth\\nA light whose clear intensity\\nWas not of earth\\nAlong thy cheek a deepening red\\nTold where the feverish hectic fed,\\nAnd, yet, each fearful token gave\\nA newer and a dearer grace\\nTo the mild beauty of thy face,\\nWhich spoke not of the grave\\nWhy did I leave thee? Far away\\nThey told of lands\\nGlittering with gold, and none to stay\\nThe gleaner s hands.\\nFor this I left thee ay, and sold\\nThe riches of my heart for gold!", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0211.jp2"}, "212": {"fulltext": "200 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nFor yonder mansion s vanity\\nFor green verandas, hung with flowers,\\nFor marbled fount and orange bowers,\\nAnd grove and flowering tree.\\nVain worthless, all The lowliest spot\\nEnjoy d with thee,\\nA richer and a dearer lot\\nWould seem to me\\nFor well I knew that thou couldst find\\nContentment in thy spotless mind\\nAnd in my own unchanging love.\\nWhy did I leave thee? Fully mine\\nThe blessing of a heart like thine,\\nWhat could I ask above?\\nMine is a selfish misery\\nI cannot weep\\nFor one supremely blest, like thee.\\nWith Heaven s sleep\\nThe passion and the strife of time\\nCan never reach that sinless clime.\\nWhere the redeem d of spirit dwell!\\nWhy should I weep that thou art free\\nFrom all the grief which maddens me?\\nSainted and loved Farewell", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0212.jp2"}, "213": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 201\\nLINES ON A PORTRAIT.\\nHo w beautiful That brow of snow,\\nThat glossy fall of fair brown tresses,\\nThe blue eye s tranquil heaven below,\\nThe hand whereon the fair cheek presses,\\nHalf- shadow d by a falling curl\\nWhich on the temple s light reposes\\nEach finger like a line of pearl\\nContrasted with the cheek s pure roses!\\nThere, as she sits beneath the shade\\nBy vine and rose-wreath d arbor made,\\nTempering the light which, soft and warm,\\nReveals her full and matchless form,\\nIn thoughtful quietude, she seems\\nLike one of Raphael s pictur d dreams.\\nWhere blend in one all radiant face\\nThe woman s warmth the angel s grace!\\nWell I can gaze upon it now.\\nAs on some cloud of autumn s even,\\nBathing its pinions in the glow\\nAnd glory of the sunset heaven\\nSo holy and so far away\\nThat love without desire is cherish d,", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0213.jp2"}, "214": {"fulltext": "202 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nLike that which lingers o er the clay\\nWhose warm and breathing life has perish d\\nWhile yet upon its brow is shed\\nThe mournful beauty of the dead\\nAnd I can look on her as one\\nToo pure for aught save gazing on\\nAn idol in some holy place,\\nWhich man may kneel to, not caress\\nOr melting tone of music heard\\nFrom viewless lip, or unseen bird.\\nI know her not. And what is all\\nHer beauty to a heart like mine,\\nWhile memory yet hath power to call\\nIts worship from a stranger- shrine?\\nStill midst the weary din of life\\nThe tones I love my ear has met\\nMidst lips of scorn and brows of strife\\nThe smiles I love are lingering yet\\nThe hearts in sun and shadow known\\nThe kind hands lingering in our own\\nThe cords of strong affection spun\\nBy early deeds of kindness done\\nThe blessed sympathies whicn bind\\nThe spirit to its kindred mind,\\nOh, who would leave these tokens tried\\nFor all the stranger- world beside?", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0214.jp2"}, "215": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 2G3\\nSTANZAS.\\nArt thou beautiful? Live then in accordance with\\nthe curious make and frame of thy creation and let the\\nbeauty of thy person teach thee to beautify thy mind\\nwith holiness, the ornament of the beloved of God.\\nWilliam Penn,\\nBind up thy tresses, thou beautiful one,\\nOf brown in the shadow and gold in the sun\\nFree should their delicate lustre be thrown\\nO er a forehead more pure than the Parian\\nstone\\nShaming the light of those Orient pearls\\nWhich bind o er its whiteness thy soft wreath-\\ning curls.\\nSmile for thy glance on the mirror is thrown.\\nAnd the face of an angel is meeting thine own\\nBeautiful creature I marvel not\\nThat thy cheek a lovelier tint hath caught\\nAnd the kindling light of thine eye hath told\\nOf a dearer wealth than the miser s gold.\\nAway, away there is danger here\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nA terrible phantom is bending near;", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0215.jp2"}, "216": {"fulltext": "204 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nGhastly and sunken, his rayless eye\\nScowls on thy loveliness scornfully\\nWith no human look with no human breath,\\nHe stands beside thee, the haunter, Death.\\nFly but, alas, he will follow still.\\nLike a moonlight shadow, beyond thy will\\nIn thy noon-day walk in thy midnight sleep.\\nClose at thy hand will that phantom keep\\nStill in thine ear shall his whispers be\\nWo, that such phantom should follow thee\\nIn the lighted hall where the dancers go.\\nLike beautiful spirits, to and fro;\\nWhen thy fair arms glance in their stainless\\nwhite.\\nLike ivory bathed in still moonlight;\\nAnd not one star in the holy sky\\nHath a clearer light than thine own blue eye\\nOh, then even then he will follow thee.\\nAs the ripple follows the bark at sea\\nIn the soften d light in the turning dance\\nHe will fix on thine his dead, cold glance\\nThe chill of his breath on thy cheek shall lin-\\nger.\\nAnd thy warm blood shrink from his icy finger.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0216.jp2"}, "217": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 205\\nAnd yet there is hope. Embrace it now,\\nWhile thy soul is open as thy brow\\nWhile thy heart is fresh while its feelings still\\nGush clear as the unsoil d mountain -rill\\nAnd thy smiles are free as the airs of spring,\\nGreeting and blessing each breathing thing.\\nWhen the after cares of thy life shall come,\\nWhen the bud shall wither before its bloom\\nWhen thy soul is sick of the emptiness\\nAnd changeful fashion of human bliss;\\nAnd the weary torpor of blighted -^eeling\\nOver thy heart as ice is stealing\\nThen, when thy spirit is turn d above,\\nBy the mild rebuke of the Chastener s love;\\nWhen the hope of that joy in thy heart is stirr d,\\nWhich eye hath not seen, nor ear hath heard,\\nThen will that phantom of darkness be\\nGladness and Promise, and Bliss to thee.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0217.jp2"}, "218": {"fulltext": "206 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nTO THE MEMORY OF J. O. ROCK-\\nWELL.\\nThe turf is smooth above him and this rain\\nWill moisten the rent roots, and summon back\\nThe perishing- life of its green-bladed grass,\\nAnd the crush d flower will lift its head again\\nSmilingly unto Heaven, as if it kept\\nNo vigil with the dead.\\nWell\u00e2\u0080\u0094 it is meet\\nThat the green grass should tremble, and the\\nflowers\\nBlow wild about his resting-place. His mind\\nWas in itself a flower, but half-disclosed\\nA bud of blessed promise, which the storm\\nVisited rudely, and the passer-by\\nSmote down in wantonness. But we may trust\\nThat it hath found a dwelling, where the sun\\nOf a more holy clime will visit it,\\nAnd the pure dews of mercy will descend.\\nThrough Heaven s own atmosphere, upon its\\nhead.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0218.jp2"}, "219": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 207\\nHis form is now before me, with no trace\\nOf death in its fine lineaments, and there\\nIs a faint crimson on his youthful cheek,\\nAnd his free lip is softening with the smile\\nWhich in his eye is kindling. I can feel\\nThe parting pressure of his hand, and hear\\nHis last God bless you! strange that he is\\nthere\\nDistinct before me like a breathing thing,\\nEven when I know that he is with the dead,\\nAnd that the damp earth hides him. I would not\\nThink of him otherwise his image lives\\nWithin my memory as he seem d before\\nThe curse of blighted feeling, and the toil\\nAnd fever of an uncongenial strife, had left\\nTheir traces on his aspect.\\nPeace to him.\\nHe wrestled nobly with the weariness\\nAnd trials of our being smiling on.\\nWhile poison mingled with his springs of life,\\nAnd wearing a calm brow, while on his heart\\nAnguish was resting like a hand of fire\\nUntil at last the agony of thought\\nGrew insupportable, and madness came\\nDarkly upon him, and the sufferer died!\\nNor died he unlamented To his grave\\nThe beautiful and gifted shall go up,", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0219.jp2"}, "220": {"fulltext": "208 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nAnd muse upon the sleeper. And young lips\\nShall murmur in the broken tones of grief\\nHis own sweet melodies and if the ear\\nOf the freed spirit heedeth aught beneath\\nThe brightness of its new inheritance,\\nIt may be joyful to the parted one\\nTo feel that earth remembers him in love", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0220.jp2"}, "221": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 209\\nTHE UNQUIET SLEEPER.\\nThe Hunter went forth with his dog and gun,\\nIn the earliest glow of the golden sun\\nThe trees of the forest bend over his way,\\nIn the changeful colors of Autumn gay;\\nFor a frost had fallen the night before,\\nOn the quiet greenness which Nature wore.\\nA bitter frost for the night was chill.\\nAnd starry and dark, and the wind was still,\\nAnd so when the sun looked out on the hills,\\nOn the stricken woods and the frosted rills.\\nThe unvaried green of the landscape fled.\\nAnd a wild, rich robe was given instead.\\nWe know not whither the Hunter went,\\nOr how the last of his days was spent\\nFor the moon grew nigh but he came not\\nback,\\nWeary and faint from his forest track;\\nAnd his wife sat down to her frugal board,\\nBeside the empty seat of her lord.\\nAnd the day passed on, and the sun came down\\nTo the hills of the west, like an angel s crown,\\n14", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0221.jp2"}, "222": {"fulltext": "210 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nThe shadows lengthened from wood and hill,\\nThe mist crept up from the meadow-rill,\\nTill the broad sun sank, and the red light rolled\\nAll over the west, like a wave of gold!\\nYet he came not back though the stars gave\\nforth\\nTheir wizard light to the silent Earth\\nAnd his wife looked out from the lattice dim\\nIn the earnest manner of fear for him;\\nAnd his fair-haired child on the door-stone\\nstood\\nTo welcome his father back from the wood!\\nHe came not back yet they found him soon,\\nIn the burning light of the morrow s noon,\\nIn the fixed and visionless sleep of death,\\nWhere the red leaves fell at the soft wind s\\nbreath\\nAnd the dog, whose step in the chase was fleet,\\nCrouched silent and sad at the Hunter s feet.\\nHe slept in death but his sleep was one\\nWhich his neighbors shuddered to look upon,\\nFor his brow was black, and his open eye\\nWas red with the sign of agony;\\nArd they thought, as they gazed on his features\\ngrim.\\nThat an evil deed had been done on him.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0222.jp2"}, "223": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 211\\nThey buried him where his fathers laid,\\nBy the mossy mounds in the grave-yard shade,\\nYet whispers of doubt passed over the dead,\\nAnd beldames muttered while prayers were\\nsaid;\\nAnd the hand of the sexton shook as he pressed\\nThe damp earth down on the Hunter s breast.\\nThe seasons passed and the Autumn rain\\nAnd the colored forests returned again\\nTwas the very eve that the Hunter died,\\nThe winds wail d over the bare hill-side.\\nAnd the wreathing limbs of the forest shook\\nTheir red leaves over the swollen brook.\\nThere came a sound on the night-air then.\\nLike a spirit-shriek, to the homes of men.\\nAnd louder and shriller it rose again.\\nLike the fearful cry of the mad with pain\\nAnd trembled alike the timid and brave,\\nFor they knew that it came from the Hunter s\\ngrave!\\nAnd every year when Autumn flings\\nIts beautiful robe on created things.\\nWhen Piscataqua s tide is turbid with rain v\\nAnd Cocheco s woods are yellow again.\\nThat cry is heard from the grave-yard earth,\\nLike the howl of a demon struggling forth", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0223.jp2"}, "224": {"fulltext": "212 WHITTIZr. S r^ OEMS.\\nMETACOM.\\nRed as the banner which enshrouds\\nThe warrior-dead when strife is done,\\nA broken mass of crimson clonds\\nHtmg over the departed sun.\\nThe shadow of the western h M\\nCrept swiftly down, and iir!::.y still,\\nA5if aB-:tn-. :f-ght\\nTVere -:=r.: r :n r ^i.e twilight.\\nTie :::r::-:-:rn:n^E rre ore dim.\\n\u00c2\u00a3i\\nr,\\nthrough\\nrii.;::-^ in- i. :r: n i.n:, iue^v wing-\\n?:n:-ns :na: :.n :nr miinlri^ inn.\\nBut fold t nem a: :::r rising sim!\\nJBeneath the closing veil of night.\\nAnd leafy bough and curling fog.\\nTTith his few warriors ranged in sight\\nScarred relics of his latest fight\\nRested the fiery Wampanoag.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0224.jp2"}, "225": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 213\\nHe leaned upon his loaded gun,\\nWarmed with its recent work of death,\\nAnd, save the struggling of his breath\\nThat, slow and hard, and long-suppressed.\\nShook the damp folds around his breast,\\nAn eye, that was unused to scan\\nThe sterner moods of that dark man.\\nHad deemed his tall and silent form\\nWith hidden passion fierce and warm.\\nWith that fixed eye, as still and dark\\nAs clouds which veil their lightning spark\\nThat of some forest-champion\\nWhom sudden death has passed upon\\nA giant frozen into stone.\\nSon of the throned Sachem, thou,\\nThe sternest of the forest kings,\\nShall the scorned pale-one trample now,\\nUnambushed, on thy mountain s brow\\nYea, drive his vile and hated plough\\nAmong thy nation s holy things.\\nCrushing the warrior-skeleton\\nIn scorn beneath his armed heel.\\nAnd not a hand be left to deal\\nA kindred vengeance fiercely back.\\nAnd cross in blood the Spoiler s track?\\nHe started, for a sudden shot\\nCame booming through the forest trees\\nThe thunder of the fierce Yengeese", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0225.jp2"}, "226": {"fulltext": "214 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nIt passed away, and injured not\\nBut, to the Sachem s brow it brought\\nThe token of his lion thought.\\nHe stood erect his dark eye burned,\\nAs if to meteor-brightness turned\\nAnd o er his forehead passed the frown\\nOf an archangel stricken down,\\nRuined and lost, yet chainless still\\nWeakened of power, but strong of will!\\nIt passed a sudden tremor came\\nLike ague o er his giant frame,\\nIt was not terror he had stood\\nFor hours, with death in grim attendance,\\nWhen moccasins grew stiff with blood,\\nAnd through the clearing s midnight flame,\\nDark, as a storm, the Pequod came.\\nHis red right arm their strong dependence\\nWhen thrilling through the forest gloom\\nThe onset cry of Metacom!\\nRang on the red and smoky air\\nNo it was agony which passed\\nUpon his soul the strong man s last\\nAnd fearful struggle with despair.\\nHe turned him to his trustiest one\\nThe old and war- tried Annawon\\nBrother The favored warrior stood\\nIn hushed and listening attitude\\nThis night the Vision- Spirit hath", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0226.jp2"}, "227": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 215\\nUnrolled the scroll of fate before me\\nAnd ere the sunrise cometh, Death\\nWill wave his dusky pinion o er me!\\nNay, start not well I know thy faith\\nThy weapon now may keep its sheath,\\nBut when the bodeful morning breaks.\\nAnd the green forest widely wakes\\nUnto the roar of Yengeese thunder,\\nThen, trusted brother, be it thine\\nTo burst upon the foeman s line\\nAnd rend his serried strength asunder.