JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER [1807-1892]
THE ETERNAL GOODNESS
O FRIENDS! with whom my feet have trod The quiet aisles of prayer,
Glad witness to your zeal for God And love of man I bear.
I trace your lines of argument; Your logic linked and strong I weigh as one who dreads dissent, And fears a doubt as wrong.
But still my human hands are weak To hold your iron creeds: Against the words ye bid me speak My heart within me pleads.
Who fathoms the Eternal Thought? Who talks of scheme and plan? The Lord is God! He needeth not The poor device of man.
I walk with bare, hushed feet the ground Ye tread with boldness shod;
I dare not fix with mete and bound The love and power of God.
Ye praise His justice; even such His pitying love I deem:
Ye seek a king; I fain would touch The robe that hath no seam.
Ye see the curse which overbroods A world of pain and loss; I hear our Lord's beatitudes And prayer upon the cross.
More than your schoolmen teach, within Myself, alas! I know:
Too dark ye cannot paint the sin,
Too small the merit show.
I bow my forehead to the dust, I veil mine eyes for shame, And urge, in trembling self-distrust, A prayer without a claim.
I see the wrong that round me lies, I feel the guilt within;
I hear, with groan and travail-cries, The world confess its sin.
Yet, in the maddening maze of things, And tossed by storm and flood, To one fixed trust my spirit clings; I know that God is good!
Not mine to look where cherubim And seraphs may not see,
But nothing can be good in Him Which evil is in me.
The wrong that pains my soul below I dare not throne above,
I know not of His hate,-I know His goodness and His love.
I dimly guess from blessings known Of greater out of sight, And, with the chastened Psalmist, own His judgments too are right.
I long for household voices gone, For vanished smiles I long, But God hath led my dear ones on, And He can do no wrong.
I know not what the future hath Of marvel or surprise,
Assured alone that life and death His mercy underlies.
And if my heart and flesh are weak To bear an untried pain,
The bruised reed He will not break, But strengthen and sustain.
No offering of my own I have, Nor works my faith to prove; I can but give the gifts He gave, And plead His love for love.
And so beside the Silent Sea I wait the muffled oar;
No harm from Him can come to me On ocean or on shore.
I know not where His islands lift Their fronded palms in air; I only know I cannot drift Beyond His love and care.
O brothers! if my faith is vain, If hopes like these betray,
Pray for me that my feet may gain The sure and safer way.
And Thou, O Lord! by whom are seen Thy creatures as they be, Forgive me if too close I lean My human heart on Thee!
RANDOLPH OF ROANOKE
O MOTHER EARTH! upon thy lap Thy weary ones receiving, And o'er them, silent as a dream, Thy grassy mantle weaving, Fold softly in thy long embrace
That heart so worn and broken, And cool its pulse of fire beneath Thy shadows old and oaken.
Shut out from him the bitter word And serpent hiss of scorning; Nor let the storms of yesterday Disturb his quiet morning. Breathe over, him forgetfulness
Of all save deeds of kindness, And, save to smiles of grateful eyes, Press down his lids in blindness.
There, where with living ear and eye He heard Potomac's flowing, And, through his tall ancestral trees, Saw autumn's sunset glowing, He sleeps, still looking to the west, Beneath the dark wood shadow, As if he still would see the sun Sink down on wave and meadow.
Bard, Sage, and Tribune! in himself All moods of mind contrasting,- The tenderest wail of human woe, The scorn like lightning blasting; The pathos which from rival eyes Unwilling tears could summon, The stinging taunt, the fiery burst Of hatred scarcely human!
Mirth, sparkling like a diamond shower, From lips of life-long sadness; Clear picturings of majestic thought Upon a ground of madness; And over all Romance and Song A classic beauty throwing, And laurelled Clio at his side Her storied pages showing.
All parties feared him: each in turn Beheld its schemes disjointed, As right or left his fatal glance And spectral finger pointed. Sworn foe of Cant, he smote it down With trenchant wit unsparing,
And, mocking, rent with ruthless hand The robe Pretence was wearing.
Too honest or too proud to feign A love he never cherished,
Beyond Virginia's border line His patriotism perished.
While others hailed in distant skies Our eagle's dusky pinion,
He only saw the mountain bird
Stoop o'er his Old Dominion!
Still through each change of fortune strange Racked nerve, and brain all burning, His loving faith in Mother-land Knew never shade of turning; By Britain's lakes, by Neva's tide, Whatever sky was o'er him, He heard her rivers' rushing sound, Her blue peaks rose before him.
He held his slaves, yet made withal No false and vain pretences, Nor paid a lying priest to seek For Scriptural defences.
His harshest words of proud rebuke, His bitterest taunt and scorning, Fell fire-like on the Northern brow That bent to him in fawning.
He held his slaves; yet kept the while His reverence for the Human; In the dark vassals of his will
He saw but Man and Woman! No hunter of God's outraged poor His Roanoke valley entered; No trader in the souls of men
Across his threshold ventured.
And when the old and wearied man Lay down for his last sleeping, And at his side, a slave no more, His brother-man stood weeping, His latest thought, his latest breath, To Freedom's duty giving,
With failing tongue and trembling hand The dying blest the living.
Oh, never bore his ancient State A truer son or braver !
None trampling with a calmer scorn
On foreign hate or favor.
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