Verse > John Greenleaf Whittier > The Poetical Works in Four Volumes
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John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892).  The Poetical Works in Four Volumes.  1892.
 
Personal Poems
To my Old Schoolmaster
 
        
An Epistle Not after the Manner of Horace
  
  These lines were addressed to my worthy friend Joshua Coffin, teacher, historian, and antiquarian. He was one of the twelve persons who with William Lloyd Garrison formed the first anti-slavery society in New England.

OLD friend, kind friend! lightly down
Drop time’s snow-flakes on thy crown!
Never be thy shadow less,
Never fail thy cheerfulness;
Care, that kills the cat, may plough        5
Wrinkles in the miser’s brow,
Deepen envy’s spiteful frown,
Draw the mouths of bigots down,
Plague ambition’s dream, and sit
Heavy on the hypocrite,        10
Haunt the rich man’s door, and ride
In the gilded coach of pride;—
Let the fiend pass!—what can he
Find to do with such as thee?
Seldom comes that evil guest        15
Where the conscience lies at rest,
And brown health and quiet wit
Smiling on the threshold sit.
 
I, the urchin unto whom,
In that smoked and dingy room,        20
Where the district gave thee rule
O’er its ragged winter school,
Thou didst teach the mysteries
Of those weary A B C’s,—
Where, to fill the every pause        25
Of thy wise and learned saws,
Through the cracked and crazy wall
Came the cradle-rock and squall,
And the goodman’s voice, at strife
With his shrill and tipsy wife,—        30
Luring us by stories old,
With a comic unction told,
More than by the eloquence
Of terse birchen arguments
(Doubtful gain, I fear), to look        35
With complacence on a book!—
Where the genial pedagogue
Half forgot his rogues to flog,
Citing tale or apologue,
Wise and merry in its drift        40
As was Phædrus’ twofold gift,
Had the little rebels known it,
Risum et prudentiam monet!
I,—the man of middle years,
In whose sable locks appears        45
Many a warning fleck of gray,—
Looking back to that far day,
And thy primal lessons, feel
Grateful smiles my lips unseal,
As, remembering thee, I blend        50
Olden teacher, present friend,
Wise with antiquarian search,
In the scrolls of State and Church:
Named on history’s title-page,
Parish-clerk and justice sage;        55
For the ferule’s wholesome awe
Wielding now the sword of law.
 
Threshing Time’s neglected sheaves,
Gathering up the scattered leaves
Which the wrinkled sibyl cast        60
Careless from her as she passed,—
Twofold citizen art thou,
Freeman of the past and now.
He who bore thy name of old
Midway in the heavens did hold        65
Over Gibeon moon and sun;
Thou hast bidden them backward run;
Of to-day the present ray
Flinging over yesterday!
 
Let the busy ones deride        70
What I deem of right thy pride:
Let the fools their treadmills grind,
Look not forward nor behind,
Shuffle in and wriggle out,
Veer with every breeze about,        75
Turning like a windmill sail,
Or a dog that seeks his tail;
Let them laugh to see thee fast
Tabernacled in the Past,
Working out with eye and lip,        80
Riddles of old penmanship,
Patient as Belzoni there
Sorting out, with loving care,
Mummies of dead questions stripped
From their sevenfold manuscript!        85
 
Dabbling, in their noisy way,
In the puddles of to-day,
Little know they of that vast
Solemn ocean of the past,
On whose margin, wreck-bespread,        90
Thou art walking with the dead,
Questioning the stranded years,
Waking smiles, by turns, and tears,
As thou callest up again
Shapes the dust has long o’erlain,—        95
Fair-haired woman, bearded man,
Cavalier and Puritan;
In an age whose eager view
Seeks but present things, and new,
Mad for party, sect and gold,        100
Teaching reverence for the old.
 
On that shore, with fowler’s tact,
Coolly bagging fact on fact,
Naught amiss to thee can float,
Tale, or song, or anecdote;        105
Village gossip, centuries old,
Scandals by our grandams told,
What the pilgrim’s table spread,
Where he lived, and whom he wed,
Long-drawn bill of wine and beer        110
For his ordination cheer,
Or the flip that wellnigh made
Glad his funeral cavalcade;
Weary prose, and poet’s lines,
Flavored by their age, like wines,        115
Eulogistic of some quaint,
Doubtful, puritanic saint;
Lays that quickened husking jigs,
Jests that shook grave periwigs,
When the parson had his jokes        120
And his glass, like other folks;
Sermons that, for mortal hours,
Taxed our fathers’ vital powers,
As the long nineteenthlies poured
Downward from the sounding-board,        125
And, for fire of Pentecost,
Touched their beards December’s frost.
 
Time is hastening on, and we
What our fathers are shall be,—
Shadow-shapes of memory!        130
Joined to that vast multitude
Where the great are but the good,
And the mind of strength shall prove
Weaker than the heart of love;
Pride of graybeard wisdom less        135
Than the infant’s guilelessness,
And his song of sorrow more
Than the crown the Psalmist wore!
Who shall then, with pious zeal,
At our moss-grown thresholds kneel,        140
From a stained and stony page
Reading to a careless age,
With a patient eye like thine,
Prosing tale and limping line,
Names and words the hoary rime        145
Of the Past has made sublime?
Who shall work for us as well
The antiquarian’s miracle?
Who to seeming life recall
Teacher grave and pupil small?        150
Who shall give to thee and me
Freeholds in futurity?
 
Well, whatever lot be mine,
Long and happy days be thine,
Ere thy full and honored age        155
Dates of time its latest page!
Squire for master, State for school,
Wisely lenient, live and rule;
Over grown-up knave and rogue
Play the watchful pedagogue;        160
Or, while pleasure smiles on duty,
At the call of youth and beauty,
Speak for them the spell of law
Which shall bar and bolt withdraw,
And the flaming sword remove        165
From the Paradise of Love.
Still, with undimmed eyesight, pore
Ancient tome and record o’er;
Still thy week-day lyrics croon,
Pitch in church the Sunday tune,        170
Showing something, in thy part,
Of the old Puritanic art,
Singer after Sternhold’s heart!
In thy pew, for many a year,
Homilies from Oldbug hear, 1        175
Who to wit like that of South,
And the Syrian’s golden mouth,
Doth the homely pathos add
Which the pilgrim preachers had;
Breaking, like a child at play,        180
Gilded idols of the day,
Cant of knave and pomp of fool
Tossing with his ridicule,
Yet, in earnest or in jest,
Ever keeping truth abreast.        185
And, when thou art called, at last,
To thy townsmen of the past,
Not as stranger shalt thou come;
Thou shalt find thyself at home
With the little and the big,        190
Woollen cap and periwig,
Madam in her high-laced ruff,
Goody in her home-made stuff,—
Wise and simple, rich and poor,
Thou hast known them all before!

  1851.
        195
 
Note 1. Dr. Withington, author of The Puritan, under the name of Jonathan Oldbug. [back]
 
 
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