\\nPerchance thyself and yet a few\\nOf faithful ones may struggle through.\\nAnd, rallying on the wooded plain.\\nOffer up in Yengeese blood\\nAn offering to the Indian s God.\\nAnother shot a sharp, quick yell.\\nAnd then the stifled groan of pain\\nTold that another red man fell,\\nAnd blazed a sudden light again\\nAcross that kingly brow and eye.\\nLike lightning on a cloudy sky,\\nAnd a low growl, like that which thrills\\nThe hunter of the Eastern hills.\\nBurst through clenched teeth and rigid lip\\nAnd when the Monarch spoke again,\\nHis deep voice shook beneath its rein,\\nAnd wrath and grief held fellowship.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0227.jp2"}, "228": {"fulltext": "216 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nBrother! meth ought when as but now\\nI pondered on my nation s wrong\\nWith sadness on his shadowy brow\\nMy father s spirit passed along!\\nHe pointed to the far southwest,\\nWhere sunset s gold was growing dim,\\nAnd seemed to beckon me to him,\\nAnd to the forests of the blest!\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nMy father loved the Yengeese, when\\nThey were but children, shelterless.\\nFor his great spirit at distress\\nMelted to woman s tenderness\\nNor was it given him to know\\nThat children whom he cherished then\\nWould rise at length, like armed men,\\nTo work his people s overthrow.\\nYet thus it is the God before\\nWhose awful shrine the pale ones bow\\nHath frowned upon and given o er\\nThe red man to the stranger now\\nA few more moons, and there will be\\nNo gathering to the council-tree\\nThe scorched earth, the blackened log,\\nThe naked bones of warriors slain,\\nBe the sole relics which remain\\nOf the once mighty Wampanoag!\\nThe forests of our hunting-land.\\nWith all their old and solemn green,", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0228.jp2"}, "229": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 217\\nWill bow before the Spoiler s axe,\\nThe plough displace the hunter s tracks,\\nAnd the tall Yengeese altar stand\\nWhere the Great Spirit s shrine hath been.\\n**Yet, brother, from this awful hour\\nThe dying curse of Metacom\\nShall linger with abiding power,\\nShall pour a darker tide than rain\\nThe sea shall catch its blood-red stain,\\nAnd broadly on its banks shall gleam\\nThe steel of those who should be brothers\\nYea, those who once fond parent nursed\\nShall meet in strife, like fiends accursed,\\nAnd trample down the once loved form.\\nUpon the spoilers of my home.\\nThe fearful veil of things to come\\nB)^ Kitchtan s hand is lifted from\\nThe shadows of the embryo years\\nAnd I can see more clearly through\\nThan ever visioned Powwow did.\\nFor all the future comes unbid\\nYet welcome to my tranced view,\\nAs battle-yell to warrior s ears!\\nFrom stream and lake and hunting-hill\\nOur tribes may vanish like a dream.\\nAnd even my dark curse may seem\\nLike idle winds when Heaven is still", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0229.jp2"}, "230": {"fulltext": "218 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nNo bodeful harbinger of ill,\\nBut fiercer than the downright thunder\\nWhen yawns the mountain-rock asunder,\\nAnd riven pine and knotted oak\\nAre reeling to the fearful stroke.\\nThat curse shall work its master s will\\nThe bed of yon blue mountain stream\\nWhile yet with breathing passion warm,\\nAs fiercely as they would another s!\\nThe morning star sat dimly on\\nThe lighted eastern horizon\\nThe deadly glare of leveled gun\\nCame streaking through the twilight haze,\\nAnd naked to its reddest blaze\\nA hundred warriors sprang in view\\nOne dark red arm was tossed on high.\\nOne giant shout came hoarsely through\\nThe clangor and the charging cry.\\nJust across the scattering gloom,\\nRed as the naked hand of Doom,\\nThe Yengeese volley hurtled by\\nThe arm the voice of Metacon\\nOne piercing shriek one vengeful yell\\nSent like an arrow to the sky,\\nTold when the hunter-monarch fell!", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0230.jp2"}, "231": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 219\\nTHE MURDERED LADY.\\nA dark-hulled brig at anchor rides\\nWithin the still and moonlit bay,\\nAnd round its black, portentous sides\\nThe waves like living creatures play!\\nAnd close at hand a tall ship lies,\\nA voyager from the Spanish main,\\nLaden with gold and merchandise\\nShe ll ne er return again!\\nThe fisher in his seaward skiff\\nCreeps stealthily along the shore\\nWithin the shadow of the cliff,\\nWhere keel had never ploughed before\\nHe turns him from that stranger bark\\nAnd hurries down the silvery bay,\\nWhere like a demon still and dark.\\nShe watches o er her prey.\\n4: 4:\\nThe midnight came. A dash of oars\\nBroke on the ocean-stillness then,\\nAnd swept toward the rocky shores\\nThe fierce wild forms of outlawed men", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0231.jp2"}, "232": {"fulltext": "220 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nThe tenants of this fearful ship\\nGrouped strangely in the pale moonlight-\\nDark, iron brow and bearded lip,\\nGhastly with storm and fight.\\nThey reach the shore, but who is she,\\nThe white-robed one they bear along?\\nShe shrieks she struggles to be free\\nGod shield that gentle one from wrong!\\nIt may not be, those pirate men\\nAlong the hushed, deserted street\\nHave borne her to a narrow glen\\nScarce trod by human feet.\\nAnd there the ruffians murdered her,\\nWhen not an eye, save Heaven s, beheld,-\\nAsk of the shuddering villager\\nWhat sounds upon the night air swelled.\\nWoman s long shriek of mortal fear\\nHer wild appeal to hearts of stone,\\nThe oath the taunt\u00e2\u0080\u0094 the brutal jeer\\nThe pistol-shot the groan\\nWith shout and jest and losel song.\\nFrom savage tongues which knew no rein,\\nThe stained with murder pacsed along\\nAnd sought their ocean-home again;\\nAnd all the night their revel came", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0232.jp2"}, "233": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 221\\nIn hoarse and sullen murmurs on,\\nA yell rang up a burst of flame\\nThe Spanish ship was gone\\nThe morning light came red and fast\\nAlong the still and blushing sea;\\nThe phantoms of the night had passed-\\nThat ocean-robber where was she?\\nHer sails were reaching from the wind,\\nHer crimson banner-folds were stirred\\nAnd ever and anon behind\\nHer shouting crew were heard.\\nThen came the village-dwellers forth\\nAnd sought with fear the fatal glen\\nThe stain of blood the trampled earth\\nTold where the deed of death had been.\\nThey found a grave a new-made one\\nWith bloody sabres hollowed out,\\nAnd shadowed from the searching sun\\nBy tall trees round about.\\nThey left the hapless stranger there\\nThey knew her sleep would be as well\\nAs if the priest had poured his prayer\\nAbove her, with the funeral-bell.\\nThe few poor rites which man can pay\\nAnd felt not by the lonely sleeper", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0233.jp2"}, "234": {"fulltext": "222 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nThe deaf, unconscious ear of clay-\\nHeeds not the living weeper.\\nThey tell a tale those sea-worn men\\nWho dwell along that rocky coast\\nOf sights and sounds within the glen,\\nOf midnight shriek and gliding ghost.\\nAnd oh if ever from their chill\\nAnd dreamless sleep the dead arise,\\nThat victim of unhallowed ill\\nMight wake to human eyes!\\nThey say that often when the morn\\nIs struggling with the gloomy even,\\nAnd over moon and stars is drawn\\nThe curtain of a clouded heaven,\\nStrange sounds swell up the narrow glen\\nAs if that robber-crew was there\\nThe hellish laugh the shouts of men\\nAnd woman s dying prayer!", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0234.jp2"}, "235": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 223\\nTHE WEIRD GATHERING.\\nA trumpet in the darkness blown\\nA peal upon the air\\nThe church-yard answers to its tone\\nWith boding shriek and wail and groan\\nThe dead are gliding there\\nIt rose upon the still midnight,\\nA summons long and clear\\nThe wakeful shuddered with affright\\nThe dreaming sleeper sprang upright\\nAnd pressed his stunning ear.\\nThe Indian, where his serpent eye\\nBeneath the greenwood shone\\nStartled, and tossed his arms on high,\\nAnd answered, with his own wild cry,\\nThe sky s unearthly tone.\\nThe wild birds rose in startled flocks\\nAs the long trumpet swelled;\\nAnd loudly from their old, gray rocks\\nThe gaunt, fierce wolf and caverned fox\\nIn mutual terror yelled.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0235.jp2"}, "236": {"fulltext": "224 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nThere is a wild and haunted glen\\nTwixt Saugus and Naumkeag\\nTis said of old that wizard-men\\nAnd demons to that spot have been\\nTo consecrate their league.\\nA fitting place for such as these\\nThat small and sterile plain,\\nSo girt about with tall old trees\\nWhich rock and groan in every breeze,\\nLike spirits cursed with pain.\\nIt was the witch s try sting-place,\\nThe wizard s chosen ground,\\nWhere the accursed of human race\\nWith demons gathered, face to face.\\nBy the midnight trumpet s sound.\\nAnd there that night the trumpet rang\\nAnd rock and hill replied.\\nAnd down the glen strange shadows sprang,\\nMortal and fiend\u00e2\u0080\u0094 a wizard gang\\nSeen dimly side by side.\\nThey gathered there from every land\\nThat sleepeth in the sun,\\nThey came with spell and charm in hand,\\nWaiting their Master s high command\\nSlaves to the Evil One!", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0236.jp2"}, "237": {"fulltext": "The song of war has died away. Page 261.\\nWhittiei s Poems.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0237.jp2"}, "238": {"fulltext": "", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0238.jp2"}, "239": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 225\\nFrom islands of the far-off seas\\nFrom Hecla s ice and flame\\nFrom where the loud and savage breeze\\nGrowls through the tall Norwegian trees\\nSeer, witch, and wizard came!\\nAnd from the sunny land of palms\\nThe negro hag was there\\nThe Gree-gree, with his Obi charms\\nThe Indian, with his tattooed arms\\nAnd wild and streaming hair.\\nThe Gypsy, with her fierce, dark eyes,\\nThe worshiper of flame\\nThe searcher out of mysteries\\nAbove a human sacrifice\\nAll all together came\\nNay, look not down that lighted dell\\nThou startled traveler!\\nThy Christian eye should never dwell\\nOn gaunt, gray witch and fiend of hell\\nAnd evil Trumpeter!\\nBut the traveler turned him from his way,\\nFor he heard the reveling,\\nAnd saw the red light s wizard ray\\nAmong the dark-leafed branches play,\\nLike an unholy thing.\\n15", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0239.jp2"}, "240": {"fulltext": "226 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nHe knelt him on the rocks and cast\\nA fearful glance beneath\\nWizard and hag before him passed,\\nEach wilder, fiercer than the last,\\nHis heart grew cold as death\\nHe saw the dark-browed Trumpeter\\nIn human shape was he\\nAnd witch and fiend and sorcerer,\\nWith shriek and laugh and curses, were\\nAssembled at his knee.\\nAnd lo beneath his straining glance\\nA light form stole along\\nFree, as if moving to the dance,\\nHe saw her fairy steps advance\\nToward the evil throng.\\nThe light along her forehead played\\nA wan, unearthly glare\\nHer cheek was pale beneath the shade\\nThe wildness of her tresses made,\\nYet nought of fear was there\\nNow God have mercy on thy brain.\\nThou stricken traveler\\nLook on thy victim once again.\\nBethink thee of her wrongs and pain\\nDost thou remember her?", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0240.jp2"}, "241": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 227\\nThe traveler smote his burning brow,\\nFor he saw the wronged one there\\nHe knew her by her forehead s snov7,\\nAnd by her large blue eye below,\\nAnd by her wild, dark hair.\\nSlowly, yet firm, she held her way,\\nThe wizard s song grew still\\nThe sorcerer left his elfish play,\\nAnd hideous imp and beldame gray\\nWaited the stranger s will.\\nA voice came up that place of fear\\nThe Trumpeter s hoarse tone\\nSpeak who art thou that comest here\\nWith brow baptized and Christian ear,\\nUnsummoned and alone?\\nOne moment, and a tremor shook\\nHer light and graceful frame,\\nIt passed, and then her features took\\nA fiercer and a haughtier look\\nAs thus her answer came\\nSpirits of evil\\nWorkers of doom\\nLo to your revel\\nFor vengeance I come\\nVengeance on him", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0241.jp2"}, "242": {"fulltext": "528 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nWho has blighted my fame!\\nFill his cup to the brim\\nWith a curse without name\\nLet his false heart inherit\\nThe madness of mine,\\nAnd I yield ye my spirit\\nAnd bow at your shrine!\\nA sound a mingled laugh and yell,\\nWent howling fierce and far\\nA redder light shone through the dell.\\nAs if the very gates of hell\\nSwung suddenly ajar.\\nBreathe then thy curse, thou daring one,\\nA low, deep voice replied\\nWhate er thou askest shall be done,\\nThe burthen of thy doom upon\\nThe false one shall abide.\\nThe maiden stood erect her brow\\nGrew dark as those around her.\\nAs burned upon her lip that vow\\nWhich Christian ear may never know,\\nAnd the dark fetter bound her!\\nAy, there she stood the holy Heaven\\nWas looking down on her\\nAn Angel from her bright home driven", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0242.jp2"}, "243": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 229\\nA Spirit lost and doomed and given\\nTo fiend and sorcerer I\\nAnd changed how changed her aspect grew\\nFearful and elfish there\\nThe warm tinge from her cheek withdrew\\nAnd one dark spot of blood-red hue\\nBurned on her forehead fair.\\nWild from her eye of madness shone\\nThe baleful fire within,\\nAs with a shrill and lifted tone\\nShe made her fearful purpose known\\nBefore the powers of sin\\nLet my curse be upon him\\nThe faithless of heart!\\nLet the smiles that have won him\\nIn frowning depart!\\nLet his last cherished blossom\\nOf sympathy die,\\nAnd the hopes of his bosom\\nIn shadows go by!\\nAy, curse him but keep\\nThe poor boon of his breath\\nTill he sigh for the sleep\\nAnd the quiet of death\\nLet a viewless one haunt him", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0243.jp2"}, "244": {"fulltext": "230 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nWith whisper and jeer,\\nAnd an evil one daunt him\\nWith phantoms of fear\\nBe the fiend unforgiving\\nThat follows his tread\\nLet him walk with the living,\\nYet gaze on the dead!\\nShe ceased. The doomed one felt the spell\\nAlready on his brain\\nHe turned him from the wizard-dell\\nHe prayed to Heaven he cursed at Hell\\nHe wept and all in vain.\\nThe night was one of mortal fear\\nThe morning rose to him\\nDark as the shroudings of a bier,\\nAs if the blessed atmosphere,\\nLike his own soul, was dim.\\nHe passed among his fellow-men\\nWith wild and dreamy air.\\nFor, whispering in his ear again\\nThe horrors of the midnight glen,\\nThe demon found him there.\\nAnd when he would have knelt and prayed\\nAmidst his household band.\\nAn unseen power his spirit stayed", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0244.jp2"}, "245": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 231\\nAnd on his moving lip was laid\\nA hot and burning hand\\nThe lost one in the solitude\\nOf dreams he gazed upon,\\nAnd when the holy morning glowed\\nHer dark eye shone, her wild hair flowed\\nBetween him and the sun!\\nHis brain grew wild, and then he died\\nYet, ere his heart grew cold,\\nTo the gray priest who at his side\\nThe strength of prayer and blessing tried,\\nHis fearful tale was told.\\n4c 4: 4c\\nThey ve bound the witch with many a thong\\nThe holy priest is near her;\\nAnd ever as she moves along,\\nA murmur rises fierce and strong\\nFrom those who hate and fear her.