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Home  »  The Poetical Works In Four Volumes  »  To ——, with a Copy of Woolman’s Journal

John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892). The Poetical Works in Four Volumes. 1892.

Personal Poems

To ——, with a Copy of Woolman’s Journal

  • “Get the writings of John Woolman by heart.”—Essays of Elia.


  • MAIDEN! with the fair brown tresses

    Shading o’er thy dreamy eye,

    Floating on thy thoughtful forehead

    Cloud wreaths of its sky.

    Youthful years and maiden beauty,

    Joy with them should still abide,—

    Instinct take the place of Duty,

    Love, not Reason, guide.

    Ever in the New rejoicing,

    Kindly beckoning back the Old,

    Turning, with the gift of Midas,

    All things into gold.

    And the passing shades of sadness

    Wearing even a welcome guise,

    As, when some bright lake lies open

    To the sunny skies,

    Every wing of bird above it,

    Every light cloud floating on,

    Glitters like that flashing mirror

    In the self-same sun.

    But upon thy youthful forehead

    Something like a shadow lies;

    And a serious soul is looking

    From thy earnest eyes.

    With an early introversion,

    Through the forms of outward things,

    Seeking for the subtle essence,

    And the hidden springs.

    Deeper than the gilded surface

    Hath thy wakeful vision seen,

    Farther than the narrow present

    Have thy journeyings been.

    Thou hast midst Life’s empty noises

    Heard the solemn steps of Time,

    And the low mysterious voices

    Of another clime.

    All the mystery of Being

    Hath upon thy spirit pressed,—

    Thoughts which, like the Deluge wanderer,

    Find no place of rest:

    That which mystic Plato pondered,

    That which Zeno heard with awe,

    And the star-rapt Zoroaster

    In his night-watch saw.

    From the doubt and darkness springing

    Of the dim, uncertain Past,

    Moving to the dark still shadows

    O’er the Future cast,

    Early hath Life’s mighty question

    Thrilled within thy heart of youth,

    With a deep and strong beseeching:

    What and where is Truth?

    Hollow creed and ceremonial,

    Whence the ancient life hath fled,

    Idle faith unknown to action,

    Dull and cold and dead.

    Oracles, whose wire-worked meanings

    Only wake a quiet scorn,—

    Not from these thy seeking spirit

    Hath its answer drawn.

    But, like some tired child at even,

    On thy mother Nature’s breast,

    Thou, methinks, art vainly seeking

    Truth, and peace, and rest.

    O’er that mother’s rugged features

    Thou art throwing Fancy’s veil,

    Light and soft as woven moonbeams,

    Beautiful and frail!

    O’er the rough chart of Existence,

    Rocks of sin and wastes of woe,

    Soft airs breathe, and green leaves tremble,

    And cool fountains flow.

    And to thee an answer cometh

    From the earth and from the sky,

    And to thee the hills and waters

    And the stars reply.

    But a soul-sufficing answer

    Hath no outward origin;

    More than Nature’s many voices

    May be heard within.

    Even as the great Augustine

    Questioned earth and sea and sky,

    And the dusty tomes of learning

    And old poesy.

    But his earnest spirit needed

    More than outward Nature taught;

    More than blest the poet’s vision

    Or the sage’s thought.

    Only in the gathered silence

    Of a calm and waiting frame,

    Light and wisdom as from Heaven

    To the seeker came.

    Not to ease and aimless quiet

    Doth that inward answer tend,

    But to works of love and duty

    As our being’s end;

    Not to idle dreams and trances,

    Length of face, and solemn tone,

    But to Faith, in daily striving

    And performance shown.

    Earnest toil and strong endeavor

    Of a spirit which within

    Wrestles with familiar evil

    And besetting sin;

    And without, with tireless vigor,

    Steady heart, and weapon strong,

    In the power of truth assailing

    Every form of wrong.

    Guided thus, how passing lovely

    Is the track of Woolman’s feet!

    And his brief and simple record

    How serenely sweet!

    O’er life’s humblest duties throwing

    Light the earthling never knew,

    Freshening all its dark waste places

    As with Hermon’s dew.

    All which glows in Pascal’s pages,

    All which sainted Guion sought,

    Or the blue-eyed German Rahel

    Half-unconscious taught:

    Beauty, such as Goethe pictured,

    Such as Shelley dreamed of, shed

    Living warmth and starry brightness

    Round that poor man’s head.

    Not a vain and cold ideal,

    Not a poet’s dream alone,

    But a presence warm and real,

    Seen and felt and known.

    When the red right-hand of slaughter

    Moulders with the steel it swung,

    When the name of seer and poet

    Dies on Memory’s tongue,

    All bright thoughts and pure shall gather

    Round that meek and suffering one,—

    Glorious, like the seer-seen angel

    Standing in the sun!

    Take the good man’s book and ponder

    What its pages say to thee;

    Blessed as the hand of healing

    May its lesson be.

    If it only serves to strengthen

    Yearnings for a higher good,

    For the fount of living waters

    And diviner food;

    If the pride of human reason

    Feels its meek and still rebuke,

    Quailing like the eye of Peter

    From the Just One’s look!

    If with readier ear thou heedest

    What the Inward Teacher saith,

    Listening with a willing spirit

    And a childlike faith,—

    Thou mayst live to bless the giver,

    Who, himself but frail and weak,

    Would at least the highest welfare

    Of another seek;

    And his gift, though poor and lowly

    It may seem to other eyes,

    Yet may prove an angel holy

    In a pilgrim’s guise.

    1840.