Whittier-land Part 11

And men have heard it, and the might Of freemen rising from their thrall Shall drag their fetters into light, And spurn and trample on them all.

And vengeance long--too long delayed-- Shall rouse to wrath the souls of men, And freedom raise her holy head Above the fallen tyrant then.

This poem, which was published in "The Haverhill Gazette" in 1829, was copied in many papers of that time, but was never in any collection of its author's works:--

THE THUNDER SPIRIT

Dweller of the unpillared air, Marshalling the storm to war, Heralding its presence where Rolls along thy cloudy car!

Thou that speakest from on high, Like an earthquake's bursting forth, Sounding through the veiled sky As an angel's trumpet doth.

Bending from thy dark dominion Like a fierce, revengeful king, Blasting with thy fiery pinion Every high and holy thing; Smitten from their mountain prison Thou hast bid the streams go free, And the ruin's smoke has risen, Like a sacrifice to thee!

Monarch of each cloudy form, Gathered on the blue of heaven, When the trumpet of the storm To thy lip of flame is given!

In the wave and in the breeze, In the shadow and the sun, G.o.d hath many languages, And thy mighty voice is one!

Here is a poem of Whittier's that will remind every reader of the hymn "The Worship of Nature," which first appeared without a t.i.tle in the "Tent on the Beach." And yet there is no line in it, and scarcely a phrase, which was used in this last named poem. I find it in the "New England Review," of Hartford, under date of January 24, 1831. It would seem that "The Worship of Nature" was a favorite theme of his, for a still earlier treatment of it I have found in the "Haverhill Gazette"

of October 5, 1827, written before the poet was twenty years of age. It is a curious fact that while in the version of 1827 there are a few lines and phrases which were adopted forty years afterward, the lines given here are none of them copied in the final revision of the poem.

THE WORSHIP OF NATURE

"The air Is glorious with the spirit-march Of messengers of prayer."

There is a solemn hymn goes up From Nature to the Lord above, And offerings from her incense-cup Are poured in grat.i.tude and love; And from each flower that lifts its eye In modest silence in the shade To the strong woods that kiss the sky A thankful song of praise is made.

There is no solitude on earth-- "In every leaf there is a tongue"-- In every glen a voice of mirth-- From every hill a hymn is sung; And every wild and hidden dell, Where human footsteps never trod, Is wafting songs of joy, which tell The praises of their maker--G.o.d.

Each mountain gives an altar birth, And has a shrine to worship given; Each breeze which rises from the earth Is loaded with a song of Heaven; Each wave that leaps along the main Sends solemn music on the air, And winds which sweep o'er ocean's plain Bear off their voice of grateful prayer.

When Night's dark wings are slowly furled And clouds roll off the orient sky, And sunlight bursts upon the world, Like angels' pinions flashing by, A matin hymn unheard will rise From every flower and hill and tree, And songs of joy float up the skies, Like holy anthems from the sea.

When sunlight dies, and shadows fall, And twilight plumes her rosy wing, Devotion's breath lifts Music's pall, And silvery voices seem to sing.

And when the earth falls soft to rest, And young wind's pinions seem to tire, Then the pure streams upon its breast Join their glad sounds with Nature's lyre.

And when the sky that bends above Is lighted up with spirit fires, A gladdening song of praise and love Is pealing from the sky-tuned lyres; And every star that throws its light From off Creation's bending brow, Is offering on the shrine of Night The same unchanging subject-vow.

Thus Earth 's a temple vast and fair, Filled with the glorious works of love When earth and sky and sea and air Join in the praise of G.o.d above; And still through countless coming years Unwearied songs of praise shall roll On plumes of love to Him who hears The softest strain in Music's soul.

There was a remarkable display of the aurora borealis in January, 1837, and this poem commemorates the phenomenon:--

THE NORTHERN LIGHTS

A light is troubling heaven! A strange dull glow Hangs like a half-quenched veil of fire between The blue sky and the earth; and the shorn stars Gleam faint and sickly through it. Day hath left No token of its parting, and the blush With which it welcomed the embrace of Night Has faded from the blue cheek of the West; Yet from the solemn darkness of the North, Stretched o'er the "empty place" by G.o.d's own hand, Trembles and waves that curtain of pale fire,-- Tingeing with baleful and unnatural hues The winter snows beneath. It is as if Nature's last curse--the fearful plague of fire-- Were working in the elements, and the skies Even as a scroll consuming.

Lo, a change!

The fiery wonder sinks, and all along A dark deep crimson rests--a sea of blood, Untroubled by a wave. And over all Bendeth a luminous arch of pale, pure white, Clearly contrasted with the blue above, And the dark red beneath it. Glorious!

How like a pathway for the Shining Ones, The pure and beautiful intelligences Who minister in Heaven, and offer up Their praise as incense, or like that which rose Before the Pilgrim prophet, when the tread Of the most holy angels brightened it, And in his dream the haunted sleeper saw The ascending and descending of the blest!

And yet another change! O'er half the sky A long bright flame is trembling, like the sword Of the great angel of the guarded gate Of Paradise, when all the holy streams And beautiful bowers of Eden-land blushed red Beneath its awful wavering, and the eyes Of the outcasts quailed before its glare, As from the immediate questioning of G.o.d.