\\nShe s standing up for sacrifice\\nBeneath the gallows-tree\\nThe silent town beneath her lies,\\nAbove her are the summer skies,\\nFar off the quiet sea.\\nSo young so frail so very fair\\nWhy should the victim die?", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0245.jp2"}, "246": {"fulltext": "232 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nLook on her brow I the red stain there\\nBurns underneath her tangled hair\\nAnd mark her fiery eye\\nA thousand eyes are looking up\\nIn scorn and hate to her\\nA bony hand hath coiled the rope,\\nAnd yawns upon the green hill s slope\\nThe witch s sepulchre!\\nHa she hath spurned both priest and book-\\nHer hand is tossed on high\\nHer curse is loud, she will not brook\\nThe impatient crowd s abiding look\\nHark! how she shrieks to die!\\nUp up one struggle all is done!\\nOne groan the deed is wrought!\\nWo for the wronged and fallen one\\nHer corpse is blackened in the sun,\\nHer spirit trace it :^ot", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0246.jp2"}, "247": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 23S\\nTHE BLACK FOX.\\nIt was a cold and cruel night,\\nSome fourscore years ago,\\nThe clouds across the winter sky-\\nWere scudding to and fro\\nThe air above was cold and keen,\\nThe earth was white below.\\nAround an ancient fireplace\\nA happy household drew\\nThe husband and his own goodwife,\\nAnd children not a few\\nAnd bent above the spinning-wheel\\nThe aged grandame too.\\nThe firelight reddened all the room,\\nIt rose so high and strong,\\nAnd mirth was in each pleasant eye\\nWithin that household throng\\nAnd while the grandame turned her wheel\\nThe good man hummed a song.\\nAt length spoke up a fair-haired girl.\\nSome seven summers old.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0247.jp2"}, "248": {"fulltext": "234 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nNow, grandame, tell the tale again\\nWhich yesterday you told\\nAbout the Black Fox and the men\\nWho followed him so bold.\\nYes, tell it, said a dark-eyed boy,\\nAnd Tell it, said his brother;\\nJust tell the story of the Fox,\\nWe will not ask another.\\nAnd all the children gathered close\\nAround their old grandmother.\\nThen lightly in her withered hands\\nThe grandame turned her reel.\\nAnd when the thread was wound away\\nShe set aside her wheel.\\nAnd smiled with that peculiar joy\\nThe old and happy feel.\\nTis more than sixty years ago\\nSince first the Fox was seen\\nTwas in the winter of the year.\\nWhen not a leaf was green.\\nSave where the dark old hemlock stood\\nThe naked oaks between.\\nMy father saw the creature first,\\nOne bitter winter s day\\nIt passed so near that he could see", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0248.jp2"}, "249": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 235\\nIts fiery eyeballs play,\\nAnd well he knew an evil thing,\\nAnd foul, had crossed his way.\\nA hunter like my father then\\nWe never more shall see\\nThe mountain cat was not more swift\\nOf eye and foot than he\\nHis aim was fatal in the air\\nAnd on the tallest tree.\\nYet close beneath his ready aim\\nThe Black Fox hurried on,\\nAnd when the forest echoes mocked\\nThe sharp voice of his gun,\\nThe creature gave a frightful yell.\\nLong, loud, but only one.\\n*And there was something horrible\\nAnd fiendish in that yell\\nOur good old parson heard it once,\\nAnd I have heard him tell\\nThat it might well be likened to\\nA fearful cry from hell.\\nDay after day that Fox was seen.\\nHe prowled our forests through,\\nStill gliding wild and spectre-like\\nBefore the hunter s view;", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0249.jp2"}, "250": {"fulltext": "236 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nAnd howling louder than the storm\\nWhen savagely it blew.\\nThe Indians, when upon the wind\\nThat howl rose long and clear,\\nShook their wild heads mysteriously\\nAnd muttered, as in fear;\\nOr veiled their eyes, as if they knew\\nAn evil thing was near.\\nThey said it was a Fox accurst\\nBy Hobomocko s will.\\nThat it was once a mighty chief\\nWhom battle might not kill.\\nBut who, for some unspoken crime.\\nWas doomed to wander still.\\nThat every year, when all the hills\\nWere white with winter snow,\\nAnd the tide of Salmon River ran\\nThe gathering ice below.\\nHis howl was heard and his form was seen\\nStill hurrying to and fro.\\nAt length two gallant hunter youths,\\nThe boast and pride of all\\nThe gayest in the hour of mirth,\\nThe first at danger s call.\\nOur playmates at the village school,\\nOur partners at the ball", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0250.jp2"}, "251": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 237\\nWent forth to hunt the Sable Fox\\nBeside that haunted stream,\\nWhere it so long had glided like\\nThe creature of a dream,\\nOr like unearthly forms that dance\\nUnder the cold moonbeam\\nThey went away one winter day,\\nWhen all the air was white,\\nAnd thick and hazed with falling snow,\\nAnd blinding to the sight\\nThey bade us never fear for them,\\nThey would return by night.\\nThe night fell thick and darkly down,\\nAnd still the storm blew on\\nAnd yet the hunters came not back.\\nTheir task was yet undone\\nNor came they with their words of cheer.\\nEven with the morrow s sun.\\nAnd then our old men shook their heads.\\nAnd the red Indians told\\nTheir tales of evil sorcery\\nUntil our blood ran cold,\\nThe stories of their Powwow seers\\nAnd withered hags of old.\\nThey told us that our hunters,\\nWould never more return", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0251.jp2"}, "252": {"fulltext": "238 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nThat they would hunt forevermore\\nThrough tangled swamp and fern,.\\nAnd that their last and dismal fate\\nNo mortal e er might learn.\\nAnd days and weeks passed slowly on\\nAnd yet they came not back^\\nNor evermore by stream or hill\\nWas seen that form of black\\nAlas! for those who hunted still\\nWithin its fearful track\\nBut when the winter passed away,.\\nAnd early flowers began\\nTo bloom along the sunned hill-side,\\nAnd where the waters ran,\\nThere came unto my father s door\\nA melancholy man.\\nHis form had not the sign oi years,\\nAnd yet his locks were white.\\nAnd in his deep and restless eye\\nThere was a fearful light\\nAnd from its glance we turned away\\nAs from an adder s sight.\\nWe placed our food before that man,\\nSo haggard and so wild,\\nHe thrust it from his lips as he", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0252.jp2"}, "253": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 239\\nHad T^een a fretful child\\nAnd when we spoke with words of cheer\\nMost bitterly he smiled.\\nHe smiled, and then a gush of tears,\\nAnd then a fierce, wild look.\\nAnd then he murmured of the Fox\\nWhich haunted Salmon Brook,\\nUntil his hearers every one\\nWith nameless terror shook.\\nHe turned away with a frightful cry,\\nAnd hurried madly on,\\nAs if the dark and spectral thing\\nBefore his path had gone\\nWe called him back, but he heeded not\\nThe kind and warning tone.\\nHe came not back to us again.\\nBut the Indian hunters said\\nThat far, where the howling wilderness\\nIts leafy tribute shed,\\nThey found our missing hunters\\nNaked and cold and dead.\\nTheir grave they made beneath the shade\\nOf the old and solemn wood,\\nWhere oaks by Time alone hewn down\\nFor centuries had stood.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0253.jp2"}, "254": {"fulltext": "240 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nAnd left them without shroud or prayer\\nIn the dark solitude.\\nThe Indians always shun that grave,\\nThe wild deer treads not there\\nThe green grass is not trampled down\\nBy catamount or bear\\nThe soaring wild-bird turns away\\nEven in the upper air.\\nFor people said that every year,\\nWhen winter snows are spread\\nAll over the face of the frozen earth,\\nAnd the forest leaves are shed.\\nThe Spectre Fox comes forth and howls\\nAbove the hunters bed.\\ni\\ni", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0254.jp2"}, "255": {"fulltext": "W-HITTIER S POEMS. 241\\nTHE WHITE MOUNTAINS.\\nGray searcher of the tipper air\\nThere s sunshine on thy ancient walls\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nA crown upon the forehead bare\\nA flashing on thy water-falls\\nA rainbow glory in the cloud,\\nUpon thy awful summit bowed,\\nDim relic of the recent storm\\nAnd music, from the leafy shroud\\nWhich wraps in green thy giant form,\\nMellowed and softened from above.\\nSteals down upon the listening ear,\\nSweet as the maiden s dream of love.\\nWith soft tones melting on her ear.\\nThe time has been, gray mountain, when\\nThy shadows veiled the red man s home;\\nAnd over crag and serpent den.\\nAnd wild gorge, where the steps of men\\nIn chase or battle might not come,\\nThe mountain eagle bore on high\\nThe emblem of the free of soul\\nAnd midway in the fearful sky\\nSent back the Indian s battle-cry,\\nOr answered to the thunder s roll.\\n16", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0255.jp2"}, "256": {"fulltext": "\u00e2\u0096\u00a0^42 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nThe wigwam fires have all burned out\\nThe moccasin hath left no track\\nKor wolf nor wild-deer roam about\\nThe Saco or the Merrimack.\\nAnd thou that liftest up on high\\nThine awful barriers to the sky,\\nArt not the haunted mount of old,\\nWhen on each crag of blasted stone\\nSome mountain- spirit found a throne,\\nAnd shrieked from out the thick cloud-fold.\\nAnd answered to the Thunderer s cry\\nWhen rolled the cloud of tempest by,\\nAnd jutting rock and riven branch\\nWent down before the avalanche.\\nThe Father of our people then\\nUpon thy awful summit trod.\\nAnd the red dwellers of the glen\\nBowed down before the Indian s God.\\nThere, when His shadow veiled the sky.\\nThe Thunderer s voice was long and loud\\nAnd the red flashes of His eye\\nWere pictured on the o erhanging cloud.\\nThe spirit moveth there no more,\\nThe dwellers of the hill have gone,\\nThe sacred groves are trampled o er.\\nAnd footprints mar the altar-stone.\\nThe white man climbs thy tallest rock", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0256.jp2"}, "257": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS, 243\\nAnd hangs him from the mossy steep,\\nWhere, trembling to the cloud-fire s shock.\\nThy ancient prison- walls unlock.\\nAnd captive waters leap to light,\\nAnd dancing down from height to height.\\nPass onward to the far-off deep.\\nOh, sacred to the Indian seer.\\nGray altar of the days of old\\nStill are thy rugged features dear.\\nAs when unto my infant ear\\nThe legends of the past were told.\\nTales of the downward sweeping flood,\\nWhen bowed like reeds thy ancient wood,\\nOf armed hand and spectral form.\\nOf giants in their misty shroud.\\nAnd voices calling long and loud\\nIn the drear pauses of the storm\\nFarewell! The red man s face is turned\\nToward another hunting-ground\\nFor where the council-fire has burned,\\nAnd o er the sleeping warrior s mound\\nAnother fire is kindled now\\nIts light is on the white man s brow!\\nThe hunter race have passed away\\nAy, vanished like the morning mist.\\nOr dew-drops by the sunshine kissed,\\nAnd wherefore should the red man stay?", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0257.jp2"}, "258": {"fulltext": "244 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nTHE INDIAN S TALE.\\nThe War-God did not wake the strife\\nThe strong men of our forest land.\\nNo red hand grasped the battle-knife\\nAt Areonski s high command:\\nWe held no war-dance by the dim\\nAnd red light of the creeping flame\\nNor warrior yell, nor battle hymn\\nUpon the midnight breezes came.\\nThere was no portent in the sky,\\nNo shadow on the round, bright sun.\\nWith light and mirth and nielody\\nThe long, fair summer days came on.\\nWe were a happy people then,\\nRejoicing in our hunter mood;\\nNo footprints of the pale-faced men\\nHad marred our forest solitude.\\nThe land was ours this glorious land\\nWith all its wealth of wood and streams\\n^\u00e2\u0080\u00a2Our warriors strong of heart and hand,\\nOur daughters beautiful as dreams.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0258.jp2"}, "259": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 245\\nWhen wearied at the thirsty noon,\\nWe knelt us where the spring gushed up,\\nTo taste our Father s blessed boon\\nUnlike the white man s poison cup.\\nThere came unto my father s hut\\nA wan, weak creature of distress\\nThe red man s door is never shut\\nAgainst the lone and shelterless.\\nAnd when he knelt before his feet,\\nMy father led the stranger in\\nHe gave him of his hunter meat\\nAlas it was a deadly sin\\nThe stranger s voice was not like ours\\nHis face at first was sadly pale,\\nAnon twas like the yellow flowers\\nWhich trembled in the meadow gale\\nAnd when he laid him down- to die.\\nAnd murmured of his fatherland,\\nMy mother wiped his tearful eye,\\nMy father held his burning hand!\\nHe died at last the funeral yell\\nRang upward from his burial sod,\\nAnd the old Powwah knelt to tell\\nThe tidings to the white man s God!\\nThe next day came my father s brow\\nGrew heavy with a fearful pain,", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0259.jp2"}, "260": {"fulltext": "246 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nHe did not take his hunting-bow\\nHe never sought the woods again\\nHe died even as the white man died;\\nMy mother, she was smitten too;\\nMy sisters vanished from my side,\\nLike diamonds from the sunlit dew.\\nAnd then we heard the Powwahs say\\nThat God had sent his angel forth\\nTo sweep our ancient tribes away,\\nAnd poison and unpeople Earth.\\nAnd it was so from day to day\\nThe Spirit of the Plague went on\\nAnd those at morning blithe and gay\\nWere dying at the set of sun.\\nThey died our free, bold hunters died\\nThe living might not give them graves,\\nSave when along the water-side\\nThey cast them to the hurrying waves.\\nThe carrion crow, the ravenous beast.\\nTurned loathing from the ghastly dead\\nWell might they shun the funeral feast\\nBy that destroying angel spread\\nOne after one the red men fell.\\nOur gallant war- tribe passed away,\\nAnd I alone am left to tell\\nThe story of its swift decay.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0260.jp2"}, "261": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 247\\nAlone alone a withered leaf,\\nYet clinging to its naked bough\\nThe pale race scorn the aged chief,\\nAnd I will join my fathers now.\\nThe spirits of my people bend\\nAt midnight from the solemn West,\\nTo me their kindly arms extend,\\nTo call me to their home of rest", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0261.jp2"}, "262": {"fulltext": "248 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nTHE SPECTRE SHIP.\\nThe morning light is breaking forth\\nAll over the dark blue sea,\\nAnd the waves are changed they are rich\\nwith gold\\nAs the morning waves should be,\\nAnd the rising winds wandering out\\nOn their seaward pinions free.\\nThe bark is ready, the sails are set.\\nAnd the boat rocks on the shore\\nSay, why do the passengers linger yet?\\nIs not the farewell o er?\\nDo those who enter that gallant ship\\nGo forth to return no more?\\nA wailing rose by the water-side,\\nA young, fair girl was there,\\nWith a face as pale as the face of Death\\nWhen its coffin-lid is bare\\nAnd an eye as strangely beautiful\\nAs a star in the upper air.\\nShe leaned on a youthful stranger s arm\\nA tall and silent one", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0262.jp2"}, "263": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 249\\nWho stood in the very midst of the crowd,\\nYet littered a word to none\\nHe gazed on the sea and the waiting ship,\\nBut he gazed on them alone!\\nThe fair girl leaned on the stranger s arm,\\nAnd she wept as one in fear,\\nBut he heeded not the plaintive moan\\nAnd the dropping of the tear\\nHis eye was fixed on the stirring sea,\\nCold, darkly and severe\\nThe boat was filled the shore was left\\nThe farewell word was said\\nBut the vast crowd lingered still behind\\nWith an overpowering dread\\nThey feared that stranger and his bride,\\nSo pale and like the dead.\\nAnd many said that an evil pair\\nAmong their friends had gone,\\nA demon with his human prey,\\nFrom the quiet graveyard drawn\\nAnd a prayer was heard that the innocent\\nMight escape, the Evil One.\\nAway the good ship sped away,\\nOut on the broad high seas,\\nThe sun upon her path before", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0263.jp2"}, "264": {"fulltext": "250 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nBehind, the steady breeze\\nAnd there was nought in sea or sky\\nOf fearful auguries.\\nThe day passed on the sunlight fell\\nAll slantwise from the west,\\nAnd then the heavy cloud of storm\\nSat on the ocean s breast;\\nAnd every swelling billow mourn d\\nLike a living thing distressed.\\nThe sun went down among the clouds.\\nTinging with sudden gold\\nThe pall-like shadow of the storm.\\nOn every mighty fold\\nAnd then the lightning s eye look d forth,\\nAnd the red thunder rolled.\\nThe storm came down upon the sea.\\nIn its surpassing dread,\\nRousing the white and broken surge\\nAbove its rocky bed,\\nAs if the deep was stirred beneath\\nA giant s viewless tread.\\nAll night the hurricane went on,\\nAnd all along the shore\\nThe smothered cry of shipwreck d men\\nBlent with the ocean s roar;", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0264.jp2"}, "265": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 251\\nThe gray-haired man had scarcely known\\nSo wild a night before.\\nMorn rose upon the tossing sea,\\nThe tempest s work was done\\nAnd freely over land and wave\\nShone out the blessed sun\\nBut where was she that merchant bark\\nWhere had the good ship gone?\\nMen gathered on the shore to watch\\nThe billows heavy swell,\\nHoping, yet fearing much, some frail\\nMemorial might tell\\nThe fate of that disastrous ship\\nOf friends they loved so well.\\nNone came the billows smoothed away.\\nAnd all was strangely calm.\\nAs if the very sea had felt\\nA necromancer s charm;\\nAnd not a trace was left behind\\nOf violence and harm.\\nThe twilight came with sky of gold,\\nAnd curtaining of night\\nAnd then a sudden cry rang out,\\nA ship the ship in sight!", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0265.jp2"}, "266": {"fulltext": "252 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nAnd lo! tall masts grew visible\\nWithin the fading light.\\nNear and more near the ship came on,\\nWith all her broad sails spread\\nThe night grew thick, but a phantom light\\nAround her path was shed.\\nAnd the gazers shuddered as on she came\\nFor against the wind she sped.\\nThey saw by the dim and baleful glare\\nAround that voyager thrown.\\nThe upright forms of the well-known crew.\\nAs pale and fixed as stone\\nAnd they called to them, but no sound came\\nback\\nSave the echoed cry alone.\\nThe fearful stranger youth was there\\nAnd clasped in his embrace\\nThe pale and passing sorrowful\\nGazed wildly in his face,\\nLike one who had been wakened from\\nThe silent burial-place.\\nA shudder ran along the crowd.\\nAnd a holy man knelt there.\\nOn the wet sea-sand, and offered up\\nA faint and trembling prayer.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0266.jp2"}, "267": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 263\\nThat God would shield His people from\\nThe spirits of the air!\\nAnd lo the vision passed away\\nThe spectre ship the crew\\nThe stranger and his pallid bride,\\nDeparted from their view\\nAnd nought was left upon the waves\\nBeneath the arching blue.\\nIt passed away, that vision strange,\\nForever from their sight,\\nYet long shall Naumkeag s annals tell\\nThe story of that night\\nThe phantom bark the ghostly crew\\nThe pale, encircling light.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0267.jp2"}, "268": {"fulltext": "254 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nTHE SPECTRE WARRIORS.\\nAway to your arms for the foemen are here^\\nThe yell of the red man is loud on the ear\\nOn on to the garrison soldiers away.\\nThe moccasin s track shall be bloody to-day.\\nThe fortress is reached, they have taken their\\nstand.\\nWith war-knife in girdle, and rifle in hand\\nTheir wives are behind them, the savage\\nbefore\\nWill the Puritan fail at his hearth-stone and\\ndoor?\\nThere s a yell in the forest, unearthly and\\ndread,\\nLike the shriek of a fiend o er the place of the\\ndead;\\nAgain how it swells through the forest afar\\nHave the tribes of the fallen uprisen to war?\\nHa look! they are coming not cautious and\\nslow,\\nIn the serpent-like mood of the blood-seeking\\nfoe.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0268.jp2"}, "269": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 255\\nNor stealing in shadow, nor hiding in grass,\\nBut tall and uprightly and sternly they pass.\\nBe ready! the watchword has passed on\\nthe wall\\nThe maidens have shrunk to the innermost\\nhall\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nThe rifles are leveled each head is bowed\\nlow\\nEach eye fixes steady God pity the foe\\nThey are closely at hand! Ha! the red flash\\nhas broke\\nFrom the garrisoned wall through a curtain of\\nsmoke,\\nThere s a yell from the dying that aiming\\nwas true\\nThe red man no more shall his hunting pursue\\nLook, look to the earth, as the smoke rolls\\naway.\\nDo the dying and dead on the green herbage\\nlay?\\nWhat mean those wild glances? no slaughter\\nis there\\nThe red man has gone like the mist on the air!\\nUnharmed as the bodiless air he has gone\\nFrom the war-knife s edge and the ranger s\\nlong gun,", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0269.jp2"}, "270": {"fulltext": "256 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nAnd the Puritan warrior has turned him away\\nFrom the weapons of war, and is kneeling to\\npray\\nHe fears that the Evil and Dark One is near,\\nOn an errand of wrath, with his phantoms of\\nfear;\\nAnd he knows that the aim of his rifle is vain\\nThat the spectres of evil may never be slain\\nHe knows that the Powwah has cunning and\\nskill\\nTo call up the Spirit of Darkness at will\\nTo waken the dead in their wilderness- graves,\\nAnd summons the demons of forest and waves.\\nAnd he layeth the weapons of battle aside,\\nAnd forgetteth the strength of his natural\\npride,\\nAnd he kneels with the priest by his garrisoned\\ndoor.\\nThat the spectres of evil may haunt him no\\nmore", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0270.jp2"}, "271": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 257\\nTHE LAST NORRIDGEWOCK.\\nShe stood beneath the shadow of an oak,\\nGrim with uncounted winters, and whose\\nboughs\\nHad sheltered in their youth the giant forms\\nOf the great chieftain s warriors. She was\\nfair,\\nEven to a white man s vision and she wore\\nA blended grace and dignity of mien\\nWhich might befit the daughter of a king\\nThe queenliness of nature. She had all\\nThe magic of proportion which might haunt\\nThe dream of some rare painter, or steal in\\nUpon the musings of the sanctuary\\nLike an unreal vision. She was dark,\\nThere was no play of crimson on her cheek,\\nYet were her features beautiful. Her eye\\nWas clear and wild and brilliant as a beam\\nOf the live sunshine and her long, dark hair\\nSway d in rich masses to the unquiet wind.\\nThe West was glad with sunset Over all\\nThe green hills and the wilderness there fell\\nA great and sudden glory. Half the sky", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0271.jp2"}, "272": {"fulltext": "258 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nWas full of glorious tints, as if the home\\nAnd fountain of the rainbow were revealed\\nAnd through its depth of beauty looked the star\\nOf the blest Evening, like an angel s eye.\\nThe Indian watched the sunset, and her eye\\nGlistened one moment; then a tear fell down.\\nFor she was dreaming of her fallen race\\nThe mighty who had perished for her creed\\nHad taught her that the spirits of the brave\\nAnd beautiful were gathered in the West\\nThe red man s Paradise; and then she sang\\nFaintly her song of sorrow, with a low\\nAnd half -hushed tone, as if she knew that those\\nWho listened were unearthly auditors,\\nAnd that the dead had bowed themselves to\\nhear.\\nThe moons of autumn wax and wane, the\\nsound of swelling floods\\nIs borne upon the mournful wind, and broadly\\non the woods\\nThe colors of the changing leaves the fair,\\nfrail flowers of frost\\nBefore the round and yellow sun most beautiful\\nare tossed.\\nThe morning breaketh with a clear, bright pen-\\nciling of sky,", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0272.jp2"}, "273": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 259\\nAnd blushes through its golden clouds as the\\ngreat sun goes by\\nAnd evening lingers in the West more beau-\\ntiful than dreams\\nWhich whisper of the Spirit-land, its wilder-\\nness and streams!\\nA little time another moon the forest will\\nbe sad\\nThe streams will mourn the pleasant light\\nwhich made their journey glad\\nThe morn will faintly lighten up, the sunlight\\nglisten cold.\\nAnd wane into the western sky without its\\nautumn gold.\\nAnd yet I weep not for the sign of desolation\\nnear\\nThe ruin of my hunter race may only ask a\\ntear,\\nThe wailing streams will laugh again, the\\nnaked trees put on\\nThe beauty of their summer green beneath the\\nsummer sun;\\nThe autumn cloud will yet again its crimson\\ndraperies fold,\\nThe star of sunset smile again a diamond set\\nin gold!", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0273.jp2"}, "274": {"fulltext": "260 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nBut never for their forest lake, or for their\\nmountain path,\\nThe mighty of our race shall leave the hunt-\\ning-ground of Death.\\n**I know the tale my fathers told the legend\\nof their fame\\nThe glory of our spotless race before the pale\\nones came\\nWhen asking fellowship of none, by turns the\\nfoe of all,\\nThe deathbolts of our vengeance fell, as Hea-\\nven s own lightnings fall;\\nWhen at the call of Tacomet, my warrior-sire\\nof old,\\nThe war-shout of a thousand men upon the\\nmidnight rolled;\\nAnd fearless and companionless our warriors\\nstrode alone.\\nAnd from the big lake to the sea the green\\nearth was their own.\\nWhere are they now? Around their changed\\nand stranger-peopled home.\\nFull sadly o er their thousand graves the flow-\\ners of autumn bloom\\nThe bow of strength is buried with the calumet\\nand spear.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0274.jp2"}, "275": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 261\\nAnd the spent arrow slumbereth, forgetful of\\nthe deer!\\nThe last canoe is rotting by the lake it glided\\no er,\\nWhen dark-eyed maidens sweetly sang its wel-\\ncome from the shore.\\nThe footprints of the hunter race from all the\\nhills have gone\\nTheir offering to the Spirit-land have left the\\naltar-stone\\nThe ashes of the council-fire have no abiding\\ntoken\\nThe song of war has died away the Powwah s\\ncharm is broken\\nThe startling war-whoop cometh not upon the\\nloud, clear air\\nThe ancient woods are vanishing the pale\\nmen gather there.\\nAnd who is left to mourn for this? a solitary\\none.\\nWhose life is waning into death like yonder\\nsetting sun!\\nA broken reed, a faded flower, that lingereth\\nbehind,\\nTo mourn above its fallen race, and wrestle\\nwith the wmd!", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0275.jp2"}, "276": {"fulltext": "262 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nLo from the Spirit-land I hear the voices of\\nthe blest;\\nThe holy faces of the loved are leaning from\\nthe West.\\nThe mighty and the beautiful the peerless\\nones of old\\nThey call me to their pleasant sky and to their\\nthrones of gold\\nEre the spoilers eye hath found me, when\\nthere are none to save\\nOr the evil-hearted pale-face made the free of\\nsoul a slave\\nEre the step of air grow weary, or the sunny\\neye be dim,\\nThe father of my people is calling me to him.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0276.jp2"}, "277": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 263\\nTHE AERIAL OMENS.\\nA light is troubling Heaven A strange, dull\\nglow\\nIs trembling like a fiery veil between\\nThe blue sky and the earth and the far stars\\nGlimmer but faintly through it. Day hath left\\nNo traces of its presence, and the blush\\nWith which it welcomed the embrace of Night\\nHas faded from the sky s blue cheek, as fades\\nThe blush of human beauty when the tone\\nOr look which woke its evidence of love\\nHath passed away forever. Wherefore then\\nBurns the strange fire in Heaven? It is as if\\nNature s last curse the terrible plague of fire.\\nWere working in her elements, and the sky\\nConsuming like a vapor.\\nLo a change\\nThe fiery flashes sink, and all along\\nThe dim horizon of the fearful North\\nRests a broad crimson, like a sea of blood\\nUntroubled by a wave. And lo above,\\nBendeth a luminous arch of pale, pure white.\\nClearly contrasted with the blue above", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0277.jp2"}, "278": {"fulltext": "264 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nAnd the dark red beneath it. Glorious\\nHow like a pathway for the sainted ones\\nThe pure and beautiful intelligences\\nWho minister in Heaven, and offer up\\nTheir praises as incense; or, like that which\\nrose\\nBefore the pilgrim-prophet, when the tread\\nOf the most holy angels brightened it,\\nAnd in its dream the haunted sleeper saw\\nThe ascending and descending of the blest\\nAnother change. Strange, fiery forms uprise\\nOn the wide arch, and take the throngful shape\\nOf warriors gathering to the strife on high.\\nA dreadful marching of infernal shapes.\\nBeings of fire with plumes of bloody red.\\nWith banners flapping o er their crowded ranks,\\nAnd long swords quivering up against the sky!\\nAnd now they meet and mingle and the ear\\nListens with painful earnestness to catch\\nThe ring of cloven helmets and the groan\\nOf the down- trodden. But there comes no\\nsound\\nSave a low, sullen rush upon the air,\\nSuch as the unseen wings of spirits make,\\nSweeping the void above us. All is still.\\nYet falls each red sword fiercely, and the hoof\\nOf the wild steed is crushing on the breast", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0278.jp2"}, "279": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 265\\nOf the o er thrown and vanquished. Tis a\\nstrange\\nAnd awful conflict an unearthly war!\\nIt is as if the dead had risen up\\nTo battle with each other the stern strife\\nOf spirits visible to mortal eyes.\\nSteed, plume, and warrior vanish one by one,\\nWavering and changing to unshapely flame\\nAnd now across the red and fearful sky\\nA long bright flame is trembling, like the sword\\nOf the great Angel at the guarded gate\\nOf Paradise, when all the sacred groves\\nAnd beautiful flowers of Eden-land blushed\\nred\\nBeneath its awful shadow; and the eye\\nOf the lone outcast quailed before its glare,\\nAs from the immediate questioning of God.\\nAnd men are gazing on that troubled sky\\nWith most unwonted earnestness, and fair\\nAnd beautiful brows are reddening in the light\\nOf that strange vision of the upper air;\\nEven as the dwellers of Jerusalem,\\nThe leaguered of the Roman, when the sky\\nOf Palestine was thronged with fiery shapes,\\nAnd from Antonio s tower the mailed Jew\\nSaw his own image pictured in the air.\\nContending with the heathen and the priest", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0279.jp2"}, "280": {"fulltext": "266 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nBeside the Temple s altar veiled his face\\nFrom that most horrid phantasy, and held\\nThe censer of his worship with a hand\\nShaken b}?