And men are gazing at these "signs in heaven,"

With most unwonted earnestness, and fair And beautiful brows are reddening in the light Of this strange vision of the upper air: Even as the dwellers of Jerusalem Beleaguered by the Romans--when the skies Of Palestine were thronged with fiery shapes, And from Antonia's tower the mailed Jew Saw his own image pictured in the air, Contending with the heathen; and the priest Beside the temple's altar veiled his face From that fire-written language of the sky.

Oh G.o.d of mystery! these fires are thine!

Thy breath hath kindled them, and there they burn Amid the permanent glory of Thy heavens, That earliest revelation written out In starry language, visible to all, Lifting unto Thyself the heavy eyes Of the down-looking spirits of the earth!

The Indian, leaning on his hunting-bow, Where the ice-mountains hem the frozen pole, And the h.o.a.r architect of winter piles With tireless hand his snowy pyramids, Looks upward in deep awe,--while all around The eternal ices kindle with the hues Which tremble on their gleaming pinnacles And sharp cold ridges of enduring frost,-- And points his child to the Great Spirit's fire.

Alas for us who boast of deeper lore, If in the maze of our vague theories, Our speculations, and our restless aim To search the secret, and familiarize The awful things of nature, we forget To own Thy presence in Thy mysteries!

This imitation of "The Old Oaken Bucket" was written in 1826, when Whittier was in his nineteenth year, and except a single stanza, no part of it was ever before in print. The willow the young poet had in mind was on the bank of Country Brook, near Country Bridge, and also near the site of Thomas Whittier's log house. Mr. Whittier once pointed out this spot to me as one in which he delighted in his youth. On a gra.s.sy bank, almost encircled by a bend in the stream, stood, and perhaps still stands, just such a "storm-battered, water-washed willow"

as is here described:--

THE WILLOW

Oh, dear to my heart are the scenes which delighted My fancy in moments I ne'er can recall, When each happy hour new pleasures invited, And hope pictured visions more lovely than all.

When I gazed with a light heart transported and glowing On the forest-crowned hill, and the rivulet's tide, O'ershaded with tall gra.s.s, and rapidly flowing Around the lone willow that stood by its side-- The storm-battered willow, the ivy-bound willow, the water-washed willow, that grew by its side.

Dear scenes of past years, when the objects around me Seemed forms to awaken the transports of joy; Ere yet the dull cares of experience had found me, The dearly-loved visions of youth to destroy,-- Ye seem to awaken, whene'er I discover The gra.s.s-shadowed rivulet rapidly glide, The green verdant meads of the vale wandering over And laving the willows that stand by its side-- The storm-battered willow, the ivy-bound willow, the water-washed willow, that stands by its side;--

How oft 'neath the shade of that wide-spreading willow I have laid myself down from anxiety free, Reclining my head on the green gra.s.sy pillow, That waved round the roots of that dearly-loved tree; Where swift from the far distant uplands descending, In the bright sunbeam sparkling, the rivulet's tide With murmuring echoes came gracefully wending Its course round the willow that stood by its side-- The storm-battered willow, the ivy-bound willow, the water-washed willow that stood by its side.

Haunts of my childhood, that used to awaken Emotions of joy in my infantile breast, Ere yet the fond pleasures of youth had forsaken My bosom, and all the bright dreams you impressed On my memory had faded, ye give not the feeling Of joy that ye did, when I gazed on the tide, As gracefully winding, its currents came stealing Around the lone willow that stood by its side-- The storm-battered willow, the ivy-bound willow, the water-washed willow, that stood by its side.

This is a fragment of a poem written in the alb.u.m of a cousin in Philadelphia, in 1838. It was never before in print:--

THE USES OF SORROW

It may be that tears at whiles Should take the place of folly's smiles, When 'neath some Heaven-directed blow, Like those of h.o.r.eb's rock, they flow; For sorrows are in mercy given To fit the chastened soul for Heaven; Prompting with woe and weariness Our yearning for that better sky, Which, as the shadows close on this, Grows brighter to the longing eye.

For each unwelcome blow may break, Perchance, some chain which binds us here; And clouds around the heart may make The vision of our faith more clear; As through the shadowy veil of even The eye looks farthest into Heaven, On gleams of star, and depths of blue, The fervid sunshine never knew!

In the summer of 1856, Charles A. Dana, then one of the editors of the New York "Tribune," wrote to Whittier, calling upon him for campaign songs for Fremont. He said: "A powerful means of exciting and maintaining the spirit of freedom in the coming decisive contest must be songs. If we are to conquer, as I trust in G.o.d we are, a great deal must be done by that genial and inspiring stimulant." Whittier responded with several songs sung during the campaign for free Kansas, but the following lines for some reason he desired should appear without his name, either in the "National Era," in which they first appeared, August 14, 1856, or with the music to which they were set. A recently discovered letter, written by him to a friend in Philadelphia who was intrusted to set the song to music, avows its authorship, and also credits to his sister Elizabeth another song, "Fremont's Ride,"

published in the same number of the "Era." As the brother probably had some hand in the composition of this last-mentioned piece, it is given here. This is Whittier's song:--

WE 'RE FREE

The robber o'er the prairie stalks And calls the land his own, And he who talks as Slavery talks Is free to talk alone.

But tell the knaves we are not slaves, And tell them slaves we ne'er will be; Come weal or woe, the world shall know.

We 're free, we 're free, we 're free.

Oh, watcher on the outer wall, How wears the night away?

I hear the birds of morning call, I see the break of day!

Rise, tell the knaves, etc.