- terror s palsy.\\nIt has passed\\nAnd Heaven is quiet; and its stars\\nSmile down serenely. There is not a stain\\nUpon iits dream-like loveliness of blue\\nNo token of the fiery mystery\\nWhich made the evening fearful. But the\\nhearts\\nOf those who gazed upon it, yet retained\\nThe shadow of its awe the chilling fear\\nOf its ill-boding aspect. It is deemed\\nA revelation of the things to come\\nOf war and its calamities the storm\\nOf the pitched battle, and the midnight strife\\nOf heathen inroad the devouring flame,\\nThe dripping tomahawk, the naked knife,\\nThe swart hand twining with the silken locks\\nOf the fair girl the torture, and the bonds\\nOf perilous captivity with those\\nWho know not mercy, and with whom revenge\\nIs sweeter than the cherished gift of life.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0280.jp2"}, "281": {"fulltext": "MOGG MEGONE.\\n267", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0281.jp2"}, "282": {"fulltext": "", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0282.jp2"}, "283": {"fulltext": "MOGG MEGONE.\\nPART I.\\nWho stands on that cliff, like a figure of stone,\\nUnmoving and tall in the light of the sky,\\nWhere the spray of the cataract sparkles on\\nhigh,\\nAll lonely and sternly, save Mogg Megone?\\nHow close to the verge of the rock, is he.\\nWhile beneath him the Saco its work is\\ndoing,\\nHurrying down to its grave, the sea,\\nAnd slow through the rock its pathway\\nhewing\\nFar down, through the mist of the falling\\nriver,\\nWhich rises up like an incense ever,\\nThe splintered points of the crags are seen,\\nWith the water howling and vexed between,\\nWhile the scooping whirl of the pool beneath\\nSeems an open throat, with its granite teeth!\\nBut Mogg Megone never trembled yet\\nWherever his eye or his foot was set.\\n269", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0283.jp2"}, "284": {"fulltext": "270 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nHe is watchful: each form in the moonlight\\ndim,\\nOf rock or of tree, is seen of him\\nHe listens; each sound from afar is caught,\\nThe faintest shiver of leaf and limb\\nBut he sees not the waters, which foam and\\nfret\\nWhose moonlit spray has his moccasin wet,\\nAnd the roar of their rushing, he hears it not.\\nThe moonlight, through the open bough\\nOf the gray beech, whose naked root\\nCoils like a serpent at his foot,\\nFalls, checkered, on the Indian s brow.\\nHis head is bare, save only where\\nWaves in the wind one lock of hair,\\nReserved for him, whoe er he be\\nMore mighty than Megone in strife.\\nWhen, breast to breast and knee to knee,.\\nAbove the fallen warrior s life\\nGleams, quick and keen, the scalping-knife.\\nMegone hath his knife and hatchet and gun,.\\nAnd his gaudy and tasseled blanket on\\nHis knife hath a handle with gold inlaid,\\nAnd magic words on its polished blade,\\nTwas the gift of Castine to Mogg Megone,.\\nFor a scalp or twain from Yengeese torn\\nHis gun was the gift of the Tarrantine,", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0284.jp2"}, "285": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 271\\nAnd Modocawando s wives had strung\\nThe brass and the beads, which tinkle and shine\\nOn the polished breech, and broad bright line\\nOf beaded wampum around it hung.\\nWhat seeks Megone? His foes are near,\\nGray Jocelyn s eye is never sleeping,\\nAnd the garrison lights are burning clear,\\nWhere Philip s men their watch are keeping.\\nXret him hie him away through the dank river\\nfog,\\nNever rustling the boughs nor displacing\\nthe rocks,\\nPer the eyes and the ears which are watching\\nfor Mogg,\\nAre keener than those of the wolf or the fox.\\nHe starts, there s a rustle among the leaves:\\nAnother, the click of his gun is heard I\\nA footstep is it the step of Cleaves,\\nWith Indian blood on his English sword?\\nSteals Harmon down from the sands of York,\\nWith hand of iron and foot of cork?\\nHas Scamman, versed in Indian wile.\\nFor vengeance left his vine-hung isle?\\nHark! at that whistle, soft and low.\\nHow lights the eye of Mogg Megone\\nA smile gleams o er his dusky brow,\\nBoon welcome, Johnny Bonython!", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0285.jp2"}, "286": {"fulltext": "272 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nOut steps, with cautious foot and slow,\\nAnd quick keen glances to and fro,\\nThe haunted outlaw, Bonython\\nA low, lean, swarthy man is he,\\nWith blanket-garb and buskined knee,\\nAnd nought of English fashion on\\nFor he hates the race from whence he sprung,\\nAnd he couches his words in the Indian tongue.\\nHush, let the Sachem s voice be weak;\\nThe water-rat shall hear him speak,\\nThe owl shall whoop in the white man s ear,\\nThat Mogg Megone, with his scalps, is here V*\\nHe pauses, dark, over cheek and brow,\\nA flush, as of shame, is stealing now\\nSachem! he says, let me have the land,\\nWhich stretches away upon either hand\\nAs far about as my feet can stray\\nIn the half of a gentle summer s day.\\nFrom the leaping brook to the Saco River,\\nAnd the fair-haired girl, thou hast sought of me,\\nShall sit in the Sachem s wigwam, and be\\nThe wife of Mogg Megone forever.\\nThere s a sudden light in the Indian s glance,\\nA moment s trace of powerful feeling,\\nOf love or triumph, or both perchance,\\nOver his proud, calm features stealing,\\nThe words of my father are very good", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0286.jp2"}, "287": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 273\\nHe shall have the land, and water, and wood;\\nAnd he who harms the sagamore John,\\nShall feel the knife of Mogg Megone\\nBut the fawn of the Yengeese shall sleep on\\nmy breast,\\nAnd the bird of the clearing shall sing in my\\nnest.\\nBut, father! and the Indian s hand\\nFalls gently on the white man s arm,\\nAnd, with a smile as shrewdly bland\\nAs the deep voice is low and calm,\\nWhere is my father s singing-bird,\\nThe sunny eye, and sunset hair?\\nI know I have my father s word,\\nAnd that his word is good and fair\\nBut will my father tell me where\\nMegone shall go and look for his bride?\\nFor he sees her not by her father s side.\\nThe dark, stern eye of Bonython\\nFlashes over the features of Mogg Megone,\\nIn one of those glances which search within\\nBut the stolid calm of the Indian alone\\nRemains where the trace of emotion has\\nbeen.\\nDoes the Sachem doubt? Let him go with me,\\nAnd the eyes of the Sachem his bride shall see.\\n18", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0287.jp2"}, "288": {"fulltext": "274 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nCautious and slow, with pauses oft,\\nAnd watchful eyes and whispers soft,\\nThe twain are stealing through the wood,\\nLeaving the downward-rushing flood,\\nWhose deep and solemn roar behind\\nGrows fainter on the evening wind.\\nHark is that the angry howl\\nOf the wolf, the hills among?\\nOr the hooting of the owl.\\nOn his leafy cradle swung?\\nQuickly glancing, to and fro,\\nListening to each sound they go\\nRound the columns of the pine,\\nIndistinct, in shadow, seeming\\nLike some old and pillared shrine\\nWith the soft and white moonshine.\\nRound the foliage-tracery shed\\nOf each column s branching head,\\nFor its lamps of worship gleaming\\nAnd the sounds awakened there.\\nIn the piae-leaves fine and small,\\nSoft and sweetly musical.\\nBy the fingers of the air,\\nPor the anthem s dying fall\\nLingering round some temple s wall!\\nIs not Nature s worship thus,\\nCeaseless ever, going on?", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0288.jp2"}, "289": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 275\\nHath it not a voice for us\\nIn the thunder, or the tone\\nOf the leaf -harp faint and small,\\nSpeaking to the unsealed ear\\nWords of blended love and fear,\\nOf the mighty Soul of all?\\nNought had the twain of thoughts like these\\nAs they wound along through the crowded\\ntrees,\\nWhere never had rung the axeman s stroke\\nOn the gnarled trunk of the rough-barked oak\\nClimbing the dead tree s mossy log,\\nBreaking the mesh of the bramble fine,\\nTurning aside the wild grape-vine,\\nAnd lightly crossing the quaking bog\\nWhose surface shakes at the leap of the frog.\\nAnd out of whose pools the ghostly fog\\nCreeps into the chill moonshine\\nYet, even that Indian s ear had heard\\nThe preaching of the Holy Word\\nSanchekantacket s isle of sand\\nWas once his father s hunting land,\\nWhere zealous Hiacoomes stood,\\nThe wild apostle of the wood,\\nShook from his soul the fear of harm,\\nAnd trampled on the Pawwaw s charm", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0289.jp2"}, "290": {"fulltext": "276 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nUntil the wizard s curses hung\\nSuspended on his palsying tongue,\\nAnd the fierce warrior, grim and tall,\\nTrembled before the forest Paul\\nA cottage hidden in the wood,\\nRed through its seams a light is glowing,\\nOn rock and bough and tree-trunk rude,\\nA narrow lustre throwing.\\nWho s there? a clear, firm voice demands:\\nHold, Ruth, tis I, the Sagamore!\\nQuick, at the summons, hasty hands\\nUnclose the bolted door\\nAnd on the outlaw s daughter shine\\nThe flashes of the kindled pine.\\nTall and erect the maiden stands.\\nLike some young priestess of the w^ood,\\nSome creature born of Solitude,\\nAnd bearing still the wild and rude.\\nYet noble trace of Nature s hands.\\nHer dark-brown cheek has caught its stain\\nMore from the sunshine than the rain;\\nYet, where her long fair hair is parting,\\nA pure white brow into light is starting;\\nAnd, where the folds of her mantle sever,\\nAre a neck and bosom as white as ever\\nThe foam-wreaths rise on the leaping river.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0290.jp2"}, "291": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 277\\nBut, in the convulsive quiver and grip\\nOf the muscles around her bloodless lip,\\nThere is something painful and sad to see\\nAnd her eye has a glance more sternly wild\\nThan even that of a forest child\\nIn its fearless and untamed freedom should\\nbe.\\nOh seldom in hall or court are seen\\nSo queenly a form and so noble a mien,\\nAs freely and smiling she welcomes them\\nthere\\nHer outlawed sire and Mogg Megone:\\nPray, father, how does thy hunting fare?\\nAnd, Sachem, say, does Scamman wear,\\nIn spite of thy promise, a scalp of his own?\\nCareless and light is the maiden s tone;\\nBut a fearful meaning lurks within\\nHer glance, as it questions the eye of\\nMegone,\\nAn awful meaning of guilt and sin\\nThe Indian hath opened his blanket, and there\\nHangs a human scalp by its long damp hair\\nNow God have mercy! that maiden s fingers\\nAre touching the scalp where the blood still\\nlingers.\\nTurning up to the light its soft brown hair 1\\nWhat an evil triumph her eye reveals!", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0291.jp2"}, "292": {"fulltext": "278 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nWhat a baleful smile on her pale face steals!\\nIs the soul of a fiend in a form so fair?\\nNay traces of feeling are visible now,\\nIn that quivering lip and that writhing brow\\nBut who shall measure the thoughts within,\\nOf hatred and love, of passion and sin?\\nDoes not the eye of her mind glance back\\nOn the gloom and quiet of her stormy track?\\nThe traitor s lip by her kisses met\\nThe traitor s hand by her fond tears wet\\nThe trustless hopes on his promise built\\nThe gust of passion the hell of guilt\\nThe warm embrace, when her tresses fair\\nMingled themselves with that scalp s brown\\nhair\\nAnd idly and fondly her small hand played\\nIn dalliance sweet with its light and shade\\nAnd what are those tears which her wild eyes\\ndim,\\nBut tears of sorrow and love for him?\\nFor him who drugged her cup with shame.\\nWith a curse for her heart and a blight for her\\nname?\\nFor whom her vengeance hath tracked so long,\\nFeeding its torch with the thought of wrong?\\nOh woman wronged, can cherish hate\\nMore deep and dark than manhood may;", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0292.jp2"}, "293": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 279\\nBut, when the mockery of Fate\\nHath left Revenge its chosen way,\\nAnd the fell curse, which years have nursed.\\nFull on the spoiler s head hath burst,\\nWhen all her wrong, and shame, and pain,\\nBurns fiercely on his heart and brain,\\nStill lingers something of the spell\\nWhich bound her to the traitor s bosom,\\nStill, midst the vengeful fires of hell,\\nSome flowers of old affection blossom.\\nAnd while her hand is nerved to strike,\\nShe sweeps above her victim, like\\nThe Roman, when his dagger gave\\nHis Csesar to a bloody grave.\\nJohn Bonython s eyebrows together are drawn\\nWith a fierce expression of wrath and scorn,\\nHe hoarsely whispers, Ruth, beware!\\nIs this the time to be playing the fool,\\nCrying over a paltry lock of hair.\\nLike a love-sick girl at school?\\nCurse on it! an Indian can see and hear:\\nAway, and prepare our evening cheer!\\nHow keenly the Indian is watching now\\nHer tearful eye and her varying brow.\\nWith a serpent eye, which kindles and burns,\\nLike a fiery star in the upper air:", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0293.jp2"}, "294": {"fulltext": "280 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nOn sire and daughter his fierce glance turns\\nHas my old white father a scalp to spare?\\nFor his young one loves the pale brown hair\\nOn the scalp of a Yengeese dog, far more\\nThan Mogg Megone, or his wigwam floor\\nGo, Mogg is wise: he will keep his land,\\nAnd Sagamore John, when he feels with his\\nhand,\\nShall miss his scalp where it grew before.\\nThe moment s gust of grief is gone,\\nThe lip is clenched, the tears are still,\\nGod pity thee, Ruth Bonython\\nWith what strength of will\\nAre nature s feelings in thy breast.\\nAs with an iron hand, repressed\\nAnd how, upon that nameless wo.\\nQuick as the pulse can come and go.\\nWhile shakes the unsteadfast knee, and yet\\nThe bosom heaves, the eye is wet,\\nHas thy dark spirit power to stay\\nThe heart s own current on its way?\\nAnd whence that baleful strength of guile,\\nWhich over that still working brow\\nAnd tearful eye and cheek, can throw\\nThe ghostly mockery of a smile?\\nIs tne Sachem angry, angry with Ruth,\\nBecause she cries with an ache in her toothy", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0294.jp2"}, "295": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 281\\nWhich would make a Sagamore jump and cry,\\nAnd look about with a woman s eye?\\nNo, Ruth will sit in the Sachem s door\\nAnd braid the mats for his wigwam floor,\\nAnd broil his fish and tender fawn,\\nAnd weave his wampum, and grind his corn,\\nFor she loves the brave and the wise, and none\\nAre braver and wiser than Mogg Megone!\\nThe Indian s brow is clear once more:\\nWith grave calm face, and half-shut eye.\\nHe sits upon the wigwam floor,\\nAnd watches Ruth go by,\\nIntent upon her household care\\nAnd, ever and anon, the while,\\nOr on the maiden, or her fare,\\nWhich smokes in grateful promise there,\\nBestows his quiet smile.\\nAh, Mogg Megone! what dreams are thine.\\nBut those which love s own fancies dress,\\nThe sum of Indian happiness!\\nA wigwam, where the warm sunshine\\nLooks in among the groves of pine,\\nA stream where, round thy light canoe,\\nThe trout and salmon dart in view,\\nAnd the fair girl, before thee now,\\nSpreading thy mat with hand of snow,", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0295.jp2"}, "296": {"fulltext": "282 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nOr plying, in the dews of morn,\\nHer hoe amidst thy patch of corn,\\nOr offering up, at eve, to thee\\nThy birchen dish of hominy!\\nFrom the rude board of Bonython,\\nVenison and suckatash have gone,\\nFor long these dwellers of the wood\\nHave felt the gnawing want of food.\\nBut untasted of Ruth is the frugal cheer,\\nWith head averted, yet ready ear,\\nShe stands by the side of her austere sire,\\nFeeding, at times, the unequal fire\\nWith the yellow knots of the pitch-pine tree.\\nWhose flaring light, as they kindle, falls\\nOn the cottage-roof, and its black log walls.\\nAnd over its inmates three.\\nFrom Sagamore Bonython s hunting flask\\nThe fire-water burns at the lip of Megone\\nWill the Sachem hear what his father shall\\nask?\\nWill he make his mark, that it may be known,\\nOn the speaking-leaf, that he gives the land,\\nFrom the Sachem s own, to his father s hand?\\nThe fire-water shines in the Indian s eyes,\\nAs he rises, the white man s bidding to do:\\nWuttamuttata weekan! Mogg is wise,\\nFor the water he drinks is strong and new,", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0296.jp2"}, "297": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 283\\nMogg s heart is great! will he shut his hand,\\nWhen his father asks for a little land?\\nWith unsteady fingers the Indian has drawn\\nOn the parchment the shape of a hunter s\\nbow.\\nBoon water, boon water, Sagamore John!\\nWuttamuttata, weekan! our hearts will\\ngrow\\nHe drinks yet deeper, he mutters low,\\nHe reels on his bear-skin to and fro,\\nHis head falls down on his naked breast,\\nHe struggles and sinks to a drunken rest.\\nHumph drunk as a beast! and Bonython s\\nbrow\\nIs darker than ever with evil thought\\nThe fool has signed his warrant; but how\\nAnd when shall the deed be wrought?\\nSpeak, Ruth! why, what the devil is there.\\nTo fix thy gaze in that empty air?\\nSpeak, Ruth! by my soul, if I thought that\\ntear,\\nWhich shames thyself and our purpose here,\\nWere shed for that cursed and pale-faced dog,\\nWhose green scalp hangs from the belt of\\nMogg,\\nAnd whose beastly soul is in Satan s keep-\\ning,\u00e2\u0080\u0094", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0297.jp2"}, "298": {"fulltext": "284 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nThis this! he dashes his hand upon\\nThe rattling stock of his loaded gun,\\nShould send thee with him to do thy weep-\\ning!\\nFather! the eye of Bonython\\nSinks at that low, sepulchral tone,\\nHollow and deep, as it were spoken\\nBy the unmoving tongue of death,\\nOr from some statue s lip had broken,\\nA sound without a breath\\nFather! my life I value less\\nThan yonder fool his gaudy dress\\nAnd how it ends it matters not,\\nBy heart-break or by rifle-shot;\\nBut spare awhile the scoff and threat,\\nOur business is not finished yet.\\nTrue, true, my girl, I only meant\\nTo draw up again the bow unbent.\\nHarm thee, my Ruth! I only sought\\nTo frighten off thy gloomy thought;\\nCome, let s be friends! He seeks to clasp\\nHis daughter s cold, damp hand in his.\\nRuth startles from her father s grasp.\\nAs if each nerve and muscle felt,\\nInstinctively, the touch of guilt,\\nThrough all their subtle sympathies.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0298.jp2"}, "299": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 285\\nHe points her to the sleeping Mogg\\n**What shall be done with yonder dog?\\nScamman is dead, and revenge is thine,\\nThe deed is signed and the land is mine\\nAnd this drunken fool is of use no more,\\nSave as thy hopeful bridegroom, and sooth,\\nT were Christian mercy to finish him, Ruth,\\nNow, while he lies like a beast on our floor,\\nIf not for thine, at least for his sake,\\nRather than let the poor dog awake\\nTo drain my flask, and claim as his bride\\nSuch a forest devil to run by his side,\\nSuch a Wetuomanit as thou wouldst make!\\nHe laughs at his jest. Hush what is there?\\nThe sleeping Indian is striving to rise.\\nWith his knife in his hand, and glaring\\neyes!\\nWagh! Mogg will have the pale-face s hair.\\nFor his knife is sharp, and his fingers can\\nhelp\\nThe hair to pull and the skin to peel,\\nLet him cry like a woman and twist like an eel,\\nThe great Captain Scamman must lose his\\nscalp\\nAnd Ruth, when she sees it, shall dance with\\nMogg.\\nHis eyes are fixed, but his lips draw in,", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0299.jp2"}, "300": {"fulltext": "286 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nWith a low, hoarse chuckle, and fiendish grin.\\nAnd he sinks again, like a senseless log.\\nRuth does not speak, she does not stir;\\nBut she gazes down on the murderer,\\nWhose broken and dreamful slumbers tell\\nToo much for her ear of that deed of hell.\\nShe sees the knife, with its slaughter red,\\nAnd the dark fingers clenching the bear-skin\\nbed!\\nWhat thoughts of horror and madness whirl\\nThrough the burning brain of that fallen girH\\nJohn Bonython lifts his gun to his eye,\\nIts muzzle is close to the Indian s ear,\\nBut he drops it again. Some one may be\\nnigh.\\nAnd I would not that even the wolves should\\nhear.\\nHe draws his knife from its deer- skin belt,\\nIts edge with his fingers is slowl}^ felt\\nKneeling -down on one knee, by the Indian s.\\nside,\\nFrom his throat he opens the blanket wide;\\nAnd twice or thrice he feebly essays\\nA trembling hand with the knife to raise.\\nI cannot, he mutters, did he not save\\nMy life from a cold and wintry grave,", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0300.jp2"}, "301": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 287\\nWhen the storm came down from Agioochook,\\nAnd the north-wind howled, and the tree-tops\\nshook,\\nAnd I strove, in the drifts of the rushing snow,\\nTill my knees grew weak and I could not go,\\nAnd I felt the cold to my vitals creep,\\nAnd my heart s blood stiffen, and pulses sleep!\\nI cannot strike him Ruth Bonython\\nIn the devil s name, tell me what s to be\\ndone?\\nOh when the soul, once pure and high,\\nIs stricken down from Virtue s sky.\\nAs with the downcast star of morn,\\nSome gems, of light are with it drawn,\\nAnd, through its night of darkness, play\\nSome tokens of its primal day,\\nSome lofty feelings linger still,\\nThe strength to dare, the nerve to meet\\nWhatever threatens with defeat\\nIts all-indomitable will\\nBut lack the mean of mind and heart,\\nThough eager for the gains of crime,\\nOft, at their chosen place and time,\\nThe strength to bear their evil part\\nAnd, shielded by their very Vice,\\nEscape from Crime by Cowardice.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0301.jp2"}, "302": {"fulltext": "288 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nRuth starts erect, with bloodshot eye,\\nAnd lips drawn tight across her teeth,\\nShowing their locked embrace beneath,\\nIn the red firelight: Mogg must die!\\nGive me the knife! The outlaw turns.\\nShuddering in heart and limb, away,\\nBut, fitfully there, the hearth-fire burns,\\nAnd he sees on the wall strange shadows\\nplay.\\nA lifted arm, a tremulous blade,\\nAre dimly pictured in light and shade.\\nPlunging down in the darkness. Hark that\\ncry!\\nAgain and again he sees it fall,\\nThat shadowy arm down the lighted wall\\nHe hears quick footsteps a shape flits by!\\nThe door on its rusted hinges creaks\\nRuth daughter Ruth! the outlaw shrieks\\nBut no sound comes back, ^he is standing\\nalone\\nBy the mangled corpse of Mogg Megone", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0302.jp2"}, "303": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 289\\nMOGG MEGONE.\\nPART II.\\nT is morning over Norridgewock,\\nOn tree and wigwam, wave and rock.\\nBathed in the autumnal sunshine, stirred\\nAt intervals by the breeze and bird,\\nAnd wearing all the hues which glow\\nIn heaven s own pure and perfect bow,\\nThat glorious picture of the air.\\nWhich summer s light-robed angel forms\\nOn the dark ground of fading storms,\\nWith pencil dipped in sunbeams there,\\nAnd, stretching out, on either hand,\\nO er all that wide and unshorn land.\\nTill, weary of its gorgeousness.\\nThe aching and the dazzled eye\\nRests gladdened on the calm blue sky\\nSlumbers the mighty wilderness\\nThe oak, upon the windy hill.\\nIts dark green burthen upward heaves\\nThe hemlock broods above its rill,\\n19", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0303.jp2"}, "304": {"fulltext": "290 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nIts cone-like foliage darker still,\\nWhile the white birch s graceful stem,\\nAnd the rough walnut bough receives\\nThe sun upon their crowded leaves.\\nEach colored like a topaz gem\\nAnd the tall maple wears with them\\nThe coronal which autumn gives,\\nThe brief, bright sign of ruin near,\\nThe hectic of a dying year\\nThe hermit priest, who lingers now\\nOn the Bald Mountain s shrubless brow,\\nThe gray and thunder-smitten pile\\nWhich marks afar the Desert Isle,\\nWhile gazing on the scene below,\\nMay half forget the dreams of home.\\nThat nightly with his slumber come,\\nThe tranquil skies of Sunny France,\\nThe peasant s harvest song and dance.\\nThe vines around the hillsides wreathing\\n.The soft airs mid their clusters breathing.\\nThe wings which dipped, the stars which shone\\nWithin thy bosom, blue Garrone\\nAnd round the Abbey s shadowed wall.\\nAt morning spring and even- fall.\\nSweet voices in the still air singing,\\nThe chant of many a holy hymn,\\nThe solemn bell of vespers ringing,", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0304.jp2"}, "305": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 291\\nAnd hallowed torch-light falling dim\\nOn pictured saint and seraphim\\nFor here beneath him lies unrolled,\\nBathed deep in morning s flood of gold,\\nA vision gorgeous as the dream\\nOf the beatified may seem.\\nWhen, as his Church s legends say,\\nBorne upward in ecstatic bliss,\\nThe rapt enthusiast soars away\\nUnto a brighter world than this\\nA mortal s glimpse beyond the pale,\\nA moment s lifting of the veil!\\nFar eastward o er the lovely bay,\\nPenobscot s clustered wigwams lay;\\nAnd gently from that Indian town\\nThe verdant hillside slopes adown,\\nTo where the sparkling waters play\\nUpon the yellow sands below\\nAnd shooting round the winding shores\\nOf narrow capes, and isle which lie\\nSlumbering to ocean s lullaby,^\\nWith birchen boat and glancing oars.\\nThe red men to their fishing go\\nWhile from their planting ground is borne\\nThe treasure of the golden corn,\\nBy laughing girls, whose dark eyes glow\\nWild through the locks which o er them flow,", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0305.jp2"}, "306": {"fulltext": "I\\n292 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nThe wrinkled squaw, whose toil is done,\\nSits on her bear-skin in the sun,\\nWatching the huskers with a smile\\nFor each full ear which swells the pile.\\nAnd the old chief, who never more\\nMay bend the bow or pull the oar,\\nSmokes gravely in his wigwam door,\\nOr slowly shapes, with axe of stone.\\nThe arrow-head from flint and bone.\\nBeneath the westward turning eye\\nA thousand wooded islands lie,\\nGems of waters with each hue\\nOf brightness set in ocean s blue.\\nEach bears aloft its tuft of trees\\nTouched by the pencil of the frost,\\nAnd, with the motion of each breeze,\\nA moment seen, a moment lost,\\nChanging and blent, confused and tossed.\\nThe brighter with the darker crossed,\\nTheir thousand tints of beauty glow\\nDown in the restless waves below.\\nAnd tremble in the sunny skies,\\nAs if, from waving bough to bough,\\nFlitted the birds of paradise.\\nThere sleep Placentia s group, and there\\nPere Breteaux marks the hour of prayer;\\nAnd there, beneath the sea-worn cliff,\\nOn which the Father s hut is seen,", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0306.jp2"}, "307": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 293\\nThe Indian stays his rocking skiff,\\nAnd peers the hemlock-bonghs between\\nHalf trembling, as he seeks to look\\nUpon the Jesuit s Cross and Book.\\nThere, gloomily against the sky\\nThe Dark Isles rear their summits high;\\nAnd Desert Rock, abrupt and bare,\\nLifts its gray turrets in the air,\\nSeen from afar, like some strange hold\\nBuilt by the ocean kings of old\\nAnd, faint as smoke-wreath white and thin,\\nSwells in the north vast Katadin\\nAnd, wandering from its marshy feet,\\nThe broad Penobscot comes to meet\\nAnd mingle with his own bright bay.\\nSlow sweep his dark and gathering floods,\\nArched over by the ancient woods.\\nWhich Time, in those dim solitudes,\\nWielding the dull axe of Decay\\nAlone hath ever shorn away.\\nNot thus, within the woods which hide\\nThe beauty of thy azure tide.\\nAnd with their falling timbers block\\nThy broken currents, Kennebeck\\nGazes the white man on the wreck\\nOf the down-trodden Norridgewock.\\nIn one lone village hemmed at length,\\nIn battle shorn of half their strength,", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0307.jp2"}, "308": {"fulltext": "294 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nTurned, like the panther in his lair,\\nWith his fast-flowing life-blood wet,\\nFor one last struggle of despair,\\nWounded and faint, but tameless yet!\\nUnreaped, upon the planting lands,\\nThe scant, neglected harvest stands:\\nNo shout is there, no dance no song.\\nThe aspect of the very child\\nScowls with a meaning sad and wild\\nOf bitterness and wrong.\\nThe almost infant Norridgewock\\nEssays to lift the tomahawk;\\nAnd plucks his father s knife away,\\nTo mimic, in his frightful play,\\nThe scalping of an English foe\\nWreathes on his lip a horrid smile.\\nBurns, like a snake s, his small eye, while\\nSome bough or sapling meets his blow.\\nThe fisher, as he droys his line.\\nStarts, when he sees the hazels quiver\\nAlong the margin of the river.\\nLooks up and down the rippling tide.\\nAnd grasps the firelock at his side.\\nFor Bomazeen from Tacconock\\nHas sent his runners to Norridgewock,\\nWith tidings that Moulton and Harmon of\\nYork", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0308.jp2"}, "309": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 295\\nFar up the river have come\\nThey have left their boats, they have entered\\nthe wood,\\nAnd filled the depths of the solitude\\nWith sound of the ranger s drum.\\nOn the brow of a hill, which slopes to meet\\nThe flowing river, and bathe its feet,\\nThe bare-washed rock, and the drooping grass,\\nAnd the creeping vine, as the waters pass,\\nA rude and unshapely chapel stands.\\nBuilt up in that wild by unskilled hands\\nYet the traveler knows it a place of prayer,\\nFor the holy sign of the cross is there\\nAnd should he chance at that place to be.\\nOf a Sabbath morn, or some hallowed day.\\nWhen prayers are made and masses are said.\\nSome for the living and some for the dead,\\nWell might that traveler start to see\\nThe tall dark forms, that take their way\\nFrom the birch canoe, on the river-shore,\\nAnd the forest paths, to that chapel door;\\nAnd marvel to mark the naked knees\\nAnd the dusky foreheads bending there.\\nAnd, stretching his long thin arms o er these,\\nIn blessing and in prayer.\\nLike a shrouded spectre, pale and tall.\\nIn his coarse, white vesture. Father Ralle.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0309.jp2"}, "310": {"fulltext": "296 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nTwo forms are now in that chapel dim,\\nThe Jesuit, silent and sad and pale,\\nAnxiously heeding some fearful tale,\\nWhich a stranger is telling him.\\nThat stranger s garb is soiled and torn,\\nAnd wet with dew and loosely worn\\nHer fair neglected hair falls down\\nO er cheeks with wind and sunshine brown\\nYet still, in that disordered face,\\nThe Jesuit s cautious eye can trace\\nThose elements of former grace\\nWhich, half effaced, seem scarcely less.\\nEven now, than perfect loveliness.\\nWith drooping head, and voice so low,\\nThat scarce it meets the Jesuit s ears,\\nWhile through her clasped fingers flow.\\nFrom the heart s fountain, hot and slow,\\nHer penitential tears,\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nShe tells the story of the wo\\nAnd evil of her years.\\n0h. Father, bear with me; my heart\\nIs sick and death-like, and my brain\\nSeems girdled with a fiery chain.\\nWhose scorching links will never part,\\nAnd never cool again.\\nBear with me while I speak, but turn\\nAway that gentle eye, the while,", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0310.jp2"}, "311": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 297\\nThe fires of guilt more fiercely burn\\nBeneath its holy smile\\nFor half I fancy I can see\\nMy mother s sainted look in thee.\\n**My dear lost mother! sad and pale,\\nMournfully sinking day by day,\\nAnd with a hold on life as frail\\nAs frosted leaves, that, thin and gray,\\nHang feebly on their parent spray,\\nAnd tremble in the gale\\nYet watching o er my childishness\\nWith patient fondness, not the less\\nFor all the agony which kept\\nHer blue eye wakeful, while I slept\\nAnd checking every tear and groan\\nThat haply might have waked my own,\\nAnd bearing still, without ofEence,\\nMy idle words, and petulance\\nReproving with a tear, and, while\\nThe tooth of pain was keenly preying\\nUpon her very heart, repaying\\nMy brief repentance with a smile.\\n0h, in her meek, forgiving eye\\nThere was a brightness not of mirth,\\nA light whose clear intensity\\nWas borrowed not of earth.\\nAlong her cheek a deepening red", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0311.jp2"}, "312": {"fulltext": "298 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nTold where the feverish hectic fed;\\nAnd yet, each fatal token gave\\nTo the mild beauty of her face\\nA newer and a dearer grace,\\nUnwarning of the grave.\\nTwas like the hue which Autumn gives\\nTo yonder changed and dying leaves,\\nBreathed over by his frosty breath\\nScarce can the gazer feel that this\\nIs but the spoiler s treacherous kiss,\\nThe mocking-smile of Death\\nSweet were the tales she used to tell,\\nWhen summer s eve was dear to us,\\nAnd, fading from the darkening dell.\\nThe glory of the sunset fell\\nOn giant Agamenticus,\\nEven as an altar lighting up\\nThe gray rocks of its rugged top,\\nWhen, sitting by our cottage wall.\\nThe murmur of the Saco s fall,\\nAnd the south wind s expiring sighs\\nCame, softly blending, on my ear.\\nWith the low tones I loved to hear\\nTales of the pure, the good, the wise.\\nThe holy men and maids of old,\\nIn the all-sacred pages told\\nOf Rachel, stooped at Haran s fountains,", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0312.jp2"}, "313": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 299\\nAmid her father s thirsty flock,\\nBeautiful to her kinsman seeming\\nAs the bright angels of his dreaming.\\nOn Padan-aram s holy rock;\\nOf gentle Ruth, and her who kept\\nHer awful vigil on the mountains,\\nBy Israel s virgin daughters wept;\\nOf Miriam, with her maidens, singing\\nThe song for grateful Israel meet.\\nWhile every crimson wave was bringing\\nThe spoils of Egypt at her feet\\nOf her, Samaria s humble daughter.\\nWho paused to hear, beside her well,\\nLessons of love and truth, which fell\\nSoftly as Shiloh s flowing water;\\nAnd saw beneath his pilgrim guise,\\nThe Promised One, so long foretold\\nBy holy seer and bard of old.\\nRevealed before her wondering eyes.\\nSlowly she faded. Day by day\\nHer step grew weaker in our hall.\\nAnd fainter, at each even-fall.\\nHer sad voice died away.\\nYet on her thin, pale lip, the while.\\nSat Resignation s holy smile:\\nAnd even my father checked his tread,\\nAnd hushed his voice, beside her bed:", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0313.jp2"}, "314": {"fulltext": "300 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nBeneath the calm and sad rebuke\\nOf her meek eye s imploring look,\\nThe scowl ot hate his brow forsook,\\nAnd, in his stern and gloomy eye,\\nAt times, a few unwonted tears\\nWet the dark lashes, which for years\\nHatred and pride had kept so dry.\\nCalm as a child to slumber soothed,\\nAs if an angel s hand had smoothed\\nThe still, white features into rest,\\nSilent and cold, without a breath\\nTo stir the drapery on her breast\\nPain, with its keen and poisoned fang,\\nThe horror of the mortal pang,\\nThe suffering look her brow had worn.\\nThe fear, the strife, the anguish gone,-\\nShe slept at last in death\\nOh, tell me, father, can the dead\\nWalk on the earth, and look on us,\\nAnd lay upon the living s head\\nTheir blessing or their curse?\\nFor, oh, last night she stood by me.\\nAs I lay beneath the woodland tree!\\nThe Jesuit crosses himself in awe,\\nJesu! what was it my daughter saw?", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0314.jp2"}, "315": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 301\\nShe came to me last night.\\nThe dried leaves did not feel her tread\\nShe stood by me in the wan moonlight,\\nIn the white robes of the dead!\\nPale, and very mournfully\\nShe bent her light form over me.\\nI heard no sound, I felt no breath\\nBreathe o er me from that face of death\\nIts blue eyes rested on my own,\\nRayless and cold as eyes of stone\\nYet, in their fixed, unchanging gaze,\\nSomething, which spoke of early days,\\nA sadness in their quiet glare.\\nAs if love s smile were frozen there,\\nCame o er me with an icy thrill;\\nOh God, I feel its presence still!\\nThe Jesuit makes the holy sign,\\nHow passed the vision, daughter mine?\\nA11 dimly in the wan moonshine.\\nAs a wreath of mist will twist and twine,\\nAnd scatter, and melt into the light,\\nSo scattering, melting on my sight,\\nThe pale, cold vision passed\\nBut those sad eyes were fixed on mine\\nMournfully to the last.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0315.jp2"}, "316": {"fulltext": "302 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nGod help thee, daughter, tell me why\\nThat spirit passed before thine eye?\\nFather, I know not, save it be\\nThat deeds of mine have summoned her\\nFrom the unbreathing- sepulchre,\\nTo leave her last rebuke with me.\\nAh, woe for me my mother died\\nJust at the moment when I stood\\nClose on the verge of womanhood,\\nA child in everything beside\\nAnd when alas I needed most\\nHer gentle counsels, they were lost.\\nMy father lived a stormy life,\\nOf frequent change and daily strife\\nAnd, God forgive him left his child\\nTo feel, like him, a freedom wild;\\nTo love the red man s dwelling-place.\\nThe birch boat on his shaded floods,\\nThe wild excitement of the chase\\nSweeping the ancient woods,\\nThe camp-fire, blazing on the shore\\nOf the still lakes, the clear stream, where\\nThe idle fisher sets his wear,\\nOr angles in the shade, far more\\nThan that restraining awe I felt\\nBeneath my gentle mother s care,", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0316.jp2"}, "317": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 303\\nWhen nightly at her knee I knelt,\\nWith childhood s simple prayer.\\nThere came a change. The wild, glad mood\\nOf unchecked freedom passed.\\nAmid the ancient solitude\\nOf unshorn grass and waving wood,\\nAnd waters glancing bright and fast,\\nA softened voice was in my ear.\\nSweet as those lulling sounds and fine\\nThe hunter lifts his head to hear,\\nNow far and faint, now full and near\\nThe murmur of the wind-swept pine.\\nA manly form was ever nigh,\\nA bold, free hunter, with an eye\\nWhose dark, keen glance had power to wake\\nBoth fear and love, to awe and charm\\nTwas as the wizard rattlesnake,\\nWhose evil glances lure to harm\\nWhose cold and small glittering eye,\\nAnd brilliant coil, and changing dye,\\nDraw, step by step, the gazer near.\\nWith drooping wing and cry of fear,\\nYet powerless all to turn away,\\nA conscious, but a willing prey!\\nThe world that I had known went by\\nAs a vain shadow. On my eye\\nThere rose a new and dreamful one.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0317.jp2"}, "318": {"fulltext": "304 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nTwas like the cloudy realms which lie\\nShadowy and brief, on autumn s sky,\\nBefore the setting sun.\\nOh, Father, scarce to God above\\nWith deeper trust, with stronger love,\\nNo human heart was ever lent,\\nNo human knee was ever bent,\\nThan I, before a human shrine,\\nAs mortal and as frail as mine.\\nWith heart, and soul, and mind, and form,\\nKnelt madly to a fellow-worm.\\nFull soon, upon that dream of sin.\\nAn awful light came bursting in.\\nThe shrine was cold, at which I knelt\\nThe idol of that shrine was gone;\\nA humble thing of shame and guilt,\\nOutcast, and spurned, and lone.\\nWrapt in the shadows of my crime,\\nWith withering heart and burning brain,\\nAnd tears that fell like fiery rain,\\nI passed a fearful time.\\nThere came a voice it checked the tear-\\nIn heart and soul it wrought a change;\\nMy father s voice was in my ear;\\nIt whispered of revenge\\nA new and fiercer feeling swept", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0318.jp2"}, "319": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. S05\\nEach lingering tenderness away\\nAnd tiger passions, which had slept\\nIn childhood s better day,\\nUnknown, unfelt, arose at length\\nIn all their own demoniac strength.\\nA youthful warrior of the wild,\\nBy words deceived, by smiles beguiled,\\nOf crime the cheated instrument.\\nUpon our fatal errands went.\\nThrough camp and town and wilderness\\nHe tracked his victim and, at last.\\nJust when the tide of hate had passed,\\nAnd milder thoughts came warm and fast.\\nExulting at my feet he cast\\nThe bloody token of success.\\nOh God! with what an awful power\\nI saw the buried past uprise,\\nAnd gather, in a single hour.\\nIts ghost-like memories\\nAnd then I felt alas too late\\nThat underneath the mask of hate,\\nThat shame and guilt and wrong had thrown\\nO er feelings which they might not own,\\nThe heart s wild love had known no change;\\nAnd still, that deep and hidden love.\\nWith its first fondness, wept above\\nThe victim of its own revenge\\n20", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0319.jp2"}, "320": {"fulltext": "306 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nThere lay the fearful scalp, and there\\nThe blood was on its pale brown hair!\\nI thought not of the victim s scorn,\\nI thought not of his baleful guile,\\nMy deadly wrong, my outcast name,\\nThe characters of sin and shame\\nOn heart and forehead drawn\\nI only saw that victim s smile.\\nThe still, green places where we met,\\nThe moonlit branches, dewy wet\\nI only felt, I only heard\\nThe greeting and the parting word,\\nThe smile, the embrace, the tone which\\nmade\\nAn Eden of the forest shade.\\nAnd oh, with what a loathing eye,\\nWith what a deadly hate, and deep,\\nI saw that Indian murderer lie\\nBefore me in his drunken sleep!\\nWhat though for me the deed was done,\\nAnd words of mine had sped him on\\nYet when he murmured, as he slept,\\nThe horrors of that deed of blood,\\nThe tide of utter madness swept\\nO er brain and bosom, like a flood.\\nAnd, father, with this hand of mine\\nHa! what didst thou? the Jesuit cries.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0320.jp2"}, "321": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 307\\nShuddering-, as smitten with sudden pain,\\nAnd shading, with one thin hand, his eyes.\\nWith the other he makes the holy sign\\nI smote him as I would a worm\\nWith heart as steeled, with nerves as firm\\nHe never woke again!\\nWoman of sin and blood and shame,\\nSpeak, I would know that victim s name.\\nFather, she gasped, a chieftain, known\\nAs Saco s Sachem, Mogg Megonel\\nPale priest What proud and lofty dreams.\\nWhat keen desires, what cherished schemes.\\nWhat hopes, that time may not recall,\\nAre darkened by that chieftain s falH\\nWas he not pledged, by cross and vow^\\nTo lift the hatchet of his sire.\\nAnd, round his own, the Church s foe.\\nTo light the avenging fire?\\nWho now the Tarrantine shall wake\\nFor thine and for the Church s sake?\\nWho summon to the scene.\\nOf conquest and unsparing strife.\\nAnd vengeance dearer than his life.\\nThe fiery-soul ed Castine?", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0321.jp2"}, "322": {"fulltext": "308 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nThree backward steps the Jesuit takes,\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nHis long^ thin frame as ague shakes\\nHate fearful hate is in his eye,\\nAs from his lips these words of fear\\nFall hoarsely on the maiden s ear,\\n**The soul that sinneth shall surely die!\\nShe stands, as stands the stricken deer,\\nChecked midway in the fearful chase,\\nWhen bursts, upon its eye and ear,\\nThe gaunt, gray robber, baying near.\\nBetween it and its hiding-place\\nWhile still behind, with yell and blow,\\nSweeps, like a storm, the coming foe.\\nSave me, O holy man! her cry\\nFills all the void, as if a tongue.\\nUnseen, from rib and rafter rung,\\nThrilling with mortal agony;\\nHer hands are clasping the Jesuit s knee,\\nAnd her eye looks fearfully into his own\\nOff, woman of sin nay, touch not me\\nWith those fingers of blood; begone!\\nWith a gesture of horror, he spurns the form\\n.That writhes at his feet like a trodden worm\\nEver thus the spirit must\\nGuilty in the sight of Heaven,\\nWith a keener woe be riven.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0322.jp2"}, "323": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 309\\nFor its weak and sinful trust\\nIn the strength of human dust\\nAnd its anguish still afresh,\\nFor each vain reliance given\\nTo the failing arm of flesh.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0323.jp2"}, "324": {"fulltext": "310 WHITTIER S POEMS,\\nMOGG MEGONE,\\nPART III.\\nGloomily against the wall\\nLeans thy working forehead, Rallef\\n111 thy troubled musing fit\\nThe holy quiet of a breast\\nWith the Dove of Peace at rest,\\nSweetly brooding over it.\\nThoughts are thine which have no part\\nWith the meek and pure of heart,\\nUndisturbed by outward things,\\nResting in the heavenly shade\\nBy the overspreading wings\\nOf the Blessed Spirit made.\\nThoughts of strife and hate and wrong\\nSweep thy heated brain along,\\nFading hopes for whose success\\nIt were sin to breathe a prayer\\nThoughts which Heaven may never bless\\nFears which darken to despair.\\nHoary priest thy dream is done\\nOf a hundred red tribes won", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0324.jp2"}, "325": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 311\\nTo the pale of H0I3- Church;\\nAnd the heretic o erthrown,\\nAnd his name no longer known,\\nAnd thy weary brethren turning,\\nJoyful from their years of mourning,\\nTwixt the altar and the porch.\\nHark! what sudden sound is heard\\nIn the wood and in the sky,\\nShriller than the scream of bird,\\nThan the trumpet s clang more high!\\nEvery wolf-cave of the hills,\\nForest arch and mountain gorge,\\nRock and dell, and river verge,\\nWith an answering echo thrills.\\nWell does the Jesuit know that cry,\\nWhich summons the Norridgewock to die.\\nAnd tells that the foe of his flock is nigh.\\nHe listens, and hears the rangers come,\\nWith loud hurrah, and jar of drum,\\nAnd hurrying feet (for the chase is hot)\\nAnd the short, sharp sound of rifle shot,\\nAnd taunt and menace, answered well\\nBy the Indians mocking cry and yell,\\nThe bark of dogs, the squaw s mad scream,\\nThe dash of paddles along the stream,\\nThe whistle of shot as it cuts the leaves\\nOf the maples around the church s eaves", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0325.jp2"}, "326": {"fulltext": "312 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nAnd the gride of hatchets, at random thrown,\\nOn wigwam-log and tree and stone.\\nBlack with the grime of paint and dust,\\nSpotted and streaked with human gore,\\nA grim and naked head is thrust\\nWithin the chapel-door.\\nHa Bomazeen! In God s name say,\\nWhat mean these sounds of bloody fray?\\nSilent, the Indian points his hand\\nTo where across the echoing glen\\nSweep Harmon s dreaded ranger-band,\\nAnd Moulton with his men.\\nWhere are thy warriors, Bomazeen?\\nWhere are De Rouville and Castine,\\nAnd where the braves of Sawga s queen?\\nLet my father find the winter snow\\nWhich the sun drank up long moons ago!\\nUnder the falls of Tacconock,\\nThe wolves are eating the Norridgewock\\nCastine with his wives lies closely hid\\nLike a fox in the woods of Pemaquid\\nOn Sawga s banks the man of war\\nSits in his wigwam like a squaw,\\nSquando has fled, and Mogg Megone,\\nStruck by the knife of Sagamore John,\\nLies stiff and stark and cold as stone.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0326.jp2"}, "327": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 313\\nFearfully over the Jesuit s face,\\nOf a thousand thoughts, trace after trace,\\nLike swift cloud- shadows, each other chase,\\nOne instant, his fingers grasp his knife.\\nFor a last vain struggle for cherished life,\\nThe next, he hurls the blade away,\\nAnd kneel at his altar s foot to pray;\\nOver his beads his fingers stray.\\nAnd he kisses the cross, and calls aloud\\nOn the Virgin and her Son\\nFor terrible thoughts his memory crowd\\nOf evil seen and done,\\nOf scalps brought home by his savage flock\\nFrom Casco and Sawga and Sagadahock,\\n111 the Church s service won.\\nNo shrift the gloomy savage brooks,\\nAs scowling on the priest he looks\\nCowesass co wesass tawhich wessaseen\\nLet my father look upon Bomazeen,\\nMy father s heart is the heart of a squaw.\\nBut mine is so hard that it does not thaw\\nLet my father ask his God to make\\nA dance and a feast for a great sagamore,\\nWhen he paddles across the western lake,\\nWith his dogs and his squaws to the spirit s\\nshore.\\nCowesass cowesass tawhich wessaseen\\nLet my father die like Bomazeen!", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0327.jp2"}, "328": {"fulltext": "314 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nThrough the chapel s narrow doors,\\nAnd through each window in the walls,\\nRound the priest and warrior pours\\nThe deadly shower of English balls;\\nLow on his cross the Jesuit falls;\\nWhile at his side the Norridgewock,\\nWith failing breath, essays to mock\\nAnd menace yet the hated foe,\\nShakes his scalp-trophies to and fro\\nExultingl)^ before their eyes,\\nTill cleft and torn by shot and blow,\\nThe mighty Sachem dies.\\nSo fare all eaters of the frog!\\nDeath to the Babylonish dog!\\nDown with the beast of Rome!\\nYf ith shouts like these, around the dead,\\nUnconscious on their bloody bed,\\nThe rangers crowding come.\\nBrave men! the dead priest cannot hear\\nThe unfeeling taunt, the brutal jeer;\\nSpurn for he sees ye not in wrath,\\nThe symbol of your Savior s death\\nTear from his death-grasp, in your zeal,\\nAnd trample, as a thing accursed,\\nThe cross he cherished in the dust\\nThe dead man cannot feel", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0328.jp2"}, "329": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 315\\nBrutal alike in deed and word,\\nWith callous heart and hand of strife,\\nHow like a fiend may man be made,\\nPlying the foul and monstrous trade\\nWhose harvest-field is human life,\\nWhose sickle is the reeking sword\\nQuenching, with reckless hand in blood,\\nSparks kindled by the breath of God\\nUrging the deathless soul, unshriven,\\nOf open guilt, or secret sin.\\nBefore the bar of that pure Heaven\\nThe holy only enter in\\nOh! by the widow s sore distress,\\nThe orphan s wailing wretchedness.\\nBy Virtue struggling in the accursed\\nEmbraces of puUuting Lust,\\nBy the fell discord of the Pit,\\nAnd the pained souls that people it,\\nAnd by the blessed peace which fills\\nThe Paradise of God forever.\\nResting on all its holy hills.\\nAnd flowing with its crystal river,\\nLet Christian hands no longer bear\\nIn triumph on his crimson car\\nThe foul and idol god of war\\nNo more the purple wreaths prepare\\nTo bind amid his snaky hair\\nNo Christian bard his glories tell,", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0329.jp2"}, "330": {"fulltext": "316 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nNor Christian tongues his praises swell.\\nThrough the gun-\u00c2\u00abcnoke wreathing white,\\nGlimpses on the soldier s sight\\nA thing of human shape I ween,\\nFor a moment onl)^ seen,\\nWith its loose hair backward streaming,\\nAnd its eyeballs madly gleaming,\\nShrieking, like a soul in pain,\\nFrom the world of light and breath,\\nHurrying to its place again.\\nSpectre-like it vanisheth\\nWretched girl one eye alone\\nNotes the way which thou hast gone.\\nThat great Eye, which slumbers never,\\nWatching o er a lost world ever.\\nTracks thee over vale and mountain,\\nBy the gushing forest- fountain.\\nPlucking from its vine its fruit,\\nSearching for the ground-nut s root;;\\nPeering in the she- wolf s den.\\nWading through the marshy fen,\\nWhere the sluggish water-snake\\nBasks beside the sunny brake,\\nCoiling in his slimy bed.\\nSmooth and cold against thy tread,\\nPurposeless, thy mazy way\\nThreading through the lingering day.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0330.jp2"}, "331": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 317\\nAnd at night securely sleeping\\nWhere the dogwood s dews are weeping!\\nStill, though earth and man discard thee,\\nDoth thy heavenly Father guide thee.\\nHe who spared the guilty Cain,\\nEven when a brother s blood,\\nCrying in the ear of God,\\nGave the earth its primal stain,\\nHe whose mercy ever liveth,\\nWho repenting guilt forgiveth,\\nAnd the broken heart receiveth,\\nWanderer of the wilderness,\\nHaunted, guilty, crazed, and wild,\\nHe regardeth thy distress,\\nAnd careth for his sinful child.\\nTis spring-time on the eastern hills!\\nLike torrents gush the summer rills\\nThrough winter s moss and dry dead leaves\\nThe bladed grass revives and lives.\\nPushes the mouldering waste away.\\nAnd glimpses to the April day.\\nIn kindly shower and sunshine bud\\nThe branches of the dull gray wood\\nOut from its sunned and sheltered nooks\\nThe blue eye of the violet looks", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0331.jp2"}, "332": {"fulltext": "318 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nThe southwest wind is warmly blowing^.\\nAnd odors from the springing grass,\\nThe sweet birch and the sassafras,\\nAre with it on its errands going.\\nA band is marching through the wood\\nWhere rolls the Kennebec his flood,\\nThe warriors of the wilderness,\\nPainted, and in their battle dress\\nAnd with them on whose bearded cheek,\\nAnd white and wrinkled brow bespeak\\nA wanderer from the shores of France.\\nA few long locks of scattering snow\\nBeneath a battered morion flow.\\nAnd from the rivets of the vest\\nWhich girds in steel his ample breast^\\nThe slanted sunbeams glance.\\nIn the harsh outlines of his face\\nPassion and sin have left their trace\\nYet, save worn brow and thin gray hair.\\nNo signs of weary age are there.\\nHis step is firm, his eye is keen.\\nNor years in broil and battle spent,\\nNor toil, nor wounds, nor pain have bent\\nThe lordly frame of old Castine.\\nNo purpose now of strife and blood\\nUrges the hoary veteran on", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0332.jp2"}, "333": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 319\\nThe fire of conquest, and the mood\\nOf chivalry have gone.\\nA mournful task is his, to lay\\nWith the earth the bones of those\\nWho perished in that fearful day,\\nWhen Norridgewock became the prey\\nOf all-unsparing foes.\\nSad are thy music thoughts, Castine,\\nOf the old warrior Bomazeen,\\nSo prompt to summon at thy call\\nOf need, the gleaming tomahawks\\nOf the now wasted Norridgewocks,\\nAnd him the dearest loved of all,\\nThy bosom friend the martyr Ralle\\nHark from the foremost of the band\\nSuddenly bursts the Indian yell\\nFor now on the very spot they stand\\nWhere the Norridgewocks fighting fell.\\nNo wigwam smoke is curling there\\nThe very earth is scorched and bare\\nAnd they pause and listen to catch a sound\\nOf breathing life, but there comes not one,\\nSave the fox s bark and the rabbit s bound;\\nAnd here and there, on the blackened ground,\\nWhite bones are glistening in the sun.\\nAnd where the house of prayer arose,\\nAnd the holy hymn at daylight s close,\\nAnd the aged priest stood up to bless", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0333.jp2"}, "334": {"fulltext": "320 WH ITTIER S POEMS.\\nThe children of the wilderness,\\nThere is naught save ashes sodden and dank\\nAnd the birchen boats of the Norridgewock,\\nTethered to tree and stump and rock,\\nRotting along the river bank\\nBlessed Mary! who is she\\nLeaning against that maple-tree?\\nThe sun upon her face burns hot,\\nBut the fixed eyelid moveth not;\\nThe squirrel s chirp is shrill and clear\\nFrom the dry bough above her ear;\\nDashing from rock and root its spray,\\nClose at her feet, the river rushes;\\nThe blackbird s wing against her brushes,\\nAnd sweetly through the hazel-bushes\\nThe robin s mellow music gushes;\\nGod save her! will she sleep alway?\\nCastine hath bent him over the sleeper\\n**Wake, daughter, wake! but she stirs\\nno limb\\nThe eye that looks on him is fixed and dim\\nAnd the sleep she is sleeping shall be no\\ndeeper,\\nUntil the angel s oath is said,\\nAnd the final blast of the trump gone forth\\nTo the graves of the sea and the graves of\\nearth.\\nRuth Bonython is dead!", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0334.jp2"}, "335": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 321\\nTHE VAUDOIS TEACHER.\\n**0 lady fair, these silks of mine are beautiful\\nand rare,\\nThe richest web of the Indian loom, which\\nBeauty s self might wear;\\nAnd those pearls are pure as thy own fair neck,\\nwith whose radiant light they vie;\\nI have brought them with me a weary way,\\nwill my gentle lady buy?\\nAnd the lady smiled on the worn old man\\nthrough the dark and clustering curls\\nWhich veiled her brow as she bent to view his\\nsilks and glittering pearls;\\nAnd she placed their price in the old man s\\nhand, and lightly turned away,\\nBut she paused at the wanderer s earnest call,\\nMy gentle lady, stay!\\nO lady fair, I have yet a gem which a purer\\nlustre flings\\nThan the diamond flash of the jeweled crown\\non the lofty brow of kings,\\n21", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0335.jp2"}, "336": {"fulltext": "322 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nA wonderful pearl of exceeding price, whose\\nvirtue shall not decay,\\nWhose light shall be as a spell to thee and a\\nblessing on thy way!\\nThe lady glanced at the mirroring steel where\\nher form of grace was seen,\\nWhere her eyes shone clear, and her dark locks\\nwaved their clasping pearls between.\\nBring forth thy pearls of exceeding worth,\\nthou traveler gray and old,\\nAnd name the price of thy precious gem and\\nmy pages shall count thy gold.\\nThe cloud went off from the pilgrim s brow,\\nas a small and meagre book,\\nUnchased with gold or diamond gem, from his\\nfolding robe he took\\nHere, lady fair, is the pearl of price, may it\\nprove as such to thee!\\nNay keep thy gold I ask it not, for the word\\nof God is free!\\nThe hoary traveler went his way, but the gift\\nhe left behind\\nHath had its pure and perfect work on that\\nhigh-born maiden s mind,\\nAnd she hath turned from the pride of sin to\\nthe lowliness of truth.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0336.jp2"}, "337": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 323\\nAnd given her human heart to God in its\\nbeautiful hour of youth\\nAnd she hath left the gray old halls, where r.n\\nevil faith had power,\\nThe courtly knights of her father s train, and\\nthe maidens of her bower;\\nAnd she hath gone to the Vaudois vales by\\nlordly feet untrod,\\nWhere the poor and needy of earth are rich in\\nthe perfect love of God!", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0337.jp2"}, "338": {"fulltext": "324 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nTHE PRISONER FOR DEBT.\\nLook on him through his dungeon grate,\\nFeebly and cold, the morning light\\nComes stealing round him, dim, and late,\\nAs if it loathed the sight.\\nReclining on his strawy bed.\\nHis hand upholds his drooping head,\\nHis bloodless cheek is seamed and hard,\\nUnshorn his gray, neglected beard;\\nAnd o er his bony fingers flow\\nHis long, disheveled locks of snow.\\nNo grateful fire before him glows,\\nAnd yet the winter s breath is chill;\\nAnd o er his half-clad person goes\\nThe frequent ague thrill!\\nSilent, save ever and anon,\\nA sound, half murmur and half groan\\nForces apart the painful grip\\nOf the old sufferer s bearded lip;\\nO sad and crushing is the fate\\nOf old age chained and desolate\\nJust God! why lies that old man there?", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0338.jp2"}, "339": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER S POEMS. 325\\nA murderer shares his prison bed,\\nWhose eyeballs, through his horrid hair,\\nGleam on him, fierce and red\\nAnd the rude oath and heartless jeer\\nFall ever on his loathing ear,\\nAnd, or in wakefulness or sleep.\\nNerve, flesh, and fibre thrill and creep\\nWhene er that ruffian s tossing limb,\\nCrimson with murder, touches him.\\nWhat has the gray-haired prisoner done?\\nHas murder stained his hands with gore?\\nNot so; his crime s a fouler one:\\nGod made the old man poor\\nFor this he shares a felon s cell,\\nThe fittest earthly type of hell\\nFor this the boon for which he poured\\nHis young blood on the invader s sword,\\nAnd counted light the fearful cost,\\nHis blood-gained liberty is lost\\nAnd so, for such a place of rest,\\nOld prisoner, poured thy blood as rain\\nOn Concord s field, and Bunker s crest.\\nLook forth, thou man of many scars,\\nThrough thy dim dungeon s iron bars:\\nIt must be joy, in sooth, to see\\nYon monument* upreared to thee,\\n*Bunker Hill Monument.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0339.jp2"}, "340": {"fulltext": "326 WHITTIER S POEMS.\\nPiled granite and a prison cell,\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nThe land repays thy service well\\nGo, ring the bells and fire the guns,\\nAnd fling the starry banner out\\nShout Freedom till your lisping ones\\nGive back their cradle-shout\\nLet boasted eloquence declaim\\nOf honor, liberty, and fame\\nStill let the poet s strain be heard,\\nWith glory for each second word,\\nAnd everything with breath agree\\nTo praise our glorious liberty\\nAnd when the patriot cannon jars,\\nThat prison s cold and gloomy wall,\\nAnd through its grates the stripes and stars\\nRise on the wind and fall,\\nThink ye that prisoner s aged ear\\nRejoices in the general cheer?\\nThink ye his dim and failing eye\\nIs kindled at your pageantry?\\nSorrowing of soul, and chained of limb,\\nWhat is your carnival to him?\\nDown with the law that binds him thus\\nUnworthy freemen, let it find\\nNo refuge from the withering curse\\nOf God and human kind\\nOpen the prisoner s living tomb,", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0340.jp2"}, "341": {"fulltext": "WHITTIER^S POEMS. 327\\nAnd usher from its brooding gloom\\nThe victims of your savage code\\nTo the free sun and air of God\\nNo longer dare as crime to brand\\nThe chastening of th Almighty s hand.\\nTHE END.", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0341.jp2"}, "342": {"fulltext": "", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0342.jp2"}, "343": {"fulltext": "", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0343.jp2"}, "344": {"fulltext": "AUG 13 1900\\nDeacidified using the Bookkeeper process.\\nNeutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide\\nTreatment Date: Oct. 2009\\nPreservationTechnoiogies\\nA WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION\\n111 Thomson Park Drive\\nCranberry Township, PA 16066\\n(724)779-2111", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0344.jp2"}, "345": {"fulltext": "", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0345.jp2"}, "346": {"fulltext": "", "height": "2782", "width": "1728", "jp2-path": "poems03whit_0346.jp2"}}